Disclaimer: NBC, MCA/Universal and Wolf Films owns them.
Rating: NC17
Summary: Part 11. Ed and Lennie see the Midwest. Nora sees things Jack won't.
Author's Note: For a map of the Madison area, click here.
Copyright April 2003 Cassatt
Chilly. Quiet. Too quiet. Silent. Jack woke slowly, pulling the covers more closely by instinct only. Hearing nothing and feeling momentarily disoriented because of it. He was colder than usual for first thing in the morning, and groped behind him to bring Ed nearer. He woke fully when he felt the cool sheets on the other half of the bed. The silence explained. He sighed aloud and opened his eyes, green LED numbers, two feet away, coming into gradual focus. At least he'd slept a good seven hours; it was obvious that he wouldn't get any more. He reached out and turned on the radio, taking comfort from the voice of public radio's Saturday morning program. Scott Simon's rich tones filled the room. Jack would have preferred Ed's soft ones, in his ear. The man's gentle lips, on his neck. Fingertips, on his belly. Hot thighs, pressing against his hamstrings. Hotter erection, against his back.
Jack sighed again, and concentrated on the broadcast as he stretched. He had no desire to stay under the covers alone. Chores which he usually hated looked very appealing, for they'd make the day pass. He rolled out of bed, listening to an interview with a farmer who'd discovered dinosaur bones in his pond. Only on NPR, he thought, as he stripped the sheets. After he'd finished that, he'd brew some coffee, and take a mug of it into the scalding shower with him. Stay there for at least twenty minutes. Think about Ed, and the feel of his skin.
Ed stood under the spray of the strange shower, in the strange bathroom and hummed only to himself. The hot water was soothing; almost more for his spirit than his body. He'd woken not only in an empty bed, but an empty room. He'd felt disoriented, and a pervading anxiety which made his stomach tighten as he'd come to full consciousness.
He put his face under the water and let the heat work its magic. He liked to sing, but didn't feel comfortable being heard by Jack's family. So he listened to Aretha Franklin belting out a tune in his head, and hummed along to "Respect" -- not at all surprised that he'd thought of that specific song the moment he'd stepped into the shower. He'd finally listened to Serena's voice mail message. First thing, as soon as he'd gotten up. To have his reaction and be done with it. The message was, if anything, exactly what he'd expected. Serena's apology was more explanation and justification than regret. He'd been a bit surprised that she'd actually sounded sincere. But people learn to wriggle off of the hot seat, if they're prone to land there. Listening to her seem genuine, when she apparently wasn't sorry, though, was too much. He'd deleted the message with relish. Wiped her voice from his system with the touch of a button. Then he'd gotten angry, all over again. Yearned for Jack, all over again. He'd snapped at Lennie when the man had returned from breakfast to see if he was awake. Ed hoped that the apology he'd given had been accepted as more heartfelt than the one he, himself, had deleted.
He was rinsing when the bathroom door opened and Lennie called his name. Ed poked his head out.
"McCoy," Lennie said, holding up the cell phone. "He says it's important."
He felt the hot spot blossom, right in the center of his chest; wanting to hear Jack's voice so badly he almost grabbed the phone with his soapy hands. "Tell him just a sec? Please?"
"Yeah, no problem," the other man muttered, and as Ed half-listened to him do it, he quickly rinsed off his legs. He was about to yank open the curtain in his haste, then realized that Lennie might still be in the room. Whereas walking around in underwear was one thing, standing in front of his partner naked was something else entirely. He looked, but Lennie was gone.
He stepped out, dried off enough, then wrapped the towel around his waist. "Good morning," he said into the phone. "I missed you."
"Last night? This morning?"
"Both," he admitted.
"I know what you mean. I'm sorry to take you out of your shower," Jack said. His voice was a bit clipped. "But I need to know something...."
"Okay." He waited in the lengthening silence.
"I need to know how much starch you take in your shirts."
The clipped tone now had a sharp edge, and Ed could easily picture Jack biting his lower lip. He had no idea why the man was angry over starch. "Did something happen to you this morning? Or last night? What's wrong, Jack?" He sat on the closed toilet.
Jack sighed, loudly enough for it to sound like hissing through the cell phone. "Nothing's wrong. I'm on my way to the laundry, to take in a couple of suits, and shirts. I'll take yours, too. But I don't know about the starch...."
"And this is upsetting you? I take it light."
"Damn it," Jack said, in such a low voice Ed almost missed it. "Damn it, Ed," he nearly barked, "I should know these things about you. How much starch you like, your favorite baseball player, your high school English teacher, what your mother calls you!" Startled, Ed said nothing for a moment. "I should know these things about my lover," Jack said more softly.
Ed's throat started to thicken, so he breathed deeply, willing it open. How he loved this man -- prickly, and yet so sweet. He ached to hold Jack tightly to his chest, to feel the press of him, to inhale his scent. "You think you should know everything there is to know after a week?" he asked gently.
"Not everything, just the significant things."
He nodded, and absently wiped the corner of the steamed-up mirror. "Like I've been learning about you while I'm here," he said. Jack sighed again, in his ear, but didn't respond. "Oh, man," he said quietly, slowly. "Let me tell you something, John James. You do know the significant things about me. You know how I like to be touched, and kissed, and which parts of me respond to you. You know a lot about what I like to eat. You know how I like to sleep. How I think. How I feel. Hell, how I feel when I'm inside of you, or you're inside of me. How easily you can bring me off..."
Jack sighed one more time, but it was shaky. "You said we weren't going to do phone sex," he replied, his voice husky, but his tone finally lighter.
Ed grinned, and said, still slowly, "Well, there's phone sex and then there's phone foreplay."
There was no response, but Ed could hear Jack's breathing. "Your points are valid ones. Both of them; about you and me, and about the, um, adherence to our phone sex agreement. So do well today, and come home." Jack hesitated. "I miss you."
"I hope we nail this bastard, cause I want to be home tonight. I miss you, too," he said. "And just for the record -- my mother calls me Edward, which drives me crazy, I don't have a favorite baseball player, and the high school English teacher I liked the best was Mr. Lundquist."
Jack chuckled. "Thank you. Prepare yourself to be quizzed extensively."
"Fair enough, just prepare yourself to lose a lot of sleep tonight if I end up in bed with you."
"Consider me duly prepared, and looking forward to it," Jack teased, then said more seriously, "I'll be at your place this afternoon, too, not just tonight. So if you need to reach me, call me there after, say, two-thirty or three. My dinner date is at six."
The warm spot in his chest flared, matching the heat now burning in his groin. He didn't know why Jack was heading to his apartment earlier than previously discussed, but found himself not wanting to ask. Not wanting to make any kind of a deal about it. Only wanting to think about it, later that afternoon. To imagine Jack there. Home. They said their good-byes, and Ed pushed the "end" key with difficulty. The only easy part about it was the fact that he and Lennie had to get on the road as soon as possible. It was a two hour drive to Madison.
He stood, wiped off the mirror and opened his shaving kit. At least, he thought, he had enough left to do in the bathroom to afford him some time to quell his erection. He turned on the tap and very deliberately thought about the investigation, and not about Jack. In bed. With the glow of the streetlights reflected in the blush of his cheeks. His eyes, hazy with lust. Ed sighed aloud, and tried again. Murder. Three murders. The people left behind, in grief. Anthony. Joseph Happel. Ryerson's aunt. Mr. and Mrs. Abbott.
"Damn you, Woodbridge," he muttered, putting shaving cream into his palm. "If you did this, you will pay. I'm gonna get you, and my lover is going to put you away...."
Jack put the second load of clean and folded clothes into drawers, making some room for Ed's underwear, socks and the few tee shirts Jack had found in the hamper. He was still thinking about what Ed had said, about what was significant and what wasn't. He'd been seriously considering the possibility that his own expectations were, again, being influenced by being in a gay relationship. He bundled up the suits and dress shirts and stuffed them into a small duffle. When he'd been involved with women, he'd very naturally assumed there would be many things he wouldn't instinctively know, things he couldn't know -- no matter how many women he'd been with. Men and women were just, well, different. Now, perhaps he was assuming that he would know more than he wouldn't, would learn the rest easily, would understand as only another man can understand.
He shrugged on his field coat and double checked to make sure he had the shopping list and his wallet, then found his keys, picked up the duffle, and left. At the elevator, he chatted briefly with an older woman who'd been living on his floor longer than he had. She made comment that she hadn't seen him in the papers recently, to which he smiled and agreed, with gratitude for that fact. No matter how defense attorneys and some judges viewed him, he didn't relish personal publicity. He only relished how much respect and even fear it put into the hearts of people he prosecuted. Keeping a low profile was the name of the game now -- the stakes were high. Protecting his lover was paramount, and protecting their relationship was becoming, for Jack, almost as important. Protecting the case they were working on was squeezed somewhere in the middle.
He walked out of the building and had to stop to close his coat. Autumn had a touch of early winter in it, but Saturday morning was still a time for people to be out and about, and the neighborhood was bustling. He headed for the laundry. "Let me tell you something, John James..." John James. His father had been the one to use his full name, and not as a term of endearment. But Ed using it, in that silky voice of his, with all of the intent behind it of love, and sometimes lust -- it made Jack's skin tingle and his heart flutter. No one had ever said the things to him that Ed did, in the way that he did. Was that a function of gender as well? He couldn't honestly say, being seriously involved with a man for the first time, but he decided he didn't care. He never wanted Ed to stop. He would take his full name over all of the "honey"s and "sweetie"s, if it came from Ed's mouth, and heart.
At the laundry, he emptied the duffle, separating Ed's shirts from his own, first handing Mrs. Winslow the suits.
"Pockets checked?" she asked.
Jack kept the smile to himself as he nodded. She queried him each and every time, and had for as long as he'd been coming there, and he'd always cleaned out his pockets. She began the ticket. He handed her his shirts. "These should be done as usual," he said.
She glanced up at him, to the remaining two shirts, then continued to fill out the order. "Okay, how about these?" she asked, picking up Ed's dark blue, and tan shirts.
"Light starch for those," he answered.
She turned the collars, looking, he suddenly realized, for the identifier from Ed's own laundry service. She found the numbers. "We'll have to tag 'em," she stated, "so that gonna be okay with the owner?"
"Yes, that will be fine."
"This other tag, is it a laundry here in the city?"
"Why?" He didn't like the direction this was going, and was beginning to feel uncomfortable with people in line behind him, overhearing the conversation.
She looked down her nose at him. "Now, Mr. McCoy, don't get your knickers in a twist. If this number belongs to another laundry that sends their stuff off site, and it happens to be the same place as we do, the washers may get confused with two numbers. Might just send these shirts back to the other place."
He bristled. "Well, if that should happen, I'm sure the other laundry will contact the owner. Don't worry, I'll still cover the charge."
She pulled out the stamp from under the counter, and adjusted it according to Jack's own identifying number. "Didn't mean to imply otherwise," she muttered, stamping Ed's shirts. She finally looked up and made eye contact. "These will all be ready on Monday, after four." She handed him the ticket.
"Thank you, Mrs. Winslow," he said, deliberately relaxing his demeanor.
"Do you want them bundled separately?"
He paused momentarily, feeling the question laced with hidden implications. "Together is fine," he stated firmly.
"No problem," she replied, smiling.
He left, a little disconcerted. Clearly, he hadn't thought that situation all of the way through. Conclusions can be drawn so easily, and he of all people should have realized that. In his job, he drew them on an almost daily basis. Based on clues. Indicators. Mere suggestion. Yet, as he walked toward the market, one image stayed behind his eyes. Two numbers, stamped side by side on the inside of Ed's collar. He found himself smiling as he crossed the street.
Ed watched the Illinois landscape pass by as they drove west, heading for Rockford. The nearest real area of civilization to the point where they'd turn north, directly toward Madison. Suburbia had rather quickly changed to farmland and fields of open space. Stands of trees demarcating borders between plowed under crop fields and the grassy lawns surrounding farm houses. Long sight lines in the mostly flat terrain. The sky was overcast; the forecast was for rain moving down from Canada. Ed hoped it wouldn't prevent them from flying out that evening.
Lennie caught his attention by thumbing rather dramatically toward the back seat. "Looks like you made quite an impression with the in-laws," he said, with a small smirk. He was referring to the food that Colleen had insisted on packing for them; a lunch that Lennie had been practically drooling over in the kitchen while it was being prepared.
Ed snorted lightly. "They're not my in-laws. We're hardly married, Lennie." In truth, he'd been extremely touched by Colleen's send-off. Lengthy hugs and promises elicited for a return visit with her brother.
"Well, would you be if you could?"
Ed looked at the man closely. "Are you wanting to argue the topic of gay marriage? Cause to be honest, I'm not really in the mood."
"Hell, no," Lennie said, punctuating the air with a wave of his hand, "I'm not going to argue about marriage with anyone, believe me, gay or not. Just wondering. You know -- if the option were available to you, would you think about McCoy in those terms."
"Jeez, man, we've only been seeing each other for a short time," he hedged. He looked out the window for a long moment, then back at Lennie. "And I've never thought about marriage and me in the same sentence. But... I'm hoping that what we've got is going to last for a while."
"When was the last time you were serious about anyone?"
Ed sighed to himself, almost embarrassed at how quickly he could pull up that fact. "Three years and two months. Why are you asking?"
"Oh, I don't know. We've still got a long drive ahead of us, and I've just been thinking that there's whole parts of you that I don't know about. Things we've never discussed. Just curious." He grinned. "Guess I'm wondering just how accurate the image of Eddie the casual dater really is."
Ed grinned, too. "Not too accurate. But not too far off. Recently, anyway." He shrugged. "I've actually missed being in love. Mostly before, you know, guys would think it was very cool to get involved with a cop. Until the reality hit. Then they'd want me to quit, and find something safer, easier to live with."
"Yeah, tell me about it. I guess McCoy knows the drill well enough."
"Yeah, he does. He's still...," Ed started, then stopped himself from revealing Jack's feelings. "He's mostly okay with it."
"Hey, it's not like we can just change who we are to suit them."
Ed hesitated, then said, "No, we can't. And I love my job. But if I loved someone who had numerous chances to be seriously hurt on a weekly basis?" He shook his head. "I couldn't do it."
"Well, who's to say some lunatic isn't going to somehow bring a gun to court and shoot McCoy?" Lennie retorted. "He's made enough enemies...."
"Gee, thanks, Lennie," Ed snapped, his stomach lurching. "I don't need to be reminded of that."
"Hey, I'm only saying...."
Ed looked out the window again, and watched a flock of birds rise up out of a grove of trees. He rested his elbow on the door, and slowly rubbed a knuckle across his upper lip. He felt close to a mess inside, realizing for the umpteenth time that week how much he needed the scent of a certain man's skin to calm him down. Realizing, too, how quickly that had become his reality. His life.
"Ed," Lennie started, and Ed turned his head.
"No, man, I'm sorry," he said before his partner could continue, "again. I just have to get what we've come here for, and go home. I need to be home."
"Southerlyn?"
Ed nodded. "Partly."
Lennie sighed heavily. "Well, listen, I know something that might cheer you up. They've got gaming in Wisconsin."
His heart started to pound. That was something he really didn't want to be aware of. Really. Did not. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath. His mind had done the automatic thing -- had calculated how much money was in his pocket. His heart was now pounding harder.
"What?" Lennie asked.
He took a moment to wipe damp palms on his legs. "Lennie -- if there's an exit in the next five minutes, take it, and find some place for us to stop. I don't care where, or what the fuck it is. Just do it."
The man glanced at him, a sharp, intense glance, before watching the road again. He drove, giving no response. The silence in the car was heavy.
Jack emptied the shopping bags, pausing only to turn on the radio. Old rock and roll permeated the kitchen while he stowed supplies in the refrigerator and cabinets. He pulled out a plastic bag from a drawer and filled it with bagels he'd bought for the next morning's breakfast. A treat for Ed, which included the spicy schmear the man was so fond of. He'd also picked up an extra carton of half and half, and a quart of fresh orange juice to take to Ed's apartment. He planned on savoring a long Sunday morning with the man. Curling up on the couch with the paper, food, coffee, and Ed. Jack was feeling pretty good, enjoying the beat of the music, anticipating his lover's return, as he stashed the last of the bags away.
In the living room, the message light was blinking on his answering machine. He hit a button, and was informed that the message had been left a half an hour before. Then Serena's voice played.
"Jack, I have some questions about the supporting case law for this application. Could you please call me at the office?"
He sighed. "It's for the case," he said aloud. "For the case." He pointed at the machine. "I swear, though, if you so much as mention Ed's name I'll be talking to Nora about your replacement." He picked up the phone and dialled.
As soon as Lennie put the car into "park," Ed unclasped his seat belt and got out. They were at a gas station, in the small parking area to the side of the building, near the dumpsters. He took out his cell phone and scrolled quickly through the phone book until he found his sponsor. He hit the button to call and listened to the rings, then to the man's answering machine. Aware that Lennie had also gotten out of the car and was leaning against the fender, Ed ignored his partner's presence, but didn't move away.
"Yeah," he said into the phone, "it's Ed. I'm out of town, working, somewhere in podunk Illinois. If you get this message in the next hour or two, please call my cell." He hesitated briefly. "Please. I need to talk to you. Thanks." He snapped the instrument shut, and tried to take a deep breath, then turned to Lennie.
"Something else you wanna tell me?" Lennie asked.
"I'm in GA," he blurted out. "Gambler's Anonymous," he said more slowly.
Lennie nodded, but his eyes were narrowed. "How long?"
"About a year. Look, Lennie, I...."
He was interrupted. "You don't have to explain, at least that's what I'm supposed to say from AA, but as your partner -- I sure as hell want to know why you felt you couldn't tell me this, of all things."
The tone was as sharp as Lennie's ever got, and Ed felt his insides twist. "Why I couldn't tell you? Why do you think?!"
"I don't know, Ed, that's why I'm asking!"
"Because you -- you've been through it all -- and you've got it all under control! And me? Fuck, I can so easily fail at this!" The pounding in his chest was almost painful, and he began to pace, needing desperately to move.
"Fail?!" Lennie asked in disbelief. "You're not gonna fail!"
Ed snapped completely. "What do you think is happening right now?! I can't do this! I am failing -- I'm losing it, and I'm wanting to nail this bastard, and I'm wanting to find a casino, and some fucking company knows that I'm gay and they can do whatever they want with that information, and I'm figuring out how much money I've got, and my sponsor is out, and Jack is a thousand miles away!" He was next to the car now, his throat shutting with speed, choking off any ability to speak. He dropped his elbows on the top of the car, and his head into his hands, shaking, heaving for breath. A large hand gripped his shoulder and squeezed, hard.
"Eddie," Lennie said gently, "having trouble isn't failing. Even falling off the wagon isn't really failing. You think I've got it all under control? Know how many times I call my sponsor? At least twice a month. I go to meetings once a week."
Lennie's touch felt so good. He concentrated on it, the weight of it, the connection. He tried to absorb what the man was saying, but it was like shining a light into rock. There was another squeeze to his shoulder.
"Turn it over," Lennie said almost directly into his ear.
He grasped at those three words, banking on their power, needing their comfort, their assistance. What the program was all about. He finally felt an incremental change in the clench of his stomach. He repeated the command in a whisper, then repeated it again. His stomach let go. His heart rate slowed almost to normal after a long minute, and a few more repetitions.
"Easy to say," Lennie replied, "hell of a thing to do."
He nodded, and wiped the moisture from his cheeks, and raised his head. "Thank you," he said, looking directly into Lennie's eyes.
"You're welcome. That's what partners, and friends, are for." Lennie patted his shoulder this time, then let go. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he replied slowly, "I'm okay."
Lennie grinned his half-grin. "Then I'm going in there," he said, thumbing toward the building, "and get a soda, then use the facilities. If they're even close to clean."
Ed nodded again, and was even able to smile back. Lennie left. Ed turned around, and leaned back against the car door. He took a deep breath. The air was sweet, and a little musty, smelling of the end of summer and solidly of autumn. There was a town down the road. He could make out a church spire, and a school with a football field, and houses interspersed among orange and yellow-leaved trees. The money in his pocket was once again destined for snacks, or gas, or maybe even dinner later that day. After taking one more lung-full of fresh air, he locked the car and headed toward the station. To buy a bottle of water, and use the potentially clean bathroom.
Jack conceded that he couldn't entirely blame Serena for bringing him to Hogan Place. It was because he'd locked his office, which apparently contained some of the case law she needed. He didn't bother to remove his coat as he opened the door, and led her in. He still felt he was under a rather tight schedule for the afternoon, with the goal of a mostly free and clear Sunday to spend with Ed. He held the assumption that the man would need to restock his food supplies, too, but somehow the thought of going to the market together sounded utterly enjoyable. Not a chore, per se.
"I hope I didn't interrupt something important," Serena said, standing in front of his desk.
After setting down his helmet, he scanned the pile on the credenza; the book wasn't there. "It's no problem, Serena," he replied. He pointed to the table by the door. "Check over there."
She turned, and walked toward the designated surface. He went to the shelves, scanning quickly.
"I'm almost done with the application," she said as she shifted books around.
He was now standing on the couch, to read the upper shelves. "Good." He found the volume they needed and pulled it out with relief. "Here it is." He handed it to her as he stepped down.
"Have you heard from Briscoe and Green today? How is the investigation going?"
He came so close; he tried so hard not to say something he almost choked. He gave her a brief run-down of what they'd learned in Chicago. She asked a few questions about specifics, which he answered. He reviewed the conversation he and Van Buren had had with Marsh's girlfriend. Serena's response was silence and a tightening of her face.
"I hadn't thought of that angle," she finally said.
He was surprised, for two reasons. That she'd admit it, given the precarious nature of their working relationship, and that she honestly hadn't thought about using Marsh's situation to their advantage. He was uncomfortable, suddenly -- feeling an urge to reassure her. An intensely irritating urge. The discomfort was immediately followed by pure anger. That she had put him in this position was almost untenable. That she now needed reassurance was intolerable. It had always been natural for him to do whatever he could, within reason, to keep his second chair working efficiently and with confidence. He usually had great faith in their abilities. Again, he realized, with a start, how much he missed Abby.
"I should have," Serena said, in the face of his silence.
He took a deep breath. "That's moot. Let's just get the banking records and see if we can find evidence of payoffs."
She looked disappointed. "You know, Jack...."
He waited, and was about to encourage her with a wave of his hand, when she continued.
"I'm doing whatever I can to make things right here," she said. "I don't know what else to do."
"There isn't much that can be done at this point, Serena," he snapped. "Worse case scenario -- Ed's outed, completely. Someone at that damned company decides it might be fun to see who this gay man is, what he does for a living. Hell, for all you know, the person who did the investigation already knows Ed's name from the papers. You can't put that back, you can't make that right! And for the life of me, I do not understand why you would turn around, after what I'd told you, and do something that is so completely insensitive!"
"I think you just can't see things because you're too emotionally involved!"
He thought of any number of retorts. He thought of the ways that he could make her pay. He thought of how much he wanted her to be replaced with someone else. All of the frustrations he'd harbored over her snarkiness and disrespect surged through him. In the end, however, he didn't respond. He wouldn't give her that power.
"I'm going," he said with force. "If you've got any more questions, you can leave a message on my machine. I'll check it periodically."
"You won't be home?"
He shook his head in near disgust. "I'll see you on Monday." He directed her out with a wave of his hand, picked up his helmet, followed her, and once again locked the door behind him. She would need nothing more from his office.
"Have a nice weekend," she said, as he headed for the elevator.
He turned, and sighed to himself. "You, too." He punched the down button and considered taking the stairs, but the elevator arrived within a minute. Once inside the car, he muttered, "None of your damned business...." He sighed aloud this time, and deliberately thought about the possibility that Ed would be coming home that night. He'd quiz the man in between loving, loving and more loving. The door opened on the first floor and he stepped out, once again with a smile on his face.
"So, Lennie, want a job here instead of New York?" Ed grabbed his overcoat from the back seat and pulled it on.
Lennie let out a small noise. "No, thanks. Way too pretty." He slammed the car door.
They had just arrived in Madison, proper, and were on their way to the central district station of the city's police department. The campus police hadn't been much help, other than to confirm the directions to the Madison PD that Ed had downloaded from the internet. There had been no campus police reports for any of the four names in question.
Ed had also gotten a map of the overall area from the web, had been interested in the rather unusual location for the state capitol -- an isthmus between two large lakes. Seeing the setting in person, however, he couldn't help but be struck by its beauty. Lennie had a point. It was almost too pretty.
They walked across the parking lot and into the building. At the desk, just inside the door, they showed their badges and identified themselves. The desk clerk's eyebrows shot up, belying the cool, professional response he gave. Lennie explained what they were after. The officer nodded once, picked up the phone and called someone named Franklin. Ed couldn't tell if the man was relieved or disappointed to pass them on up the chain of command.
A blond woman in a dark brown suit came through a door to the right of the desk. She walked directly to them, and held out a hand. "Lieutenant Denise Franklin," she said. "What can I do for you?"
Lennie accepted the handshake. "Detective Lennie Briscoe, and this is my partner, Detective Ed Green," he said. "We're homicide, from Manhattan, and we need a look at your records. We'd like to know if any one of four names shows up in 1985, maybe 1984."
Her eyebrows mimicked the desk clerk's. "Well, this sounds quite fascinating. Come on, let's go in, see what we can find." On her way past the officer, she leaned over the counter. "Don't worry, Fred, I'll tell you all about it," she said with a grin. The man mock-saluted.
Ed glanced at Lennie as they followed Franklin. The look his partner gave him was one Ed recognized and always took comfort from. It was the determined set of Lennie's features, overlying the confidence he carried from years of experience. The two of them were sometimes wrong, they sometimes got into hot water for cutting corners, they sometimes disagreed about an investigation's direction. This wasn't any one of those times. Ed knew it, so did Lennie. Dogs with bones was how Lennie had described them both during the drive. Not letting go until they discovered something.
Jack kicked his apartment door closed, balancing a full laundry basket on his hip, and carrying mail in his free hand. He dropped the envelopes, magazine, and catalog on the hall table and went directly into the bedroom. This was his last load. Clean sheets. After making the bed, he'd have lunch and hopefully finish the book he'd borrowed from Ed. He had only two chapters left. He unfurled the fitted sheet, then lifted the mattress and slipped on the first corner.
"The first one is Granville Charles Estes," Lennie said, giving the lieutenant of detectives Crymson's legal name. Ed tried to settle in his chair, but couldn't relax his back enough.
Lieutenant Franklin typed the name into her computer. "Was he one of the victims? Or the possible perp?"
"He was victim number three, the most recent," Lennie answered.
Still looking at her screen, she said, "Have you checked with the university police? Do you know if they lived in Madison, or on campus?"
Ed answered. "We've just come from there; they didn't have anything. And no, we don't know where they were living while they were students."
"Hm-m," she muttered. "Nope, nothing for that name, or anyone with the surname of Estes. Next?"
"Karen Abbott," Ed replied. "Victim number two."
She typed. "Do you know what the relationship was between the four of them? If they had a relationship while they attended UW?" She turned her head, and gave a slight shrug. "Curious, gentlemen. We rarely get a homicide here. Mostly robberies, alcohol related violence, domestics, weapons charges, that sort of thing."
"They have connections," Lennie answered, "but they're not obvious. Well, two of them were friends up until the time of their death. The third vic's connection is more public. He owned a club that vic number one frequented, and had some political connections with the suspect. On the surface. It's complicated."
She sighed. "Yes, but complicated can be interesting, too." She turned back to the monitor. "Nope, nothing for her. Next?"
"Thomas Jerold Ryerson, Jerold with a 'J'." Lennie answered. She typed. "Vic number one -- he's one who dropped out of school, beginning of his senior year, 1985."
Ed waited, the tension in his back increasing. He had high hopes that Ryerson had been a part of whatever had potentially happened.
"Nope," she said after a few moments.
"Shit," Ed hissed.
"Richard Woodbridge," Lennie said, ignoring Ed. "Prime suspect. Also dropped out of school, same time."
She typed, and Ed tapped on the arm of his chair. He and Lennie made brief eye contact.
"Well," she said in a low voice, "this is something that might make your case a bit more interesting." Ed's heart beat reacted. "Here's a Richard Woodbridge in September of 1985. Unfortunately, he had an autopsy performed on his body. For the Middleton PD." She hit a few more keys.
"He's dead?" Ed asked, not sure he'd heard her correctly.
"Is that the usual procedure," Lennie asked, again ignoring his partner, "that your Medical Examiner does work for Middleton?"
"Yes," she answered, not turning her head. "They're a small department, and have so little need for an ME, that we handle their autopsies for them. Same county. And here's another Woodbridge. Miriam Woodbridge. Also autopsy, same date. September third, 1985."
On automatic pilot, Ed wrote the information in his notebook. "Do you have the results there?"
"No, just the case number. 1985 dash 215." She finally faced them. "Report will be at Middleton. Do you need directions?"
"No, thanks," Lennie answered. "We've got a map." He stood, and Ed followed. The lieutenant held out her hand; they each shook it in turn.
"If we can be of any further assistance, please don't hesitate to contact us." She handed Lennie a card she'd taken from the holder on her desk. "I'll show you out."
"Thank you for the information," Ed said, finally feeling his brain kick in. She smiled in response. As they followed her back to the lobby, Ed's stomach rumbled. "Lunch," he said to Lennie.
"Yeah," the man said with a sigh.
"Do you gentlemen need a restaurant recommendation?" Franklin asked over her shoulder.
"No," Ed answered, "we've got food in the car."
"Well, how about a place to eat it, that's got one of the prettiest views in Wisconsin?" She opened the door and waved them through. "It's right on your way."
Ed wasn't sure he wanted any more "pretty," but Lennie answered her in the affirmative. She told them where to turn off of University Avenue, at the edge of Middleton, to get to a park on the shore of Lake Mendota, the larger of the two lakes that bordered Madison. They thanked her again; Lennie giving her his card, too.
Outside, the sky had darkened even further, and the air was chillier. Ed didn't think they'd be sitting at any picnic table while they ate lunch; conceding, however, that refueling would be more pleasant with a view of trees and water than a parking lot. Even a lot in pretty downtown Madison.
"Now that's tuna," Lennie said, grinning around the mouthful.
Ed chuckled. "Oh, yeah? Why?"
Lennie pointed at his sandwich. "It's the chopped red peppers, and chopped dill pickles. My first wife made it almost like this. That was one thing about her -- she could cook." He took another bite.
Ed did the same, and went back to gazing out the windshield. The lake was beautiful, no question. The clouds that threatened rain parted every once in a while, and a burst of sunshine would hit the water, changing the surface from a dull grey to floating, sparkling sapphires. It was quite a show, and just what he'd needed. He finished his sandwich, tossed the wrapping into the bag, and started to eat an apple.
"So," Lennie said, throwing away his garbage, too, "we've got a suspect who's already dead."
Ed looked at him. The other man was grinning again. Ed took a firm bite of fruit, deliberately ignoring the tease, but unable to keep a small smile off of his face. He swallowed. "You gonna finish your lunch so we can get back on the road?"
"Nah, don't want the apple. I don't go for healthy stuff, you know that." He strapped himself in.
Ed did the same. He poked a finger at Lennie, while the man started the car. "You're gonna pay in the long run, Lennie."
"Yeah, well, so I lose a few years off the end."
Ed's chest constricted, for just a moment. He looked at the lake as they drove out of the park, trying not to think about his partner's ultimate death, much less retirement which would come too soon for Ed's comfort. The sun hit the water one more time. He ate another bite of crisp, sweet fruit. Lennie started to hum. They headed into Middleton.
Jack took a cab to Ed's apartment. The forecast for Sunday held the possibility of showers, and he'd long gotten over the thrill of riding his bike in the rain. He stopped in the lobby and looked through the newspapers, finding Ed's copy of the Saturday Times to take upstairs. In the elevator, just as the door was closing, he heard someone call for it to be held. His hands nearly full, he used the heavy paper to slam against the sliding door, sending it back into its housing.
"Thanks," a young man said, huffing slightly, dashing into the car.
"No problem," Jack said.
The man looked at the panel of buttons, then didn't push anything. Jack assumed it was because he lived on the fourth floor, too. He smiled briefly at him, readjusting the bags he carried as the elevator began to rise.
"You're not the guy in four-twelve," the man suddenly said, a tone of suspicion clearly evident.
Jack looked at him again, not sure how to answer, confused as to his point.
"The paper, man, that's not your paper. You don't wanna mess with four-twelve. He's a cop."
"I'm taking the paper in for him. He's a friend. Out of town."
"Oh."
Something in his tone, though, was off. Jack asked, "Have there been a lot of newspapers stolen in this building?"
The elevator reached its destination, and after the door opened, the other man held it back so Jack could step out. "Yeah. The older tenants sometimes don't get downstairs early enough."
"Well it's good of you to keep vigilant, then," Jack said. They were both in the hallway, and Jack turned, heading for Ed's apartment.
"Yeah, we try." The man walked with him.
Jack didn't particularly relish continuing the conversation, not really knowing what Ed's relationship was with other tenants, so he made an offhand remark of general politeness. At Ed's door, he shifted things again and took out his keys. The man had kept walking, but as Jack slid a key into the dead bolt, he glanced to his left. He was being watched. He smiled briefly, again, and went back to unlocking the door. The other man, whomever he was, continued down the hallway. Jack supposed that his ability to enter the apartment had given all the proof necessary that he, indeed, did have the authority to take four-twelve's newspaper. New Yorker's were an interesting breed, he thought and certainly not for the first time, wavering between an almost rabid "keep out of my business" and an equally intense concern for the neighbors.
Inside, he went directly to the kitchen and unpacked breakfast provisions, placing the paper on the eating counter. Then he hung up his coat, put a jazz CD that he'd not yet heard into the player, took his overnight bag into the bedroom and dropped it next to the dresser. He looked around the room and smiled softly. He'd obviously missed a few things when he'd done a quick straighten of the place after Ed had left for the airport. A condom wrapper on the bedside table, next to the lubricant, which was usually in the drawer. The television remote perched close to the edge of the opposite nightstand, rather than on the box itself. He pulled off his sweater and started on the first task. Stripping the bed. He and Ed would have clean sheets that night.
The Middleton police department was certainly small, by Ed's definition of the word. Housed in a building that contained one holding cell, three glass walled offices, and ten desks, all arranged behind a reception counter. The young man filling that seat was also the dispatcher, and as Ed and Lennie approached the familiar sounds of a police channel competed with pop music emanating from somewhere beyond.
They identified themselves, and Ed half-expected a "gee whiz" reply, but instead received the full and serious attention of the officer, with eyebrows firmly in place. They explained what they were after. The man hesitated briefly, then informed them that the supervisor of the Investigative Services Bureau, Sergeant Froendlich, was the person to speak with. He hit a button on his console and the resultant buzz could be heard in one of the offices. Ed watched a man there answer, then had the rather strange experience of hearing both ends of the conversation. One clear, one muted by distance. Within thirty seconds the sergeant was on his way toward them.
For the third time that day, they were shaking hands, making introductions, and being led to chairs in front of a desk. For the first time, however, they were offered coffee, which they both accepted. Ed's nerves were already jangling, but a hot drink sounded particularly good. He took the proffered mug and added what looked like real cream.
"You don't see this at the two-seven," Lennie remarked, taking the small pitcher from him.
Sergeant Froendlich smiled. "Wisconsin's finest. They ban powdered creamers at the border. Now, this is about a case from 1985?"
Ed opened his notebook. "Case number 1985 dash 215. Madison PD lists autopsies done on Richard Woodbridge and Miriam Woodbridge. We believe these may be connected to three homicides we're investigating."
Froendlich looked stunned. "Well, I'll be damned," he said in a low voice. "Give me a minute fellas, I'll go get the case file. That was mine. I... Just give me a minute." He got up quickly and left the room.
"He'll be damned -- that's a good sign," Lennie said, and drank more coffee.
The back of Ed's neck was beginning to tingle, as if the electrical impulses shooting along his nerves were seeping out onto his skin. He knew this feeling. Very, very well. He'd had it when he'd walked into the Tide, a little more than a week ago, and seen Jack McCoy sitting at the bar staring at him. Whenever he'd conducted an interrogation, and he and Lennie had gotten close to breaking through. The day he'd learned his father had died, hours before the actual call. He took a sip of coffee, too, and tried not to watch the door behind them, or look for the sergeant in his bullpen.
After nearly five minutes, which felt like twenty, Froendlich returned. The file that he dropped on the desk was already opened; he sat, scooting in his chair and pulling the papers close in one fluid motion.
"Who's been murdered?" he asked, his eyes darting from the file to each of theirs and back down to his desk.
"Thomas Ryerson, Karen Abbott, and Granville Estes," Lennie answered.
Froendlich's eyes darted back up again, fixating on Lennie's. "I see. Not Woodbridge, then."
Ed's heart started to pound as the tingle spread throughout his body. "No," he answered, like they'd already had a lengthy conversation, "he's the suspect."
"What have you got?" Lennie asked.
"A case that was never closed to my satisfaction, that cost me my marriage. Drowning, ruled accidental. Richard and Miriam Woodbridge on September second, Labor Day, 1985. They went out in their boat in the evening, and were reported missing by their son, Rich Junior, the following day. They were friends of mine, of both me and my wife. Since grade school. Richard Senior owned a popular restaurant in town, he was second generation Middleton." He shook his head. "Sorry. Digression. They were found near the northwestern shore of Mendota, pretty much directly under their boat, which was anchored. I just never believed that they'd drowned like that, like they just sank. Both of them could swim, hell, summer revolves around the lake here. But the autopsies found water in the lungs, and no sign of other injury. There were a few bottles of champagne on the boat, empty; there was alcohol in their blood. It was their anniversary. So the assumption was that they got drunk, took a swim, couldn't handle it, and drowned. And there was no evidence to prove otherwise."
"Where do our victims fit in here? Or do they?" Lennie asked.
"Oh, they do, they do. I looked into Junior's whereabouts that night, extensively. He inherited not only the house, land, and boat, but the business as well. He'd worked in the restaurant for years, and even though he was studying an entirely different field at UW, his father left it to him. And I admit it, I never liked the kid. Or I should say, I didn't like him once he was a teenager. So I checked him out, questioned him a number of times. He had an alibi that I couldn't break. Your three victims gave it to him."
Ed's stomach lurched, rebelling against the thought that Crymson had participated in this crime, if indeed it had been a crime. He met Lennie's eyes briefly. "The four of them were friends?"
Froendlich leaned forward. "You know, that's what I couldn't quite figure." He jabbed the file with a pen. "Junior knew Estes from the restaurant. Estes had been working there since he'd come to UW, which wasn't that unusual -- Richard listed with the university for part-time workers. But from what other employees said, the two of them didn't really get along. Junior liked Ryerson, and he'd met him because Estes and Ryerson were..." He rocked one hand in the air. "The word we're supposed to use now is gay, back then we called it something else. Anyway, Ryerson and Estes were together. Shared an apartment. Now Junior wasn't anything like that, not at all -- Abbott was his girlfriend. But from what I could find out, the four of them did things together. The night in question, Estes said that they were all at his apartment, partying one last party before classes started the following day."
"All night?" Lennie asked.
The man shrugged. "That's what they all claimed. I found a couple of witnesses who said they saw Estes around midnight, on his balcony. There had been music playing off and on up until that point. Someone else said they saw Abbott, possibly about a half hour after that. I couldn't find anyone who'd seen Junior or Ryerson until the next morning, when they were seen leaving the apartment complex in separate cars. I spoke to the woman who lived next door to Richard and Miriam. She thought she heard a car leaving from the driveway of their house at around ten-thirty. The boat had been towed away at dinner time, which was confirmed by people at the launch. Richard and Miriam got on the water at around six o'clock. So it couldn't have been them in their own driveway, but the neighbor wasn't completely certain about what she'd heard." He shrugged again. "With no evidence of anything but an accidental drowning, my hands were tied."
Ed still didn't believe it. Couldn't believe that the man he'd known, and respected, and even admired would have willingly provided an alibi to cover up a murder. He would have been charged as an accessory after the fact. If this had even been a murder. How can you cause two people to drown without leaving marks of a struggle? he wondered.
Lennie put his mug on the desk. "Why did you like him for this, aside from the inheritance angle?"
Froendlich poked the file again, harsher this time. "Because the little bastard was way too cocky for someone who'd just lost both his parents. And he knew that I knew he'd done it, and couldn't prove a damned thing. Four months later, he sold everything, said he just couldn't live here any longer, and left for good."
Ed asked, "Did the ME have any ideas about how Woodbridge could have managed to drown both parents?" He rolled his neck, the tension in it suddenly too much to bear.
"No," the man answered with a long sigh, "he didn't. The only possibility was some sort of drug administered, then they could have been thrown overboard. We sent the champagne bottles and glasses to the state crime lab, but they didn't find anything. We had a tox screen run, but you know, it's hard to test for something when you don't know what you're testing for."
"So if this was a murder," Ed continued, "did you think that all four of them were involved in the doing, or just the alibi?"
"This was murder, Detective Green," Froendlich retorted with vehemence, "there's still no doubt in my mind it was murder."
"I'm just asking," Ed snapped.
"Hey," Lennie said to Froendlich, "my partner just wants us to make sure. This case has been a real bear, know what I mean? We've got nothing concrete to tie this guy to any of the three murders, just a lot of circumstances that could add up one way, or could add up another."
The man across the desk was sitting back in his chair, arms folded, breathing heavily. After a long pause, he nodded. "Yeah," he muttered, "I do know what you mean."
"So," Lennie asked, "Ed's question? About the other three? How did you see them in this?"
"At the time, I was sure that Junior had to have enlisted the help of at least one of them. His father was a big man, and if he'd been drugged it wouldn't have been very easy to lift him over the side of the boat. His mother, well, Miriam was small enough in comparison to Junior that he could have picked her up easily. Looking at the three accomplices, my gut always said that it was Ryerson who'd been the hands-on helper. He and Junior were too alike."
"Alike, how?" Lennie continued. Ed thought he knew what the sergeant was getting at.
The man's eyes narrowed and he shook his head. "Both could turn it on and off whenever they wanted. Charm. Junior in particular. But they could both be cold as ice." He leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk. "Abbott? She looked like she did whatever Junior wanted her to. She was the most nervous of all of them, and there were times when I thought she might have been more involved than just providing an alibi. Estes? Him I could not figure out. He never wavered from the alibi, he would sit there and repeat it, and do it convincingly, too -- except that he seemed completely rehearsed. The words rarely changed in his statements. But I couldn't break him. He never even flinched."
Ed asked, "What did you find out about his relationship with Ryerson? Was it a solid one?"
Froendlich looked confused. "No idea. Why? They don't have 'solid relationships,' as you put it, anyway. Who would I ask? Their neighbors? How many times did they hear the bed thumping against the wall?" he finished sarcastically.
Ed bit it back. Almost drew blood inside his own mouth. He forced himself to relax into the chair, to open his clenched fist, to breathe slowly. Put his mind back on this old case, and consider if there was anything else to ask. Lennie was talking. He focused on his partner.
"But did anyone know that the two vics were planning to be out in the boat all night?"
"Aside from Junior, just me and my wife. Ex-wife."
Lennie nodded. "Got two, myself. Mind if I ask -- did she believe Junior when he proclaimed his innocence?"
Froendlich's face clouded. "Yes, she did. She couldn't imagine that he would do something like that. I could."
"Can we have a copy of the file to take with us? I think this might give the DA what she needs to approve getting a search warrant."
"Sure -- if you tell me about these three murders."
Ed interrupted the two of them. "Can you check to see if Richard Junior has purchased a handgun in Wisconsin?"
The man nodded and turned to his computer. "He'd have had access to shotguns. His father was a hunter; Junior was, too...."
"No shotguns in this case," Lennie said. He looked at Ed. "Fortunately for the vics, unfortunately for us, it sounds like."
Within a few minutes, the sergeant told them that the suspect had not gotten a handgun in the state of Wisconsin. Lennie proceeded to tell the man the bare bones of the case they had, leaving out specifics of the victims' lives they'd uncovered or that Ed had already known.
Ed only half-listened to it. He wanted to look through the 1985 case file himself. Wanted to study the details, see what kind of picture he got from it, hear what kind of a picture Lennie formed. He believed Froendlich, but the man's instincts were a bit hard for him to completely trust. He kept thinking about Anthony, and what he was going to have to tell him. Ed never thought of himself as a coward, but right then he dearly wished that Lieu would be the one to discuss what they'd found with Crymson's lover. She'd be calm, professional, and warm all at once. He was afraid that if Anthony broke down in front of him, he might break down, too. Either that, or reach out for him. Hold him tightly. Cross a line that should never, ever be crossed.
It was raining when they walked out of the station; a light rain that clearly had the potential for becoming more. Ed wanted to call Jack right away and tell him what they'd discovered. A little after five o'clock New York time meant that he could still catch his lover before he left for dinner with the District Attorney, so as he walked toward the car, he dialled his own apartment. The signal was occasionally cutting out. He sat in the passenger's seat and tried again. The vagaries of cell phone use proved that in the car was worse than out of it, so he ignored the rain and walked around the parking lot. It got better near the building, so reluctantly, he ended up standing under the covered walkway leading up to the front door. He called again, and this time it rang.
"Jack," he said into his answering machine, "pick up, it's me. Yo, Jack, pick up..," he repeated, hoping to keep the machine from ending the call.
"Yeah, hi," Jack said, sounding out of breath. "You still in Wisconsin?"
Ed felt his stomach unclench at the sound of the man's voice. Gravelly, breathless, and warm. He wanted it in his ear without an instrument and a thousand miles between them. "We are. We think we've got it -- at least why they quit school and proof they knew each other. A potentially very hot reason for blackmail. Quick and dirty version? Woodbridge's parents died, the case is still technically open according to the investigating officer, Woodbridge was the suspect, Ryerson might have helped him, Abbott might have, too, Crymson provided an alibi for all of them. Oh, and Crymson and Ryerson were lovers, and so were Abbott and Woodbridge. We've got a copy of the case file, including autopsy reports. There's a bit more to it that I'll tell you in person." He took a breath.
"Good God," Jack said in a low voice. "Excellent. I'll talk it over with Nora. Gun?"
"Not in this state, either."
"So I take it no proof that he killed his parents?"
"None."
"That son-of-a-bitch. Okay, have you called Van Buren yet?"
"No, not yet. I..." He hesitated. "I wanted to call you first, before you saw the DA." He started to pace. "I needed to call you first," he admitted.
There was a long moment's silence on the other end. "I miss you, too, Ed. What is it? Crymson?"
"Yeah," he managed to say. "I'll have to tell Anthony...."
"We'll do it together."
Such a simple answer, and so very much like Jack. He wanted to be home. Now, or sooner. "Thanks," he said.
"We'll talk, as much as you need. So, are you two heading for the airport?"
He sighed. "It's started to rain here. I'm about to call the airline, but we might try and beat the weather by driving back down to O'Hare, rather than flying out of Dane County. I'll leave a message and let you know."
"Love you, Ed. Come home. Safely."
"Love you, too, Jack," he said quietly. They ended the connection and he took a minute simply to breathe in the scent of clean rain falling on dry leaves, dropped by their trees. The ache in his heart was beginning to lift. By the grace of God he'd be in his own bed that night, in the arms of the man he loved. With a case building against a murderer, piece by piece -- all that was required now was proof. He waved Lennie out of the car, so the man could call Lieu, and he could call the airline. They were going home.
"I think I will take that drink," Nora said with a shake of her head. She waved the waiter over and ordered a whiskey sour. He promised to bring it before their salad course was served.
Jack had finished relaying what he knew about the case as it stood. It stood unsteadily, on the balls of its feet, ready to run. But there was enough there to warrant a search of Woodbridge's town house. "There's no doubt that it's a risk to perform the search," he continued, "but how else are we going to get our hands on something concrete? He could have killed them at home." He knew he was stating the obvious.
"So it's a toss of the coin," she said. "We search, we find nothing, he skips. We search, we take him in at the same time, we find nothing to hold him on, we release him, he skips." She sighed. "I did say that I wanted this interim position, didn't I? What was I, out of my mind at the time?"
Jack grinned at her. "No comment."
"Thanks," she replied, giving him a small glare.
The waiter arrived with her drink, apologizing for the fact that he had their salads, too. Jack was grateful; he was hungry.
"I'd like us to talk to Emil," he said after finishing his first bite. "See if he can flesh out this guy's profile, now that we know his history. How likely is it that Woodbridge might have killed other people in the past fifteen years. How likely is it that he would skip, being the egotistical bastard that he is."
She set down her glass, having finished nearly half of it. "Does Skoda work on weekends?"
"Don't we all?"
"Do I detect a note of veiled hostility in there?"
"Only directed against the system in general, and the fact that I think the detectives need a day off, and I need a day off with one of them. Not to mention that if we're going to serve a warrant, we'd better do it as soon as possible, which brings me back to my veiled hostility."
"I see."
Jack stabbed a piece of carrot. "And there's something that Ed and I need to take care of tomorrow. Telling Crymson's partner that the man he lived with, and loved, had a past that might have included being an accessory to murder. Not to mention the fact that Crymson and Ryerson were lovers, too." Jack nearly shuddered at the images that evoked. He ignored his own reaction for the time being, and brought the fork to his mouth.
"That won't be easy," she replied gently, then peered at him. "Did Crymson's lover send that email to Woodbridge? What did you have him say? Did he respond?"
He swallowed. "We told Anthony to send a noncommittal thanks for the eulogy, and say that he hadn't been aware Woodbridge had been communicating with Crymson. Not ask the man anything about it, just mention it. Just to see what he would do. I don't know yet if he's responded. If he does, Anthony will forward it to Ed and Anita."
"And how is Ed?"
Jack didn't look at her, he studied his plate of lettuce instead. Then he took a sip of scotch, forcing the words he wanted to say back down his throat. He finally met her eyes. "I think he would be a helluva lot better if I could tell him that he'd never have to see Serena's face again."
Her lips pursed, and she, too, had some alcohol. "You know I can't do that."
"Yes. I do. I want you to know, however, that I wouldn't miss her if she was gone."
Her eyes narrowed. "That's not very veiled."
He shrugged. "No, it's not. And when you tell me to, I'll keep my mouth as shut as I can and continue to work with her. Believe me, I understand my duty and my responsibility," he finished more harshly than he had intended.
"Well, I had thought that we might have dinner before discussing Serena," she said calmly, "but I suppose now is as good a time as any."
"I suppose so," he replied.
"But Jack, you need to try to keep this in perspective, if you can. There is some logic behind her actions."
Jack bit his lower lip and shook his head. Perspective was the one thing that he had absolutely no desire to keep in this situation. Maybe he was too old, he thought, and maybe he was just too tired of the job always taking precedence in his life. He was beginning to understand just how frustrating life could be for gays and lesbians. How seriously did other people take their personal commitments? He couldn't help but wonder how he would be expected to behave, had this happened to his wife, or his girlfriend. Just how quickly he would be expected to put forth the image of forgiveness.
He leaned forward and spoke quietly. "I'll keep whatever perspective is possible, Nora, but I think it's a bit much for her to expect that. She went after my lover," he hissed. "Without a second thought, or an ounce of respect for Ed, or for me."
She also leaned over the table. "I realize that. And if, after we're done talking, you want to request a new second chair, I'll take that request seriously. I promise."
The waiter brought the main course, giving Jack a minute or two to attempt to calm himself down. It would do him no good, he knew, to lose Nora's support. He drank some water, checked his watch. Ed was either on the road heading south to Illinois, or waiting in a Wisconsin airport. Whichever -- he was on his way back. To him. To them. Jack needed to stop thinking about it, because the pit of anticipation in his stomach was distracting. The ache that had permeated his groin at the vision of Ed walking through the door was even more so. Lovesick, absolutely. He smiled to himself, and concentrated on the food in front of him.
"Is it your dinner that's changed your mood, or the thought of not having Serena as second chair?" Nora asked.
He finished cutting a bite of steak. "Neither," he answered honestly.
"I see," she said, flashing him a small grin. "So he's on his way back?"
"Yes." He ate.
"When does he arrive?"
He cut off another piece, glancing at her. "I have the feeling that you're leading into another attempt at getting me to talk about Ed. Personally."
She was working on her own meal of chicken piccata, and shrugged. "Maybe I am. Would that be so horrible?"
"No, not horrible, but not entirely relevant."
"Hm-m. I'm not so sure it is irrelevant."
He set down his utensils and looked closely at her. "I really don't want to hear about Serena being jealous, because that's just nonsense."
She swallowed, and drank some water. "It's not nonsense, it's just rather complex. Perhaps too complex for a man to understand."
The twinkle in her eye stopped Jack from saying something he'd regret, but didn't stop the surge of anger he felt. He went back to cutting his meat, taking some relish in it.
"I think," she said, "that I'll just start by telling you the reasons Serena gave for investigating Ed."
He set down the knife again. "Can it wait until after I've eaten?" He asked, letting the edge of sarcasm be heard.
"Do you really think it will make any difference?"
Nausea now, or later, he considered. "No, I guess not."
She ate a few green beans, then wiped her mouth. "She said that after she'd accidentally run into you and Ed at the club, she began to rethink how Ed had been acting, around the investigation. He was, as she put it, uncooperative. Not following through on all the possibilities, resisting ideas, etcetera." She held up her hand, forestalling the retort Jack was about to make. "She suspected that he was much more involved than he was letting on, and that he had been close with Crymson and didn't want anyone to know about it. Then Anthony came to the office and, according to Serena, Ed was too solicitous. She saw them at the elevator when Anthony was leaving. She said that Ed was making some, quote, intimate overtures, end quote, toward him. Then the two of you disappeared for a while." Nora took a bite of chicken.
Jack wasn't quite sure he understood the implications. "So she thought that Ed, what, was putting the moves on Anthony? But that he'd known Crymson personally, and so somehow he was hampering the investigation because he'd been friends with the two of them?"
"The two of you disappeared. She found that, initially, suspicious considering that it happened right after she'd seen Ed and Anthony with their heads together."
Jack shook his head. "Not that I have to explain my actions to her, or even in this case, to you, Nora -- but the reasons Ed and I left were entirely personal. We needed some privacy to talk and didn't feel comfortable doing it in my office. And in regards to Ed and Anthony, I'm not even sure I should dignify that with any comment! Trust me, it's absurd. Ed feels responsible to Anthony, just like he would to any survivor. The added burden that Ed feels is solely due to Crymson's position in the community. He was not friends with either of them, it's much more complicated than that, as I've explained to Serena more than once!" He stopped, knowing he was beginning to sound strident. Ed had nothing to prove.
"There's more, of course. The other male victim," she paused.
"Ryerson," he said, as an inkling of dread slipped down his spine.
"Yes, Ryerson. His diary, the missing pages. You know about them."
He had a moment's disorientation, but only a moment. "Yes," he said, recovering quickly.
"She claims that it was easy to see that pages were missing, and it wasn't in the police report, and that it should have been. She also says that it was a logical assumption that Ed might have met Ryerson on occasion, and given Ed's reputation for casual dating, it was also logical to assume that he and Ryerson could have... well, let's just say that Ed could have been on the missing pages."
Jack felt like he'd fallen into a very bad imitation Fellini movie. "Ed's reputation for casual dating? Does she not understand what being in the closet is? So she took some fake reputation that Ed put on for his professional life, and then concocted an entire scenario where Ed is deeply involved in these murders, so she could invade his privacy with impunity?!"
"I'm not saying it made total sense, just that there was some logic behind it. Her judgment was impaired by her emotions. Something that we all succumb to on occasion."
Nora had no idea, he thought, how true that statement was. "I'm not sure I want to know what her emotions were around this," he said.
"I don't know specifics, because I didn't ask, but the impression I'm getting from her is that she was very upset to learn that Ed was gay. He's good looking, close to her in age, charming, and probably a potential to her way of thinking. You know what happens when people find out that what they believe about another person isn't true? They feel betrayed, on some level, because they bought into the lie. That can cloud a lot of perceptions. I don't think that should be a surprise to you. Or to Ed, for that matter." She sipped her whiskey sour.
"Nor should that be a reason for attacking the person, either," he retorted.
"You're right, of course. Like I said, it's not something that always makes logical sense."
He thought that the way Serena's mind worked often didn't follow a logical path. What Ed had said to him seemed quite true. She was willing to jump to the worst possible conclusion about someone without much to support it. She was willing to act upon that conclusion without remorse, or regret. He just didn't know if he was willing to be the mentor who would help her mature into a good prosecutor. One who could see the overall picture, and concentrate on the details, and play it all out in front of a jury to get the proper conviction. He told his boss that he'd need some time to consider his position in regard to Serena, and was grateful that that was a sufficient answer. For the time being.
Jack got back to Ed's apartment and listened to the messages that had been left in his absence. One from Peter, inviting them to dinner the following evening, to meet the man he was interested in. One from Ed's mother, doing what she called her weekly check-in. Hearing her voice did something to Jack's insides, sort of seized them up, as she became someone real and not just someone referred to. He ignored any further contemplation on that subject as he heard the final message. Ed, calling from the road. They had decided to fly out of O'Hare, and had booked a seven-thirty flight to JFK, which was due to arrive at eleven-thirty, New York time. Which should get him home after midnight. Not soon enough for Jack's needs, but certainly better than Sunday. At least they'd be under the covers together for the bulk of the night. He could touch Ed whenever he wanted, could taste him, and breathe him in. Feel him everywhere.
Ed opened his door with a huge sigh of relief. Nothing had felt so good as entering his building, knowing that not only was he home, but that Jack was waiting four flights up. He'd slept some on the plane, letting the background engine roar and thrum of the cabin drown out nearby conversations; lull him into oblivion with white noise. He was still worn out from the day, but no longer exhausted.
The apartment was quiet. The light was on in the kitchen, but not the living room. He hung up his coat, left his laptop case on the counter, and his bag on the way to the bedroom. Thirsty from the flight, he went to the refrigerator for a bottle of water. He saw the orange juice and half-and-half and grinned. As he drank, he noticed the bag of bagels by the coffee maker. He went back to the frig, found fresh schmear in the cheese compartment, and his grin returned.
"Damn, I love you, Jack McCoy," he said quietly.
Still drinking, he grabbed his bag and went quickly to the bedroom, his heart skipping a beat every few steps. A light from the bathroom spilled across the carpet, not quite reaching the bed, where his lover was sprawled on his stomach, the covers down around his waist. Ed's breath caught, as need and want surged through him so swiftly he almost stumbled. He dropped his bag again, and fell to his knees by Jack's pillow. He laid a hand on the man's back, feeling the rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his skin, and the stir of his awakening. Ed massaged up Jack's back to his hair, just as he rolled over, leaving Ed's hand to cup his face. His freshly shaven face. Ed smiled as Jack's eyes opened.
Jack reached for his neck. "Ed," he said in a sleep-laced voice.
Ed leaned in and said simply, "Jack," before falling on his mouth, feeling soft lips opening under his, a hot tongue snaking past his teeth, a firm hand on the back of his head pulling them closer together, and tasting that incredibly unique flavor that was all Jack, all him, all his. He moaned into the man's mouth, need and want and so much more pulling him down, deeper and even deeper still. He had missed this.
There had to be more contact, so he stopped the kissing, and moved back enough to focus. Jack's eyes were smoky, and a slow grin was spreading over his face. He was still clutching the back of Ed's head, his fingers beginning to roam, heading for Ed's tie.
"I feel dirty," Ed said. "Travel dirty."
"Come to bed," Jack replied.
Ed smiled. "Give me ten minutes, quick shower."
Jack's eyes locked with his intensely. "Ten minutes," he agreed, pulling on the tie.
Ed went with it, kissing him again with a long, slow, deep kiss that he stopped with a great deal of difficulty. "Ten minutes," he promised, hearing the breathlessness in his voice and not feeling a whit of embarrassment because of it. Jack nodded and released his hold, then propped himself on one hand as Ed stood on somewhat shaky legs.
He took off his suit and shirt quickly, dropping them in the pile that was destined for the cleaners. But when he stripped off the rest of his clothes and opened the hamper, it was empty. He turned to Jack, who was grinning.
"You did more laundry," he said.
Jack shrugged his free shoulder. "Clean sheets, too," he replied, in a voice dripping with suggestiveness.
Ed's blood burned with pure desire and in near desperation he hauled his bag up to a chair, intending to get out his shaving kit and sprint into the shower. He unzipped, and tossed the tee shirt he found on top to the floor. Then his heart stopped when he saw what he'd uncovered. He picked up the small frame and fixed it so it could stand upright on his dresser.
"What's that?" Jack asked.
He looked over a shoulder at his lover. "A surprise present from Colleen. She snuck it in here. It's you and Joanna. Now it's mine." Pleased at the look of near shock that crossed Jack's face, he put the photo in a prominent position between a portrait of his grandparents and one of his brothers and sisters. He found the shaving kit, and did, then, hurry into the shower.
Under the hot spray, he smiled, and thought that it was a good thing to shock Jack. The man was too smart by half, and keeping him a little off balance was something Ed believed could keep their relationship strong. Though complacency and Jack McCoy did not seem to go together, by any stretch of the imagination. Which was fine with Ed. Much, much more than fine. He loved the man, and complacency was never something that he himself aspired to.
Jack exhaled in a long, slow shudder as Ed eased his way in, to the hilt. It felt so amazingly good, and right, and just exactly what he needed. He couldn't stop his hands from touching, moving, traveling over the muscles of Ed's chest, and shoulders, and sides. The surprisingly soft goatee, the lips that parted to draw a single finger in. To suck, and stroke with that hot tongue. To harden Jack even further than he already was. All of this was what he'd needed. Every bit of skin, every kiss, every caress, every thrust.
Ed dipped his head, lowering his upper body until their mouths could meet. Jack devoured him, tasting all that he could reach, moaning down his throat, falling further and further into him until he wasn't sure where he ended and Ed began. A dim part of his mind reached the conclusion that, in these moments, there was no beginning and no ending. No difference. No separation. Just Ed thrusting into him, and he reveling in the feel of each and every inch of the man touching each and every inch inside of him. Over and over, taking them higher and higher. Closer and closer. Just Ed kissing him, and he reveling in the taste of clear, clean, lust and love. Ed wanting him. Ed needing him. Ed loving him.
As their movements together got more ragged, and slower, their climaxes just out of reach, Jack had a moment of absolute clarity. What he would do for this man was limitless, unbounded by any convention. He loved him. Wholly and completely. Ed said his name, breathed it directly into his ear, and he heard it as a benediction. It went straight to his groin; the heat boiled up from deep inside and took him right over the precipice, his orgasm ripping through him as he called Ed's name, too. He spurted, he contracted around him; he was falling into the abyss of stars, and blackness, and release, and bliss, and calling for Ed. The man sucked everything right out of him as he came, too; thrusting hard, collapsing in a hot, heaving, wonderfully real mass on his chest. Jack threw his arms around him, inhaling the sweet smell of them both, still calling. Still calling. Still calling.
On to Chapter 12, "Prima Facie"