"Sterling roses?" Munch asked Fin. "Signifying a courtly, romantic intention? Have you been moonlighting in some flower shop on your off hours? Taking lessons from the good people at the flower depot?" He looked into the bag Fin had brought him and pulled out a sandwich that appeared to be edible.
"I don't moonlight," Fin replied. "I do, however, have a working knowledge of the rose industry." He unwrapped his sandwich and smoothed out the paper, then took a healthy bite.
"Oh, the rose industry -- the farming conglomerates who spend their time and energy convincing the American public of their guilt over various holidays and events so they'll shell out the big bucks for a dozen roses which probably cost them no more than a dollar to produce." Munch looked down his nose at the man. "This is the industry of which you have a working knowledge?" Fin ignored him, eating and reading through a report he was writing. Munch studied his sandwich which, on second look, was iffy. He lifted the bread. Definitely iffy.
Fin stopped eating and pointed at Munch's food. "Eat your lunch. You could use the calories."
But Munch had other plans for his time, that had nothing to do with appeasing his partner's nonstop ragging about his weight, or lack thereof. Sterling roses, given to Detective Olivia Benson, which, if he was not mistaken (and he rarely was), had made her decidedly uncomfortable. Even more circumspect about her private life. A private life that he had already speculated about a number of times. She had said her date was "memorable." There was something about her tone of voice that told him she was hiding more than a normal secret. More than the fact that she didn't want to talk about some guy she had dated. And Stabler had played along, using male pronouns like it was completely natural, like that made some kind of sense. So Munch had a plan to ferret out the truth. Not to expose Benson -- her private life could stay private, just like he'd promised Stabler way back. Only to satisfy his curiosity, because if there was one thing that John could smell a mile off -- it was a conspiracy.
Munch sat in a nearby coffee shop, at a table in the corner, and pulled out his phone. He had ordered a lunch that was much more to his mood; he was waiting for its arrival. He scrolled through his phone book, found the number, and hit the call button.
"Briscoe," Lennie Briscoe answered at his desk in the two-seven.
"Yo, Lennie," Munch said, "how's it going?"
"John. To what do I owe this surprise?" Lennie replied with his usual sarcasm. At least, it was usual in Munch's universe.
"I need to talk to you about a woman--"
Lennie interrupted him with a snort. "Look, I'm dating a Cynthia Harris right now. You ever date her? Marry her?" Munch was about to answer, when Lennie continued. "I didn't think so. We've covered everyone else, haven't we -- so what's with the phone call? Who's got your ass in a bunch?"
"Are you finished, Detective?"
Lennie chuckled. "Spill it. Unless you want to hear how sweet Cynthia is, and man, is she sweet...."
Munch pulled the cell phone away from his ear and glared at it. "You really know how to hurt a guy, don't you?"
"What? I didn't get that." Lennie's voice was tinny, and small.
Munch said directly into the phone, "Nothing important. Believe me. My question to you is about Detective Olivia Benson -- and this discussion is to be considered highly classified. Hush-hush. Undercover. Are we clear?"
"Why are you asking me about Benson?"
"You've worked with her; you're not in SVU; you have an outsider's view of the woman. And, more importantly--" Munch lowered his voice. "--you've seen the inside of a lesbian bar, you've seen the gamut of women who consider men unnecessary for their happiness."
There was a pause on the other end. "Are you asking me if I think Benson is a lesbian? What, she turn you down for a date or somethin'? You're not still goin' on that theory, are you, John?" Lennie let out a short, harsh laugh.
"Oh so very funny, Lennie. Yes, I'd like your opinion." The waitress arrived with his lunch. This, at least, smelled worthwhile. "Well?" he asked Lennie, who was not forthcoming.
"Jesus, I don't know, and frankly, I don't care. Do I think she could have fit in with the crowd we saw? Sure. So could half the women I see on the street." Lennie sighed loudly. "Are we done? 'Cause I've got some actual work to do."
"Is your partner around? I'd like to talk to him," Munch said, taking a bite of food.
"Why the hell do you want to ask him about this?"
Munch stared at the phone again, wondering how Lennie could be so dense about the guy he worked with every day. But it wasn't his place to enlighten him. "Just put Green on."
Lennie muttered something, then said, "Just a sec." Munch could hear the man calling Green's name, then heard him explain about the call.
"Yeah, Munch?" Ed Green said.
"I have a rather confidential question for you, about the time you worked with our lovely Detective Benson." He paused.
"O-k-a-y."
"Did you ever pick up the vibe that she played for the women-only team, in her personal life? You know, did she ever show an interest in you? Show a lack of interest?"
"What?" Green's voice was higher, and Munch thought he could sense some trepidation. Understandable.
He asked the question again, but slower. "Did you ever pick up a vibe that would indicate to you that Benson is a lesbian?"
This pause coming from the two-seven was long. Finally, Green answered, in a low, clipped tone, "It's not my place to speculate about a fellow cop's sexual orientation, Munch."
Bingo. Munch heard Green give the phone back to Lennie, telling his partner he was done with this bullshit and was leaving to grab some lunch. Lennie said in his ear, "Why'd you have to go and piss him off, John? What did you say to him?"
"Maybe he's just having a bad day. Some food will do him good. Thanks, Lennie, my man. Been nice chatting with you."
"Whatever," Lennie muttered, and hung up.
Munch grinned as he put the cell back in his pocket. He dug into his own lunch with relish. He had his answer. At least, in his mind, he knew what was, most likely, the truth. Benson hadn't given a good looking man like Ed Green a second glance, obviously. And John was fairly confident that he could rely on Green's gaydar, if nothing else. Unless.... He stopped eating. What if Benson had picked up that Green was gay, and so she'd treated him like she did most other men, like simply a coworker, or a potential brother, albeit a long-distance, estranged brother? The flaw in his plan was now glaringly obvious. Still, Green had gotten huffy. A nerve had been hit.
He pushed the plate away. The truth had been pointed out, he was certain of it. He only needed to keep his eyes and ears open for more verification. He had to watch Benson, and everyone around her. A secret lover had sent roses which were nearly lavender in color, with a red one in the center of the bunch. Lavender plus red. He knew what lavender signified, and for someone to send them to Benson at work showed this someone was a risk taker. Munch grinned again. Perhaps it was someone who wanted to see them on her desk. Someone who would have the opportunity to do exactly that. A fellow detective.
He picked up his ticket and headed for the cash register. He would keep his eyes and ears open from now on.
Whoa. Munch did his level best not to stare, and made sure his mouth was firmly closed. This was a possibility he, absolutely, had not considered, and he'd been running a mental tally of the women he saw around the Unit for hours. But.... Whoa. He reconsidered what he'd just seen. Cabot had picked Benson's desk to put her briefcase on, to perch on. She had given a look at the flowers, a bit more than a glance, but not as long as a stare. A seemingly casual look. Too casual. She hadn't said anything about them, but she rarely engaged in personal chatter. However. She was avoiding Benson's eyes. Avoiding them. That wasn't normal.
He took a brief moment to picture the two of them together. He felt a bit hot under the collar, and belt. The conversation around him started, and everything continued on, now in normal mode. Cabot asking about the situation, Benson answering the questions. He pulled out his notebook and gave some of his own, glad for the normalcy and distraction. His phone rang. More normal, usual work of a detective. He took down the information, his thinking interrupted by the vision of Benson and Cabot between the sheets.
He hung up the phone. He considered the possibility that he never should have tried to find out the truth, because now he would have to constantly monitor his own reactions around the two women. He considered it... and he rejected it. He'd been here before, watching his back, being astutely careful about what he could tell people and what he couldn't. He knew how to handle himself with the level of subterfuge this situation required. He would just have to suffer through the visions, and the fantasies. He was a big man, after all. A professional. He could take it.
End.