Author's Note: Thank you for your continued support on this story.
The title of this chapter is taken from ELO's Need Her Love.
There's a tiny Easter Egg in this chapter. It's a reference to Bobby having a crush on Jessica Walter in the 70's.
While the stardom from later roles was still a long way off then, Walter enjoyed a steady career through the 60's and 70's.
I also happen to think Kathryn Erbe looks remarkably like a young Jessica Walter. That's the context for the line. Bobby's not quite conscious of the fact he's seeing a 'pattern' yet.
Major Case | One Police Plaza | Manhattan
Bobby chuckled to himself with amusement as he skimmed through the folder in hand.
"Eames, look at this."
He sat up and passed the folder across their desks. Alex's eyes narrowed as she studied the receipt.
"He's bought seven pairs. Pays cash every time. Seven pairs for six cars," Bobby said.
"He's buying a new car," Eames said, piecing it together.
A knowing look passed between the pair.
Eames dropped the file and began typing furiously at her computer.
"He's getting a two and half million-dollar car. That's what the urgency was with Mrs Batchelder," Eames said as she typed.
"It's not just urgent—it's pathological," Bobby added.
Roger Coffman wasn't just collecting cars, he was rebuilding the shattered pieces of himself that his father had chipped away since childhood.
"Nothing on the auction circuit at that level. And I've got zip for cars sold in the last six months. Ditto for private sales of antique cars," Eames rattled off.
Bobby sat back at his desk. He scratched his chin as he mulled over Mr Coffman's next move.
"Two and half million dollars. That's… that's not just any antique car," he mused.
He sighed and ran his hand back through his dark hair.
"Where do we start? How do we even begin to compile a list? How many cars could even be in that range?"
"More than you think," Eames said.
She knew it would be extensive. They had already asked Bobby's friend Louis to keep an ear to the pavement for any hot auctions or private sales.
"All of Roger's other cars are… they're cars from his childhood. Everything he purchased was from that era," Eames said.
"Yeah, but they're all different makes, models—"
"But they were all made between 1957 and 1967. Muscle cars," Eames interjected. "Even if we expand the search parameters out to include vehicles from… say 1955 to 1970, we will still have a considerably smaller pool to dig through."
Bobby snapped his fingers in agreement.
"Right. We can eliminate vintage cars, antiques, special collector vehicles."
Bobby mumbled along as he shuffled through his binder of notes.
"Ah! Got it," he declared triumphantly.
Eames paused her search and stared, waiting for her partner to reveal his latest find.
"It's the '62. The Ferrari 250 GTO."
Bobby was certain.
"It… it has to be. It's the one that was different," Bobby explained.
He leapt up from his seat and circled their desks to show Eames the pictures.
"These models here," he said, pointing with the tip of his pen. "They all require significant assembly. They're designed for collecting. To display. You've got to paint them, assemble them with great care. But… but this one here—"
He paused to turn the page.
"This one is different. A different brand. Snaps together in minutes. It's designed for little kids. It's cheap. To a boy like Roger it would have been junk," Bobby said. "Roger's dad probably bought this for him."
"And to a little boy that built his whole identity around these cars…"
Eames trailed off and sighed.
"Roger probably felt like he was nothing more than an afterthought," Bobby said.
His own childhood provided great insight into their suspect's psyche—even if Bobby wasn't ready to unpack those parallels.
Roger Coffman killed people for their money. Bobby was happy settling for magazine subscriptions and fine wine.
"Got it. Private sale in France. Thirty-one days ago," Eames announced.
It was right after Mrs Batchelder had been murdered.
"Just enough time to ship a car across the ocean," Eames said.
She keyed her access code and dug through the list of incoming shipping containers. Eames's ability to dig into the nitty gritty financial details of a suspect both impressed and frightened Robert Goren.
"Thank you, Patriot Act," Bobby said, not hiding his sarcasm.
"Here we go," Eames said. "Roger has a shipping container arriving in Jersey. Tonight."
She glanced up at her partner.
"It would be a shame for Roger to get such a special gift without a welcome party," Eames added.
Bobby sat back down at his own desk. He smirked as he fiddled with the buttons on his jacket.
"I should have worn a better suit," he remarked.
"Container won't be available for pickup until later. You've got time if you want to run home and change," Eames said.
It was a bit of a running gag between them.
Robert Goren always wore a tailored suit. The silver tie clip, the silk handkerchief, they were as much a part of his person as his fine leather shoes.
Robert worked at One Police Plaza. He dressed for the Financial District.
"I feel like I should have worn a tux. You know, James Bond style," Bobby teased.
"I'm not coming in a ballgown," Eames shot back.
"Have you ever worn a ballgown?" Bobby asked.
"Prom Queen. P.S. 51. 1983," Eames said without missing a beat.
Bobby could never tell if Eames was serious when she said made that type of remark or if it was just the nature of her dry wit.
"The… the sleeves?" Bobby asked, gesturing to his shoulder.
Eames waved him off.
"They never would have fit under my leather jacket."
Bobby stopped and folded his hands, resting his face against them to hide his grin.
"Y-you… you wore a leather jacket to the prom?"
"I looked good in it too," Eames replied, taunting him. "Red taffeta miniskirt. Sleeveless. It was a good thing my old man was on duty that night, or he never would have let me outta house."
Goren choked back a laugh. He still wasn't sure if her anecdote was real or hyperbole.
That was Eames.
Complex. Smooth with a long, pleasant finish. Bobby wondered what it would feel like to linger on his tongue.
"We've got time. We'll have to take the tunnel and want to beat traffic. I know a place. And there's a Bergdorf's nearby," Bobby offered.
"Sorry. Can't."
Eames shut off her computer. To Bobby's surprise, she reached for her coat.
"We could go somewhere 'round here if you'd rather," he suggested.
Eames reiterated her apology as she pulled her hair out from under collar and pulled on her gloves.
"You have a date," Bobby realised.
"It's not a date," Eames replied.
She made sure to shoot that theory down fast or there would be no end to the questions and ribbing from the rest of the squad room.
"You have a date," Bobby repeated, smiling as he took in his partner's appearance.
"It's not a date," Eames insisted with practised nonchalance.
Bobby didn't buy that for a minute. He hunched over his desk, twirling his pen in hand as he debated how far to press the issue.
"It's not a date, it's not a date," he muttered.
Then he paused.
"Of course, it's a date. It's why you wore the black turtleneck. The long black trench. Straight silhouette. Clean lines. It's to intimidate," Bobby observed. "You wear it every time you have a date."
Eames froze. Bobby looked up from his desk to meet his partner's eyes.
"The ensemble projects authority. You want him to understand that you're… well, it's your suit of armour," Bobby concluded before adding, "it's not a bad thing."
Eames made the face she did whenever Bobby's unsolicited observations hit too close to home, and she needed to play it off.
"Believe me, this guy isn't reading anything into my wardrobe," Eames said.
"Then it is a date."
Bobby's comment hung in the air. Alex kicked herself for walking right into Goren's trap.
"It's not a date," Eames echoed. "Erm… I'm going to lunch with someone I know."
"A friend?" Bobby asked, knowing full well he was putting his partner on the spot.
Eames's silence was confirmation enough.
Suddenly, Bobby felt awful for pressing the matter.
"Eames—"
She stopped.
"I'm sorry. Truly. It wasn't my place to… well, it's your business," Bobby apologised.
"Thanks," Eames replied.
It's not a date. Eames repeated.
It wasn't a date. It also was not not a date.
Billy was coming off an overnight shift. Eames had made it clear she was in the middle of her workday.
They were meeting at a diner that didn't serve alcohol. It was hardly romantic—and Alex was just fine with that.
She arrived just as Billy came around the corner.
He flashed her toothy grin as he pulled off his toque and ruffled his black hair.
"Hiya!"
Alex replied with a shy smile. For some unexplainable reason, Eames let her guard down.
Normally, she was wary of strangers—especially ones that called.
And yet, Mr Billy Marczewski didn't set off any of Eames's usual bullshit alarms.
He seemed so sincere.
Eames wasn't sure if it was his folksy charm or something else. Billy was very much her type, and it had been ages since Alex had let herself enjoy even lunch with someone that wasn't angling for all the wrong reasons.
They chose a booth in the corner and Billy relished in the chance to gush about his niece and nephews. He was curious about New York and hoped to rely on Eames's expertise for advice on what activities were worth schlepping the family to and what was nothing but a tourist trap.
"I'm sorry," Billy said suddenly.
He paused and took a nervous sip of coffee.
"You probably think I hauled you all the way out here to play tour guide," he said.
"It's alright," Eames replied. "Believe me, I'd rather talk about something practical than have a guy dump his greatest hits of one-liners."
Billy laughed.
"Oh gosh, I would never—"
He tensed.
"I mean… I'm interested. That's… that's why I called. I'm just… I am so bad at this," he said.
Billy propped his elbow up on the table. His face flushed.
"I'm coming out of a long relationship. It ended badly. I've no practice. And the dating scene here is… it's vicious!"
"That's one word for it," she agreed.
They shared a laugh.
"I'm sorry. You don't want to hear about my ex—and I don't want to go into all that," Billy said. "I'd really like to see you again."
Billy confessed that he didn't think it was fair to ask Alex without prefacing a few things. He was coming out of a long relationship, an engagement.
"It's just that we were building a life together. And now I'm starting over. I've been out of the dating scene for years. Not that I was ever really in it," Billy added.
He wanted to take things slow.
"Maybe we could get lunch again? Or coffee sometime?" he suggested.
He didn't want Alex to get the wrong idea with dinner and drinks. And Billy wasn't sure he wanted to jump into anything.
"I would like to get to know you, Alexandra Eames," Billy said.
His confidence evaporated, replaced once more by a nervous smile.
"God, I must sound like a nutter, eh?"
Alex wasn't fazed.
"It's hard when you've been with someone for a long time," she said.
She chose her words carefully as she stared down at the mug of coffee wrapped in her hand.
"There's never a good time or way to try and explain it. I appreciate you telling me," Alex said.
Billy was relieved.
"I feel like anytime I try to explain it, people assume there's some deep psychological problem," Billy said.
His eyes went wide with fear.
"Not that I've been… look, please don't think I'm one of those guys coming off a breakup and eager to 'tour the world' so to say," Billy said. "I just feel like if you aren't on the dinner, drinks, down to business route people worry there's a problem. Or worse, if you are keen for that then everything thinks you're trying to validate your self-worth."
That earned a wry smile from Alex.
It was a kick to the gut when Billy found out his fiancée was seeing another man. He didn't feel the need to rush out onto the dating circuit to remind himself he still had it.
"I'm not looking for that," Billy said. "Ugh… and there's so much to get yourself back out there. It's part of why I moved here to help with my sister. Sometimes I think she's the only one that understands what it's like. The family's twice as hard on her because of the kids."
"Believe me, you don't have to explain," Alex assured him.
The door was open, so Billy decided to test the waters.
"Bad divorce?" he inquired.
Alex shook her head. Billy looked let down when she didn't elaborate.
"Alex?" he asked softly.
"Oh, no. Nothing like that!" she said with a smile.
Alex never told men about Joe—she never let herself get that far. She had gone through her own era of casual sex following Joe's death.
Gone through? A sneaky voice in the back of her mind teased.
Inside, Eames reminded herself that there was no shame in it. She was happy with her life. She didn't need a steady relationship to find gratification.
In fact, she found something quite freeing in having that boundary.
Eames was stunned when Billy reached for her hand.
"You've been hurt though," he said knowingly.
Billy could sense when Eames tensed at the contact.
"You don't have to explain—unless you want to," he assured her.
Billy gave Alex's hand a quick squeeze before releasing it all too soon. It wasn't romantic, it was comforting.
Alex never knew what to say when people offered their sympathies. As a widow, it seemed to never stop.
Just when she felt she had finally moved past being 'the widow' Alex was always running into someone that didn't know Joe was gone—an old colleague, a family friend, a high school pal that lost touch.
They would politely inquire about her marriage. Eames would have to awkwardly explain that Joe had died and then stand there while they fumbled to find the right words to express their sorrow.
"So, anyway. I understand. It's weird to try and date. And difficult to explain and—"
She trailed off, finding herself at a loss for words.
"And maybe something worth taking slow?" Billy asked.
He scratched the back of his neck and grinned.
"No expectations. Just coffee. Or lunch. Or a stroll through the park? This?"
He shrugged and gestured at the table.
"They do have great pie," he added.
In that moment, Eames realised why she felt comfortable around Billy.
His affect.
The fumbling way he was hopelessly un-flirtatious.
The notion that his idea of a wild night was ice cream and movie on television.
The smile that made her want to melt.
It all reminded her of Joe.
Alex dashed the thought as quickly as it came, to push all comparisons between them from her mind as she sized up the man across the table.
It wasn't healthy. It wasn't right.
Her father's words from the other night came swimming back to the forefront of Alex's mind.
Joe wouldn't want…
Eames knew the statistics. Most widows were recoupled or remarried in the first three to five years after the loss.
The longer that went by, the less likely it was she would ever find someone. Her only serious emotional investment in the last five years had been with that snake Mulroney from the DA's office.
He was the reason Eames had a hard 'no attorneys' rule when it came to dating.
The list was extensive.
No cops. No retired cops.
No attorneys, musicians, married men, guys in love with their cars, guys whose cars looked like a dump, men that wore spray tans, gamblers, men that didn't drink, men that drank too much, men from Staten Island, sailors, bartenders, comedians, shrinks, fitness instructors, accountants…
Firefighters.
Billy was challenging all her previously held assumptions about firefighters.
Alex Eames wasn't bothered by loneliness or the prospect of never finding someone again.
She meant what she'd said to her father.
What she shared with Joe, that spark—it wouldn't come again.
A part of Alex felt that it wouldn't be fair to anyone to try. She could never love someone the same way, not the way she loved Joe.
Eames realised her partner was right.
She'd worn her armour.
Billy wasn't asking for a lifetime commitment. Hell, he'd made clear he wasn't even interested in sex.
Eames wasn't sure if it was the fact Billy was so charming, or the heart-to-heart with her father, the pressure from her family, or the fact she just wanted to prove Robert Goren wrong about another one of his infuriating assumptions.
"Yeah. I'd like that," Eames said, accepting Billy's offer.
Billy blinked in stunned silence.
"Um…"
"Yes," Eames repeated.
"Oh! Oh, right," Billy replied, visibly astonished that she hadn't turned him down flat.
Alex took a prim sip of her coffee.
She knew then and there that Mr Billy Marczewski was far too wholesome for the likes of the New York City dating scene.
She also realised that things could never go anywhere with a man like Billy.
Of all the hearts to break…
Girls from Inwood ate boys like Billy Marczewski alive.
When the server brought their bills, Billy asked if she would add an entire extra pie—offering to share it with Alex.
"No, thank you."
"Gina's working tonight. I've got the kids. I went in early yesterday to pick up some extra hours. I hope this makes up for the fact it'll be macaroni cheese again tonight," Billy explained as he buttoned his coat. "I gotta pick the kids up and get 'em a snack before I need to schlep the older two off to practise."
He was knackered.
And it wasn't for show.
Billy wasn't trying to use his niece and nephews as a bargaining chip to win favour with his date. He genuinely worried about failing the children, about not doing enough to support them.
"Erm… Gina's on call the next three days. I'm off—but I'm watching the kids. I go back on after that but could meet for lunch. Or maybe we could get coffee?" Billy suggested.
"My hours aren't very predictable," Eames warned.
"Right. I'll call you?" Billy asked.
"Yeah," Eames agreed.
It was going to be hell coordinating their schedules.
Bergen County Line Depot | Secaucus, New Jersey
It was a bitch getting across the river to Jersey.
Eames & Goren should have left sooner—only it took forever to coordinate with the Port Authority and the New Jersey state police.
They arrived just as their suspect was taking stock of his latest acquisition. Roger Coffman looked like he was ready to shake apart in ecstasy as he ran his one gloved hand along the hood of the car.
"Roger! Wow!"
Bobby could barely keep his own excitement in check as they approached.
"It's a Ferrari… it's… it's a 1962. A 1962 Ferrari GTO. This… it's… it's incredible. They what… they made only what… like thirty-six of these, right? The leather… you can… wow!"
Bobby was in sensory overload. His thoughts came out jumbled one on top of the other as he struggled to prioritise the rapid fire of the cylinders in his brain.
Roger grimaced as Goren tap-danced his way around and poked his big head inside.
"You can smell that leather," Bobby continued in awe.
Bobby stopped fawning long enough to glance back over his shoulder at their suspect.
"Have you ever sat in one of these?"
Coffman was too stunned to speak.
"No? I… I… I haven't either," Goren stammered. "I… well, I think I need to g-get inside."
He smiled and relaxed.
"I think I need to get inside," Goren echoed with more composure.
"YOU CAN'T!" Coffman cried.
Coffman lunged forward. Eames's arm shot out to stop him. She didn't have much sympathy for a man that would murder an elderly woman just to buy a damned car. She wasn't above letting the Goren show run for a bit to get under Coffman's skin.
A long, agonised whine escaped from Coffman's throat as Bobby revved the engine on his precious Ferrari.
Bobby trembled with excitement as he stretched his hands over the steering wheel.
"Baby… baby… baby," Bobby growled, rubbing salt in the metaphorical wound.
For their suspect, the wound was not so metaphorical. Coffman's face contorted as he watched the scene before him. That moment should have been his.
Instead, it had been commandeered by a bumbling fool.
"I wish I could tell you how this feels. I really do," Bobby continued. "But I erm—"
He paused and chortled knowingly.
"I can't do it in mixed company."
Coffman took another step toward the car. He'd already killed for that car. Eames didn't want to think about what he might do to the man that had shoved his size thirteen feet all over the vehicle.
"Roger Coffman, you are under arrest for the murder of Helen Batchelder," Alex said as she slapped on the cuffs. "You do not need to say anything. Anything you do say may be presented as evidence against you."
"Listen to that purr," Bobby said as he revved the engine again.
He was taunting Coffman, trying to push him to a confession (and Bobby had to admit it was probably his favourite ever opportunity to do so).
"You have no idea," he continued, laying it on thick.
"You son of bitch. Get out of my car," Coffman pleaded in a defeated whisper.
Eames gestured for two of the uniformed officers to escort Mr Coffman out. He was weak in the knees as he was led away, unable to tear his eyes from his prized Ferrari.
Coffman was in custody and on his way to booking. Eames turned to follow, but Bobby was still playing in the driver's seat.
Alex stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. Her partner was still behind the wheel. She paused, giving Goren a moment to follow.
He was too fixated on the dash, hunched over the wheel inside the low seat.
Unable to get out of own accord, Eames took the initiative.
"Ahem," she said, clearing her throat.
Bobby stepped on the gas, revving the engine as he toyed with the steering wheel. His fingers graced atop the gear stick, tempted by the thought of throwing it into gear and driving a circle round the warehouse.
He'd brought his own black leather driving gloves just for the occasion.
Alex leaned down into the window.
"You have to come out now."
Roger Coffman kept his head against the cool glass of the window. He sulked in the backseat the whole ride, staring at nothing in silence as they drove back to 1PP.
Alex had offered Bobby the keys. He declined—he was too worked up from his time behind the wheel of that Ferrari to even think about navigating safely back to Manhattan during rush hour.
"I'm sorry… I didn't think to… well, I should have asked if you wanted to…"
Bobby trailed off and looked to his partner.
She tore her eyes away from the road just long enough to give him a look, silently communicating that she didn't follow.
"You know." Goren shrugged.
Eames still didn't understand.
"C'mon, Eames. You're a car buff. A gearhead. You love that kind of stuff. I didn't think to even ask if you wanted to yanno… feel the vibrations," Bobby said, grinning as he shook his hands for emphasis.
Eames snorted.
"I'm good."
"Nothing like it," Bobby said, impressed. "Oof. Oof… oof… oof."
He tapped his pen atop his leather binder to work off some of that energy. Bobby was itching to dive into his interrogation dance.
"Can you imagine cruising in that?" Bobby mused.
"In this city? What's the point?" Eames replied. "No. Not here. You need the open road."
The SUV inched along in traffic. Goren and Eames were in no hurry to get Coffman back to 1PP for questioning. They knew the longer he sat in the backseat, the more time they had before lawyered up.
"Cars like that—it's just asking for trouble," Eames remarked.
Goren quirked an eyebrow.
"Yeah?"
A tell-tale flush rose in Eames's cheeks.
"A boyfriend?" Bobby prompted. "Let me guess… erm… a-a-a one of those erm… financial advisors. Recently divorced."
Eames shook her head.
"Retired cop?"
"Nope."
"High school sweetheart? Loved his car more than you?" Bobby pried.
"My old man warned me off guys like that. There's a clear line between a man that takes care of his vehicle and the type that… fixate," Eames said.
There was a hint of disapproval in her voice as she peeked in the rearview mirror to check on their suspect.
Coffman was still moping in the back. He had not uttered a peep since his arrest.
Mourning. Eames mused.
"Don't tell me you were driving around some hot little sports car," Goren said.
"I wish. My dad babied his Cutlass. I was thirty before he let me drive it," Alex said.
"And he didn't let you ride around with boys that drove erm… you know, up and down the block all night, cruising," Bobby teased.
At that, Eames laughed.
It was a shared experience in their working-class upbringings. Canarsie and Inwood had stark differences—but there were many things they shared.
Goren & Eames had both grown up in neighbourhoods (and an era) where mom and pop shops dominated the streets. Kids played stickball and rode their bikes, staying out until dark exploring the parks and abandoned lots. They dug for clams, climbed gravel piles, and spent their summers trying to survive the heat.
The eighties and fear of AIDS that would forever change the landscape of discos and underground clubs was still years away then. The 'tough on crime' attitude and devastation from the misguided 'war on drugs' had not yet taken root.
The NYPD was still a right mess with a slew of problems (including, but not limited to, rampant corruption, racism, sexism, and homophobia).
It was a city in flux.
And cherry popsicles were a quarter at the corner store. Alex thought (before quickly reminding herself that she was slowly turning into her father.
"Danny O'Brien had a Boss 429 Mustang. He used circle the same block. WNEW playing all hours of the night," Eames said.
Bobby may have grown up across the city in a different borough, but she might as well have been describing his own summers with Louis.
"Cherry red?" Bobby asked.
"Black jade."
"Oooo."
Bobby hissed, sucking air in through his teeth as he bit down on his pen.
"Yeah, well the one time I actually rode in it, there was a knock at the window and a flashlight in my face before we could get hot and heavy," Alex said. "By the time I made it home for curfew my dad already knew."
"So, you didn't get to have any fun?" Bobby asked.
"I didn't say that," Eames shot back.
"Danny got lucky after all."
Eames sighed.
"Danny O'Brien wasn't lucky at all. He crashed that car three weeks later street racing on 10th. DOA," Eames said.
As quick as she was to bring down the mood, Eames was timed with a line to bring the conversation back up.
"No, it was Teddy Evans that got lucky. He liked WNEW too and for some reason, the police weren't as interested in checking out his Ford Pinto."
A broad smile broke out on Goren's face.
For a moment, they rode in silence as Bobby's curiosity burned. Finally, it reached a fever pitch, and he just couldn't resist.
"Bread?" Bobby asked.
"ELO," Eames answered.
"Hmmm," Bobby replied.
He resumed tapping his pen against his notes. Coffman was still quiet in the back as Goren tucked away that snippet of information into the recesses of his mind. Eames was an enigma. It was rare for Goren to extract details about her personal life. So, when he was offered a rare glimpse into her life outside of the job, Bobby snatched them up.
He treasured them.
After all, she was his partner. Trust was an important aspect of the job. Knowing one another was simply a natural part of the process of working together.
At least, that's what Robert Goren told himself.
Brooklyn Heights | Brooklyn
"You should have seen it."
Louis and Bobby sat across from one another at the table. Louis listened with rapt attention. His blue eyes were wide behind his square-framed spectacles while Bobby described his experience with Coffman's Ferrari over Pad Thai and craft beer.
"I wish you could have been there," Bobby said.
"You and me both," Louis agreed.
Louis's garage specialised in restoring classic cars. It was the bread and butter of his business that allowed him to teach community education classes on the side and fix the run-down beaters that little old ladies and teens in Brooklyn struggled to keep street legal (and still pay his bills).
Goren spared no detail as he described the smell and the feel of the leather. He paused just long enough to slurp another helping of noodles into his mouth.
"It's like that time we drove my old man back from AC," Bobby said.
Louis recalled the memory well. Goren's strained relationship with his father didn't stop old William from calling then sixteen-year-old Bobby for a lift back to the city following another Atlantic City bender.
Bobby phoned Louis and the two boys hopped the Atlantic City Express. They drove William's prized Mustang back—and took their sweet time.
"Hey, hey. Here we go," Louis said.
The needle on the Victrola moved to the next song on the album.
"Now this brings the memories back," Louis said, nodding along to the steady strum as the chords changed from a C to an A minor.
Bobby surmised it was Eames's comment about ELO that had prompted him to select that particular album for the evening.
"Midnight, on the water. I saaaaaaaaaaaaaaw, the ocean's daaaauuuughter," Louis crooned as he strummed along on his air guitar. "Walking on a wave's chicane. Bah da da da da dah."
And I can't get it out of my head.
No, I can't get it out of my head.
Bobby froze, his beer in hand and halfway to his mouth.
"Bobby?" Louis prompted.
"Erm… n-nothing."
Louis made a face. He didn't buy Bobby's excuse for a minute. He could tell Goren was deep in thought, his mind occupied by something he couldn't shake.
"I'm just thinking about that car," Bobby said.
"You look like somebody forced you to read Dostoyevsky again. Or you're constipated. It's hard to distinguish the difference," Louis teased.
Bobby laughed nervously as he scratched his eyebrow.
"Erm… well, my partner… she erm… she said that cars like Coffman's Ferrari. That they're—"
Bobby paused.
There was a strange, faraway look in his eyes as he stared at the wall over Louis's shoulder.
"Well, they're just asking for trouble."
He couldn't entertain the thought of Alexandra Eames—particularly not in that way.
And especially not the idea of snogging to the progressive rock hits yesteryear in his Mustang.
That was just asking for trouble.
Bobby had three more beers after Louis left. He sat in his armchair puffing away at a pack as night descended on the city.
The record player had long since stopped. The dishes were cleaned and dried. The table was wiped clean.
The beer next to the chair was starting to grow warm.
Bobby knew he shouldn't have opened the last one.
Among other things…
There were a lot of things he ought not to have done—promising his mother he'd track down Frank for the holidays, climbing into Coffman's Ferrari, analysing his partner's attire.
Asking about the damn car.
Bobby took a long drag from his cigarette as he tried to pinpoint the moment when he'd first looked at his partner differently.
It wasn't the Coffman case.
No, it had to be before then. Because it wasn't the first time that… thoughts had worked their way into Bobby's mind.
Bobby thought back to their earlier cases, reflecting on their banter, combing through his memories, fixating on each and every interaction as he tried to analyse where it started.
Because if he could identify where it started, then Bobby was positive he could rationalise it.
He reminded himself that it was perfectly natural to develop an attachment to a colleague. They worked so closely together. Even though they'd only been partners for a few years, Eames and Goren had experienced a great deal together—including 9/11.
As he brushed his teeth, Bobby told himself it wasn't uncommon.
It technically wasn't against NYPD rules (though fraternisation between partners was frowned upon for good reason).
Alex Eames was an attractive, engaging woman. Bobby valued her input. He respected her.
He took heart in knowing that he would never, ever make a move on his partner.
Eames?
That was unthinkable.
As he slipped under the sheets, Bobby told himself this was all par for the course.
He would pop into the library over the weekend and dig up a few articles to reassure himself that his little workplace crush was nothing more than that. His brain had simply misplaced those feelings in the wrong emotional box.
He was under pressure from his mother (and society) to find a partner. So much of the literature, art, and music he consumed was fixated on romantic notions. His love map was distorted—had been since childhood.
It was no wonder his mind sought an outlet for that jumble.
Transference.
That's all it was.
Robert Goren had experienced the minor workplace crush before. There'd been the attractive clerk in Germany and the redhead from the DA's office during his time in Narcotics.
Hell, he'd been utterly captivated by Missy Finkelstein the summer they worked together at Bohack supermarket.
Bobby was fourteen and positive he was in love with Missy Finkelstein. He spent hours bagging groceries, stocking shelves, and rotating the dairy cooler as he flirted across the room with Missy while dreaming of their life together.
They were going to travel the world. Bobby was going to be a high-powered attorney. He promised to buy Missy a flower every day. They would go dancing. And own a bookstore. Two kids. Summers in Maine.
Bobby never actually worked up the courage to say a word to Missy Finkelstein.
Her family moved away to Syosset the next year and Robert Goren forgot all about her when he discovered Jessica Walter.
Yes, he'd experienced the perfectly natural workplace crush before.
Robert Goren wasn't ready to admit that the situation with Eames was different. He liked working with Eames. She was the longest partnership Bobby had ever enjoyed.
He didn't want to upset the apple cart by making a move.
It was why he was so desperate to get it out of his head.
Bobby cared about Eames.
He cared too deeply to ever make things awkward or risk breaking up the Eames & Goren act. He cared too deeply to ever risk exposing her to the darkest parts of his nature.
His anger. His trauma.
Bobby could never ask her to ride shotgun for that trip.
That was just asking for trouble.