Author's Note: Thank you for your continued support on this series! When I first set out to share my Criminal Intent stories, I never expected such a warm reception (since we're an older, smaller fandom).
You've simply blown me away—thank you!
We're moving forward with this story. The string of fires that Eames & Goren investigate in this arc is not the same case as S5 On Fire. In this scenario, it's an original case and not one from the series.
There's a brief reference to Declan and Jo Gage in this chapter. At this point in the timeline, Blind Spot has not occurred. Declan Gage is just Bobby's estranged mentor and Jo Gage is still an old family friend.
Chapter-Specific C/W: Scenes involving arson/fire, injuries, and emergency services responding to those crises.
20 December | 2002 | Midtown, Manhattan
Alarms blared as a backup fire engine roared down the street.
A ladder truck drove by followed by a second engine. An FDNY SUV came next. Then an ambulance. Then another.
There was a flurry of activity as fire service vehicles swarmed the scene.
The first crew to respond had arrived shortly after 3:00 in the morning. They weren't entirely surprised to find the building in question on fire—particularly in December when people were more likely to rely on unsafe and improvised heating devices to beat back the chill.
It was an old hotel, a relic of the Gilded Age. The place had sat abandoned for the better part of the last decade. No one had the funds or desire to take on the restoration. It had become a haven for many of the homeless in the borough.
What shocked the first crew on the scene was how quickly the place went up.
The first floor was ablaze in minutes. The fire quickly climbed through the old structure, reaching to the top where most of the inhabitants preferred to sleep due to the rising warmth.
The first call for backup came just minutes after arrival when Lieutenant Adams radioed for a ladder truck. They had people trapped in the upper levels. He knew there was no way his truck could reach them before the fire ate through lower levels of the structure.
As the team from Engine 24 worked to assess the scene, the calls came fast.
"Engine 24. 10-41. Code 4."
Suspicious fire. Vacant building.
"Engine 24. 10-60."
"Engine 24, 10-05. Repeat. Over."
"Engine 24. 10-60," Adams repeated, enunciating each digit. "I repeat, 10-60. This place is a tinderbox."
Major emergency response.
As the building was abandoned, most of the windows were boarded up. Adams watched as his team hacked their way inside. One of the crew radioed that the door was blocked. The side door, too, proved to be obstructed.
It was 3:28 before the second engine truck arrived and another six minutes for the first ladder truck got to the scene.
They were the ones equipped with the supplies and training necessary to reach the people on the top floor.
An ambulance pulled in and the first team of paramedics on scene poured out. The woman in the passenger seat reached for the radio on her shoulder.
"24B1. 10-85. Requesting additional units. Be advised we have an MCI. Send advanced support."
Multiple causality incident.
The residents in the surrounding buildings watched in horror as people clawed at the boarded windows in an effort to escape. The flames climbed high into the sky, creating an eerily hypnotic scene as they danced in contrast to the frozen skyline.
The Battalion Chief was on the scene nine minutes later.
Two paramedics rushed past with the first of the rescued victims on a stretcher. They raced for the nearest ambulance.
"24A1. 10-82. Leaving now. Advised Elmhurst. Male. Older. Severe burns," barked the paramedic as they loaded the victim into the back.
She climbed onboard and pulled the doors shut. The ambulance peeled out down the dark street, heading for the nearest trauma centre.
The walls on the A-side of the building bulged. Acrid smoke choked the air. Adams frowned below his helmet as he watched a crack splinter and tear up the side of the structure.
Battalion Chief Palmer gave the order to evacuate at 3:57.
A minute later, the command centre lost radio contact with Moreno and Gillespie.
The building collapsed at 4:01 a.m.
The once-famous Gilded Tulip Hotel was no more.
Flushing | Queens
Billy Marczewski pulled another load of clothes from the dryer. He stood and stretched for a minute to relieve his back before he carried the latest load of washing up.
He'd just come off a twenty-four shift and was scheduled to have the next two days off.
Billy set the laundry basket down in the kitchen. His pot of noodles was due to come off the range. The towels could wait.
Billy snatched a colander from the hook on the wall. He waddled over to the sink carrying the massive stock pot to the sink.
There was a big deep freezer in the basement and Billy was determined to stock it up for the coming weeks with the likes of homemade soups, hotpots, sheet pan veg, and his mother's Tuna Pea Doodle.
Billy was not going to be one of those people that served the kiddos boxed macaroni cheese every night.
He'd just begun to open the tinned tuna when he caught sight of the television. Billy wiped his hands on the nearest towel and then reached for the buttons.
"We're getting reports of a major fire incident in Midtown Manhattan," said the reporter.
A news chopper relayed footage of the scene. Even from just a few seconds of footage, Billy could tell it was bad.
And that his comrades at Engine 54 were on the scene.
Billy quietly slipped into his sister's room. He put his hand on her shoulder and gently roused her.
"Gina. I gotta go."
She stirred and groaned.
"Bad?" she asked.
"Yeah."
Billy rushed out of the house—stopping just long enough to put the noodles in the fridge and throw on a pair of boots.
He turned the ignition and his J10 roared to life. Billy rubbed his hands together to create some friction before he gripped the icy wheel.
He threw his arm over the passenger seat. It was just as cold as the wheel. Billy backed out of the drive.
The quiet street where Gina's house sat was a world away from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan.
Since Billy was just coming off a twenty-four rotation, he wouldn't be permitted to suit up. But he could go to the firehouse to help with the incident traffic, aid in resupply efforts, or assist with communications.
The trucks would need to be cleaned, inspected, and resupplied. And the team would be hungry and exhausted afterward.
Billy switched on his truck radio, praying to any deity awake at that hour that no one was injured.
Midtown, Manhattan
In the immediate aftermath of the collapse, the response on the ground transitioned to a structural collapse rescue.
The whole thing happened so fast that there were still people inside.
The crew on the ground hoped that they would find survivors in amongst the rubble. There was no telling how many people had been living inside prior to the building going up.
The mobile command centre was still trying to get a count on how many first responders successfully made it prior to the collapse.
There were firefighters and paramedics inside—too many for everyone to get out in time.
The old building had simply gone up too quickly, faster than anyone on the ground could have predicted.
And certainly faster than the rescue workers inside could pull back after the order to withdraw was issued.
Pockets of fire raged on.
Two of Adams's crew were seated on the back of a nearby ambulance. They were already suffering from the effects of heat stress and smoke inhalation.
Early estimates had eight FDNY personnel unaccounted for. There was still no word from Moreno or Gillespie.
A void search was underway to scope out areas where the possibility of survivors was strongest or where the fire still raged.
"24A02-5. 10-66. I need an immediate extraction. I got 24Y01-5. Looks like he fell. He's breathing but this ground ain't stable. Let's move. Let's move!"
Lieutenant Adams caught the call as it came in. He glanced up from his work at the command centre. He could just barely make out the B seat rider from his company's second engine waving to catch their attention through the haze of smoke.
With practiced composure, the team managed to safely extract the injured fireman and get him onto the street. The team moved with tender steps, ever mindful of the time.
It wasn't a moment too soon.
A sickening creak followed as the shell of a wall crumbled, sending another cloud of dust into the air.
Adams caught up to the stretcher.
"Moreno," he said, relieved. "Gillespie?"
Moreno shook his head. The pained look on his face communicated that he didn't know the fate of his comrade.
"We need to get him to hospital," said a paramedic.
Moreno's hand shot out and clutched Adams's sleeve, forcing the stretcher to a halt. He was still wearing his full mask and struggled to speak, though it had been damaged in the fall.
"Gas cans."
Moreno coughed, choking on the air.
"Gas cans," he repeated more forcefully.
"Gas cans? Like kerosene?"
Moreno nodded.
"Fuel?" Adams pressed.
Moreno closed his eyes and shook his head in the negative.
"We need to transport him. He's likely got a spinal injury," the paramedic insisted.
"Just… just wait a minute," Adams ordered.
"Gas. Set… laid—"
Moreno made an attempt to gesture with his arm. He winced in pain at the exertion required.
"Set," Moreno choked out. "Set. Like 49th."
"Alright. These guys are gonna take care of you," Adams assured him.
"Tiff?" Moreno asked.
"I'll call her personally," Adams promised.
Adams watched as Moreno was loaded into the back of an ambulance. He turned back to the remains of the Gilded Tulip Hotel.
What had once been a sparkling jewel of New York City's Gilded Age had been reduced to charcoal briquets.
And there was still no word from Gillispie.
The uncertainty was more frightening than anything they faced inside a burning building.
The radio clicked.
"54Y01-5. 10-45. Code 1."
Fire related fatality. Deceased.
Adams walked toward the spot where the front doors of the building had once stood. On his way there, he passed two of his brothers from Engine 54 as they carried out the first body.
Adams had no doubt that this fire was the result of arson.
He'd first suspected it was intentionally set after the building went up so quickly. An accelerant was responsible. Moreno had simply confirmed an unsettling theory.
Adams picked through the debris with increasing agitation.
Palmer, the Battalion Chief, approached. The Division Commander was at his side.
"Adams?" Palmer asked.
Adams pointed as he tried to direct their attention to what he'd feared.
"Somebody needs to call 1PP."
"This looks like arson," Palmer agreed. "The Chief Inspector will—"
"Aye. It's arson," Adams cut in.
Palmer followed Adams's line of sight to the heavy chains and singed locks buried amidst the ash.
"And murder."
Jimmy Deakins got the call shortly before 5:00.
He was on the ground less than an hour later, standing in the thick of it near the command centre for a multiagency coordinated update.
Deakins was standing near the command centre for a multiagency coordinated update.
As of 6:48 a.m. there were still pockets of fire burning. Six first responders remained unaccounted for. Nine had been transported to the nearest trauma centre with serious injuries. One of the crew from Engine 21 had been hit by a falling beam. She was still clinging to life.
One had died—Gillespie from Engine 24.
He was one of the first on the scene and had been in the upper levels when the building went down.
At last count, there were dozens of injured homeless people. Some were transported to hospital. Others had refused or fled the scene for reasons that ranged from distrust of the FDNY and medical personnel, concerns over the cost of medical care, paranoia, and the fear of arrest or deportation.
They had recovered the remains of several residents. They were laid out in the street, covered with sheets from the ambulance as the search continued for survivors.
"It has proven hard to get an accurate estimate for how many people were living here," reported Battalion Chief Palmer. "Numbers are all over the place. This building might as well have been Grand Central Station."
"If you had to put a number on it?" asked a short, stout man.
It was FDNY Assistant Chief Scott. He had a reputation for 'putting out fires' and doing it fast.
"Upwards of eighty. Maybe a hundred," Palmer answered solemnly. "We've confirmed forty-seven people that made it out of the building so far. We've transported the folks we can to Saint Anthony's for the time being."
It was a nearby church that operated a small shelter. In the wake of the fire, it had opened its doors to provide a space for the displaced and the rescue workers.
The Assistant Chief turned to the inspector.
"And you're thinking this is arson. There's no possibility it was an accident? It was cold last night," the Assistant Chief said.
The nor'easter wind that blew in off the Atlantic had been wicked. With temps hitting single digits, the homeless of New York City struggled to survive the elements. Sometimes that desperation led people to be careless or make mistakes. Spilled heating oil, poor ventilation, and improper gas pressure could all lead to disaster.
"It will take time to fully investigate this. But yes, my early assessment is that this fire was intentionally set—and someone went to an awful lot of trouble to blockade the access points," the Chief Inspector reported.
It was a grisly thought.
Jimmy Deakins bore a steely look as he surveyed the scene before him.
Fire service crews were still working to contain the remaining pockets of fire and pick through the rubble. The search was underway for survivors, the fallen, and clues.
"This building was rigged to go up and to cause maximum destruction in the shortest time possible," the Chief Inspector announced.
"To kill all these people? What are we looking at? Some sicko with an anti-homeless manifesto?" demanded the FDNY Assistant Chief.
"Murder isn't usually the point of arson. Most of these guys are young. It's about the thrill. Whoever did this might have barricaded the doors just to ensure the building went up. Although—"
Deakins scrunched up his face.
"Although, I don't see how they could have missed all the people living here," he acknowledged. "One thing is for certain."
Deakins turned and ran his eyes along the crowd. There were still people watching—from the street and from the nearby buildings.
"Jimmy?" prompted Assistant Chief Scott.
"This guy watched the fire. That's what they do."
Deakins laid it out for the team in stark detail.
The individual or people responsible could have watched right along with the rest of the neighbourhood. They could have been transported to Saint Anthony's with the rest of the homeless.
"He could be posing as a volunteer. Concerned citizen type. Hell, he could be one the people working this scene," Deakins warned.
"What are you saying? That this creep is pretending to be someone in the department?"
"Or he is a member of the department," Deakins clarified.
They couldn't rule anything out.
"God, I hope you're wrong," the Battalion Chief Palmer remarked.
"You and me both," Deakins replied.
FDNY Assistant Chief Scott had one focus.
"I don't care about the why. You catch this guy before he can do it again," Scott ordered.
Deakins nodded in agreement.
"It's why I called Fred and Ginger."
To his right, Deakins spied the headlamps from an NYPD SUV. Even in the thick of the smoke, he could make out the two familiar silhouettes of his dynamic duo as they climbed out of the car.
The sun had just started to creep up on the horizon when the SUV rolled onto the scene. Eames chose her parking spot carefully, mindful that there were fire service vehicles and EMS that needed a clear path in and out of the area.
It was a crisp morning.
Temps had dropped overnight and were expected to remain bitterly cold through Christmas.
"This is… it's… it's a big fire. Could be to cover something up," Goren remarked as they approached the wreckage.
He knew there were distinct types of arsonists.
They would need to dig into any kind of possible insurance fraud or monetary-related incentives to inspire someone to burn down the hotel. The Manhattan real estate market was a strong motivator.
Goren also considered a darker possibility.
"Or it could be pathological," Bobby theorised aloud. "Some arsonists, it's about the thrill. It can be pyromania. Or a substitute for sexual gratification. There's excitement-attention arsonists. Or Revenge motivated."
"Or some poor soul that thinks he saw God at the dark park who instructed him to burn down a damn building," Eames chimed in.
"Yeah."
They had to consider every angle.
"If this is pathological then there's probably other fires. We should look into that. Still, for this to be the first suspicious and… and big fire in midtown—"
"It's not," Eames said.
Bobby was still going on about the psychology behind arson. It took him a full minute to realise his partner was talking.
Goren stopped abruptly and turned toward his partner.
"Eames?"
"It's not," Eames repeated. "This isn't the first suspicious fire in recent days. There was another one in midtown. Yesterday."
A dark expression crossed her face.
"Suspected arson," she informed him. "It was erm—"
She pinched the bridge of her nose as she tried to recall the details.
"Erm… an abandoned building. A granary. Near the river. No one was injured," Eames said. "What?"
The look on Bobby's face gave her pause.
He was staring at the remains of the Gilded Tulip Hotel. His expression made Eames shiver.
The information Eames shared about the previous suspected arson was not a comfort.
"Bobby?" Eames pressed.
He turned back to his partner, wearing the same ominous aura that had shrouded Goren during the hunt for suspects like the two terrorists they'd caught the month before trying to blow up the Veteran's Day parade down Fifth Avenue.
"Bobby."
"If these fires are connected, that's… that's a big escalation. And n-n-no cooling off period," Goren said.
"Some kind of serial arsonist?" Eames asked.
"Worse. We could be looking at a spree arsonist."
Eames could tell there was something more that bothered Goren. She could see it in the way he twitched.
"Bobby?" she asked softly.
"Guys like this—they don't stop, Eames. And they don't scale back. It's all about the next thrill, the bigger thrill," Goren warned.
"Great," Eames remarked sarcastically.
New York City was full of abandoned buildings—all of them primed and ready to go up in flames. Coupled with the fact many of the city's homeless relied on those spaces for safety and shelter from the elements (particularly in December) and it was a recipe for disaster.
They had a possible pathological suspect in a target rich environment.
"Just what I wanted for Christmas," Alex quipped as they stepped up to the remains of the Gilded Tulip hotel.
"A big case?" Bobby asked.
"A hunky fireman," Alex answered.
Saint Anthony's | Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan
Saint Anthony's was packed.
It was a large parish and closer to the scene of the fire than any of stations that had responded.
Many of the victims were also familiar with the staff and volunteers at Saint Anthony's because of their work with the homeless.
With Saint Anthony's being so close, it had transformed into a staging area for the first responders as well. Fire service personnel, paramedics, and NYPD officers mingled with staff from the Mayor's office, the Coalition for Housing, and community action volunteers.
A room full of potential suspects. Goren thought.
"Alexandra," a voice called out.
Bobby turned to see a slim, forty-something priest work his way through the crowd.
"Father Mark," Eames replied with a polite nod. "You're a long way south."
"Father Brennan is a friend. And, well…"
Father Mark trailed off and surveyed the crowd.
"Our volunteer circle will be down here for the foreseeable future. We'd love to have you join," Father Mark offered.
Eames flashed him an apologetic smile—the same one she wore whenever Father Mark extended an invitation for Mass, volunteer opportunities, or whatever latest project the church was engaged with.
"I'm afraid we're here on business," Eames said.
"Ah… right. Of course," Father Mark said.
He understood the challenges and grisly world that came with the territory.
"Father Mark?"
It was one of the volunteers. She apologised profusely for interrupting but needed to pull Father Mark away.
"You need a translator?" he asked.
"Oh, no. Just some help loading supplies," the volunteer said.
Father Mark excused himself before slipping away into the crowded room.
"Translator?" Bobby questioned.
"He speaks Dominican Spanish," Eames explained to her partner.
"Your priest," Bobby remarked.
Alex snorted.
"He's not my priest. He's my father's."
Bobby could tell from Eames's tense posture that she was perturbed.
"You don't like him?" Bobby asked.
"He's a great guy," Eames replied in earnest.
Inwood was a neighbourhood in flux.
Inwood's character had long been defined by the predominantly white, working-class population composed of Irish Catholics and Polish Jews.
In recent years, the demographic makeup of Inwood had changed dramatically. The neighbourhood was revitalised by an influx of young families—many of them Dominican immigrants.
Jewish delis and Irish pubs faded away and had been replaced by new local favourites.
It wasn't without its share of cultural clashes.
When Father Mark added Spanish-language services to the schedule, some of the parishioners left.
When The Brazen Banshee closed and became Una Fría, Johnny Eames and his buddies had vowed they were never going to support that 'wild club' and it's merengue.
(Never mind that they had quickly learned it still had happy hour, cheap beer, and baseball on television).
"Like a lot of places, Inwood is changing. Father Mark has done a lot to try and bridge that cultural divide," Eames said.
"You tensed when he spoke," Goren pointed out.
Alex just laughed and shook her head.
"You thought he was going to say something else," Bobby went on.
Silently, Alex cursed her partner's keen sense of observation.
"I thought he was going to hint at—"
Eames dropped her attention to her hands. She started to pick at her fingernails.
"I'm not big on the whole church thing."
Father Mark had never directly pressured Alex. No, he was always polite. In some ways that frustrated her more. He was too damned patient.
"You know how they are. They always want you to be more… look, I feel guilty every time he subtly drops a hint and then I make an excuse. You know how it is. You're the lapsed altar boy," Eames said.
Goren laughed softly.
"He's probably counting down the days left in the year and wondering if I'll bother to show up for confession before the ball drops," Eames said.
Even with the case looming and the knowledge that it was none of his damn business, Bobby couldn't risk tiptoeing into another facet of his partner's life.
Eames was an enigma.
And Robert Goren was fascinated. He just had to pick apart the pieces of her person and sort through them like Roger Coffman and his model cars.
Bobby longed to understand how it worked, how all these complex (sometimes contradictory) bits fit together to make up one of the few people Robert Goren respected, cared for, and trusted.
It was a rare trifecta.
Bobby cared for and respected his mother—but he couldn't trust her.
He cared for Frank too. Fiercely. Frank commanded neither respect nor trust.
Declan Gage had Bobby's trust. Implicitly. But he didn't have his respect, not for the way he'd casually disregarded his daughter. And when young Robert Goren had turned down the prospect of a prominent career at the FBI to join the NYPD instead, Dec had washed his hands of Bobby.
Louis was one of the few names that popped into mind.
He was Bobby's best friend. Bobby respected, trusted, and cared for Louis. Louis was the brother he should have had.
Bobby put Jo Gage in that category too. They'd kept in touch over the years and Jo was a good egg.
The list was small.
It was part of the reason Bobby lapped up the crumbs that Eames dropped about who she was under all that armour.
Because Alex Eames had taken a good hard look at who Robert Goren was—and she hadn't gone running from the room.
Bobby had to know. He had a compulsive, pathological need to understand.
She said she wasn't big on religion. Only, she never took off her cross necklace and had a tendency to reach for it whenever she was stressed.
Alex was staunchly pro-choice. She wasn't shy about her opinions either—even going round for round with Ron Carver on the subject (and holding her own). Yet, she drove all the way across the city just to take her father to Mass.
Eames had an uncanny ability to know exactly what a suspect was wearing. She could nail designer bags and shoes with ease—even though her own personal style was understanded. Functional. Spartan.
Bobby understood people weren't monoliths. They didn't fit into neat little boxes. In spite of her size, Eames didn't fit into a box.
Any box.
"You're erm… you're supposed to go once a year," Bobby said.
"Yep."
That was all she said.
"When was the l-last time?" Bobby asked.
Eames did not immediately answer.
"My mum, she's… she's always on me about it," Bobby said with a shy smile.
"She doesn't know you're a lapsed altar boy?"
"Oh, she knows."
A smirk passed between them.
"1979," Bobby said suddenly.
"What?"
Eames didn't follow.
Bobby shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fidgeting in place like he did whenever he was in the interrogation room.
"Erm… 1979. It's the last time I was… the last time I went to confession," he shared.
Eames looked her partner up and down.
Bobby seemed… wounded—like the subject was a sore spot for him. Bobby rarely dropped details about his past.
Goren had never hidden the fact his father walked out on the family. He wasn't ashamed of his mother. He doted on her and spoke fondly of her talents.
What Bobby didn't share was how those things impacted him.
Alex could ready between the lines. She had pieced together that her partner carried a lifetime of trauma. It shaped who he was. It was the reason Goren made it a point to give no quarter to deadbeat parents.
It showed in the way he treated addicts, the mentally ill, and children with respect and empathy.
Bobby had opened the door—sharing a part of himself with Eames.
But before she could ask, one of the staff approached.
"Thank you for waiting, Father Brennan is in his office," he said. "If you'll follow me through. Right this way."
Father Brennan looked as if he hadn't slept all night.
"Let's call over to Queens Methodist. Ask for Nurse Mbaye. She might be able to assist," Brennan instructed.
The volunteer made a note on her clipboard and then slipped away. Father Brennan turned to the man at his right.
"Jim, CCH called and they have another load of supplies. Could you take a van up there?"
Brennan caught the man's sleeve just as he turned to go.
"And Margaret said the nursery is in dire need of formula. Have her go along so you can stop and pick up whatever they need," Father Brennan added.
He'd been coordinating the recovery since the fire first erupted.
"Forgive me, Detectives. It's all go here today," Father Brennan said.
"You've got a lot to oversee," Bobby acknowledged.
That's an understatement. Eames mused.
"We appreciate you taking time from your schedule to speak with us. We were hoping to speak with the folks that came in this morning," Bobby explained.
"Of course."
Father Brennan explained that they were only too happy to cooperate. Most of the people displaced by the fire were resting in the shelter next door. Some were in the main fellowship hall where there was hot coffee and food.
"If you need a quiet space, we have some classrooms. You're welcome to use them," Father Brennan offered.
"Yeah, we erm… we checked with the shelter that your parish operates. They have eighteen people resting there. And I counted… what? Maybe ten people out in the hall," Bobby said, pointing back over his shoulder.
Goren had a way of cutting to the heart of the matter that was both irritating and disarming.
Father Brennan shrugged.
"We only offer shelter services to folks that want them. We don't force anyone to stay. Please understand, some of these people are terrified of the police. Or religion," Father Brennan said.
"We need to speak with all of them," Goren said in a gentle voice.
"As I've said, you are more than welcome to make use of our facilities," Father Brennan repeated.
Eames stepped in.
"Father, we're not interested in anybody's outstanding drug beef. We're not here to enforce any vagrancy laws. You have my word—we're not going to speak to immigration," Eames promised.
"We just need to know what they may have seen or heard before the fire," Goren said.
"Could we speak in my private quarters?" Brennan suggested.
Father Brennan led Eames and Goren down through the basement of Saint Anthony's. There was no official rectory at Saint Anthony's—it was harder in the heavily-dense urban grid of Manhattan.
"The building next door used to serve as a rectory for clergy from several of the parishes here in Manhattan. Twenty years ago, we converted it into the shelter," Father Brennan explained.
Eames and Goren stuck close as Father Brennan led them through a basement maze of stocked supplies, disused classrooms, and the boiler room.
His own personal quarters were underwhelming—a cosy (if damp) living space in the corner of the basement.
There was a small kitchenette and a little living area. It had an attached bedroom with an en suite water closet.
It didn't look all that different from Alex's first flat.
Father Brennan led them inside.
"Through here," he said.
He opened a linen closet. Then he pulled on the side—the closet itself sat on a hinge.
"A twenty-first century priest hole," Bobby said as he raked his eyes over the contraption.
Goren moved to step through. Father Brennan's arm shot out to stop him.
"Detective, please. These people are terrified," Father Brennan cautioned. "They've been through so much."
Bobby nodded in understanding. Compassion was in his nature—even if it seemed at odds with the performance he put on in interrogation.
"Father, my partner may look like a bulldog, but he's got a knack for speaking with people," Eames said.
Inside, they found a second shelter. It was small—only equipped to handle a dozen or so folks at once.
There was a central recreation area and kitchen space. Sleeping spaces were partitioned by makeshift curtains and old cubicle wall dividers. Someone had renovated the space to install bathrooms and showers.
Father Mark was inside sitting at a table and speaking with a young family.
Panic swept the room when Eames and Goren stepped inside. The family at the table clutched their baby tight.
Father Mark could read the room.
"Yala. Yala."
He launched into the rapid-fire, lyrical cadence of Dominican Spanish to assure the patrons that they were safe.
"Vsyo v poryadke," Father Mark continued. "Méi shì de. Méi shì de."
Father Mark wasn't limited to Spanish.
He rose from the table for a quick aside with them.
"Detectives," he began nervously.
"I have their word that they're just here to interview the victims from the fire. Nothing more," Father Brennan announced.
He cast a cautionary eye over Eames and Goren.
"I am taking a leap. I hope that faith is not misplaced," he said.
"I'm sure it isn't," Father Mark said with a smile. "I've known Alexandra for some time. You can trust her."
Father Mark reached for Eames's hands and took them in his own.
"She was married in our chapel. It was my honour to officiate when she took those vows and entered into the sacrament of marriage," Father Mark said sincerely.
Alex cleared her throat and retracted her hands.
"Right," she said quickly.
Bobby watched the exchange with rapt attention. His hand was on his chin as he studied the way Eames avoided eye contact with Father Mark.
Father Brennan asked that they keep the interviews private and down in the shelter. He offered his personal quarters up if they wished to make use of the space.
"Thank you, that will be fine," Eames said.
"Oh, erm… if you'd be willing to stay… " Bobby trailed off as he caught Father Mark.
Eames shot her partner a look.
"If we need a translator. My Mandarin is a bit spotty," Bobby said.
"However I can serve," Father Mark agreed.
Goren clasped his hands together, grinning like a kid that had just been handed an ice cream.
"Great!"
He gestured for Father Mark to lead the way.
"And erm… what, what church are you with?" Bobby questioned.
"The Church of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin, Our Lady of Sorrows," Father Mark said with pride.
Bobby grinned like an idiot.
"That's erm… that's a mouthful," he remarked.
Father Mark laughed.
"You have no idea."
"Well, Alexandra Eames, Our Lady of the perpetual can we get this show on the road is ready to go," Eames said, pushing them along.
Alex climbed into the driver's seat of the SUV and popped the key in the ignition. She readjusted the heat vent and then blew air on her hands before touching the steering wheel.
Bobby was already inside, combing over his notes from the interviews.
"You're gonna have to go to confession now," he commented.
"Hmm?"
"I said that you're gonna have to go to confession now. Your priest. I mean, he vouched for you with Father Brennan," Bobby said.
He tapped his pen atop his binder.
"And you never answered my question about how long it had been."
"What are you getting at?" Eames demanded.
"I'm just sayin' maybe erm… maybe Father Mark doesn't know about you getting all, what was it? 'Hot and heavy' in that Boss 429 with Danny O'Brien?" Goren teased, referencing Eames's anecdote from the other day.
Eames just rolled her eyes and shook her head.
"I know it was hard for you, but some of us have been since disco died," Eames said.
"He's got a crush on you," Goren said.
Eames ignored him.
"It makes you uncomfortable. Father Mark," Goren went on, undeterred.
"We should check with the lab. They were going to place a rush on the materials recovered from the granary fire," Eames said.