Disclaimer: NBC, MCA/Universal and Wolf Films owns them.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Part 6. Jack and Ed consider the nuances of acceptance. Lennie defines "partner."
Author's Note: Many thanks to LindaK, for her patient and considered feedback.
Copyright October 2002 Cassatt
Ed stood under the spray of very hot water and closed his eyes. Relief that he'd torn the pages out of the diary had increased exponentially, now that he'd read the passages in detail. He leaned on the wall, pillowing his head on his forearms, and let the stream run down his back. In his heart, he knew he'd done the right thing. The tightness in his chest, however, had no connection with his conviction that his actions had been necessary. It was solely, and painfully, attributable to the excruciatingly graphic account of Tom Ryerson's sexual experiences with Jack.
The deceased described an encounter that, though brief, had been "amazing, hot, and unforgettable." Standing in his bathroom doorway, Ed had tried to remind himself that Jack's description was just the opposite. That people had different perceptions of sexual connection. That the man he loved down to the bottom of his soul was not a liar. That the dead man had been lonely, and had seen what wasn't there. That, ultimately, it didn't matter either way. Jack was with him; Jack loved him.
He filled his lungs with steam laden air and exhaled, willing his chest to loosen, and the oxygen to clear his mind. He moved off the shower wall and put his face under the stream, took the soap and washed himself slowly. One thing was apparent. Jack's brief encounter had not been the cold and calculating thing that Ed had characterized it as. He knew, from the ache in his chest, that he'd done that to convince himself that what he had with Jack was different, and special. Unique. Unmatched. But Jack was a deeply passionate and intense man. Whether Jack was aware of it or not, he'd given Tom Ryerson an experience that was special, unique, and unmatched in the dead man's life. This was clear to Ed, and he wasn't at all sure how he was going to handle it.
Ed had barely finished getting dressed when the women police officers arrived. He ushered them in, sharing hugs with those he'd known the longest, accepting good-natured ribbing for his bare feet, letting them arrange themselves around his living room. After everyone was seated, he pulled out copies of the morgue photo of Karen Abbott, and explained what they'd found out about her since his email earlier that day. The officers had agreed to take them and try to find out if the woman was known in the lesbian hangouts. He also showed them a better photo of Tom Ryerson, from to his personnel file. They were just beginning to talk amongst themselves when Ed heard the scrape of a key in his lock.
His heart began to pound as he looked to the door from his vantage point of the desk chair. Jack's eyes met his as soon as he entered. Ed stood, feeling a bit confused; Jack wasn't due for another hour. The sound of the door closing behind the other man caused conversation to slow, and then it unexpectedly came to a complete halt. Jack smiled at him, put his helmet on the hall table, two bags on the floor, then opened the closet and hung up his jacket. Ed was rooted in place.
"Ed," one of his friends said in a sharp voice. He turned to her. "You didn't tell us the DA's office was going to be here." She wasn't happy about it, and some others murmured equal uneasiness.
"It's okay," he said, "he's not here officially. Excuse me." He finally moved, heading for the front hall. From behind him, he heard one woman say that they were being dense, that McCoy had used a key, and what did they think that meant. He tuned out the rest, not really caring what they thought of it all. There was something about Jack that was off; he could feel it, and it made his heart pound even harder.
Jack picked up one of the bags, a plastic one, and held it up. "Hi," he said softly, "have you had dinner? I brought Chinese. From the good place."
"Not exactly, but go ahead," he answered, pointing a thumb back over his shoulder, "I'll be done here in a little while. I thought you weren't coming until later?"
Jack looked at him intently. "I know, I'm sorry. I needed to talk to you..."
Ed interrupted, taking Jack's arm and leading him into the kitchen. To the corner where there was more privacy from the eyes in the living room. The bag of Chinese food was deposited on the counter. "What is it, Jack?"
Jack shook his head. "It has to wait until you're finished with your friends. Really. I'll go out and introduce myself and then have something to eat."
Ed hesitated; he was still holding Jack's arm. Jack cupped his face. The coolness of the hand against his cheek was startling.
"Go," said Jack. "Take care of them."
He knew they shouldn't do it, but the man's eyes were locked with his, and he couldn't seem to stop it from happening. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the hum of conversation in the living room, so he assumed the women there were busy enough to ignore them. He didn't want to stop it from happening. Jack trailed his fingers to the back of Ed's head and they drew together slowly. They kissed, and the kiss quickly turned intense, and needy, and almost desperate. Ed broke it off, breathing heavily, and as their eyes met again, he tried to discern what that had meant. He knew what emotions of his own had been involved in that hungry kiss, but he had no idea why Jack had responded. Jack nodded. He did, too, and with one last squeeze to his arm he left the kitchen.
This time the gentle ribbing he got was much more personal, and he forestalled it by stating that he trusted the women there would keep Jack's presence permanently behind the wall. They agreed, but when the man in question entered and tried to introduce himself, they ribbed him, too. Ed was surprised at their chutzpa, given Jack's position, but the release of tension was very welcomed, and the other man appeared to take it very much in stride, with good humor. Jack told them he hoped they'd be able to help find the killer, which brought everyone back to the issue at hand. Then he left, and as Ed talked more with his friends, he kept one ear tuned to the kitchen, listening to his lover make himself dinner.
Only one of the officers said she thought she might recognize Abbott, and actually in connection with Ryerson. She wasn't entirely certain, but she was nearly. She'd been assigned to the Freedom Day parade the year before, and she claimed that the two victims were there. That she'd seen them, watching. Her friends questioned her ability to remember two faces out of hundreds of thousands. She told them she'd noticed these two, because they weren't acting like the usual crowd who lined the sidewalks. They'd appeared to be neither tourists, nor revelers, but had stood like statues, staring at the marchers, and the people on the floats - to such an extent that the officer had stopped to watch them in turn. She'd thought they might be about to instigate something unpleasant, though she'd had no doubt that the man was gay. She described it "as if they were looking for someone in particular."
Jack was now perched on a stool on the living room side of the open kitchen counter, eating. Ed had been inordinately pleased to see that the man had found bowls that Ed's mother had given him, from the time when his family had lived in Hong Kong. It felt right that Jack was using one. He stopped moving his chopsticks.
"May I interrupt?" Jack asked, as the other women again started to question the officer's recollection. The room quieted as they turned to him. "Officer, if you were on the stand - under oath - could you swear that these two people were the very same two people you saw sixteen months ago?"
She paused. "No, I couldn't swear to it."
"To what degree of certainty do you believe they were the same people?"
"To be honest, about seventy-five percent."
"Do you recall what the two people at the parade were wearing?"
She closed her eyes. The tension in the room increased. She opened them again, and looked directly at the EADA. "The man was wearing blue jean shorts, a white tee shirt and a blue and green striped, short sleeved, oxford type overshirt. Untucked. I couldn't see his shoes due to the crowd. The woman was wearing khaki pants, possibly chino types, and a pink tank top. No overshirt that I could see, nor a bag or purse, either. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she had one of those things holding it, also pink."
Jack smiled. "Did either of them wear sunglasses?"
"No. They were in the shade of a building."
"And for how long did you observe them?"
"For approximately fifteen minutes, I think. I was called away. They were still staring at the people in the parade when I left."
"Do you remember at what point in the parade you noticed them? Which marchers? Which floats?"
"Oh my God," she muttered, and closed her eyes again. After a minute, she shook her head and opened them. "No, I'm sorry, I don't."
Jack smiled again. "That's understandable."
Ed was about to say something, when the woman officer said, "Oh, wait - what I was called away for -- I filled out an incident report. I can retrieve a copy of it - it'll have the time on it. And the parade committee keeps records of everything. I'm sure an approximation could be made for when the two people were there. I remember where they were standing." She stopped talking. "If that would be helpful," she added.
Ed jumped in. "That would be great, Mary, if you could get that to me." She smiled and said, of course, and her friends clapped her on the back. Jack returned to his dinner. Ed mentally added a few more tasks to his to-do list. Return to the vics' apartments and look for clothing that matched. See if he could find out where they had been sixteen months before. He had no idea if this information was relevant, but any connection with the community was suspicious, to his way of thinking. Logically, the most obvious connection was Crymson.
"Mary," he said, "when you get the information from the parade committee, find out if Crymson's Tide had a float, and if so, where it was in the order of things." She nodded. Ed hadn't been to a parade in years, it was too risky. He met Jack's eyes across the room, and saw something unreadable in them. He knew he couldn't wait much longer to find out what was going on with the man, and started to do what was necessary to end the meeting, and shoo everyone out of his apartment.
Jack rinsed out his dishes while listening to the good-byes taking place behind him. He put them in the dishwasher and wished for another scotch. His mantra had receded during the past forty-five minutes, but was now, once more, pounding his skull. After wiping his hands, he turned. Ed was standing just inside the doorway with his fists in his pockets, and the sight of him in jeans, and another one of his blue shirts, and bare feet made Jack's mouth go even drier. He didn't want to lose this.
"Hey," Ed said in a low voice, "now can you tell me what's going on?"
Jack nodded and leaned back against the counter. "I want to know what happened today. In Ryerson's apartment. You did something - for me. I want to know what it was."
Ed's eyes got wide and he didn't say anything for a very long minute. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Jack's heart sank, and he tried to keep his voice even in spite of it. "Something happened in that apartment - I know it did. I want you to tell me what it was."
After shooting Jack a glare, Ed yanked his hands out, and they started to move. "Why do you think you know this?"
"Ed, Lennie told me something that I can't make sense of. The only logical conclusion to draw is that he found out about my history of casual sex. I know you didn't tell him. So the only other person to tell him would be Ryerson." He was beginning to feel very frustrated. "He also said that you did something to protect me..."
Ed interrupted him, with a short, harsh burst of profanity directed at his partner.
Jack answered it with a short, harsh phrase of his own. "Tell me! What did you do?!"
"What did I do?! I only did what anyone would have in the same position! Yes - there was some information in the apartment that had your name on it, that showed you'd had sex with Ryerson. I took it! No big deal!"
He could not believe it. "You removed something from a victim's apartment?!"
Ed threw up his hands and glared again. "It had nothing to do with the investigation!" He turned and stalked out of the kitchen.
Jack was right behind him, following the man into his bedroom. "You can't do that..."
Ed spun on his heels. "Oh, yes, I can. And since when are you so high and mighty about evidence?! This isn't even evidence!"
He was trying hard to rein in his temper, but Ed's comment cut him. "I have never destroyed, or authorized the destruction of evidence," he said through a clenched jaw. "And I do not need protection! I don't need you to take care of me! I've been doing just fine taking care of myself for quite a long time now!"
Ed went completely still, his eyes glazed over, and Jack's pounding heart froze. Then Ed turned, walked to his closet, grabbed some shoes, went to his dresser, took some socks and walked out. Jack finally got his feet to move, but by the time he entered the living room, Ed had already put on his shoes and was going for the hall closet.
"Ed," he called, hearing the desperation in his voice loud and clear.
Ed put on his coat and looked directly at him. "I got the message, counselor," he said, too quietly, too devoid of emotion. Then the man picked up his cell phone and keys and left.
The sound of the door closing reverberated in the empty hallway. Jack stared at it, feeling like he'd just fallen into a dark hole with no clue how it had happened.
Ed was walking. He knew this because he was passing things: buildings in his neighborhood, parked cars, even the occasional street tree. The look of the sidewalk changed as he came in and out of pools of light from overhead. His chest was way too tight again, and though New York City air was notoriously bad, at least there were no walls surrounding him. Walls that could shift, and close in on him.
He could not honestly believe that Lennie had done it, had broken his confidences like that. The man was going to get a very large chunk of Ed's mind in the morning, because he just couldn't deal with talking to him right then. He knew enough about himself to accept that as a good decision, even if made from a place of complete overwhelm. Anything he said to his partner tonight would only lead to a permanent rift between them.
Though he tried to stop it, his brain returned to the thing he'd told it to be quiet about two minutes before. His chest tightened further, a viselike grip around his heart. He kept putting one foot in front of the other and tried not to see Jack's face, spitting out those words at him. He knew he'd have to do something, go somewhere, see someone. He had to, or he would scream at the top of his lungs right there on the sidewalk.
He pulled out his phone and tried to breathe. Call, or go to a meeting, he asked himself. His throat started to close as he made the decision. He called Peter.
Jack stood in the living room, staring at the door, for more minutes than he'd ever admit. He kept expecting Ed to come back through it. To yell at him, to shout, or to grab him by the shoulders. He was having difficulty breathing, and his pulse was racing uncomfortably. He was also hot, and the heat wasn't dissipating. He finally turned and walked toward the bathroom, thinking about cool water splashing on his face.
He told himself that self-flagellation was not an option. It never was. He'd gotten enough of that from his father and he'd always vowed he'd try not to do it to himself.
"Fuck!" he yelled at the walls of Ed's bedroom. "Fuck," he muttered.
It wasn't that he believed he was so out of line. He could take care of himself, he didn't need someone to protect him. He did, however, need someone to love him. Not just someone, either, he thought. As he walked into the bathroom, he wondered if this was another time when his lack of understanding of gay relationships could be blamed. Would he have handled things any differently with a woman? Had he ever? He didn't know how to answer that.
He cupped cold water and brought his hands to his face, letting the shock of it resonate. Snap him out of it. As it did, the ache settled more firmly in his chest, as the pain in Ed's eyes flashed before his own. He had done that. He'd hurt him. Like that. He threw more water on his face, this time in an attempt to force his emotions down, back down where he'd been shoving them all day. Where they'd refused to stay.
He grabbed the hand towel from the rack over the toilet, and as he did, he knocked some papers off the top of the tank. He dried his face and picked them up. He saw two things. His name, and handwriting that wasn't Ed's. His heart started to thud again. He hung up the towel, and without considering any ramifications, he started to read the sheets of paper.
"No, Peter, you don't understand," Ed said harshly as he paced in front of his friend.
"How don't I understand?" Peter sat cross-legged on his couch, wearing brightly colored flannel pajamas. "Tell me, Eddie," he said, leaning forward.
"It's so fucking complicated," he muttered.
"I'm getting that."
Ed sat back down on the couch. "He doesn't need me," he finally admitted. "It's not that he doesn't think that he loves me, it's that he doesn't need me. He's so fucking sure of himself, and so all powerful, that he doesn't understand anything! How am I supposed to deal with that?" The pain of having to say it aloud was searing. A hot, hard, knife straight into his gut.
Peter studied him. His hands were folded in his lap, the picture of serenity. But his eyes were flashing, and Ed knew what that meant.
"So," Peter said, "are you going to tell me the whole story right now, or am I going to pull pieces of it out of you hour by hour? What really happened?"
The lights of the last casino he'd ever visited were shining in front of his eyes, and looking more and more enticing. It would be so easy just to get up and go. Throw a thousand down on the blackjack table, dare the cards to come to him. He unclenched his fists, and willed his neck to relax, and stared at his best friend. He sighed deeply, and told him.
Jack sat heavily on the bed, still holding the papers that Tom Ryerson had written on. He tried to make some sense of their content, but couldn't quite do it. The encounter that was described had so little to do with the reality of Jack's own experience that he was close to making the judgement that Ryerson was crazy. Plain and simply crazy. Theirs was no earth-shattering sexual connection, not by a long shot. And Tom hadn't even acted like that at the time it was happening. Jack's memory was of a man who was fairly reserved and withdrawn, who hadn't done too much to give Jack pleasure, other than offer himself. Nothing at all like making love with Ed, he thought, even if that comparison wasn't exactly a fair one.
His heart ached to picture Ed reading this. The man he loved was intense, and deeply passionate, and admittedly jealous. Jack couldn't even imagine how Ed must have felt. He only knew how he himself would feel. Queasy. Like someone had sucker punched him. If Jack had read this sort of description of something that had been characterized by Ed as casual and not that good - he'd question everything that Ed had ever said to him.
He looked at the handwriting again. The heavy weight of guilt settled on his shoulders. He wouldn't have been able to brush this off professionally, he could see that now. Nora would have been furious with him, not specifically for what he'd done, but for the mere fact that he'd be embarrassing the office. Asking too much of the public to assume they should understand, and ignore it. No matter how irrelevant it all seemed to him. Ed had been right, on a personal level, to take this. The other aspects of his actions they could talk about later.
Jack understood something else that was basic, and true, and absolute. He had to apologize, as soon as possible. He couldn't let Ed think that what Jack had said in the heat of the moment had anything to do with reality. Because he did need Ed, and he needed him for more than love and companionship and earth-shattering sex. He needed Ed to care enough about him to cross a line or two if necessary.
He stood as quickly as his leaden legs would let him and went to the desk in the living room. Jack was fairly sure where Ed would have gone. At the same time, he wanted to respect his lover's obvious craving for space. Calling Peter's apartment rather than Ed's cell phone seemed like the best option. He knew Peter would pass a message to Ed, he just had to find the man's phone number. He sat at Ed's desk and searched for an address book.
"So," Peter said quietly, "the victim thought he'd had a wonderfully passionate experience with Jack. I can see how that would hurt. Hurt like hell."
"That's not why I took the pages out," Ed said. He was beyond caring how defensive he sounded, even to his own ears. "It's not."
"No, I know - I get that part."
"It's just..." He picked at a nub of cotton weave on the leg of his jeans. "I thought what we had was different. You know, different than just some hot, anonymous sex. Different." He shook himself, and slapped his thigh harshly. With all the disgust he felt, he said, "Why do I always do this, Petie? Think there's more than there really is? It's so fucking pathetic."
Peter punched him on the shoulder, startling him.
"Hey!" He turned to his friend. "What the hell was that for?"
"Do you know what's pathetic? You assuming. Now who thinks they know everything? Mr. Edward Green. I realize that Jack hurt your feelings - but don't fuck this up!"
"How am I fucking this up?!" He stared at the other man, feeling very angry, almost wanting to fight with him.
The phone rang, and Peter broke their eye contact to jump up and answer it. Ed resigned himself to a half hour of sitting and stewing, waiting for the man to finish whatever conversation he just had to have.
"Hi, Jack," Peter said.
Ed's heart stopped and he turned sharply. He vehemently shook his head.
"Uh huh, yes, he's here." Peter smiled at him and Ed almost got up to tear the phone out of his hands.
"I agree, that's probably best." Peter nodded. "Uh huh." He adjusted a pillow on the couch. "Uh huh." He ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, sure." He stared at the wall over Ed's head. "Yeah," Peter said quietly. "I got it. No problem." He nodded again. "I will. Thanks for calling."
As his friend hung up, Ed tried to decide if he wanted to know, or if he didn't. By now, he felt so raw and wrung out, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to know what Jack had said. The pounding in his chest was merciless. He just wanted it all to stop. All of it.
"I have a message from your boyfriend," Peter said seriously. "And I can see that look in your eyes, Eddie - so buck up, because I'm going to tell you anyway." He waited for a response, so Ed nodded, resigning himself again and trying to buck up at the same time, knowing it was impossible.
"Okay, then," Peter continued. "Jack said he didn't want to upset you by calling you on your cell, since you seemed to need some space. But that he had three things he really wanted you to hear. One," Peter stuck his thumb up, "Ryerson's a liar." The beating in Ed's chest got more intense, and he tried to figure out why Jack was saying that, and remember where he'd left the diary pages, but Peter interrupted him too quickly. "Two," Peter's index finger joined his thumb, "Jack is sorry. And three," another finger pointed, "Jack loves you, he's going to stay at your apartment, and if you want him to go, just call and leave a message on your machine. He'll hear it." Once again, Peter folded both hands in his lap and looked at him expectantly.
Ed couldn't cope with that clear, blue-eyed gaze, so he focused instead on the loose thread on his thigh. He could feel the push pull inside of himself, deeply entrenched. He could also feel an overwhelming numbness creeping in.
"He loves you, Eddie," Peter said gently.
He glanced at the man, but had no response.
After hanging up the phone, Jack continued to sit at the desk. Again, he stared at something he had no control over. The phone and its answering machine.
"Don't ring," he finally said, and left.
He returned to the bedroom, taking his bag from the hall along the way. Even knowing he might be leaving again, he deliberately acted as if he'd be doing just the opposite. He unpacked what little he brought. He put the diary pages on the bedside table, where he could reach them, and talk to Ed about them, explain, ease the man's mind. When he turned around he noticed the laundry hamper for the first time. He didn't hesitate, but left his book on the bed and went looking for laundry supplies.
Ed was walking again, but this time he knew it. After promising Peter he'd call before going to sleep, just to check in, he'd left his friend's apartment. He needed to move. Knowing that Jack had read the diary, and knowing what the man had said about the story told therein, was not helping Ed feel any better. As he crossed a street, he amended that thought. He did feel a little better than he had an hour before, but that was contingent on the belief that Jack had told the truth and Ryerson had not. And that was a belief that was not firmly held. He figured that it wouldn't be until he went home and spoke with Jack face to face. Something he wasn't ready to do yet.
He looked at his watch. It was five minutes later than the last time he'd checked and seven later than the time prior to that. He walked quickly to a main street and hailed the first cab he could. He gave the address and settled against the worn vinyl of the back seat. After another five minutes passed, he got out again and paid the driver, then trotted up the stairs of the center and hit the elevator call button.
The walls of the car were certainly not closing in on him this time, and there was no sweat seeping out of his pores, and his hands were steady as he touched the four on the panel after the doors slid shut. Nevertheless, the pull to be sitting in the room with other people, as out of control as he, was strong. To listen. To speak if he felt the urge. To support, and be supported. To say the prayer.
"...the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."
Ed shut his apartment door behind him and reset the locks. He took a very deep lung-full of air and exhaled slowly. The lights in the living room were off, but he could see the glow from the hallway and the bedroom beyond that. He placed his keys and cell phone on the table. After slipping off his jacket and hanging it in the closet, he went into the kitchen for a glass of water. The apartment was too quiet, and if Ed hadn't seen Jack's helmet still there, he'd suspect the man had left.
When he walked into his bedroom, he got one answer, and one surprise. Jack was asleep, stretched out on top of the covers with a book on his chest. He'd done a load of Ed's laundry. Clothes were folded in the basket, which was on the floor in front of the dresser. He stared at the shirts, underwear, and socks, not actually believing what he was seeing. His throat was starting to react, closing gradually, shortening his breath, baring his emotions. He turned rapidly from the sight and swallowed hard.
He sat on the edge of the bed and moved the book, putting it on the nightstand. He saw the diary pages for the first time. Again, he turned away from something that he just wasn't ready to deal with. Instead, he looked at Jack. Intently, studying the soft creases on his face, the eyes that were relaxed in sleep as they rarely were while the man was awake. He placed a hand on Jack's chest, and felt the beating of his heart. Then gently touched his face, and felt skin that was becoming thin with age. It was like velvet under Ed's fingers. He loved it, along with every other nuance of difference between them. Not only skin color, but texture, and scent, and areas of responsiveness.
When he moved his hand up and into the man's hair, Jack stirred, and opened his eyes. Ed could see that he was trying to focus, so he carded his fingers through the silky hair, slowly, maintaining eye contact until clarity was attained.
"Hey," Jack said with a rusty voice. He smiled, a small smile, but a relaxed one.
"You did my laundry," Ed replied, letting himself respond to the smile.
"You never told me you had a stackable washer in here."
"Grease a few palms and you can get a lot accomplished." Ed pulled his hand back, suddenly uncomfortable. "Thank you," he said quietly.
Jack took Ed's hand in both of his and rested them on his stomach, and they twined fingers, never breaking the eye contact. "You saved my ass. Thank you."
Ed's eyes darted to the diary, then back to the deep hazel irises. The words that he wanted to say were unable to get past the thickness in his throat. Words to explain how much he'd needed to hear just that. How much he'd like to hear it again. He couldn't speak.
"Ed - I mean that." Jack sighed. "I would have paid a high price if those pages had been seen. Maybe too high a price."
He took a deep breath. "I know."
"So why didn't you tell me about it? You weren't planning to tell me, were you?" Jack's voice was gentle, but insistent.
"No," he admitted. "I thought it would be better if you didn't know that I'd taken them. That way if any shit came down because of it - you could honestly be in the dark."
Jack shook his head incrementally. "Crossing the line," he half-whispered.
Ed's stomach clenched, then he caught Jack's smile as the man let go of him and moved to rest against the headboard. Jack reached out again, so Ed scooted enough to be able to give back his hand, relaxing into the feel of their palms pressing together.
"I confess," Jack said, "that I realized something tonight. While you were gone. I need you to care enough about me to cross a few lines. That might be self-serving. But not many people have done that for me. I'm usually the willing one, while the other person tells me how inappropriate my actions are. So I'm sorry I reacted the way I did, earlier."
"I thought you said you didn't need anyone to take care of you," Ed said a little more sharply than he had intended.
Jack's lips tightened, then he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he squeezed Ed's hand. "I didn't mean it - not like that. Not like that, Ed. I'm sorry I hurt you."
He wanted to argue with him, that he hadn't been hurt, that he couldn't be hurt, but he knew it was a lie. More importantly, he didn't have it in him. Not with Jack. "I accept your apology." He tried to keep his tone even, but he knew it was wavering. "I, um..." He shrugged. "I need to be needed, Jack." He bit his lip.
He saw something else he rarely did. Jack's face softened, and his eyes got moist. "I know. Me, too." The man cleared his throat. "So -- are we clear?"
"You mean, are we okay?" Ed asked, his eyes darting again to the diary pages.
"Ed - Peter did tell you that Ryerson lied, didn't he? Because," Jack paused, let go, and tore the pages out from under his book. He waved them in the air. "This is a total fabrication. A complete lie. I can't believe that you ended up reading this. If the man wasn't already dead, I'd sue him."
Ed's stomach churned again. "How can you know it's a lie? This was his perspective on the experience. How do you know what it's like to make love with you?"
Jack's eyes bore into him. "I know, because I know what making love is like - with you - and this," he waved the papers again, "was not making love. It can't even be called that!"
He stood, knowing he wasn't prepared for this part. He'd thought he was, but now that it was staring at him in the face, he just wanted to walk out of the room. Jack moved, and he took a few steps back, not aware he'd done it until Jack said, "Wait." Jack got off the bed too quickly for him to react further, and grabbed Ed's head with both hands.
"Ed - listen to me. He was lying. I don't know why, and I don't care. But I'll be damned if I let him do this to us! Make you question everything I've said to you! I have not made love with any man except you. I've told you that. I'll tell you again, as many times as you need to hear it!"
"And I repeat - you can't know what the hell he was feeling and experiencing!"
Jack let go. "He stood there and offered his ass to me! I took it. That's it! I don't care what he was experiencing. He's not you. I love you. What difference does it make what the hell he was thinking at the time I was fucking him?!"
"Because, Jack -- what if everything I think is so special, and so unique is really just the same as what you gave everyone?! This," he pointed back and forth between them, "this is not something that I have just dropping into my lap every few months! It's different!"
"That's right," Jack said quickly, "it's different. For both of us." He took a step. "I know you have any number of reasons not to trust me. I'm bi. I've never been in love with a man before. I've never even been with a man more than once - before you." He took one more step and they were toe to toe. "But Ed, doesn't that tell you something? I have been with you every night since we first fell into this bed together." His voice dropped. "I can't take the words from that blasted diary out of your head. Please, believe me. I've never given anyone else what I give to you. Right here. In this bed. In my bed. And you sure as hell have given me something that I've never, ever had before. I don't even have words of my own to describe it."
Ed was barely breathing. He put a hand on Jack's chest. Again, as he had earlier. The beat under his fingers was strong, and rapid. He stared into the man's eyes, finally letting himself be drawn down into him. He said quietly, afraid his voice would break, "I hear you make your living with words..."
Jack touched Ed's waist, then his back, slowly pulling them closer. "I do, it's true. So I'll work on finding some to let you know how important you are to me."
Ed trailed his hand up to Jack's neck, and wrapped his other arm around him. "I love you, Jack." It no longer hurt to consider saying it.
They pulled incrementally closer, and Jack's mouth was soon only inches away. "I love you, too, Ed," he answered softly.
They both closed the final distance, falling into the kiss at the same time, gradually increasing the intensity of each subsequent kiss, drawing ever more tightly together. Ed got lost in it all, parting his lips, letting Jack snake in, feeling the touch of their tongues in every cell of his body. They moaned almost simultaneously, and the combined sounds weakened Ed's knees, and made his pulse race. The slim, strong back under his fingers, the hardness growing between their gently thrusting hips, the reverberation in his chest, the soft lips enmeshed with his - all of it was more proof for his weary mind. Jack started to writhe against him. More proof. This was different. Unique. He deepened the kisses even further, and got even harder.
Jack pulled just far enough away to murmur, "Please - let's go to bed..."
"To make love," he responded slowly.
Jack smiled. "To make love."
Ed smiled, too, and reached for the buttons on his lover's shirt.
With a groan, Jack collapsed onto Ed's chest, his heart still speeding, his body still pulsating. Ed wrapped his arms around him and clutched, hard, rocking his pelvis enough to send an exquisite aftershock shuddering through Jack's body. They were breathing heavily. Jack kissed the salty skin under his lips, the place where Ed's neck curved into his shoulder. He was still embedded, being cradled now by strong thighs, loathe to pull out, to separate. He could feel Ed's softening erection squeezed between their bellies, the sticky pool of his pleasure coating them both. It felt wonderful.
Enveloped in the afterglow, Jack continued kissing in between breaths, languidly moving his mouth along the collarbone while Ed kneaded his back. He wanted to stay joined for as long as he could, as if each second would secure their bond. Anchor them. Hold them steady. He slipped out, finally, hearing Ed's soft noise of complaint. In response, he moved enough to take the man's mouth in a profound kiss, getting a jolt of heat from it, and a stronger embrace from the long arms surrounding him.
He knew he'd have to move again, to clean up, dispose of the condom that would soon fall off of its own accord, but just then he couldn't. He tasted every part of Ed that he could reach. He reveled in their sweaty, sticky skin pressed together. He spoke words of love as he pulled back. He gazed into soft brown eyes below him. He stroked close-cropped hair. He listened to a promise of adoration. He was certain that he never wanted to be anywhere else.
Ed grinned to himself as he walked back into the bathroom with a cup of coffee. He'd been out of the shower barely five minutes and was still a little damp even, but he was about to get back in. There was time; they'd gotten up early, from a warm bed and entwined limbs and arms. But Ed had decided he wasn't done with the night, not quite yet. There was time.
He grabbed a condom from the cabinet and placed it on the sink, within reach. He hung up his towel and pulled the shower curtain open, handing a wet, but not soapy, Jack the coffee. The other man took it with a warm smile, sipping eagerly, looking at Ed with surprise when he stepped in and closed the curtain behind him. Ed took the cup back, drank more, then placed it on the far end of the tub. When Jack reached for the soap, Ed stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm, turning him so that his back was to the tiles. He leaned in and kissed him, slowly, possessively, hearing the moan, gradually increasing the body contact, all the while seducing Jack's mouth. He felt the rush when his lover surrendered, and he plunged past his lips, tasting coffee, a hint of mint, and everything that was Jack. He moaned, too.
He wanted this to last longer than a minute or two, so he reluctantly moved off that soft mouth, and slowed his thrusting hips, letting their erections rest, pressed together. Listened to the sounds of their heavy breathing, and the water cascading next to them. He kissed Jack's neck and considered his next move.
Jack mumbled something into his ear as he roamed hands up and down Ed's back.
"What?" Ed murmured.
"This is one reason why," Jack responded languidly. "Why I declined Serena's offer..."
Ed stopped moving, but before he had the chance to ask what the hell that woman was offering, Jack kept talking. Rotating his hips, and stroking his hands.
"She had a friend she wanted me to date. I told her no thanks." Jack started to kiss Ed's neck, but Ed pulled back enough to look at him directly. The man's hazel eyes were darker than normal, and hot with lust. "Wanted to tell her more," Jack continued, smiling slowly, "but couldn't." He caressed Ed's ass.
"Oh yeah?" Ed said gently. "Like what would you have told her?"
"That I'm only interested in one person, a man, whom I feel quite crazy in love with. I don't want a woman. I want Ed Green." He pulled Ed's hips against his and their breathing hitched at the same time.
Ed smiled. "Crazy in love with him?"
"Yeah, at my age, too."
"Yours is a good age. I like your age, Jack," he said, "you know that."
Jack nodded and smiled again. "I do."
Ed relaxed. He lifted one hand off the tiles and trailed it down over Jack's shoulder, to his chest, sieving through the soft, graying hair there, zeroing in on the man's nipple. Jack thrust against him in response.
"So," Jack said, with a husky tone that made Ed's pulse skip, "did you grab a condom on your way back in here?"
"I did," Ed answered. "And I'm going to use it." He smiled. "Turn around."
Jack leaned forward and kissed him, hard, hungrily, and he responded with equal heat, and need and want. If he could have crawled right inside the man and stayed forever, it wouldn't be close enough; it wouldn't last long enough. Not this morning. He broke the kiss. Their eyes locked. Jack turned around and braced himself.
Ed used the soap as lubricant, preparing them both, rolling the condom on, lavishing attention to his lover's skin with his mouth and his free hand. Jack was ready quickly, his breath heaving in anticipation, so Ed thrust in, to the hilt. It hit him, then, with overwhelming force. How much he loved this man. He showed him, with his body, his mouth and his free hand, taking them up and up, and right to the precipice. To the place where only the two of them existed. No one else. The skin of his chest was pressed against Jack's back, his belly against the softness of the man's ass, buried deeply, kissing his neck, barely thrusting as they hung on the edge. He rotated his hips while increasing the force of his thrusts, making his lover writhe, and moan, and thrust back against him, until they could stand it no longer. Over the edge they fell as they came, groaning, calling each other's name, spurting hard, against the tiles and deep inside. In sync. In harmony. Secured. Anchored. In bliss.
During the two block walk that Ed took, after being let off of Jack's bike, he quickly reviewed the points he was going to make with his partner. Before they did any work. Before they left for Jersey, hopefully before Lieu met with them. He was ready to talk to Lennie; he was ready to listen, too. From what Jack had told him about his conversation with the man at the Orleans, Ed thought he understood Lennie's intention. He wasn't sure, yet, if that was going to help him trust his partner again, or not.
While eating breakfast, he and Jack had gone over in more minute detail how the investigation was progressing. What else had been found. There was nothing of real relevance in the rest of Ryerson's diary. No mention of Crymson or Karen Abbott. Nothing of note during the week before he was killed. Jack concurred that Tom Ryerson's way of living indicated a higher income that what one would expect of a fund manager, especially one working for a bank. How he'd acquired extra money was something that Ed added to his list of threads to follow. Connecting the victims was still priority number one, and getting copies of the email logs was the most expedient way to do that.
Both he and Jack were well aware that it had been two days since Crymson's body had been found. The victims had been killed every other day. If there was a pattern, if this was a sociopathic serial killer, there should be a fourth victim found at some point during that morning. Ed was fairly certain it wasn't a random serial killer whom they were hunting. These murders were something else entirely. Something personal.
He entered the two-seven and climbed the stairs.
Jack sat at his computer after changing his clothes. As it was Wednesday, and the office was still fairly empty of people, he took advantage of the quiet time to log on and see if his college roommate was on-line. It had been two weeks since he'd talked with Mark; the Wednesday prior had been a rush of getting to court to deliver his closing arguments. By the time the jury had entered deliberations, and he'd gotten back to his office, it was midnight in London and Mark had been long gone.
Today, the man was at a computer in a flat across the ocean, and Jack was very glad for it. They chatted for a few minutes about the case he'd successfully prosecuted, how quickly the jury had decided, when the sentencing phase was due to begin. Mark gave a summary of his two weeks, his grandchild's visit over the weekend, his daughter's promotion. Then Jack told him the most significant news of his life. Ed.
It felt good to be able to talk about it with a friend. A friend who'd tested his own sexuality, alongside Jack. A friend who wasn't horrified, but was completely surprised. And more importantly -- entirely supportive. Jack took the opportunity given, and not only enjoyed going on for a bit about why he'd fallen for Ed, but discussed some of the more prickly issues of their involvement. Mark's perspective reassured Jack. His friend knew him better than almost anyone. Hearing him say that he had faith Jack could still change, let someone worry about him, let someone try to protect him, and let himself need that person, meant a lot. More than a lot, he told himself.
He wondered how much a plane ticket to London cost these days, and whether Ed could get any time off after this case was finished, and if anyone would put two and two together if they took a vacation concurrently. Anyone like Serena. Mark was asking about her, and Jack was trying to put some words to how he was feeling that morning. He and Ed had discussed her over breakfast; for the first time he told Ed of her snooping into his life to prove a point about privacy and internet security. Ed had been livid. His anger had refueled Jack's.
He was in the midst of describing Serena's attempt to set him up on a blind date when the woman's voice from behind him made him nearly jump off his chair.
"Looks like you're chatting with your roommate?" she asked.
He grabbed the mouse and minimized the messenger window, his heart pounding. He spun his chair quickly. "Do you usually sneak up on someone without announcing your presence," he snapped, "or were you trying to find out more about my personal life?"
Serena blushed hotly and stepped back. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."
Jack shook his head, feeling irritated, but now at himself. "No, I apologize. Was there something you needed?" He knew his tone was still sharp, so he tried to breathe deeply to calm down.
"I just wanted to say good morning." She hesitated. "Jack -- I thought we'd worked all of that out. Before. Was there something else you needed to talk about?"
What he wanted to say and what he could were polar opposites. He sighed. "I don't think so. I would appreciate some privacy for another half hour."
Her mouth pursed even further than normal. "Fine. Maybe you should lock your door then," she said with an edge of sarcasm, before turning and leaving his office.
Irritation at himself reverted back to irritation with her. He shook his head again, and bit his lower lip, staring at the corridor through the venetian blinds. "Maybe I'll just do that," he muttered. He swiveled, and went back to Mark, apologizing for the intrusion. He ranted for a bit, then asked about air fares. A picture of him and Ed, cozying up together in a hotel somewhere in the English countryside, with a fire blazing and a nice big bed brought a smile to his face. He relaxed into his chair. A slight tingle of soreness in his ass brought an even bigger smile out. He didn't fight it. Ed amongst the quilts was a nice daydream. One he'd hold onto.
Ed leaned against the window sill and folded his arms. He and Lennie were in an interrogation room, with the speaker off and the interior door open so they'd know if anyone entered the outer alcove. Lennie sat in a chair, waiting for him to talk. Ed didn't make him wait long, because he wanted this out in the open, over and done with. They had too much to do.
"I know you told Jack about the diary, Lennie," he said. Seeing the look on his partner's face, he quickly amended his statement. "Well, I know that you told him in a roundabout way. But you still said something. I want to know why."
Lennie's mouth tightened even further than it had been. "So I'm right in assuming that the two of you talked about it?"
Ed nodded.
"I said something because you're my partner. And I'm worried about you," Lennie stated.
"You don't need to worry about me."
Lennie huffed. "Ed - you haven't been thinking clearly. You wanted to punch that guy yesterday. And now you're putting your job on the line for McCoy? Someone who only has casual, anonymous sex with men?!"
Ed gritted his teeth. "It's not like that with Jack and me, Lennie! Why won't you believe that?"
Lennie stood up. "Look -- I asked the guy. How he saw the two of you." He stabbed the tabletop with his finger. "And you know what he said?"
Assuming it was a rhetorical question, Ed didn't answer. But Lennie wasn't continuing. "What did he say?" Ed asked.
"He wouldn't answer me. He evaded the question."
"And so what - you assumed then that he was just using me? Why didn't you assume that maybe Jack thought it was none of your business?!"
"You're my partner. He knows you're my business, when it affects an investigation and otherwise. He could have answered me. I'm sorry, Ed, but he was very evasive." Lennie put his hands on his hips.
Ed could feel a bubble of laughter starting in the back of his throat. He cleared it, and tried not to smile. "Lennie. Jack is not using me. I'm absolutely certain of that. If you need to hear it from him, I'll arrange it." He sobered. "But I don't like feeling that I can't trust you, man. I don't want you going behind my back."
"Well, that's too bad, because I'm going to watch out for you whether you like it or not. And if that means I have to go to your boyfriend and tell him that you're on the edge of big trouble, then that's what I'll do."
Ed looked at him. He sighed deeply and rubbed a hand down his face. "You're stubborn," he said, "did anyone ever tell you that?"
"Why the hell do you think I pay alimony?"
"Exactly." Ed took out his cell phone and pulled up a number he'd added to his phone book four days before.
Jack's phone rang, and after excusing himself from the conversation with Serena, he answered.
"Hey," said Ed, "are you alone?"
"No, I'm not." Jack couldn't help himself, however, and smiled to hear the man's voice. He lowered his glance to some papers on his desk.
"Okay, well then just answer yes or no. I'm here with Lennie and he's having some difficulty believing that you're serious in your intentions toward me."
"I see. That's what we suspected, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it is. So I'm going to hold the phone up so he can hear -- I want you to answer me honestly. Do you love me?"
He had to hand it to his lover. Direct and to the point. He didn't hesitate. "Yes, I do," he said, putting as much emotion into it as he could.
"And do you want just casual sex with me?"
"Eddie, come on...," Lennie moaned.
"No, I don't."
"Okay," Lennie said quickly, "I got it. Just don't go asking him about what the two of you are doing in bed to prove your point to me. I got it."
Jack coughed in an effort not to laugh. "So, is everything all right now?"
"Yeah, Lennie's heading out the door. Thank you."
"My pleasure. Any time."
"Any time? Any time I want to hear you say sweet nothings to me, I can just call? We'll have to get you a cell phone, then."
Jack turned his chair so he could look out the window rather than at the person sitting at the T-table. "That could be arranged, I think. As long as I could do the same. Any time," Jack teased.
"I can see you calling in the middle of an interrogation, hey, babe, do you love me?" Ed started to laugh. "Not now, honey, he's about to confess..."
"Turnabout is fair play, after all. But the 'babe' thing, I don't know..." He chuckled.
Ed slowly stopped laughing, and his voice lowered. "I gotta go, get the warrant, head to Jersey. I want this guy, Jack."
"I know. Me, too."
As they ended the conversation, Jack's eyes were not focused on the view before him. He pictured the man he loved, sitting on the edge of a table, with the small phone pressed to his ear. When he heard Ed say "I love you," he knew that's what he'd been yearning for. Someone to say that to him, whenever, and wherever the mood struck. The emptiness that had been a part of his life for so long was disappearing. He'd fallen fast and hard, in a whirlwind. But Ed, the real Ed, was gradually winding his way permanently into Jack's life and setting up residence deep inside. It felt right, and astonishing at the same time.
He hung up the phone. Mark's words flashed in front of his eyes. 'What's a week? I knew in two days. Time can be meaningless, J. A human construct...' I love you, too, Ed.
He looked up from what he'd been staring at. "So. Where are we on the deposition from Mrs. Hahn?"
Serena stopped writing notes and shuffled a few papers aside. She handed the referred-to transcript to him. "I've marked the relevant answers. I think we've got one or two avenues to explore."
He opened the deposition. I love you, too, Ed.
The door to the interrogation room opened just as Ed entered the outer alcove. Reina walked in, smiling at him, then closed the door behind her. She handed him a sheet of paper.
"From Mary -- she faxed it to me a few minutes ago. It's her statement about what she saw at the parade, and how it correlated with the order of floats and marchers. Looks like the Tide did have a float, and it hadn't come by yet."
Ed smiled, too. "That was quick. What did she do, park herself outside the parade office or something?"
Reina shrugged. "She's motivated. Like all of us. Actually, she contacted the organizers last evening, right after we left your place, they agreed to meet her at the office."
Ed scanned the report, noting that the officer had been very careful to document the reasons why she remembered the events of the summer before, as well as careful in her description of the clothing the people were wearing. He raised his eyes. "Great. Would you call her and thank her? I won't have time until late."
Reina grinned outright. "Sure, I'd be happy to."
"Oh? As in 'gee, I think I'll take advantage of this and ask her to lunch? Or dinner?'"
"Hey, at least she's a cop. Not a lawyer," she retorted. "God, Ed, you could not have shocked me more."
He looked down his nose at her.
"Relax," she continued, "don't get your knickers bunched. I didn't say it was a bad shock, just a shock. I have to admit, you two are kind of cute together. If one could use the word 'cute' with McCoy."
He huffed. "Cute isn't a word I'd use to describe him. And before you ask, I'm not going to tell you what word, or words, I'd use." He grinned, relenting under her stare. "Sexy."
She rolled her eyes, but was still smiling. "You boys - always sex on the brain." She opened the door to the hallway, then looked over her shoulder. "Going to bring him to the next get together?"
He pointed to the door. "We're going."
She made a noise and proceeded to leave. He followed, and though they'd dropped their professional masks back down he muttered under his breath directly beside her, "You'll have her in bed after one date, I bet."
She almost lost her composure. She did manage a halfhearted glare right before they walked back in the squad room.
"Hey, Ed," Lennie said as Ed joined him at their desks, "I found Abbott's provider. At least the name of it."
"I'm impressed. Bank records?"
"Yeah - so now you can get the address just like you did yesterday."
Ed sat down at his desk. "Lennie - when are you going to learn how to go on-line?" He booted up his laptop.
"When the Mets win the pennant."
He shot him a look, then logged on to the internet, sipping his coffee. Within three minutes he had the address. The provider was one he'd heard of before; their headquarters was in Southern California, but they had another corporate office in Manhattan. Possibly good news. "Okay, let's go see Lieu. I've got something to show both of you, too."
As they walked the short distance to her office, he handed Lennie the report from Mary. The other man was still reading when they sat in front of their commanding officer's desk. He looked up.
"Is this reliable?" he asked Ed.
"Yes, I believe it is."
"What've you got?" Van Buren asked them both.
Lennie handed her the report, while Ed explained how he'd acquired it. How credible the officer in question was, how she'd been mini-interrogated by not only her fellow officers the night before, but by the EADA.
"Off the record, of course," the lieutenant said.
"Yes, off the record," Ed replied, "but Officer Bryant was very clear, about seventy-five percent sure. I'd like to check both vics' closets and see if there's clothing that matches. It's a long shot, but it puts Abbott and Ryerson together, last year. Possibly looking for Crymson, which I admit is only speculation, but still worth pursuing."
Van Buren nodded, removed her glasses and handed the report back. "I agree."
They briefly discussed the internet service providers. Van Buren had made arrangements with the Jersey City homicide bureau and they'd obtained a warrant for Crymson's provider. Ed and Lennie were to go there first. She said she'd get the paperwork together for a warrant for Abbott's provider; hopefully she'd secure one by lunchtime. They had another couple of hours to wait before there was any answer from the San Mateo, California, DA's office about Ryerson's.
She also told them that there was still no sign of Don Marsh, burglar, at his apartment building. Whether he was taking a trip with the bounty from his latest "employer", or just visiting his mother, they didn't know. Lennie said he thought the man was likely dead and Ed couldn't really find a good argument against that theory. Van Buren was giving it another day, after that she'd start pulling in his associates for a chat or two.
Latent had found only one thing that was the least bit helpful. On a glass in Ryerson's sink, they'd found Abbott's fingerprints. Proof to back up the doorman's story. What hadn't been found was blood. At either apartment. They still didn't know where the three victims had been murdered.
Ed was anxious to go, grateful when he and his partner were finally walking out to the car. After their trip to Jersey, they'd meet Abbott's co-workers and then check out her apartment again. Lennie had taken Ryerson's answering machine tape, along with a player, in the hope that her voice could be identified. Ed relaxed somewhat as the car wound its way through Manhattan, but Lennie had to ask him twice to stop tapping on the car door with his fingers. After some good-natured bantering about relaxation techniques, he felt better. He'd forgiven the man. They were a team again, hunting a killer. What they did best.
"Well," Lennie said, "that was easier than I thought it would be. Wham, bam, thank you email people."
Ed had the log of Crymson's email activity in his hand, and butterflies in his stomach. "That didn't rhyme," he muttered. They had the potential for finding the killer in their possession, and he scanned the papers, wishing somehow the email address would jump out at him. He rued the fact that both Abbott and Ryerson's providers were popular ones, and that Crymson seemed to get a lot of email each day, for finding activity between the three of them wasn't possible without more specifics.
Lennie sighed. "And it wasn't nearly as satisfying as the other version."
"Now who's talking about casual, anonymous sex?" he teased.
They got in the car. "The only time I ever did anonymous," Lennie said, "was in college. We saved up and hired a hooker."
He stared at him as they pulled out of the parking lot. "You went to college?"
"Very funny, Ed, very funny...," the other man shot back.
Laughing gently, he looked out the window, and let himself be distracted. By memories. By the image of Jack's flushed face, framed by the tiles on his shower wall. Of hot, shining eyes. Kissable lips.
Once again, they were sitting across from the employer of one of their victims, but the difference between this person and the man in the bank couldn't have been greater. Here sat a woman whose clothes were just as expensively cut, but had a style that screamed to them city art crowd. Long, tight black skirt, a bulky gold sweater, black boots and an abundance of bracelets all complimented her short, jet black hair. She was also much more visibly upset than her counterpart -- clearly from shock and grief, rather than worry about who would find out. Ed and Lennie waited until she had blown her nose and taken a few really deep breaths.
"I apologize, Detectives," she said. "How can we help you find the person who did this?"
"You don't need to apologize, ma'am," Lennie replied. "We understand. And no offense, but there was no indication in her apartment that anyone from here tried to contact Ms. Abbott, to find out why she hadn't come to work."
"That's because she was on vacation. It wasn't a planned one, she told me on Friday that she needed some personal time." The woman took a drink of water from a tall glass. "She didn't elaborate, and I didn't pry."
"Oh?" Lennie's eyebrows quirked.
"No. I trusted that she had good reasons. She had been fairly upset that day."
Ed jumped in. "How long had she worked for you?"
"A little more than a year... let me see," she said, rifling through her file drawer, eventually pulling out a folder and opening it. "Here's her record. She started in the spring of last year. So a year and a half. Approximately."
"May we have a copy of that?" Ed asked. She nodded. "What did she do here?"
"Some clerical work, and some sales. She was learning how to be a dealer."
"Did she have any regular clients?" he continued.
"A few. One man in particular bought routinely, every month or so. And he'd only acquire through her."
Ed's heart began to thud. "What's his name?"
She leaned forward and looked through more files that were stacked on her desk. She opened one. "This is his latest purchase agreement. Thomas J. Ryerson."
Ed and Lennie looked at each other sharply. "What's the date on that?" Lennie asked.
"October tenth. One week ago yesterday. Why?"
Lennie said, "Because unless he's already paid for whatever it is he bought, you might not be seeing any money soon. He's dead, too."
She dropped the file and covered her mouth with the fingers of one hand. Ed had a momentary thought that she might pass out, but she recovered within a minute. She drank more water. "Oh, dear," she finally said.
Ed showed her the snapshots of both Ryerson and Crymson; she identified the art buyer, but not the club owner. Then Lennie played the tape. Hearing Karen Abbott's worried and upset voice was difficult; the woman across the desk darted her eyes from Ed to Lennie and back again. She nodded, but had to clear her throat before she could answer them.
They talked to the other people who worked in the gallery, but no one had much more to tell them than what they already knew. They looked through Abbott's desk and files. There was an address book, which they took to compare with the one that had been recovered from her apartment. But a quick look at it showed them that neither of the other victims were listed.
"Lennie," Ed said quietly as they sat at her desk, "notice what we haven't found for either Abbott or Ryerson? Friends. It's like they had no social life to speak of. Ryerson was picking up men at the Tide, Abbott kept whatever private life she had to herself. But from the dearth of names and addresses in either of her books, she didn't socialize with anyone here in New York."
"And she didn't work long hours, either," Lennie said.
"Something's off," he stated. "Crymson was completely out there. These two weren't. This isn't making any sense to me."
"Me, neither. Unless he was supplying them drugs or something..."
Ed glared at him. "I don't believe that. That's not a working hypothesis."
"What happened to the open mind?"
But Ed just gave him one more glare, then stood. "I'm going to ask the owner another question."
Lennie followed him to her office, saying nothing further on the subject. Ed was glad of it, and ignored the niggling guilt he felt.
"Excuse me, ma'am," Ed said, entering, "would you happen to know Ms. Abbott's personal email address?"
She cocked her head slightly. After a brief hesitation, she told them she did. While she accessed her computer, Ed turned to Lennie; his heart was starting to thud again. The other man simply returned the gaze.
"Here it is," she said, breaking the silence. "Pika5689 at luna dot com."
Ed finished writing it in his notebook and it was all he could do not to run to the car to check Crymson's log. They thanked the gallery owner, gave her their cards and left. Ed walked quickly to where they'd parked, yanked open the car door, and grabbed the papers on the seat. He leaned against the fender and scanned the page. Lennie joined him.
His heart skipped. "Got it, Lennie. Crymson got an email from her Thursday night. He answered it early Friday morning, at one-fifteen. That was the night she called Ryerson in a panic. He was already dead." He looked back to the prior week, the only other week they had information about. "He emailed her and got email from her over a period of two days before that."
"So we've connected them again," Lennie said, his eyebrows knitting. "Phone calls both Ryerson and Crymson made to her, and now emails, too."
"Yeah," Ed agreed slowly, "we've connected them." Neither of them voiced the obvious. They still had absolutely no idea what any of it meant, other than the fact that the three victims had to have known each other. There was no other interpretation to make. Emil Skoda had been right. The killer knew them all. It was personal.
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