Author's Note: Thank you!
The title of this chapter is the nautical term that describes when the bow (front) of a boat dips down into a wave and buries itself causing the stern (back) of the boat to flip over the front like a cartwheel. AKA going arse over tit in boat.
There's a number of ways it can happen—including when a boat is carrying too much weight in the front, if there's too much momentum, or when sailing into steep waves or extreme weather.
Unfortunately for Robert Goren, he's tackling all three.
You've been waiting for Miss Le Zard's comeuppance. I hope it won't disappoint. The place name mentioned in this story is a real town.
For the sake of plot, I'm working with Law & Order franchise forensic 'science.' That means I'm using in-universe methods employed in other cases to explain certain story elements. There's a lot of medical factors that can determine how/when/why substances impact someone and I don't have the capacity/space to do a deep dive on it in this fic.
Content Warnings
Discussion of: Trauma, pregnancy, miscarriage/loss, abortion, and violence
5:48 a.m. | Mo's Diner | Queens
Eames smiled and thanked the server as she poured a fresh cup of coffee.
She was seated across from Simmons inside a greasy spoon diner that catered to the early crowd. The sun wasn't even up yet.
Eames shivered and pulled her hoodie tighter.
"All of the whistleblower emails came from the same IP address—except for the last one," Simmons said.
He turned his laptop so Eames could look at the same information.
"It came from Le Zard," Eames said.
According to the logs, Le Zard must have used a different computer to send the original chain of whistleblower emails—likely one she owned personally.
The final smoking gun had come from her own computer at the FDA, likely because she was desperate to pin things on Palin and Schorr.
Eames sat back and took a sip of her coffee.
"I appreciate you working on this. Really, I do. But—"
"It's not why I called you," Simmons said, anticipating her line of thought. "This is where things get interesting."
He beamed and rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Normally, Eames found Simmons's commentary dull. That morning, she chose to indulge him. He had spent all night working outside the bounds of protocol to help.
Simmons had put his findings into a digital file outlining a goldmine of information.
Eames gasped as she read through the contents.
The reason Simmons had been up all night was because he had stumbled onto a complex web of wire fraud, identity theft, credit card fraud, hacking, and extortion.
"This chick… she is really something," Simmons said.
He froze.
"I mean like, you know, in a criminal erm…" Simmons fumbled, flashing Eames a nervous smile. "You know what, I'm gonna spend a penny."
While Simmons recovered in the loo, Eames took a closer look at Leslie Le Zard.
Or Amanda LeBlanc.
Kendra Larson.
Tiffany Lewis.
By the time Simmons got back to the table, Eames had worked out a course of action.
"Call Wheeler," Eames urged.
"It was your idea to check—"
"You know I can't be a part of this. In any case, you cracked all this. It's good work, Simmons. Truly," Eames said. "And Simmons? Wheeler needs to bring Goren in on this. Today."
Brooklyn Heights | Brooklyn
Frank was awoken from his slumber when the door shut.
Bobby had forgotten Frank was still sleeping on his couch—not that he much cared about waking him up.
Frank sat up and stretched.
"You're back early," Frank said.
"Just… don't," Bobby said.
He threw his coat on the hook behind the door. His suit jacket went next. Bobby loosened his tie. On instinct, he opened the fridge in search of a beer before he remembered he'd gotten rid of it all after Frank moved in.
"Are you alright?" Frank asked.
He could sense Bobby was hurting.
"I told you. Don't."
"C'mon, Bobby. What's wrong? I'm your brother," Frank encouraged.
Bobby froze. He raised his hands, retracting and stretching his fingers as he fought the urge to snap.
"Not today, Frank. Not this early," Bobby said.
"I'm erm… I'm gonna go to church today. Later. Tonight. If you want to come? They're good people, Bobby," Frank said.
Bobby fished his mobile phone out of his pocket. He deposited it on the counter. He wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone.
Then he snatched the keys to the Mustang and reached for his coat.
"Where you going?" Frank called after him.
"Out."
10:30 a.m. | Major Case | One Police Plaza | Manhattan
Ross, Logan, and Wheeler were seated next to one another. Simmons had taken over the briefing room.
Ross cocked his head to the side as he studied the intricate web of printouts, notes, and numbers connected on the whiteboard.
"What exactly are we looking at?" Ross asked.
Simmons chuckled.
"Only the greatest fraudster I've ever seen," Simmons replied. "She's technologically savvy, a skilled hacker, loves designer clothes. Heckuva body count. I mean… she reads like one of those hot tv villains."
"Ahem," Logan said, clearing his throat to move Simmons along.
"Right."
Simmons turned their attention to an old yearbook photo.
"Her real name is Krystallyn Laprade of Booger Hole, West Virginia—yes that is the real name of the town," Simmons said.
"How does Krystallyn Laprade of Booger Hole, West Virginia pull off posing as a Yale grad FDA exec?" Logan asked.
Simmons's face lit up.
"That's a long story," he said, obviously eager to dive in.
"Just give us the highlights," Ross ordered.
Simmons had gone into full FBI dossier territory. He walked the team through Le Zard's (or Laprade's) trail of crimes—from stealing the identities of people like Jennifer Hanson and a string of other unsuspecting young women to extorting her married boyfriends for all she could get.
"Her mother had a number of busts for solicitation. Then in 1993, she did a stint for extortion. As it turns out, she was parading little Krystallyn around trying to get whatever she could from different men, claiming Krystallyn was their daughter," Simmons shared.
The apple didn't fall far from the tree.
"And Yale?" Wheeler asked.
"She did attend for two semesters paid for by a Mr Les Zeller. A mining tycoon," Simmons said.
"What happened?" Logan asked.
Simmons shrugged.
"I don't know. Zeller stopped paying and Krystallyn withdrew before the start of the next term," Simmons said.
Ross turned to Wheeler and Logan.
"Track down this Les Zeller and find out what he knows—"
"Erm… that's going to be difficult. Mr Zeller died six years ago. A sudden heart attack," Simmons said as he straightened his glasses.
Ross sighed.
"Alright, bring Le Zard in for questioning. Push her on these missing women and the identity theft. See if she'll give something up about the SnoMint," Ross said.
He didn't quite see how counterfeit product fit into Le Zard's MO. By all accounts, her identity theft wire fraud scheme was unrelated, a lucky happenstance for Simmons to stumble upon.
"Should we notify Eames and Goren?" Simmons asked, playing dumb.
"I'll handle it," Ross answered.
He returned to his office and dialled Goren's mobile. It went straight to voicemail.
"Give me a call. We need to chat. It's important," Ross said.
1:30 p.m. | Sands Point | Long Island
Bobby glanced around the room, denoting to memory every photograph and painting that adorned the walls, noting that while there were photographs of Joe on his wedding day, they had all been conveniently cropped to exclude the bride.
There wasn't a single photograph of Alex anywhere.
Goren sat across from the Dutton's inside their formal sitting room. Mr Dutton seemed a genial sort. His wife was… prickly.
A butler brought in a tray of tea and light refreshments.
"Thank you, Roger. That will be all," said Mrs Dutton.
She turned her attention to Detective Goren, turning up her nose a little at his rumpled suit. Mrs Dutton recognised Goren from their chance encounter at Manhattan District Court.
"You didn't have to drive all the way out here, Detective. I must confess, I am surprised. We'd heard the DA's office was scaling back the case."
Mrs Dutton paused to take a polite sip of her tea.
"I hope you've not come to tell me they're dropping it," she added.
Bobby scratched at the back of his neck.
"Erm… no. I don't know about that," he replied.
He assured Mrs Dutton that the DA's office would keep them apprised of the course of the case and that, in his opinion, it was unlikely they would choose to simply drop the charges.
Offering Beltran the chance to plead out was a different story—but Bobby wasn't prepared to go there.
"Then why are you here, Detective?" Mr Dutton asked.
"I was erm… you know, hoping to get some background information on your son," Bobby said.
It wasn't entirely untrue.
"Don't you have his records already?" Mrs Dutton asked.
"Yes, but—"
Bobby paused.
"I was hoping you could tell me in your own words. It's obvious you love him a great deal. And I'd like to understand who he was," Bobby said.
Mrs Dutton's eyes fell on the photo that sat atop the mantle.
"He was our everything," she said.
She clutched her husband's hand. A sad smile crossed Mr Dutton's face.
"Joe was our oldest boy. He was always wanting to help," Mr Dutton said.
The Dutton's had four sons and a daughter—but Joe was their golden boy.
"We had hoped he would enter the diplomatic corps," Mrs Dutton cut in. "James even secured an internship with the Italian Embassy. But then he ran off to join the NYPD and—"
"Joe had a big heart. He wanted to give back. I always thought he'd run for Congress someday," Mr Dutton said with a small laugh.
Mrs Dutton certainly would have approved of that—more than joining the NYPD.
"We have a great respect for law enforcement, Detective. We give annually. But you have to understand, Joe wasn't meant to be a Detective," Mrs Dutton said.
She looked as if she had something foul under her nose.
"We gave Joe a world-class education. He attended Brookfield Academy. Then Columbia. He turned down Georgetown law to—"
"Build a school in Harlem?" Bobby finished for her.
Mrs Dutton pursed her lips.
"It was his way of rebelling," she said.
"We were very proud of Joe. Always," Mr Dutton said.
It was obvious the Dutton's had both mixed feelings on and conflicting interpretations of that pride.
"And his family?" Bobby asked tentatively.
"Joe was robbed of that chance," Mrs Dutton said.
Bobby's eyes fell on the wedding photo on the wall, the one that had been conveniently clipped to exclude Joe's bride.
"He was married though," Bobby said.
Mrs Dutton bristled.
"We're his only family, Detective," she said.
"But he was married. His… his widow—"
"That little tramp couldn't even be bothered to show up for the arraignment. I've seen the news. She's going to be the reason that little Mexican jumping bean gets off," Mrs Dutton hissed.
The very mention of Alex Eames had been enough to strike a raw chord.
"She wasn't a wife to him. Not a proper one. She was below him," Mrs Dutton went on.
Her eyes narrowed as she watched Goren try to hide his reaction.
"I know what you're thinking, Detective. But she wasn't our kind," Mrs Dutton said. "She was a dumpy little thing. No understanding of etiquette. And that family? Ugh!"
Bobby would have found her outrageous prejudice amusing were it not directed at his partner. Usually the Eames-Goren duo took great pleasure in tag-teaming wealthy elitists. But in this context, Bobby didn't enjoy it.
"The father's a drunkard. Full of rowdy children. I don't know how they can afford to feed them all." Mrs Dutton said, clucking her tongue. "At least she was articulate."
Articulate.
Bobby fought the urge to cringe. He felt twice as bad now for using the same term during his argument with Eames at the benefit.
"It was a shock when Joe introduced us. But I think she made him very happy," Mr Dutton said, trying to smooth things over.
"Oh, I'm sure she did. I have no doubt she knew exactly what she was doing," Mrs Dutton remarked. "We took steps to protect him, of course. And to protect us."
A look passed between the Dutton's.
"Joe was set to inherit everything. We couldn't allow this place and our good name, let her turn our home into some… some dumping ground. I couldn't sit by and let that woman ruin our son's life."
Mrs Dutton chuckled.
"Could you imagine her having the run of this place?" she asked, gesturing to their fine home. "Filling it with more the same of that—"
Mrs Dutton's voice dripped with disdain as she tried to describe her feelings on the Eames family.
"Shanty Irish scum. The lot of them," she sneered.
She composed herself, straightening her back and squaring her shoulders before she continued. Her lip curled into a smug grin.
"So, we rewrote the trust. Cut Joe off from his accounts. Wrote him out of the inheritance. No more country club. No Land Rover. No more use of the boat—that's probably the only one he actually cared about," Mrs Dutton explained with a hint of disapproval. "We weren't going to fund this… phase."
Mr Dutton smiled in a way that indicated he was amused by his wife's antics, almost like she was a child trying to assert herself while failing to see the irony in all of it.
"Joe wasn't bothered. He was always resourceful. He never cared about the trust. That was why I wanted him to take over," Mr Dutton said. "Joe was happier living the way he chose."
Mr Dutton's eyes grew misty.
"He was young and in love," he said.
Mrs Dutton rolled her eyes.
"He wasn't thinking straight," she said, contradicting her husband's account. "Boys that age rarely think further ahead than what's in front of them."
At that, Bobby had to smile.
Joe Dutton had died at thirty-two. He had a mortgage and a wife. By all accounts he was a responsible, practical young man. Only someone with Mrs Dutton's worldview would see those attributes as some kind of youthful indiscretion.
Soho | Manhattan
Mike Logan surveyed the open floorplan of Leslie Le Zard's Soho penthouse. When the DA's office got wind of Le Zard's ties to all the missing women, it wasted no time in expediting a search warrant.
"Nice place," he remarked.
The wine rack caught Wheeler's attention. Wearing gloves, she slipped a bottle off the rack. Her eyebrows hit the roof.
"Well, she knows her wine. This is a 1961 Bruno Giacosa Barbaresco," Wheeler said as she examined the label.
"I take it that's a step above a three-buck chuck?" Logan teased.
"Try $1500 a bottle," Wheeler said.
Logan whistled low and slow in response.
He strolled around the penthouse, noting every painting and the books on the shelves. They looked vintage. Logan was no expert, but he had an inkling the folks responsible for cataloguing it would no doubt find quite a collection.
Logan was struck by an unusual design in the wall. He was no connoisseur of high-end loft design, but it didn't look like it was part of the tiled pattern. Logan ran a gloved hand along the side and was surprised to find a slight raised difference between the two panels.
He stepped back and ran his eyes over the tiles.
On a whim, he reached for the slit between the tiles. It clicked open.
"Whoa… hello." Logan called back over his shoulder. "Wheeler, get a load of this."
She stepped away from admiring the wine rack to follow Logan. He was in the corridor that led to the bedroom and a back office.
Wheeler stopped, stunned by the contents of the hidden storage Logan uncovered. There were laptops, cash, and passports in three different names. Most alarming of all—there were empty storage compartments where someone had recently removed the objects that had once occupied those slots.
"Simmons was right. This chick is no ordinary fraudster," he said.
There were sealed garment hanging on hooks along one side. Each was labelled with a date and a set of initials. Logan reluctantly reached for the one labelled 'R.G.'
He grimaced when he opened the bag and kicked himself for not catching it sooner. He couldn't in good conscience discreetly hide the bag—no matter how much he wanted to.
Wheeler took a peek inside.
"Bedsheets?" Wheeler asked.
Her question was followed by a soft gasp of realisation.
"Oh."
There were dozens of sheet in total. At quick glance, Logan counted eight different sets of initials.
"What do you the think the chances are that 'R.G.' is Reggie Graham? Or Richard Gray?" Logan asked.
Wheeler didn't respond.
"God, I hope so," Logan remarked.
Anyone but the person it was likely to be.
Le Zard had not been home when they executed the search warrant. They'd planned to leave two uniforms outside the building to bring her in upon her return. Now, Wheeler feared they were dealing with a whole different ballgame.
"We need to get word out to the airports, bus terminals, the transit authority—if she's not already fled," Wheeler advised.
Sands Point | Long Island
Bobby listened patiently as Mrs Dutton aired her feelings on her son's marriage.
"I thought in time that they would grow apart, that Joe would realise he'd made a mistake. They would divorce and then Joe could move on to find a more suitable match," Mrs Dutton said with a heavy sigh.
Her expression shifted. There was a faraway look in her eyes as her attention settled on the coffee table.
"But then he died."
From what Bobby had gathered through keen observation of his partner, Mrs Dutton's 'dream' would never have come to fruition even if Joe had survived.
He knew Alex wasn't interested in Joe's money. She loved him—to the point she couldn't move on.
"And you haven't kept in contact?" Goren asked.
"They were briefly married," Mrs Dutton said, stressing the length of time (or lack thereof). "We don't engage socially. She knew her place. Though I do send her a letter every year on Christmas."
Goren was morbidly curious about what kind Christmas cards Mrs Dutton sent. He had flashbacks to the manipulative, backhand compliment-laden lines of text she had dutifully written to Ray Delgado during his prison stint.
"It never would have worked to maintain a relationship. Like I said, she wasn't a real wife to Joe. Their marriage was a fluke," Mrs Dutton said.
Bobby turned his attention to Mr Dutton. He'd grown quiet.
"Is that what you think, Mr Dutton? That their marriage was a mistake? That they were drifting apart?" Bobby asked.
Mr Dutton was stunned the anyone outside of a board room cared about his opinion. He wasn't accustomed to that—particularly in his own home.
"Well, I…"
He trailed off and looked to his wife. Her face soured.
"James doesn't exactly share my assessment. You men all think alike. You can't see past a pretty smile," Mrs Dutton said.
Bobby locked eyes with Mr Dutton.
"When they invited us for dinner—"
"I didn't go," Mrs Dutton cut in.
There had been no way she was setting foot in Joe & Alex's home in Rockaway Beach.
"It was quaint," Mr Dutton offered.
"It was a dump," Mrs Dutton said.
Mr Dutton squeezed his wife's hand, quietly urging her to back off.
"Joe told me he was very happy. I had no reason to doubt his sincerity. And I think that she loved him too," Mr Dutton said.
"Of course, she did. Who wouldn't?" Mrs Dutton scoffed.
She was rattled. Bobby could tell.
Bobby had come seeking answers because he wanted to understand his partner, he wanted to try and rationalise what he had observed, to confirm what he already suspected.
The Dutton's both fell silent.
Bobby could feel they had reached the crux of the conversation. There was just one more button he had to press, one last curtain to lift to fully satisfy his morbid curiosity.
"Do you think things would have changed if they had children?" Bobby asked.
"That never would have happened," Mrs Dutton declared with surety.
Bobby recalled one of the letters Mrs Dutton wrote to Ray Delgado. Bobby had only seen a handful of the letters. He honoured his promise to Eames in that respect.
But there had been a nugget of insight buried in one of the letters Bobby happened to glimpse, a line from Mrs Dutton that caught his attention.
Joe's son would have been three this year.
Bobby surmised that had things been different the Dutton's may have warmed to the idea of the marriage and Alex Eames. Grandchildren had a way of doing that. Goren had seen it time and again in his line of work.
"It never would have happened because you didn't approve? Or… or they didn't want a family?" Bobby asked.
Mrs Dutton visibly recoiled at the accusation.
"We would have adored a grandchild—even from that… that tart," Mrs Dutton insisted hotly.
"Joe wanted a family," Mr Dutton said.
Mrs Dutton's face hardened.
"It was her."
Bobby eyed the Dutton's carefully. A look passed between the pair as if debating how much to disclose. Mrs Dutton spoke first.
Slowly.
"There was… a pregnancy…"
"Joe was conscious for nearly ninety minutes after the shooting. We dropped everything. Drove straight to the hospital," Mr Dutton said.
It had been the scariest night of his life. In some bizarre way, the night Joe Dutton had left the world reminded his father of the night he'd come into it. He'd felt the same nervous energy, the same uncertainty as he waited for the news.
"She wasn't there," Mrs Dutton remarked.
"We learned later she was working. There was some sort of mix-up," Mr Dutton said.
Margaret Dutton scoffed. The Dutton's had no idea how complicated and tragic that mistake had been.
"They were prepping Joe for surgery. Before he lost consciousness, Joe told me they were expecting," Mr Dutton said. "And… and I think he knew."
He grew choked up as he recalled that final conversation with his boy.
"He asked me to promise that we would care for his child, that we would make peace with its mother, with their marriage," Mr Dutton shared.
A sad laugh escaped his throat.
"That we let her raise the child as she saw fit but… but to be in their life," Mr Dutton said.
"We would have loved that child as our own," Mrs Dutton barked. "We would have done everything for that child."
In spite of all the animosity between them and all the grief over Joe's murder, the Dutton's saw the pregnancy as a glimmer of hope.
"But something happened," Bobby said.
"She terminated the pregnancy," Mrs Dutton said in disbelief.
Even a decade later, she couldn't get past it.
Bobby knew Alex was staunchly pro-choice. She had nearly cut Goren off altogether once when she feared Bobby harboured anti-choice sympathies after the subject came up during an investigation.
Goren didn't—he'd only been playing a potential suspect.
The heavy Catholic symbolism that dominated the Dutton home did not go unnoticed by Goren. He knew people weren't monoliths and that there were plenty of pro-choice Catholics.
But from her reaction, it was clear Mrs Margaret Dutton wasn't one of them.
"I urged her to seek absolution," Mrs Dutton continued. "We know Bishop Fischer socially. It could have been arranged."
"Because a priest can't offer absolution," Bobby said knowingly.
"There are some sins that cannot be forgiven," Mrs Dutton said before quickly adding, "by a priest, that is."
She paused to compose herself, sipping at her cold tea.
"She said it was none of our business. The nerve."
Nerve indeed.
Bobby could just imagine how that conversation must have gone. Mrs Dutton spoke of Alex 'knowing her place.' He had no doubt Eames had put Mrs Dutton in hers after that.
"After Joe died, we wanted to do something in his honour. We had a benefit to establish a scholarship. After the party, I confronted her about it," Mrs Dutton explained. "And she denied it."
Mr Dutton looked uncomfortable. Bobby could tell if that was because Mrs Dutton's version of events were annotated or because the man respected Alex's privacy on the decision.
"She had the gall to claim that she miscarried. A liar and a baby killer," Mrs Dutton snarled.
She shook her head in dismay. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes.
"I knew. I knew," she managed to choke out. "God would never do that to my grandchild."
It wasn't a long drive back to the city, but Bobby chose to take his time. He pulled over and stopped at a dive bar for a drink before continuing on.
He needed to mull things over, to digest his afternoon with the Dutton's of Sands Point.
Goren sat hunched over the bar, nursing a glass of the house whisky.
He'd asked Eames once after her surrogacy if she ever considered having children of her own.
Alex had played it off—making some quip about three a.m. feedings.
But she had turned away when she delivered her dry remark, unable to meet Bobby's gaze. It was difficult to pinpoint Eames's mood. They had worked together enough that Bobby knew her tells.
And Eames knew how to play him (and rarely let down her guard).
There was one other time when Bobby had risked the question. They'd been lying in bed together, tangled in his sheets—Eames on her back and Bobby stretched out across her, his head nuzzled against her hip.
He liked those moments best when he could feel small and safe in her arms. It wasn't a feeling Robert Goren was accustomed to.
At some point while he was tracing lazy shapes on her body, he became aware of the fact that there was, perhaps, some misplaced aspect of maternal reassurance he sought from her.
His unflappable, unbreakable little partner, whose minute form had no bearing on the size of her presence, was fascinating.
And as he'd traced the planes and soft curves of her torso, Bobby remained enthralled by the knowledge that she had somehow carried on a remarkable career and faced what she did all the while carrying Nathan safe and snug.
She wasn't a mountain.
She was a reed.
Hardy enough to withstand the change of weather, the bombardment of wind and floods from the rain, roots deep and sturdy enough to withstand periods of drought.
Motherhood wasn't for everyone nor was Robert Goren an expert.
But in his time with the NYPD, Bobby felt he'd seen enough to be a fairly good judge of character when it came to the topic of motherhood.
You ever think about it? Bobby had asked.
Eames had mastered the answer non-answer.
Hard to do this with a beachball between us.
That was before Bobby's mother passed. Frances Goren had always longed for grandchildren (and wasn't shy about nudging Bobby on the subject).
In the last year of her life, Frances Goren had grown increasingly concerned that Bobby would never settle down or have children.
Bobby had felt Eames tense when he shared that with her.
My mother's afraid I'll never… I mean, I'm not asking.
Good. I'm not offering.
And then Alex's expression shifted. She instinctively reached for Bobby's hand.
I couldn't do it again. Eames shared, telling Bobby it was too involved.
That afternoon as they laid together, Eames shared that her sister had broached the subject of a second surrogacy, and that Alex felt guilty for turning her down. Eames did not elaborate, and Bobby didn't press the issue.
He'd wondered after that if Eames was simply being practical or if she meant that she was too emotionally invested to go through carrying another child that would never call her 'mum.'
With Eames, it was hard to tell.
"You thinkin' about another one, big guy?" the barkeep asked.
Bobby threw his head back and finished his whisky. He fumbled for a tenner and mumbled for the man to keep the change.
By the time he stepped out, the sun was just starting to go down. Emerson had once said something about sunsets bringing the promise of a new dawn.
The only thing they brought Robert Goren was another night alone.
As he backed out of the pub, Bobby mused that it was probably for the best. He deserved everything he got by blowing his chance with Leslie.
And he didn't deserve Alex Eames. He never had.
Brooklyn Heights | Brooklyn
Frank was gone by the time Bobby got home. He'd left a note on the fridge. Frank was feeling better. A friend had picked Frank up to go to his church. Frank promised to be home later, but not too late.
Bobby didn't have the mental capacity to fret over whether it was the right thing to give Frank a key or not. That was a problem for tomorrow.
Goren's mobile sat untouched on the counter. It was nearly out of juice. He had a few missed calls from Captain Ross and Mike Logan.
There was a text from Eames burning a hole in his inbox.
Can we please talk?
Eames had sent it the day before with no additional context. At the time, Bobby was too worked up about her 'suspension' and angry with the case to call her back. Now he was too embarrassed to speak with her—particularly given his suspicion that Leslie Le Zard had something to do with the leak to the press.
Though it had been hours since his last meal, Bobby had no appetite for dinner.
He slipped off his shoes, snatched his phone from the counter, and padded down the corridor to his bedroom.
Bobby kept the lights off as he shed his tie and trousers. He didn't even bother to hang up his shirt or mess with his socks. Bobby fumbled around in the dark by the nightstand in search of his charging cable for a good two minutes before he remembered it was out in the kitchen.
Bobby grumbled and stomped out to plug the damn phone in. At least he wouldn't have to worry about it disturbing him overnight.
Then at long last, Bobby collapsed into bed and sank down into the comfort of his cool sheets.
8:43p | Major Case | One Police Plaza | Manhattan
Wheeler and Logan strode into the Major Case squad room. Ross was standing near their desks, explaining the situation to Detectives Ellington and Fairholm. Across the way, Detective Chisholm was on the phone to the Port Authority. Her partner, Witzky, was jotting down details from a source with the state police.
It was all hands on deck.
Ross caught Wheeler's eye.
"I don't like that look," Ross said as she approached.
"It wasn't our suspect," Wheeler announced.
Logan and Wheeler had rushed out to La Guardia after they got word security was holding a suspect that matched Miss Le Zard's description.
"No," Logan added bitterly. "Some poor kid they yanked off a plane bound for Paris. I'm sure there will be a lawsuit."
Ross pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.
"Any word from Goren?" Wheeler asked.
Ross shook his head.
"I haven't been able to reach him," Ross said.
"I could swing by his place," Logan offered.
"Let me make a call first," Ross said.
Flushing Meadows | Queens
"Captain?"
Eames was surprised. And concerned.
"I'm sorry to call you so late," Ross said.
"It's fine," Eames assured him.
She politely covered the phone and advised her sister and brother-in-law to carry on the game without her. Jenga was about as wild as things got with a wee one in the house.
Alex slipped into the foyer and shut the door behind her.
"Has something happened?" Eames inquired.
"I was wondering if you have been in contact with your partner?" Ross asked.
Eames's throat went tight.
Her mind raced with dozens of increasingly unsavoury possibilities—had Goren done something to jeopardise her suspension? Was he in danger?
Her thoughts drifted back to the bombshell of information Simmons had dropped earlier that morning.
Eames didn't quite see what Le Zard hoped to gain from Robert Goren. All the available evidence indicated that she chose her marks carefully. Bobby wasn't wealthy. He didn't run in any New York City power circles.
He didn't fit the profile of Le Zard's other wealthy, married marks.
"Eames?" Ross prompted.
Alex hadn't realised she'd gone silent.
"Erm… no, Captain. I haven't spoken to him."
Before Ross could speak, Eames repeated her previous question.
"Has something happened? Is Detective Goren alright?"
She needed to know. Alex felt like she was adrift at sea on a raft, cut off from all communication with the outside world.
"Sir—"
"It's nothing you need to worry about, Detective. Thank you for your time. Sorry to pull you away from your family," Ross said.
He bid Eames a good night and then ended the call without another word.
She stared down at her phone, lost for words. The outgoing text to Bobby the day before was still front and centre in her messages. There had been no reply.
Eames's fingers hovered over the phone as she debated whether to ring him or let it go.
He was probably out with Lesie, dancing or dining at some trendy fusion bistro. Bobby was probably having a good time. And Eames would probably regret interrupting his evening.
For all she knew, it might be the final nail in the coffin on their relationship.
Resigned it was over regardless, Eames dialled his number and waited as the phone rang and rang.
And rang.
Alex's gaze fell on her shoes by the door. She was itching to do something. It was the same restless energy she felt whenever they rushed out of the squad room to chase down a time-sensitive lead.
The door creaked open. Her sister poked her head inside.
"Everything alright, Alex?"
Eames startled. She clutched her chest and took a breath as her sister apologised for spooking her.
"I'm sorry. I have to go," Eames announced.
Brooklyn Heights | Brooklyn
Bobby was at sea.
Storm clouds gathered overhead. Someone was shouting in the distance to reduce the sail lest they be swept away. The ship was tossed as another powerful wave washed over the deck, the cold spray hitting Bobby in the face.
But he was too fixated in watching the waves as they threw the ship about. He was waiting for his white whale.
He could sense she was out there, metres below his vessel, just waiting to ram the ship. She had speed and power.
And Bobby knew that one of these days she was going to crush right through the hull, sink her teeth into him, and drag him down to the depths (if he didn't sink a cannonball or harpoon into her first).
For they both knew that was the only way it would end. Either one would destroy the other or they would both share in mutually assured destruction.
Somehow, Bobby had always pictured that as more of a Reichenbach Falls moment than the salt and the spray.
Bobby had never been a fan of the ocean. He didn't hate it, but it conjured memories from his childhood that Bobby would sooner forget.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Bobby chuckled. She was knocking at the hull, just waiting to flash him a smile with those long, sharp teeth.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Bobby was half-tempted to shout that no one was home.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Bobby woke abruptly. He sat up in bed and clutched his chest as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The front of his shirt was damp from perspiration. It clung to his hairline, curling the untamed hair there.
It was rare Bobby let his hair go so long—not since his youth. He was long overdue for a haircut and a shave. His greying curls were wild. His facial hair wasn't quite a beard, but it was far too much to be considered stubble.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Someone was pounding at the door.
Bobby grimaced. He threw off the covers and padded out into the dark of his flat. His phone was alight on the counter from an incoming call.
Eames.
Bobby squinted to read the time on the microwave. It was after 9:00. Bobby turned his attention back to the phone. He was about to answer when the person at the door knocked again.
Bobby realised that the couch was empty. Frank still wasn't home. Eames had already waited over a day—and Bobby was keen for any excuse to delay that conversation.
He turned back for the door, fully expecting to find Frank on the other side.
Probably lost the spare key. Bobby thought.
Bobby threw open the door.
"What?" he barked.
Bobby's shoulders slumped. His face contorted in pain. He felt like an even bigger arse than before. She looked wholly taken aback by his tone.
"I'm sorry," he apologised.
She sniffled. It was obvious she had been crying. She buried her face against his chest.
"Oh, Robert," Leslie said as she clutched his grey undershirt.
"C'mon. C'mon," Eames muttered as she tapped the steering wheel.
Her phone was pinched between her ear and her shoulder as it rang through to voicemail again.
Goren was a heavy sleeper. He had a knack for getting lost in his own world. He could shut out everything and everyone better than anyone Eames knew.
But she could not recall a time when Goren went off the grid altogether. Even during the depths of his depressive episode after the loss of his mother, Goren had still managed to keep in contact with Captain Ross.
The fact Ross had called Eames while she was on an unofficial suspension was unsettling.
Eames regretted the fact she was in her personal vehicle and did not have the same emergency lights (or horsepower) to expedite her trip.
Alex clicked to redial and shoved her phone back to its precarious position on her shoulder.
She nearly dropped the phone when it clicked to pick up.
There was no greeting. Eames waited a moment, listening with rapt attention for any sound.
"Hello? Bobby?"
Eames thought she heard someone breathing but couldn't be certain it wasn't her imagination.
"Bobby?"
The line went dead.
Eames grumbled and called the number back. It was possible Goren had simply answered by mistake. He could have rolled over onto his phone in his sleep. For all she knew, Leslie may have even answered the call in the midst of something personal just to get under Eames's skin.
None of those rationalisations did anything to quell the rising sense of panic Alex felt.
I'll just drive by. If the lights are off, there's no need to go in.
If they're on, it's probably Frank. And I can confirm if Bobby is safe.
Robert Goren was six foot four. He lifted. He'd tossed perps around like they were pillows. Surely, petite Leslie Le Zard was no match for the likes of Robert Goren—even a Robert Goren with his blinders on.
Shades of Nichole Wallace. Eames thought darkly.
She put her foot down on the pedal.
It took Bobby a moment to realise the small, sharp prick of pain at his side was real. It had been so brief that Bobby initially thought he'd imagined it altogether.
He experienced a slight muscle twitch. Then all too fast for his liking, his limbs grew heavy. His blood pressure dropped.
Bobby collapsed to the floor.
He hadn't yet fully lost control of his body—but that was only a matter of time.
"Succinylcholine," Leslie announced. "Don't fight it, luv. It's so undignified."
Bobby spied his phone on the floor. It was just out of reach, lit up with another incoming call from Eames.
He used his left arm and considerable strength to reach for it. Bobby's chest was tight. He was overcome with a wave of dizziness. He was flushed. The phone was right there, only Bobby couldn't bring himself to speak.
It was too difficult to think over the thundering beat of his heart. It pounded in his eardrums, echoing through every fibre of his body.
Leslie easily bent down and picked up the phone. She clucked her tongue in disapproval as Bobby tried to crawl away.
He couldn't even bring himself to lift his arms as the injection rendered him paralysed.
Leslie slipped on a pair of expensive leather gloves (another gift from an ex). She knelt down next to Bobby. Using all her strength, she managed to roll him over onto his back.
Leslie straddled him. She cupped his face and clucked her tongue in disapproval.
"Oh, Robert. I had so hoped it wouldn't come to this."
Bobby's breathing slowed as he stared up at her. She grinned like a cat that had caught the cream.
He watched, utterly helpless, as Leslie fished into her handbag. She produced a second needle and brought it to eye level. Leslie carefully eyed the contents as she flicked the needle in preparation.
"Potassium chloride," she said. "It's surprisingly difficult to detect. Impossible once it's in the body."
Leslie giggled.
"They'll just think you're another one of New York's finest middle-aged, overweight dead of a heart attack coppers."
Bobby's eyes roamed. They were the only tool he had left.
"And who would question it?" Leslie asked innocently. "You don't take care of yourself. You're drowning in debt. You live in this place."
She cast a judging eye over his dingy flat.
"You've never lived up to your potential. You're just… Declan Gage's failed protégé. The disgraced outcast of the NYPD. They all think you're lunatic. One more incident away from a psych eval and a one-way ticket to a rubber room," Leslie said, touching on his deepest insecurities.
Leslie leaned forward and captured his lips. Bobby could smell her perfume—only now it made him sick.
"I can't say it was all bad," Leslie cooed.
Leslie sat back and sighed. She traced her fingers down his chest. Bobby recognised the gleam in her eyes. Leslie wasn't just cleaning up a loose end—she enjoyed taunting him.
"I suppose you want to know why I'm doing all this?"
In spite of his predicament, Bobby was curious. He simply couldn't shut it off—even when facing his own imminent demise.
In truth, he didn't want to think about the panic he felt.
He would die alone on the floor just like William Goren. Bobby had spent his whole life trying to avoid turning out like that man.
And in the end, their fate was tied.
Just like William Goren, Bobby had ruined his relationship with Frank. He drove away the only woman that ever truly loved him.
Worst of all, he'd never told her what she meant to him. He couldn't bring himself to tell her that he loved her.
Bobby hadn't been sure he was capable of love.
Now, it felt like a fitting penance that he would come to the realisation that he loved Alexandra Eames only in the hour of his death.
And that he'd assured his own grisly end by driving Eames away.
Leslie was speaking, undeterred as she revealed her sins. It was a relief to finally gush about all she had accomplished, about transforming herself into an educated, cultured woman after enduring years of rural poverty and abuse.
She wasn't repentant—she was proud.
Leslie wasn't even interested in money or material possessions. Those luxuries came second to her true motivation. Leslie was mission-oriented. The exhortation wasn't for financial gain, it was to teach wealthy men a lesson.
"Don't you see? I'm punishing them," Leslie explained. "Men like Marty Palin and Jim Schorr don't deserve those titles. They don't deserve to decide who lives and who dies because of profit margins."
Her face soured.
"You were supposed to arrest them," Leslie said, disappointed. "I gave you everything, Robert. And you failed me. I had so hoped you would be different. It was why I chose you, Robert. But in the end… you're just like the rest of them."
Bobby was only half-listening.
His mind was still fixated on his own regrets.
Had he known it was last night on Earth, Bobby wouldn't have snapped at Frank that morning. He certainly wouldn't have left Frank to find him either. Gods, that would probably drive Frank right back to the heroin.
And Eames.
Well, she would find herself loving two ghosts. While that brought Bobby comfort on some level for the sheer fact someone would remember him, he was far more disturbed in knowing that he'd saddled Eames with that burden.
"I was going to ask you to come away with me," Leslie confessed. "But then I saw the police outside my building, and I knew that plucky little cunt was never going to let you go."
No, she never would. Bobby mused.
He was sinking like a stone into death and Eames would still cling to him, adding another ghost to her list of lovers.
Bobby was struck with an odd thought, one that would have made him laugh aloud if he was capable of it. He wondered if in death he would finally chip away a little at the hold Joe Dutton's ghost still retained over Alex after all those years.
Bobby wondered and hoped that she might yearn for him instead. If from time to time, she would catch a scent of his cologne on the breeze, or the weather would shift just right to bring a memory rushing back.
And that maybe, just maybe, it would be a memory of Bobby's touch.
Then he remembered that memories of their time together were equally as likely to motivate Eames to put her fist into the wall or hurl a heavy object through the nearest pane of glass.
Yes, that was Robert Goren's legacy.
Pain. Betrayal. Uncertainty.
He'd never once told Eames what she meant to him. And in the long list of life of regrets, that was without a doubt the biggest one.
Bobby's face flushed. His eyes watered, blurring his vision.
"Awwww. Please don't cry," Leslie said as she prepared to administer the injection. "It will all be over quickly. You don't want to spend your last moment on Earth mourning."
She chuckled.
"I would have liked another chance at bat. It's a pity we don't have time, darling," Leslie said.
Leslie raised the needle as a broad smile broke out across her face.
"Now smile."