Disclaimer:  NBC, MCA/Universal and Wolf Films owns them.
Rating:  NC17
Summary:   Part 17.  Jack and Ed take more than one step forward.
Copyright January, 2004, Cassatt
Author's Notes:   The time has come for thank-you's, as "Choices Made" wraps. Firstly, heartfelt thank you to Cirocco, for her time and assistance with various parts of this chapter, both early in the writing and at the end.  Sincere, and loving thanks to my S.O., for putting up with hours and hours of discussion over the last year and a half, reads, and bits of beta help here and there.  Thank you to the readers, for their continued positive feedback.  Last, and absolutely not least -- LindaK. I don't know that I can adequately find the words to express the depth of my appreciation. Without her steadfast support, feedback, and encouragement I doubt that this saga would have been written. I owe her a particular thank you for a specific plot twist which happens in this chapter. Thank you.

Jack stalked to his apartment door and shoved a thumb against the button. A faint buzz, from the intercom, signaled the opening of the building's front door. Jack's heart was pounding an incessant beat against the walls of his chest; his head was threatening to do the same to his skull. He turned around. Ed was standing with his hands on his hips, and his eyes were boring into Jack's.

"I'm going to do this, Jack," Ed stated, with conviction.

Jack approached him. "No, you're not," he repeated himself, "and you don't get to say who will testify! That's not your call!"

Ed's eye lock turned to a full fledged glare. "Well, if you won't let me do it," he barked, "I'll talk to Lewin!"

Another doorbell rang, stopping Jack's angry retort. This time, the bell was to his apartment. He turned on his heel and was there in four long strides. He yanked open the door. The delivery man from the Chinese restaurant smiled and held out a large plastic bag, reciting the charge. Jack fished out his wallet and shoved three twenties at the man, telling him to keep whatever was left. He didn't care; he only wanted him to go. The man's smile was much broader as he turned toward the elevator. Jack shut the door, and without saying a word to a still-glaring Ed, he went to the kitchen.

He opened the oven with enough force that its door nearly bounced back and closed. He emptied the contents of the bag, the metal rack resounding a dull clang with each additional carton slammed onto it, and set the temperature to low. It was apparent they wouldn't be eating in the next ten minutes. His back was to the living room, but he heard Ed join him. Heard Ed give a loud, impatient sigh. Heard the muffled sound of a body hitting the edge of the counter. He turned. Ed was still glaring; his arms were folded; his legs were crossed. Jack wasn't fooled by the attempt to look relaxed--Ed's lips were set in a tight line, and his shoulders were hunched. The man was ready to fight.

Jack said in a low, harsh voice, "Don't you threaten to go over my head."

"Well, you haven't even asked me what the hell I've got!"

Jack tried to take a deep breath, as he deliberately mirrored Ed's pose on the opposite side of the small kitchen. He chose to put his hands in his pockets, in an effort to feel calmer than he really did. "Okay," he replied as evenly as he could, "why don't you tell me what evidence you've collected. Not that I'm going to let you ruin your career." He paused. "Let's hear it."

Ed's eyes had narrowed. "Are you worried about my career, or yours?"

That stung. Jack pointed at him. "You listen to me, I don't give a rat's ass what people think of me, or who is in my bed, and you know it! And if you--"

"Sorry!" Ed said loudly, then more gently, "Sorry. I know that."

They stared at each other for a long, tense minute.

"So, let's hear it," Jack replied, still smarting.

Ed heaved a sigh. "Woodbridge didn't want me watching him take a leak, on the airplane. He got very insistent about it. He finally managed to block my view of his dick. I've seen this before, from other guys who suspect that I'm gay." He paused, and briefly glanced at his shoes, then met Jack's eyes again. "So I decided to test him. At the layover, we went to a newsstand so Lennie could get something to read. I picked up a Playboy, looked through it, offered to buy it for the scum Woodbridge, then told him that my lover wouldn't like it that I was looking at the pictures. He thought that was amusing. So then I used the word, 'she,' in reference to you, my lover, and he couldn't hide the fact that he was surprised by that." Ed's glare was returning. "The asshole read Crymson's letter to Anthony. I'm sure of it."

Jack couldn't believe it. "This is your evidence?! There's nothing here that proves a damned thing!"

"I know what I saw, Jack!"

"That may be, but it won't hold up in court!"

Ed's arms finally uncrossed; now he was stabbing his finger in Jack's direction. "You're just saying that because you don't think I should testify!"

"I am not," Jack replied, trying to tamp down his frustration, "I'm making a sound and reasonable judgment about the merit of evidence presented to me by a cop! That's not personal!"

Ed threw up his hands. "The hell it isn't! I finally bring you something that is going to nail this fucking bastard for Crymson's murder and you say I can't tell anyone! All because you don't want me to say that I'm gay? That's not personal?! This is bullshit...." Ed pushed off the edge of the counter and stomped out, not meeting Jack's eyes.

Jack eventually heard the sound of the bathroom door slamming shut. A headache was hovering at the edge of his brain, and he could tell it was going to be a bad one. He ignored the emotions that were warring within; instead, he went to the cabinet next to the sink and retrieved his medication. He filled a glass with water and took a pill, having to swallow twice to get it past the tightness in his throat. A fight was the very last thing he had wanted. The last thing he'd needed. "Damn it," he muttered harshly.

Ed tore off his clothes and didn't bother to do anything other than leave them in a pile on the floor. He turned on the shower, as hot as he could handle, pulled back the curtain harder than necessary, and climbed in. Screw the waiting to shower with Jack. He felt dirty, and scummy, and could still smell Woodbridge's scent nearby. Could still see him, two feet away. The hot water hit Ed's face and chest with a jolt. He breathed for the first time in hours, maybe longer.

He grabbed the soap and lathered it up, then began to wash himself vigorously, working his hands over his head and arms and chest, faster and harder. His breath was now coming in heaves as he tried to scrub the day off of his skin. Out of his pores. God damn it, and screw Jack, too. He washed his belly with more force. Damn it. He scrubbed his legs. "Damn it!" he swore to the tiles, slapping them hard with the palm of one hand. The words almost didn't make it around the lump, thickening his throat, that he noticed for the first time. He stood upright, put his face under the stream to rinse, and suddenly felt everything give way. His knees turned rubbery; his heart ached; he could barely lift his hands. "God damn it," he choked out, with his eyes clenched against the water. He turned to the wall and buried his face in his arms, feeling the heat run down his back. Tears, just as hot, were forming behind his lids, and though they would be indistinguishable from the rivulets dripping off of his forearms, he refused to give in to them.

The sound of the shower curtain opening startled, but didn't surprise him. He felt the quick rush of cooler air against his legs. He didn't move from where he was. Then Jack's hands were kneading his shoulders, his body was inches away, and one leg was now pressed between his. Soft, warm, familiar lips kissed the spot at the base of his neck. Ed's resistance slowly crumbled, but he still didn't let himself cry.

"It was bad today," Jack said softly.

Ed nodded. "It was bad," he conceded, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. "He was just always there, you know?"

"Yeah, I know." Jack kept massaging, and Ed wanted to moan in appreciation of how good it felt. "So, did you hit him?"

Ed heard the gentle humor in Jack's tone. He smiled, in spite of everything. "No. I nearly did." His mood dissipated as quickly as it had blossomed. "I wanted to," he finished. Jack pulled on his shoulders, and he went with it, turning, and leaning back against the wall.

Jack's face showed concern, and resolve, but his eyes had that look in them. The look Ed recognized. There was a depth of emotion, clearly visible, which Ed had come to rely upon. He hadn't lied to this man. His lover. He needed him. Profoundly. He also needed Jack to believe in him, and what he did as a cop. He needed Jack to understand.

Jack braced himself with one hand on the tiles beside Ed's head, and the other on his chest. One leg was again between Ed's, but Jack was keeping their body contact to a minimum. "Ed... babe... I don't want to fight. But." Jack took a deep breath. "It's time for me to get justice for Crymson," he said with the quiet intensity that was all Jack. "You've done your job; you've got a few more things to find out... and... you've done what you set out to do. You got the guy. I'll see that he pays."

Ed's stomach constricted. "But it's not enough, we don't have enough to get him for Crymson's murder, and this is something I can do--I have to...." he managed, before Jack was shaking his head.

"It's time to let it go," Jack said gently. He caressed Ed's chest. "Trust me. Trust my judgment."

Ed rebelled for a long minute. He had another need. He needed to be the one to tack Woodbridge's hide to a wall and shoot holes into it. It was visceral, and if he couldn't beat the man to a pulp, he could help convict him. He focused, looked deeply into Jack's eyes, and very consciously put the Jack who was standing in the shower with him into the courtroom. He did trust that Jack to do what was necessary. To make the hard choices, even if they had personal consequences. He believed in that Jack, as much as he wanted that man to believe in him.

Jack said, "I understand what you wanted to do. I admire your courage in making that decision. If you want to come out because you think it's the right thing for you, I'm behind you one hundred percent. But for this case, and this purpose, it won't work. It won't." Jack cupped his face. "Do you see that?"

"I'm willing to do it," Ed stated, "to get him." Jack nodded. Ed's composure was beginning to waver, as he let Jack's words sink in. Ed finally nodded, too, admitting everything the man said was true.

"Come here," Jack murmured, and Ed went with it again, moving off of the wall and into his lover's embrace. He fell apart, a few hot tears finally falling, just enough to release some of his pent-up feelings of impotency. He held it together, just enough to believe in himself.

Ed stopped drying his back, taken by the sight of Jack working the towel up and down his legs. The man was right, in that they needed to eat, and dinner with wine was waiting. Ed didn't mind waiting for something else--Jack between the sheets. Jack's hands and mouth moving over Ed's skin. Jack, hot and wanting, in his arms. Ed watched him finish drying, hang up the towel, then reach for jeans he'd dropped onto the floor, near the pile of Ed's clothes. Faded blue denim was pulled up, covering the expanse of pink skin Ed had been eyeing. Jack carefully zipped the jeans, then realized he was being watched. He grinned at Ed, found the other pair of jeans on the floor, and handed them over. A charge of erotic heat blasted through Ed, as he considered the two of them wearing nothing but a layer of denim each. He grinned at Jack, who was now running a hasty comb through his hair. Jack tossed the comb on the counter, then wrapped one arm around Ed's still-damp waist and gave him a slow, sultry kiss. With a towel in one hand and pants in the other, Ed could do nothing but respond with his mouth and his hips. Jack let go, and left for the kitchen, throwing a "come on" over his shoulder. Ed hurried, so he could follow.

Dinner was finally served, at the kitchen table, where Jack had tried to create a celebratory mood earlier during his rushed preparations. He had found a few candles, left over from years past. From a time when Claire had wanted to up the level of romance at somewhere other than a restaurant. He had conceded to her that she'd been right to complain, but the candles hadn't been used more than once, and then only for an hour or two. Jack had placed them on the table for Ed this time, wiping them free of dust before setting them next to wineglasses and silverware. The smile Ed had given him, when the wicks were lit, was wide and warm and worth all of the admittedly minimal effort. Seeing it, Jack knew he would have done more to deserve it, if he'd had the chance.

Over hot and sour soup, mu shu, general's chicken, garlic shrimp, tofu with black mushrooms, and glasses of chardonnay they talked about the trip to Milwaukee. Jack was thrilled to hear about the financial records recovered from Woodbridge's automobile, anxious to see them, hopeful they would bolster the case against the man. When Ed told him about the key to Louise and Fred Abbott's house, found on Woodbridge, he finally felt what he'd been waiting to feel. His insides, settling with a soft thud, like a door closing to an embittered lover for the last time. He knew they had him. There was nothing that much more significant about their murderer holding a key to one of his victim's homes than the fact that he was apprehended there, or the information that Don Marsh was giving them, or the copy of Crymson's hard drive, or any other piece of evidence they'd collected. But Jack never questioned this physical reaction of his. He merely waited for it to manifest.

"You're smiling," Ed said around a bite of tofu. "Lennie's pissed off that we didn't know about the key before."

He swallowed, and shrugged. "How do you feel about it?"

Ed smiled, too. "It's a plank for the box I'm building in my head. The one that asshole is going to live in for the rest of his life. I don't give a shit how we got it."

Jack wanted to press Ed up against the nearest wall and kiss him senseless, with every bit of his own exposed skin moving against every bit of Ed's. It was a fleeting urge, but an overwhelming one. A disorienting one. He took a sip of wine and agreed with the man, stretching his leg until his foot rested alongside Ed's. Ed's smile mutated to his secret one, but he kept eating, his eyes dancing when they met Jack's.

"The manuscript?" Jack asked.

"Oh, man, sorry, I forgot to tell you. I decided I didn't want Woodbridge to know we had it, so I sealed it up inside the evidence carton. It's in the property room, all signed in."

"I'll send Serena to pick it up in the morning, while I'm at the arraignment."

Ed's eyebrows shot up. "You're doing the arraignment?"

"Request of the mayor," Jack answered, then sighed. "I don't think he cares if it looks like this one's getting special treatment. For all I know, he's planning on showing up, too."

Ed ate another mound of rice from his chopsticks. "Well, I've got something else that might make you happy." He set his bowl down and leaned forward. "Our friend, Froendlich, found a photograph of him and his buddy, Woodbridge, senior, on a hunting trip. Shows a shotgun. The make is the same as the one we have."

"I assume Froendlich knows if junior sold it when he sold everything else?"

Ed nodded. "He says that as far as he knows, no." He sighed harshly. "This damned case is filled with 'if only's,' Jack. If only we'd taken the shotgun during the search. That's another one."

"And you know the answer to it," Jack replied.

"Yeah. I do. He would have found another way to kill that poor guy, and there was no reason for us to take it in the first place. Should have at least had CSU take photos of it, just for the hell of it," Ed said in a low voice. "Now, the bastard will probably claim that some homeless guy broke into his house, bringing a gun along, just to commit suicide. Thank God for Rodgers."

"There's no way he's going to be able to explain away everything," Jack stated. "No way."

"As Lennie would say, 'from your lips...'" Ed took a sip of his wine.

Jack leaned on his forearms. "Ed, we're presenting to the Grand Jury tomorrow afternoon. They'll vote indictments on all four counts with what we'll give them. After that, I want a mountain of evidence so high that all that son of a bitch can hope for is to somehow try to cut a deal for life imprisonment instead of the death penalty."

Ed's eyes locked with his. "And can he?"

"That's up to Nora," Jack answered truthfully.

Ed nodded once. "Do you want me or Lennie to testify?"

Jack smiled. "You. You know this case inside out."

"I'll try to keep the terms of endearment to a minimum," Ed said.

Jack laughed a short, hard burst of laughter, and watched his lover finally laugh, too. Then he picked up his wineglass and said, "Here's to the justice system, doing what it sometimes does best." Ed clinked their glasses together and they both drank. Ed's eyes were shining; Jack knew it wasn't merely a reflection of the candles glowing in the dark brown irises. It was the light of love, and lust, and it was all Ed. Loving him. Wanting him. Ed against a wall again pierced his thoughts. He took another drink and promised himself he'd make that happen before they hit the mattress.

Ed was washing the last plate, humming to himself. The song in his head had a beat to which he'd always loved to dance. His hips began to move in time to it, just as the song was ending. He rinsed. He set the plate to dry and closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. His nerves were buzzing; from the wine, from the day, from the relief that comes with getting beyond a fight with a lover. A lover who had looked way too enticing, sitting across the table. Salt and pepper chest hair, though duller in sheen than the silver on Jack's head was no less seductive. It gave Ed's fingers the itch to sieve through it. His mouth an ache to bury in it.

Hands rested on his waist, just above the top of his jeans, and his heart started buzzing right along with his nerves. He turned, before Jack could move any closer. He needed to look into the man's eyes; he needed to see exactly what Jack was feeling. What Jack was wanting. Hazel eyes scorched his, and Ed couldn't stop himself from letting out a low moan at the sight. He grabbed Jack by the hips and pulled him in tight, taking his mouth, and sliding a tongue right on past the lips that were trying to devour him. Ed tasted wine, and garlic, and spice, and heat as the buzzing shot into his ears.

Jack's hands were all over Ed's back, then down low, then up to his neck. Ed was now straining against the denim of his jeans, and if the hardness pressing into his hip was any indication, Jack was feeling the confinement as well. Ed directed his own hands to finally move off of the slim hips he was clutching, and he wormed one between their writhing bodies, fighting to undo Jack's top button. Moans were shooting into Ed's mouth, from deep in Jack's throat. Ed got the buttonhole to let go and enough of the zipper down before Jack moved too much to continue. Ed deepened their kisses and took advantage of his work, sliding both hands down the small of Jack's back, under the loosened waistband, and down to the soft, pink skin he'd lusted after in the bathroom. He pulled. The moans transmuted into words of 'yeah,' and 'god,' and 'christ.'

Jack's hands started to move again, and this time the man managed to do the same thing that Ed had done. Fingers were between them, working to unfasten whatever was keeping blue denim snugly around Ed's waist and hips. The friction was almost too much, as fabric shifted over his aching erection. Words describing any deity he could think of were now falling from his mouth, and he even heard himself let out a short whimper, and he imagined he might climax right there in the middle of the kitchen. Then Jack freed him, and he groaned, and only wanted more. More heat, more friction, more taste, and smell, and skin.

Jack's hands gave him more. He pulled Ed's jeans down and moved away from his mouth enough to say one word: "Off." Ed complied, letting the jeans fall, stepping out of them as best he could, given that he was concentrating on taking Jack's zipper the rest of the way down, and pulling Jack's pants over his hips, freeing him, seeing him, wanting him. Wanting him anywhere soft and horizontal. Any way he could get him. This burning desire was as intense as their first few times, and more so. Intimacy, the overwhelming understanding of who they were, what they knew, and how they loved, had changed everything. Everything about them. Everything about him.

Jack's hands finished the job Ed had started, and he stepped out of his jeans, too. He grabbed Ed's hand and started to leave the kitchen, and Ed went with it, though his legs were wobbly and his mind was all but blank. In the hall, without warning, Jack maneuvered him so that his back was against the wall, then plastered himself to Ed, his hot breath beating on Ed's neck, their erections squeezed between them.

"I love you, Ed," Jack panted into his ear, and Ed's whole being reacted. More than one minute of this, he knew, and that impending climax would happen. He wrapped his arms around Jack anyway, and Jack started kissing him again, so deeply and freely that Ed had to finally stop it just so he could breathe. Ed was the one to get them on the path to the bed this time. Ten shaky strides later, they hit the mattress and, no longer needing muscles to keep themselves upright, they came together in one melting, supple, moving, mass.

"No," Ed breathed, "don't move. Stay. Please."

Jack did as he was asked, and in truth, he wasn't the least bit sure he really could move off, roll, twist, do anything but be right where he was. Stretched out on top, with Ed's thighs holding his hips, and long arms surrounding him, strong hands kneading his ass, pulling them together impossibly tighter. He could do this; he could writhe with his lover, skin slick with sweat and leaking precome. The heady scent of the two of them filling his nostrils. The incredible sensations of the two of them thrusting against each other. Sometimes erratically. Sometimes quickly, then slowly. He could stay right there, free to sweep his tongue against Ed's palate, free to feel their bodies aligned from chest to hips. This was what he wanted, what he'd been wanting for what felt like hours now. What he'd been wanting for years.

If they kept doing what they were doing, and if they ended up covered with the evidence of their passion, and if they then slept soundly, and serenely, exhausted from the day and evening behind them, then Jack would find what he'd been looking for. What he had. Someone to love. Someone to fight with. Someone to make up with. To eat with. Talk with. Work and be at home with. He looked down on the face he'd come to know in so many different ways. Eyes shut tight. Forehead and cheeks glistening with sweat. Mouth half open. Beautiful mouth.

Jack dropped his head and covered that mouth with his own, thrusting his tongue in, the soft groan of Ed's response vibrating against his taste buds. They moved their hips again, and Jack knew this time he'd be unable to stop it. Sleep would be hitting soon. He could detect Ed's approaching climax on the man's breath--it tasted different, and it sent a rush of electricity right through his body. He pulled back, and Ed opened his eyes, clutching Jack's ass even harder.

"God....," Ed ground out, panting, "Jack... babe...."

Jack almost couldn't speak, but he needed to hear it. "Say it," he tried.

Eyes black with fire searched his. "Huh?" They were still thrusting with increasing vigor.

"Say... my... full name," Jack managed.

Ed brought his hands up, wriggled them under Jack's arms and grabbed his face. Jack wanted to suck on the palm of Ed's hand, the need for oral contact nearly overwhelming him. "John James... I love you," Ed said with a sharp intake of breath. "Love you, John James McCoy... Love you, babe...."

Jack fell on his mouth again and plunged past his lips, letting out a long, slow moan as his body gave in and flew over the edge; he pulsated against their bellies, everything contracted and his arms nearly gave out. Ed surged upwards and came, too, and Jack tore off of his mouth and collapsed. They shuddered together. Only one thought throbbed amongst the blackness of Jack's mind. Love you, Ed, love you, babe. Love you. Love you. Love you.

Ed was at the kitchen table, turned so he could face the room. He stretched his legs out, yawned, and rolled his neck, then drank more of his coffee. He watched Jack pour a bowl of cereal for himself, his hair damp, his cheeks still flushed from the heat of a shower, a clean pair of jeans hugging his hips. There was a new pile of laundry in the bedroom closet, collected earlier from the kitchen and bathroom floors. Ed wanted a thousand mornings, just like this one, if he could have them. Five thousand, ten, however many there were in the remainder of his life. He knew enough to take them as they came, and be grateful for each. Jack went for the milk, and Ed stood quickly, intercepting him, and gently moved the man backwards, to the edge of the counter. Jack's eyes were smiling as they locked with Ed's.

"How are you doing?" Jack asked, slipping his arms around Ed's waist.

"Oh, I'm good," Ed answered in a soft voice, "I'm so good this morning I think I'm gonna drive my partner right up a wall."

Jack's head cocked, and a grin began to quirk the edge of his mouth. "I understand how you feel."

"Yeah," Ed murmured, wanting so much right then, and settling for touching the skin of Jack's cheek. "Yeah," he repeated. He stroked, gently, with the back of his knuckles, and watched Jack's eyes react, blinking slowly. "You know, I'm thinking that my life has a tendency to be crazy-making, but somehow I've ended up here." He lowered his voice even further. "That's another really, really good thing," he said, repeating the caress. "John James."

Jack shuddered so subtly, Ed almost missed it. "Jesus, Ed," Jack said, his voice quiet, husky, and deep. Jack clutched the back of Ed's shirt and kissed him, and Ed thought that this was also good. This was very, very good, and if he could have it whenever he wanted, it wouldn't be enough. This was his Jack: hot and bothered, passionate and loving. His Jack.

Ed was on his second cup of coffee; Jack was finishing up his cereal. Ed was explaining why, exactly, he had to be dropped at his apartment so he could wear his good suit for testifying, even though Jack thought that the Grand Jury really wouldn't be paying attention to what Ed was wearing, when his cell phone rang. "Let's put it this way," Ed said, pulling the phone out of his pocket, "it makes them take me seriously." He flipped it open, it was Peter. He smiled, and answered, "Hey."

"Hey yourself. I saw the news last night--holy shit, Eddie, I couldn't believe it. This is who killed Crymson? That bastard!"

"Yeah, he's the one, and that's a good way to put it, too."

"Listen, you tell Jack that I'm gonna be there in court as many days as I can, I know he won't be able to say anything to me, but I'm gonna be there, cheering him on."

"I'll tell him," Ed said, and met Jack's eyes. He mouthed, "Peter," and Jack smiled.

"They showed the news conference. It was weird to see the two of you so far apart," Peter said, and Ed imagined the man was shaking his head.

"How'd I look?"

"Stunningly hot, as usual," Peter teased, "but tired," he finished more gently. "How are you this morning? How was it, bringing that guy back on a plane?"

Ed fiddled with the corner of the paper napkin in front of him. "It sucked. I'll tell you more when I see you," he hedged. "I only have a few minutes." He really didn't want to go into it right then.

"Well, hang in there, love, okay? Oh, and one more thing--Serena looked like she was very pleased with herself," he said with an edge of disgust, "made me want to throw something at the TV. She needs to be taken down a peg or two, in my humble opinion."

"Humble? You?"

"Ha ha. Just remember, what goes around comes around."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that whatever a person sows, they end up reaping it."

Ed rolled his eyes involuntarily. "Thanks for the explanation. I get your point, I think."

Peter changed the subject, asking if Ed and Jack wanted to get together over the weekend, in private, of course. Ed said he'd talk it over, but he wanted to do it. Something entirely, completely, and thoroughly normal. They ended the call, and Jack picked up the conversation about the suit where they'd left it. He agreed to drop Ed off to change clothes, then remarked that he thought Ed's red tie would be a good choice. He had that small grin beginning to show again, and Ed suddenly saw right through him. Jack liked him in the dark navy suit and white shirt he usually wore to court. Jack might be distracted. Ed couldn't stop himself from commenting that Jack wasn't the only one who thought his lover was particularly good looking in his court clothes. How nicely silver hair contrasted with a black suit. That got a soft chuckle out of the man. Ed smiled.

The arraignment was scheduled for eight-thirty, and though Jack knew that schedules in arraignment court often broke down, this judge and his clerk were adept at keeping things moving. Jack arrived at eight-fifteen, ignoring the reporters and camera operators who crowded into the gallery behind him. He took over the podium from a fellow ADA at eight-twenty-five, and removed the relevant paperwork from his briefcase. The door behind him opened, so he turned to get his first look at Richard Woodbridge. Ed had described him well. Jack assumed that the man's lawyer had given him something better to wear than what he'd had on the day before--dark pants and a conservative, striped shirt made a more appealing impression for the press. Jack watched him pass, flanked by the guards. Ed had described something else quite accurately. Woodbridge's eyes. Cold and emotionless. Jack wondered, briefly, if the cameras would be able to pick up that, too.

"Docket ending 589," the court clerk read out in a loud voice, "people versus Richard A. Woodbridge. Four counts murder in the first degree, one count kidnapping in the first degree." He handed the papers to Judge Morris Torledsky, who peered at them through wire-rimmed glasses.

"Well, Mr. McCoy," the judge drawled. "You grace us with your presence. I can't remember the last time you stood in front of me in arraignment court."

Jack gave him a quick grin. "It was 1995, your honor."

The other man looked out over the courtroom, motioning to the gallery. "Let's hear it, so our friends in the media can get this and move on to other, more important, things." He looked at the defense attorney, Paul Harris. "Give me a plea, counselor."

"Not guilty, your honor," Harris replied. Woodbridge's countenance remained impassive.

"Your honor," Jack said, "the defendant murdered two people who were extorting money from him. He murdered the third to silence him. He murdered the fourth to perpetrate the illusion that he had committed suicide, in order to flee. He was found with false identification and passport in the name of his alias. The people request the defendant be held on remand." He took a breath.

Harris said, "The facts proffered by the people will be disputed at trial, and quite frankly, they will be shown to be the smoke screen that they are. Mr. Woodbridge is a respected member of the community--"

The judge interrupted him. "If you want to argue that this defendant is still considered respected, I would suggest that you don't waste this court's time, but save it for trial." He raised his gavel, but before he could bang it, the defense attorney spoke again.

"Your honor, any number of interpretations can be made about the so-called evidence that the defendant intended to flee. To penalize him because of the mayor's vendetta is an egregious abuse of power."

Jack briefly stared at the man, taken aback by the sheer audacity. The judge's voice brought his attention to the bench.

"Mr. McCoy," he asked, still holding the gavel up, "do the people have any response to this?"

Jack replied, "This is patently absurd. The defendant drugged an innocent man, paralyzing him, then shot off half of his face, leaving a suicide note and trace evidence, deliberately, so that the identity of the victim would be understood to be that of the defendant." Jack lifted his hands with a shrug. "How can this be misinterpreted? He was apprehended in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, in the home of the parents of another one of his victims, where he'd gone to search for incriminating evidence! Remand is more than justified in this case."

"Your honor!" Harris said, "the people have no evidence tying my client to any drug administered, if there is even proof of its use against this poor unfortunate man found in the home of Mr. Woodbridge."

Jack shook his head. "We have ample proof that the drug was used. This defendant has shown a clear propensity to flee, and will again, should he be allowed to post bail."

"Your honor--"

The judge said, "Mr. Harris, quite frankly, I've heard enough. The defendant is hereby remanded to the Department of Correction, without bail. Short date." The gavel banged.

Harris said something to Woodbridge, before the guards took him away again. The defendant refused to look at Jack, who was deliberately trying to force eye contact. Jack put the file away, and headed for the aisle. He met Harris at the gate.

"Egregious abuse of power?" Jack remarked.

"Hey," Harris answered, "if it worked for OJ...."

Jack didn't hide his disgust. "Well, you'd do better not to disregard the intelligence of the citizens of this city. You can expect Grand Jury indictments on all counts by the end of the day."

"They'd vote whatever you placed in front of them, and you and I both know it," the man answered with a shrug and a small grin. He turned and left, motioning for the reporters to follow.

Jack walked through the gate and was immediately joined by a woman he recognized from the mayor's office. She told him she was sure the mayor would be pleased by this preliminary outcome. Then she, too, walked quickly away from Jack, toward the doors. He wasn't in any particular mood to make small talk, and was glad to be left alone. He needed to get his mind on the next task of the morning. Obtaining a subpoena for information from the New York State Office of Temporary & Disability Assistance and the Social Security Administration. In furtherance of identifying the "poor unfortunate man" Richard Woodbridge had murdered in cold blood.

The subway train Ed entered was too crowded to find a seat. That was fine with him; standing afforded more freedom of movement, and his cop-sense was always more alert on the subway. Movement might be needed at a moment's notice. He held the closest pole and looked over his fellow commuters. Nothing raised a red flag, and no matter his training, his mind began to wander, lulled by the dull roar of the subway travelling old tracks.

Crymson's body was being exhumed that morning. The process might even be completed during the time it took him to commute to the two-seven. Crymson would be returned to the slab for Dr. Rodgers to excise kidney tissue; the FBI would be performing another test.

Ed had had a buddy while living in Hong Kong, a young man raised in a strict Buddhist household. He believed that spirit and the physical form were two separate things, that at death, the spirit went on, leaving the body behind. Ed thought he agreed with his friend, but standing in the subway he made a vow for the upcoming day--he would stay as far away from the ME's office as possible. Crymson's body might be nothing but the measly remains of the human form. Ed didn't think he could bear to see it again. He made another vow, as the train slowed down at his stop. He'd check in at the Tide that evening, to see how Anthony was coping. See if there was anything he could do for the man.

"Hey," Lennie said, as Ed sat at his desk, "I forget some court date on the schedule?"

The man was waving a pen up and down, pointing at Ed's clothing.

"Nah, last minute notice. Woodbridge. Grand Jury. Jack wants indictments by the end of today. He got remand." Ed grinned. He'd been given the news within a minute of reaching the sidewalk from the subway stairs. He hadn't been the least bit embarrassed to pump his fist, once, amongst the crowd of commuters. Sweet didn't begin to describe it.

"Which session?" Lennie sipped his coffee.

"Late," Ed answered. He was due at the courthouse at two. "We have the morning to get serious about finding out how this guy bought the drug. I've been thinking--" He stopped, as the sight before him finally registered. Lennie was drinking from a tall, paper, takeout coffee container. Not the type they normally got from the roach coach. "Looks like you went somewhere different for coffee this morning," he said slowly.

Lennie shrugged. "What, this thing? Just felt like something a bit more interesting."

Ed chortled. "Oh, yeah, that's you all right. I know how much you love specialty coffee, Lennie." He stared at his partner, until the other man finally relented with another shrug.

"Hey, it was just coffee, like I said a couple of days ago. No big deal." He sipped.

"So did you bring Rodgers some, in her office, or did the two of you actually walk to...," Ed paused, trying to read the logo on the cup. He couldn't. "Wherever?"

"We met there. She had some time for a break. Before--" Lennie stopped abruptly.

Ed held up a hand. "I know what you're referring to," he said quietly. "And I appreciate the consideration. But I'm okay, Lennie." Lennie looked skeptical. "At the moment, I'm okay," Ed amended, then pointed to the coffee container. "Back to this?"

"It was nice. Now, what were you thinkin' about Woodbridge and the drug?"

He studied the man for a brief moment. Fine, if Lennie wanted to change the subject, Ed could do that. He had all morning and through lunch to pump the truth out of him. It was clear that Lennie didn't look particularly unhappy about his breakfast date; the set of his mouth was mostly relaxed and not a tight line of tension. Fine. "Okay," Ed answered, "I was thinking that maybe we're looking at this drug thing all wrong. Trying to outthink this bastard, assume that it must have been some really complicated plan..."

Lennie nodded. "Yeah. Trying to steal it from a hospital, or buy it on the black market."

"Exactly. Maybe it was a whole lot more straightforward. I spent a little time on the 'net this morning, seeing what it would take to buy this stuff. Turns out I could buy it over the internet, from overseas' pharmacies, with just a simple little prescription. Could buy it from US pharmacies who sell online, too, with a prescription. That's all he'd really need."

"But wouldn't a pharmacist get suspicious about someone having a prescription for a drug they use for anesthesia?"

"I don't think they really give a damn what the thing is going to be used for," Ed said with disgust, "as long as they get the money. Let's go to the Tech Lab. Maybe the bastard forged a doctor's signature, and just maybe he kept the prescription pad on his computer."

Lennie drank a long gulp of his coffee. "Doesn't make sense that he'd buy this over the internet, though. Wouldn't there be a record of it? At his server?"

Ed stood, and bit back a response about Lennie turning techie on him. "Depends. But I know what you're saying." He paused. "And there's the thing about him getting this stuff to kill his parents fifteen years ago. That was before 1988, when it became legal to sell pharmaceuticals online, from overseas. So maybe he went to another country in person...."

Lennie said with a touch of sarcasm, "And handed the prescription right over the counter. Like in a less advanced place, where they wouldn't call the signing doc, or know if the doc's license number was really valid. Like Thailand, or the Philippines. Or México."

Ed remembered something the housekeeper had said. "He sometimes left town on the spur of the moment."

"Yeah. I'd say we should look at his credit card statements, but Southerlyn was by this morning, picking up the rest of the financials from Property."

Ed wasn't sorry he'd missed her. "Let's go see what Tech Lab people can find, first. Then we'll flip a coin--heads, you call that woman and ask her to look for a plane ticket out of the country."

Lennie made a noise. "And tails to you."

"Tails, you call her, too," Ed said over his shoulder as he started for Lieu's office. He would give her the report on where they were going, and what they were hoping to accomplish. He heard Lennie make another noise as he walked away, and smiled a small smile.

Ed sat across from Van Buren, told her that Jack was trying to obtain the subpoena as they spoke, and that Serena would be following up with the appropriate governmental agencies. He knew how much his lieutenant hated sending a body to Potter's Field; he hated it, too. He then told her what he and Lennie were considering, in regards to the succinylcholine.

She said, shaking her head, "Wouldn't that be a cause to celebrate--that he'd left something like that on his hard drive?"

Ed grunted. "Yeah."

"So I take it that you're doing the Grand Jury thing today?" Her eyebrows arched, and she pointed to his clothing, as Lennie had done.

"Sorry, yes, ma'am, I am," Ed answered, giving himself a small mental kick for forgetting to mention it right off. "This afternoon." He hesitated. "I guess I'm still getting used to the change in the lines of communication. Between us and the DA's office," he hedged.

Van Buren leaned on her elbows and clasped her hands. "It's been an adjustment for both of us, Ed, but I think it's gone better than I had anticipated." She hesitated, too, and Ed could see that she was marshaling her thoughts. He was surprised; she was always so straightforward. Butterflies began dancing in his stomach as the silence stretched. It felt like a minute, at least, but Ed knew it was probably more like seconds. Finally, she continued, "As long as communication between us remains open, there shouldn't be any problems, aside from the occasional slipup. I don't have to tell you how bad things can get around here when one hand doesn't know what the other one is doing."

Ed's heart joined the butterflies in his stomach, making his nerves jangle. It felt like he was sitting in front of her with Ryerson's diary pages still stuffed in his shirt pocket. He almost checked to see if they were there. "I agree," he said, not sure what else to say.

She continued with this same line of thought, for only another minute, talking about how pleased she was with the job that he and Lennie had done, of uncovering enough evidence to make a strong case against the perp. All the while she talked, Ed's guilt blossomed. The things she didn't know weren't strictly relevant to the case, but that didn't stop Ed from second guessing his decisions to keep her out of the loop over the prior two weeks. Taking the diary pages. Serena's investigation of him. The blowup fight he and Serena had had. Jack having known the first victim.

Van Buren reiterated that Ed had done a good job with the investigation, disproving her initial reservations about his involvement in the case. Ed plastered enough of a smile on his face, as he thanked her, to make his words sincere. He left the office for his desk. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the vote of confidence she was giving him. It wasn't that he didn't feel pleased with the work he had done. He told himself, as he and Lennie headed for the stairs, that he was emotionally wiped out from the day and evening before, which was skewing his reactions. He told himself that he'd done the right thing, every step of the way. He told himself that he was proud of what he and his partner had accomplished. He told himself all of these things. If his commanding officer was left in the dark about some of it, that was only for the good. It was all good. That's what he told himself, and that's what he believed.

The door to Jack's office opened as he was hanging up his suit coat. He turned; it was Serena, carrying a file box in her arms.

"The evidence from Woodbridge's car," she said, dropping the box on the T-table. From it, she pulled out a small packet of papers and handed them to Jack. "The decision on the Perry appeal."

"And?" He leafed through the pages, scanning them as he went.

"It was denied," she said.

He reached the final page and read it, taking a deep breath of relief. He looked up. "Good," he said, with feeling.

Serena held out her hand. "I'll take care of it."

He could appreciate that she was still trying to get back in his good graces, but doing Jennifer's job wasn't the way. He hesitated, then gave her the paperwork, without comment. "Have you looked through this?" he asked, indicating the rest of the box's contents. There was a passport visible; he took that out first and opened it. It was in the name of George Havemeyer, as he had expected.

"Most of it," she said. She reached in and removed files, sorting them on the table as she did.

"Havemeyer," Jack said, half to himself, still flipping through the passport. "Where the hell did he get that name?" He looked for the earliest Customs' stamp he could find, and from what country it had originated. Not surprisingly, it was the Caymans, but the date was May of the prior year. Earlier than he would have thought. "He created this alias before he was being blackmailed. Unless Ryerson had already spoken to him before we place him and Abbott at the parade, before the money changed hands in the summer...."

Serena agreed, "He was already making the decision to pay, and how he'd hide it." She opened one of the files. "Here's his second Cayman account in Havemeyer's name--it's at a different bank. It has the one hundred thousand deposited, taken from his Woodbridge Cayman account, and then transferred to Ryerson's and Abbott's Cayman accounts. I can't find the opening statement. But, he did have this..." She shuffled through the papers, and finally pointed to transactions on a page near the back of the file. "He's been making rather substantial transfers into this Havemeyer account, starting the day after Ryerson was killed."

"Getting prepared to flee," Jack replied. He huffed. "I want original records of both of his accounts. Send another amended request down there. I want to see everything, on everybody."

She nodded.

"What about the car registration?" he asked. "Did they find that in the glove compartment, or did you run across it?"

"It's in another file, along with the pink slip," she answered. "Looks like he was planning on taking the car as far as he could, otherwise why carry the pink slip around with him? The original registration date is actually last August. So, after he'd paid the blackmail. Maybe he had some idea in mind that he'd eventually have to commit another murder or two?"

"Maybe." Jack really wanted Ed and Lennie to find out how and when the drug was purchased. The "when" was becoming a bigger and bigger issue, in his mind. He believed Skoda, and the circumstantial evidence which indicated Woodbridge murdered Ryerson with his own gun. But precisely how premeditated were each of the murders? The door to his office opened, and Jennifer entered, handing him two sheets of paper.

It was a faxed report from Dr. Rodgers. He read it, and his stomach clenched. Serena was looking at him with expectation; he could see her in his peripheral vision. He needed to take a deep breath before he could hand her the report; she read it in silence. Rodgers had done an intensive scan, under high magnification, of the surface of Crymson's skin. She had found a puncture wound. At the base of the neck. It was deep enough to correlate to the wound found on John Doe's neck. A preliminary confirmation, and certainly not an unexpected one. Nevertheless, Jack had a strong urge to throw something heavy through his plateglass window, merely for the satisfaction. He focused on the box of evidence, willing his stomach to relax.

"We'll see that he's held accountable, Jack," Serena said quietly, handing the report back to him.

He tossed it onto the desk and put his hands on his hips. He finally met her eyes, and nodded. "Take the subpoena to the SSA and disability offices," he said, his own voice no stronger than hers. "Make them turn over their records. We need to give the detectives something to help them identify Mr. Doe. Somebody out there is his family."

She nodded, then left. He went around the desk and sat, pulling the Grand Jury preparation in front of him. He concentrated on the task of the afternoon. He inserted the financial information they now had into its appropriate place.

Ed was hell-bent on getting something absolutely definitive to put Crymson's murder on Woodbridge. What they had was a pile of circumstantial evidence, links from one aspect of these crimes to another. There was no blackmail paid to Crymson. There were emails between Crymson and Woodbridge which weren't explicit. There were emails between Crymson and the other two victims which were, at least about blackmail, and a missing Ryerson. There was a pay phone call to Woodbridge, from the area near the Tide, the night of Crymson's murder. There was no physical evidence at Woodbridge's home that Crymson had ever been there. There was only a letter written to Anthony which said Crymson was going. The letter they couldn't use. The gun which had killed all three--it was the same, but they didn't have it, and there was no record Woodbridge had ever owned it. The disfigurements to all three victim's foreheads. The job Don Marsh had been hired to do. Etcetera. The use, by Woodbridge, of succinylcholine was another link, and if they could find evidence he'd purchased it--the final link. The one Ed wanted.

Jack put his pen down and dropped his head to his hands. He pictured Woodbridge in a cell, under someone else's control. On a daily basis. For the rest of his life. He would do whatever it took to put him there. Whatever the cost.

Ed could feel Lennie's hand gripping his shoulder; he could hear his partner's voice saying something, but he wasn't sure what the words meant. They sounded like the gruff, gentle, comforting things Lennie had said to him throughout this case. Too often, he'd had to say them; Ed understood that. He shoved the phone back into his inside pocket and, once again, looked directly at him.

"It's not like we weren't expecting it, and it's what we need," Ed said, grateful his own words had come out whole, and not the broken sounds he was sure he'd make.

"Yeah, well, that doesn't always help, does it?" Lennie let go, after giving a final squeeze.

Ed shook his head. He had appreciated Lieu's call. It was better to know now, from her, rather than from reading Rodger's report when he returned. It was better to find out while he was away from the squad room, away from his fellow cops. It was better to find out with Lennie by his side. "Let's go," he said, starting toward the Tech Lab, down the hall.

Lennie said, "I think it's your turn to pick a lunch place."

Ed glanced at him. "I thought it was yours."

"Nah, you're wrong. You pick."

They reached the lab and Ed pushed open the door. "Okay," he agreed, allowing the deception. He would pay, at least.

They found their man, surrounded by Woodbridge's expensive computer setup. He gave them a rundown on what he'd discovered in the way of potential evidence. There were two emails between Ryerson and Woodbridge, dated in spring of the year before, a date which surprised Ed. The email data was incomplete, and what was there was not incriminating. There were no email files found between the other victims and their perp, not even remnants, and nothing was found on the backup disks, either.

The financial files on the hard drive were minimal. No records at all from the summer before. The only indication that Woodbridge had any bank accounts was the record of his US bank's web site which was found in an internet history file on a backup disk, made two months ago. However, the Tech Specialist told them, with a gleam in his eye, that he had uncovered a letter in the word processing program, again on a backup disk. The letter was written by a George Havemeyer, to a bank in the Caymans, about a discrepancy in his account. It was dated June of the prior year.

Lennie remarked, "Good old George."

Ed grinned at him, then confirmed the alias for the specialist, and asked if there was anything else found under the name. The man said "no."

"Do you have the list of internet sites finished?" Ed asked. They had requested a complete history of every place Woodbridge had visited on the internet, or as many URLs as the lab could uncover.

The other man looked through a file on his desk, and retrieved a three page document. "I've arranged them by general subject matter, there's the date he visited, and each internal URL for every site that we found."

Ed skimmed it, with Lennie peering over his shoulder. "Look, Lennie," Ed said, pointing out a category called, "Medical."

"Just the fact he's got this category," Lennie muttered.

There were what appeared to be three different sites listed, but with more than one page per site. Ed asked the specialist, "I assume that you guys actually went to each of the pages on every site, to see what was on them?"

The man shrugged. "Well, we didn't spend a whole lot of time searching the content, but we made sure the URLs were accurate."

"Do you have 'net access here?" Ed asked, waving a hand over the desk in front of them.

"Sure," he answered, pulling a laptop forward. He typed a few commands, and within a minute, they were logged on to the NYPD server.

Ed and Lennie moved their chairs so they were sitting directly behind him, and asked to see each page in the "Medical" category. The first site they picked had been visited the day after Ryerson was killed; it turned out to be a medical supply chain. Aside from the home page, Woodbridge had visited one other--a page with surgical scrubs and accessories.

"What the hell?" Ed asked his partner.

Lennie shrugged. "Wasn't like he was planning on attacking them with a scalpel or something," he retorted.

"Wait a sec," Ed said, then looked at their list. "He didn't go anywhere else, like to the checkout, so it's obvious he didn't find what he was looking for." Something was niggling in his brain, and finally broke through. "I've got an idea, Lennie," he said, searching the list for any site which had the same date, and found one under a category they'd named, "Scientific." He asked the specialist to bring up the site.

Soon, they were looking at the site of a distributor of laboratory equipment and supplies. One of the pertinent pages showed a photo of a smiling someone in a full length white outfit, looking every bit like a lightweight Haz-Mat worker's suit. The description called it a "limited-use cleanroom coverall with hood and boots."

"This might answer our question," Ed said to Lennie. "I think this is how he managed to kill our Mr. Doe, not leave a drop of blood anywhere on his way through the house, get out of there quickly, and not walk the streets covered in the stuff."

Lennie made a noise deep in his throat. "I get your drift, and I only got one reply." He pointed to the photo on the screen. "Her smile is giving me the creeps."

Ed had to wholeheartedly agree. He asked the specialist to print out the page, after determining that it did, indeed, appear that Woodbridge had visited the site's checkout. They spent the next fifteen minutes looking at other sites under any category which might get them somewhere near an online pharmacy, without result. He explained what their other theory was, asking if any file had been found, partial or whole, which could resemble a prescription pad.

"Well, you know, image files are a funny thing," the man said, reaching out for another group of papers in the report folder. "You've got .jpeg's and .gif's for all kinds of applications, every icon you use is stored, not to mention all the stuff on your desktop, backgrounds, game files, and if people store family photos, then it's a real nightmare...."

Ed looked hard at him. "Okay," Ed replied slowly, "let's see if there's something that might stand out. I don't know, something with a file name that might mean it doesn't belong to any of the things you just listed?"

"Yeah," Lennie said, "something weird. This guy was a psycho. Let's look at it from that point of view."

"All right....," the man said, as he began to run his finger down the lengthy list of image files.

Out of the blue, Ed felt the tingle on the back of his neck again. He'd last felt it sitting in Sergeant Froendlich's office in Middleton. His heart beat responded, and he leaned forward, looking over the specialist's shoulder, reading the list along with the other man. The techies had kept a record of whether the file had been found on a backup disk, the hard drive, or both. Whether the file was complete, or had been deleted and partially overwritten, and the date the file had last been accessed. Ed said, "Let's start by seeing what's on a backup, but not on the hard drive."

The other man picked up a pen and started over, marking the file names. There weren't many; five on the first page, three on the second, and one on the third. Ed asked to see them all. The images were brought up on Woodbridge's computer, one by one, backups put in and taken out. Ed glanced at Lennie, noting the telltale signs of impatience, knowing he wasn't showing any more cool than his partner.

It was the seventh image they looked at. A prescription pad appeared, as each row of pixels was filled in, top to bottom. Ed said, with his pulse racing, "You're toast, you son of a bitch." The doctor's name was Lowenstein; his address was in Montana; the file had last been accessed in August of the previous year.

Ed and Lennie were almost to the door of the sandwich shop when Ed's phone rang. He opened it and saw it was Jack, and knew immediately why he had called. Ed put a hand on Lennie's arm to stop their progress, and answered. He was right. They talked briefly about Rodgers' finding. Ed could tell him, honestly, that he was better than he had been--mostly due to what they'd found on Woodbridge's computer. Still, if Lennie hadn't been standing nearby, he might have told his lover that a hug would have been very much appreciated, should he and Jack have been able to meet somewhere before the Grand Jury. Neither mentioning the need, nor the possibility of meeting, was an option. He knew that. He settled for Jack's enthusiasm over the prescription pad. He pushed the boundary of the public conversation enough to tell Jack, as quietly as possible, that he loved him. He listened as the man replied with the same, not quiet in the least, but just as intense. He ended the conversation.

Lennie was upbeat, for him, as they got their lunches and sat. Ed discovered that it wasn't all that difficult to get the man talking about his breakfast date. Whether or not it was being away from the squad room, Ed really didn't care. He let Lennie say what he wanted, happy to hear that, overall, the man had no complaints about Elizabeth Rodgers' company outside of the office. Lennie had found her easy to talk to, and funnier than expected, in a more relaxed setting. Not surprisingly, a sense of humor in a woman seemed to be important to Lennie. Ed encouraged the talk as much as necessary, stifling any reference to his own love life, feeling protective of it and surprisingly guarded. He wanted no grimaces in response to a mention of Jack, no reason for Lennie to be anything but jovial. No comment on the life Ed was living, with Jack by his side and in his bed. No change in the atmosphere, at the small table, with remnants of lunch between them.

The door to the Grand Jury room opened and Ed looked up, from his seat on the bench, to see Serena exit. He tried to keep his stomach from churning at the sight of her. The queasiness was minor, and relatively unimportant. Ed knew from experience this was how it would be, for quite a while. Some days he'd notice nothing, and other days it would hit him like a blow between the eyes, or in the stomach.

"You're up," she said, standing a good six feet away.

He rose and took what he hoped was an unnoticeable, deep breath. He straightened the knot in his tie and smoothed it down, then buttoned his jacket. Two things mattered at that moment. To see that Woodbridge was indicted, and to do his best for Jack. Yet, as Serena reached for the doorknob, he stopped her, unwilling to miss this opportunity. "Just a minute," he said in a low voice, stepping forward and putting his hand against the door.

She turned her head, her lips pursed tightly. "Is there a problem?"

"I just want you to know one thing," he said, practically spitting out the words, though he kept his voice deliberately quiet. "I haven't told my superiors what you did to me, but I haven't kept my mouth shut out of any respect for you. I did it for Jack's sake. So he wouldn't have to deal with any shit coming from the force, toward the DA's office. So he could get his job done."

Typically, her face was impassive as she nodded curtly, once. He removed his hand and stepped back, allowing her to open the door and precede him inside. He took another breath, but this one deep and obvious, as he followed her, his eyes searching for Jack at the front of the room. He found him, and the man smiled the smile meant for him alone. He returned it, and went to sit in the witness box.

All in all, Jack thought, Ed's testimony was going very well. As usual, the detective was relaxed, forthright, and knowledgeable, giving the bare bones of the evidence they'd collected for the benefit of the people who would judge their case. Going over things step by step, in tune with the rhythm of Jack's questioning to such an extent that there had been a few times when it had seemed Ed was ready with an answer before Jack had formulated his question. Which was to be expected, in a case such as this--there were only so many directions a line of questioning could take Ed.

However, there was one thing happening in the Grand Jury room that Jack hadn't exactly been prepared for. He had assumed that he was, but the reality of the situation had proven him wrong. It was unbelievably distracting to be questioning Ed, to be immersed in the give and take, to feel the pulse of their minds working together, normally experienced in the privacy of home. The synergy. Ed's eyes locked with his. Ed giving him exactly what he needed.

Jack had always been very clear about the line between the personal and the professional. He knew when he crossed it, and when he didn't. He had paid for the privilege, as well as the mistakes. He had always been very clear about dealing with lovers, in the realm of his professional life. About when he would allow the distraction, and when he wouldn't. As if he had perfect control over it. He had been proven wrong about that, too. He struggled at times, there, across the podium and twenty-five feet away from Ed, looking so damned good, pinning him with those dark, dark irises. He struggled, and forced himself to concentrate on the ultimate purpose of why they were both there. Surprised as hell when it was difficult. Grateful it only happened every five minutes.

Having finished his testimony, Ed was walking toward the door, when he heard Jack excuse himself momentarily from the jury's presence. Ed kept going, but waited in the hallway. Jack followed him within seconds.

"Hey," Jack said quietly, stepping out. "That went well."

Ed smiled. "Good, I thought so, too."

Jack smiled in response. "For the trial? I think the red tie should be left at home."

It took him a beat, but then he chuckled. "Got it. Consider it done."

Jack lifted a hand and went back inside. Ed was still smiling to himself as he headed for the elevator. He'd thought Jack had been having some difficulties with his concentration, he simply had not been sure he could trust his perceptions. A warm spot flared in his chest, at the thought that he'd been able to distract Jack McCoy, of all people. In his element, where he had supreme confidence. Well deserved respect. For the trial, Ed would absolutely leave the red tie at home. He might even wear his tan suit. It was suddenly clear to him that he would do whatever it took to keep Jack on his game. He wondered if maybe Lennie should testify.

After entering the elevator, Ed took one last look at the Grand Jury room, before the doors slid shut on the view. Love the hell out of you, Jack. Period.

"It went as expected?" Nora asked, standing in the side doorway of Jack's office. She had her coat on, and her purse under her arm.

Jack slipped the manuscript they'd retrieved in Milwaukee into his briefcase. "All the counts we asked for. Serena's filing the papers as we speak. We can amend the indictments once the lab results come back from the FBI." Nora nodded. "By the way, Rodgers found what she believes is a puncture wound on the back of Crymson's neck." He could not bring himself to refer to him as victim number three.

"I'm sorry, Jack," Nora said gently.

Jack put a few files in with the manuscript and yanked the zipper shut. "I just keep telling myself that it's good for the case against this guy. When it gets bad, I picture Crymson behind the bar. Remember him that way."

"I don't envy your position, knowing one of the victims. But I do trust your judgment. I know you'll use your emotional involvement to our advantage." Nora showed a very slight smile. "Have a good weekend."

Jack nodded. "You, too." She left, and Jack was glad to see her go. His stomach was churning, and she was always too adept at reading him. The queasiness was not due to his acquaintanceship with one victim, but the fact that he had fucked another one. Something his boss would never know. Could never know. Something he ignored ninety-nine percent of the time. Unfortunately, this time was the other damned one percent. When the vision of Ryerson, bent over with his pants around his ankles, was enough to make Jack reach for the Scotch.

He pulled on his overcoat, grabbed his helmet and briefcase and headed out. Headed for the Orleans, and a glass with at least two fingers of their finest twenty-year-old stuff. He could taste it already. Could feel the burn, going down his throat.

Crymson's Tide was crowded, even for a Friday night. The mood of the place was more upbeat than the last time Ed had been there, but still not what it had been before. The incomparable "before." An outsider might wonder why one more death, on top of how many hundreds in this community over the years, could make such a difference. Crymson's death--sudden, violent, and needless--would be a mark in time, Ed knew, unlike others. Incomparable. At least for the patrons of this club. How many friends had Crymson lost, how many candles had he lit, how many eulogies had the man given? Many, many more than Ed. Each passing had been celebrated, publically, by Crymson. Each one of them remembered by the man. Looking at the faces of the people there, at the club, this night, it was easy to see that the honor would be returned, tenfold.

Ed made his way as quickly as possible to the bar, being stopped en route by men he knew, and some he didn't. His hand was shaken; words of thanks and praise were given which he felt extremely uncomfortable accepting. He did his best, unwilling and unable to explain his discomfort. He had done his job. A job the people of the city of New York paid him to do. He had been more than driven to get Crymson's killer, and yet it was Crymson's killing which was the weakest part of the case. The most explicit evidence they had, the letter the victim had written to his lover, could not be used. Because of Ed. At least he was still gathering evidence; the odds were beginning to swing more in Crymson's favor.

He, and only a few others, knew exactly how driven he had been. How close to obsessed he had become. Here, in the presence of friends, acquaintances, and even strangers, he had to fall back on duty as the reason he'd apprehended Richard Woodbridge. Obsession, almost, called for a perfect result. Obsessed people did everything in their power to see their goal reached.

The bar was being tended by Robert and a new bartender. Robert saw Ed, over the front row, and told people to let him through. The man reached across the expanse of wood with both hands, and shook Ed's, engulfing it, becoming a new appendage at the end of Ed's arm. Ed accepted this one, nodding in response to Robert's words of thanks, spoken in his ear. Robert let go. Ed asked if Anthony was in the office and got an affirmative answer. He left the bar and, eventually, was able to knock on the office door.

It opened quickly, and once again his hand was taken, but this time he was unexpectedly drawn into a hug. A brief, backslapping hug, which made his chest hurt and his eyes sting. The crossing of another line between professional and personal, a different line, was hard. He hadn't been prepared. He gathered his composure quickly and sat across the desk from Anthony. The man looked better; he had gained a bit of weight back and though there were still dark circles under his eyes, the haunted look in them was less pronounced. Ed withheld a sigh at the thought of how that was about to change.

He told Anthony about the remand, the name of Woodbridge's lawyer, the indictments which had been billed, and saved the worst for last. The puncture wound. The possible confirmation deflated the man; he sank further into the desk chair.

"I thought," Anthony said, "I was ready to hear it." He lifted his hands, then let them fall back onto the surface of the desk. "I've been imagining the scene ever since Mr. McCoy told me. Been seeing Crym on the floor, over and over and over again. I've cried, I've screamed, I've hit every soft thing in our apartment. I've broken a dish or two. I thought....," he trailed off, his eyes losing their focus on Ed's, until he was staring somewhere over Ed's right shoulder.

"I know," Ed said, acutely aware of how inadequate a reply that was. "The case is getting stronger," he offered. "We're still working it. We've got more evidence as of this morning. I don't think he's going to get away with anything."

Anthony leaned forward and rested on his forearms. "From your experience, with other families, does a conviction help? I mean really, truly help?"

Ed, finally, let his sigh out. "For some people, yeah, it does. For others, it doesn't. I've seen it both ways."

"I can understand that. Kind of like being here. Some nights it really helps, some nights it's tortuous. But even the bad nights here are better than being at home." He shrugged. "This morning, I was so furious with Crym, for talking me into moving in together; I was really yelling at him. If I still had my own place, then I wouldn't have to see his stuff everywhere; I wouldn't have to deal with getting rid of this, or that, or deciding what to keep. I wouldn't have to think about everything we bought together, every time I looked at the coffee maker, or the set of mugs we got in México, or the damned sheets." He heaved a breath. "I'm sorry. For...." He waved a hand in the air, and slowly shook his head.

"No," Ed replied gently, "it's okay. I don't mind." He paused. "Look, you want a beer or something? Why don't I go out and get us a drink, and you can rant and yell all you want. I understand. Honest. I'm a good listener."

A small smiled passed across Anthony's mouth. "Guess you have to be as a detective," he said in a tired voice. "Yeah, I'd like a beer. Dark, on tap. Tell Robert yours is on the house."

Ed didn't argue, he merely accepted, again. He got up, and just as he was about to open the door, Anthony stopped him.

"Ed, can I ask something personal? I'm asking everyone I know." Ed nodded. "First, how are you and Mr. McCoy?"

"We're good," he answered.

Anthony took a deep breath. "Have you told him today that you love him?"

Ed's throat closed with a suddenness that made him dig a nail into his palm to stop it. He finally managed to say, "yes," to which the other man nodded and replied with a quiet, "good." Ed nodded, too, and walked out, into the crowd, his fingers itching to take the phone out of his pocket and call Jack. To say it one more time.

Jack was sitting on the edge of Ed's bed, propping his head with one hand, holding the phone to his ear with the other. Their Saturday morning had been relaxed, comfortable, quiet and exactly what they both had needed. Ed was in the other room, stretched out on the couch, reading the manuscript. Jack, unable to put it off any longer, and adhering to his plan, was talking to Joanna. He had been looking forward to it, but after he'd dialled, the earlier pit of anxiety had again settled in his stomach. So, once she had answered, he had launched right into the topic. Telling her the essential way his life had changed over the past weeks. He had explained it without pause. Without giving her the opportunity to comment. He was finally finished, and dead silence was her response. He waited, stifling his impatience.

Joanna eventually let out an exasperated sigh. "And what am I supposed to make of this, Dad?"

He huffed. "It's not that complicated, Joey. It's not like my preferences come as any kind of a surprise to you--you've known about this for a long time--"

"Brief encounters and falling in love are two different things, for God's sakes."

"Yes, but one could logically lead to the other," Jack replied, trying for reasonableness in his tone. "It's not that big a deal."

"Oh, come on, don't try to tell me now that this is no big deal, and don't try to make this a matter of logic! Of course it's a big deal. It's why you told me in the first place," she said sharply.

He rubbed his eyes. "You're right. It's a big deal. Probably bigger than I can explain," he admitted. "But look at it this way: your old man is confessing his dark secrets to you, for once, instead of the other way around."

Joanna sighed again. "That's getting dangerously close to a change of subject."

"So you want to go back to what you're supposed to make of my love life?"

There was a hesitation on the other end. "No, not really. How serious is this?"

Now it was Jack's turn to hesitate, as he tried to find a way to quantify for his daughter--a woman who liked, and even needed, the intangible things of life defined. He had long ago assumed responsibility for some of that need--parental divorces have consequences. "It's serious enough that I'm bringing him to Chicago for Thanksgiving. He's already met Aunt Colleen, stayed overnight at her house when he was back there for a case." He waited to see if that was enough for her.

"Thanksgiving, huh? Wow. So... I'm meeting him second?"

He caught the tone of her voice, and smiled with unexpected relief. "Only by happenstance, Joey; Ed and his partner had to go to Chicago, and to save money I asked your aunt if they could bunk at her house. Technically, you'll be meeting him fourth, if you count your uncle and Ian. I would have preferred you to be the first."

"Hm-m, maybe I'll give Aunt Colleen a call and get the scoop on this guy," she said.

He sat up straighter, and his eyes landed on the photo of him and Joanna, on Ed's dresser. He felt a grip in his chest--the reality of his life, the fullness of it, the possibility of a future with Ed, all manifesting physically. A thunderous jolt to his solar plexus.

"Dad? You still there?"

He cleared his throat. "I'm here. You should call her. She'll give her unbiased opinion, like she always does."

"Are you going to tell Mom? Or have you already done so?"

Jack shook his head. "I don't usually keep her updated," he said, more sharply than he had intended.

"You don't think she should know about this change in your lifestyle?"

"It's a change in my life, not my lifestyle," Jack retorted. He'd always hated that term.

"Okay, sorry," she answered with haste, "point taken. So telling Mom is a no-go."

Jack sighed. "I don't think it's any of her business, but if you want to tell her, I'm fine with that. No secrets," he said, acknowledging their long standing promise.

"Okay." There was silence again.

"So. Joanna. Any other comments?"

"Well, I can't say that I'm not shocked as hell, Dad. But... you sound good," she said more gently. "And you haven't sounded like this in a long time. If Ed is giving you that, then more power to him, and you."

Another jolt to his chest, and he smiled widely at her photo. "Thanks, honey," was all he could get out.

"Hey, I just thought of something. Does this mean I've got two dads? Can I write a book? You know, how my father came out of the closet in his senior years," she teased.

He laughed, and she laughed with him, and as the laughter died down, he tossed a whole string of thank-you's up into the sky. For what he had, and what he'd had in the past. How much he loved his daughter; how lucky he felt to have been blessed with her. He took the opportunity to tell her so, knowing he didn't do it often enough. He heard the choke in her voice when she replied. He vowed he would do it more often.

"How did it go?" Ed asked, as he flopped down on the bed next to Jack. Jack had ended the call ten minutes before, and was lying down, his head on a pillow, his mind firmly in Chicago. Picturing the family holiday with Ed by his side. Picturing some of the difficulties he would likely have with his other sisters, and very definitely with his brothers. But picturing Joanna, out to dinner with him and Ed, or maybe to a movie. Some time just for the three of them. He rolled on his side and looked at Ed. Brown eyes were smiling at him.

"Good," Jack finally answered. "She says she's happy for me; she's calling Colleen to, quote, get the scoop, end quote, on you; she's looking forward to meeting you on Thanksgiving." He grinned.

Ed grinned, too, and moved closer. He pulled the edge of Jack's tee shirt out of his waistband and slipped a hand under the cotton fabric. His hand was warm, and moving--slowly up Jack's side and across to his belly. Jack's body reacted to the touch, like it always did, with an electrical current travelling under his skin, and skittering over the surface of it.

Ed said, his voice soft, and honeyed, "I'm looking forward to meeting her, too. Being in Chicago with you...." His fingers were now working through the hair on Jack's chest.

In a concerted effort not to succumb, Jack said, "She's also thrilled that she's got two fathers now."

Ed's eyebrows shot up and the hand stilled. He shook his head. "No offense, but I am not father material. Uh uh."

Jack chuckled, pulled Ed's hand out, then gently poked him in the chest. "Gotcha."

"Ooooh," Ed said with a low voice, his eyes dancing, "we'll see who's got who here...." He pushed Jack onto his back and came at him, plastering his mouth across Jack's, sending his tongue past Jack's lips to taste him with abandon. Jack couldn't stop the gut-deep moan that came up; the feel of Ed rolling on top of him combined with the penetrating, hot kisses was almost too much. Ed answered the moan with one of his own, and Jack nearly lost it completely.

He pushed back, enough to separate their mouths and take a heaving breath. "Appointment to look at the bike," he said.

Ed stared down into him. "We've got almost three hours."

"Not enough time," Jack answered. "And I have a very big problem."

"Problem?" Ed tilted his head, then started coming at him again. Jack put a hand over his mouth.

"Big one. I have absolutely no self-control where you're concerned, Ed."

Ed removed Jack's hand. "That's not a problem, and besides," Ed said with a small smile, "that's not even true. You were fine yesterday, in the Grand Jury, and in the corridor...."

"I almost wasn't," Jack retorted. "So, I'll make you a deal."

"Oh, the EADA is gonna give the detective a deal?" Ed asked, letting out a chortle.

Jack pushed hard enough to roll Ed off, and onto his side; he followed until they were face to face again. "I'll take you out to lunch, on the way up, and we'll continue this when we get back home. Before going to Peter's."

Ed smiled. "So it's lunch and a ride with the possibility of sex later, or sex now. Hm-m, I'm not known for delayed gratification." Jack looked down his nose at him. "But, in this case, I'll take the deal." Ed was still smiling. "Have I just been had?"

Jack cupped his face, caressing Ed's lips with his thumb. "No, that's the later."

The heat that flared in Ed's eyes almost made Jack change his mind. He took a deep breath. "Well, then," Ed replied in a husky voice, "let's go, before I renege."

Jack leaned in and kissed him, keeping their bodies as separate as possible. One more thing to be thankful for, and if he had no self-control, well, there were worse fates. Like having too much. Or having to ride up to Westchester alone.

Ed leaned against the wall of the house, his hands in his jacket pockets. He was watching Jack talk to the man who was selling the motorcycle, and watching Jack carefully check over the bike. It appeared to Ed that Jack was pleased with the condition, which, as far as he understood, had been advertised as "excellent." The bike did look nice, Ed had to admit. The sleek black body was very different from Jack's restored Harley, with its dark red details and sixty's styling. The BMW looked more rugged, which was the only word Ed could think of to describe the difference. It looked like a bike that could take riders on a long trip without breaking a sweat. Jack was opening the hard, black cases attached to the back.

"Panniers are also vintage '85," the man said. Ed had no idea why the cases were named that, but assumed it must be French. The seller was nothing like Ed had expected. He was perfectly suited for the suburbs, likely in his mid-fifties, muscular but with a small paunch, from watching sports on TV and drinking beer. A middle class man in middle age.

Jack closed the pannier. "Why are you selling?"

The other man shook his head. "My wife wants me to get rid of it. Thinks it's too dangerous, these days, to be riding."

"It certainly can be," Jack agreed. "So I guess, then, you wouldn't be interested in working out a deal, amenable to both of us, involving my Harley?"

Ed's heart skipped, and he took a step forward. "Jack?" He hadn't understood that Jack was considering a trade.

Jack turned to him and lifted his eyebrows. "Ed?" he replied.

"That's your bike--you restored that thing almost from scratch. Are you sure?"

Jack approached until he was only a few feet away. "Sometimes you have to let go of something, to get something better."

Ed said with a touch of frustration, "Yeah, I get the philosophical drift, here, but this is different. If it's money, I can--"

Jack interrupted him. "It's not the money. I don't need more than one bike, and the BMW is a much more comfortable bike for two people, especially if those two people want to go further than Fort Tryon Park," he said intently. Then he smiled. "I'm ready to let it go. I'm sure."

It was all Ed could do to keep his hands in his pockets and not reach out for him. He understood precisely what his lover was doing, and understood it on a very deep level. That Jack would promise Ed a future together, in the most mundane of transactions, was so completely, and inherently Jack, Ed almost couldn't stand it.

"Okay?" Jack asked.

"Yeah," Ed answered gently, "okay."

After flashing one more smile, Jack turned back to finish the conversation about a potential trade, while Ed started for the end of the driveway. He had to move, and he had to breathe, and he had to give himself a moment of privacy. To calm down, before he did something regrettable, like tell Jack that he loved him. Right there, in front of a perfect stranger.

From behind him, he heard the barely controlled enthusiasm of the BMW owner, the wife forgotten, as he worked out a deal with Jack. Ed had no idea who was getting the better end of it, and found he didn't care. If Jack didn't, then neither did he. He turned around, and saw the man he loved shake hands to seal the deal. The BMW was a fine looking bike, no question. Ed looked forward to their first ride on it. And to all of the other rides, too. Every one of them.

Sunday afternoon had turned rainy, but there was no reason to leave Jack's apartment, and a few worthwhile reasons to hunker down. Jack was watching a Knicks game, on the television at the end of the bed, with the sound muted, so Ed could accomplish the one task he'd set for himself--to finish Karen Abbott's manuscript. It was no great read from a literary standpoint, and certainly not from Ed's standpoint, either. But the subtext was fascinating.

He reached for his coffee cup on the bedside table, and drank the rest of the slightly cooled coffee in one gulp. He read the final paragraph and turned the page down onto the pile next to him. "Done," he announced.

Jack rolled onto his side and propped his head on a hand. "And?"

"I can't see that she'd ever get this thing published, so using that as a reason to blackmail seems, I don't know, kind of ironic, I guess. If I wanted to find some irony in this whole mess," he answered.

"There are other ways besides publishing houses to get something in front of the public," Jack said. "Self-publishing, the internet. She could have done it. For all we know, she was hoping to make some connections through her work at the gallery. The art world and the publishing world, in this city, do overlap."

"So, milk Woodbridge for cash, and still try to get the book published. Jesus, could she be that stupid?"

"She had to have some way to make the threat real." Jack shrugged his free shoulder. "Maybe she only told Woodbridge she had had a nibble, and he believed her. It seems pretty clear that Ryerson was the one who wanted to turn up the heat now, but a year and a half ago?"

Ed fingered the rim of the coffee cup on his lap. "I don't know, Jack. Look at the way she paints herself, her character--she's the one who eventually turns herself in. She almost makes herself out to be the hero. Maybe it was Ryerson who talked her into the blackmail scheme in the first place. She comes to New York, makes contact with her old friend Tom, tells him about this book she'd written, and he convinces her that they can get money out of his old friend Richard. Ryerson was the actual accomplice in doing the parents; he's got details he can give her to punch up her book, whatever. It's kinda clear he had a pretty weird way of looking at people, and more than willing to use people to get what he wanted."

Jack's eyebrows were lifting. "I know you don't like him, but to characterize him as a user?"

"No, I loathe and detest him. But it's not that--it's what he did. And I think he was the instigator. It's his responsibility."

"The blackmail," Jack said.

"Yeah, the blackmail, and this whole thing," Ed replied, getting frustrated. "If he hadn't tried to get money out of Woodbridge in the first place, then none of this would have happened."

Jack looked closely at him for a long moment. "If each of them hadn't covered up the murders fifteen years ago, then none of this would have happened. They all have some responsibility for that crime. And they all did things, now. If they'd done them differently, four murders could have been prevented. Like you said the other night--this case is filled with 'if onlys'."

Ed turned his head, breaking the eye contact, and let it fall none too gently against the headboard. He got Jack's point, only he hated it. After putting his cup back on the table, he rubbed his face, harshly, as if the increased circulation might ease the tension in his brain.

"Ed," Jack said, placing a hand on Ed's thigh, "you could be right about Abbott. From what we know of her, and what she's written, she didn't seem the type to come up with a blackmail scheme, and she did seem to carry a pretty big load of guilt about what had happened in Middleton. However, she was, at the very least, trying to make some money off of her past."

"Yeah," Ed said with a sigh, "she was no Girl Scout." They were both quiet, and Ed's eyes drifted to the television, where the basketball players were still running hard, up and down the court. Then he looked at Jack. "You know, our friend Froendlich sure won't be too pleased with his characterization--she wrote him like he was a real idiot."

Jack let out a noise of disgust. "The arrogance of youth. We will get to show him that his assessment of the crime was absolutely right-on, he just never found the drug. But at least he was right. That should help."

"Or not," Ed said.

Jack chuckled. "Yeah, or not."

Ed took the manuscript and dropped it on the floor. "Come here," he said, opening his arms. "I'm done with this shit. Let's watch the Knicks kick ass." Jack came to him, settling back against Ed's chest. "They are kicking ass, aren't they?"

Jack shook his head. "Not even close."

Ed sighed, and kissed Jack's hair. Jack turned on the volume, and the familiar sounds of shoes squeaking on a hardwood floor, crowds yelling, whistles blowing, and men talking over all if it filled the bedroom. Ed let himself be drawn into the game, with Jack, warm and heavy, in his arms.

Jack was pleased to have caught Nora, early on a Monday morning, before she'd started her weekly rounds of the DA's office. She was very different from Adam in that respect; she liked to touch base with as many ADAs as possible on her two hour route. She liked to be out from behind her own desk. He had stopped by to confirm his Thanksgiving schedule. It was the same as in previous years, except that he would very definitely be leaving at five o'clock on Wednesday--there would be no chance of extending his working hours at the last minute. He and Ed had spent some entirely enjoyable time on the internet the evening before, making plane, rental car, and hotel reservations. Hotel reservations he normally did not need. This year, he and Ed would stay in downtown Chicago proper, rather than being put up by family. Absolute privacy and a double bed awaited.

He buzzed Serena as soon as he was sitting, and within a minute, she arrived with Woodbridge's credit card statements, the timeline she'd worked up, and the faked passport. They began with the last item. Looking at when he had left the country under the alias, and where he had gone. There had been another trip to the Caymans, after the initial one in May, this one coincided with the money being transferred from Woodbridge's accounts and into the victims' accounts. Jack was slightly surprised--he had assumed that the man would have handled all of the transfers by wire, just for convenience. Without the name of his alias, they would have hit a dead end trying to follow the money, even with a wire transfer record, given the Cayman banking laws.

There were two other trips made, out of the country. The first was in that mysterious month of August. After the blackmail had been paid. Coinciding with when the image of the prescription pad had been accessed on his computer. This trip was to Manila, in the Philippines. There was another trip to Manila the week before Ryerson was murdered. Jack asked Serena to look for the dates on the credit card statements. As she was reading through the charges, his office door opened, and Jennifer came in.

"Ms. Southerlyn?" she asked, heading for Serena, holding out an envelope. "This just came for you, by messenger."

Serena took it, and thanked her. Jennifer left. Serena studied the envelope for longer than necessary, then slid it under the file folders she'd brought. Her face looked pinched; her mouth was in a tight moue. Jack's natural inclination was to ask her if she was all right, and this time, he didn't stifle it. She would only meet his eyes briefly. She answered that she wouldn't know until she'd read the letter, but she thought she might be fine. A wholly unconvincing statement. Jack had seen the return address, not by choice, merely by accident. It was from the Internal Revenue Service.

Ed was getting a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker behind his desk, adding a generous amount of half-and-half, when the phone on either his or Lennie's desk rang. Lennie picked it up, and after a beat, said, "Thank you for returning our call, Dr. Lowenstein," causing Ed to turn around quickly and slide into his chair, his eyes firmly on Lennie's face. They had been leaving messages on the doctor's answering machine since they were at the Tech Lab on Friday. Lennie pointed to Ed's phone, and asked the doctor to hold the line, while his partner joined them. Ed picked up the receiver.

Lennie told the doctor only that they were investigating a series of homicides, and that a copy of his prescription pad had been found on the perpetrator's computer. Asked him if he knew Richard Woodbridge. The doctor sounded genuinely confused, claiming he had never heard of their perp. This threw Ed. They had been assuming that somehow this doctor had known and treated Woodbridge, either in Wisconsin or maybe from a Montana vacation Woodbridge had taken with his parents. Lennie mentioned both possibilities to Lowenstein.

There was a pause on the other end of the phone line. "I've only been to Wisconsin twice, Detectives. Both times with my daughter, and neither as a physician. And I honestly can't remember treating someone while they were here on a vacation. We don't get much tourist action around here. Besides, I'm an Ob-Gyn. I think I'd remember delivering a baby for someone other than my regular patients."

"Ob-Gyn?" Lennie said under his breath. He met Ed's eyes, and shrugged.

"Doctor," Ed asked. "Where in Wisconsin?"

"Madison. My daughter went to college there."

"When did she graduate?" he continued, watching Lennie's mouth set in a firm line.

"She got her undergraduate degree, let's see, fifteen years ago. Her masters' two years later. Why? Because if you're about to imply that she would have had anything to do with your murders, you are out of your minds--"

Lennie cut him off, with a grin now plastered on his face, matched by the one Ed knew was breaking out across his own. "No, no, Doctor," Lennie said, "we don't think that at all. Tell us, if you would, was your daughter a patient of yours while she was in college? Ever send her a prescription for anything?"

The pause this time was much longer than the first. Finally, he answered, "Yes, she was, but that's all I'll say. That's all I can say."

Ed listened while Lennie cajoled the daughter's phone number out of a very suspicious father, assuring the other man throughout that they really had no reason to think that the woman had had anything to do with the murders. Ed hoped that his partner wouldn't regret that reassurance.

They were lucky; the younger Lowenstein was in her office, even further across the country from them than her father. She lived in Los Angeles, and worked as a curator at the Getty Museum. Lennie told her they were looking into a case involving Richard Woodbridge, and in the course of the investigation, her name had come up as someone who might have known the man in college. Could she confirm that?

"Woodbridge? The name sounds familiar," she answered, clearly confused, "but I really can't place him. Why would my name be involved in this case?"

"What about the name Thomas Ryerson? Did you know him?" Lennie asked.

"Ryerson... Ryerson," she muttered. After a long moment, she asked, "He have a friend named Karen?"

Ed's stomach lurched. Lennie confirmed Karen, and asked about her.

"Well, I knew Karen from a couple of classes we'd had together, and she had some friends who were living in my apartment complex, you know how it goes--I ran into her there, and she introduced me. One of them was Tom. And Charlie, his roommate. Is that the right Tom? 'Cause the name Ryerson sounds right." Ed was trying to picture Crymson as a "Charlie." He saw Lennie about to say something, when the voice on the other end of the phone spoke quickly. "Oh, Woodbridge! That was the guy whose parents died, right? Karen's boyfriend, Dick. Yeah, that was him--there were police around the complex those first few weeks of school, asking people a lot of questions." She paused. "Goodness. Is this what you're looking into, still?"

"Not exactly," Lennie answered. "So, how well did you know Tom and Charlie?"

"Not too well, they threw the occasional party, and I went with my boyfriend. We invited them to a few parties over the year. That last summer, I stayed in Madison, and Charlie stayed, too, off and on, and we'd hang out every once in a while, nothing big. Run into each other in the laundry room, then order a pizza or something and watch TV, you know, for the company. Charlie was a real nice guy, very sweet. Tom came up from Chicago a couple of times, and Charlie still asked me to grab some dinner with them and hang out together." She chuckled. "Sorry, I'm sure that's not exactly an answer to your question. I didn't really know Tom at all, and I only sort of knew Charlie. We just hung out together."

Ed jumped in, having a hunch that he understood what wasn't being said. "So, you got high together? It's okay, we're not Narcotics, and we really don't care. Only want a complete picture."

She sighed. "Yes, we got high together. Not always conducive to in-depth conversations with great and detailed descriptions of past histories, families, etcetera. Enough, sometimes, to get to know somebody."

"Thank you for being honest," Ed answered sincerely. He thought he could see how the lifting of a prescription might have happened, and under what circumstances, and he also didn't think that she would have noticed, or remembered such an incident. But Lennie was asking her anyway, and sure enough, she didn't remember anything specific about a lost piece of mail from her dad, or something missing from her purse, or any concrete proof that Ryerson had stolen something this significant from her. Ed had no doubt that it was Ryerson who had lifted it.

The conversation continued, with Lennie telling her that they would need to add what she said to the case files, asking her if she would be able to fly to New York to testify, if necessary? She wasn't willing to commit until she had her questions answered. Ed listened while Lennie told her the barest minimum, unsurprised, on some level, when the woman displayed some true emotion in response to the news that two of her former acquaintances were dead. She was saddened to hear about Karen, and about Charlie. She had no response to Tom's death. That, too, did not surprise Ed in the least.

Jack picked up the faxed reports he'd just received, along with a few files, and went next door. Nora had some free time before lunch. Jack's own hunger had disappeared, though he suspected that would be a temporary condition. He didn't even know how he could still have such a visceral reaction, but, he was having it. A little time, and a long conversation reviewing the case would help. He hoped.

Nora was sitting on the couch, sipping a cup of tea. He handed her the first report and sat next to her. "So," she said, after reading it, "the FBI has sent us the proof that he used the drug on victims number two and three, as well as four."

He nodded, and for once, he appreciated the use of an impersonal term to reference Crymson. "There isn't any doubt. We'll file the additional kidnapping charges as soon as possible." He handed her the second report. "This is from Ed. He and Briscoe tracked down Dr. Lowenstein in Montana. His daughter went to UW-Madison; she lived in the same apartment complex as Ryerson; she knew Abbott." He waited while Nora skimmed.

"Circumstantial, at best," she remarked. "However, I can't imagine what the defense will come up with to answer it. You realize it does open the possibility that it was Charlie, as he was called, who took the prescription from her?"

He relaxed, resting one arm across the back of the couch. "Not that it matters who gave it to Woodbridge. But, we've got the manuscript. Abbott spells out who was the accomplice, and it was Ryerson, not Crymson. She, obviously, didn't know how the drug was purchased--I guess that little detail was kept from her. But the rest is there. Ryerson and Woodbridge surprising his parents, on the boat; Junior giving them each the injection; both of them dumping the victims overboard. Of course, she's changed names, but that's about it. I'm surprised Ryerson helped her with the blackmail, considering."

"Is it publishable?"

"I'm no judge, these days, but it is pretty poorly written."

"Ryerson had seen it, but Woodbridge had not," Nora said, with a lift of her eyebrows. "Maybe he had confidence that nobody would touch it, but could convince the killer exactly the opposite."

"Maybe," Jack conceded, "or Ryerson might have been planning to kill Abbott, once this last blackmail attempt was successful. He was the one who pulled the gun on Woodbridge. And," he said with a sigh, "there is another theory about Woodbridge's premeditation, now that we've looked at the financials, and the passport. Woodbridge might have bought succinylcholine before Ryerson came to his house with the gun. He might have been planning to kill Ryerson all along. Ryerson flashing the gun changed the method, but not the outcome." He reviewed the trips to Manila that they had discovered and confirmed through the credit card statements. Same hotel both in August of the year before, and nearly four weeks ago. The duration of each trip was only two days.

"Why last August? He'd already paid everyone."

Jack shrugged. "We have no idea. That's when he bought the car that he used to get to Milwaukee. For all we know, he was planning this last summer, then things cooled down. There was no reason to go through with it, but he kept everything ready. Just in case. For all we know, the drug supply he bought back then expired, and he didn't want to take the chance that it wouldn't work." He told her about the alias, established in the spring before the initial blackmail. The account set up in the Caymans. The apparent purchase of a laboratory coverall, the day after Ryerson's murder.

"No chance of finding the gun at this point, is there?"

"I don't think so," he answered.

"This is one hell of a case, Jack," she said, crossing her arms and resting more heavily against the back of the couch. "I'd love to get my hands on a copy of that drug purchase. Let's see if we can get the Manila PD to cooperate. I'll call the State Department. See what strings I can get pulled."

"Good," he said, and meant it.

Jack's appetite had returned, as he had hoped. After eating lunch at Anne's and taking a brisk walk around the block, he came back to Hogan Place feeling as good as when he'd woken up with Ed still sleeping soundly, wrapped around him. He stopped at Serena's office; she was hanging up the phone.

"First thing tomorrow morning," he said, once she'd made eye contact, "I want you to file the two additional charges against Woodbridge. Then, follow up with the laboratory supply house and get proof that he bought that coverall." He slapped the doorjamb and was about to go, when her face got that pinched look to it, again.

"I won't be in the office tomorrow morning. I'm sorry, Jack. I have an appointment," she said.

Short notice, and being circumspect. He almost didn't ask, but in the spirit of trying to mend their working relationship, he did. "It's not something medically serious, is it?"

"No, nothing like that." Her mouth pursed. "It's with the IRS. Apparently, I'm being subjected to a serious audit. A line-by-line audit. Tomorrow is my second interview."

Jack knew enough about the IRS to be more than impressed. "Line-by-line? Why not the usual by-mail audit?"

She shrugged. "No idea. I got a visit last Friday evening from a Revenue Agent. She asked me a number of things, which I thought I answered. Then, this morning, I got served notice that I was to show up at their office tomorrow."

"That's pretty fast work," he said.

She shrugged again. "Yes. It is."

He hesitated, then told her the afternoon would be soon enough to take care of the things he needed. He wished her luck, and went on to his office. While hanging up his both of his coats, loosening his tie, and picking up his coffee mug for an intended visit to the machine, something about Serena's situation with the IRS bothered him. For some reason, he kept seeing Abby's face. Hearing Abby's questions about Serena, which Ed had recounted. Abby and Briscoe with their heads together.

He put the mug back on his desk and called her. She was very happy to hear from him, which made him pause momentarily. Not completely, however. He asked if she was free to take a break. She was. They agreed to meet in the nearby park in fifteen minutes. He put his coats back on, regretting that he'd never called her when he had originally intended. His distraction, at the time, was certainly understandable. Still, it might have been regrettable, in hindsight.

"Hey, Jack," Abby said brightly, "to what do I owe this little treat?" She sat, unbuttoning her coat as she did. "Warmer than I expected, today."

"So, you've been stuck inside all day? No wonder you were so eager to get out of there," he said, with a smile.

"Yeah, you know how it goes. In the middle of a bad one right now. Kind of like yours, from what I've been reading. Ed must be glad they caught the guy, though?"

"He is."

Silence descended, as Jack tried to decide exactly how to approach the topic, and Abby slouched down, lifting her face to the sunlight.

"And," Abby asked, finally turning her head to him, "you asked to meet for any particular reason? Or did you just miss me?"

The second question was such an impossible one to answer, for Jack, that he absolutely could not go there, or he'd never get around to the first. "Serena's being subjected to a sudden, and pretty serious audit by the IRS. Given the questions you were asking about her last week, it made me wonder if maybe you used some of your contacts there, to give her a hard time." He had said it with deliberate slowness, in order to watch her face as the topic of Serena was broached. She didn't appear to have any reaction, but then again, she always had the best game face of any of his second chairs.

"Huh," she replied. "That's tough for her. Do you think that I'd waste time and energy on ADA Southerlyn?"

He felt a very unprofessional laugh bubbling up. He swallowed. "Look, I know that you and Briscoe were talking, and it's a fair assumption that it was about Serena. What she did, to Ed. Lennie's been very vocal in his anger over it. As he can be, when something gets under his skin."

"He's loyal, to his partners, and to the PD. As he should be," Abby said, fixing Jack with an intense look. "You're right. I know what she did to Ed. Pisses me off, I can imagine what it does to you, Jack."

"It was out of line," he admitted.

She pulled back a bit, blatantly staring at him. "Out of line? That's the best you can come up with? You getting soft on me?"

"I still have to work with her," he said shortly.

She smiled. "That's better. I heard the anger in that one."

"Abby--"

"So she's getting audited? Well, the people that I work with at the IRS are part of CID, you know, the Criminal Investigators. Big guns, big fish. What kind of audit?"

"Line-by-line. She had a Revenue Agent visit her last Friday."

Abby whistled softly. "Revenue Agent--well, she's in for it, then. They have the rep of being quite ruthless, not at all like the Auditors. And I have to say, that RAs usually only get involved when there's money owed the government. Like back taxes. Or unpaid loans. Guaranteed Student Loans, that kind of thing." She crossed her legs. "She pay off her student loans? Cause if she didn't, she could be in it, rather deeply."

He studied her, not at all certain he was getting the whole truth. There was a particular tone to her voice that he recognized. The one she used to use when they were negotiating a plea bargain in the bowels of Rikers, and their position was more precarious than they wanted to let on. The total relaxation of her pose. The lift and fall of her eyebrows.

"But," she continued, "I have a question for you. Why the hell would you care, after what she did? Let her take her licks."

He opened his mouth to reply, but couldn't come up with an answer. Falling back on the fact that he had to work with her, again, seemed a bit too pat. He sighed deeply, and relaxed, stretching out his legs and shoving his hands into his coat pockets. She changed the subject, and he let her. They spent some time chatting about his new bike, her plans for Halloween the following night, and the fact that he was bringing Ed to Chicago. Eventually, she checked her watch and said she had a meeting. He walked back with her, saying good-bye at the corner.

Once he was back in his office, he called Ed, hoping he was out of the precinct so they could have some privacy. He wasn't. Jack told him about Serena's situation, and how he suspected Abby might have had something to do with it. Understandably, Ed wasn't the least bit sympathetic about what Serena was going through. Jack hadn't expected him to be. Ed was, honestly, very upbeat about it. As they said their good-byes, Jack knew, without a doubt, that he'd called Ed precisely so that the man could have the reaction he had had. To give Ed something that might put a smile on his face. As uncharitable to his current second chair as that was, Jack knew it was also the truth. He didn't feel badly about it, either.

Ed hung up the phone, still smiling. He looked down at the report he was writing, trying to wipe the smile off of his face. So, there really was justice in the world. Abby had his undying loyalty, not that she'd ever lost it. He had enjoyed working with her, and had been acutely disappointed when she took her new job. "Go, Abby," he muttered under his breath. As soon as he'd said it, the memory of Peter, at dinner the week before, popped into his head. Talking about pushing Serena under a bus, or off of the Brooklyn Bridge. The conversation they'd had Friday morning. All of that stuff going around and coming around. A few remarks his best friend had made Saturday night. Justin poking Peter in the side. Peter's grin. Ed picked up the phone and dialled.

"This is Peter," Peter answered.

"It's me," Ed said. "I've got some news for you," he continued, then explained what he knew of the IRS going after Southerlyn. He finished with, "Does this come as any surprise to you?"

Peter made an indistinguishable noise. "In general? No, of course not--you know that I believe people will eventually get what they deserve. It's the way the universe works, Eddie. Look at you and Jack, or Justin, or Woodbridge in a cell, or--"

Ed interrupted him. "Yeah, I got the sowing what you reap thing the other morning. I mean does this specific deserved thing come as a surprise to you? Like did you maybe get Justin to use his newly made contacts to put a bug into the ear of the IRS, that kind of thing? Hm-m?"

Peter laughed. "You're giving me a whole lot of power, there, and as much as I'd like to take some credit for this--because it's just sweeter than sweet--I can't. Wasn't me, love. I told you she had skeletons in her closet, man. The self-righteous ones always do...."

Ed picked up his pen and absently tapped the desk with it. Peter had never, ever lied to him. At least as far as he knew, and after having been friends for so long, Ed had to figure that if Peter had lied at some point, Ed would have discovered it by now.

"Hey," Peter said, "you know what I think? Enjoy it. Don't get off on her misfortune, 'cause that's bad karma, but enjoy the sheer justice of it all. You remember what Gina went through, about five years ago? She got audited, after they had the baby and everything? It was a nightmare. Their life was ex-am-ined to the nth degree. Just imagine Ms. Holier-than-thou sitting across from the IRS, and at the very least, get a smile out of it."

Ed chuckled. "Yeah. Think I will. Okay.... later."

"Hugs to Jack, and some to you, too," Peter replied, the smile in his voice clearer than ever.

"Back at you," Ed said, and hung up. He stood, thinking that he would go search for his partner, to let him in on the news. The sweeter than sweet news. It was always nice to see a grin spread across Lennie's face. Always.

Jack stood in the door of Serena's office, again. There was one thing he could offer which might help. "I have the name of a really good accountant," he said to her. "She's a friend of my ex-wife's, specializes in tax matters. I'd be happy to give her a call."

"No, thank you, Jack, though that's a very nice offer. I think I can handle this on my own." Serena was sitting ramrod straight, pen in hand, papers spread out in front of her.

"I think it's always best to have professional help right from the get-go," he tried. He had always understood this to be the case when dealing with the IRS. It could be worse than trying to defend oneself in court.

"I'll be fine," she repeated.

"Do you still owe money in student loans?" he asked, knowing the question was out of left field, and none of his business, to boot. Well, unless it affected her standing as a city employee, he amended silently.

Her eyes got very wide. She answered, her tone clipped, and slightly sarcastic. A Serena he was too familiar with. "When I decide that I need a referral for an accountant, I'll know just where to come for one."

He wanted to say, "whatever," but did not reply. He merely raised his hand in acknowledgement and left. Behind his desk, again, he muttered, "Suit yourself," just to get a retort off of his chest. Nobody could say that he hadn't tried.

Van Buren dropped two sheets of paper on Lennie's desk, interrupting Ed's and Lennie's hushed conversation, during which they'd been estimating exactly how long the audit would take. How many days, or weeks. Lennie had been going for a month; Ed had been hard pressed to feel the least bit sorry for Serena, should it really last that long.

Lennie picked up the papers, as Lieu said, "The faxed list of names from SSA and disability. Men between twenty-five and fifty, living in the metro area, diagnosed with Tay-Sachs." She let out a small sigh. "As you can see, there's not many. Let me know."

Lennie picked up a pencil and the phone's receiver and started to dial. Ed stood enough to reach across and take the list as soon as Lennie had finished dialing. Five names from SSA. He turned the page. Six from the state, five of which were repeats. He copied down three of them, with phone numbers, and gave the papers back to his partner. Lennie was now talking. Ed made his first call.

They finished the task at almost the same time. All three of the people on Ed's list were still alive; Lennie had learned the same. Ed felt let-down, then immediately a bit badly since, after all, six people had not been murdered in cold blood. Lennie got up to refill their coffee cups, and just missed knocking Reina sideways.

"Here you go," she said, handing Ed another sheet of paper. "Finally got the list of doc's in the city, from the LOTS Foundation." Ed gave her a blank look, he knew, but he was not following. "Late onset Tay-Sachs. LOTS," she repeated.

"Sorry," he said wryly. "Long day."

"Maybe getting a good night's sleep will help rejuvenate you," she replied, with a straight face and a laugh in her voice.

He wanted to retort, but had to keep it to himself. He glanced over his shoulder; Lennie was facing the coffeemaker. He mouthed, "not tonight," to which she feigned a scandalized look, then left. He grinned, briefly, and looked at the list of doctors. There were only four names. He stood, careful to avoid Lennie, right behind him.

"Want to take a drive?" he asked. "I'd rather talk to these guys in person. Leave that stuff. We'll stop and get something better." He lifted his suit jacket off of the chair and shrugged it on.

"You know how I hate that hoity-toi crap, Ed," Lennie said, setting down their mugs. He grabbed his jacket, too.

Ed looked carefully at him. Lennie had one of his small grins, the one that barely lifted a corner of his mouth. This was a good one, as well.

Jack hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk to give his feet a place to rest, and leaned back, again, getting comfortable. A legal pad on his knees, and pen in hand, and he was ready to return to what he'd been doing before Van Buren had called. Rather than continuing his train of thought, however, his mind was stuck on what she'd said. Turning it over, again and again. Inside out, and sideways. It bothered him, to put it mildly.

The police had exhausted every possibility for determining how Woodbridge had tracked down Don Marsh. Van Buren had been sending detectives, repeatedly, to canvass bars near both Marsh's, and his girlfriend's homes. They had talked to the few people who they knew had been burglarized by Marsh, and had even talked to those whose houses had been broken into with a similar M.O., but who had never been able to press charges, due to lack of evidence. Simply to ask them if they knew Woodbridge. Nobody would admit to it. They had talked to Marsh's cell mates, to his attorneys. Nothing.

Jack looked down at his pad. He'd written "Woodbridge," followed by an arrow, then "Marsh." Question marks were doodled around the names. The whole thing bothered Jack, even though he knew they didn't need this piece of information to convict. They very rarely discovered the answers to every single question surrounding a particular case. It was simply impossible, and a reality of prosecution to which he had long ago become accustomed. Still, it stuck in his throat. There was only one person who knew the answer to this question. And he would never, ever tell.

What bothered Jack was the fact that Woodbridge would know that they hadn't been able to ferret out this part of his plan. Even though the plan had failed in one significant way--Woodbridge was behind bars, not living the high life in Bimini--the bastard would know that he'd managed to pull off something. That just, plain, stuck in Jack's throat. He tore off the sheet of scribbling and wadded it up, with relish. Tossed in into the garbage. Got back to work.

"I really couldn't believe it," Ed said, grinning at Jack, from across the table. Though they had agreed to lay as low as they could for the duration of the case, both of them missed going out to dinner. They had given in, without very much resistance on either side, and headed for a nice meal at the same restaurant where they had had their first date. They had gotten lucky, as they had that first Friday, and had been seated against the brick wall, where there was at least a semblance of privacy.

"Maybe the planets got in some sort of alignment for you two," Jack replied, before eating a bite of salad.

"Yeah, maybe. Or a bit of Peter's karma. Anyway, so the doctor tells us that he had treated a homeless man, last year. Found him in a shelter he volunteered at, and after asking the questions about MS and Lou Gehrig's disease, etcetera, this young man says he's never been properly diagnosed, since he's been on the streets for years. Doctor takes him back to his office, runs the blood test, and finds LOTS. Treats him for a little while, gratis, trying to help him get disability, at least--patient eventually disappears. Doctor told us he had gone to City College, and after digging through files, he gave us his name.

So Lennie and I talked to the registrar at CCNY; they gave us the names of the parents; we call. They haven't heard from their son in years. We'd like to run a DNA test on them, and the body, to see if there's a match. Would that be possible?" Ed waved at Jack with his fork.

"I'll double check with Nora, but I don't see why not," Jack answered, letting his appreciation show with a smile, and a quick touch to the back of Ed's hand.

"Good," Ed said. "That would be good."

Jack thought so, too, and at the same time thought it was probably a good thing that they were in public, and not at home. If they were home, he might be thinking of reasons why dinner could be postponed until a few hours later. Reasons why food was sometimes overrated. Reasons why a few hours of distraction and connection in the form of lovemaking was quite often a worthwhile substitute for nutrition.

If they were home, Jack very well might have already pulled Ed to his feet, and led him down the hallway to the bedroom. Might have pulled off his lover's clothes, and his own, and then pushed him down onto the bed. Dove in after him.

"Jack? Are you still here?" Ed was leaning in close.

"Yeah," he answered quietly. "I'm here."

"What were you thinking about?"

"You. Me," he answered honestly. "The trial," he lied.

Ed's eyebrows shot up. "You sure about the last one?"

"No, but it's more sobering than what I was really thinking about. You. Me. Bed."

"Oh." Ed lifted his wineglass. "To the trial," he said.

Jack clinked their glasses together. "To the trial," he agreed.

~ *~ *~

Author's note, part 2: Another thank you to Linda, for the IRS plot. It was her idea, she gets full credit for it. It was a beaut!

On to the Epilogue, Jurisprudence

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