Disclaimer: NBC, MCA/Universal and Wolf Films owns them.
Rating: R
Summary: Part 7. Ed tries to identify a killer. Jack's coworker defies definition.
Copyright December 2002 Cassatt
"Look at this, Lennie," Ed said, pulling a shirt out from the bottom of the drawer. He held up a faded, pink tank top.
"And how many women in New York City have one of those?" Lennie went back to rifling through Karen Abbott's closet.
"Enough," Ed admitted. He didn't care. They'd found confirmation number one, in his mind. He bagged the shirt, in case they needed to prove they'd found all of the reported clothing, and proceeded to search through the top dresser drawer. The victim had any number of hair accessories, but no scrunchies, as Officer Bryant had called it. Ed knew what she was describing, with two sisters it wasn't difficult. He paused, and looked around the bedroom.
"Here are some beige pants," Lennie called out from inside the closet. He came out, holding up what Ed would definitely call khakis.
"Number two," he said in reply.
"Yeah," Lennie said with a shrug. "Hair thing?"
"No." He went into the bathroom and opened yet another drawer. "Bingo," he said loudly. The pink one was easy to spot, and he took it to his partner. He added it to the bag with the pants and shirt and they left for Tom Ryerson's apartment.
A blue and green striped, short sleeved, button down shirt had been found among Ryerson's clothes. So had a pair of blue jean shorts. A number of pairs, to be exact, and the white tee was the same; neither would be taken into evidence. Lennie had just sealed up the oxford shirt when Ed's phone rang. It was Peter, and Ed suddenly remembered his promise from the night before, to let the man know he was fine once he'd gotten home.
"Hey," Ed said to him.
"So can I assume that you worked everything out with Jack?" Peter asked straight out. His tone was gentle, and Ed felt a pang of guilt.
He walked into the living room, directly to the windows. "Yeah. You can. I'm sorry I didn't call last night -- I got distracted."
"A good distracted?"
He was almost successful in hiding his smile. "Uh huh. Very good. But I can't talk right now..."
"No, I know. I guess I won't call him then and convince him not to give up on you," Peter teased.
Ed looked down to the street below; the trees had almost completely turned. "No," he replied, with Jack's smile shining in his mind, "you don't need to do that. He's solid."
"I'm glad, Eddie," Peter said seriously. "I called for another reason, too. The Tide is donating all the money they take in tonight to Lambda Legal. A bunch of us want to go. You interested?"
He hesitated. He did want to go, but he wasn't sure it would be appropriate. As one of the investigating officers of the murder -- to be seen socializing, or being political?
"Ed? You still there, man?"
"Do you know if they're going to be doing anything else? Speeches, eulogies, that sort of thing? This might not have been a hate crime, you know." He heard Lennie come into the room and turned, motioning that he'd be just a minute.
"I don't think so, not that I've heard, anyway. We'll be there about eight -- bring Jack, okay? Just to relax. The usual."
"I'll think about it. I've gotta go. Talk to you later," he said, and after hearing Peter's good-bye, ended the call.
"Who was saying this case is a hate crime?" Lennie asked.
Ed sighed, as something else occurred to him about that evening. "That was Peter. About what's happening at the Tide tonight. But just a sec, I've got to call him back. May have to give Lieu a head's up..." He called Peter and asked if he'd contact Robert at the club, to find out if they were planning on media coverage. Giving an interview with anyone, anything. Peter agreed. Ed was clear, to himself, that his concern wasn't just professional. He wasn't about to go with Jack if there'd be the chance that a reporter would see them. To take the risk of Jack being pulled in to make comment on the case, or have him be asked why he was there? No way. He explained the event to Lennie.
"We don't need publicity," the man said, stating the obvious.
"I know," Ed replied. They started to leave the apartment.
Lennie sighed this time, deeply, as they stood at the elevator. Ed looked at his partner, whose face was beginning to pinch.
"What?" Ed asked.
"I hate it when these things get political. I wish they'd just let us do our job..."
Ed huffed. "They will. They're just trying to make something good out of a bad situation."
Lennie gave him a little glare. "Can they do anything wrong in your eyes, Ed?"
Saved from having to answer immediately, they stepped into the elevator that had just arrived. Ed took a moment to rein in the response that was on the tip of his tongue.
"Sorry," Lennie said, unexpectedly, in a low voice. "Didn't really mean that."
"It's okay," Ed said, and meant it.
"I just hate politics." Lennie watched the numbers flash above the door.
"Yeah." As a general rule of thumb, he agreed with the other man, and he was fairly certain that politics had nothing to do with these murders.
He was also fairly certain that Karen Abbott was not a lesbian, now that he'd gotten a closer look at her bookshelves and music. Not that he had a vast knowledge of lesbian culture; they didn't all listen to Melissa Ethridge. And what if she was deeply in the closet? His own apartment hardly screamed out "gay" to a visitor; there was no "Joy Of Gay Sex" on his bookshelves. But who would Abbott have been hiding from? She didn't appear to have a social life, much less a politically active one.
To his thinking, the connection between these three people, clearly personal, was not the mere fact of their sexual preferences. What the missing piece was? He'd give his eye teeth to know.
After stopping at the precinct to pick up the warrant that Van Buren had obtained for Abbott's internet service provider, they grabbed some quick lunch. They talked basketball, a topic Ed deliberately brought up in an effort to relax with his partner. Remind them both of interests they shared. By the time there were back on the street, Ed felt more at ease, and ready to make some serious progress.
He had high hopes that they would soon have Abbott's email logs, and would be able to find the commonalities between hers and Crymson's. All they needed were two common addresses. One would be Ryerson's, one could be the killer's.
At the Manhattan office of Luna, progress was slow to nonexistent, as they were shuffled from department to department before finally sitting in front of the vice-president in charge of the NY branch. By this time, Ed and Lennie were in no mood for schmoozing, an attitude that the man on the other side of the desk seemed oblivious to. He wasn't much older than Ed, and was starting to talk about a true-crime themed web site, when Lennie interrupted.
"Look," Lennie said in frustration, "we have a warrant." He waved the document that he'd been clutching in his hand for the past twenty-five minutes. "It authorizes us to obtain a copy of the logs for one of your email customers. Now - do you keep them or don't you?"
Ed silently cheered his partner. They'd already been told by another employee that, indeed, Luna did have logs so he wondered what the VP was going to say. He also wondered why in the world they seemed to be getting the runaround.
The man glared, then leaned forward and held out his hand. Lennie gave him the document. They waited while he read it. Slowly. Carefully. He finally raised his head.
"I'll have to contact our office in Los Angeles," he said.
Ed sighed sharply. "You have to turn them over to us."
"I'll contact our office in Los Angeles and get back to you," he repeated, more firmly this time.
Lennie huffed. "This is a murder investigation. Do you get that? If you don't comply, we'll contact someone -- the DA's office -- and get a subpoena. Then you'll be held in contempt if you don't give us what we need!"
The man stood. It was clear they'd get no further, so Ed gave him his card, and the lieutenant's card, practically ordering him to call sooner rather than later. As they walked out through the maze of office cubicles, Ed called Van Buren and told her what had happened. Loudly, so that the employees could hear, should they choose to do so. He had no compunctions. Lieu said she'd get Serena to the precinct so they could talk about what to do next.
After ending the conversation, he tried to consciously loosen his jaw. He hated the fact that the good mood he'd started the day with was rapidly eroding. The euphoria he'd felt, waking up in the arms of someone with whom he'd overcome so much the night before. Someone he loved, surprisingly deeply. Now, not only was the investigation hitting a fairly major brick wall, but he was going to have to spend time with the last person he felt like seeing that day. He still couldn't believe what his lover had told him over breakfast. What Serena had done to Jack, without any apparent remorse. If anyone had invaded his privacy that way, he'd have a heck of a time working closely with them, much less forgiving them. He knew Jack himself had only managed the first one, and he could find no fault in that. Quite the contrary -- he could only admire it and hope he'd be able to emulate the other man.
Jack double checked the work he'd done in preparation for an allocution that was scheduled for later that afternoon. Everything looked to be in order. It had been a stressful case for Serena, of a woman who'd knifed her boyfriend, but they'd eventually discovered evidence that had facilitated a plea bargain. Jack was satisfied that the manslaughter conviction was fair. That justice had been served for the family of the victim. The victim himself.
He was about to call the San Mateo County DA's office when the phone rang. It was the ADA he'd been poised to contact, with information about Tom Ryerson's email provider. Jack's heart sank when he was told that they did not keep logs, and could only give out the victim's email address. The ADA told him that in her experience, it was more normal than not for providers to eschew detailed record keeping of their client's email accounts. This allowed them an easy out when the police or DA's came calling. The belief that the internet was free to all, and shouldn't be regulated, spilled over into the executive decision making of internet companies. Since there was no legal obligation, there was no reason to do it, she said. He thanked her, and offered his own future assistance should she ever need it.
"Damn," he muttered after hanging up. He knew he should call Van Buren, but this could be a reason to call Ed instead. He was debating the choice, and asking himself why he felt he needed an excuse to call the man when his door opened.
Serena came in and said she was on her way to the two-seven. His stomach fluttered. He almost insisted on going, too, but knew there'd be no logical explanation for it. She agreed to pass along the information on Ryerson. He watched her leave. He glanced at his phone. A short string of numbers tapped, and he could talk to Ed. To say what, exactly? Good luck? How are you? What did you have for lunch? He knew what he wanted to say. I love you.
He felt like a lovesick teenager, which was not necessarily a bad thing, in his opinion. Mark had joked with him that he was obviously too far gone to have any perspective. He agreed with his friend. So why couldn't he just pick up the phone and tell Ed that he loved him? He did, so intensely it was a little bit frightening. So intensely he sometimes felt a little bit tongue-tied. Mark believed there was no difference between loving a man and loving a woman, and he actually had the experience to be able to make that statement. Jack was questioning his own reluctance, and wondering if what Mark said was honestly true. He sighed and pulled out another case file from the pile on his desk.
Ed knew, fairly soon after the start of the meeting, that he'd been right to worry about his self-control, for he was having a great deal of difficulty looking Serena in the eye. He was having difficulty looking at her, period.
He forced his face to appear as impassive as possible. Lennie was sitting next to him in Lieu's office, and Serena was perched on the side table. Why the woman insisted on doing that was beyond him; there was ample room for another chair. She'd always declined it, so Van Buren had ceased to ask. Lieu was sitting at her desk, as usual.
"McCoy just got a call from victim number one's ISP," Serena said.
Ed interrupted her. "Tom Ryerson," he corrected, feeling perverse.
"Okay, Tom Ryerson's ISP. They don't keep a log, but they did give us his email address." She opened a file and read it off.
"Damn," Ed said harshly, as he wrote the address in his notebook. "Now we're more dependent than ever on Luna." He was acutely disappointed, and more, but he took a deep breath and made a conscious effort to ignore how he felt.
"What happened?" Serena asked.
Van Buren answered, explaining Luna's reticence, bringing up the possibility of a court-ordered subpoena with the ADA.
"I can certainly give it a try," Serena answered, "but I don't think this is where we should be investigating. We don't even know if email was the reason the computers were stolen in the first place."
Ed chafed. "We won't know, will we, until we get Abbott's email log. It's an educated guess - but not at all far-fetched. Abbott and Crymson emailed each other while all of this was going on, undoubtedly about the fact that Ryerson had disappeared."
"And her provider can stall and drag this out for quite a while. The law is not that clear about the rights to privacy regarding electronic correspondence," she stated.
He couldn't believe she'd had the nerve to make the statement with such impunity. "And who would know that better than you?" he spat out. His pulse was starting to race.
"What does that mean?" Serena asked, with an edge of haughtiness.
But as he was about to answer, Van Buren interrupted. "Ed," she said pointedly. He sat back in his chair with effort. She continued. "Serena -- which avenue do you suggest?"
"We should be looking into where Ryerson got all of his money. Was he a drug dealer? Did he supply Crymson? Was Abbott..."
Ed swore. "There's no indication that there was any drug activity!"
This time it was Lennie who pulled him back, placing a hand on his arm. Ed looked at his partner, who was obviously telling him to relax for his own good. He nodded once, and bit his lip, silently thanking the other man.
Serena looked down at them from her position on the table. "As I was saying, was Abbott paying off some sort of debt by arranging art purchases? Get their financials, and we'll have forensic accountants look into them." She looked at her watch. "Anything else?"
"Just work on getting that subpoena for us," Van Buren said calmly.
Serena pursed her lips, then agreed, and left.
"Lennie," Van Buren said, "why don't you take Ryerson's information and go check the one log we do have." She stood and folded her arms.
Lennie sighed. "Okay."
Ed handed over his notebook, knowing very clearly what he was in for. Lennie closed the door behind him.
"What the hell was that?" Lieu demanded, then quickly held up one hand. "No, don't answer. I don't want to know what your problem is with her -- since it's a very recent development I'll assume it's personal. Let me remind you, however, that you told me you'd be able to handle this case, unemotionally. That your relationship with McCoy wouldn't interfere." She pinned him to the chair with her gaze. Her voice turned deceptively even, and low. "What I want you to do is remember that in this case, she's the supervising attorney, and we have no choice but to work with her. Do I make myself clear?"
Ed stood, knowing this was not the time to argue with her, even though he dearly wanted to. "Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Now, see if you can figure out another way to find him."
"The financials?" He suppressed a sigh.
"Stick with the email for now. I trust your hunches. Get Abbott's professional email information, follow that one through. Ryerson's, too. We'll start on the money in the morning." She waved him to the door.
Ed almost smiled. "Yes, ma'am." He left.
Jack had just finished putting the appropriate files into his briefcase when Serena strode in. He looked up, and did not like what he saw. At all. Her cheeks were flushed, and her mouth was pursed in a tight moue. What the hell had happened, he wondered, almost afraid to ask.
"How did it go?" he asked, hoping she'd answer positively.
She dropped her bag in a chair, with force. "Aside from the fact that they're spinning their wheels in a total blind alley," she said sarcastically, "they also have an attitude problem."
He was taken aback, and didn't respond immediately, his instinct telling him that "they" really meant "Ed."
"Oh," she continued without encouragement, "let me amend that. They don't have an attitude problem, only Detective Green. He's the one with the attitude."
Jack's heart started to pound. "Are you sure about that?"
"I'm sure all right," she spat out. "He was being a total jerk! Completely unwilling to admit that he's making a mistake..."
"How do you know he's making a mistake?" he asked her, with more harshness than he'd planned, but she had no right to make a personal insult. "He's a good detective!"
"Since when do you defend the police?" Her voice was getting louder.
"I'm not defending the police. I'm just not going to assume that you know and he doesn't, that's all!"
She put her hands on her hips. "This is my case..."
He interrupted her. "And I am your supervisor," he said, pointing at her, "and as such I expect you to keep me informed -- to tell me when you've decided the police should be going in a different direction! They're working damned hard to solve this, and I for one agree with their investigation." His heart was thundering in his chest, as he grabbed his jacket off the rack and his briefcase off the desk. "Now -- I have a court date."
"We have a court date," she corrected.
"No. I have one. You can stay, I don't need a second chair just to hear an allocution." He did not want to be in her company for the next hour or two. He left, without saying anything more to her on either subject.
Walking to Superior Court, he tried to get his emotions under control. He was still furious. Even realizing that his fury had its origins in the overwhelming protectiveness he felt toward the man he loved, and his own unresolved resentment, he was also absolutely certain that the homicide detectives were on the right track. He could feel it. At the same time, woe be the person who criticized Ed's intelligence in front of him. There was something that he'd learned over the prior week, during lengthy conversations, in bed and out. Ed was smart enough that he could have done anything with his life. The man had chosen law enforcement because he'd wanted to make a difference, even against the explicit wishes of his parents. No way was Jack going to sit back and let anyone imply otherwise. Especially not Serena.
Ed and Lennie were back in the car, on their way to Abbott's place of employment, the art gallery. Once more. Ed thought it was a long shot that they'd find anything on her work computer, since no one had tried to break into the gallery to steal it. On the other hand, the security system was quite sophisticated, and the neighborhood was one that stayed up late, if not all hours. So there was hardly much peace and quiet for a burglar to attempt a break-in without someone noticing. Even the alleyway was well trafficked, according to the gallery owner.
Ed's phone rang, and the number was completely unknown. "Detective Green," he answered it.
"Hey, it's me," Jack said. There was the familiar sound of voices echoing off marbled walls in the background. "I'm about to go into court. You okay?"
"I'm fine, why?" He knew what Jack was probably referring to, but he wanted to hear how he would couch it, and it might keep him on the phone another few seconds, and he'd get to hear Jack's husky voice in his ear -- all in all, well worth pleading ignorance for.
"Serena said some things about the meeting. Will you tell me your side over dinner?"
"Sure," he said, smiling to himself. "Want to go to the club tonight? They're having a charity night, in Crymson's honor. But don't worry - no reporters or speeches or anything. Peter checked."
"That sounds nice. I could use a drink." Jack chuckled.
"Me, too."
"I have to go." Jack hesitated. "Ed..."
Ed waited, then prompted the other man.
"Nothing. I'll call you later."
"Okay. Bye," Ed replied, reluctantly. Jack said the same thing, and hung up. Ed looked out the window, wondering what it was that he couldn't say, or wouldn't say.
"Eddie - are you ready to tell me what the hell happened with Southerlyn?" Lennie broke the silence.
"Nothing much to tell. She just got on my nerves, that's all," Ed answered.
"Right. It's got something to do with McCoy, doesn't it?"
"I can't answer that."
"Well, my advice is to stay out of it. Stick to the case."
"Uh huh." He kept his replies noncommittal, while Lennie continued to press, even though he knew his partner was right.
Ed sat with the gallery owner while she accessed Abbott's professional email. Nobody had gone through the program's folders yet, so things were as the victim had left them. Lennie was hovering. The only sound was the clicking of the mouse.
"It looks like she kept this pretty much up-to-date," the woman said. She wore a pair of chic, black glasses, peering at the monitor. "The inbox has a few letters, but they're from clients I recognize, along with a couple of artists. One agent."
"How about the sent folder?" Ed asked.
"Let's see..." Again the mouse made noises. "Well, she emptied this about two weeks ago, give me a minute here to read these," she murmured.
Lennie said, "Hey, Ed, as long as we're here, let's check into the prices Ryerson was paying for what he bought. See if anything looks out of the ordinary."
Ed turned around, and stifled a sigh. "Okay."
The woman said, still reading the screen, "I can answer that for you without checking, gentlemen." She closed one email and opened another one. "There was nothing unusual about the purchases. I authorized all sales. Everything was kosher."
This time, Ed merely gazed at his partner, stifling the "I told you so."
"Well, this might interest you," she said. "Here's an email Karen sent to Mr. Ryerson, the day before that purchase agreement I showed you this morning. So Monday, the ninth." She sat back, and both Ed and Lennie moved into position to read.
Ed's heart started to thud. "Look, Lennie." He pointed, and read aloud, " 'We will guarantee your purchase tomorrow by signature, and payment can still be deferred until Thursday. I won't voice my opinion again.' "
"Opinion about what," Lennie muttered in frustration. "Thursday was the day we found him ..."
"Was this type of transaction a usual occurrence? Deferring payment for a few days?" Ed asked.
"It wasn't unusual for regular customers. Mr. Ryerson was one of those. I had no problem authorizing it."
"May we have a copy of this?"
"I don't see why not," she answered, and proceeded to print it off.
They stayed for as long as it took to search through the remaining sent emails, as well as what had been left in the trash folder. There were only some nondescript ones that Abbott had sent to Ryerson at work, on Thursday, asking him to contact her. It appeared as if she hadn't gotten truly worried until she'd gotten home, then left the message on his answering machine. But clearly, she'd expected to hear from him. His body was in the police morgue at the time.
"Okay, Lennie, can we go over things?" Ed asked, with a small grimace, taking out his notebook. They were sitting in a coffee shop located on the lower level of the building where Ryerson had worked. Taking a much needed caffeine break. Their first victim's PC had already been recycled for another worker, but the emails had been reviewed by Ryerson's assistant before being wiped or forwarded. She'd told them that, aside from the gallery emails, she'd found nothing personal. They knew that they could get a warrant to have the computer's hard drive searched by their technical team if necessary, so they dropped the inquiry for the time being. They were satisfied with the assistant's information.
Lennie sipped his coffee and opened his notebook, to match Ed's. "The week before the murders, we've got all three victims emailing each other, over the course of three days. Well, we've got two victims emailing the third, Crymson. Then nothing. Until the night after Ryerson is killed. Abbott emails Crymson, he responds."
"The killer took the time to either steal computers, or have them stolen," Ed said, "so we can assume that he knew which email addresses his correspondence originated from. Whether they were personal addy's or professional."
"And," Lennie said, pointedly, "it looks like Ryerson was acquiring some funds on Wednesday night, and instead was murdered. It wasn't a paycheck he was getting."
"But Abbott wasn't happy about it, whatever 'it' was, which may explain why she visited him, which we're assuming happened Tuesday evening." Ed took a long sip of his latte. "But if we look at all three vics, it makes no sense that this is drug related. Crymson is almost like an observer -- he knew something bad had happened to both of these people when he saw me and Jack. He wasn't the one calling Ryerson in a panic. Why would he care enough to ask for legal help, if he only knew them through some drug connection? That just doesn't fit."
Lennie shook his head. "Unless Ryerson was the supplier. Then Crymson would want to know what happened."
Ed huffed and stared at his coffee drink. "I'm sorry, but I absolutely do not buy that. You didn't know him, Lennie..."
"Neither did you -- not personally." He stood up. "I'm gonna hit the john, I'll be right back."
Ed turned in the booth, sat with his back to a wall and drank more latte. He could absolutely admit that something, probably illegal, connected the three victims. But Crymson and drugs? Drugs to such an extent that he'd died because of them? He couldn't see it.
By the time Jack came out of the courtroom, his fury had long subsided, only to be replaced by niggling guilt. Serena had worked hard on the case, and in large part, deserved to be there for the allocution. To receive the thanks from the victim's family. He would be sure to pass along their sentiments when he got back to the office. It was all he was willing to do.
He'd also come to the conclusion, while waiting for the judge to end a lengthy conversation with her clerk, that he was angry at Serena for getting under his skin that day. That day of all days, when he should be able to deal with the intellectual business on his desk, and float emotionally. He and his lover had been through the wringer the evening before -- so didn't he deserve to be able to relax in the afterglow? Without interruption?
He had one other thing to pass along first, before returning to the obligations of his job and coworker. He had something important to pass along to Ed. There was every possibility that he was thinking far too much, analyzing his situation far too deeply, finding reasons and justifications where there really weren't any. It wasn't a matter of logical thought, it was a matter of pure emotion. He could tell his lover what he really wanted to. Out loud, over the phone, in the middle of their work day. Whether his lover was a man or not. After all, it was what he himself wanted to hear come out of Ed's mouth. What he himself wanted this man to say; this man who shared his bed, who made love with him, to him, in him and around him. Hearing it said straight from Ed's heart made his own pulse skip, and his skin burn with want. It was very simple.
He walked directly to the pay phone, and dialed the number he now knew best. Ed answered.
"It's me," Jack said, "still at the courthouse. Are you alone?"
"Yeah. Lennie's... He'll be back in a minute or two. How did it go?"
"Fine. How about with you?" But this wasn't what he wanted to talk about. He did, but he didn't.
"Honestly, I'm not sure. I'd like to talk things over later. Need some perspective."
"We'll have a long dinner," he promised. "Ed..." A woman arrived at the phone next to his and was digging into her purse for some change.
"What?"
He lowered his voice, and closed his eyes, and saw the man amongst the quilts again. Then in the shower, in the steam. "I love you."
There was a moment's silence on the other end of the connection. "Yeah," Ed answered gently, "I love you, too."
Jack could hear the smile. His pulse skipped, and his skin burned.
Ed put the phone in his pocket, and closed his eyes. For some reason, the picture of Jack that flashed in his mind was of their very first night. Jack, with his back up against the door to Ed's apartment, breathing heavily. The look of pure, utter want in his eyes. Jack McCoy, always self-assured, had shown just the smallest hint of being unsure, of almost needing to be out of control. Ed had never seen anything so heady, or so erotic. He stopped himself from replaying too much about that night, out of his own need to stay cool and calm. But he didn't stop himself from smiling. Jack had called him just to say it. No other reason than to say it. He loved him.
"Takin' a nap, Eddie?" Lennie's voice brought him back to the coffee shop.
He opened his eyes, and turned to face the other man. "Nope," he answered. "But I have been thinking. I'd like to talk to Anthony alone, about the possibility of drug use. I think he'd be more willing to speak honestly, if it were only me. I agree that it's a question that has to be asked."
Lennie swallowed what was left in his cup, undoubtedly cool by now. "Okay. That makes some sense. Now, if only the other two vics were involved with someone."
"Another thing they don't have in common." Ed suddenly thought of something, and gazed at the other man. "Lennie -- you just gave me an idea."
"I hope it's a good one," Lennie retorted.
Ed thought it just very well might be.
Jack walked off the elevator on the tenth floor of One Hogan Place feeling, on the whole, much better. The day was almost over, and that meant dinner with Ed, and other things with Ed -- things he tried not to think about right then. But after picking up his message slips, he sighed to himself, reading the topmost one. Nora wanted to see him, ASAP.
While taking off his coat, and emptying his briefcase, he left a message of his own. Telling Serena to stay until he could talk to her. He wanted to say what he had to say, and not leave things until the next day. He took one very deep, calming breath, and went out the side door to see Nora, continuing through to the DA's office when her assistant waved him in.
"You wanted to see me?" he asked as he entered, pausing just inside the doorway, hoping it would be something quick and easy.
Nora took off her glasses and dropped the papers she was reading onto the desk. "Yes, Jack, come in. Have a seat."
He didn't miss the fact that she had barely smiled, and again, he sighed but only to himself. He sat, crossed his legs, and waited.
"We have a problem," she stated. "Serena came to see me after you'd left."
Now she waited, gauging his reaction -- which he assumed wasn't that mild if the sudden churning in his stomach was showing on his face. This he really didn't want to talk about.
"She was upset," he said in reply.
"Yes, she was."
He made an instantaneous decision, one he thought he could live with -- an addition to his planned agenda with Serena. "I'll apologize to her. She should have been there this afternoon." He moved as if to rise.
"That's not the crux of the problem, is it? Let's be honest here. Just between you and me," she said, this time smiling gently and stopping his leaving with a lift of her hand.
He sank back into his seat, and sighed aloud. He shrugged his shoulders, only wanting one thing at that moment. To clear his desk, make his apologies, and go home. "The crux of the problem, as I see it, is that I'm still angry with her over the investigation she did into my internet activity. I'm trying to let it go. That's the best I can do." And that was the most he felt comfortable sharing.
"Jack. That's not the crux of the problem. The problem is Ed."
He bit his lip in an effort to keep his mouth shut. It didn't work. "I don't see him as a problem," he snapped.
Nora leaned forward and clasped her hands together. She took a deep breath. "Serena needs to be told. She doesn't understand why you came to his defense so adamantly - why she was punished. It's not fair to her."
"I'll apologize and claim I was just having a bad day," he said through a tight jaw, "but I'm not going to out Ed to her. That's none of her business. She does not need to be told." He stared at his boss, but she only returned the look with more softness. He threw up his hands, more than a little irritated at having to repeat this conversation. "Give me one good reason why I should trust her -- because I don't. She has very little respect for personal boundaries. How can I be sure that she won't inadvertently tell someone about Ed, who will tell someone else, until it eventually gets heard around the courthouse? Until he winds up with a bullet in his back?" He shook his head, and tried to calm down.
"If I were honest, like you," she replied, "I'd have to say that I don't have a reason to give you. But I don't think she's as untrustworthy as you're making her out to be. I admit, I wasn't very pleased with her little investigation of me, either. I'm sorry that she did it, and I didn't like the way she seemed to get a kick out of embarrassing you." She shrugged her shoulders, too. "I think she's just trying to prove herself as competent. She has some pretty big shoes to fill."
Jack closed his eyes for a moment. He missed Abby more than he could possibly explain. He knew in his heart that he would have told her about Ed right off, as soon as it had gotten serious. She had never pulled her punches with him, but their mutual respect was immeasurable, and above everything else, he trusted her. Completely. He looked at Nora again. "I'll talk it over with Ed," he said, "but as far as I'm concerned, the decision should be his."
"That's fair," she conceded. "But Jack -- at the very least, your relationship needs to remain outside of the office. Don't bite your coworker's head off because she criticizes your lover. I'm fairly certain that the man can take it."
"Yes, he can, but he shouldn't have to," he said tersely.
"What did she say?"
"She practically came right out and said that he was stupid. He's far from it," he stated.
Nora smiled. "He's a good detective."
"He's very good. Homicide is lucky to have gotten him."
"He's not hard on the eyes, either."
He studied his boss intently, then finally smiled back at her. She was pulling a Peter on him, he realized. "You're trying to get me to talk about him again. It won't work."
"It almost did. Got you to relax a bit, though, didn't it?"
He nodded. "I appreciate the effort."
"Any time," she said as her smile widened.
Jack had no doubt that if Nora had been in the kitchen with him right then, she'd have gotten the answer to her question. He was having difficulty keeping his eyes off of Ed, as they removed things from cabinets and drawers in preparation for dinner. As Jack drained the pasta, and tossed in the marinated tomatoes, letting the mixture heat up for a minute or two. As Ed poured drinks, and talked about the frustrations of his day, and the investigation. Jack watched him. The play of his muscles, the fit of his jeans. He wanted to touch. He wanted it badly. He wanted to melt into Ed and never leave. The greeting hug and kiss, though lengthy and infinitely, achingly passionate, only made his deep need more intense. He knew he had all night to savor; he served dinner instead.
"So," Ed said as they carried things to the table, "that's when it finally occurred to me. What we can do next." They sat. "Anthony should be able to help us. Sort through Crymson's email traffic. Identify some of the correspondents. And, more importantly, possibly find the person who killed his partner." He paused to eat for a minute, smiling after the first bite. "This is good, Jack, very good."
"Thanks," Jack replied. They were eating one of the few dishes that he cooked routinely. He was, he thought, probably way too pleased that he'd been successful at feeding this man; it was just pasta, after all. Love, desire, food -- the stuff of foreign movies. Lovesick. It was true. He stopped the self-absorption and returned to the topic. "How do you see Anthony finding him?" he asked.
"I'm going to ask him to send an email to everyone on the log. We're going to set a trap." Ed smiled again, and Jack saw that gleam deep inside his eyes, that he'd seen many times before.
"A trap," he responded slowly, letting the possibility play out in his mind. He, admittedly, enjoyed utilizing traps himself. "That's an excellent idea. The killer's worked hard, thinks that he's covered his tracks. He believes that he's done everything he can do..."
Ed nodded. "Don Marsh is gone. That's one weak link out of the way. The computers are gone. Another weak link. Think about it -- what he'll do when he sees this email sitting in his inbox. About the man he killed. What will he do?"
Jack ate another bite. "He'll certainly wonder how Anthony got his email address. He'll feel stuck. If he doesn't answer, he'll figure that'll look suspicious. If he does answer, he'll have to be very careful about what he says. That could tell us a lot." He smiled. "I assume you and Lennie have something composed?"
Again, Ed nodded. "You bet we do. Anthony is going to be at the club tonight -- I finally got a hold of him right before I came over. The private memorial service was today..."
Jack watched the gleam fade out in an instant. He reached across the table and covered Ed's hand, giving a small squeeze. "I'm sorry you couldn't be there."
"Me, too," Ed said quietly. "I didn't get the chance to pay my respects, but I'll be damned if I let his killer get away." The gleam returned, but it was sharper.
This was what Serena didn't see, Jack realized, what she rarely acknowledged in others. This single-minded passion. "I believe in you, Ed."
The other man took a very deep breath, and exhaled slowly. "Thank you."
"So," Jack said, "why don't you tell me what happened today between you and Serena."
Ed made a guttural noise and looked down his nose. "You sure you want to hear it? We are eating."
"Yes," he answered lightly, "I am. I have to. We have to talk about it..."
Ed dug back into his pasta, but eventually relayed an account of the meeting and Jack wasn't surprised by the telling. They talked about the issue of coming out to Serena, at length, from all angles. Ed was still adamantly opposed to the idea. Jack played devil's advocate during the discussion, but couldn't find fault with his lover's wishes. Ed promised to tell her about the trap first thing in the morning, but as to the rest -- they both came to the same conclusion. Letting go of their reactions to her that day was essential in order to maintain a calm working environment. Besides, emotions were high enough around the case, and their relationship, without adding anything else to the mix. The case took precedence.
They finished dinner and spent the time before leaving sitting together on the couch. Jack took full advantage of the proximity to touch, both actively and passively. While they talked in detail about the trap about to be set, his fingers roamed, until Ed growled softly and turned to him, taking Jack's mouth in a long, searing kiss, pressing him against the couch, giving him another area to touch. Jack's fingers roamed, again, up and down Ed's back. The muscles he'd watched were now his to feel, and he moaned down Ed's throat to feel them. The man kept kissing him. He wanted, again. He wanted him badly.
They stopped what they were doing, before they couldn't. They both touched now. They talked about different things: family matters, music, the borrowed book Jack was reading, Peter's latest love interest. Things of life. Things of love.
Ed held Jack tightly, sitting on the back of the bike, gliding through the streets of Manhattan. Over the past week, he'd decided that he liked riding at night the best. Second only to riding full out on a highway, on a sunny day -- coming across the bridge and seeing the skyline. Neither choice would be nearly as much fun if he were alone, for having his hands on his lover in public was everything. At night, it felt all that much more clandestine. His fingers could travel. Could press in places. Could casually stroke in others. At night, it felt like there was just the two of them. Moving past the lighted windows. The people walking. The traffic. Just the two of them. He smiled inside of his helmet, and squeezed his thighs enough until he knew that Jack was now smiling, too.
They found Anthony in the office; Robert had told them that the man had been in there since he'd arrived around five o'clock. It was clear to Ed that the bartender was worried, but understanding. While being admitted into the room, Ed noticed a genuine look of pleasure that crossed Anthony's face and felt somewhat badly about it. He had no good news to bring, only serious, potentially painful questions and a request. He also couldn't miss the dark circles that had deepened around the man's eyes, or the sallow skin that looked even paler in the harsh light. Ed steeled himself against the onslaught of emotions that were waiting to pounce, and settle, that could immobilize him.
He introduced Jack as a man from the District Attorney's office, and Jack extended a hand to shake in greeting. Anthony was studying his face.
"You look familiar," Anthony said, then his eyes lit up. "I remember. I saw you on the news last year. Talking about the guy who murdered the man and then kidnapped his baby. Didn't want gay men to raise the child. That was you who prosecuted, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was," Jack answered.
"Wait a minute...," Anthony continued. "Have I seen you around here, too?"
Jack smiled, and admitted he had been coming to the club for the prior two years.
"Okay," Anthony said, looking from Ed to Jack and back again, "Detective, is this the man on the motorcycle? Am I three for three?"
They'd already decided to hold nothing back from Anthony, in an effort to put him at ease. Ed nodded, but it was Jack who spoke up.
"Man on the motorcycle?" he asked Ed directly.
Shrugging, Ed replied, "He happened to see you dropping me off yesterday morning. He asked me if you were my lover. I told him, yes." Ed was pleased to see that the description only seemed to amuse Jack.
Jack turned to the other man and explained his role in the case, and offered condolences on his loss, reassuring him that the DA would prosecute to the fullest extent the law allowed, once the murderer was caught. Anthony thanked him, and sank deeper into the desk chair, as if it could afford him a measure of protection.
"Catching Crymson's killer," Ed added, "is what I'm here to talk to you about." He brought him up to speed on how they'd connected the victims, who they were, and the fact that Crymson did know them but they still didn't know under what circumstances.
"I don't know them, either," Anthony said, "so I'm not really much help."
"We disagree -- we think you can be a big help. But first, I need to ask you some questions."
Anthony nodded.
"Did Crymson ever use drugs?" he asked.
"No," the other man answered without hesitation. "I mean, he used to use recreational drugs in college and stuff, but he became a bit of a health fanatic and swore off controlled substances."
"Have there been any rumours of drug usage or dealing here at the club? Anything that Crymson, say, had to stop?"
"No, nothing like that. I know that sounds hard to believe, but it's just never happened here. I can't say that there haven't been people doing poppers in the bathroom, or even snorting a line of coke behind the stall doors -- but it's never been something to deal with." Anthony paused, and rubbed a hand wearily over his eyes. "You think this is what the murders were about?"
"We don't know," Ed answered. "Money might possibly be involved, somehow." He looked at the desk for the first time, noting the laptop and various folders. "Are you getting the business files in order?"
Anthony sighed deeply. "Yeah. Trying to recreate the accounts, find out where things stand at the moment. Luckily, it's a fairly straightforward business. Supplies in, drinks out. Look, I don't see how money can be a motive. Crym didn't really have much disposable income."
Ed made a mental note of that, and continued questioning. "Have you run across the name Tom Ryerson anywhere?"
"No. But you said he was a banker, a fund manager? I haven't gone through Crym's personal estate, yet. I've never heard the name in connection with it, and I'm pretty familiar with his estate planning." Anthony leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. "I'm assuming you want me to check into that?"
Ed actually was fairly certain that Serena would order the records turned over. "Hold off until tomorrow morning. We may have to take the files." Before the scowl he saw developing on Anthony's face really blossomed, he said, "We do, however, have something we need you to do. It might help us catch the person who killed all three people. If you're willing." He'd let the man agree of his own accord, and he was not at all surprised when Anthony did, with the first spark of enthusiasm he'd shown since they'd sat down.
Ed explained the situation with the various email providers, and how they were fairly certain that the killer's email address was somewhere on the log he'd pulled out of his pocket. He pointed out Abbott's and Ryerson's emails back and forth during the previous weeks. Anthony studied the printout.
"Two weeks of Crym's emails," he muttered, "that man spent more time online..." He took a long and somewhat shaky breath, then looked up to meet their eyes. "You want me to sort through the rest of these addresses?"
"Not exactly," Ed answered. "We want you to send out an email. Set a trap. See what they say in response."
Anthony smiled, a small, but sincere smile. The transformation in him was remarkable. "You tell me what to write, and I'll do it."
Ed hadn't expected to be turned down, but felt a wave of relief anyway. "Okay," he said, "we want you to tell all of them about Crymson's death, tell them that you're putting together a small book, with remembrances of Crymson, from all of the people who knew him. Either professionally, or personally. Ask each of them to send you a short description of how they knew him, how long, why, that sort of thing. Something personal, too, about how they felt about him. Remember, the killer, if he's in here, thinks that he's deleted his email address from every possible place."
Jack said, "He will very likely answer, because he'll be afraid not to."
Anthony replied, "But he's not going to give himself away. He seems awfully smart for that, from what you've said."
Ed nodded. "Yes, he's not going to give himself away, deliberately. It's what he'll say in an effort to make himself sound like a normal part of Crymson's life. Because, frankly, I don't believe that he was -- or you would have known of the other two victims. This is a long shot, but it's worth it."
"Some of these addy's are close friends, who were at the service today," Anthony said, "should I send to them, too?"
"No, not for now. Make a list of the ones you know, and who they are, with phone numbers and postal addresses if you've got them."
Again, Anthony smiled. "This will be a pleasure, Detective."
Ed returned the smile, and mentally crossed his fingers at the same time.
Jack had taken Ed's hand as they'd left the office, and his heart had skipped at the gesture. Once again, seeing Crymson's partner had renewed his own private, personal vow to do whatever it took to keep this relationship with Jack moving forward. He'd made it in the middle of the previous night, upon waking up with this man in his arms. Snoring softly. Warm against his skin. He would not lose this. He couldn't. But they had only walked ten feet before Jack abruptly stopped their progress.
"What?" Ed asked him.
"Son of a bitch," Jack muttered slowly. His eyes locked with Ed's. He pulled them against a wall, and spoke in a low voice. "Blackmail. Ryerson was blackmailing someone. It all fits -- including what he was doing with that damned diary."
Ed's mind was spinning; he'd gotten the blackmail concept, with a jolt, but was confused, too. "What do you mean, his diary?"
Jack pointed a thumb at him. "He wrote up a complete fabrication of our... encounter. Documented it..."
Ed interrupted, "But it's been eight months and he's never contacted you."
"Yes -- but who's to say what he was going to use that for? What if he was afraid he'd get turned in for extorting, by his killer? Be brought up on charges? What better leverage over the EADA than a graphic account of getting fucked by him? And why didn't he ever let me know that he'd recognized me?"
Ed huffed. "One made-up story doesn't give a man enough leverage to blackmail..."
Jack's eyes got a dangerous look in them. "What if he'd saved some other evidence to use against me?"
"What -- you didn't use a condom?!" Ed hissed.
"No, of course I did. That doesn't always take care of everything, does it?" He asked pointedly.
"What if he just lived in fantasy world?" But Ed really didn't buy that himself.
"Fantasies didn't get him an abundance of money," Jack said in reply.
Ed looked at him, but had stopped focusing. The scenario of blackmail in all of its permutations was running through his head. Many facts in the case fit; Jack was right. Some did not appear to, on the surface. Crymson's role, for one. At the same time, Ed knew just how difficult it was to find evidence of extortion, when murder was the end result. Jack tightened the hold on his hand, bringing him back to the here and now.
"What do you think, Ed?"
He sighed harshly. "I can see it. Unfortunately."
Jack nodded.
Ed paused, then asked, "So, what would you have done if he'd tried to leverage a plea with you?" He honestly couldn't imagine Jack folding, even under those circumstances.
Jack looked out over the game room for a long minute, then met his eyes. "I don't know. And I'm not ashamed to say that I'm glad I won't find out. Now -- I need a drink."
Ed sighed again, and agreed. They headed for the bar. If Ed had been asked, he'd have to admit he was glad, as well, that Jack wouldn't be facing Tom Ryerson across the desk. He needed to call Lennie. He needed to think. He needed to find his friends, and play some pool, and watch the man he loved play, too. Then he needed to get them back on the bike and go home. Take Jack to bed. Forget about all of it until the morning.
Ed walked back into the club, having been outside talking to his partner on the cell. Lennie had concurred with Jack and Ed's conclusions, particularly hearing Anthony's description of the lack of a drug scene either in his life or at the Tide. Then Lennie had done something that endeared the man to Ed's heart, for yet one more time in their partnership. He'd reassured Ed that it was an entirely logical assertion to look into the possibility of extortion, irrelevant of the diary or Jack's involvement with the victim. And though Ed knew that, intellectually -- that this was the next step in their investigation -- emotionally he had been going a bit nuts again. Trying to weigh his outright responsibilities with his overwhelming desire to protect Jack. Lennie had told him to relax. In just the way Lennie could. Ed had heard him, and was taking it in.
The mood in the club was intense. Money was being handed over the bar, whether drinks were bought or not. The ultimate donation would be a big one, he had no doubt. He stood in the doorway of the game room and looked at his friends, at his lover. Peter was saying something into Jack's ear, bringing out a wide grin on the other man's face. Well, he thought, time to put a stop to that. No doubt Peter was telling Jack something about one of their adventures. An embarrassing something.
Ed walked straight to them, pulled Jack aside, and kissed him soundly. Felt him relax into it, and his own blood pump in response. He turned away, and gave his best friend the evil eye. Peter merely laughed, and went back to playing the game.
Jack came out of the club's third bathroom, near the back door that led to the alley. This was the area where he had done most of his "negotiating" with prior sexual partners. A grope here, a hard, fast kiss there. A grab of a hand, bigger and rougher than his, as he'd headed out the door. Or just a look over his shoulder, to see if the man behind was actually following.
As he turned toward the pool tables, his hand was grabbed, startling him until he saw who was on the other end of the warm, soft one encircling his own. Ed was leaning back against the wall, grinning. Jack let himself be pulled, putting one leg in between the other man's. He extracted his hand, and placed both palms on the wall to either side of Ed's smiling face, and dark eyes, and that one small dimple that could be so distracting.
"Hey," Ed murmured.
Jack grinned. "Hey yourself," he replied.
Ed slipped his arms around Jack's waist, gradually bringing them into body contact, and he closed his eyes against the wave of arousal that moved through him. He sensed the hitch in his own breathing, and opened his eyes again. Ed was still smiling, the small smile that gave the impression of a barely held secret. Ed had one. They had one. Jack relaxed into the embrace, feeling the firm body against his, remembering what the skin beneath the fabric was like, moving across him. Or under him. Or under his fingertips. He felt so amazingly lucky to have found this.
"You in there, Jack?" Ed's voice was soft, and sultry. Honeyed.
"Mm-hm." He pressed just a little closer and heard the hitch in Ed's breathing this time, so he increased the contact. Now, he was rewarded with a small noise. He kept moving, and covered Ed's lips with his own, kissing him slowly, holding back as much as he could. He wanted to dive into the sweet recesses of his lover's mouth, to taste him. To taste them. But he restrained himself. Ed had no such restraint, and teased with his tongue until Jack could no longer resist. The kiss deepened in a rush. They moaned softly. They were hardening. Their hips were beginning to thrust. Jack broke the kiss and pushed off the wall, just enough. Ed's eyes were black with heat.
"Not here," Jack said gently, catching his breath.
"You're a closet hedonist, admit it." Ed's half-hidden smile was back.
"I'm a closet lots of things." Jack grinned.
"True." Ed tugged and once more they were chest to chest, hips to hips. Again, Jack didn't resist -- he couldn't. He took Ed's mouth possessively, sweeping inside, but for just a few seconds. Any longer and he'd be dragging the man into the bathroom for a fuck in the stalls. He pulled back.
"Let's go watch some more pool. Drop a fifty in the till," he said.
Ed sighed in mock resignation and moved them both away from the wall. "I'll match your fifty." He took Jack's hand again and started to walk.
"Just don't raise me fifty more," Jack teased.
Ed looked at him askance, then laughed.
Jack smiled. Love you, Ed.
Jack was sitting on one of the stools, near the end of the pool table, watching two of Ed's friends in a heated match. They were just about equally skilled, and good enough that the games were interesting to follow. The speed of their strokes, the accuracy of their shots, the almost perfect sound of a clean hit -- all of it was mesmerizing. Ed was standing behind him; he'd somehow wedged himself between the stool and the bar-come-coatrack. His hand rested on Jack's shoulder, and his thumb casually caressed the side of Jack's neck.
Jack leaned back, relaxing against Ed's chest, and stomach. The man slid both hands down, pulling Jack more tightly to him, but gently so. Jack closed his eyes, thinking that he should be careful, or he'd fall asleep. He reached up and held Ed's wrist, feeling the slim, silver bracelet under his fingers, remembering what it looked like, moving over the skin of his own belly. He felt a kiss on the top of his head and smiled. He was too relaxed. The sounds of the pool game weren't helping -- the swish of the ball, moving over the felt, falling into the hole. The scotch he'd had wasn't helping, either. Neither was the rhythm of Ed's breathing against his back. He was drifting, and just barely thinking at the same time that they should go home.
Ed's hands tightened on his chest. "Fucking shit," the man said harshly, in a low voice. "Fucking, fucking shit." Jack dragged himself back to consciousness, just as Ed said into his ear, "Jack, wake up."
"What is it?" he asked, opening his eyes. He focused, and felt Ed tense at the same time. Fucking shit, indeed. Across the room stood Serena, just outside of the office, staring at them.
On to Part Eight, "Certiorari"
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