Disclaimer: NBC, MCA/Universal and Wolf Films owns them.
Rating: NC17
Summary: Part 13. They circle the suspect. Ed has a brush with reality. Jack has a brush with his past.
Author's Note: Thanks to my sister, to Cirocco, and to Linda for the Spanish.
Copyright July 2003 Cassatt
The sun was rising over Manhattan as they rode the streets; the rain had finally pushed through in the middle of the night. Ed had woken for its last hurrah -- a sudden deluge of water hitting the windows of Jack's bedroom. The downpour had lasted only a few minutes, then had stopped after slowing down to a soft sprinkle. The resulting quiet had been brief. City noises could be heard again. No longer in the background, but center stage. Their rightful place.
Ed got off of Jack's bike a few blocks away from the precinct, hung his helmet on the back, and said good-bye with a lift of a hand and a smile. The other man did the same, then drove away. Ed stood on the sidewalk, his hands in his overcoat pockets, and watched him leave. He sighed. Their night together had begun as soon as they'd entered Jack's apartment. They'd fallen into bed for a couple of hours of intense sex before sleeping. The stress of the prior days, Ed supposed. They had not only needed the physical connection, but the peace that came with the lovemaking. The sense of rightness. Being sure of each other. Ed stayed on the sidewalk, and watched Jack drive through traffic, until the bike eventually turned a corner and disappeared from view.
He started toward the two-seven, needing these few blocks to compartmentalize his life again. To let go of Ed who had made love with Jack, who had showered with the man two hours ago, kissed him thirty minutes ago, stopped clutching his waist five minutes ago. He was Ed who would be seeing Jack at some point during the search they'd execute that morning. The detective who would be professional with the EADA. The detective who would find what he could, and pray that the criminalists would find what they all needed to nail Richard Woodbridge to the wall.
A block away from the precinct, he ran into Reina, coming around the corner. She smiled in greeting, and walked closely by his side.
"How was your weekend?" she asked.
"On the case, or at home?"
"Both."
"Good on both counts," he answered.
She nodded, then stopped their progress with a hand on his arm. She asked in a low voice, "Ed, what happened with the group? Who breached?"
He glanced around them. Cops were going in and out of the precinct, but nobody was paying them any attention. "Like I said in my email, I don't want to talk about the whole situation...."
"Look," she said, "I defended the DA's office, because I think McCoy's one of the good guys, and besides, he obviously cares a great deal about you. But if there's someone there I shouldn't trust, I want to know who it is."
"This was more personal than professional." He brought himself up short. He honestly had no idea why he was being so circumspect; he still wanted Serena to be fired and had fantasies of being there when she was. "I'll tell you, but don't pass it around, okay?"
"Of course not."
"Serena Southerlyn." He held up his hands. "She didn't know what she had, when she got the mailing list information from the server. So she doesn't know shit about anyone. Except me."
Reina was studying him intently. "But she would have pursued it, right?"
He shrugged. "Probably."
"Why the hell was she looking into your life?" she asked, shaking her head.
He didn't answer.
"Okay," she continued, "I know, it's private, and it's complicated. But damn, Ed, she's around a lot." She looked up the street and back at him. "I never did like her much. Now I guess I can let go of trying simply because she's a woman."
They started walking again. "Dislike isn't exactly how I feel about her," he muttered.
"No, I suppose not. Frankly, I miss Carmichael," she said with a trace of wistfulness.
He chuckled. "Yeah, I bet you do...."
"We all have our fantasies."
"I thought you were against dating lawyers. What happened to Officer Bryant?" he teased quietly.
Reina merely lifted her eyebrows and grinned.
Ed grinned back at her. "Good weekend for you, too, huh?"
"Oh yeah," she murmured.
They went up the steps, heading for the briefing which Ed knew would start shortly. As soon as a search warrant was graced by a judge's signature, they'd be leaving again. Along with a number of their colleagues. Ed carried a pit of anticipation in the depths of his stomach. An itch in his fingers. He could hardly wait.
Jack strode off of the elevator, intent on picking up the Cayman bank paperwork from Serena's desk, then proceeding to his office to deal with the search warrant. By consensus, he would handle this one himself, to make absolutely certain that the judge signed it. To argue any fourth amendment issues which might be brought up. There was the strong potential for a tough sell ahead of him.
"Mr. McCoy!" Jennifer's voice stopped him.
"Yes?"
"Ms. Lewin wants to see you ASAP."
He kept the sigh to himself, thanked her, then went directly to his office. He dropped his things, changed into a suit and tie, and went out the side door. Nora's assistant waved him through. When he walked in, Nora also waved at him -- to sit, since she was on the phone. He did as she asked and tried to relax while waiting for her to finish. It wasn't easy. An attempt to use memories of his previous night's activities for distraction was almost embarrassing, as body memories came over him in a rush. Ed's hands, Ed's lips. He got up then, and looked out the window, taking a few calming breaths. He found his eyes drifting in the direction of the twenty-seventh precinct, and as he began a minor self-examination of that unconscious act, Nora called him back. He sat.
"I've been on the phone with the mayor," she said. "Yesterday for an hour, then this morning. Twice. To say he's unhappy would be an understatement. I think I've managed to convince him not to fire Woodbridge, until he is, at the very least, brought in for questioning. I've had to promise him, however, that he'll be notified within minutes of it. I believe he's already drafted the press release." She held up a hand before he could say anything. "He wrote it himself. He understands the need for discretion."
"I don't see a problem with keeping that promise. Was there anything else?"
"I'll be going with you to oversee the execution of the warrant."
He was momentarily taken aback.
"It's nothing personal, Jack -- I have complete confidence in you, and the police, as does the mayor. He wants absolutely everything to be to the letter, with all i's dotted and all t's crossed."
"Ass coverage," Jack stated.
Nora nodded. "Yes. For all of us."
"Okay."
"And Serena will be coming with us."
He saw red. "Why?"
"Because she's still second chair on the case, and my obligation is to this office, and the smooth functioning of my prosecutors. In any other circumstances, she might be there. Unless you've decided you'd prefer she be removed altogether?" Nora leaned on her elbows and looked at him calmly.
He really did not want to be discussing this right now, not with paperwork waiting, and a precinct of cops waiting. He attempted a deep breath. "I'm between a rock and a hard place," he finally admitted. "I can barely look at her. But if I say 'remove her' from this case, then from this point on, she's going to be impossible to work with. And I have no choice but to work with her, I understand that." He shot up out of his chair, unable to sit, and paced. He hated this. With a passion.
"Jack...."
He turned to her. "You just tell her to stay out of Ed's way," he said harshly. "He does not need her looking over his shoulder today. And for that matter, it might be advisable for her to steer clear of Briscoe, too. Unless she wants her head bitten off."
"That bad?"
"Did you expect it to be any different? Even on a good day, our office is not high on the cops' list of favorite city departments," he snapped. "Now she's gone after one of them."
Nora sighed, long and hard. "I'll advise her."
"Tell her to steer clear of me, too, while she's at it."
"Is that how it's going to be from now on?"
"I don't know -- but maybe it's time she learned there are consequences to her actions. And whether or not she has me behind the rock," he spat out, "she's going to have to earn my trust again. I'm not going to go out of my way to find some perspective in this whole mess."
She sat back and folded her arms. "Your position appears more vehement than it was on Saturday."
He tried another calming breath, bracing his hands on the back of the chair facing Nora's desk. "I've had the opportunity to see... to try and help Ed deal with this. And just because he's a man, and I'm a man, that doesn't mean that my loyalties should somehow be to this office before him. If this were my wife being attacked, I dare say nobody would be asking me to cut Serena some slack!" He paused. "I understand why she won't be fired, or demoted. But the onus is on her, and not me, to fix things," he finished, attempting to speak in a calmer tone of voice.
"Point taken about Ed versus a wife or girlfriend. And for the record, Jack, I believe the onus is ultimately on her as well. I'll see what I can do." A silence stretched between them as Jack kept any further comments to himself. Then she sighed again, and stood. "May I ask you a completely personal question?"
He could feel his lips start to set; he stopped the action. "Yes."
"I can see that you feel strongly for Ed, and I'm assuming that you are, in fact, in love with him. Does it feel any different than when you were in love with a woman?"
He was completely taken aback this time. "Why are you asking?"
She shrugged. "Just curious, really. An opportunity for me to learn, to understand. That's all. Well, perhaps not all. A chance for me to understand you, too. A bit better."
He let go of the chair, taking a moment to consider whether or not to answer her. He slipped his hands into his pockets. "I'd have to say that no, it doesn't feel any different. A bit more overwhelming," he answered honestly, "but that could simply be due to the person involved."
She nodded, then smiled gently. "I hope you had some relaxing time together yesterday. Aside from all of this."
"We did. It was a good day, overall."
"Good. And the meeting with Skoda?"
"Interesting. He doesn't think Woodbridge will skip, which was the main point. He also doesn't believe the man will ever confess, or be tricked into confession. Among other points he made."
"We'll talk about it in detail later, along with discussing who would be best as your replacement, should the situation arise." She picked up her glasses. "So. Go get that judge to sign us a search warrant." She smiled again.
He nodded once, and turned to leave. Half way to the door, he looked back at her. Their eyes met. He smiled at her, nodded again, but this time in silent thanks. She understood. He continued on out, across the hall, and into his office. He had what he considered one of his ridiculous urges, to pick up the phone, call Ed's cell, just to hear his voice. It had only been an hour or so since he'd heard it. Just to tell him he loved him. He'd done that, too, a hour before. He sat at his desk and retrieved an affidavit to show probable cause from the drawer. He began to fill in the blanks.
"Close the door, Ed," Lieutenant Van Buren said from behind her desk.
He followed the orders, then sat. The briefing was over; people were waiting for the go-ahead from the DA's office. Lennie was with the ME, talking over the Middleton case.
"I know," she started, "how much you want things to go our way this morning. You and Lennie will follow procedures to the letter, won't you?"
It wasn't exactly a question, and he was fully aware of that fact. Although he supposed he deserved the warning, considering his and Lennie's history, still he had some difficulty staying in his chair under her scrutiny. He finally nodded, once, in acquiescence, making every attempt to relax his jaw in the process.
"Now, about the argument I walked in on yesterday? I'm concerned that it had something to do with your relationship with McCoy spilling over into your work. Is there a problem between you and Lennie I need to know about?"
"No," he said quickly, "there's no problem. He and I are good. That was just a misunderstanding. It's all cleared up now." He plastered an innocent look on his face. Letting her know what had happened with Serena was not an option, from his perspective. The inherent complications were too great, and telling her would serve no purpose.
"If there was one, you'd tell me," she stated.
"Yes, ma'am," he answered.
There was a knock on the door; she beckoned with her hand. Lennie walked in.
"The ME has a few ideas," the man said, "that might not have occurred to the doc in Wisconsin. According to her, that is. I make no judgment about our colleagues in the dairy state."
Van Buren quirked her mouth. "Yeah, I'm sure you don't," she replied. "What did Rodgers say, specifically?"
"Some other interpretation about the potassium level in Senior's blood that would make the findings inconsistent with a heart attack while drowning. Which is what the Madison ME stated as a possibility. Rodgers will write up a report. Something about sucky something." Lennie shrugged.
"Sucky something?" Ed asked. "What does that mean?" He was ready to march to the ME's office himself. "How sure is she?"
"Hey, you know, as sure as she always is."
Van Buren chuckled. "I'd make that pretty damned sure, then."
"Well," Lennie qualified, "as a guess, is what she'll say. An educated guess."
Ed was about to ask how long it would be before she'd finish the report when Reina came through the door.
"Lieutenant," she said, handing Lieu a sheet of paper, "the DA's office just faxed over the warrant."
Everybody moved at once. As Ed pulled his coat off the rack, he only half-listened to his commanding officer give one more order. Thank you, Jack, reverberated in his mind. His stomach was fluttering. His blood was beginning to race.
Ed and Lennie got out of the car, amidst CSU vans and cop cruisers. They approached an unmarked in which two of their brethren were sipping coffee, watching the brownstone.
"Anything?" Lennie asked through the open window.
"Nothing," the woman answered. "Haven't seen anyone in or out, but curtains have been opened."
Lennie slapped the door gently. "Okay, thanks."
Ed had been pacing back and forth, unable to stand still. He waited for his partner, and then walked as quickly as Lennie would allow back across the street, and up ten steps to the stoop. Uniforms, two CSU teams, and three of their fellow homicide detectives came up behind them, some of whom could get no further than the second of the ten steps. The detectives who'd been on stakeout stayed in their car.
Jack was putting on his coat when Serena walked in. He glanced at her. "Has the application been faxed to the Justice Department?"
"Yes," she answered. She was already dressed for outside.
"Any problems?"
"No, I received confirmation. They told me they'd process it as quickly as possible. Hopefully, the Cayman bank will be served in the next day or two."
He nodded, then took his keys from his briefcase and slipped them into his inside coat pocket. Nora came through the door.
"Are we ready?" she asked.
"Yes," Serena answered.
"Good. The car is waiting."
"Chauffeured, what a treat," Serena said, smiling at them both.
Jack didn't respond. They walked out, and all he could think was that he'd be stuck in a car with her. He'd have much preferred his bike, where he was the one driving. Chauffeuring Ed would have been ideal, and very definitely his first choice. The sensation of the man, right behind him, holding his waist, pressing his thighs against Jack's hips -- it didn't get much better than that. It couldn't get much better than that. There was no comparison.
Lennie rapped loudly on the door, repeatedly, until it opened. A middle-aged Latina in a grey dress and white apron stood in front of them, her eyes darting over the crowd. Lennie held up the warrant. "New York City police. Richard Woodbridge at home?"
"No, sir," she said.
He pushed past her. "We have a warrant to search the premises," he said as he put the paper back in his breast pocket. Ed and the others followed him in.
"But...," she tried to protest.
"No," Lennie said. "We stay for as long as it takes. How many floors are there?"
She looked at him blankly.
"Cuantos pisos tiene esta casa?" Ed asked her.
"Tres." She paused. "Y un sótano, y un ático."
"Three, plus basement and attic," he translated.
"That's the right answer," Lennie replied, giving her a small grin. He went over to the supervising criminalist to discuss logistics.
Ed asked, "Donde está la oficina?" He needed to know the location of Woodbridge's office.
"Hay dos oficinas. Junto al dormitorio, en el piso segundo." She pointed across the hall, to a door on the far side of the dining room. "Es por ahí."
One upstairs, next to the bedroom, and one where she'd pointed. He and Lennie could split the task, each taking another detective with him. He'd choose Reina. He thanked the woman, and instructed her to sit on the couch in the living room to wait. He had no doubt that she likely understood a fair amount of English, but he continued to converse in Spanish, hoping that his vocabulary corresponded to her native dialect. Reina could always help, he knew, if he ran into trouble. Forming a bond with the housekeeper might be helpful in the long run, when they questioned her about the comings and goings of their prime suspect.
As he was approaching his partner, intent on discussing their part of the search, the front door opened again. In walked Nora Lewin, followed by Jack and, behind him, Serena. Ed's stomach clenched at the sight of her, as if he'd been slammed by a chunk of ice immediately below the solar plexus. Jack's eyes were boring into him when theirs locked together, and Ed read everything in the man's gaze. An apology, a request for understanding, a need to know Ed would be okay; all of it suffused with an almost fierce love. He was momentarily stunned.
"Detective Green," DA Lewin's voice interrupted the moment.
He broke the eye contact and looked at her instead.
"Would you apprise us of the situation?" she asked. "Is he at home?"
He brought them up to speed, all the while deliberately ignoring Serena. She wasn't there. She was a mote of dust on the floor, as far as he was concerned. One he would just as soon step on as sweep away. The DA instructed him to continue with what he was doing. After one more brief eye lock with Jack, he did.
The upstairs office, like the rest of the house, was well-appointed. Ed hadn't been surprised to see the high-tech computer equipment; he supposed that the man spent money on toys just obviously as he'd spent it on lush carpets, antique furniture and expensive kitchen appliances. Ed hadn't done more than a walk-through of the bedroom, but so far there was no evidence of any significant other in Woodbridge's life. Female or male. No photos on the desk or dresser, though the address book he'd found had an abundance of names. Some of whom Ed recognized from the echelons of the City's upper class. Woodbridge had managed to slink his way into higher society rather quickly, Ed thought.
He was looking through a box of CD-ROMs, labeled "back ups;" Reina was searching the three drawer wooden file cabinet nearby. An evidence carton, sitting on the desk between them, was filling up. He decided to take all of the backups and placed them inside of it.
"How's it going?" came from just inside the doorway behind him; the one voice he didn't need to hear. He ignored Serena, and glanced at Reina, who'd swiveled her head to answer.
"Fine," Reina said curtly. She turned back, meeting Ed's eyes briefly.
He sensed Serena coming closer; he continued to blatantly ignore her.
"You are going to look for the diary pages," she stated, from a few feet away.
His pulse began to race, as the tone of her voice grated on his ears, and in his brain. A hot pit of anger replaced the cold stone in his stomach. "They're not relevant," he said through clenched teeth, reading the labels on some diskettes he'd found in a drawer.
"Well, I say they are," she retorted.
Reina jumped in with, "Diary pages?" Ed supposed she was trying to diffuse the situation, but a discussion of the pages he'd destroyed was not something he wanted to see happen.
"Yes," Serena answered, with a touch of sarcasm, "didn't Detective Green tell you about them? The first victim's diary was missing some pages. They'd been torn out. I think that's significant."
Ed swiveled to look at her for the first time. Though she wore her usual bland expression, her mouth was pursed tightly. He became aware that his fist was clenched, and opened it slowly. Reina appeared confused.
"Why would that be significant?" Reina asked. "Do the dates of the entries on either side indicate the missing pages have anything to do with the timeline of this case?"
"They fit in," Serena said. She held up her hands about eight inches apart. "The book is...."
Reina interrupted her. "I've seen it," she said.
"You have?"
"Yeah, Briscoe and I looked through it to see if we could find anything other than Ryerson's sexual exploits, like a mention of the other vics."
"Well, I want you two to look for those pages amongst all of this," she said, waving her hand around the office.
Ed shot out of his chair, anger now speeding through his veins, and in a low and distinct voice he said, "I don't take orders from you." He took a step forward and let himself glare at her. "I only take orders from Jack."
Her harsh demeanor faltered for a moment, and Ed got a small thrill from that. Reina headed for the door; his eyes darted to hers as she looked back at him. She was leaving so he could blast Serena if he wanted, without witnesses. He promised himself he would buy her a beer.
"You'll take orders from me if I give them," Serena said loudly, and he was forced to look at her again.
They were alone now. The one thing Ed told himself was that he wouldn't hit her. He wanted to -- how he wanted to. But his career was more important than she was. Slugging an ADA, and not being able to say why? He'd be working as a private dick, taking surveillance photos of straight people, fucking, to prove infidelity.
"You little bitch," he spat out. "You honestly think that I'm going to listen to a damned thing you have to say to me, huh?" He took another step forward and towered over her. She retreated a step, but was glaring back at him. "I do what Jack tells me to do," he continued, "and what my boss tells me to do. Not you."
"You work under our direction!"
"Not under yours, bitch," he repeated, putting as much behind the word as he could manage and still retain some control.
"You have no right to call me names, Detective."
It was the way she said his title, like it was shit she was scraping off the bottom of her shoe. His anger turned to near rage. "Oh, but that's exactly what you wanted from me, wasn't it?!" he lashed out at her. "You expected me to be the one in your bed, sweet talking you, right?! Calling you all kinds of names. Hot names, ho-names, all about your sweet white ass! An ass you think all men are just dying for. Brothers turn you on, do they?" He watched her blush and almost laughed, but he was too far gone. "What, you didn't think I'd be told why the hell you decided to in-ves-tigate me? About how jealous you got?! How pissed you got?" He jabbed his finger in her direction with force. "Thought that was, private, maybe? Doesn't feel too good, does it?!"
The only pleasure he could get was the fact that she had no retort. She was staring at him, with that blank look of hers. A look he wanted to slap right off of her face, sending her head first down the staircase in the process. A long, tense minute passed.
"Now," he finally said with pure hatred, "get the fuck away from me!"
She opened her mouth, but suddenly Jack was trotting through the doorway. "Serena! Go downstairs. Now," he ordered harshly. DA Lewin was right behind him, and herded the woman out, glancing at Ed briefly, shutting the door as they left the room. It all happened so fast that Ed was still waiting for Serena's response. His hands were clenched. His heart was pounding. He needed to hit something.
"Ed."
He focused. Jack was right in front of him. The man clasped his face with both hands and repeated himself. Eyes dark with emotion stared down into him.
"I hate her," Ed hissed.
"I know," Jack said quietly. "I know. I'm sorry."
His heart was slowing down. "She was ordering me around. I lost it. I didn't touch her...."
"It's okay." Jack pulled him into an embrace, and Ed clutched at him, inhaling with a sharp gasp as the embrace tightened. Jack murmured words of comfort, trying to calm him down, for they both knew he couldn't afford to lose it further. The place was crawling with people. He held on, letting the press of Jack's body soothe him, slow his heart rate, help him breathe. He held on.
There was a gentle knock on the door. After one last squeeze, Ed let go, and went to open it. Reina came in, apologizing, telling him that the closed door was getting suspicious. She confessed that she'd been the one to get Jack, when she heard the words escalating to a point with which she'd been uncomfortable. She didn't want Ed to get into trouble. He thanked her, then told Jack what Serena had been on about. The man's gaze intensified for a long moment.
"Ignore the request, Reina," Jack said. "I agree. Not relevant. Keep an eye out for them, just in case, but don't spend any time specifically looking."
"Yes, sir," she replied.
"So, what have you found? Any banking records?"
"I'd just gotten to that section of the files when Ms. Southerlyn came in," she said.
Jack smiled. "Good. I'll leave you both to it." He touched Ed's chest, out of view of the hallway. "You okay?"
Ed nodded. He was okay, in fact -- that hadn't been an effort to put on a false front. As he watched Jack leave, he didn't feel a strong impetus to know what the man's plans were, in regards to Serena. Ed was feeling nothing, right then, but relief. He'd seen the enemy, he'd laid into her, and he would freely admit that it had been well worth it. The rage he'd been holding onto for three days had dissipated, enough. Just enough. Just barely enough.
Jack wasn't sure what to do with himself, as he went down the staircase. He was so angry he wanted to spit. He knew he'd be smart to stay away from Serena. He didn't care where she was or what she was doing, as long as she was not in the second floor office. Now, standing in the first floor hallway, he had few options. Go left, and check on Briscoe's progress. Go right, he'd be in the living room, where the housekeeper had been sitting. Where he and Nora had been making their first attempts at questioning her when Reina had approached him. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Put his mind back on the case. He could also go back up, and check the progress of the criminalists, who'd started on the top floor. But he trusted forensics to the experts.
"Jack," Nora's voice beckoned from the living room.
He turned, swearing to himself, and went to her. She was sitting on an easy chair. Serena was sitting on another, which he saw only out of his peripheral vision.
Nora said, "Who do you know, besides Detective Green, who can translate for us? We need to continue what we'd started."
He couldn't resist. "I agree, I don't think that Ed would be a good choice," he replied, shooting a glare at Serena. She merely looked back at him.
Nora sighed. "Shall we check with Detective Briscoe, to see who he'd recommend?"
"No, actually Ramirez can help. The woman working with Ed." He paused. "I'll go get her, send her down. I'll stay up there until she's finished with you. Help sort through the files."
Nora nodded and he went back the way he'd come. Gladly, truth be told. As he had fifteen minutes before, he trotted up the stairs. This time, his heart beat wasn't reverberating in his ear drums.
Jack was looking through the bottom drawer of the file cabinet when he noticed a folder marked with a "W." Intrigued, he pulled it out. It contained what he thought was a rather strange collection of things from Woodbridge's former life in Wisconsin. A copy of his college transcript, some clippings about his parents' death, a perpetual care contract from the cemetery where they had been interred, a photocopy of a house deed, and two letters. He called Ed away from the task of searching through the closet for clothing, or a gun. They studied the contents together.
The letters didn't have envelopes, nor any return address notations in their margins. The first one was from someone named Mrs. Downes who apparently had been the suspect's grade school teacher. It was a letter of condolence and support.
"From the sound of this," Ed said, "seems like it was no secret that Froendlich suspected Woodbridge of murder. To be expected, in a small town."
"Yes, but why did he keep this one?" Jack asked. "He must have gotten others, probably lots of condolence cards. There's usually a signature book at the funeral, too. I know my mother kept my father's...."
"My dad's was kept," Ed agreed. "I don't get it, either. But this guy is weird."
Jack handed Ed the second letter. "I'm guessing this is from Abbott. Written very near to the time of the parents' murder. Again -- why keep this? It has only a few innuendos, nothing spelled out. She seems upset at their unspecified actions, and at the fact that he was leaving town. And it's just signed 'Karen,' nothing significant in it at all."
Ed finished reading it. "Yeah, for all anyone would know they'd had sex and she wasn't happy about it."
"Still, it's corroborating evidence that he's the same Richard Woodbridge," he said, placing the folder in their second evidence box. He had found financial records, including information about the man's personal accounts in Cayman banks. From what he could tell, after a quick scan of it all, Richard Woodbridge's net worth was close to a million dollars. He had made some very lucrative investments in the fifteen years since he'd sold off his parents' properties.
"You know, Jack," Ed said, rubbing his mustache, "why didn't he do something with this file after he'd done the three vics? He was so careful about cleaning up any evidence of even knowing them, and yet he leaves this around?"
"Maybe he simply got a little too cocky for his own good. We wouldn't be here unless we'd already discovered that he knew the victims in Wisconsin. He assumed we'd never find that out in the first place."
"Twisted," Ed replied.
Reina walked into the room and updated them on what she'd learned from the housekeeper. A few details Jack already knew: the woman was not a live-in, but arrived at six am every day except Sunday; the suspect had left the house that morning at six-thirty, which was a half an hour before the surveillance car had arrived. Her workday ended at six pm., after she'd prepared her employer's evening meal. On the day that the first victim had been murdered, Wednesday, October eleventh, Woodbridge had called her late that night to tell her he was going out of town for a week, and wouldn't need her for the duration. He'd given her a paid vacation. When asked if this had ever happened before, she said that it had. A few times over the course of the three years she'd been working for him. Always spur of the moment. According to her, the man was very generous with his compensation.
Reina relayed that the woman stated that nothing was different in the house when she'd returned to her job the Thursday before, but the impression had been left that she wasn't being entirely forthcoming. Reina felt the woman was afraid of the police, but her need for employment was superceding her fear, and she'd become reticent. The DA had decided to give the housekeeper a breather, and continue the questioning later. They had, however, obtained a description of the clothing the suspect had been wearing that morning, which had been added to the APB.
Ed's phone rang, and while he answered it, Jack told Reina that the closet was the only thing left to search in the room. He was half-listening to Ed, and heard a change in the man's tone of voice. Something had happened. Ed ended the call.
"Jack, that was Lieu. Don Marsh just turned himself in to the two-seven. She's waiting for you before questioning him," he said, smiling full out for the first time in hours.
Jack's heart rate took off. "I need a cab," he replied, smiling in return, holding out his hand for the phone.
Jack had been gone for almost half an hour when a uniform found Ed and Lennie in the bedroom, searching through an extensive walk-in closet.
"What?" Lennie asked the woman.
"Unmarked outside just radioed -- the suspect was seen entering this block, then turned his vehicle around and left. They're in pursuit."
"Shit," Ed swore under his breath.
"Got that right," Lennie replied.
Don Marsh didn't look like the last description they had of him. His hair was still short, but bleached on the ends; Jack couldn't tell if it was growing out or deliberate. He had a dark, cropped beard and wore earrings in both ears. A hoop in one, a gold stud in the other. Neatly dressed in a tight sweater and jeans with more jewelry on his fingers and he could almost pass for a bar patron in the Village. His lawyer, a woman named Carlyle, was sitting, by his side, across the table in the interrogation room. Jack and Van Buren were the only officials present, though two officers were stationed in the outside corridor.
"My client," the lawyer said, after introductions had been made, "understands that an offer might be on the table."
"That depends upon what he has to tell us," Jack answered.
"He might have some information that could help you with the homicide investigation."
"He might be complicit. I don't make offers without the facts."
"You don't have much to tie him to the homicide..."
Jack interrupted her. "We have enough. An eyewitness who saw him remove something from the club that is directly tied to the motive behind the murders." He shrugged, and addressed Marsh. "You tell us what happened, then we talk."
"I ain't going up for my third strike," the man stated, both to Jack and to Carlyle. "I didn't have to come in here."
"And we realize that, Mr. Marsh," Jack said to him alone. "So why did you?"
"Off the record?" the lawyer asked.
Jack nodded.
"I was getting worried about my girlfriend, and my mother," Marsh answered. "They've been seeing a car, following them, and it wasn't one of yours. But it was the same car. In the past two, three days, usually at night. My mother saw it parked on her street last night. There wasn't anyone in it, and that got her scared." He paused.
"So you've been in contact with your mother," Van Buren asked, "and your girlfriend?"
"Yeah," he answered.
"How?"
The lawyer interjected, "He's not going to answer that yet." She prodded Marsh to continue.
"I figured it was the man who'd hired me, to get the computer out of the bar. He's probably considering how to encourage them to tell him where to find me." His hands began to work together, on the table. "I can take care of them, but it made more sense to get him off our backs altogether."
"Are we talking about Richard Woodbridge?" Jack asked.
"Well, I didn't know him by that name when he hired me, but now I know that that's the guy."
"How did you ID him?"
Marsh stilled his hands and peered closely at Jack. "Because I have something that helped me figure it out. I did some investigating of my own. Thought it might come in handy."
Jack was getting frustrated, but he tried not to show it. "What is it that you have? The computer? You never gave it to him?"
Marsh grinned for a moment. "I gave him what he wanted, but I covered my own ass in the process. He'd been giving me the creeps that night, he had that look about him. So instead of me handing over the CPU and getting the rest of my money, I left the thing at the meeting place and split. But I'd detoured to my apartment before that. I made a copy of the whole hard drive."
Jack's heart skipped; he met Anita's eyes briefly. "You have a copy of everything that was on that computer?"
"Yeah. I do." He glanced at his lawyer.
She asked, "What kind of offer can you make him?"
Jack held up his hand. "A few more questions. Mr. Marsh, why is Woodbridge making threatening overtures? You gave him the CPU."
Marsh shook his head. "This guy doesn't like loose ends. He never paid me my entire fee, and I think that's making him nervous. But then again, I think he'd planned on killing me that night, and a missed opportunity like that would make him doubly nervous. I'm not surprised that he did three people."
Jack didn't believe him. "Did you get a message to him, too, asking him for more money?"
Marsh leaned over to confer with his lawyer. They whispered together. Then he straightened. "I might have thought about doing that, but I never did."
Jack sighed. He still wasn't sure this was the whole story, but they really had no way to verify any of it. "How much did he pay you?"
"Five grand. Was supposed to be ten."
"When exactly did you learn that he'd killed someone?"
Marsh shook his head again. "I didn't know it when he hired me, and I didn't even know it, for sure, until I'd read that notice in the papers, about the owner of the bar getting done. I knew that it was a gay bar, and after Woodbridge was acting so wired that night and all, I picked up a gay weekly. To see if I could find out what the hell he'd pulled me into."
Van Buren asked, "So you did see him Sunday night? Before you did the job?"
"Yeah. It was kind of an open-ended deal. He would decide which night to do it, and let me know."
"What do you mean by him acting wired?" she continued.
The lawyer held up her hand. "I think that's enough. Is there a deal here?"
Jack asked, "Where's the copy of the hard drive?"
"It's safe," she answered.
"You've seen it?"
"Yes."
"You can get it to us today?"
She nodded. "That shouldn't be a problem."
Jack stood and walked to the window, needing to move, needing to think. He turned and motioned to Anita to go outside with him. They stepped into the alcove, behind the one-way mirror.
"What's your take on him?" he asked her.
She seemed surprised that he'd want her opinion. "Well, I think he's telling enough truths. I think he might have done more than consider the possibility of blackmailing the suspect, but does that really matter?"
"No, not really. We probably should kiss his feet," he said with a grin, "and that's what I don't like."
"I believe that he didn't know about the murders. Not his style to get involved with that."
"I agree." He shrugged. "Okay. I'll give him a walk on the usual conditions."
She nodded and opened the inside door. They both sat at the table.
"On the condition that he answers all questions truthfully, and testifies, and turns over the copy of the victim's hard drive, there will be no charges filed," Jack stated. "I find out he's lying, and the deal is off -- he's charged with his third strike."
Marsh exhaled loudly and collapsed against the back of his seat. His lawyer patted his shoulder, then reached down into her briefcase. She placed a zip disk, in its case, on the table.
"You've got yourself a deal, Mr. McCoy," she said. "And a witness."
Jack picked up the disk. It was a very small thing to be so vital. He handed it to Anita and asked her to get the tech-lab to make hard copies of everything on it. He and the detectives had some reading to do. But first, Mr. Marsh had more story to tell.
Ed walked down the back stairs to the basement, with Lennie behind him and a CSU technician leading the way. He had just finished pulling down the attic stairs, on the third floor, with Lennie watching, when the CSU man had found them. There still had been no handgun discovered; only the extreme ends of the brownstone were left to search. Lennie ordered Reina to take over the upper extremity. They were on their way to the lower, but not to look for firearms.
"Right over here," the criminalist said, walking them to an area of CSU activity. Numbered cards were propped on the dirty cement floor. A photographer was working in one section. Two criminalists, in another section, were using swabs to collect the blood that had been discovered. It was human blood, that much they knew.
"This dripped through," the criminalist explained, "between the planks of the wood floor above. Old house like this one, there's gaps. We initially discovered blood along the inside edge of the floor boards." He pointed overhead.
Ed tried to gauge their position, in relation to the first floor. "Where are we? We're near the front of the house again...."
"Under the front room, across the hall from the living room," the man answered.
"The study," Lennie said with a touch of sarcasm. He'd made more than one comment about the number of rooms that one man appeared to need in order to live. Two offices, five bedrooms, four bathrooms, etcetera.
"It doesn't look like there's a lot of blood here," Ed said.
"No, certainly not enough to indicate someone bled out up there. Come on back upstairs," he said, indicating that the answer was in said study.
The three men were walking through the kitchen, heading for the main hallway.
"Can you tell how long the blood's been down there?" Ed asked.
"Not precisely. The drops are all dry. There are some damp patches on the floor, probably from the rain yesterday, but there's no indication of flooding. There's no reason to think that the blood took an inordinately long time to dry. There's only a small amount of dust covering it. I'd say it's recent."
They entered the study. CSU technicians were working here, too.
Lennie asked, "So can you say the blood was there less than a month?"
The man stopped their progress. "To some degree of certainty," he replied.
"Good enough for me," Lennie said.
He brought them to the edge of another marked off area. "What we've got here is a pattern of blood in the cracks. The pattern forms an L-shape. Looks like there was an area rug, maybe with a pad, butting right up against it. Whoever bled here, likely did it on the rug, but it seeped out onto the floor."
"That rug," Ed said, pointing to an oriental rug rolled against the wall, "was found here? Anything on it?"
"It was here, but it's not a rug that someone bled out on. Failed the luminol."
"Is it new?" Lennie asked.
"No, and it's been recently cleaned."
"How can you tell?" Ed asked with some surprise.
The criminalist tapped his nose. "Smell. Smells like rug cleaner."
Ed looked at Lennie. "I think it's time I had a talk with the housekeeper."
"Yeah," Lennie agreed with a sigh. "Ask her how many rugs the owner has around the place. For all we know, there's ten more stashed in the attic."
Ed nodded, and took a good look around the room. If all three vics had been shot here, could Woodbridge have managed to get them to stand in the same place each time? That seemed so unlikely. He thought about Crymson, and his basic personality. They were certain that the man had met with his killer to confront him, and that all Crymson knew at the time was that Ryerson and Abbott were missing. Would Crymson have come here without protection? He may have been the same caring, decent man he'd been in college, but Ed hazarded a guess that he was very different in one way. He was more savvy, more street-smart. Would he have come here at all?
He finally left the study for the living room, across the hall. He heard Lennie order CSU to run DNA tests on every spot of blood they found. He braced himself, assuming that Serena was somewhere on this side of the house. He wanted to know, again, what Jack had learned from Don Marsh. If anything.
Jack swore loudly, stood, and paced to the window. He turned back to Van Buren, who was sitting at her desk, hands clenched together on the surface, staring at the phone. "How the hell did they lose him?" he demanded.
She parted her hands and shifted in her seat so she could meet him in the eye. "It's very difficult these days to follow someone, given the new regulations about public safety."
She was hedging, and for some reason the look on her face diffused his initial anger. The part of him that knew the police were doing the best they could took over. That didn't usually happen, he would normally pay no attention to that part, but right then he could only tell himself to take a deep breath. This case had everyone on edge. He returned to his chair. "What happened, in detail?"
Her eyebrows momentarily lifted, as if she'd expected the tirade he'd aborted. She sighed. "In detail," she replied slowly, "the suspect took the officers on a route which ended when he entered a parking structure. He'd done it before they'd turned the corner, so it took them a minute or so to determine that's where he'd gone. They found his car parked on the fourth level, which also took them some time. They searched the structure and the surrounding area. A third pair of officers saw two cars leave the parking garage. We don't know, at this point, if one of those cars had our suspect in it."
He shook his head in disgust. "And no witnesses saw anyone exit on foot?"
She shook her head, then lifted the receiver. "I need to call Lennie and Ed, let them know."
He nodded. "Tell them about Marsh's contribution." At least Ed would get some good news. When Jack received the hard copies of what was, at that moment, being printed off of the zip disk, he'd take them back to his office and begin reading. Nora had promised him she'd keep Serena under better control. He trusted that the calm was following the storm, which was how it sometimes went with Serena. Sometimes she knew when to keep her mouth shut.
He assumed that they'd find nothing in Woodbridge's car. There was no way the man would abandon it and leave incriminating evidence behind. He was too smart for that. And so far, he'd made only one mistake. Hiring Don Marsh. Well, two, Jack amended. He should have gotten his hands on his victims' resumes.
Ed finished talking with the housekeeper, and before finding his partner he went into the dining room, where DA Lewin and Serena were sifting through the financial files they'd gathered. He ignored the woman he'd come to detest. Did not even glance in her direction. Surprisingly, his intense physical reactions to her proximity had abated. His adrenaline didn't surge, his brain didn't burn, his jaw didn't clench. If he'd felt like saying anything at all to her, that's what he'd tell her. She no longer had an effect.
The DA looked closely at him and spoke before he had the chance to. "Doesn't look like you're bearing good news, Ed."
"Well, good news and bad news, ma'am. The suspect has managed to evade capture," he said, "but Don Marsh has turned over some crucial evidence. He made a copy of the computer hard drive that he was hired to steal." He still couldn't believe it, and was chomping at the bit to learn what Crymson had saved.
"I see," Ms. Lewin replied. "So we might have a stronger case, but the man I want to prosecute might be on his way to the Caribbean."
Ed didn't think that was the situation; he believed Skoda. He shrugged. "He might be," he said. "The APB's been expanded."
"I suppose it's time for me to notify the mayor," she said. "Give me the details."
He nodded, and did exactly that.
In his office, Jack had just finished sorting the copies of everything from Crymson's hard drive. There were piles for club business accounts, business correspondence, personal email, personal correspondence and miscellaneous. The final pile contained anything Jack didn't feel would be relevant during this initial read-through. He had already placed a call to Anthony, intending to give him copies of the copies. His phone rang; he reached for it from the back of his desk, half hoping it was Ed and assuming it was Anthony.
"Jack McCoy," he said into the receiver.
"Hey, Jack." The whiskey-rich, Southern drawl made him grin full out.
"Abby. How nice to hear from you. Is this business or pleasure? Or both?" he teased.
"Pure pleasure, I hope. You free for dinner tonight? Cause I am, and we're due," she answered.
He didn't have to think long at all. "I'm free, and I'd love to."
"Any chance it can be on the early side? Or are you still working 'til seven-thirty each night?"
"Early is fine," he replied. They settled on a time, and a place that was close to his neighborhood. That taken care of, she ended the conversation. Jack was still grinning as he hung up the phone. It had been at least two months since they'd seen each other and they had some catching up to do. His grin faded as he realized what that meant, but after thinking about the situation from all angles, his grin returned. It would be fine. It would be good to see her.
He picked up the email correspondence and the personal correspondence piles, sat in his desk chair, put his feet up on an open bottom drawer, and began to read.
Ed was back at the precinct, having grabbed a very quick, very late lunch with Lennie on the return trip. His partner was working on writing up the first of their reports. CSU was logging in the forensic evidence that had been collected. Reina and the other two detectives were writing more reports.
Ed had other ideas for the best use of his time, and had already been to Van Buren's office, asking her if he could review the copies of Crymson's hard drive. He'd been told that Jack had one set and was likely reviewing them as he and Lieu spoke. The implication was that there was little point to him doubling the effort. Still, he'd repeated his request. She'd eventually relented, handed him the stack and wished him luck.
He'd taken an interrogation room, and sorted through the papers as quickly as he could. He didn't have the leeway to work late -- he and Peter had a dinner date. Eventually, he had a pile containing personal correspondence, and one for all of the emails. Those were what he wanted to read first. He removed his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. He took three minutes to get himself a cup of coffee. Then he sat, and began to read.
Jack finished reading the letter and had to close his eyes for a long moment. The language used with the emotion behind it was almost too much. Although he was reading this as a prosecutor, and it could be extremely useful at trial, on a personal level it made him want to pick up the phone. His throat was closing, and he couldn't afford that here, in the office.
Crymson had written to Anthony, on the Sunday night of his death, before leaving the club. He'd laid out a semblance of the truth of his history with the other two victims and with Richard Woodbridge. There were no details given, and only the broadest of generalizations were used to describe what he'd done in Wisconsin. The bulk of the letter was simply a love letter, written by a man who had clearly considered the possibility that he might not live through his confrontation with Woodbridge. Who'd assumed that his lover would be the one to read it.
"....and Tony, if someone asks you five years from now if you really knew me, I hope you'll tell them 'yes.' Because there hasn't been anyone else in my life who knows me as well as you do. No one else. I've loved you with everything in me...."
"Oh, man," Ed sighed to himself, propping his head in his hands and closing his eyes. That had nearly been too much. Throughout the day, Crymson had never been far from his thoughts. Not really. But he could feel himself, here, and now, losing his composure. He fought to retain it, taking deep, if somewhat shaky, breaths. Sipping his cooled coffee. Turning the paper over. Not that that did much good, because the words were still in his head.
He wondered if he and Jack could stay together that long, if they could feel what Crymson had felt. If he could believe, with as much certainty, that someone would know him that well. If Jack could know him that well. If they'd have the chance to learn everything important about each other. Before one perp too many sent a bullet through his brain, or heart. Before Jack pushed himself too hard.
He wondered.
Jack picked up the papers that he'd finished and put them in an expandable file. He slipped the file into his briefcase. The emails had been lucrative. They had some fairly damning evidence now, and he wanted to make more detailed notes, if he had time, at home. He gathered the rest of the papers together, and placed them in another file. Anthony hadn't called back, yet. Jack hadn't looked through the miscellaneous pile, yet. He also hadn't called Van Buren about one particular reference in the emails, yet. Tasks for the following day. There was one task, however, that he needed to do now. He picked up the phone and dialed.
"Green," Ed answered.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," Ed said, his voice turning silky. "Was just thinking about you. Lieu gave me time to read the stuff from Crymson's computer." He paused.
"Did you read it all?"
"Personal letters and emails. So, um, looks good, doesn't it?"
"For the case, yes, it does. I've left a message with Anthony." Now he was pausing, wanting to say so much, and not wanting to. "I called because I'll be seeing Abby tonight for dinner, a spur of the moment thing, but I should be home about eight, at the latest."
"Okay."
"Ed, if I want to tell her, about you and me, you still wouldn't mind?"
"No, she's cool. Still. Say hi to her from me. I'll tell you about everything we found today when I see you. I think that now Lieu's just assuming that I'm the automatic messenger...."
Jack chuckled. "You are. You have been. I prefer it that way."
"Yeah."
There was silence, while Jack struggled with needing to go, and wanting to stay. He finally started the end of the conversation, about the time they'd see each other, with the "have a good dinner" wishes, and the "I love you"s. He finally hung up. His hand rested on the receiver for longer than necessary.
"Eddie, I'd say you were making this up if I didn't know you better." Peter leaned across the table, pointing at him with a french fry. "What the fuck was her problem?"
"It doesn't matter what her problem was, cause I'll tell you the truth. I don't care any more. About what she did, or why, or when she'll go away. I don't care." He took a long draw of his drink, through the straw, and watched his friend scowl.
"Just because you got the chance to ream her, in a figurative way only, doesn't mean that she deserves to get off scot free! That's not justice, and you know it." He ate the fry in his hand and two others, with gusto.
Ed grinned; he couldn't help it. "Sounds like you've been taking your lessons in public policy very seriously."
Peter leaned forward again. "Ha ha. Look -- who has bent my ear for, shit, how long, nearly ten years now, about doin time to fit the crime? Huh? Mr. Edward Justice, that's who. Don't give me that bull." He flopped back against his chair.
"Jesus, you make me sound like I'm on the Supreme Court or something." He mock-shuddered.
Peter ate a very deliberate bite of hamburger, staring at his plate, then lifted his eyes. He swallowed. "I can think of a number of things that would be appropriate punishment."
"Oh, yeah? Like what?" Ed asked, intrigued despite his neutral emotional state.
"Well, let's see. There's luring her onto the Brooklyn Bridge and then throwing her over the side. Of course, that could be done from any number of buildings. She could be pushed in front of a subway train, or under a bus, or hey, a taxi -- those guys don't stop for anything...."
Ed laughed, a short, loud burst that caused people around them to momentarily stare. He took another draw of his drink.
"What?" Peter asked.
"So nothing short of her death would be appropriate punishment?"
"Oh, like you haven't fantasized about exactly that?" Peter snorted.
"I admit," Ed answered, lowering his voice, "that I've had the urge to pound her vapid little face in, more than once."
"That's better."
"But I'm past that. Plus I have to keep working with her. So I'll just deal with her like I've dealt with assholes before. Ignore as much as possible. If forced to speak, then keep it as professional as possible and move on."
"Okay, how's this then? Hire a PI under an assumed name, pay him cash, and have him do a background check on her? I bet she's got some skeleton hiding somewhere." Peter smiled.
"Yeah, it's always the holier than thou ones, isn't it?"
Peter picked up his drink and saluted Ed with it. Ed toyed with the remainder of his dinner, pushing a few rice kernels around the plate. He'd never tell Jack, but Peter's idea was one that he and Lennie had considered, on the long drive from Wisconsin back to O'Hare airport. Lennie had finally admitted that he knew a few retired cops who would handle it, no problem. Ed had dismissed the notion, even though it had sounded more than sweet.
"So," he said in the silence, "ready for desert?"
"They have a mean cherry pie here," Peter said with a sigh.
"Where do you put it, man, that's all I want to know...."
Jack watched with consternation as Abby laughed. Her hair, now shoulder length, bobbed with each chortle. He sat back and crossed his arms. "I don't get the joke," he spat out.
She held up her hand, shaking her head, and stopped laughing. "I'm sorry, Jack, I'm not laughing at you. It's just that you think you know someone, got them pegged in all respects. You go through the trenches with them, fighting the good fight, and then you find out they've got two heads and you never noticed!" She drank some water. "Why the hell didn't you ever tell me this before?"
"It never seemed particularly relevant." His jaw was still clenched.
"Aw, come on, don't get all bent out of shape," she said. "Give me a minute to adjust."
He uncrossed his arms and took a deep breath, then ate another bite of dinner. "Let me know when your minute's up."
She rested on her forearms. "It's up." She smiled.
He smiled in return. "And?"
"You know, the really funny thing is that I can see you and Ed together." She stabbed a finger on the tablecloth for emphasis. "And Ed, well, that part is not a shock."
He was surprised. "Really? When I," he stopped himself. "I was shocked when I learned he was gay."
"So when did you?"
He waved his hand. "That's not important."
"I beg to differ. That is the crucial question, for me."
"Why weren't you shocked, about Ed?"
They stared at each other for a long minute. "Okay," she relented. "Some other time you'll tell me. Why wasn't I shocked. Vibes, I think. He was always more interested in what you thought of him, and what kind of job he was doing, than in what I thought of him. He liked to watch you. I think you liked to watch him, too."
He shook his head. "No, I don't think I did that," he said, with partial sincerity.
"Uh huh," she retorted. "I have another crucial question." She paused. "Are you happy?" she asked gently.
"Yes," he answered.
"Honestly happy?"
He nodded, and smiled. "Honestly happy."
She laid a hand on his. "Good. I'm glad." She let go and relaxed in her chair. "So, does Southerlyn know about the two of you?"
Instant tension almost sucked the air out of his lungs. "She does," he said.
Abby was studying him, and he willed himself to loosen his shoulders. "And what was her reaction?" she asked. "Is she cool with it?" Her voice and face were serious.
"Yes," he answered with deliberate calmness. "She's fine with it." He smiled.
But Abby was still looking at him carefully, and he knew she was assessing the truthfulness of his statement. He also knew that she called them as she saw them, and he imagined he was about to be called a liar. But instead, she smiled back at him and signaled the waiter.
"I need some chocolate," she said, as the man approached. "How about you?"
"Coffee," he answered.
She placed their order.
Jack had been home for only ten minutes. He'd retrieved the cleaning that he'd left hanging on the hall closet door and dropped on the couch, and was removing wrappings, putting suits and shirts away. He heard the scrape of a key and grinned. Shut the closet in the bedroom while listening to the one in the hall being used. He headed for the living room. Ed met him five feet inside. They smiled at each other, and Jack was about to say something in greeting when Ed cupped his face, and looked deeply into his eyes. Jack's heart started to pound, unaccountably. He touched the sides of Ed's waist, merely to make physical contact, seeing something profound behind Ed's eyes; something he recognized, but couldn't put a name to.
Ed pulled him closer and kissed him, taking his mouth with purpose. Every time, Jack thought, moving his lips with increasing heat; every time Ed did this, his stomach dipped. Like this. Ed worked his way in and Jack's blood raced. Just exactly like this. He slid his arms around Ed's waist, pulling them together, feeling the hard, heavy evidence of their mutual need. Ed's hands dropped, one landed on the back of Jack's neck, the other moved further down, lower and lower. Their kisses deepened even more, until Jack wanted absolutely nothing except the two of them on the mattress on the bed in the room behind him. Ed apparently wanted the same thing.
Jack stopped, breathing heavily. "Come on," he said, hearing his own voice husky, and rough. He backed away, took Ed's hand, and led them into the bedroom.
Ed rolled over onto his stomach, letting out yet another low moan. They were supposed to be talking, discussing the events of the day that the prosecutor needed to know. That the detective needed to impart. Their conversation had been mostly silent, their lips moving together, their tongues used to communicate pleasure. Or their mouths moved separately, traveling over one another's skin, tasting the flavors of the day, speaking with guttural noises, and words of love.
Ed begged Jack with his body, pillowing his head and spreading his legs. Jack slid up and covered Ed's back, kissed his shoulders, and the side of his neck. The heat of the contact was welcome; Ed let him know it with one word. "Yeah," he murmured.
Finally Ed felt himself being taken, filled, pushed into the mattress with long, slow, thrusts. With Jack murmuring other words, and their skin getting hotter and hotter. With Jack draped over Ed's back. With thrusts, and thrusts, and thrusts. And when his climax washed over him, Jack's hands were clasped on his, and his breath was reduced to pants, and he heard his lover groan a long, slow groan and felt him come, deep inside. He was boneless, reveling in Jack's weight pressing him even further into the mattress. Their heavy breathing. All that they were together. He reveled in it.
"Love you," he said, or maybe just thought.
"Yeah," Jack sighed.
Jack had cleaned them both off with as minimal amount of effort as possible. He only wanted to be under the sheets, holding or being held. He'd taken another few minutes to turn lights off in the rest of his apartment, and get them both something to drink. He didn't mind being the one doing, while Ed was near crashed in bed. He loved seeing him there, stretched out, eyes closed, looking like he was right where he belonged. As far as Jack was concerned, he was.
He turned off one of the bedside lights, left the other one on. Ed sat up enough to take the juice offered, and to down half of the glass in one try. Even that simple action looked sensual, and enticing right then. Jack climbed back into bed.
"Just give me a list," he said, getting settled against Ed's side.
"Just the facts, ma'am," Ed replied in a low voice.
He smiled. "Details in the morning. Then I can sleep."
Ed pulled him closer and slowly sucked on the side of his neck. "Who needs sleep..."
Jack shivered, but didn't have an answer to that. The curl of afterglow was weaving its path, momentarily slowing his higher brain functions. "List," he eventually managed.
Ed sighed. "Okay... Let's see."
Silence.
"Okay," he repeated quietly. "Blood drops in the basement, from the study on the first floor, but whoever was done there had to be done on a rug. Housekeeper says rug was different when she got back from vacation and two pillows were missing from the study couch. No handgun found, but shotgun was, in the attic. Lennie checked and Ryerson had a thirty-two registered in NY. Um, neighbors were canvassed, those that were home, nobody has seen anything unusual, we're going back tomorrow to talk to the ones who live next door." Ed paused, and took a deep breath.
Jack knew what needed to be talked about next. "And you read what I did, from Crymson's computer. Our theory is, basically, substantiated. Except that we don't know two things: why Ryerson upped the blackmail now, and what is the manuscript that they're referring to."
"Three things, Jack -- did Crymson go to Woodbridge's house that night? Was he killed there? How did he let it happen?"
"I assume that DNA is being run on the blood?"
"Yeah."
Jack pulled back so he could look at Ed directly. "And you read the letter, too."
Ed set his lips in a tight line and nodded. "Do you know," he asked softly, "how hard it was to read Crymson direct Anthony to contact me if anything happened to him? Fuck...." He shook his head. "I don't do regret very often, Jack, but if he'd only talked to me on Saturday night," he hissed. "Why didn't he talk to me?"
"He thought he was between a rock and hard place," Jack answered.
"He thought he could handle it himself," Ed retorted.
"Yes, he did." Jack stroked Ed's stomach. "It was a tough letter to read all the way around."
Ed nodded again. He covered Jack's hand, pressing them both to his skin. "I want what he wrote about. Something permanent."
Jack was about to contend the issue of permanence, whether it was ever relevant, but stopped himself. He knew exactly what Ed was talking about. What Ed was feeling. He was about to agree, when Ed's phone rang.
"Damn it," Ed swore in a harsh mutter. He untangled them and got out of bed, picked up his jeans from the floor and retrieved the phone. "Green," he answered it. He listened for a minute, then covered his eyes with a free hand and shook his head. "Yeah, got it. We'll be there." He snapped the phone shut and looked at Jack. "Another body," he said. "At Woodbridge's."
"Fuck," Jack replied with feeling. "Fuck."