Like a Stone

by CharlieFenwick

She was sinking like a stone. Bobby did all he could to cut the weight, hurling everything in his arsenal in the hope that she would realise he wasn't worth the struggle. She was drowning. Still, Alex Eames held on. They were tethered together. It was too late to cut herself loose now—not that she was inclined to. Alex would let Bobby carry her down with him to the sediment itself.

15. A Storm Brewing on the Horizon

Author's Note: Finally. Finally!

This chapter marks the conclusion of the Amends storyline. There is also some resolution between Goren & Eames. However, things are far from settled.

Trovo is a reference to the S4 episode Death Roe.

Please bear in mind that (in this story) Manny Beltran was only fifteen when he shot Joe Dutton. He has committed no other crimes, has no prior record, and is being tried as a juvenile offender under New York State Law.

This has been an Eames heavy arc. It was a significant part of her character, and I wanted to explore it further. We'll see a deep dive on Bobby (including flashbacks) in the chapters to come.

Brace yourselves, Untethered is next. (And I mean it this time!)

---

Content Warnings

Discussion of: Trauma, death, grief, childhood abuse, and pregnancy.

Scenes involving: Courtrooms/court proceedings, drinking, sex

---

Eames went home that night. To her own home, her own bed.

Their bed.

She poured herself a stiff drink and carried it right upstairs. Alex switched on the tap. The wooden floor creaked as she came back into the bedroom while the tub filled. Alex unlatched her wristwatch and placed it on the top of the dresser.

The dresser where her wedding photo sat.

She couldn't look at Joe.

Not tonight.

As she stripped away her clothes and slipped into the steaming bath, Alex tried to convince herself that it was symbolic. That this ritual act was part of washing away all that had occurred.

Only Alex knew that she couldn't wash it away.

Her hand settled on her necklace. She needed to ground herself.

There would be no hope of salvaging her partnership. Her career was in ruins. She'd thrown herself on a sword in an act of sacrifice that turned out to be completely unnecessary.

Alex felt as if she was staring down at the shattered pieces of her life, looking at a mess, wondering where the hell to start, unsure of which pieces were worth salvaging.

She fiddled with the chain between her fingers while contemplating what, if anything, was left.

Duty. She snorted.

That's what was left.

She had a duty to care for her father. She had a duty to testify at Manny Beltran's sentencing hearing.

That was the big fat piece in the middle that she couldn't discard, the glimmer of light high in the sky. She wouldn't see it. She couldn't leave the tunnel—but she could pull Manny Beltran's hand along and show him the way out.

Alex closed her eyes and slipped under the water.

---

Monday | 17 February 1997

It had warmed up that day—the first 'warm' day after the first bitter weeks of the new year. At least, it was warm by February in New York City standards.

Valentine's Day had fallen on a Friday. Joe and Alex had both worked.

When didn't they?

Their second wedding anniversary was little over a week away.

Running errands on a Monday afternoon together wasn't quite a sweeping romantic scene.

There was a two-for-one deal on frozen peas. Alex had a coupon for laundry soap. Joe snuck a tub of strawberry ice cream into the shopping cart.

"A treat," Joe said. "For tonight.

Alex, who had been studying a box of fruity cereal, moved to put it back.

Joe caught her hand. He flashed her a smile.

"C'mon. We can live a little. We only get a second anniversary once," he said.

Neither of them knew it would also be their last anniversary.

A look passed between the two. Joe took the box from her hand and dropped it into the chart. He whistled the whole way to the checkout.

---

They were nearly home when Joe suddenly pulled into a different lane of traffic. He turned.

"Where are we going?" Alex asked with a frown.

"You'll see," he said cryptically.

"We have milk. And the ice cream," she protested, reminding him of the frozen groceries in the back of the truck.

"Ah, they'll be fine. It's cold enough," Joe assured her.

He parked in front of the skating rink at a nearby park. Joe shut the truck off and glanced over at his wife.

Alex laughed and shook her head. The public, outdoor rink was a mix of exuberant children, surly teens, and a few hobbyists.

The 4:00 crowd.

Joe reached for Alex's hand and pulled it to his lips. She realised he was deadly serious.

"I want to go skating with you," Joe said. "I want to take you to the pond. It's so beautiful out there."

The rest was left unspoken.

The pond Joe spoke of, the one he adored, sat on the Dutton family property out in Sands Point. Joe's parents had softened their stance on his marriage.

A little.

There remained a substantial gap between being permitted onto the property and being welcomed.

Joe loved to skate. He'd grown up playing hockey. He lived for outdoor sports—especially skating. Alex could skate. At least, well enough to stay upright.

Joe stared, wordlessly pleading with Alex to go along with a bit of spontaneity. She didn't have the heart to say 'no.'

Not to him.

"Alright," she replied with a wry smile.

Joe had brought his skates. Joe used to keep them in his truck. Joe used to get together once a week with some of the folks in Narcotics for a casual game of hockey. Joe was good too. At 6'4" he cut an intimidating figure on the ice.

In the '94 season, Joe had played on the official NYPD team for the annual Heroes Game where the NYPD faced off against the FDNY on the ice.

Alex rented a pair of skates from the stand.

As soon as they were laced up, Joe offered her his hand.

Yes, Monday afternoon in a public park wasn't a swoon worthy scene from a romantic flick. There was a group of neds huddled on a nearby bench, smoking and sulking. A gaggle of pint-sized pee wee hockey players whizzed by. Two teenaged lovers were in the midst of a spat in the middle of the ice.

Joe glanced down at Alex.

"What?" she asked, expecting him to say something smart about her pace.

Joe didn't respond.

"What?" Alex pressed.

"I'm just… looking at the stars," he replied strangely.

Alex felt shy. She blushed. She tried to turn away. Joe caught her face.

"I love you," he said.

He leaned down to close the distance between them. Alex's eyes fluttered shut in anticipation.

But before their lips met, they hit the ice.

Hard.

A young man had been skating too fast. He'd slipped and slid right into the couple—sending them all to the ice.

---

"Shove up," Alex said as she returned with a thermos of tea.

She dipped her toe into the water.

"Come here," Joe replied, pulling Alex close as she stepped into the bath.

They were trying to make the best of sharing the tub. They only had one hot water bottle, and they were both sore from the fall on the ice.

"Your backside is pretty bruised," Joe said.

"Yeah? And how would you know that? Were you peeking?" Alex asked.

"I'm always watching your six," Joe shot back.

Alex rested her head against his chest. Joe buried his face in the top of her hair, pressing a tender kiss there.

Out of nowhere, Joe chuckled.

Alex glanced up at him.

"It's nothing," he assured her.

Alex made a face.

"Just a memory," Joe confessed.

Alex settled back in, nuzzling against Joe. She was nestled safely in the crook of his shoulder—her favourite place to be.

"Tell me?"

"Well, one winter my father warned me not to go out to the pond."

It had been unseasonably warm that year. But armed with his new skates (and emboldened by the late hour) a young Joey Dutton had felt invincible.

"I fell through the ice when I was nine," Joe began. "It was deep enough that I went under. It was dark…"

---

Present | Manhattan District Court

I fell through the ice.

I went under.

It was so dark.

Joe's story echoed in Alex's mind.

Alexandra Eames stood at a podium in front of Judge Vinello with a prepared statement clutched tight in her hands. Alex kept her attention fixated on that paper. She did not look up once as she read from her prepared statement.

The courtroom was packed.

Alex kept her back to the crowd.

The press was on hand. The Beltran trial would likely dominate the news cycle. Half the city would be watching that night on the 6:00 news.

I just kept reaching along the ice. Looking for the hole I fell through.

Row upon row of onlookers watched as Alex Eames read from a prepared statement.

The Beltran family. The Delgado family. The Quinn family.

The Dutton family.

Even Joe's brother had flown in from Colorado for the sentencing. They had all read statements of their own, pleading for Judge Vinello to issue the maximum sentence available under the guidelines.

Alex felt each and every pair of eyes on her back.

She longed to join them.

It would have been safer. It would have been easier.

But when had Joe Dutton ever done what was easy? And how, if by some miracle there really was an afterlife, would Alex ever be able to look him in the eye if she chose the easy route?

I was so terrified. I knew I had made a terrible mistake. I thought I was going to die that night.

The icy water had been a shock. It was cold. And dark.

The first time Alex heard that story, she'd been soaking with Joe in a hot bath—she still got chills.

When you fall through the ice… the hole… it's darker because of how the light refracts. You have to go through where it's darker before you're out.

Before you can see the light.

Alex could still feel Joe's smile.

When I finally burst through that ice and rolled onto my back, I just stared up at the stars.

I'd never seen a more beautiful sky.

She had to reach through the dark before she would see the stars again—even knowing it would be cold, and lonely, and frightening.

The door to the courtroom opened without a sound. Robert Goren silently slipped into the back row next to Detective Logan.

"We wanted a family," Alex read. "Joe was set to start his dream job with the NYPD Harbour Unit SCUBA team. He learned to fly a helicopter. Joe trained as a paramedic. He pushed himself as a diver. He did all of that because he wanted to help others."

Eames paused.

"You have asked for my forgiveness, Mr Beltran—"

For the first time all morning, Alex locked eyes with Manny Beltran.

"But I can't."

Her voice cracked.

"You murdered my husband. You killed a beautiful, golden man. Who, just like you, was young and starting a family and… and dedicated to helping people," Alex reamed.

Suddenly, she stopped herself.

"But it wasn't my life that you took. It was Joe's. And I know without a shred of doubt that he wouldn't want you to lose that," Alex continued. "That if he could be here, he would ask the court to show mercy, to take all of that you have done into account, to consider the family that you are starting and the burden that incarceration would impose on them."

Bobby's vision momentarily switched to the Dutton family. Mrs Dutton was visibly tense. He watched as she leaned in close to her husband.

"Not again," Margaret Dutton whispered. "I can't do this again, James."

As Bobby listened to his partner, the full weight of her statement hit.

Twice.

Twice Alex had set aside her own feelings, swallowed her rage and put her grief on the shelf, all to honour the memory of her late husband.

"Each spring, Joe travelled upstate to volunteer with the Appalachian Reforestation Project. He felt it was important to plant trees. Trees that he would never get to see," Alex went on.

Alex squared her shoulders.

"Joe Dutton is gone. And it was a horrible, senseless act that took him from this world. Joe wouldn't want to be a crime statistic or a name on a memorial plaque. None of that, none of that does justice to him," Alex said.

Joe as so much more.

"The only thing Joe has left is his legacy. And I know that he would want that to be a legacy of restorative justice. Three families have already been devastated by this tragedy. Three families have already lost their brother, son, a husband… their father."

Alex's voice was so soft that Bobby thought he may have imagined it.

"I would ask the court not to add to that. Please don't do it to another family. There is no satisfaction in vengeance," Alex said.

Beltran's case was a chance for something good to come from a horrible tragedy—one that had taken a decade to come full circle, one that had claimed too many lives.

"This is a chance, the last chance, to honour Joe Dutton's legacy. Joe would have wanted that to be a legacy of forgiveness."

That was what Alex told herself. It was how she managed to stay upright, to find her voice. Her statement wasn't her own feelings or her own loss—it was for Joe.

Alex glanced up at Judge Vinello.

"You've heard from many people today, your honour. I would ask that you consider one person's wishes in making your decision, the only person that should matter—Joe Dutton," Alex said. "Joe was conscious for approximately ninety minutes after the shooting."

During Manny Beltran's tearful, broken confession at Queens Memorial—before he had known who Alex Eames was, before he was aware of her connection to the case—he'd sobbed about how Joe Dutton had reacted.

It's an accident, kid. It's okay. I understand. Please… please get help.

"I've served the city of New York as an officer of the NYPD for seventeen years. I've heard many confessions. I've heard suspects say just about anything. Based on that experience and knowing my husband as I did, I have no reason to doubt Mr Beltran's sincerity," Eames continued emphatically.

Bobby had heard that voice, that confidence in his partner before. Bobby's nose had nothing on the Eames's gut.

Alex's instincts had been proven right time and again during the course of their partnership.

Daniel Croyden.

Nelda Carlson.

Leslie LeZard.

It was Eames that had first flagged that Nicole Wallace's young perpetual grad student was nothing more than a patsy.

She'd pushed back on Bobby's assumptions about 'Sebastian.'

And she'd been right about that too.

As he watched his partner, Robert Goren realised that Eames wasn't just right.

She was light.

The very essence of her name.

Alexandra—Defender of Mankind.

Alex Eames was a private person. She didn't like to draw attention. She loathed the spotlight. Even opening up to colleagues was a challenge.

Yet, there she was in public under intense media scrutiny and doing it all for others. For Beltran. For Beltran's family. For the child Beltran would welcome in the months to come.

For Joe.

Bobby could tell from her posture and the timbre of her voice that it took Eames all of her considerable willpower to remain standing under the weight of all that duty.

And the world.

And love.

In that moment, Bobby came to truly appreciate the profound depth of that love.

It was difficult to let go of a ghost.

But it was harder to set aside your own comfort and emotional investment and grief all in the pursuit of justice for someone that was long gone, someone that would never know one way or another.

That was integrity. Authenticity.

It was Eames.

And that was love.

Deep love. True love. Genuine to the moon and back, head over heels, match made in heaven, take your breath away, once in a lifetime, conquers all, undefeated by death, transcending time and space… pure love.

I love you.

Alex had spoken those words to Bobby months earlier.

She had offered Bobby that love—openly, without expectation. And he'd rejected her. He hadn't even given her a reason.

Eames's words haunted him.

Only now had he come to realise the true weight of that confession.

It wasn't a platitude or a mistake.

Alex had offered Bobby that same devotion. She didn't just say it—she lived it, demonstrating it in each and every call to check in, every extra Tupperware filled with a home cooked meal.

Have you eaten? I made a big batch.

It was in the way Alex monitored her partner's health—gently urging Bobby to take better care of himself and ordering it when necessary.

Are you sleeping? Go upstairs. Bunk out for a few hours. I'll handle the paperwork.

They had never taken vows, but their bond as partners carried the same level of commitment.

Alex had stood by Bobby's side through the worst of it. She smoothed the rough waves left in Goren's wake, she defended his reputation, she put her neck out to keep Goren on the job, and she never, ever expected a damn thing in return.

Except trust. Loyalty. Bobby thought bitterly.

The one damn thing Eames expected was the very thing Bobby couldn't give her.

He'd destroyed that time and time (and time) again. Bobby had cloistered himself away, shutting Eames out of everything.

Nicole. Nelda. Leslie.

His mother. Frank.

Mark Ford Brady.

Bobby had shut Eames out of his life entirely. In doing so, he had isolated Eames too. She was alone. Alone and facing one of the hardest days of her life.

Alone and grieving the loss of two men.

It's different from Joe, but it still hurts.

You're gone but you're not.

And… and honestly, I… I don't know which is worse.

Bobby shook the memory of that night from his mind. Alex needed him. It was the reason he'd come to the courthouse to support her.

Bobby looked up and blinked.

She was gone.

---

Alex strode out of the courtroom. She didn't wait around to hear Judge Vinello discuss scheduling minutia with ADA Carver and Danielle Melnick.

Judge Vinello had already advised that he would take a few days to reach a final decision. It was a formality really, one designed to appease the public and give the proper weight of such a decision to the various ideological factions crying out for their own radically different ideas of justice.

Beltran was out on bail, so it wasn't like he was waiting at Rikers.

Eames was the one that felt trapped.

Not just trapped. Tawdry. Used.

All of sudden, Alex Eames felt twenty-seven again, stepping into platform heels and shimmying into a fur coat to walk The Point.

Putting herself on display in a way that was entirely contrary to her very person.

Every time Alex Eames stepped out onto that street, each time she strutted up and down The Point, every time she had flashed a smile and pretend to be interested in some John's advances, she reminded herself that she was protecting the public.

She was faithful to her badge and her duty.

She recited the NYPD motto over and over in her mind— Fidelis Ad Mortem.

Yes, Alex felt just like a young copper in Vice all over again.

Alex had been hoping to land a spot in SID when she'd been plucked from that path and thrust into the seedy world of the NYPD Vice Squad.

Her mentor, Stash, he'd broken it down for Alex with the same world-weary wisdom she had come to appreciate.

---

"I feel like a whore," Eames remarked.

"Good. You're getting into character," Stash replied.

Eames shot her partner a sharp look.

"I mean for the NYPD. Doing this," Eames clarified.

She was a bright young officer. She had an impeccable record and good instincts. She was desperate to be anything other than a pair of tits in uniform.

Yet, no matter how hard she worked, that's all Alex had been reduced to.

"Look, you can say 'no.' You can go back to your uniform beat. They're looking for another uniform in the 29. Keep working hard and you might make detective in five or six years," Stash said, laying it out for her.

He handed Alex her sidearm.

"Or you can put your time in here in Vice. You'll have your gold shield in a year and then you can do anything you want," Stash said.

He flashed Alex a wry smile.

"And yeah. It's shit," Stash acknowledged. "And I don't fault you for feeling that way. You got picked for this because well… you're young and you're cute."

Alex visibly tensed.

"And you have a good head on your shoulders. And you know how to handle yourself. And I trust you," Stash declared.

Alex chewed on her lip as she considered this.

"If it's not for you, there's no shame in saying so. I get it. But if you do this, yeah, you could say it's the NYPD version of 'working the corner.' But you'll get yours. There's a reason it's the oldest profession. It's the game," Stash said.

---

Yes, Alex Eames had gotten hers.

Well, not hers.

What she wanted wasn't an option. She couldn't roll back the last decade. Joe Dutton wasn't about to rise from his grave.

But she'd secured a resolution for Joe, one that he would have been at peace with.

And maybe that was enough?

Eames certainly hoped it would be. She was desperate for a semblance of peace.

Alex was on autopilot as she stepped in the Ladie's washroom. She turned on the tap and let it run over the back of her wrists. Eames splashed some cold water on her face.

Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror and paused.

Alex didn't feel like a devoted wife. She didn't feel that she deserved to call herself Joe Dutton's widow.

Usually that internal debate was reserved for the nights when Alex came home and shed her badge and gun, pausing to look in the mirror before climbing into a lonely bed with a glass of bourbon.

There were many, many moments in which Alex Eames wondered if Joe Dutton was disappointed in her, in the choices she had made in her life—being drunk and sloppy with men like Kevin Mulroney, throwing propriety and decency to the wind to bed her partner (her partner for God's sake), brushing off any chance at real happiness with snark and an icy glare.

She imagined Joe was most disappointed by the fact that Alex Eames had spent a decade punishing herself, living in spartan frugality and self-denial because she couldn't let go of her grief.

She came home to a cold house. She ate alone.

She went to an empty bed.

And worst of all, in some sick, twisted repressed guilt, Alex thought that she deserved that. She thought it was the cost of not being there for Joe the night of his death. She thought she deserved it for failing to take care of herself and the child that never was.

There was nothing from her marriage or Joe's sparkling charm that led Alex to believe he would have wanted that from her.

No, Joe was sweet and understanding. He was practical too. He'd told her once before their marriage that if anything ever did happen, that he wanted her to move on with her life. Joe had wanted her to find someone.

All of which made Alex feel worse.

She had let Joe down.

Alex hoped that flaunting herself in front of the court would be a part of making things up to Joe.

The door creaked open. A chill swept across the tiled floor. The hair on the back of Alex's neck stood up in anticipation of an encounter with the monster that had strolled into the loo to disturb her reverie.

"I hope you're pleased with yourself," Mrs Dutton spat.

Alex didn't react. She simply reached for a paper towel to dry off her hands.

"You did this to punish me! I know it!" Mrs Dutton went on.

"This isn't about you or me. This is about Joe and honouring what he would have wanted," Alex said.

Mrs Dutton opened her mouth to speak. Alex put her hand up to stop her.

"Don't try to tell me any different. You know that Joe would never have wanted to tear apart that family," Alex said.

She moved to go around Mrs Dutton.

"I'm not finished," Margaret Dutton huffed.

"No, see. I am," Alex threw back.

Without another word, she flung open the door and marched out.

Alex couldn't say what she really wanted to. She didn't want to draw any further attention to herself. She could ill afford to give the media a spectacle—no matter how strong the desire was to unleash more than a decade of resentment and injustice.

Mrs Dutton stormed out after Alex.

"Don't you dare walk away from me!" Mrs Dutton shrieked.

---

Bobby kicked himself.

He should have anticipated that Eames wouldn't hang around the hearing any longer than necessary.

He slipped out of the courtroom and into the vast, marble corridor of the Manhattan District Courthouse.

The minute the door clicked shut behind him, Goren was off—stalking the corridor, scanning for any sign of his partner.

His head whipped around like a dog sniffing for a trail.

That's when he saw her.

Eames was dead ahead. Bobby only caught a glimpse of her as Eames crossed the adjacent corridor. She was in a hurry.

A moment later, Mrs Margaret Dutton stormed past in hot pursuit.

Bobby slowed his pace as he approached. All the while, Mrs Dutton laid into his partner. Her voice echoed through the corridor.

"Don't you dare walk away from me!" Mrs Dutton shrieked. "I am talking to you, you ungrateful, low-rent, scummy little—"

Alex wheeled.

Mrs Dutton was taken aback by the silence. She'd been expecting her daughter-in-law to mouth off.

For several tense seconds, the two women eyed one another.

"Go on," Alex said.

"What?" Margaret Dutton hissed.

"Go on," Alex repeated.

She wasn't angry. Rather, she sounded resigned.

Goren crouched against the wall. From his spot around the corner, he heard the long-overdue confrontation unfold.

"Say it," Eames pressed.

Mrs Dutton frowned, confused.

"Say what? I… I don't—"

"Say whatever it is you have to say to me. Get it all out so you can stop writing me those stupid fucking cruel letters," Alex said, fighting to keep her voice in check. "All I have ever done is try to love your son."

It was all coming out now.

"I mean, what did I do that was so offensive to you? Did I say or do something to you? Was it the fact I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth? I never cared about the money. That wasn't important to either of us. I loved Joe. I still love him," Alex confessed.

It felt good to finally say that aloud.

"If that makes me guilty of—"

"You murdered my grandchild. You robbed Joe of that dream!" Mrs Dutton screeched.

Alex clutched her forehead. She visibly grimaced as a long, exasperated sigh fell from her lips.

"That's not any of your damn business. And for the record—I miscarried. Next to losing Joe, it was the most gut-wrenching, painful moment of my life. So, thank you. I appreciate you reminding me of that with all of your kind letters."

Alex's voice dripped with disdain.

Mrs Dutton wagged her finger in a way that made Alex want to snap it off.

"God wouldn't do that to my grandchild," she insisted.

Alex snorted.

"No, see. If you had seen an ounce of the horrors I've seen out there, you would understand that your God is capable of allowing some truly sick shit to happen," Eames threw back.

Mrs Dutton clutched her chest in disbelief.

"And now you blaspheme," she remarked.

"You made your feelings for me apparent long before Joe's death," Alex said.

She had never been welcomed. Not once.

"What did I ever do?" Eames pleaded.

Margaret Dutton squared her shoulders. She turned up her nose. She had always looked at Alex Eames that way—the same way she looked at dog poo on the bottom of her shoe.

"My son was perfect."

Her voice shook.

"And you? You were never good enough for him," Margaret Dutton sneered.

To her stunned surprise, Alex flashed her a sad smile.

A stopped clock was right twice a day.

"You're right," Eames said.

Her voice held no trace of bitterness. Alex felt the familiar warm sensation rise in her cheeks. Her eyes began well up.

"He was too good for this world," Alex concluded.

Eames turned on her heel and strolled out of the courthouse, her shoes clicking lightly on the tiled floor.

Yes, Joe Dutton had been too good for the world.

And Alex?

Well, she still felt like a whore. A poor player strutting and fretting her hour on the stage.

Alex swallowed the discomfort of flaunting her grief. She'd only done it to bring about a peaceful end to a tragic situation. One that offered a semblance of hope.

One that would make Joe proud.

On her way out of the courthouse, Eames caught sight of the NYPD motto emblazoned on a plaque.

Fidelis Ad Mortem.

Faithful unto death.

---

Bobby fell back against the wall and slid down until he was hunched over, his arms resting atop his knees.

He should have gone after her. He could have stood up for her.

Instead, he'd let Alex take the punches while Bobby sat off in the corner dealing with his mental anguish over the whole situation.

Eames's voice echoed in his mind.

Not everything is about you.

Mrs Dutton startled when she came around the corner and found Detective Goren slumped down, leaning against the wall like a street urchin.

Bobby felt a familiar rage bubble up inside of him. He was itching to remove the symbolic muzzle over his mouth, to unleash a slew of classic Gorenisms and callous profiling on Mrs Margaret Dutton.

His disdain for her attitude and wealth was nearly as strong as his desire to defend his partner.

It made for a deadly combination.

For a split second, Bobby was raring to go. He could taste the first, seemingly innocent remark on his tongue—one that would lure Mrs Dutton into a false sense of security before a second, biting comment lashed out to grip hold of her deepest insecurity.

And in a rare moment of wisdom, Robert Goren took inspiration from his partner and her undaunting composure to restrain his infamous temper.

Mrs Dutton quickly composed herself and marched off in search of her husband.

Bobby watched her pass.

As soon as she was gone, he let his head fall back on the cool marble wall. Goren sighed in relief at the change in temperature.

A part of him wanted to chase after Eames. Only Bobby knew that it was best to steer clear. Alex wanted to be alone. Bobby's presence would only serve to further agitate her.

And yet, Bobby could shake knowing that she was alone.

Should he send flowers? Or perhaps a meal?

Alex was always the one that knew just how to take care of others. Bobby couldn't even manage that for himself.

Suddenly, Bobby's eyes flew open.

Inspired once more by Eames, he knew exactly what to do.

---

Brooklyn Heights

Frank remained silent as he looked at the pamphlet in hand.

"It's a residential treatment program. Ninety days. And… and they offer sober living options after the program is complete. If… if you want," Bobby explained.

Frank's brow furrowed. He scratched the back of his neck.

"I don't know about this, Bobby. It looks expensive," Frank said, casting a wary eye over the photographs of plush sofas and glistening fountains.

"Don't think about that," Bobby replied in an encouraging tone.

Frank folded the pamphlet up and put it back on the table. He shifted in his seat.

"Is it… is it because I'm—"

"You're not a burden," Bobby said, anticipating Frank's next statement.

Bobby sat back and eyed his brother. He waited for Frank to meet his gaze.

"I want you to get help. And… and when you're in recovery, I want you to come back. If sober living isn't what you want, then we… we could look for a bigger flat," Bobby offered.

Frank is sceptical.

He didn't want to be a burden. Nor did Frank trust himself. Deep down, he was still grappling with the daily (sometimes hourly) struggle of addiction. On any given day, Frank's feelings swung wildly between a fervent desire to get clean and a feeling that he wasn't quite ready to give it up.

"What if I screw up again, huh?" Frank asked.

"Well, it erm… it won't be easy," Bobby acknowledged.

They both knew the odds. Relapse was likely. Frank had been in and out of rehab dozens of times in his life.

"It might happen," Frank said.

"Yeah. It might," Bobby agreed.

He nodded slowly.

"But… you'll have me this time. You didn't have a support system before. Not… not like you need. We'll just take it one day at a time and… and I'll be here. As long as you need. As long as you're willing to try—I am too," Bobby offered.

Frank remained uncertain.

He took a long, audible breath and then ruffled his hair. Frank started to chew on his lip.

"Gee, Bobby. I… I don't know about this."

Frank dropped his gaze to the carpet.

"I'll screw it up. I always screw it up," Frank said.

"You're my brother, Frank. We're all we have left. And I'm willing to fight for that," Bobby declared.

He leaned over, relying on his favourite interrogation technique to get Frank to look him in the eye.

"Are you?" Bobby asked.

---

Sands Point | Long Island

The Dutton family was sprawled out around the long table in the formal dining room. Joe's portrait held pride of place at the head of the table.

His younger brother, Teddy, rose to give a toast. The table fell silent.

"I know today was not the result we'd hope for," Teddy began. "But we're here tonight to honour Joe. Our brother. Our beloved son. Our North Star."

"Here, here! To Joe."

A chorus of approval followed.

Margaret Dutton was unusually quiet. She was lost in her own world, shrouded in grief as she gazed across the table at the portrait of her boy.

James Dutton reached for his wife's hand and gave it a small squeeze.

"I'll be back shortly," he murmured.

James Dutton slipped out into the foyer. The family barely noticed and continued on with their conversation.

"Does anyone even know what she's doing now?" asked Joe's brother, Jack.

"You mean besides shooting innocent men and running that low-class mouth off to the press?" Joe's sister quipped.

Amelia Dutton shared her mother's opinion on most things (including her late brother's widow).

"I noticed she's still living in that house," Teddy said.

"Probably can't afford to move," Amelia remarked.

---

James Dutton quietly shut the door to his office.

He slid into the leather chair behind his mahogany desk. The shelves in his office were lined with accomplishments—degrees, trophies from golf tournaments and crew regattas (in his youth). There were plenty of honours from charitable organisations and community foundations mingled with industry awards and photographs with important people.

The top of his desk is where James Dutton kept what was truly precious.

He reached for an old photograph. Joe hadn't been more than two or three years old the first time James had taken him out on the ice. There he was dangling from Dad's arms in a pair of tiny skates and a puffy overcoat, baby fat still clinging to his cheeks and sandy hair poking out from under his cap.

James Dutton smiled at the memory.

As a wee lad, Joe liked to sneak into his father's office. They would play peek-a-boo around the desk or pretend to make phone calls.

James Dutton would give away all his wealth and then some just to have that little lad scramble into his lap again or to hear one more 'Papa! Up!' and a flash of that smile.

Dutton reached for the phone and dialled a number he knew by heart.

It took fifteen minutes to get through.

---

15 East | Union Square | Manhattan

The table roared with laughter as the waiter topped off everyone's water. Two officials from the office of Economic Development chatted with the City Comptroller. The Direction of the Landmark Preservation Commission had a new proposal she wanted to discuss.

"After dessert," promised the Deputy Mayor.

The Maître d' arrived with a portable phone in hand.

"Excuse me, Mr Mayor. You have a call. It's a Mr James Dutton. Your assistant said to—"

"Of course, of course. I'll take it," the Mayor said as he waved for the phone.

He took a breath to compose himself before answering.

"James. I am so sorry about the verdict. I should have called you straightaway, but I didn't want to interrupt what I'm sure is an evening with family," the Mayor apologised.

"Thank you. I'm sorry to call you so late, but I need a favour," Dutton replied.

---

Sands Point | Long Island

"I'll see to it immediately," the Mayor said.

James Dutton thanked his old friend and then hung up the phone. All those campaign dollars and cushy fundraisers had to be worth something.

Dutton opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled a small strip of film from an arcade photobooth. He chuckled at the sight of his boy and the ridiculous face he made in one of the pictures.

James had taken the photo strip from Joe's wallet the night of his death.

They were cheap, spontaneous pictures snapped at a penny arcade on City Island at the start of that summer.

Joe's last summer.

They were the only photographs of Joe and Alex in the Dutton home. They'd sat hidden in a drawer for a decade, and they captured the essence of a happy marriage.

Cheesy smiles.

Goofing off for the camera.

A kiss.

And finally in the very last photograph, a genuine picture of love expressed through a simple embrace, a relaxed nature that spoke to their intimacy and affection, a genuine light in Joe's eyes.

An easy kind of love.

The door creaked open. Margaret Dutton poked her head inside.

"Darling? Everyone's wondering where—"

Margaret Dutton stopped herself. Her expression softened. From her viewpoint, she thought her husband was staring at the photograph of little Joey on his desk.

"Oh, James," Margaret said with a heavy sigh.

He quickly slipped the strip of film under some paperwork as his wife approached. She kissed his cheek.

"He was such a beautiful boy," Mrs Dutton remarked fondly.

James reached for his wife's hand and pulled it to his lips.

"I'm going to go for a drive to clear my head. Don't wait up."

---

Alex dropped her keys on the counter. She didn't bother with checking the mail. She made a beeline for the liquor and poured herself a stiff drink.

She curled up on a chair near the window at the back of the house. Joe had once had big plans for that space.

He wanted to put in a big bay window and a breakfast nook. He dreamed of sitting in that spot to sip coffee and watch the ocean.

Every day for the next fifty years. Joe had mused.

Then he would pat his knee and beckon his wife over. Sometimes Alex could still feel him pull her into his lap and kiss her cheek.

You. Me. This view. What do you say, Allie?

She didn't think Joe meant sitting alone in the dark with a tall glass of bourbon.

No, Joe wasn't like that.

He was too wholesome for the world. He was sweet and considerate. Forgiving. Patient. Hopeful.

Alex wished she had just a shred of that same optimism.

Alex Eames was sarcastic. Cynical. Prickly. She kept her guard up, always vigilante for the inevitable lie. The scam. The catch.

But Joe?

Joe Dutton was an honourable man.

Alex realised that perhaps that was why it was so difficult to let go. Joe and his infinite patience and infuriating optimism had kindled something inside her world-weary heart.

---

Hunts Point | 1993

Alex Eames was curious when one of the working girls on The Point offered her a business proposition.

It's a party!

She figured she might bust up a bachelor party or maybe a crowd of working stiffs looking to blow off some steam. It was Fleet Week in New York City. The town was crowded with sailors looking for a good time—and Hunts Point was no exception.

Ruby insisted her client was 'top dollar.'

Real upscale. Ruby had said.

Alex was sceptical.

Upscale parties didn't hire working girls from The Point—at least not for any legitimate purpose.

Eames had been concerned when a fine black Cadillac pulled up promptly at 8:00 to pick up the group Ruby had assembled, all done up flash in their finest knockoff heels and faux furs.

When that Cadillac pulled off the highway and into a seedy warehouse, alarm bells went off. The concealed .38 felt heavy against her thigh. Dozens of unsavoury theories spiralled in her mind like a rolodex of horrors.

Human trafficking? Black-market organ harvesters? A new criminal enterprise looking to shake down the existing power structure on The Point?

Yep. I'm gonna die in this stupid red sequin number. Should have worn the blue dress. Alex mused.

---

Inside were a dozen enforcers and mid-level mobsters—playing pool & poker, watching basketball, and grazing on dinner catered from Trovo.

Alex could read between the lines. These guys were hired muscle and likely sitting on a major shipment. They'd probably been cooped up for days in the warehouse waiting on orders to move the product.

It was obviously a highly organised operation, possibly the Masucci family or the Damianos.

Their clientele was mostly Italian and Italian American, forty and fifty something men with slick hair, sagging waistlines, and too much gold jewellery.

The scent of drugstore cologne overpowered Alex's sense, choking every available inch of air.

And as they paired off one-by-one, Alex found herself in conversation with Tony. She fought the urge to grimace as he downed a bowl of greasy pasta and tried not to think about how his pungent aftershave would mingle with the scent of anchovies and capers on his breath.

Proximity was an unfortunate necessity of undercover work—especially in Vice.

Sure, there was a long list of activities prohibited by the NYPD. There was a much longer list of exceptions filed under 'what if' and 'sometimes' and 'for the greater good.'

That meant sometimes Alex came home after her shift feeling like a molested avocado from the produce section. It meant talking. Touching. Tolerating squeezes and smells and sleazy Johns.

Whatever it took to get the job done.

That could mean letting some sap kiss her toes or allowing a John to sob on her lap over marital problems or his mother or his childhood bully.

It meant dissociating.

Alex was on guard.

Tony had dozed off after dinner and Alex found herself the only working girl with a free itinerary. One of the men at the poker game had been eyeing Alex for the better part of the last twenty minutes.

The gentlemen in the room were already griping at one another.

Who's on first?

The door creaked open. New voices followed.

"Chop, chop."

The man at the poker game snapped his fingers in the face of another man, pressing him to get a wiggle on. The late arrivals meant there was new, unwelcome competition. It spurred a sense of urgency amongst the men in the room.

"I fold," said the man that had Eames fixed in his gaze.

He threw down his cards and made a beeline across the room toward Eames.

And just like that, he was pinched at the poke when another man swooped in. Alex tensed as she felt a hand around her waist.

"Hey, Manhattan."

He didn't smell like a mix of deli specials, cigars, and drugstore cologne.

Italian ether. She thought with a smirk.

No, he smelled crisp and clean. Cedarwood. Laundry soap. Toothpaste.

It was like a breath of fresh air.

Alex turned and found herself face-to-face with the same Detective she'd met weeks earlier in a seedy motel. He stared back at her as a slow smile broke out on his face. He could tell it registered, that she recognised him from that chance encounter.

"Hi," Joe Dutton said, beaming.

Alex didn't need a knight in shining armour—but she was awfully grateful to know she wasn't alone.

Denton? Dittmer?

Alex couldn't remember.

Whoever he was, he was deep undercover. Alex hadn't been able to find any trace of him after their encounter.

Joe extended his hand. Alex froze.

The moment was interrupted by the presence of the man from the poker game. His shadow invaded their bubble. The poker player quickly sized up the competition and threw in his chips.

"Hey sweetheart, I don't like leftovers. I'll give you a nice fat bonus if you see to me first," he offered.

Alex dropped her head, feigning a bashful giggle as she tucked her hair behind her ear.

"Erm… he asked first. It's… it's policy," Alex lied.

To her relief, the poker player took it in stride. He tugged on Dutton's ear and playfully chastised him.

"Don't look so smug, kid. You don't even know what to do with a woman."

"I think I can figure it out," Dutton replied without tearing his eyes away from her.

Alex's face flushed. That time, it wasn't an act.

He offered Alex his hand. Instead of whisking her off to one of the private rooms, he steered her over to the opposite side of the pool table.

"Dance with me," he said.

Dutton pulled her close. Their bodies were flush against one another as they swayed to the music.

The other men ribbed him.

"See? You don't know what to do with her."

"Aaayyye, Johnny boy. She's a working girl. Don't lose your heart—you'll lose your pocketbook."

"She's paid to like you, yanno?"

Dutton ignored them. He leaned in close. His breath tickled her ear.

"This is a Masucci operation. They have cameras everywhere," Dutton informed her.

Alex's instincts had been right—she was in danger.

To make matters worse, they couldn't risk slipping into one of the private rooms to talk shop. Someone was monitoring those cameras, and it would raise suspicion on both of them.

"Just relax," Dutton whispered.

They spoke in code. It wasn't planned, but the two found a way to communicate without arising suspicion.

"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Are you here working an investigation?

"I could ask you the same thing," Eames replied coolly before adding, "So, is this what you usually do on a Tuesday night?"

Are things about to get ugly? Or is this a typical day undercover?

"Tonight, we're taking things easy. A bit of a break," Dutton assured her.

No, NYPD isn't about to storm in and bust open a RICO case.

"But tonight is about kicking back. I don't want to bore you talking about work," Dutton said.

No questions. It's not safe.

"You're a terrible dancer," Eames said.

The staggering difference in their height didn't help matters. Alex practically had to strain her neck to look up at him. She imagined it couldn't be too comfortable for him either.

In a flash, Joe pulled her flush against him.

"That better?" he asked.

Alex relaxed, her cheek against his chest. It was better. In fact, it was a perfect fit. At that angle, she was just the right height for Joe to rest his chin atop her head.

"Don't get cosy," Eames warned.

"I know, I know. You're a working girl," he replied. "Why do you do it?

"My old man doesn't know when to put down the bottle."

That wasn't a line. It rattled off her tongue with practised ease. Johnny Eames was a drunk. And Alex had been cleaning up his messes for the better part of her life.

Before joining the NYPD, Eames had spent years tending bar at the local dive in Inwood. It wasn't about saving (or paying) for an education—it was about her father's bar tab.

She worked six, sometimes seven, days a week. Sure, she earned an hourly wage. All her tips were kept by her employer to go toward Johnny Eames's bar tab. That was the arrangement she'd worked out.

The terms weren't great—but Alex didn't have the money to settle up on her father's behalf.

Of course, Joe Dutton knew none of this. He surmised it was part of her backstory and that perhaps there was a grain of truth in that (as with any good cover story).

"Do you ever meet private clients?"

Alex scowled.

Is he flirting? Now?

"That's not really an option in my line of work," she replied.

"It's just… erm—"

Dutton pulled back just far enough to glance down at her. He flashed her a sheepish grin.

"Maybe sometime we could I dunno… go out to City Island. There's a little—"

Eames snorted.

"I know what happens there."

City Island was one of those unique, only-in-New York experiences. It was only accessible by a two-lane bridge (or boat) and therefore isolated from the rest of the metropolitan city.

City Island was like a small, New England coastal village smack in the middle of New York City. It had a working-class, main street flavour. There were legendary chippies, historical Dutch colonial homes with backyards and picket fences, and fishing boats that kept it all running.

A generation before, City Island had been a vacation hotspot for working-class New Yorkers. It still was (to some degree).

But those touristy beach motels and supper clubs had lost their lustre. The faded signs and chipped paint were relics of a bygone era.

Like most of New York at the end of the 80s, City Island too was an area in flux.

And those same motels that had once been filled with bustling holidaymakers looking to dig for clams or squeeze in a night out were now occupied with folks looking for cheap, discreet accommodations.

The type of motel that rented by the hour and didn't ask questions.

"Some 'cash only' place?" Eames asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"No, no! I know a great place that does a wicked good lobster roll," Dutton replied.

"Uh huh. So, it was just an innocent suggestion?" Eames asked, not buying it for a moment.

Dutton blushed.

"I didn't say that."

They shared a laugh.

"Naw… it's great. We could walk along the beach. Take a stroll down Main Street. There's a penny arcade," Dutton said, hoping to sway her.

Suddenly, this undercover officer looked like a giddy schoolboy.

"They have one of those love machines. A Love Tester," Dutton continued.

"I'm not going to the prom with you," Eames shot back.

Dutton chuckled.

"Yeah. I'm sure that would give my mother a heart attack," he thought aloud.

When she asked if that was what he had in mind, Dutton shook his head.

"No."

Joe's expression softened as he glanced down at Alex. He didn't even know her name.

Alex knew it was ridiculous. She told herself he was just putting her on, playing into the moment for the sake of whatever cover he was hoping to maintain.

He was corny. Sweet. Almost juvenile.

And Alex had to tell herself it was an act to charm and disarm. It was a routine to make himself seem bumbling and trustworthy to the Masucci family.

Too naive to be anything other than some working-class muscle for the mob.

Yes, that was it.

Because girls from Inwood ate sweet boys for breakfast.

And the Masucci? Well, they'd drop him in the river near Tubby Hook.

"I was thinking maybe we could get a pint and lobster roll and maybe erm…"

"Test if we're love's true match?" Eames offered.

Dutton shrugged suggestively.

"You know those things are paid to give you a result," Eames pointed out.

"No! No! I've seen it!" Dutton insisted.

Alex cocked an eyebrow.

"Oh? You take a lot of girls there?" Alex teased.

"I like you," Dutton replied.

"You didn't answer my question."

Dutton smirked.

"I really like you," he echoed.

For a moment—just a moment—she'd forgotten about the fact they were slow dancing in the middle of a Masucci warehouse.

"I'm paid for you to like me," Alex reminded him loud enough for the others to hear.

Dutton just smiled and dropped his head. Alex flushed as she felt his breath against her ear.

"No, I really like you," Dutton said.

He pulled away and stared back at Eames. She realised then and there that he was trying to convey a message.

Their private moment was interrupted by one of the men from before. He reached out and ruffled Dutton's hair.

"See? You got no idea what to do with a woman," the man said, playfully chastising him.

"I'm sorry. You'll have to find yourself a Manhattan call girl. I don't take private clients," Alex said to Dutton.

Dutton nodded and they broke apart. Alex felt a sense of solitude at the sudden loss of contact. Dutton was her only ally, a safe harbour in a room full of Masucci sharks.

"Right. Well, all for the best I suppose. I'm almost thirty and still hanging out at a penny arcade. Sorry for erm… well—"

He trailed off and scratched the back of his hair. Joe flashed her a nervous smile.

"I've just never—"

"It's alright, sugar. I'm sure a nice boy like you will have no trouble. When you're ready," Alex added.

"It's my turn," the poker player said as he reached for Eames's hand.

Alex let him lead her away from the rest of the group. She took one last look at Dutton. Their eyes briefly met before she disappeared down the corridor.

---

Alex wasn't sure what compelled her to make the drive to City Island.

It was well after midnight. The party at the Masucci warehouse had broken up after the team received new orders.

Alex and the other women from The Point had been driven back courtesy of the Masucci family and paid a decent wage.

After declining an invite for a nightcap, Alex climbed into the beat-up car registered to her fake identity and made the trek across the slow, two-lane bridge out to New York's little slice of East Coast nostalgia.

City Island wasn't terribly big. It didn't take her long to find Main Street. The penny arcade in question was closed for the night. The 'Love Tester' machine sat out front like a beacon, the only lit neon on a street of darkness.

Alex circled the block a few times. She parked on a side street and clung to the shadows to scope out the area before deciding it was safe.

Alex inspected the area around the machine for any information. She presumed that officer had been trying to convey a message—possibly even something critical.

If he'd been locked up in a warehouse guarding product, it was plausible that Dutton had been unable to get a message out to his superiors in a traditional way.

This penny arcade could be a Masucci front or perhaps a dead drop.

Only Alex found no clues. There were plenty of cigarette butts and bird droppings on the pavement, but little else in the way of information.

She was just about to leave when she felt eyes on her back. Alex turned and saw a tall figure in the dark.

"Hey, Manhattan."

Joe Dutton stepped out of the shadows.

He moved in close. Eames pulled away. Dutton reached for her arm.

"Honey, please. I have cash."

Dutton flashed a wad of cash in his other hand and wiggled his eyebrows. His eyes briefly darted over her shoulder.

Alex got the message loud and clear.

Play along. I'm being followed.

---

They parked near the water. Sure enough, a dark sedan followed them and parked in the shadows near the beach.

Dutton switched on the radio and then coaxed Eames to lay her head in the crook of his shoulder.

"You better have a damn good reason for asking me to meet you out here like this," she cautioned.

Dutton chuckled.

"You came," he said, astonished. "You wanted to check the Love Tester then, eh?"

Eames immediately sat up and pulled away. She reached for the door handle.

"Wait," Dutton said, stopping her.

Alex turned and glared. Dutton dropped his voice.

"They're watching us. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable," he apologised.

"If this isn't about work—"

"They're probably going to ask you all back next week. Right now, we're sitting on… well, let's just say they're planning a celebration once they move all the product," Dutton explained.

The Masucci's thought they were going to be opening a new market in Boston. Dutton disclosed that the NYPD was planning a raid to shut it all down. It was the culmination of months of investigative work.

Dutton and his partner, Kevin Quinn, were going to be arrested as part of that raid. It would go a long way in sealing their undercover position with the Masucci family.

"Don't be there," Dutton warned.

Eames frowned.

"Why are you telling me this?" she demanded.

"When we met at that hotel, you mentioned the other woman you were with… well, you said she had kids and I don't want to see someone get hurt with a pros charge that's just trying to make a living," Dutton confessed. "I… I assume the fact you haven't busted her isn't just about maintaining your cover."

Alex nodded slowly.

"I'm sorry about earlier. About Nicky. He's… erm—"

Dutton trailed off and scratched the back of his neck.

"I hope you didn't have to—"

Eames snorted.

"Do you think I'd be in this position if I didn't know how to keep a man's attention occupied without giving away what's behind the magic curtain?" Eames asked dryly.

"I'm sure you do," Dutton acknowledged.

"Well, it's easy with a guy like your friend," Eames explained.

She'd sized him up from the start. Between his estimated age, weight, the cigar, and the glass of brandy, Alex surmised he likely had high blood pressure, heart disease, or diabetes.

Or some combination of the three.

"Again, I'm sorry that you were put in that position," Dutton said.

"Oh, it was no trouble at all," Alex replied.

She held up her hand and wiggled her fingers. Dutton blanched, horrified by the implication.

"I suggested he relax and rubbed his shoulders. He was asleep in two and half minutes," Eames clarified.

Dutton laughed.

"Right, right. I don't know what I was thinking," he said.

"What were you thinking, Detective?" Eames asked innocently.

"You're a devil, you know that?" Dutton asked.

"You should see me in a blue dress," Eames shot back.

They both fell silent. Then they both spoke over one another.

"Erm, I should—"

"It's pretty late and—"

The silence returned.

"I should probably get back. Tony and Nicky think I'm some lovesick kid out chasing a lost cause," Dutton said.

He threw the car in the gear and checked before backing out. Suddenly, Dutton stopped and gazed out over the water.

"You know, this place really is beautiful," he remarked.

"I already told you—I'm not going to the prom with you," Alex teased.

She couldn't put her finger on it, but she felt all of sixteen again with the same jitters as sitting in the passenger seat getting hot and heavy in Ricky Marsden's dad's car.

"Yeah… I'll erm drop you back there," Dutton said.

---

As expected, their escort wasn't far behind. The dark sedan followed them all the way back to the arcade.

"You know we'll have to play this," Dutton warned.

"Yeah," Alex agreed.

She reached for the door handle and then stopped.

"I don't recall your name," she said.

He smiled.

"That's probably for the best," he said.

Then he reached for her hand.

"Look, I'm going to give you cause to slap me. Then you can tell whoever arranged this tonight that you and your friends don't want to come back. You can blame me. Say some naive kid didn't understand the business," Dutton offered.

They climbed out of the car and Dutton pretended to call her back. He plunked a quarter into the Love Tester machine, and it came to life.

Dutton put his hand on the left side and then flashed Eames a grin.

"C'mon," he urged.

Reluctantly, she put her hand on the other side—and promptly rolled her eyes.

The bell atop the machine dinged three times. It seemed even louder than normal on the abandoned street.

"See? It's never wrong," Dutton said, pointing at the screen.

Hot Stuff.

"That's your idea of true love?" Eames asked.

"Maybe it could be?"

Eames waved him off.

"Yeah, yeah. It's all the same schmaltz."

Over her shoulder, Dutton caught sight of two Masucci enforcers as they quietly climbed out of the car.

His arm shot out.

"Wait, please."

Joe pulled her into a kiss—a major no-no and the perfect excuse for a hard slap.

A resounding smack followed, echoing into the night.

"What the hell is your problem?"

Eames shook. She was worried she'd slapped him too hard. Dutton clutched his cheek and hissed. He massaged his jaw for a moment before he apologised.

"I'm sorry, honey. I just thought that—"

"I told you the rules. No kissing."

Eames's expression softened. She slipped easily into her role of the streetwise business girl.

"Look. You're a sweet kid. Find yourself a girlfriend, okay? Trust me—your mother is not gonna be happy if you bring a girl like me home," Eames said.

"You have no idea," Dutton replied in earnest.

---

Present

Alex glanced down at the drink in her hand. Alex reached up to touch her lips. She didn't know if they tingled from the memory of that first kiss or if it was just the alcohol.

She put her drink down and then pulled her knees close.

There had been a lot of kisses like that.

Alex Eames, the queen of disillusionment and cynicism, knew that those fireworks were real. She'd tasted them.

In cheap beer and lobster rolls on City Island.

In the 'I'm too knackered let's pull cold takeaway from the fridge' moments.

On the mornings when they came home after a long shift when badges and fatigue and clothes were discarded in a frenzied need to hold onto something that felt safe and familiar.

It was there in the tears, the silence following a tough case, in the way Alex clawed at Joe and made demands because sometimes she just needed to feel something other than numb.

I don't want gentle.

It was there on the nights when Joe just wanted to curl up on Alex's lap and forget about the horrors he'd witnessed working for the Masucci family.

Can we just sit here? No words. I just… I just need to feel you breathe.

As Alex absentmindedly fiddled with the chain of her necklace, she realised that's all her life was now.

Silence.

The sound of Joe's laugh, the way he used to whisper in her ear—Eames feared she was losing it. One day, she wouldn't be able to recall it at all.

He couldn't carry a tune to save his life. Alex used to cover her ears whenever Joe started to sing.

She'd give anything to hear another offkey rendition of Jeff Lynne's greatest hits.

Alex squeezed her eyes shut as a memory wormed its way into her mind.

Bobby had stayed at Eames's bedside In those first fraught hours after her ordeal at the hands of Jo Gage. Eames was heavily sedated and barely cognizant. She'd drifted in and out of moments of lucidity.

Nurses and doctors came and went. Machines and monitors and trays were in flux.

Bobby was constant.

When they were finally, truly alone, Alex had tried to speak. Only she couldn't find the words. Her mouth was dry. Her lips were cracked from dehydration. Her throat hurt.

Please. I just need to hear you breathing. I just need to know you're… you're here. Bobby had said.

Alex realised that she didn't just miss the sound of Joe.

She missed her partner's stammering, know-it-all remarks. She missed the sound of him pacing. She missed the rhythm of Bobby drumming on his binder or a stack of paperwork. The dashboard. The wall in the lift.

Alex tried to push the thought from her mind. She couldn't let herself go down that road—even if a part of her desperately craved another hit.

Junkie. She thought, scolding herself.

Eames reached for the bottle and poured herself another stiff drink. Junkies utilised any manner of substitutes to feed their addiction.

Joe would be disappointed. Sure, he liked a drink now and again. But he'd never been a heavy drinker. Straight and narrow. That was a Dutton to a tee.

Alex could feel that Joe was saddened by her behaviour, by her withdrawal from the world. He wouldn't have wanted her to put up walls and bury herself in responsibility.

That left Alex both distressed and infuriated.

"This is my life now, honey. You left, remember?" Alex said aloud as she watched her glass fill.

She could just hear Joe's mother warning her son that Alex would turn out a drunk.

Just like the father.

Well, a stopped clock really was right twice a day.

Alex sat back and turned her attention out the window. The clouds had parted and the stars began to peak through as if to say, 'Hey Manhattan, I'm not really gone. I'm still here.'

Alex angrily got up from her spot and dumped the whole glass of bourbon down the sink. She slammed the cup on the counter and marched upstairs to bed.

Their wedding photo sat atop the dresser. Joe's smiling face stared back at Alex. Her lip began to quiver.

Was this what it felt like to be in love with a ghost? To love the intangible idea of someone but wholly incapable of touching or holding them. To feel their presence without actually feeling anything at all.

Alex's lip started to quiver.

She told herself that she could never, ever bring Joe back. The life they wanted to build together was a dream only. She could kiss her career goodbye. And there was no future with Robert Goren.

Alex reminded herself that crying over that loss would do nothing toward rebuilding her life. She couldn't gain back lost time or try and change the force of nature that was her partner.

None of that made it any easier.

Alex jumped and clutched her chest at the sound of knock on the door.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Alex didn't have a doorbell. She also didn't have visitors except her siblings when they needed a sitter.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

It was late.

For a moment, Eames was too petrified to move.

She told herself it was the media. It had to be. She couldn't stomach the process it was someone intent on harming her. Even a year on, the memory of Jo Gage was still fresh.

Alex reached for her gun and then tiptoed downstairs.

She had to stand on her tiptoes to look through the peephole.

Eames cringed at the sight of the visitor on her doorstep. She wasn't in the headspace to be a sounding board for someone else.

Not tonight. She thought.

Alex chanted the same mantra over and over in her mind. If she ignored him, he'd go away.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Alex holstered her gun and threw open the door.

"Yes?" she asked, guarded.

A wan smile crossed James Dutton's face. For several tense seconds, they stared back at one another in silence.

James Dutton turned his gaze above. His eyes were misty as he studied the house.

"This would have been a nice house to raise a family in," he remarked.

Eames braced herself for a dressing down. James Dutton was a man of few words, so she was prepared for something that must have festered for a long time.

"Look, whatever it is you have to say to me, I would appreciate you getting it over with," Eames pressed.

To her surprise, James Dutton chuckled.

"It's not hard to see why Joe was so fond of you," Dutton said.

Eames scowled.

"He loved you," Dutton said.

The elderly man reached into his pocket and fished out an envelope.

"Please. Take it," Dutton insisted as he pushed the envelope toward her.

Alex reeled. She wanted to vomit. She visibly staggered. Eames was so enraged that she found it difficult to formulate a response.

"You… you think that—"

She put up her hand and grimaced.

"You think that I want your money?" Alex spat. "This was never about money! I loved Joe. I could have cared less about his fucking trust fund or his—"

"That's not what this is about," Mr Dutton said.

"Oh, I get it. Your wife sent you with a check? She feels guilty? Or… or she wants to prove once and for all that she was right about me?"

"She doesn't know I'm here," Dutton said.

Alex scoffed and shook her head.

"I get it. You feel guilty," she realised. "I don't care. I don't want anything from you. Go."

Eames pointed at the road.

James Dutton reached for her hands and placed the envelope in them.

"This was in Joe's wallet. I… I should have returned it sooner," Dutton said.

All of Alex's anger evaporated.

Mr Dutton flashed her a sad smile.

"I know that you made him very happy," Dutton went on. "And I think that he would have been honoured to know what you did for him today."

"I… I don't—"

"You have a good heart. I wish things could have been different between us," Dutton said.

Dutton tipped his hat and bid Alex a goodnight, slipping away to his car as he left a stunned Eames standing at the door.

---

Alex sat on the edge of her bed. The envelope sat atop the covers untouched.

She stared at that envelope for nearly an hour before finally working up the nerve to open it.

Her breath hitched at the sight of the film strip. Alex let it drop to the bed. She was afraid to touch it, fearful that it wasn't real.

She tentatively reached out to trace her fingers across the pictures of that day.

James Dutton had no inkling of the importance of those silly photographs snapped spontaneously nor the significance of that penny arcade.

They had driven out City Island on a whim for fried clams and cheap beer and a stroll by the beach. Joe's favourite ice cream shop was on City Island.

From time to time, Joe Dutton liked to take surprise trips out to that spot and plunk a quarter into that ridiculous 'Love Tester' machine for old time's sake.

---

1997 | City Island

Joe grinned like an idiot as guided his wife's hand to the machine.

"I have to be sure I still do it for you, baby," he teased.

Eames shot him a look.

The machine lit up. The bell rang three times.

"Hot stuff! Still got it," Joe growled as he pulled her close.

Joe slipped his hands into the rear pockets of her jeans.

"That's not very discreet, Detective," Alex said knowingly.

"There's a photobooth if you want to play stop and frisk?" Joe whispered.

Eames snorted.

"You're as corny as this arcade," Eames said.

"Yeah. But you love it," Joe countered.

He threw his arm around his wife's shoulder and kissed the top of her head.

"You know, someday we'll take our kids here," Joe said.

"Yeah, whatever."

"No, no. We'll tell them this is the very spot where mummy and daddy first kissed," Joe said before adding, "we'll leave out the part about your halter top."

"If you want to get spanked, all you have to do is ask. But it costs extra," she threw back.

Joe's chest shook with laughter as he pulled Alex toward the photobooth.

"C'mon," he urged.

After four quick snaps and their customary three-minute wait, Joe slipped the film strip into his wallet.

"Happy?" Alex asked.

"I'll treasure it," Joe replied.

He reached for Alex's hand as they strolled back to the beach.

"I mean it. We're going to take the kids here," Joe said.

"Promise?" Alex asked.

"Promise."

Alex glanced up at Joe and smirked.

"You know, we have to have the kids first," she pointed out.

Joe stopped and smacked his own forehead.

"Oh! That's right!"

A devious grin broke out on his face.

"We have to make them first," he said.

Eames crossed her arms and nodded.

"Uh huh."

Dutton blinked. Alex watched as realisation dawned on his face.

They'd talked about trying for a baby. Joe was just waiting for Alex to give him the go ahead.

"Allie? Are you saying...?"

"Uh huh."

All of Joe's air of authority vanished as he became shy and flustered.

Alex kept her eyes locked on her husband as she backed toward the truck. Joe's eyes lit up.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked.

Joe's mouth went dry.

Alex marched back and pulled him into an embrace.

"Take me home, hot stuff. I want to," Alex assured him.

Joe tightened his embrace.

"I love you," he murmured.

"I love you too. In fact, I love you so much that I don't mind if we have to keep trying and trying and trying…"

Alex trailed off. Joe laughed.

"I'd like that too. And you know? I'm feeling lucky," he remarked.

Indeed, they did conceive that afternoon.

Eight weeks later Joe Dutton was dead.

---

Present

The memory of that day came in flashes.

A coy smile on the stairs.

The simultaneously familiar touch and nervous energy they both felt as they climbed into bed. The feel of his lips on her collarbone.

The way Joe squeezed her hand.

The weight of him as he collapsed, spent and panting and so full of love.

Alex had thrown on one of his t-shirts. Joe had slipped into a pair of flannel trousers.

She could still seem him standing in the kitchen, licking on a spoonful of strawberry ice cream straight from the freezer. He was bathed in the afterglow of sex wearing a crooked grin.

They'd settled onto the sofa that night. Joe had kissed her tousled hair. And after the evening news they'd snuggled down in bed together. They made loose plans to take a drive upstate in the fall and giggled about what Joe's mother would take the news of a grandchild.

She'll come around. I'm sure of it. Joe promised. She'll see that you're great. She's going to love you.

Alex clutched that strip of film to her chest.

For the first time in weeks, she allowed herself a good cry.

---

Friday

The news hit that morning so there was time for the ruling to make the evening papers. Opinions varied wildly depending on the source.

"This ruling is a black eye for the NYPD."

The grating voice of Miss Faith Yancy and her fake southern accent echoed across the squad room.

"Judge Vinello better think long and hard about the precedent he's setting. You kill a cop in this town and there better be consequences, buster," Yancy rattled off.

Mike Logan tossed a paper down on his desk.

"This sentence is a joke. Probation?" Logan scoffed.

"It is in line with juvenile sentencing guidelines," Wheeler offered.

"Tell that to that family," Logan said.

On cue, the scene changed to the courthouse steps where Margaret Dutton and her clan of children and grandchildren issued a statement expressing their dismay at the plea deal.

"Somebody want to shut that off?" Goren snapped.

He was back in the office on desk duty, offering consultations on other cases while the brass had yet to reach a decision about the NYPD's resident problem child.

Ross poked his head out the door and wiggled his finger to beckon Goren over.

"Goren. My office."

---

Bobby nearly fell off his chair when Ross handed back his gun.

"You're reinstated to regular duty. Effective immediately," Ross announced.

Goren didn't understand. He'd fully expected to be stripped of his pension and kicked to the curb.

"I don't… I mean, Captain?"

Ross sighed as he slipped into the seat behind his desk.

"As you know, the evidence Miss Le Zard had in her possession against you has disappeared," Ross began.

They still didn't know how or why it had vanished. Le Zard had more than a dozen bedsheets, towels, and garments stained with the DNA of numerous lovers. It painted a tawdry picture of her life extorting powerful men for money or favours.

"Obviously, somebody took it," Goren said.

"The thought crossed my mind. But it wasn't exactly hard to convince the Chief of D's that, well… there's no easy way to say this—you don't have any friends on the force. I can't think of anyone that would willingly risk their career to help you like that," Ross said.

Goren couldn't argue with that.

There was no one.

Well, no one except Eames.

Goren knew she would never go that far to save him.

"Between Le Zard's death and your partner's testimony to the Chief, the NYPD is not interested in dragging this out," Ross said. "The investigation is ongoing. Let's just say it's not a priority. I'll keep you posted."

"And Eames?"

"I received orders right from the Chief of D's. She's to be reinstated immediately," Ross said.

Bobby blinked.

"I… I don't—"

"Orders came from the top," Ross said.

The investigation into the complaints against Eames had been suspended. Eames was cleared in the SnoMint inquiry. She was to be reinstated to her rank and paygrade without any detrimental marks to her record in regard to the Beltran arrest.

"I don't follow," Goren confessed.

Sure, Eames had a bit of pull. Her father had been popular beat cop in his day. But Johnny Eames's tendrils didn't extend to the brass.

"I don't know what happened. I know the Chief of D's wasn't exactly happy. I'd wager the NYPD doesn't want any bad press after the trial," Ross surmised.

Bobby frowned. He was thrilled that Eames was in the clear—but he wasn't comfortable with the idea of backdoor politicking.

"Detective? She's back. Do her a favour and don't poke around this one," Ross requested.

Goren nodded slowly.

"I thought maybe you would want to deliver the news?" Ross suggested.

"Erm… Captain, I… I don't think that's such a good idea," Goren said.

"Is there something I should be aware of?" Ross asked.

Ross was no fool. He knew there was tension. But Goren and Eames had always seemed to work things out between them.

"Detective?" Ross prompted.

"It's fine, sir. I'll erm… I'll call her today," Goren responded.

It was an excuse to reach out. He would let Eames know to get in touch with Ross on the details. And Bobby would put the ball in her court.

There was no rush to make a decision. Eames still had a few days of leave.

And if she wanted Bobby gone when she came back, so be it.

---

Inwood, Manhattan

Alex hauled a load of fresh towels up from her father's basement. She had no sooner reached the top of the rickety stairs when her father called out from the sitting room.

"Since you're in the kitchen…"

Johnny Eames didn't need to finish that sentence. Alex had been trained since childhood to understand her father's code for 'bring me a beer.'

Alex plunked the basket down on the floor and rummaged through the fridge for a beer—noting that her father must have gotten up and helped himself to two more while she was downstairs sorting the laundry.

Alex dropped the basket near the stairs that led up to the second level.

"Go easy, dad," she said as she passed him a fresh beer.

Alex disappeared for a moment before she returned with a glass of water and a look instructing her father not to protest.

"Why don't you crack one, hmm?" Johnny suggested as he gestured to the second chair. "Sit down and throw your feet up for a bit. Humour your old man."

Eames sighed.

"I should really get this done," Alex said.

As tempting as it was to dissociate for a while to the sound of the game on television, she still had another two loads of washing to get through.

"Maybe before supper," Alex said.

She climbed the creaking wooden stairs with the basket of towels. The sound of the television was muffled upstairs.

Alex passed the childhood bedroom she'd shared with her sister. It sat largely unchanged. A time capsule into 1983—right down to the posters of Journey and Boston displayed on the walls.

Eames had barely started folding up the laundry when her phone buzzed.

Goren.

She stared at the lit screen and chewed on her lip, debating whether to answer. She wanted to believe he'd called to check on her, but she couldn't kick the idea he was calling to ask as a favour.

As it turned out, the call was a little of both.

Bobby didn't mince words—he'd transfer or resign if that's what Eames wanted.

"I just… I don't want to do this job without you," Bobby confessed.

There was silence on the line.

Suddenly, he felt eight years old, pleading for his father not to go away again.

"Eames?"

Bobby's voice cracked. This was not the same Robert Goren that exuded confidence in the interrogation room. He sounded like a terrified child.

Eames knew she was standing at a precipice. She knew full well that if she extended her hand to try and save him from drowning that Bobby would pull her under.

Alex knew that in spite of her indomitable spirit that eventually she would find herself crushed under Robert Goren and his considerable emotional weight.

She would blow out her shoulders, break her body trying to reel him to safety. She didn't have the strength to keep both of them above water.

Alexandra Eames knew all of that.

And yet, she threw him a line.

Alex was tired of fighting on every front. She was exhausted. Lonely. She longed for the familiar—even if it hurt.

Eames signed. Her voice was measured. Diplomatic.

"I'll talk to the Captain and have him put us back into the rotation," Eames said.

"So… so you're coming back?" Bobby asked, desperate for confirmation.

"I'll be there Monday."

"And we're… we're going to be okay?"

He had to know.

"This doesn't change anything between us," Eames clarified.

"Right."

Bobby agreed a little too quickly for Eames to swallow.

"We worked together for years without—"

"I understand," Bobby assured her.

He paused.

"Are we gonna be okay?" he echoed.

"I'm fine," Eames said, clipped.

"Eames."

"I don't have a problem. Do you?" Eames asked, flipping the question back on him.

"No. Not at all," Bobby replied.

I just need to know you're breathing.

"I'll see you on Monday," Eames said.

---

8:14 a.m. | Monday | One Police Plaza | Major Case

There was a fresh Danish waiting for Alex atop her desk. It was from an upscale bakery in Brooklyn—one that she knew Bobby didn't have the money for.

Eames stared down at the fanciful, striped box. She was unsure whether to be touched by the gesture or miffed at Bobby for blowing his limited income on a pastry.

He appeared at the edge of the room.

Goren was dressed in a suit. In contrast, his hair was unkempt. His facial hair was well past stubble.

Bobby stuffed his hands in his pockets and dropped his gaze to the floor. He shifted his weight back and forth from foot to foot, waiting for Eames to address him. When she finally said 'morning' he lifted his chin and stared with his soulful brown eyes.

Robert Goren could put a wounded puppy to shame.

Before either of them could speak, Captain Ross strolled off the lift.

"Ah! It's good to have you back, Detective. You've got a case," Ross announced.

---

10:03 a.m. | Brooklyn | Coney Island

Coney fucking Island.

Bobby loathed Coney Island and all of its tourist-trap attractions, rundown businesses, charlatans, and the rickety housing complexes that were a remnant of seedy real estate developers.

Sure, at one time, Coney Island had been a peak holiday spot with glitz and glamour and family fun. When she was in her prime, Coney Island had been the place for a kid in New York City.

There had been efforts to revitalise the area, to reignite some of that lustre, and to preserve the historic sites in the area.

But Bobby couldn't shake the Coney Island he'd known as a boy. In the 60s, it had been a dump.

And in Robert Goren's opinion, it was still a dump under a fresh coat of paint.

Even though the waters of the Atlantic were still ice cold, the beach was crawling with people. It was a bright morning and just their luck they would catch an outdoor crime scene on the first truly hot day of the year.

Bobby tugged at the collar of his shirt as they made their way down toward the water.

"Floater in a scuba suit washed up," a CSU tech explained. "NO ID. Might have been stabbed."

Eames listened intently. Bobby had to stop and shake out his Italian leather shoe. He cursed his luck. He'd have to take his suit to the cleaners. The whole place reeked of dead fish and brine.

"I hate the beach," he grumbled.

"Why call Major Case?" Eames asked.

She knelt down next to the body to get a better look.

"Someone called the FBI. Concerned about terrorism," the CSU tech informed them.

Bobby's foot got tangled in a piece of seaweed. He closed his eyes and prayed for patience.

Great. The FBI. He thought.

It was their first case back together and they'd have to fight a jurisdictional dispute while smelling like a fishmonger.

"He's pretty fresh. Looks like he's been in the water less than a day," Eames said as she assessed the condition of the victim.

Bobby bit his tongue about the beach and the ocean and the smell. He reminded himself what was important.

Eames.

Alex could sense her partner dancing and not in the way he usually did when he was hot on the case.

"Something wrong?" she prompted.

"I just… I hate the beach," Goren confessed.

"Well, we won't be here long," Eames said.

She glanced up and directed her partner's attention to the skyline. Bobby turned and followed her line of sight to the dark horizon.

"Rain is in the forecast," Eames said.

"A storm. A big one," advised the CSU tech.