Author's Note: Thank you for your support on this story.
You'll notice Bobby falls back on the phrase 'Defender of mankind' when he thinks of Eames. Defender of mankind is the meaning of the name 'Alexandra.'
It seems like the sort of thing Goren would know and muse over.
Chapter-specific notes: Yes, it is 'Bayswater.' That's not a typo!
Friday | 13 December | 2002
As the year drew to a close, Eames and Goren were under pressure to close a number of pending cases. 1PP wanted to make those end-of-year statistics look good and that meant they had to make their suspect sing.
The Goren-Eames duo went to work with their signature routine, tap dancing around their suspect in perfect sync like Fred and Ginger.
"Come on, Benny. We know you were trying to get back at your old man for all the years he beat you down, made you feel like dirt," Bobby said.
"No! I had nothing to do with that. Honest!"
Their suspect wouldn't budge. It was time for Eames to drop the hammer.
"No, see... you took a life insurance policy on your father. You thought you were being smart, but you set your alibi up for the wrong night," Eames said.
She turned a manilla folder around so that the suspect had a clear view of the evidence—and his own blown alibi.
"What happened, Mikey? You get too caught up in the excitement of that cool million?" Eames pressed.
Bobby leaned over, forcing the suspect to make eye contact. He dropped his voice to a calm, even timbre.
"Was it the thought of knowing your old man was finally gonna pay? That you were finally going to get even?" Goren asked softly.
Their suspect tugged at his collar. He reached for a handkerchief to dab the perspiration from his brow.
"I… I have a condition. It makes me sweat," the suspect lied.
Eames flipped her binder shut.
"Well, I think we're done here. Let's just turn this guy over to the DA and be done with it," she announced.
"Just… just wait," Bobby said.
He dragged a spare chair around the table and sat down next to Mikey.
"I know your father abused you. He wasn't there for you. He didn't give you the kind of care or support you needed."
The suspect sniffled and nodded.
"Now we can talk to the DA. We can tell him you cooperated. You could make a deal," Goren suggested.
ADA Carver had prepped Goren and Eames with the details of what he was willing to offer in exchange for a full confession.
"You could serve your time nearby. Be close enough to see your kids," Goren said.
Goren and Eames emerged from the interrogation room. Captain Deakins was standing outside in the observation room along with Ron Carver.
"Nice work, Detectives," Carver said.
"Good collar," Deakins added.
Bobby didn't entirely feel great about how they'd gotten there—pushing an abused man, playing on his past trauma.
Cases involving absent, abusive, or otherwise derelict fathers always hit Bobby Goren hard.
"I'll make the arrangements," Carver announced, excusing himself to speak with the accused.
"I've got to make a call upstairs," Deakins said before he too left.
Goren and Eames found themselves alone.
Eames crossed her arms and studied her partner.
"You alright?" she asked.
Goren looked shaken. Usually, he fidgeted. He couldn't stand still. Bobby had to poke things, move his feet, and dance about.
Now, he was perfectly still. It looked as if he was trying to pretend that he was okay.
"I'm fine."
Bobby took cases to heart.
He wasn't supposed to—but that was easier said than done.
Good Detectives could compartmentalise. They survived by finding a way to cope, by separating the personal from the professional. Good Detectives didn't take cases home. They didn't sit and stew after they punched out.
Eames had her beach in the Rockaways. Deakins had his family.
Bobby had his work.
In fact, Robert Goren was so good at compartmentalising every other aspect of his life that he clung to his cases.
The trauma from his childhood, his mother's mental illness, his own deep-seeded fears were all tucked away in tiny boxes, neatly arranged in the recesses of his mind.
Work was a distraction from the horrors of 'home.'
Sure, they'd found a way to offer this abuse victim something. The suspect would plead guilty to a manslaughter charge for killing his father, and they could hope that the organised crime syndicate he'd wronged didn't have tentacles that extended into prison.
The man was small potatoes by mob standards. His life hung in the balance of whether his debt was worth the trouble of paying someone off to carry out the kill.
Yeah. Thought Goren bitterly. In Major Case, that was a win.
There were days Goren wondered what it was all for. No matter how many wins they racked up, there were always more losses.
Too many cases went unsolved. Hell, only a fraction of crimes were ever reported in the first place.
Bobby needed work, a fix to distract his mind from the endless banality of it all.
"I was thinking I might come in tomorrow. Take another look at that Peterson file," Goren said.
Alex knew what he was asking without so many words.
"I can't. I'm taking my brother's kids. He's dropping them off tonight and I'll have them until Sunday morning."
Both Ollie and Steph had to work. The sitter was sick. Eames and Goren were scheduled to be off, so she'd seen no harm in offering to take them.
Goren waved it off.
"Yeah, yeah. It will give me a chance to read through everything. Come at it fresh," he said.
Even though Alex was looking forward to a day with the little ones, she felt torn. A part of her wanted nothing more than to spend the day combing through files over cold Chinese takeaway.
Goren could see she was mulling it over.
"Go be with the kids. Spend time with your niece and nephew," he urged.
"You'll call me though? If anything comes up?"
"First on my list," Goren replied.
It was dark by the time Bobby got home to Brooklyn.
He collected his mail from the box in the entryway. Bobby opted to take the stairs. He didn't have much faith in the antique lift.
Goren dropped the stack of mail on the counter. There were new bills from Carmel Ridge where his mother was staying in a residential care facility. The latest issue of Smithsonian magazine had come too.
And some assorted junk mail—HVAC estimates, dental reminders, life insurance quotes.
Goren just shook his head.
Why does it always come down to life insurance?
Every year there were hundreds of murders, attempted murders, conspiracies, faked disappearances, and fraud that all came back to life insurance—often for paltry sums.
It all left a bitter taste in Goren's mouth.
He couldn't place a dollar amount on someone's life.
Certainly not a loved one.
He knew the statistics. He understood the motivation. And yet, when it all came down to it, Goren could not find it in his mind to fathom how someone could kill for $200,000.
That kind of cold, calculating decision only fuelled Goren's scepticism about the human race.
On any given day, Goren's perception of humanity swung wildly on a pendulum. He wanted to believe that people were good at heart, that no one was beyond compassion or redemption.
But there was a mountain of evidence to contradict that belief.
People plotted and schemed. They committed dark, horrific deeds for things like money and power.
Or less.
Hell, Bobby had once investigated a spurned little old lady that brought down an entire company because they declined to give her nephew a job interview.
Goren knew that the world was a cruel place. It was random and full of coincidence.
It had to be.
Bobby couldn't believe in things like fate or divine purpose. He saw no logic in an omnipotent being pulling the strings behind the curtain because he refused to accept that a benevolent creator would allow a little boy to suffer the things Goren had to endure.
And yet…
Bobby had chosen to dedicate his life to protecting others. He chose compassion and equity at every turn.
All the factors were present for Bobby to fall into a life of addiction or violence. He could have turned out exactly like his absent father or his brother, Frank.
Goren respected religion. He could empathise with the millions of people worldwide that found purpose and spiritual nourishment through their temple or church or mosque. In some ways, Goren admired those that could sit down at a shrine and contemplate the divine.
That kind of inner peace wasn't something that existed in the mind of Robert Goren—his neural synapses were just too wiry to ever truly settle.
It was the reason Bobby drank to oblivion some nights. It was the only way he could sleep without experiencing the scattered, vivid imagery that haunted his dreams.
Robert Goren didn't believe in divinity. He couldn't.
But oh, how he longed to.
Because the world was cruel. And it was random. Year after year it grew more difficult to tell what was real and what was all an act. Human emotion could be so expertly faked for the benefit of an attorney or a jury.
No matter how many hours he spent chasing leads and interviewing suspects, there was still a finite number of cases that could be solved. Fewer still would make it to trial.
Robert Gorn could work himself into the grave and still only bring a fraction of the cases that crossed his desk to a close.
But there were days—too many to count—when Eames reminded him of the reason they got out of bed in the morning to watch a body dragged out of the East River.
The one thing Bobby was certain was authentic in this world was his partnership with Alexandra Eames and her unshakable determination.
Defender of mankind.
That was real. He knew it. He could feel it.
Goren sank down into his favourite recliner. He picked up a glass from the end table and sniffed the contents.
Clean enough. He figured.
Goren kept two bottles of whisky next to his recliner for easy access—one cheap and the other a fine, smoky single malt. They were for the nights he needed to think (and for the ones when he didn't want to). An ashtray and a pack of smokes sat atop the end table.
Tonight, Bobby reached for the cheap stuff.
He closed his eyes and savoured the sweet burn of that first sip.
Goren kicked the seat back and settled into the cushions. From this position, he had a perfect view of the Brooklyn Bridge and the East River below. Beyond was the Manhattan skyline.
In a way, he felt like a superhero watching night fall on the city he protected.
Minus the tights and latex.
Bobby reached for a smoke. He struck the lighter. The flame was the only source of light inside his dark flat. It was gone in a flash, replaced a second later by the warm, crackling glow at the end of the cigarette.
Bobby liked the way the harsh tobacco complemented the whisky. It even made the cheap stuff attractive.
Goren stared at nothing in particular, swirling the whisky in hand as he let that first hit of nicotine wash over him. Bobby couldn't fault his brother Frank for his addiction. He pitied him. And he recognised it was a disease.
It was something the Goren brothers shared.
Frank just chose more expensive and destructive ways to feed that addiction. Someday, the cigarettes or the liquor would kill Bobby (if work didn't first).
And if I can avoid institutionalisation. Goren thought half-jokingly.
He was well past the age when schizophrenia presented—but that wasn't enough to quell his concerns.
Goren shifted the attention to the whisky in his hand and how it very much reminded him of Eames.
Smoky and sweet. Straightforward. Dependable. Goren always knew what to expect from his partner. Always available. Always had his back.
Packed a punch.
Even the amber hue reminded him of the shade of her hazel eyes.
Thanks for sharing that, Louis. Bobby thought darkly.
At least Eames seemed to think it was just Louis waxing poetic and not something Bobby had accidentally let slip one night while drinking.
On the surface, a neat whisky might seem unassuming, simple even. Yet Bobby knew it only took a hint of water or a single cube of ice to open it up.
And beneath that façade lay a rich complexity. That complexity was his salvation.
Bobby found divinity in the bottle. And he saw it in his partner.
She had steel in her veins.
Alex Eames was the toughest person Robert Goren knew. She put drill sergeants and cold-blooded killers to shame.
In spite of all she had seen and experienced, she still retained compassion and empathy—enough to know when Goren was hurting.
Yet, unlike most of the people he'd worked with over the years, Eames cared enough to ask.
She was unflappable. Eames didn't suffer fools (in the interrogation room or on the force). She didn't let perps get in her head. Attorneys couldn't rattle her.
And underneath all that armour was the warmest, most patient person Robert Goren had ever known.
Probably the only person in the world both patient enough to tolerate him and steely enough to push back on his brooding loner veneer.
Fate. Bobby mused.
He reached for his notes. Goren flipped the binder open on his lap and began to read, analysing every detail and photograph. There were phone records. Emails. A stack of receipts dating back two years.
Goren worked his way through all of it along with his bottle and his pack of smokes. Goren reached for another cigarette. He did not tear his eyes away from the page—only when the pack was empty. His large hand fumbled along the end table past the empty pack and in search of the backup he kept on hand.
Goren grumbled in frustration. He would have to get another pack from the carton in the kitchen.
He moved his binder to the coffee table and kicked the recliner back into an upright position.
Bobby rose and stretched. For the first time in hours, he glanced at the window.
The sun was starting to come up.
Bobby reached up to massage his tired eyes. He knew it was futile to try and go to bed now—even if he was exhausted.
His mind was still consumed with the case. He wouldn't be able to shut it down.
Goren stripped off his suit from the night before and stepped into the shower. He turned on the tap and closed his eyes, allowing the cool water run over his face and chest.
Alex used a warm flannel to gently wipe the crusties away from her niece's eyes. Wee Ella stirred, scrunching up her face in disapproval at the intrusion.
"Good morning, sweetpea," Alex said.
Ella's eyes fluttered open. As soon as she realised who was sitting there, she flashed auntie Alex a broad grin.
It was just after 8:00. Ella's older brother, Joey, had been up since 5:30.
Eames had awoken to the thunder of tiny feet on the wooden floor outside her bedroom. A moment later, she'd had a pair of little hands pressing on her face as Joey jumped and tugged at the covers.
Unlike her brother, Ella had slept late.
Ollie and Steph were trying hard to establish a solid sleep routine. As much as it pained Eames to wake her slumbering lamb, she was on strict orders not to allow Ella to sleep past 8:00.
Ella was eighteen months old and loved to cuddle. She reached out her arms, pleading to be carried downstairs.
"Pah! Pah!"
Alex didn't need an interpreter to know what 'up' meant.
Alex scooped Ella up into her arms.
"Should we get you some breakfast?"
Joey had spent the better part of the last three hours working his way through a bowl of dry Cheerio's.
Ella snuggled down against Alex. Her eyelids were heavy as she tried to cling to the last remnants of sleep.
"Do you want to go to the park today?" Alex asked.
It was a relatively warm day for December. Joey needed to run off some energy and she figured they could all do with some fresh, crisp air.
Ella groaned and buried her face against Alex's shoulder.
By 2:00 that afternoon, Goren had succeeded in turning the conference room into an extension of the NYPD archives.
It may have looked disorganised to the casual observer, but there was a method to Goren's madness.
His dark brow furrowed as he skimmed through page after page of phone calls between the suspect and a business contact in East Harlem.
Eight minutes on the 17th of November. Six and half minutes at the end of the month. Forty-three minutes the first Saturday of every month.
Two minutes and sixteen seconds just before Halloween.
A soft knock at the door brought Bobby out of his thoughts.
Captain Jimmy Deakins poked his head in the door.
"I thought I gave you the day off?" Deakins asked.
Goren dodged the question and directed the Captain's attention to the file in hand.
"Look at these calls. The first Saturday of every month for the last year," Goren said, handing the sheet to Deakins.
Deakins skimmed through the highlighted list.
"Okay. We already know about the payoff. What is this? Insurance? Some kind of ongoing threat?" Deakins questioned.
Goren shrugged.
"I don't know," he confessed.
Deakins handed back the paper.
"Do me and you a favour. Don't spend all day figuring it out," Deakins ordered.
Bayswater Park | Rockaways | Queens
"Joey, slow down! Wait!" Eames called ahead.
At five, Joey was perfectly capable of understanding two- and three-point instructions—not that he saw much value in doing so.
Joey raced ahead on the pavement, dodging pedestrians and vendors alike. Meanwhile, Ella was toddling along, holding onto her aunt's hand as she walked at a snail's pace.
Eames was resolved that she was not going to lose sight of Joey's bright green coat. She scooped Ella up and took after Joey.
"Joey, wait," Eames ordered.
Eames was accustomed to chasing runners. Alex was quite a runner herself. She went most mornings. And she'd overtaken more than a few perps in her day—especially during her time in Vice.
But it never ceased to amaze her just how slippery her nephew could be.
And it was quite a different feat to chase someone down while carrying a toddler and huffing it with an oversized bag of snacks and spare nappies. Ella scowled at being whisked along past the swings.
Joey didn't stop until he reached the edge of the public skating rink.
The minute she was close enough, Alex snagged Joey's hand.
"Please don't run off like that, okay? We can come here, but don't just take off." Alex said.
Joey pointed at the skaters. He loved to watch hockey on television.
Alex spied a bench near a bare tree and decided it was as good a time as any to whip out a snack. She guided the kids over to the spot, plopping the kids to her right and the bag on her left.
For the moment, the little ones were occupied watching the skaters circle by on the ice. It gave Alex a chance to rummage through the bag.
"Let's see. We've got some carrot sticks. And crackers. Do you want some hot chocolate?" Alex asked, hoping to tempt them with a warm favourite.
Ella climbed into Alex's lap. Not to be outdone, Joey did too.
"My bum's cold," Joey said, wiggling in to find a sliver of room.
It wasn't an easy feat given aunt Alex's petite frame, nor was it particularly comfortable for Alex. Nevertheless, she welcomed it.
The children sat quietly as they watched the skaters go round and round.
Without warning, a clump of snow flew past. Alex ducked and covered the children, pulling them out of the line of fire.
A moment later, two rowdy children tumbled past. They were wrestling in the snow, completely oblivious to everyone around them.
The bigger one of the pair managed to scramble to his feet. As soon as he tried to run off, the smaller one tackled him.
"Hey! None of that now!" a voice shouted. "Don't hit your sister!"
The two children ignored the warning. They rolled about, fighting for control and flinging snow at one another.
"I wanna play!" Joey shouted as he leapt off Alex's lap.
"No, Joey," Alex said.
He wasn't listening.
Eames tried to reach for him, but he wiggled out of her grasp and was off before she could intervene.
"No! We'll go back home if you don't stop!"
A man came rushing into sight. He dropped a stack of ice skates on the ground and then set a small child down on the snow.
In one swift move, he separated the children—holding one out in each arm.
"We do not hit, okay?" he warned. "We're not going to go skating if you keep this up."
Suddenly, the man felt a tug at the seam of his trousers.
"Can I go skating?" Joey asked, blinking up at the stranger.
The man glanced down and chuckled at the sight of the little boy.
"I don't think you belong to me," he said with a smile. "Did you two pick up an interloper?"
The other two children shrugged.
"I dunno who he is."
"Is your mummy or daddy here?" the man asked.
Joey shook his head, his shaggy blond bangs flopping back and forth under his knit cap.
"Are you alone?" the man asked, concerned.
Joey pointed behind him. Before Eames could respond, the man scanned the area in search of an adult.
"Hey!" he called out. "Does this little fella belong to you?"
"Joey, come back here," Eames instructed.
Instead, Joey had a question.
"Can we go skating?" he shouted.
Alex scooped Ella up and made her way down the snow-covered grass in the direction of the skating area and toward the tall stranger and his trio of children.
"Whisky."
Eames was taken aback.
"Billy?"
Tall, dark, and Canuck flashed her a broad grin.
He set down the two older children and gave them a stern warning to behave.
"Fancy meeting you here," Billy said.
He slung the stack of skates over his shoulder and then bent down to pick up the tyke with ease.
"Day at the park with your kids?" Billy asked.
"My niece," Eames replied. "And you've already met my nephew."
"Likewise," Billy said.
Eames was still floored that she'd somehow managed to run into this stranger twice in the span of a week.
Joey tugged at Alex's pantleg.
"Is he your boyfriend?"
Eames cringed.
Billy shook his head.
"Nope. Are you?" he asked without missing a beat.
Joey made a face.
"No, silly goose," he replied.
Billy's niece and nephew were itching to get out on the ice. The littlest one looked to be around Ella's age. He also looked like a climber by the way he was moving. It was a full-time job for Billy to keep him from going head-first over his shoulders.
For a few agonising seconds, Eames wasn't sure what to say.
"Uh… I didn't realise your sister lived around here. Your sister, right?" she asked.
"Yeah. Gina. And no. She's got a place in Flushing. But I promised I'd take these tykes skating," Billy said, ruffling the top his nephew's stocking cap.
He rocked his head side-to-side.
"She wasn't sure about me taking the kids into the city to Central Park. I covered a shift for a guy at the station out here last week and I spotted this place. A horse a piece," Billy said with a nonchalant shrug.
The park closest to Alex was quite a jaunt from Flushing. There were any number of parks and skating arenas closer. But Alex surmised that Billy was still new to the city and exploring.
The kids were starting to grow restless.
"Can we go skating now?"
"Yeah. Yeah. Sure. Why don't you kids get your skates on, eh?"
Billy lowered his arm so they could grab their skates from the pile.
"Uh… do you mind if we borrow your bench for a moment?" Billy inquired, eyeing the bench behind Alex.
"Be my guest," she replied.
Billy set the little one down on the edge, warning him that it would be chilly for a minute while he laced up the skates.
"Can we go too?" Joey whispered to his aunt.
"Another time, okay?" Alex replied in a faraway voice as she observed the scene before her.
Alex was perceptive by nature. It was a habit she simply couldn't switch off. As she watched Billy tie up the kids' skates, she realised he was a natural—not just at working with children but also in the way he could juggle the task and all the questions.
He was cool under pressure, composed when he spoke to the children in a soft, even voice. She imagined it must come in handy on the job.
The older two children were up in a flash, waddling down to the ice as Billy warned them to stay close until he got there.
"All set?" he asked the littlest one.
The boy nodded.
"Alright. Here we go. Hold my hand," Billy instructed.
He turned to Alex and gave her a small wave.
"Thanks," he said.
Alex nodded silently in response, feeling a small twinge of regret that she didn't say anything more as she watched him walk away.
It was Ella that snapped Eames's attention back.
"I cold," she announced, chewing at one of her knit mittens.
"Shall we go back home? We could make a pillow fort and watch a movie?" Alex suggested.
Joey jumped in the air.
"And popcorn?"
"And popcorn," Alex replied.
She took one last glance down at the rink where Billy was doing his best to keep the kids in line. The older two were skating circles round him as he guided the tot along while holding both hands.
Alex turned back to the bench. She packed up the supplies from their afternoon snack as Joey continued to jump around and dance in anticipation of the popcorn at home. He climbed atop the bench and jumped off, momentarily distracted by this new thrill.
Alex had Ella on one arm and the bag on the other. She reached out for Joey's hand.
"Ready?"
"One more!" Joey said.
He tentatively approached the edge and got into position, squatting low before he leapt off into the snow.
Eames frowned as he climbed back up.
"Again! Again!" he pleaded, preparing to jump.
"I thought you wanted popcorn?" Alex asked.
"One more," Joey said, ignoring her.
Joey was five. He was usually like that anytime they tried to move from one activity to the next. It was sheer dumb luck that he held Alex up that day.
Or fate.
"Watching me? Look!" Joey insisted as he stepped up to the edge of the bench.
"I am. One more, alright? The last one," Alex answered.
It would not be the last one. Because at the final moment, Alex looked back over her shoulder at the voice hollering in her direction.
"Hey! NYPD!"
It was Billy. He skated to a halt at the edge of the ice. With his nephew in hand, he hoofed it back up the grass to the bench.
Joey didn't mind all that much that his aunt had missed his jump. The delay allowed him to keep jumping into the snow.
Billy arrived out of breath. He'd skated hard around the last turn of the circle and was relieved to catch her in time.
"Do you skate?"
Before Eames could answer, Billy's courage bolted. His face flushed. He shifted his weight back and forth between his feet and adjusted his knit cap.
"That was… erm. That was forward. I'm sorry. I don't mean to make this weird. And no pressure. Would you want to get coffee or something sometime?" Billy asked.
A beat passed.
Eames didn't date. Sure, she went on dates. She met men and shared drinks or dinner. Sometimes her bed.
Her last legitimate emotional investment had been with a snake named Mulroney. Eames didn't like to think about that time in her life, those dark days in the wake of Joe's passing and the stress of the trial.
A pesky voice in the back of her mind reminded Alex that Billy wasn't asking for a lifetime commitment. Hell, he hadn't even asked her for a drink.
It's just coffee.
For all she knew, Billy wasn't interested in her for anything beyond directions around the city.
Though he's not bad looking. Said the same voice.
Dark hair. Lean build. Tall. Just enough shadow on his face to give off a natural masculine aura without coming across as a testosterone-fuelled, emotionally unavailable arse.
"I'm sorry. That was out of line. I… I don't mean to bother you—especially when you've got the wee ones," Billy stammered.
His head snapped around back to check on the kids.
"Hey! Slow down please!"
He turned back to Eames and flashed her a nervous smile. There was a hint of regret hidden in those heavy-set blue eyes.
"Have a great day," Billy said before turning to go.
Eames kicked herself. He was walking away, and she'd stood there like a deer in the headlights.
"Billy?"
His name fell from her lips without a second thought.
Before she knew it, Eames was fishing in her pocket for a business card. Billy was stunned as she passed it to him.
"Alexandra," he said, reading aloud.
His eyebrows shot up.
"You're a Detective?"
"That's right," Eames said.
"Major Case Squad," Billy went on, reading the top line.
He grinned and glanced up over the top of the card.
"What makes a case 'major?'"
"That takes some time to explain," Eames answered.
Joey was done jumping and tugging at Alex's hand. Ella pressed her frozen nose against Alex's cheek and mumbled indecipherably. She was ready to go in.
In the distance, Billy's little ones were racing each other on the ice.
"I've got to—"
Billy trailed off and pointed over his shoulder.
"Go," Alex said.
Billy turned to leave and then stopped. He looked back and flashed Alex another shy smile.
"I look forward to hearing all about it. Major Case, that is. Alexandra."
"Eames."
She had just gotten the kids buckled into their car seats. Ella was starting to doze off. Joey was anxious as ever, bouncing in his car seat as he repeated the same question over and over.
"We go now? We go home now?"
Alex covered the receiver with her hand.
"Soon, bugaboo," she promised before turning back to the call.
"You asked me to call. I think I've got something. I'm not exactly sure what it is yet. But I was wondering if you wanted to look through it?"
"On the Peterson thing?" Eames asked.
"Yeah. Some phone calls. I don't know what for. But there's a pattern," Goren explained.
Eames didn't need to be in the same room to know Bobby was balancing the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he shuffled through the files.
"I know you've got the kids until tomorrow but… erm, I'm gonna be up late. So... so if you're up for it and, and you're not doing anything?"
Eames hesitated.
The kids were staying overnight. Her brother wouldn't be out to pick them up until early the next morning.
Goren sensed her uncertainty and perceived it as reluctance.
"It's fine. You erm… you've got the kids. We can catch up Monday," Goren said.
He projected casual—but the slight change in his tenor belied just how letdown Bobby truly felt.
Joey was now rocking back and forth in his seat, singing at the top of his lungs about his love of popcorn. Eames put her hand on his knee to steady him.
"Ummm–"
"These files aren't going anywhere," Goren said.
"What are you doing for supper?" Alex asked.