Author's Note: Thank you for your ongoing support of this tale.
The dominos are starting to fall for Miss Le Zard. It's only a matter of time before Bobby reaches the point where he can no longer ignore the obvious.
I'm quite happy with the way it plays out when Bobby finally realises just who Leslie is and I wanted to give him a little redemption there (especially the way he's been a grumpy goblin toward Alex).
It was never my intention to wade into character-bashing territory with Bobby. I see Eames and Goren as loveably imperfect traumatised people that can't help be who they are (for better or worse).
So, when I said this conclusion would be in two parts… I lied.
I had intended to keep the aria & resolution set at two chapters. But after extensive debate and review, I decided to split it into four due to the length. I wanted to preserve the momentum of the distinct parts of this conclusion.
Simmons makes an appearance in this bit. I adored his character on the show (particularly after helping Goren in Untethered).
There's also a vague reference to the S4 episode Sex Club.
2:18 p.m. | SID | One Police Plaza
Eames stared at the computer screen as she mindlessly pecked at a box of Lo Mein. It had long since grown cold.
She was downstairs, crouched into a corner office in the part of NYPD they called the 'labyrinth.'
It was where all the eggheads from SID, forensic accounting, and the white-collar crime division had their offices.
Since she was stuck in 1PP, Eames decided to join Simmons on the hunt for the elusive cryptid email.
And the IP it originated from.
Simmons was just happy for the company. Eames knew her stuff and he was eager to spend lunch talking about his latest tech gadgets with someone that actually understood the acronyms.
"I was wondering if you like Isekai?" Simmons asked.
Eames stopped, her chopsticks hanging just shy of her mouth.
"Is that a food?" she asked.
Simmons grinned.
"No, it's erm… it's anime," Simmons answered in a voice that indicated he'd expected Eames to already know that. "You know, hero wakes up transported to a parallel universe or a fantasy world."
Eames shook her head.
"Sorry."
Simmons wasn't derailed.
"There's a screening this weekend," he continued.
Suddenly, Eames realised exactly what was going on.
"Are you—"
"Well, seeing as how word is that you and Goren are, well, that you aren't…. anymore," Simmons said, fumbling.
He stopped and sighed.
"I'm sorry, Detective. You two have been on the outs for weeks. I'd heard you'd ended things and thought seeing as how you and I…"
"Ended things?" Eames asked, her voice jumping an octave.
"Well, yeah. If that's not the case—"
Eames put up her hand to stop him.
"Simmons, Goren and I aren't an item. We're partners. That's it," Eames stated.
"Riiiight," Simmons replied, assuming it was a line to preserve the thin veil of professionalism at the office.
Eames shot him a warning look.
"Oh… oh," Simmons said as his expression changed.
He cocked his head to the side as realisation dawned on him.
"You mean you aren't…?"
"No," Eames asserted before quickly adding, "and we never have been."
At least, that's how Bobby sees it. Eames thought bitterly.
"Huh."
Simmons was genuinely surprised. He scratched the back of his neck and then adjusted his glasses. He'd worked on and off with the duo for the better part of seven years. He could have sworn they were an item.
Then he was stuck by a thought.
"Well, if you aren't—"
"No."
Office of Jack Riley | The Ledger | Manhattan
Jack Riley sat back at his desk and folded his hands in prayer.
"The answer is 'no,' Detective. It was 'no' twenty minutes ago. It will be 'no' tomorrow," Jack said.
Goren rolled his shoulders. He could ill afford to lose his temper.
"You want to protect your source. I get that. I'm not going to arrest anyone. I'm not going to threaten anyone. I just want to know why," Bobby urged. "It's… it's a matter of safety."
In Goren's mind, that wasn't stretching things at all.
Someone had leaked Eames's personal information to the press.
There were plenty of perps out there that wouldn't think twice about hurting Eames.
His fear was only elevated by the fact she lived alone.
Only Goren knew the full extent of how challenging that had been in the wake of her abduction at the hands of Jo Gage.
Jack chortled.
"I'll give you this—you've got spunk," he said.
"You have no idea," Bobby shot back.
"You see that?"
Jack gestured to his wall of awards.
"I didn't earn my journalistic chops by rolling over for the NYPD—especially when they send enforcers to try and scare me into backing away from a juicy story," Jack said.
Bobby clenched his fists and fought the urge to chuck his binder at the damned award shelf.
Instead, Goren grew quiet and dropped his gaze to the carpet.
"Juicy story?" he asked. "Is that how you see this?"
"The public have a right to know. Two men are dead. A third had his civil liberties violated. I have to wonder why the NYPD is protecting someone like this Detective Eames," Jack went on.
Bobby felt like he was living in an alternate reality, one in which Alexandra Eames was the partner with explosive anger and Bobby was the steady presence that kept her course true.
If only.
"According to my source, she's a pistol. Dynasty cop. Tough. Bitter. Widowed," Jack said. "That's a lot of trauma to shoulder. I've heard she's got control issues too."
Bobby's head fell back. He took a long, slow breath. His fingertips tingled, itching for some sort of release.
"You have it all wrong," Bobby said.
"I've got a solid source. A witness from an investigation. And that's not the only one," Jack said.
He'd even been promised a quote from the Jonas Slaughter.
"I need to know who came to you," Bobby pressed.
There was no shortage of people with motive.
Melnick and her legal team could be behind it all. Jonas Slaughter. Frank Adair. Harold Garrett. Boz Burnham was still out there with his own media following and a grudge against Eames.
Nichole Wallace.
Goren even entertained the possibility that the Chief of D's himself was behind it all in an effort to get at Goren by going after Eames.
It sounded paranoid—but Goren wasn't going to rule it out.
Jack rose from his desk and strolled over to the door.
"Now, I thank you for stopping by, Detective. I've got a 3:00."
"I'm not leaving until you tell me who gave you this information," Goren declared.
At first, Jack laughed and tried to compliment Goren on his determination. When that failed to move Goren from his office, Jack reiterated that he did not reveal his sources.
"And I won't be intimidated," Jack added. "You can run back to the 1PP and tell Chief Moran that I don't care if he wants to send ten of his bulldogs down here. I don't give up my sources."
Bobby smiled.
"Moran didn't send me. No one sent me," he explained.
"Doesn't change a thing," Jack said, waving for Goren to get a move on.
Bobby didn't budge.
"Tell me, who called you? Did they… did they tell you that you're bringing down a good Detective?" Bobby asked.
Jack eyed Goren carefully.
"Oh, I see. You're what? The partner? Or maybe… the partner?"
"No."
The denial was too quick for Jack. He grinned.
"You are. She sent you then," he said, wagging his finger knowingly.
"No one sent me," Bobby hissed.
His temper was starting to creep through.
"Okay. You came on your own. I don't really care. Like I've said—I don't give up my sources. Good day, Detective," Jack said. "Come on. Chop chop, big guy."
Goren leapt up and slammed his fist down on the surface of Jack's desk, shaking his computer and coffee.
And his shelf of little awards.
Goren gently picked up a copy of the article. His voice was low, calm.
Dangerous.
"Tell me who sent this?"
After losing his cool inside Riley's office, Goren had shrugged off the two men from building security that came to escort him outside.
Bobby used the walk back to 1PP to try and calm his nerves. It certainly didn't help that every newsstand and television reel were occupied with smiling faces of Manny Beltran and his young fiancée in contrast with accusations against his partner.
By Thursday afternoon, Goren found himself in Ross's office.
"Our media advisor got a call from Jack Riley at the ledger. He wanted to pass on that he won't be intimidated by the NYPD," Ross said.
He'd pieced together enough information to work out it was Goren—and was grateful the advisor called Ross instead of the Chief of D's.
"Your partner was attacked. It feels frustrating and helpless to wait for the media advisors to sort—"
"Where are we at on arresting Palin and Schorr?" Bobby cut in.
The slow pace of the investigation had become a fixture of his anxiety over his…
Goren couldn't classify it as a 'breakup' or a 'split.' 'Cooling off' felt too casual. It hardly did justice to the relationship he shared with his partner.
And Bobby couldn't bring himself to say 'end.'
That word was still too raw.
"C'mon, Captain. It's been a day since we got that email," Bobby pressed. "What's the hangup? Are Jim Schorr's friends in the Mayor's office worried about their contributions?"
"There's some doubt as to the authenticity of that email," Ross disclosed.
Bobby got up from his chair and moved toward the door. He stopped and turned back to the Captain, offering a semi-coherent grumbling about something, and then turned back for the door.
"Detective," Ross cautioned.
Goren stormed out into the squad room. His eyes fell on Eames's empty desk.
"Where is she?" he demanded, looking to Wheeler.
She blinked. She wasn't taken aback by Goren's brusque attitude (it was an occupational hazard in Major Case). Rather, Wheeler disapproved of his angry displays and needed a moment to reboot before responding.
"Is there something I can—"
"Where is she?"
"Downstairs working with SID," Wheeler said.
Ross had chased out into the squad room to follow.
"Detective, why don't we go back into my office?" Ross suggested.
Without a word, Goren turned and glowered at the lift. Wheeler leapt up from her chair. Goren took a step. Wheeler's arm shot out to stop him.
"Detective," Wheeler said in a steady voice.
"Out of my way," Goren barked, pushing past her.
"Detective," Ross warned in a stern voice.
Goren was on the rampage. The last thing they needed was him storming down into SID and tearing through thousands of dollars of electronic equipment.
Logan was just returning from the vending machine when caught sight of Goren marching for the lift—and the Captain and Wheeler in his wake.
Wordlessly, Wheeler caught her partner's eye and pleaded with Logan to throw himself on the latest Goren grenade.
There weren't many people Bobby's size that could actually hold their ground if Goren snapped. Logan was the closest one they had in the squad room.
"Whoa, whoa. Easy, Bobby," Logan said, physically blocking his route.
He put his hand on Goren's shoulder, making clear that he would push back if necessary.
"Come on, let's go for a walk," Logan suggested.
Captain Ross and Wheeler were right behind him, encouraging Goren to relax. Logan stood between Bobby and lift, blocking his access to the answer he needed.
Suddenly, Bobby felt like a cornered animal.
It was the worst possible time for Eames to step off the lift.
She stopped and took in the scene before her, surprised (but not entirely so) to see her partner surrounded.
"What's—"
Eames never got the chance to ask.
"You did this!" Goren roared.
Eames's eyes narrowed.
"You're angry because we haven't arrested Palin and Schorr," Eames said.
Goren growled. He slipped free of Logan and took two steps toward the wall, spun around, and then paced back. He scratched at his chin, rolled his shoulders, and cracked his neck.
"We can't verify the email, Bobby. It wasn't on Palin's email server when we first executed a search. It didn't show up until after," Eames explained. "The betting pool down in SID is that either somebody planted that after the fact to throw suspicion on Palin or that the fabric of time and space itself ripped open to—"
"Don't," Goren snarled.
His hand trembled as he smoothed his hair back. The ends were starting to curl from perspiration.
"I just went down to Jack Riley's office for you," he said. "I just… I—"
Eames was horrified.
"What? You thought things weren't moving fast enough? You needed to throw gasoline on the fire?"
Goren stopped pacing. He eyed his partner hard.
"Because…"
Bobby could feel he was losing control. His rage had boiled to the top and threatened to spill over.
"Because you're my PARTNER!" he roared.
Logan moved to stop Goren, fearing he might really snap. Bobby shrugged him off.
Eames didn't blink.
"Schorr or Palin could be behind this. You might have gotten too close. It could be because of the search warrant. I mean, it's probably Danielle Melnick. But… but what if—"
Goren was a rambling mess. He was visibly distressed. Ross feared they were witnessing the verge of a breakdown.
"What if it's the Chief of D's, huh? What if… what if this is… is Copa or… or someone that's trying to get back at me by coming after you and I could just couldn't sit by and—"
Eames shook her head in disgust. She waved her hand dismissively as a long, exasperated sigh escaped from her lips.
This time, his voice was pleading.
"Eames?"
She eyed her partner with disdain. Alex wasn't flattered—she was humiliated. Dismayed.
Insulted.
"Not everything is about you," Alex said.
Ross sent Goren home for the day (with orders to allow the NYPD to handle the press).
Bobby arrived at Leslie's penthouse looking like a kicked puppy.
She welcomed him with warm arms and an invitation to stay the night. She was planning to order in.
"You can tell me all about it over a bottle of wine," Leslie said with a smile.
She didn't seem bothered when Bobby opened up to share his concerns that Schorr and Palin had smeared his partner in the press, or what the implications would be for the Beltran investigation.
Bobby disclosed that there was a rumour he was leaving Major Case for a cushy security job. He told Leslie how it didn't feel right the way everyone treated him like he already had one foot out the door.
Leslie was relieved and excited.
"Well, you are planning to move on. It was bound to happen sooner or later," Leslie said.
She reached for his hand and gave it a small squeeze, caressing it as she ran her thumb across the back of his hand.
Leslie had won.
Almost.
"Arresting Palin and Schorr will be a feather in your cap for your last case," Leslie said, beaming.
Bobby's face fell.
"What is it?" Leslie demanded.
Bobby retracted his hand. He sat back in his chair and loosened his collar.
"Erm… the erm… DA's office is having, well… they have to dot their 'i's' and cross their 't's.' Make sure there are no—"
He paused and rocked his head back and forth.
"It would be a tragedy if this case were to be lost on some technicality."
Leslie scoffed.
"I handed you a smoking gun, Robert. You can't fail me now!"
That statement from any other suspect would have sent Goren's bat signal into overdrive. He would have seen right through her veneer. Leslie didn't care about the children or the public—she was concerned about herself.
But as they sat across from one another over a dinner, all that was apparent to Bobby was that a whistleblower was in fear for her safety.
"It will get sorted out. The team in SID… they're top-notch," Bobby assured her.
"I don't see what the problem is," Leslie said.
Her voice carried an air of authority, like they were negotiating over some minor business transaction.
"They're having trouble verifying the email. I'm sure it will be all sorted soon," Bobby said with a small shrug.
Leslie flopped back in her chair. She crossed her arms and sighed.
"This is your partner's doing. She's so fixed on me that she can't see past her own bias," Leslie muttered. "She's jealous about losing you."
Bobby shook his head.
"It's something to do with the email servers and… look, I'm not very good with that stuff," Bobby confessed.
"Well, it's obvious. Don't you see? She's probably intentionally delaying this to try and keep the investigation focused on me. She doesn't want you to go. She's buying time," Leslie continued.
Her accusations grew more wild by the second.
"Schorr could have put her up to this," Leslie went on. "I saw on the news that she's got all those issues with the department. Maybe Schorr offered to help with those legal fees in exchange for a little NYPD favouritism?"
Bobby laughed. It was all he could do. The very notion that Alex Eames would roll over for some honcho in a suit was ridiculous.
Alex got her kick watching Bobby squash men like Schorr. She enjoyed rattling them, getting under their skin, watching them squirm as Major Case aired their dirty laundry.
"She's… she's not like that," Bobby said.
The fond look in his eyes only fed Leslie's desperation.
"She was asking about my handbag. She made a comment about affording nice things on a public salary. She's jealous, Robert," Leslie insisted.
Leslie got up from the table and started to pace in front of the window.
"She went to see my ex! He called me demanding to know why I'd dragged him into some NYPD investigation. Why a Detective was in his office asking questions about our private relationship," Leslie roared.
She flung her hands wildly as she went on and on.
"She killed two men! Shot them dead. No trial. No day in court. Just bang!" Leslie raved.
"Hey, hey."
Bobby caught Leslie's hands and pulled her into a tight embrace.
"You're alright. You're safe," Bobby said as he traced soothing circles on her back.
"Promise me you'll stay tonight? I don't want to be alone," Leslie pleaded.
Major Case | One Police Plaza | Manhattan
Alex stared at the photograph on the wall behind Ross's desk. Ross, Eames, and Goren stood with a smiling Isobel Harrington.
It had been snapped by a departmental photographer when Mrs Harrington gave a generous endowment to the Police Benevolent Fund to show her gratitude when Eames & Goren saved her a year prior.
Ross was incredibly proud of his team and the photo became a fixture in his office, displayed with pride of place.
Alex couldn't bring herself to meet the Captain's eye.
Her mind was a spiral—would she still have a job tomorrow? Would Joe's murderer even face a courtroom? Would she face fresh charges of her own? Would she lose her home to the legal fees in defending herself?
Was it even worth it?
"Wheeler will take over the task force," Ross announced.
"I thought Logan and Wheeler were working the Beltran case?" Eames asked.
She was terrified of what it meant for Joe.
"Things have… well, they're moving slow at the moment," Ross said.
Eames laughed bitterly.
"You mean that we're pulling back. What do we call that? The 'reallocation of resources?'"
It happened all the time—particularly in cases where the odds didn't look good.
"We are not dropping it. But right now, there's dozens of sick kids in Harlem. Those children need us today," Ross explained gently.
"You're right," Eames agreed.
There were a lot of sick children. A ten-year-old case could wait. It wasn't like convicting Manny Beltran was going to bring Joe back.
"This is about perception. Orders came from the top. Please don't think that we're going to take this lying down," Ross said.
Eames flashed the Captain a small smile.
"Thank you, sir."
Ross had put himself out there to protect his team. There would be a formal hearing. There was no getting around that.
Ross had made it clear to the brass that Eames had his full support. Jimmy Deakins had called too. He'd caught the news and wanted to assure Alex that he was ready to step in as a witness on her behalf at the hearing.
Ross had also convinced the brass upstairs to allow Eames to take personal leave (with conditions) rather than placing her on unpaid administrative leave.
"I'll be in touch," Ross said.
Eames nodded and collected her things. Though Eames was technically on personal leave, one of the conditions was that the department required Eames to leave her badge and turn over her service weapon.
Alex readily handed over her Glock and department-issued mobile phone. Then she unclipped her badge and set it down on the desk. Her fingers brushed over the shield.
Eames felt exposed, like she had clipped off a very piece of her soul.
"Take care of yourself," Ross said. "And Eames? Call if you need anything."
Alex collected her things in silence. She was grateful most of the team had already gone.
On her way out of the squad room, Eames ran smack into Simmons.
"Oh! I was just coming to see you," Simmons said. "You were right about that email. It didn't come from Palin's IP."
Alex grabbed his arm and practically dragged him back into the lift. She snatched the report from his hands and scratched a number in the corner.
"What's this?" Simmons asked.
"My personal," Eames said.
Simmons's eyebrows shot up. He smiled.
"You changed your mind?" he asked.
"No. I'm sorry," Eames replied. "Look, I don't want to exploit—"
"It's fine," Simmons assured her.
He understood.
"How can I help?"
Eames relaxed—a little.
"I need you to check if the other whistleblower emails came from the same IP address. And find out who it belongs to. I know you can do it," Eames said.
Simmons nodded.
Alex shared that there would be an announcement soon. Wheeler was taking over the investigation.
"Keep Wheeler in the loop. But if the task force decides not to pursue this—call me," Eames urged.
A look passed between them. Eames was asking Simmons to break department protocol.
"Understood," Simmons replied.
With her own home under the focused lens of the media, Alex was staying at her sister's place. She couldn't risk another incident with the press. It gave Eames a chance to escape (and her sister a chance to get some things done around the house).
Her nephew came thundering out of the kitchen the minute he heard his aunt at the door.
"ROO!"
Alex scooped Nathan into her arms, and they shared a warm embrace. He was keen to tell her all about the latest adventures of Curious George and Thomas the Tank Engine.
Nathan was almost four.
The family had always been open with him regarding the surrogacy. In breaking it down for a young child, they had used a kangaroo cuddly toy to explain to wee Nathan that Auntie Alex had carried him around in her tummy before he was born.
Somehow, someway, he got in his head that Aunt Alex was 'Roo.'
And thus, Eames was christened. It didn't bother Alex. She had embraced the name with the same willingness as the surrogacy itself.
Dinner was quiet. Her sister and brother-in-law kept the conversation light and the television off.
Nathan wanted to show his bath toys off to Roo. Alex was grateful to kick back and do nothing but play with tiny plastic boats and whales for a change.
When his bath was done, Alex wrapped Nathan up in his dinosaur towel. As he lay on her shoulder, Eames was struck by the memory of holding Nathan as a baby and how much he had changed since.
She'd stayed with her sister for a few weeks after the birth—who didn't want an extra pair of hands to help?
There had been a night when mum and dad were exhausted (they were caring for Alex too). Nathan had been fussy all day. Alex couldn't sleep.
She'd scooped him out of his bassinet and into her arms. He wasn't wet or hungry. He just wanted to be held.
By Alex.
His skin smelled like soap and sour milk. His tiny hands and feet were still peeling as he adjusted to his new life. He'd been forced out of his own personal jacuzzi and into the big, scary world.
Alex could recall with perfect clarity that moment in time.
She had closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, denoting to memory the smell of his hair and feel of his weight swaddled against her chest.
For a brief moment she entertained the wild possibility of telling her sister that she wanted to keep him, that she would willingly go through it all again and give her sister a second baby—but that Nathan was hers.
Eames had dashed the notion as quickly as it came.
It was a farce. She couldn't take on a newborn with her career.
It was the very reason she had refused to nurse him. Alex knew she couldn't. There would be no going back.
During the first few weeks, Alex had pumped to provide breastmilk for Nathan. They transitioned him to formula after that as Alex prepared to return to work.
It just wouldn't have been sustainable after she went back to Major Case.
It had been difficult to let Nathan go when the time came for Eames to return to life 'before.'
She still saw Nathan three times a week. Her sister had always encouraged whatever relationship Alex wanted to pursue with Nathan.
But the ache was there—even four years on.
Nathan sniffled as he toyed with Alex's necklace.
"You stay the night, Roo? Sleepover?"
He adored sleepovers.
"You and me, bugaboo," Alex promised.
Nathan shivered. The warmth from the bath was starting to wear off and it was time to get him into some jimjams. Alex rubbed his back to warm him up.
"Come on, let's go pick out your PJs."
He was out in twenty minutes.
Alex quietly padded down the stairs. Her sister, Eleanor, was in the kitchen cleaning up from dinner.
"Let me guess, another glass of water?" Eleanor teased.
Alex laughed and shook her head.
"No. He's out. Went down like a lamb," Alex said.
"Nice to know he can do that for other people. Never seems to have that ability when Mark or I tuck him in," Eleanor quipped.
"Well, it's because he feels more secure with you," Alex replied.
Eleanor turned back from the sink. She frowned when she caught sight of her sister.
"Heading out?"
"I'm just gonna go for a run."
Eames needed to decompress.
"Is that wise?" Eleanor asked.
It probably wasn't—but Alex was itching for a release. She couldn't risk going to a pub. Her sister's home was hardly the place to lose herself to a bottle.
A run was the safest option Eames had left.
"I'll be fine," Eames assured her.
"I'm sure Mark would be—"
Alex waved her sister off.
As she dried the dishes, Eleanor eyed Alex carefully.
"I worry about you," Eleanor said.
Eames did what she did best. She put on an easy smile and an air of confidence.
"Ahhh, this? It will all blow over," Alex said.
Eames pushed herself. She would have blisters in the morning. Her thighs screamed for a reprieve.
She had just reached that sweet, blissful state of euphoria where her mind was clear and thoughts of work and Joe and Leslie fucking Le Zard were replaced only by the sound of each breath and footfall.
Alex poured herself into the final stretch as she rounded the corner.
She slowed her pace, eventually dropping to a walk. Eames threw her arms overhead to help regulate her breathing.
In that sliver of clarity, that moment before it all came rushing back, Eames was struck by a moment of lucidity.
She put her hands on her hips. Her chest was still heaving.
Something from the conversation with Ross stuck in her mind. Alex realised that she had probably come to a conclusion days earlier, long before she was ready to admit it to herself.
Memories, emotions, and fear had blocked her from seeing it sooner.
She didn't have anything left to hold her back.
The only thing Joe had left was his legacy.
Eames pulled back her sleeve to check the time on her wristwatch. It was late—but not unreasonably so.
Eames stared at her phone for a long while before she decided to take the plunge. There was only one thing she wanted, one thing that felt right.
Can we please talk?
She hit send and then waited, stretching and walking around the length of the park while she checked her mobile continually for a response she knew wouldn't come.
By 9:45, Eames resigned herself to the fact it was pointless to cling to hope when she knew full well it would never come.
Alex whipped out her phone and thumbed through her contacts.
"I'm sorry to call so late. Yeah… about that. I need to see you tomorrow."
Friday | Major Case | One Police Plaza
When Captain Ross first invited Bobby into his office, he'd expected a dressing down.
The news he received instead was so much worse.
"My hands were tied, Detective. Orders came down from the top," Ross explained.
Eames was off the case. She was facing public scrutiny and an official NYPD investigation.
Bobby was responsible for all of it—and for failing to be there in her hour of need.
She doesn't need you. He reminded himself.
Eames was better off without him. Hell, Bobby found himself wishing that Captain Deakins would have reassigned him seven years earlier and spared Eames all the trouble Goren had put her through over the course of their partnership.
Among other things.
"So, Eames becomes a sacrificial lamb to sate the bloodthirsty masses?" Goren asked.
"She's not going to lose her badge. But what do you know about this FDA complaint?" Ross asked.
The final blow to Alex Eames's month from hell had come in the form of an official complaint from Marty Palin's office regarding Eames's behaviour toward the FDA staff.
"This is Schorr," Goren insisted. "Eames must have… she must have gotten too close to something."
The FDA complaint was just the icing on the cake.
"This is Schorr. And I'm gonna prove it," Bobby declared.
Flushing Meadows | Queens
Across the river, Alex Eames was in a tense meeting of her own.
"Thanks for coming all the way out here," Alex said.
"Of course," Ron Carver assured her.
He didn't mind the drive at all if it meant helping Eames.
They walked along through the park. The ground was still damp and mostly brown. Small sprigs of green had barely begun to break through the muck left after winter in the city.
It was a warm spring morning. The change in temperature seemed almost poetic, like Eames was making the right decision.
Sowing the seeds of a tree she would never see.
"If I do this…" Carver prefaced.
"I know," Eames assured him.
"I'll have to clear it with Arthur. And there will be backlash," Carver warned.
"I understand."
They stopped walking. A look passed between the two.
"If this goes forward, I won't be able to reel it back if you change your mind," Carver said.
Before Eames could answer, Nathan crashed into her leg to show off his latest find.
"I found a wock!" he declared triumphantly.
His arm shot up to display the stone.
"Wow," Alex said.
Nathan beamed.
"When we get home, we can go on the computer and find out what kind of rock it is. What do you say?" Alex asked.
He nodded enthusiastically.
Nathan stayed close, clinging to his beloved Roo. Alex brushed his bangs back. She kept her attention fixated on her nephew as he turned his discovery over in his hand.
"I understand, Mr Carver. Thank you," Eames said.
"I'll call you this afternoon," Carver replied.
Goldman Dentistry | Harlem, Manhattan
Robert Goren was 0 for 3.
And for once in his life, the evidence didn't track.
Goren was accustomed to deducing wild theories that, in time, were backed with findings from the lab or details in an audit.
Bobby had driven out to the Schorr Labs production facility and spoke with the foreman himself. The logs indicated no issues. They didn't even store D.E.G. on the premises.
Short of intentional sabotage, there was no way a production error could have led to the chemical contamination.
There were other production facilities in Ohio and Utah. Bobby just couldn't see Schorr going to the trouble of shipping mouthwash across the country to save a buck.
As a precaution, Goren asked the lab to compare the bottles themselves and the labels to look for any discrepancies.
That had only spit back what Goren anticipated—the bottles were different, but impeccable forgeries.
There were slight differences in the ink used to print the labels. Otherwise, they were nearly identical.
Goren had a call in to check with printing companies, plastic manufactures, and internet-knock off gag stores to see if there were any possible connections to a SnoMint order.
He got Palin's schedule from Leslie. The man was at a lunch meeting with a business executive from a medical device company.
Bobby had dropped by unannounced and turned the heat up on Palin. He tried to push him into a confession.
Though shaken, Palin had no new information to provide. Goren couldn't disclose that they were wise to Palin's emails with Schorr. He didn't want to put Leslie at risk.
Now, Bobby had made the trek up to Harlem in search of answers. Goldman's dental office was still open and operating. His partner had no intention of closing down.
Bobby ran his eyes over each line as he skimmed through the invoices.
"And this is the suspected shipment?" Bobby asked.
The office manager shook her head.
"No, the officers that came to collect these records asked about that. I'll tell them what I told you—this was our last invoice for product shipped from the distributor. But Doctor Goldman got a lot of product donated to him," she explained.
Bobby stopped and looked up.
"Donated?"
"Yeah. This clinic doesn't turn a profit. Doctor Goldman just wanted to help. We get a lot of donations from different groups, organisations, individuals," she explained.
"And the SnoMint?"
"It came from Mr Cho. He has the bodega up the street."
Mr Cho pulled his glasses off his face. He dropped his head and used the hem of his shirt to clean the lenses.
"I never meant for anyone to get hurt," Cho explained. "I donated product to Doctor Goldman all the time. Extra toothpaste. Toothbrushes for the kids. Oral pain reliever."
"So, when Jim Kettle told you to pull the SnoMint, you donated it to Doctor Goldman for the tax write-off?" Bobby inquired.
Cho nodded.
"I never would have… if I had known—"
He sighed and shook his head in dismay.
"Nobody ever been hurt before. All those kids. I just feel awful."
Cho felt responsible.
Bobby put his hand on the man's shoulder.
"It's alright, Mr Cho. You didn't know," Goren said. "But I do think you can help me find out who did this."
Cho had already turned over all his invoices to the investigation.
"Right. There's a discrepancy though. You list eight boxes on your inventory, but this invoice is only for two," Goren pointed out.
"It's like I told your officers. I only ordered two. The next day, I find six more boxes waiting by the door. I called the distributor. They say they didn't ship them. They won't come take them back," Cho recounted.
"Do you keep tapes?" Goren asked.
Cho made a face.
"I already told that lady Detective, our tape resets every hour," Cho said.
Goren nodded and handed the clipboard back to Mr Cho.
"Right. Thank you," Bobby said.
The bodega door chimed as Bobby stepped back into the street. He was chasing the trail Eames had already worked.
Bobby hadn't felt so out of sync since Jo Gage.
Bobby strolled around to the back side of the bodega where the service door was located. He glanced up and down the side street. There were dozens of businesses.
That meant dozens of potential security cameras.
I do like to watch. Bobby mused.
Major Case | One Police Plaza | Manhattan
"Detective Eames already submitted a request for those. We got four companies that turned their camera footage over voluntarily. Six use low cost security, the tapes reset on a regular basis—too often for there to be any footage left. A few were just cameras. Fakes to discourage theft," Wheeler rattled off.
Goren took the memory stick from her regardless.
"You're welcome to go through it. I just don't know what you're looking to find," Wheeler said.
Eames had assigned two officers to go through the footage earlier in the week. When that produced nothing, she ran through it herself.
"It's alright. I don't mind," Bobby said.
It was going to be a long weekend.
Bobby snagged a thermos of coffee and settled into one of the private rooms to go through the footage.
Mike Logan dropped in that afternoon.
"You want company or this a party for one?"
Goren motioned for Logan to take a seat.
"I thought you were on pretrial stuff for the Beltran case?" Goren asked.
Logan shrugged.
"I dunno, we're on hold for the moment," Logan said.
Bobby closed his eyes and took a breath to calm his nerves. He knew that meant the DA's office was likely taking stock of the resources they had already expended on the investigation, evaluating the likelihood of conviction and weighing public opinion.
Press cases were hard to investigate and even harder to convict.
Bobby paused the tape and turned to Logan.
"What do you know?" he asked.
"I don't know anything. Believe me, I'd tell you," Logan said. "I already had two calls from the Dutton's of Sands Point demanding answers. The DA's office is being cagey."
The Office ADA Ron Carver | Manhattan
A snort of laughter escaped from Danielle Melnick. She peered down at Carver over the edge of the manilla folder.
"Is this for real?" Melnick asked.
"I wouldn't waste your time otherwise," Carver replied.
Melnick slipped into the seat across from Carver's desk and gave the folder a once-over again.
"Well, it's certainly convenient," Melnick said. "I'm sure the NYPD is eager for this to all go away as quickly as possible."
Carver's face soured.
"Danielle, were you—"
She put up her hand to stop him.
"Not at all," Melnick asserted.
She wasn't behind the leak to the press. Melnick may have been a ruthless defence attorney—but she would never have outed the personal address or mobile number of someone like that to the press.
"It's… convenient for you, though," Carver said, throwing her earlier statement back.
"I won't look a gift horse in the mouth," Melnick remarked.
She slipped the file into her briefcase and promised to take it to her client.
"I suppose this will go a long way in diffusing some of the public ire," Melnick said as she snapped her briefcase shut. "It's a horrible situation, but what timing. Kudos to whatever slick media coordinator had the gall to propose it."
"Danielle, wait," Carver said.
Expecting the worst, Melnick sat down again and braced herself.
"This didn't come from any media advisor. NYPD doesn't know. She came to me with this and asked me to make it happen," Carver explained.
Melnick's eyes narrowed.
"What's the catch? Does she want a joint appearance with Beltran? A little good press?"
Carver shook his head.
"No. She's asked that her involvement remain discreet," Carver instructed.
That caught Melnick's attention.
"What's really going on here?" Melnick asked.
"There's no game, Danielle. You know that we try to take a family's wishes into consideration. She's agreed to meet with us and Judge Vinello but has asked we do so in private," Carver explained.
She let down her courtroom façade. A pained look crossed her features.
Carver shrugged.
"Something about planting a tree," Carver said.
Pelham Cemetery | City Island | The Bronx
The sun was just starting to go down on the horizon.
Pelham Cemetery was the only waterfront cemetery in the five boroughs. It wasn't grand. Nor was it a Catholic cemetery (which caused great consternation for the Dutton's of Sands Point).
But when Alex had been forced to choose a gravesite for her husband, she knew Joe would want to be buried near the water.
It was the thing he loved most in the world.
Well, one of them.
It was a beautiful gravesite. There were old growth trees. The air was filled with the smell of salt and sea. It was far enough removed from the city that it was quiet too.
Alex knew Joe would be happy there—if one could be happy lying in the ground.
Back then, at thirty-two, Alex hadn't even thought to purchase a plot beside him. By the time the notion occurred to her, she discovered it was too late.
Her best hope was that someday Nathan might come sprinkle her ashes over Joe's grave.
She surmised in the grand scheme of things it was only fitting they wouldn't be side-by-side in death either.
Some things just were meant to be.
Eames stared down at the slab of sleek blue granite and prayed to any God that would listen that she'd made the right choice.
The life she had shared, the family they had dreamed of—those things died along with Joe.
Alex couldn't stomach the notion that his only legacy would be as one more name among thousands that had been murdered by gun violence.
Joseph Patrick Dutton
29 December 1965 – 13 July 1997
Blessed are the peacemakers.
Alex knelt down next to his grave and traced her fingers across the epitaph.
Nathan poked his head out from around the slab and giggled.
Alex had offered to take him out for the evening to give her sister a few hours alone with Mark.
Nathan wormed his way under Alex's arm and studied the stone.
It wasn't his first time out at a graveyard. He had gone before to see where his grandmother was buried.
"What's that say?" Nathan asked.
"It says, 'Blessed are the peacemakers,'" Alex read aloud.
"Oh."
A beat passed.
"What's a peacemaker?"
"It's erm… it's somebody that tries to make sure people are safe. They stop people from fighting. They care about other people. And they protect others. Look out for people," Alex said.
"This big rock?"
Alex chuckled. Nathan was never satisfied with one answer. There were always a dozen questions waiting to follow.
"This big rock is how we remember people," Alex said.
"Like Grandma?"
"Uh huh." Eames nodded.
Nathan reached out to touch Joe's grave, running his chubby fingers over the glossy surface.
"Your Grandma?"
"No. His name was Joe. Your uncle Joe," Alex said.
There were still photographs of Joe at Nathan's home and Grandpa's. Alex had pictures too that she just couldn't bear to take down. Nathan's mother had explained (in terms a small child could understand) that Uncle Joe had died.
"Mummy said before I was a little baby."
He dove and buried his head against Alex, clinging to her coat as he pleaded if he could meet his Uncle Joe.
"Mummy said he's in heaven now with Grandma."
Alex murmured a lazy affirmative. Joe had been steadfast in his faith. Alex wasn't entirely sure what she believed in anymore, if she had ever really had faith to begin with or if it was merely an illusion.
Nathan started to fiddle with the hem of his sleeve.
"Can we come back after ice cream?" he asked.
Alex offered Nathan her hand to walk back to the car. She had promised him ice cream and it was getting late.
"Does Uncle Joe like ice cream?"
"Oh, he loved it. Strawberry was his favourite," Alex said.
Soho | Manhattan
Leslie's penthouse offered a stunning view of the city skyline—especially when the sun set.
"Robert?"
Leslie was in her bedroom, pinning up her hair. Bobby was waiting in the sitting room.
"Could you open that bottle? It needs time to breathe," Leslie called out.
Bobby hung his coat on the hook along the wall. The bottle in question was a nice Barbaresco. They had drunk enough wine together that Bobby knew there was an electronic corkscrew on the counter in the kitchen.
When Bobby returned with the device in hand, Leslie's mobile was vibrating on top of the dining table.
Bobby was still using an old flip-phone. Leslie had a top-of-the-line BlackBerry. Robert didn't mean to spy, but the screen lit up—clearing displaying the source of the incoming call.
Jack Riley.
Leslie froze in the doorframe when she caught sight of Bobby staring at her phone.
"Robert?"
"Oh erm… you've got a call coming in. Is that Jack Riley from The Ledger?" Goren asked.
Leslie smiled and played it off.
"Yeah. He's doing a piece on the SnoMint situation. I've already told him I can't comment. Won't take 'no' for an answer. He thinks if he blows up my phone I'll cave," she lied.
The answer was plausible enough to pass as believable.
But like most small children, Robert Goren was never satisfied with one question.
"How did he get your name?" Bobby pressed.
Leslie shrugged, feigning innocence.
"No idea."
"Could it be Schorr? Part of their good old boys club?"
Leslie didn't follow.
"Riley. He went to Yale. He's the right age," Bobby said.
He had seen the diploma hanging on the wall in Riley's office. There were plenty of other clues too—an alumni calendar, an award, and the men's crew poster hanging prominently behind Riley's desk.
"Well, I don't know all the alumni," Leslie replied.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Where is this coming from?" she asked.
"I was just curious. I think Schorr may have leaked that information about my partner to the press. I was worried he may have done the same to you," Goren said.
Leslie reached for the bottle and poured them both a glass.
"Riley can dig all he wants. He won't find anything," she remarked.
4:40 a.m. | Saturday
Alex Eames had expected to wake up to a pair of tiny, overexuberant hands tugging at the blanket, demanding she get up and play.
A phone call at 4:40 in the morning was not on her bingo card.
Eames reached out in the dark, fumbling to find her phone on the nightstand. She squinted against the bright light as she tried to make out the call. She did not recognise the number.
Alex dropped her phone and turned back over in bed.
A minute later, the phone went off again.
Alex groaned. With a frustrated sigh, she flipped open the device.
"Eames."
"You were right."
Alex sat up and stretched.
"Si-Si-Simmons?" she asked with a powerful yawn.
"Oh. Did I wake you?" Simmons asked.
He'd worked through the night and was barely cognizant of the time.
"Yeesh. Sorry about that. Didn't realise it was so early," Simmons apologised.
According to Simmons, he had stumbled onto something big and figured Eames would want to know straightaway.
"This better be good," Eames said.
Soho | Manhattan
Bobby was awake.
He tried to convince himself that sleep remained elusive because of his back pain. His body still bore the bruising from Detective Copa's beatdown.
Two years earlier, Bobby had emasculated Judge Harold 'Hot Tub Harry' Garrett—ridiculing him over his aging body and sexual liaisons, deriding his hernia and torn rotator cuff, the bad knees, and the fact he'd chased after escorts and young women (and girls).
He'd mocked Frank Adair's sex life too, belittling his stamina with feigned praise.
I get home, I can hardly, you know… even if I wanted to, man. I'm wiped out, you know?
Now Bobby was the one lying in bed, embarrassed by his age and infirmity, ashamed over his folly with a much younger woman.
He should have felt pleased with himself, but he just couldn't kick the feeling that he didn't belong there.
Eames's words haunted Bobby.
I like what we are. I like what we have. It's comfortable.
People undervalue comfortable.
Bobby couldn't call his budding relationship with Leslie 'comfortable.'
He could barely keep up.
Sex with Eames was hardly lacklustre.
But with Eames, Bobby always wondered. Anytime they made love, he felt like he was sharing his bed with her and the ghost of Joe Dutton.
And he wondered when she closed her eyes if she was really thinking of him, if the soft, warm words she murmured were for Bobby or for a man lying cold in his grave.
Bobby had reason to doubt the authenticity of his coupling with Leslie too.
She was… enthusiastic.
She sang his praises, but Bobby had to wonder how and why. Something about the sex rang hollow. It left Bobby wondering if he was God's gift to women or if she was phoning it in.
Bobby was a tender, generous lover—but that relied on communication.
Eames wasn't shy about telling Bobby what she needed.
Goren believed sex was a team sport. It relied on mutual trust and was best enjoyed when everyone got a chance to play.
Leslie had rebuffed his attempts to pleasure her, insisting she had already reached the elusive 'o' without the need for any additional effort on his part.
In all his years and all his partners, Bobby had never been with anyone that was so easily pleased.
Bobby glanced over at Leslie's sleeping form.
Upon reflection, he realised that her 'performance' struck him as just that. The way they touched, the almost routine-like pattern of their coupling, it was all too reminiscent of the type of lovemaking found on VHS tapes.
Bobby was familiar with that kind of VHS, the ones passed around the Army base. New tapes or an issue of Honey magazine were hot commodities. When he was still an MP, Bobby had busted two guys for fighting over possession of a ripped page featuring the 1981 Honey of the Year.
When they were boys, Bobby and his best friend Louis had sat wide-eyed one afternoon after discovering one of those mature films.
Though intrigued, Bobby had always found them… lacking.
After William Goren's death, it was Bobby that cleaned out the flat. William Goren didn't just have a stash—he could have opened his own adult video store. They poured out of every closet. There were boxes stacked in the sitting room. Some appeared to have never been touched.
Damn. Dad had some good stuff. Vintage. Frank had said.
But there was a kernel of wisdom in Frank's statement.
It's never like it is in the movies, eh?
No, it never was.
That kind of grinding, magical, take-me-to-the-moon in ten minutes sex only existed in fiction, pornography, and the minds of teenage boys that had no idea how to make love (and the men that never learned).
Bobby wasn't going to deny that he thoroughly enjoyed a hip-smacking, skin-to-skin romp as much as the next person, Bobby knew that good sex didn't start (or end) there.
There were nights he'd poured himself into that, chasing relief from the world, and losing himself to utter abandon.
Moments when Bobby didn't know his heart could handle it. When Eames made the kind of noises he didn't think were possible from someone as world-weary as Alex Eames.
And when they were done, Bobby would kiss every spot he made sore. Or, if Eames drove (as she usually did), then she would tend to him with a tenderness that Bobby had never known from another.
His eyes drifted over Leslie again.
Once again, Bobby found himself facing the same internal conundrum. He should have been happy.
Instead, his relationship with Leslie left Bobby feeling like he'd invested too much money and expectation into an overrated restaurant or a rave book that was nothing more than lacklustre hype.
The evening had been pleasant enough.
Leslie and Bobby had slipped out for dinner. With Goren at her side, she claimed she felt protected enough to risk leaving the penthouse for a nosh.
Dinner led to dancing. Bobby had walked Leslie home, and she thought it best he just stay for the night.
They enjoyed another bottle of wine. And by the time she was unpinning her hair and pawing at the buttons of Bobby's shirt, he had forgotten all about Jack Riley and The Ledger.
But not for good.
Robert Goren's mind had a way of churning up information the same way the tide turned up glass and driftwood and the occasional body.
Bobby couldn't shake that things felt off.
It was eating away at him.
Leslie's BlackBerry was on the nightstand. She was sound asleep. Bobby watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest with each breath.
He made up his mind long before he slipped out of the bed and padded across the cool carpet.
Bobby knew he was crossing a line. He didn't have any cause to search Leslie's phone—but he wasn't exactly on the clock either.
His motive was as strong as it was personal.
And if there was one thing Robert Goren did best, it was fucking up a good thing.
Bobby snuck out of the bedroom and into the sitting area. He kept the lights off. He just needed a quick look to confirm that everything was in order, to put his mind at ease.
To silence the voice in the back of his head that had waged a whisper campaign, sowing the seeds of doubt about Leslie Le Zard.
Bobby told himself it was just fear.
Fear of the unknown. Fear of change.
He had been with Major Case too long. There was a whole world waiting for him out there—a world that offered better pay and hours, less stress, and the love of a beautiful woman.
He swallowed those doubts and clicked to open the call log on. Bobby paid attention to everything. He'd seen Leslie enter her pin enough times to memorise it—one of the disadvantages of having a device that didn't close.
There was a long history of calls between Leslie and Jack Riley from The Ledger.
In recent days, they had exchanged numerous calls. That matched with Leslie's version of events.
But what didn't was the fact that those calls weren't ignored—seven minutes on Thursday afternoon, three minutes Thursday morning, forty-one minutes on Wednesday morning.
It did not pass Goren's keen eye that this string of calls originated from Leslie.
What's more, they corresponded to the time shortly after the NYPD executed the search warrant—almost down to the minute.
Bobby set the phone down and took a slow breath.
All of a sudden, Bobby felt like he was being watched. He cracked open one eye and saw Leslie standing near the door in her dressing gown.
"What are you doing?"
Bobby opened his mouth to speak. Leslie beat him to it.
"Robert, how could you?"
The betrayal in her voice was evident. It cut right through to Bobby's core. And even though there was good cause for Bobby to believe she was likely the one that had orchestrated the media blitz against Eames, he couldn't help but feel that he was in the wrong for violating Leslie's trust.
"Get out," Leslie ordered.