Author's Note: Thank you for your support on this story.
I really liked Bobby's friend Louis (the mechanic) who was a minor recurring character in two episodes in the early seasons. He'll be a supporting character that pops up from time to time in this story. I want to stress that Louis's behaviour in this chapter is light-hearted, and that Eames is receptive to it—not repulsed by it.
This chapter introduces a number of OCs. Most are members of Eames's family.
Most of these OCs (like Eames's siblings) are minor supporting characters throughout the bulk of this story. They just happen to feature heavily in this first arc—but are not a primary component of the story as a whole.
6:32 p.m. | Lower East Side | Manhattan
Alex Eames stepped out of the frigid December air into a dark pub.
She brushed a light dusting off snow off the shoulders of her wool jacket and shook her head to shift the snow from her hair.
The pub was busy, but not packed. There was a Rangers game on and most of the patrons had their eyes affixed on the screens overhead.
Alex scanned the room. Her sister, Elizabeth, waved from a tall table near the bar. Alex's sister-in-law, Stephanie, was present too.
The three Eames women liked to get together when they could—which was increasingly less so in recent years. Between work and family obligations, it was a rare thing for the trio to coordinate a night off.
Alex adored her niece and nephews—but she had no idea how Stephanie and Elizabeth did it all.
Well, she had some idea.
Elizabeth was a paramedic. Her husband, Peter, worked from home. His career afforded him the flexibility and means to take on most of the day-to-day work in parenting their new baby boy.
Things were more challenging for Stephanie. She had Oliver, Alex's little brother. Ollie was a devoted father—but life was hectic with two kids.
Steph and Ollie made their home out on Staten Island and commuted into the city. Stephanie was an ER nurse at Bellevue. Ollie was a fireman with Ladder 8 in Lower Manhattan.
"Hey, sorry I'm late," Eames said as she approached the table.
Elizabeth waved her off as she took a long sip of beer.
"We're just glad you're here," Stephanie said.
As the three caught up, it wasn't long before the pictures came out. Stephanie had finally developed the photos from Thanksgiving and Elizabeth had a stack of new shots of the baby.
"He's starting to move about. Any day now, he's going to roll over. I just know it," Elizabeth said, gushing about her son.
He was still so tiny and yet growing up too fast.
Alex beamed as she caught sight of the last photo.
"Yeah. He's started smiling now. You know, in response to us?" Elizabeth went on. "At least, he does as long as Peter doesn't sing."
The three women shared a laugh. Then silence descended on the table. All eyes fell on Alex.
"How's work?" Elizabeth inquired.
"It's good. Busy," Alex answered casually.
There wasn't all that much to say. Steph and Liz saw their own fair share of trauma in the line of duty. Eames didn't need to add any new stories. Hell, she figured they got the worst of it considering they had to deal with the 'after.'
Eames took a slow sip of her cocktail as a look passed between Elizabeth and Stephanie.
"And uh… how's dad?"
Eames saw her father more than the rest of her siblings combined. There was no ill will there, it was simply a matter of practicality. Johnny Eames refused to move out of his home in Manhattan's Inwood neighbourhood.
Ollie and Steph lived on Staten Island. Elizabeth was across the river on the north side of Queens.
Technically, Alex lived the furthest of them all. She was all the way out in the Rockaways—the southeastern peninsula of Queens.
Alex was the only one that didn't have to worry about bedtimes or meal prepping.
Johnny Eames was no feeble pensioner. Yet, he was no spring chicken either. Like his daughter, Johnny Eames was a widower at a young age.
He lived alone and insisted on doing things his own way—like driving upstate for a week of fishing without bothering to call. Johnny Eames hated that his children felt it was necessary to check up on him as if he were some kind of elderly, infirm man that needed round-the-clock assistance.
The rest of the Eames clan did what it could. Elizabeth tried to drop by once a week, but less so since having the baby.
Steph and Ollie took the kids up to see Grandpa every week.
But the day-to-day tasks like taking Johnny Eames grocery shopping, helping with laundry, or driving him to Mass and appointments fell to Alex.
Johnny Eames was only sixty-eight. But he had a three-pack-a-day habit, liked a good church fish fry, and refused to give up his corned beef sandwiches. He ate a bullet in 1982. It didn't end his career as a cop—but it didn't do much for his health in the long-run.
"We meant to stop by last Sunday, but I got called into work. Ollie didn't want to take the kids out there alone," Steph explained.
"He's fine," Eames said.
Stephanie and Elizabeth waited in silence, hoping to draw out more information. Eames could tell they weren't satisfied with her short answers.
"He's still helping at the school on Thursdays, and he might go with some of the old guys from his unit for a trip out to Philadelphia," she added.
"Philly? They're not driving, are they?" Liz asked, scandalised.
"I assume so," Alex said.
A dark look passed between Liz and her sister-in-law.
"He shouldn't be driving that far. Not at his age."
"You wanna be the one to tell him?" Alex asked dryly.
Liz and Steph fell silent. They both knew how that was bound to go over. Johnny Eames had practically uninvited the whole family for Christmas last year when Ollie scolded his father for being up on a ladder hanging lights.
"He'll be fine. He's not going alone," Eames said.
She tipped her head back and slammed her drink. Eames stared down at the empty glass and the naked ice cubes as she debated about how much she wanted to drink that night.
"Have another one," Liz urged.
"Yeah. It's only eight," Steph agreed.
She downed her own drink and then offered to buy the next round.
"No, no. I'll go," Alex insisted.
She could do with a stretch, and it would give Liz and Steph a minute to regroup. Eames loved her family—even if things were awkward.
It was inevitable.
The family meant well. But they just couldn't seem to accept that Alex was happy.
December would mark five years since the death of her husband, Joe Dutton. While there was always a void that could never be filled from that loss, Eames firmly felt that she was in a healthy place.
Alex felt completely satisfied. She loved her career, her life at Major Case. She adored her niece and nephews.
She didn't need a husband or a baby to find fulfilment.
No matter how many times Alex assured the family that things were good, Steph and Liz still felt guilty for gushing about their children and marriages.
Her brother, Ollie, had tried to set Alex up time and again with guys he knew from the fire department or the force. Stephanie always seemed to have a phone number to pass on from a friend.
They didn't like to think of Alex driving all the way out to that house in Rockaway Beach alone.
They pried into every corner of her life. She couldn't so much as drop by to watch football on Sundays with her dad lest old Johnny Eames complain about the fact Alex was the only one not giving him grandchildren.
It was like they couldn't move on with their lives until they knew that Alex was settled.
It was suffocating.
Eames stepped up to the bar and signalled to order another round. She shifted her attention to the hockey game above. The Rangers were playing Philly, and the game was in overtime.
The man to her left let out a long breath.
"I sure hope we pull this off," he remarked.
"You got a bet riding on it?" Eames asked.
"No. Just a fool prayin' for rain."
Eames picked up a slight accent in the tenor of his voice.
Yooper? Minnesotan?
Maybe Canadian?
She couldn't quite tell. It sounded like he was from the upper Midwest.
He certainly wasn't local—and that furthered her suspicion that he was, in fact, a gambler.
"Yeah, you're probably wondering why a boy from Thunder Bay is such a die-hard Rangers fan, eh?"
As the barman was still working on her order, Alex didn't see any harm in conversing.
"The thought crossed my mind," she replied.
"My father was a big fan of 'Beaver' Laprade. Followed his whole career. Laprade retired but the Rangers gained a lifelong fan in my father. I grew up listening to all the games on the radio," the man said.
"You and my old man would have a lot to talk about."
The comment slipped from Alex's mouth before she could stop herself.
"Yeah?" the man asked, flashing her a grin.
Alex put her hand up.
"I wasn't offering," she clarified.
The man wasn't put off. In fact, he looked embarrassed.
"Oh! Oh, I wasn't—" He paused and nervously scratched the back of his neck. "Look, miss. I'm real sorry. I didn't—"
"It's fine," Eames replied with a tight smile.
The barman returned with the drinks. Alex paid in cash and quickly departed before her Canadian Don Juan could try another line.
When she returned to the table, Steph and Liz were deep in conversation. They abruptly stopped as Alex approached, but she'd heard enough to work out the jist of it. They were discussing their plans for the New Year.
"Don't stop on my account," Alex said as she passed Liz another beer.
Her sister's face flushed.
"We're not really doing much. I have to work. Peter's going to make dinner," Liz said, quickly moving to downplay the night.
All eyes fell on Stephanie. She looked almost guilty for having made plans to spend some time alone with her husband.
"Ollie and I are both working that weekend. But we made plans for the week after. My mum's taking the kids and we're gonna drive up to a little bed and breakfast for a few nights."
"That sounds lovely," Eames said with a smile.
Stephanie shrugged.
"I hope so. I stayed there when I was a kid. Ollie's never been."
All of sudden, Elizabeth's phone went off.
"Ugh. Sorry. The baby's got the croup," she announced. "I'm gonna have to cut this short."
"Is he alright?" Alex asked.
Elizabeth nodded.
"I'm sure he'll be fine. But I should really get home."
She threw on her coat, hat, and mittens and then bid them farewell, giving Eames a long hug.
"Call me, okay?" Liz insisted. "And why don't you pack a bag and come stay for Christmas, hmm?"
She worried about her sister all alone out there in the house in the Rockaways.
Eames just smiled and shook her head.
"I'm fine," she insisted. "In any case, I can't let dad go alone to Midnight Mass."
In truth, she didn't much feel like going anywhere over the holidays. She would rather be at home alone.
Liz nodded in understanding. She gave Alex's arm a reassuring squeeze.
"It's okay, if you change your mind," Liz added before slipping out into the frigid air.
Eames turned back to Stephanie.
"Well, looks like it's just us for the night," Alex said.
Steph scanned the rest of the pub while she sipped on her drink. It was a busy night.
"Maybe we should move to the bar? Open up this table for them?" Steph suggested.
She glanced over her shoulder at the bar where there were a few empty seats—namely the two empty seats next to Mister tall, dark, and Canadian.
Alex was starting to feel like this was a setup. Stephanie could sense her hesitation.
"Or we can stay here," Steph assured her quickly.
She followed Eames's line of sight to the man at the bar. Stephanie leaned in close and dropped her voice.
"Did he say something to you? Was he weird?" she asked, concerned.
Alex shrugged.
"No."
Alex wasn't remotely rattled. There was no way she would have made it in Vice for five years if she was ruffled by the thousands of lonely men that spent their nights watching sports at New York's neighbourhood dives every night.
The door chimed. The room was hit with a blast of icy air. Alex and Stephanie watched as a group came in from the cold and looked around for a table.
Steph picked up her drink and shrugged.
"Sure," Alex said, agreeing to Stephanie's plan.
Down in Staten Island, Oliver Eames was sitting on the floor in front of his two young children.
"Alright, now I want you to scream as loud as you can, okay?"
His children blinked back at him. Such instructions were contrary to what they were told most of the time.
"Should we practise before we call mummy?" Ollie suggested.
He grinned and waved his hands, dancing, tickling, doing anything he could to rile the kids up before bedtime. It was a sacrifice—but one he was willing to make.
It wasn't long before the children were racing around the carpet. They shrieked as dad pretended to chase them. In no time at all, the dog was barking too.
Perfect. Ollie thought as he dialled his wife.
"Yeah. I was thinking about painting the front room," Steph said.
Their house was in a constant state of flux—projects took twice as long when there were little hands and feet running about.
"Let me know," Alex said, offering to help.
She was good like that.
"It probably won't be until spring. I'd like to get it done before Easter, but you know Ollie."
"Ooo!"
The man Alex had spoken to earlier hissed and made a face as the Rangers missed a shot on goal. Much to her relief, he seemed entirely focused on the game. He had not spoken a word to Alex since she'd come up to the bar.
All too soon, Stephanie's phone rang.
It wasn't hard to hear the screaming on the other end—even above the ruckus from the game.
"Okay. Slow down. Okay…. okay."
Wordlessly, Stephanie turned to Alex and flashed her an apologetic look. Mum was needed at home.
Sorry. She mouthed.
"Yeah. Leaving now. Forty minutes or so. Love you too," Stephanie said before hanging up.
Alex flashed her a knowing smile.
"Have a good night. And give my love to the kids," Alex said.
"I'm really sorry about this," Stephanie said.
They had just ordered another round. Alex was sitting on a fresh drink.
"It's fine, in any case—you'll beat traffic if you leave now before the game finishes," she said, assuring Stephanie that it was alright to go.
Alex could handle herself. And Steph had to get home to the kids.
"Maybe we can try this again in a few weeks?" Steph suggested.
"Yeah. Great," Alex agreed.
And that was how she came to find herself sitting alone next to her Canadian stranger.
Well, technically he wasn't 'her' anything.
The pair sat in silence, Alex sipping on her whisky while he slowly drank a beer. She noticed he wasn't wearing a ring—nor did there seem to be any evidence of one recently removed.
In Eames's experience, far too many people thought they were being slick by slipping off the wedding ring for the night. They didn't pay attention to the tan lines or faint pressure marks that were often left behind in the absence of a ring.
He was seated to her left, utterly fixated on watching the game. He wasn't drinking much and that was a relief.
To Eames's surprise, he also exchanged a few friendly words with an older man that came up to the bar.
Much like Alex, this lifelong New Yorker responded the same way.
He nodded politely while the barman poured him another drink. But his body language and stiff response screamed that there was only one thought on his mind.
Why the hell is this stranger from out of town talking to me?
It was hard to tell who was a tourist and what was a scam—especially when it came wrapped in folksy charm.
The barman approached and noticed the man's beer was empty.
"Another one?"
"Naw. Can I just get a soda?" the man asked.
The game wasn't finished yet. He wanted to catch the overtime finish but didn't want to go over two beers.
"Gina don't want you watching the games at the house no more?" the barman teased.
The man chuckled.
"Yeah. She doesn't want the kids up this late," he replied.
Whoop! There it is. Alex thought.
Of course, he had a wife and children. Why else would he be out on a Saturday night alone watching hockey at a dive bar?
Eames nursed her whisky. She had a forty-minute drive home ahead of her and it was snowing.
"Hey uh, Mick? Do you know if I take the kids to the zoo, can I like.. pack a lunch? Or do I gotta go back out into the park? The middle one's got a peanut allergy, and I don't want to chance it, yanno?"
The barman shrugged.
"Central Park Zoo? It's been thirty years since I had kids young enough to take to the zoo."
The man nodded politely, thanking the barman anyway. Mick waved him off and shuffled away.
"Yes," Eames said. "The answer to your question. It's yes. You can bring food into the zoo."
She'd taken Ollie's kids enough times to know.
"Hey, thanks!" the guy replied, flashing her a broad smile.
He turned back to the game as Alex swirled the whisky in her glass.
"Look. I'm really sorry about earlier. Truly. I'm new to the city and I still have a hard time knowing when to be friendly with people and what's sarcasm," he said, apologising.
It didn't come across as a line. In fact, Alex found it refreshingly earnest.
"I must seem like a tourist, huh? I suppose I still am. It's just so different here. Everybody's friendly but… but a little prickly, eh?" he mused aloud.
Eames chuckled.
That's one word for it.
"Especially the guys at the department. I just can't seem to crack when they're being serious or when they're having a go at me," he went on.
He stopped and grimaced.
"Sorry. I'm doing it again."
Department?
That caught Eames's attention.
"You a cop?" she asked.
He shook his head. To her surprise, he extended his arm for a handshake.
"No. I'm a fireman. Billy Marczewski," he said, introducing himself.
Alex nodded slowly.
Now it all made sense—the move to the bar, the sudden need for Steph and Liz to rush home. It was all too conveniently planned to position Alex alone at the bar next to this fireman.
Billy could tell Alex was bothered by this information.
"I'm sorry. Have I said something wrong? Bad ex was a fireman?" he guessed.
Eames snorted.
"No. Let me guess, Ladder 8?" Alex asked.
Billy looked confused.
"No," Billy answered slowly. "I'm just north of those guys, though. Hell's Kitchen."
"Engine Company 54," Alex said.
She knew the layout of the city and the different departments like the back of her hand.
"They lost a lot of good people on 9/11," Alex commented.
"Yeah," Billy said, nodding. "I didn't really know most of them. I wasn't living here then. But we do what we can to remember them."
9/11 was still a tough subject for the city.
Alex had seen too many funerals—both in the wake of the attacks and from the subsequent fallout. There were colleagues from the NYPD, friends from the NYFD and Port Authority, classmates from the old neighbourhood.
It was hard to believe it had been little over a year since that day. It seemed both so raw and yet so far away.
Eames needed to change the subject. She couldn't dwell on the memories of that event.
"Why New York?" Eames asked.
"I needed a change of scenery," Billy said.
"Quite a change," Alex remarked.
Billy chuckled.
"Not all that much. I spent the last decade in Toronto. Fire service," Billy explained.
"So, you followed your dream team to the city?" she asked, nodding to the television ahead.
Billy grinned.
"No."
Curious, Eames employed Goren's favourite trick. She tilted her head to the side, forcing Billy to make eye contact as she waited for a more detailed explanation.
"Not chasing. Running from," he shared.
Bill glanced down at the soda on the bar.
"I found out my fiancée was in love with another man. A real scumbag, too," Billy said.
He sighed and scratched the back of his neck. It was obvious that subject was still a sore spot.
"We had all the same circle of friends. She worked for the city. It just… it was hard because I couldn't really 'start over' there. But it's a good thing, yanno?"
He shifted his posture, sitting up straight as if he'd found a new purpose.
"You met Gina," Eames said.
"Gina is my sister," Billy said. "She's here. She's got three kids and I'm crazy about them."
His face lit up with glee at the chance to mention his niece and nephews. Suddenly, his smile faltered.
"She's alone now," Billy shared with a hint of sadness. "It just worked out for me to come down."
"Nasty divorce?" Eames inquired.
"No. Mike was a good man. Solid gold, that guy," Billy replied.
A beat passed.
"He was in the North Tower."
"I'm sorry for your loss," Eames said.
She felt like that was all she said anymore to anyone—friends, colleagues, witnesses.
"Anyway, now I'm here," Billy concluded. "Sometimes fate just works out that way."
"Yeah," Eames agreed in a faraway voice.
"Look, I don't mean to take up your time. I just wanted to apologise for any misunderstanding from before. I wasn't trying it on. I just… I struggle talking to people. Meeting people here. And I always wind up saying too much."
Eames wasn't upset.
"It's fine. And you're right. It is different here. Welcome to New York, Mr Marczewski," she said.
Billy flashed her a warm smile.
"Thanks," he said.
He noticed Alex mindlessly swirling the drink in her hand.
"You drink whisky. Neat," he observed. "That's an acquired taste."
"Yeah. It is," Alex said.
There was a time it had been bourbon—but those days were long since passed.
Eames relaxed when Billy didn't try to buy her one.
"I usually stick to beer but there's nothing like blackberry brandy on a cold night like this," Billy said, just making conversation.
Shades of Goren. Eames thought.
Like her partner, he didn't have an angle. Billy just wanted to make conversation.
"But I like it in tea. When I'm sick. My sister makes a mean hot toddy. We always add a little maple syrup. Fixes me up in no time."
With that, the buzzer sounded, and the game came to a frustrating end. The Rangers were tied with the Capitals.
"Well. That's that. I suppose that's how it goes sometimes," Billy remarked.
Without another word, he got up from his seat and threw on his coat and gloves.
"Thanks for the information about the zoo. And the conversation," Billy said.
For a fleeting moment, Alex worried he was going to ask to exchange numbers, putting her in the impossible position of explaining that she really didn't date.
It was just too complicated with work. Eames had been down that road before—both with Joe and others. She didn't have the time or energy to devote to the dating scene. When she wanted or needed it, Eames could find sex.
But she didn't want that from this man.
He was attractive alright—gods, was he her type.
But this Billy Marczewski seemed too sweet, too wholesome to ask for a casual, no-strings-attached evening of hip-smacking glory.
To Eames's relief, Billy simply tipped his ballcap in her direction and bid her a goodnight.
Alex sat back in her barstool. She smirked as she brought her whisky to her lips.
Refreshing.
Yes, if there was one word to describe Mr Billy Marczewski—he was refreshing. He seemed so sincere, so… wholesome.
And a part of Eames found itself kicking her for not getting his number.
Pity.
It was probably for the best. Alex knew it wouldn't work. They both had busy jobs with long, unpredictable hours. And she couldn't bear to listen to Ollie tease her over going out with a fireman after swearing them off for good.
Like Billy had said at the end of the game—that's that.
That's just how it goes sometimes.
It was only 10:00 by the time Alex got home.
Polly was excited by her arrival.
Like most things in life, Polly wasn't something Alex had sought out on her own. But she'd grown on Alex over the last six months.
Originally, Polly belonged to one of her brother's colleagues. He'd died on 9/11. His brothers at the station had a difficult time rehousing the budgie.
They needed a lot of affection and stimulation. While they made for excellent family companions, they weren't great for small children. And there were a lot of factors to consider in housing them.
Originally, Oliver Eames had taken her home.
But it proved too difficult. He didn't want to simply hand her over to the Humane Society or worse, have her wind up unwanted and euthanised.
So, Alex got a bird.
Having been shuffled around from home to home, Polly was still a little hesitant about physical affection. But she liked when Alex talked, enjoyed music, and loved being fed treats.
As soon as she switched on the light, Polly started to bob and weave.
"Hey girl," Alex said.
Eames dropped her keys on the end table near the door. She grabbed a treat and carefully fed it to Polly through her cage.
"Hi Bob! Hi Bob!"
It was one of Polly's favourite phrases.
"Who's a pretty bird?" Alex asked.
Polly leaned over to nibble at the dried mango in Eames's hand.
"Hi, Bob!"
Eames switched on the television and left Polly to her own devices. The snow was still coming down outside. It would be a slippery commute in the morning. But it wasn't terribly late. Alex saw no harm in a nightcap.
Alex reached into her liquor cabinet and poured herself a dram.
Eames wasn't much of a drinker, but she enjoyed a stiff whisky now and again—especially when she needed to unwind.
She settled into the sofa, watching the snow as it fell, disappearing into the inky expanse of the ocean at the back of the house.
Eames's home wasn't grand. It was an old house, but it was situated on the waterfront facing Rockaway beach—and beyond, the dark waters of the Atlantic.
Alex liked that the back of the house faced the East. She didn't have to look at the city skyline. She could escape into the salt and sea.
Alex had grown up in Manhattan's Inwood neighbourhood on the northeast end of the city. She spent her childhood along the Hudson river.
It was Joe that had first pitched the idea of moving out to the Rockaways. Joe was raised on Long Island and longed for the sea.
Rockaway Beach was isolated from Manhattan. At that time they purchased their home, the neighbourhood was still mostly working-class (fondly dubbed the 'Irish Riviera') though it had grown increasingly gentrified in recent years.
Joe and Alex purchased their home together with plans to replace the window trim, turn the basement into a family room, and to fill the house with any army of little sandy-haired Dutton's.
Now it was just Alex and Polly.
"Just you and me. Eh, old girl?" Alex asked.
"Pretty bird. Pretty bird."
"Sláinte," Eames said, raising her glass to Polly.
"Cheer! Clink!"
The next morning was a slippery commute.
Goren usually beat Eames into work. He lived closest to 1PP—just across the East River in a flat in Brooklyn Heights.
It wasn't uncommon for him to head into work early. More than a decade had passed since Goren's time in the service. But old habits died hard. And Goren figured being an early riser was hardly the worst habit he could cling to.
Goren was already knee-deep into a report on tire marks by the time Captain Deakins arrived.
Eames was a minute behind him.
"I was just about to call you," Goren said.
"Sorry. The roads were a bit slick," she said as she threw her coat over the back of her chair.
"Oh? I suppose it's a good thing you're wearing such sensible shoes," Goren said innocently.
Eames just shook her head.
"Here. Take a look at this. Came back from CSU this morning," Goren said as he passed a manilla file folder across to Eames.
Though he noted the smirk that passed between the pair, Deakins didn't question it further.
It's better if you don't ask, Jimmy.
"We should touch base with the techs. See if there's anything they can tell us about these tire prints," Eames suggested.
The Major Case Division of the NYPD was housed on the south side of the eleventh floor of 1PP. And within that section sat a room along the far wall at the back of the bullpen.
It was used as an interview room or for Detectives to work without being disturbed. The glass walls offered privacy. And it was far less intimidating than an interrogation room.
By noon, Robert Goren had turned it into a right mess.
Dusty boxes were stacked high. Old newspapers and crumpled tissue paper littered the floor. And in the centre sat Detective Goren, analysing each and every piece of the suspect's collection of model cars.
He was like a kid in a candy store—turning over every inch of evidence in search of something.
Eames didn't quite see what they might find in a toy model '67 Shelby. But she trusted her partner's instinct. She knew there had to be a good reason he was giving them a thorough look.
She smirked as she watched him.
Yes, Robert Goren was an acquired taste.
Bobby wasn't alone—Captain Deakins was there too enthusiastically pouring over the haul.
Even the usually prim ADA Ron Carver looked like a kid on Christmas morning. He whistled low and slow as he carefully pulled a vintage Type-E Jaguar from the box.
There was another boy in the club, one that Alex recognised as Detective Goren's friend, Louis. He was hard to miss. Louis was quite a character. Louis stood out in the Major Case bullpen with his loose flannel, unkempt hair, and thick squared glasses.
Louis was something of an automotive expert that had consulted on a previous case.
While the rest of the boys were fixated on the toys at the table, Louis studied the tire prints on the board. He wasn't interested in the models—not when he worked with the real thing.
Eames swept into the room with the latest report in hand.
"The ME confirmed the urine sample did not contain Lipitor," Eames announced.
Louis was the only one that looked up at her arrival. A broad smile spread across his face.
"Detective Alex," he said appreciatively.
"Down boy," Eames warned playfully.
Louis beamed.
His eyes lingered just a little too long—long enough for Bobby to take note. Goren cleared his throat and steered Louis's attention back to the board.
"What can you tell us?" Goren asked.
"Your guy is using original stock tires. I don't see any wear on them. I'd wager these have never been driven," Louis concluded.
"So… so he just sits in them? Like a kid behind a wheel?" Goren theorised aloud.
He rose from his seat at the table to study the information pinned to the board—tread marks, invoices, specs.
Bobby ripped one of the tread photos off the board.
"What a waste," he said, clucking his tongue in disapproval. "Could you imagine having a mint condition GTO and just… just sitting on it?"
"That's the Barracuda," Eames said, correcting him as she snatched the photograph and pinned it back in place.
"She's right, you know," Louis chimed in before adding, "Not that I would expect anything less from a girl from Inwood."
He flashed Eames a cheeky grin.
Alex glanced over at Bobby, who was quick to shift his attention elsewhere.
"Erm… we should erm… we should pull the record of any other wills Mr Coffman handled," Goren said.
"I'll get on a subpoena," Carver announced.
"And I'll make a call to city storage," Deakins added.
Bobby Goren moved to leave too—Eames's arm shot out to stop him. She crossed her arms and stared up at her partner.
Goren shifted his weight from foot to foot. He scratched at the back of his neck as he went into his tap dance routine.
"I erm… I—"
He paused and glanced back at Louis for support.
"It slipped out," Goren said with a nonchalant shrug.
Louis did a poor job of hiding his smile. He rushed forward and jumped to Bobby's defence.
"It's not what you think," Louis said, waving his hands. "No, no. I just asked. Casual conversation. And… and Bobby mentioned that you weren't erm… well—"
Louis looked toward Bobby for aid. None was forthcoming.
Alex raised her eyebrows, looking back and forth between the pair.
"I asked Bobby for your number," Louis confessed.
"Which I didn't provide," Goren said.
"He said I couldn't handle you," Louis remarked.
"I did not!" Bobby protested.
His temper flashed briefly before he calmed himself.
"I said that I would ask."
"Uh huh," Eames said, slowly.
"He didn't give me the number," Louis replied in earnest.
"See?" Bobby pressed.
He was feeling good at having been vindicated—until Louis opened his big mouth.
"Said it was for the best. That I couldn't handle a girl from Inwood. Especially one with guns like you," Louis teased as he playfully hit Eames's arm.
Eames's eyebrows shot up. She smiled, nodding slowly at having caught them. Try as he may to weave a cover story, the tell-tale flush in Robert Goren's face was enough to shatter through his excuses.
"Uh huh," Eames said slowly.
Louis threw his arm around Bobby.
"Nah, I'm just putting you on. He didn't say that," Louis said.
Goren relaxed.
"Actually, I think it was 'small but mighty.'"
Bobby bristled. He reached for Louis's arm.
"Alright, I'll walk you out. Thanks for all your help."
Louis protested as Bobby tried to shuffle him toward the door. He wasn't going to go away that easily.
"I'm sorry, Detective Alex," Louis apologised sincerely. "It's fine if you don't want to give me your number. I understand."
Eames shrugged. She wasn't bothered. In fact, a part of her enjoyed ribbing Bobby (who was clearly flustered).
"I thought you were joking," she said.
Louis stopped and turned to Goren, smiling.
"Come on, Bobby. She can take care of herself," Louis said.
"I never said she couldn't," Goren insisted.
Eames didn't need a protector. If anything, Bobby looked to her. She was his North Star.
Alexandra—Defender of Mankind.
"So, about that number…" Louis prompted.
"Oh, come on, man," Bobby said.
Alex chuckled.
"Ah! That wasn't a no," Louis said.
To Goren's surprise, Alex didn't immediately shoot down the idea. He sighed and snatched the ME's report from the table.
"You two wanna play… whatever this is, be my guest. I'll be at my desk," Bobby announced on his way out.
He wasn't angry. He knew they were just razzing him. Louis was one of Bobby's oldest and dearest friends—and he loved to tease Bobby.
Louis shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"So?"
"Sorry, I don't—"
Alex left the rest of her sentence unfinished.
"You understand," she added.
"Oh, yeah. Completely. But it is a shame," Louis said.
Eames didn't take the bait. She moved to collect her paperwork from the board.
"No, no. For real," Louis insisted.
Bobby's desk was closest to the conference room which meant he overhead the whole conversation as Louis followed Alex out into the bullpen.
"Eyes like amber. A voice like honey. A kick like whisky," Louis said.
"You're a lousy poet," Eames shot back.
"That's why I became a mechanic," Louis said without missing a beat.
He stopped just shy of her desk and held his hands up.
"I prefer to work with my hands. You should see my body work," Louis said.
He sat down on the edge of Eames's desk.
"I don't mind if you like to drive," Louis added.
Eames snorted with laughter as she slipped into her chair. Bobby slammed his leather binder down hard on the desk, warning Louis to knock it off.
A knowing smirk passed between Alex and Louis. They had ruffled Bobby—but he could do with a little mood lightening.
Eames put down her pen and propped her elbow up on the desk, resting her chin against it as she eyed Louis.
"And just what exactly would you have in mind?" she asked.
Out of the corner of her eye, Alex noticed Bobby tense.
"Anybody ever tell you that your eyes really are like—"
"Yeah, yeah," Alex said, waving him off. "I gotta get back to work, Louis. Thanks for all your help with the case."
"Anytime," Louis said brightly as he hopped off the desk.
Alex may have played it like she needed to get back on the case, but Bobby knew Eames was uncomfortable with compliments. He watched every microexpression, every cue from the timbre of her voice to the nonverbal signals in her posture.
It may have started as a game to irritate Goren, but Bobby could sense a flash of chemistry between the two.
Louis was a great guy. And Bobby had no doubt that his interest in Eames was genuine. Bobby also recognised it wasn't his place to police Eames's life (on or off the clock).
It just felt… strange.
"You know we were just teasing you, right?" Alex asked.
"Yeah. Of course," Bobby replied without looking up from his work.
Eames could tell he was feeling prickly.
"Bobby."
He dropped his pen and glanced up to meet her gaze.
"It's fine!" he insisted. "Louis is a decent guy. You're my partner. It's not up to me who or what you do outside of work. You don't have to seek my permission."
His response came across as rehearsed. Forced. Like he was trying too hard not to care about the possibility that his best friend might enjoy a night out with Alex.
That Louis might be lucky enough to be in the presence of Alex Eames when she could let go of work and responsibility—laughing over drinks or catching a game together.
Among other things.
"Bobby?" Alex prompted.
"Nothing," Goren said.
He dropped his gaze back to his notes and pushed away all thoughts of his partner.
From her position across the way, Alex eyed Bobby carefully. A thought settled in the back of her mind.
Was he really bothered about the idea of her and Louis?
And was it Louis?
Or was it her?
Eames quickly dashed the notion.
Robert Goren spent his nights pouring over case files and listening to avant-garde jazz. He liked to go salsa dancing and discover new hole-in-the-wall Cantonese restaurants.
When he wasn't reading the New Yorker or caring for his mum, Bobby liked to attend lectures at Hudson University or lose himself in the stacks of the New York Public Library system.
During the course of their time in Major Case, their investigations had led them to a surprising number of Bobby's ex-girlfriends.
There was Irene, the trader at a high-end brokerage firm that brought a whole new meaning to 'tall and tan and lovely.'
Cedar, the homoeopath that ran an alchemist shop/yoga studio/community garden in East Harlem.
Mila, the Estonian ballerina. (Eames was quite certain Mila's legs alone were taller than the total sum of Alex's small stature.)
There was also Lydia, the feisty and charismatic redhead that ran a consumer-advocacy nonprofit.
Donna, the leather-clad motorcycle cop that doubled as a burlesque dancer on the weekends.
And finally, Gladys.
Gladys was a professor at Columbia. She was charismatic, witty, accomplished—and at least twenty years older than Robert Goren.
When they were first introduced, Eames thought Gladys might have been a former professor or a friend of Bobby's mother. Her eyebrows hit the roof when Goren explained she was an ex.
"Favourite teacher?" Eames inquired as they strolled out onto campus.
"We dated." Goren said.
Eames chucked.
"No really," Bobby said, completely serious.
Eames blinked.
"Really," Bobby insisted. "For about a year. Then her grandkids moved back to the city and, well… you know how it goes."
Yes, Robert Goren had dated a much older woman—one that was, in some ways, surprisingly like his mother.
Alex Eames didn't even want to begin to try and unpack that.
Whenever thoughts of Robert Goren wormed their way into her mind, Eames was quick to remind herself of the long list of women that had come before and all the reasons why Alex didn't stack up.
One of these things is not like the other. Alex mused.
That wasn't self-pity—Eames just wasn't his type.
And that was for the best.
Goren and Eames's partnership may have started off rocky. Goren was surly. Eames was no peach either.
But in time, they had come to share a deep, mutual respect for one another. And that blossomed into friendship. Bobby trusted Alex—which was unheard of for Robert Goren.
He kept even his closest friends at a distance.
In kind, Alex trusted Goren to have her back. There weren't many partners she trusted like that. Not wholly. Not like she did with Goren.
"I erm… I need to call about tracing the source on this grille."
Bobby glanced up from his notes and held up a photograph of one of the stolen cars.
"Do you want to make the call?" Bobby offered. "I'm sure you and Louis would have a lot to chat about. Catch up. Muse about the old times… or the future."
Eames waved him off in her usual dry manner.
"Oh, please. As if I have the time," she said.