Disclaimer: NBC, MCA/Universal and Wolf Films owns them.
Rating: R
Summary: Part 15. Ed and Lennie look to identify. Jack looks inside. Ed and Jack look for distraction.
Author's Note: I'm fairly certain that a decision about an appeal is not handed down within an hour of the oral arguments, no matter how the process is portrayed on the show. I may be wrong, of course, but I've decided not to follow the show's depiction, but rather what I believe to be true. Since the writers of L&O chose to portray e-mail as existing in some eternal ether that the police can access at whim, reading e-mails right and left, I figure that their grasp of reality can definitely be shaky.
Another Author's Note: A very big thank-you to LindaK, for the time and thoughtful beta-type help she gave.
Copyright September, 2003, Cassatt
The only light in the bedroom was a hazy bluish one from the television at the foot of the bed. Ed was propped up enough to see the screen, but under the covers enough to feel as much of Jack's skin as possible. The man was on his stomach, snoring lightly, pressed up against Ed's hip, and leg. Ed kept one hand on the small of Jack's back. It rose and fell with each breath Jack took. Warmth, movement, now-familiar texture -- everything Ed needed under his fingers, and palm. The show ended; it was time for the late news. Even though Jack had said to wake him, Ed was hesitant to do so. He should have put a tape in the VCR. "Damn," he muttered.
Jack stirred, rolled onto his side, shifted closer, and threw an arm around Ed's waist, mumbling incoherently.
"Jack, babe, the news is on." Ed pulled his arm from between them, where it had become trapped. He stroked Jack's shoulder and down his back, while he turned up the volume with a free hand.
Jack lifted his head to him. Ed looked down and met sleepy eyes. "Babe?" Jack asked in a rusty voice.
Ed shrugged, but gave the man a soft grin. "The news," he replied, pointing at the television with the remote.
Jack grunted and moved to sit against the headboard. He rubbed his face with both hands, then ran them through his hair. The news anchor was reciting the "top story" teasers, and just as Jack reached across Ed's chest for a glass of water on the bedside table, a graphic appeared behind the anchor's head. A photograph of the mayor, shaking Richard Woodbridge's hand.
The anchor asked, "And is the suicide of a member of the mayor's advisory board linked to the recent homicide of a gay business owner? We'll have all that and more, tonight...."
Ed hit the mute button, his heart suddenly thudding. "Fuck," he said with feeling, while Jack took a healthy drink of water. "That's exactly what we don't need."
Jack set down the glass. "Let's wait and hear what they think they have. Could be just the usual speculative bullshit." He shifted onto a hip, propped himself with an elbow on Ed's shoulder and ran his hand across Ed's chest. "Now, while we wait, what about this 'babe' thing?"
Ed hadn't meant much by it; he'd used the endearment with a former lover. "It just slipped out," he said, unmuting the television, but turning the volume down. He looked into Jack's eyes, which were crinkling up in a familiar way. "Really," he continued.
"I didn't say I minded it, necessarily," Jack said.
"Yeah, you did. And you made some sense. At the time." Ed glanced at the news; the first story was being read.
"At the time?"
"Well, you know...." He didn't want to get into it. As much as the word had slipped out, at the same time, the use of endearments represented a line that Ed always felt distinguished gay from not gay. He didn't want to fool around about the subject, and he didn't want to eventually hear Jack's discomfort with it. It was too gay. Jack wasn't gay.
"Ed," Jack said, infusing the word with a gentle intensity which made Ed turn back to him.
"What?"
"Can we forget we had the conversation before? I was still a little... overwhelmed then. Or can we accept the possibility that things have changed? That I've changed?"
Ed was struck by the high color in Jack's cheeks, barely noticeable in the low light. His look was piercing. "How have you changed?" Ed was trying to keep an ear tuned to the broadcast, but his stuttering pulse was distracting. He had no idea how they'd gotten into something which had turned, apparently, serious.
Jack continued to stroke Ed's chest. "I think that falling rather deeply in love with a man would qualify as a change."
"Rather deeply?"
"Okay, deeply, then. Very deeply."
Ed wanted off of this subject. He'd understood Jack's explanation of how he viewed permanence the night before, and he'd been thrilled to hear it. They didn't need definitions of who they were, right? Gay, bi, straight, whatever. He didn't want to get into it. Really, really didn't.
"Hey," Jack said, his voice low. "I don't want you seeing me as different. Different than any of your past lovers. I don't want you treating me differently."
Without any warning, a small remnant of a wall Ed had built up around himself, after his last relationship had blown up in his face, crumbled. He truly hadn't realized it was still there. He looked at this man he loved, staring at him so intently. He watched the heavy gold ring on Jack's hand, moving gracefully back and forth across his chest. He tried to find words to speak, to explain. He met Jack's eyes again. "You are different. Not," he swallowed hard, "that you're bi. You're different because... I need you. I need you more than the others, Jack. I don't know why I just figured that out."
Jack's hand stilled over Ed's pounding heart. "Jesus, Ed," Jack whispered in the second before he kissed him, pressing Ed's head against the pillow and headboard with passionate force.
Ed parted his lips instantly, as heat sparked by a remnant of afterglow surged through him. Their mouths and tongues were starting to move with more purpose; Jack was rolling on top of him; a guttural groan Ed let out was matched by one from Jack. Then Ed heard the television. The story on their perp was beginning. He groped for the volume button and pushed it. With a start, Jack pulled back and turned to the broadcast, but didn't roll off. They were both breathing heavily, and Ed held Jack to his chest with a free arm, not wanting him to move. They listened to what the reporters had to say; Ed forced himself to concentrate.
Viewers were told that Richard Woodbridge had committed suicide, with all of the details the news bureau had been fed by the DA, via the mayor's office. The mayor himself had held a short briefing, deliberately scheduled after the six o'clock news broadcast, in which he'd given a statement and answered two questions. One of those was about a connection between the suicide and Crymson's murder. Ed had to hand it to the man, he dealt with the question smoothly. Denying any connection. Denying to state specifically why Woodbridge had been relieved of his position as liaison, explaining that it was due to a personal matter between him and his "friend." Expressing his sadness at the man's passing. Once the film of the briefing was finished, the reporter put forth what Jack had described as "speculative bullshit." That this wasn't bullshit was irrelevant. The reporter clearly knew nothing, but had an inkling of something. It was the inkling which made Ed nervous. The story ended; Ed muted the television again, leaving it on for the ambient light.
Jack turned back to him. "And the game is on," he said.
"I bet one of the neighbors talked to the press," Ed said. "About the search yesterday."
"Likely." Jack pulled both hands in, and rested his chin on them. "So, back to the personal. One thing." He paused. Their eyes locked together.
"What's that?" Ed asked, his heart rate speeding up again.
"Just don't call me 'babe' in front of your family. Tomorrow night, whenever. Especially in front of your mother." He smiled. "Any other time is okay. I don't mind," he added softly.
Ed smiled back at Jack, then abruptly rolled him, accompanied by a deep chuckle which vibrated against the palm of Ed's hand, now under the man. Who was now half under him. "I think maybe 'any other time' should be qualified," Ed said, "or it might be 'Counselor-babe' while you're doing prep with me."
Jack laughed. "Standard qualifier, then." He reached up and cupped Ed's cheek.
Ed sighed into the caress. "Standard qualifier," he agreed quietly. The eternal qualifier. Here and not there. He accepted the invitation he saw in Jack's eyes, accepted it smoothly, gently; he leaned in and covered Jack's mouth with his own, sinking into slow, deep, infinitely loving kisses. Wanting more, but knowing it was late. Wanting more, simply so he could climb inside of Jack, and Jack could climb inside of him.
He pulled back, moved away from Jack's lips, to his stubble, and to his neck. Jack held him tightly. "I love you, Ed," Jack whispered into his ear.
"I love you, too," he murmured, pressing himself closer. "Shit, can you reach the remote?"
He heard and felt Jack's hand moving around behind him. Then the sound of the remote falling on the floor, and a "fuck" out of Jack's mouth. Ed chuckled, rolled away, found the device, turned off the television, then returned to where he'd been. They arranged the covers, and themselves.
Ed smiled, kissing the soft skin of Jack's neck. If he couldn't climb inside of this man, this was the next best thing. To fall asleep in his arms; to dream side by side; to wake up together. To forget life outside of this apartment, if only for a few hours. This was the next best thing.
Jack accepted a refill of his mug with a smile. Across the eating counter, in the kitchen proper, Ed poured coffee for him. Ed had what Jack recognized as his "I've got a secret" grin flashing on and off, like the neon up and down Broadway. Jack watched the man give himself a refill, then take the pot to the sink. He wondered, briefly, if he'd continue to so blatantly enjoy watching Ed move in the years to come. This morning, Ed was naked to the waist, with sweats riding low. Those damned sweats, as Jack was beginning to call them. There wasn't much left to the imagination by the soft fabric, and every morning (or evening) Ed wore them, Jack's concentration went straight to hell. He looked at his watch. He had an important appeal to handle in three hours. Three hours to forget the sight of his lover's hipbone peeking out of the top of....
"I thought you didn't need to leave for another hour?" Ed asked, interrupting his reverie. Jack looked at him. "The watch checking? Are we running late?" He came around the counter, to the living room side, and sat in his usual spot, next to Jack.
"No, we're fine." Jack sipped his coffee. "So, what were you thinking about, just now? Something amusing?"
Ed chuckled. "Not exactly. Only about tonight. The play. Mellonee said that Shondra's costume is almost too big for the girl to walk in. Her arms sort of hang down, over it... around it, I guess. If she falls, she'll probably just bounce."
Jack smiled at him. "Traumatic for a budding diva."
"Yeah. A lot of pressure for a pumpkin." Ed drank some coffee. "Pressure for you, too," he said more seriously.
"I'll be okay," Jack said with a shrug. Ed was peering at him. "Really." He could see that his lover didn't buy it; he wasn't sure if he really bought it, either. "I'm looking forward to meeting your family."
Ed set down his mug, hard, with an exclamation. "Oh, man, I almost forgot. You'll never guess who we ran into at lunch yesterday. Abby. She just showed up out of nowhere."
Jack was surprised. "Where were you?"
"At the 'A-1', you know, that little place a couple of blocks from the House," Ed answered, then told him about their conversation.
As Jack listened, he had a number of different reactions. Aside from the pleasure he took from hearing that Abby had given Ed what could be construed as her blessing, he wondered about her questions regarding Serena. He knew Abby had a jealous streak about other people who'd worked with him. He also knew that she wasn't particularly fond of Serena; but unlike the situation with Jamie, Abby hadn't worked as opposing counsel from Serena. She'd only met her on occasion, as she picked up Jack for lunch. He made a mental note to call her, and find out what she was thinking.
In the meantime, there was a man sitting next to him, who'd finished talking and was leaning in to give him a coffee-and-Ed-flavored kiss. Whose skin was warm, and smooth under his fingers. Whose sweat pants were too damned distracting.
Ed hung up his overcoat on the rack near his desk. He'd been getting his brain back into detective mode on the motorcycle ride into work, just like he did every morning. The case settled onto his shoulders. A heavy weight, though not in the least like a burden. And if he had to think about how Crymson had, possibly, died at the hands of that son-of-a-bitch Woodbridge, then so be it. He would. He would let it fuel his wrath. He was as determined as he'd ever been to get the evidence Jack needed to put the guy on a gurney with a needle in his arm.
"Mornin', Ed," Lennie said, coming up to him. He started to hang up his coat.
"Morning," Ed replied.
"Ready to go at it one more time?"
"Yeah," Ed said with a bit of force. "Ready to ID this one, too."
"You and me, both, partner," Lennie said. "First, coffee. Want some?"
"No, thanks."
They walked toward their desks, but Lieutenant Van Buren called to them from her office, waving them over. Lennie sighed next to him as they did as ordered. After closing the door behind them, they sat in front of her; she got to the point without any niceties. The top brass had finally gotten their hands into the case, thanks to the repeated phone calls by representatives of the various media. She'd spent the prior hour in Captain Burnett's office, listening to his beefing about the "stunt" the DA's office was pulling with the prime suspect, not at all pleased that the mayor's office was going along with it when the NYPD hadn't been brought completely on board.
"Give me a break," Lennie said with disgust.
"They don't want us to look like idiots," Van Buren said, pointing at them with her pen, for emphasis. "I didn't tell you this as anything but a heads up. The press are all over it."
"The vultures are circling," Lennie muttered.
"Exactly," she agreed. "I'll worry about Burnett and anyone else above him. I've assured them that we've given the DA's office everything they need, so far. That we're doing what's necessary to ID this latest vic, and that all other bases are covered." She paused, and looked directly at Ed. "I never imagined that your relationship with McCoy would work in our favor, but I need to know--how does the case look to the DA? Where do things stand, this morning, from their point of view?"
"The case looks strong, according to Jack, but he wants this vic tied in," Ed answered. "He doesn't seem too worried about the press. He's anxious to see what the techies get off of Woodbridge's computer." He shrugged. "Is that enough of an answer, or do you want me to find out something specific?" He had the odd sensation that the conversation felt completely normal to him.
"No," she answered, "that's all I need to know."
They spent another five minutes or so reviewing what Ed and Lennie planned to do, in their quest to ID the man with no face, and find out how the suspect knew him. Then Van Buren dismissed Lennie, but kept Ed in the office. Lennie's eyebrows lifted enough to let Ed know his partner would want a report of whatever was about to transpire. The man left, again closing the door behind him. Ed kept his eyes facing front, and deliberately crossed his legs to stay relaxed.
Jack read the words which appeared on his chat screen, and shook his head in response. He was deep into his weekly electronic visit with Mark, in London, having planned his morning to accommodate it. He'd needed to talk with his friend. His friend who had just reminded him that he, Jack, was the least insecure person he knew. That meeting Ed's family would be a walk in the park for someone with nothing to explain, or make allowances for.
"What do they have to understand?" Mark had written.
"Not the point," Jack answered. "They don't have to understand me, or even understand Ed and me." He paused, and sent that much.
"OK. What is the point? Why are you nervous?"
"Ed's been through a lot with them. He says he doesn't listen to their opinion about his life...." He again sent before finishing his thought. He wasn't sure how to finish his thought, or if he should. He and Ed had discussed it already.
"J -- question. Big one."
Jack shook his head with trepidation. He told Mark to proceed.
"Do you trust Ed? That he's telling you the truth about how much he lets his mother et al influence his decisions? That he'll stay, even if they don't approve?"
Jack exhaled and leaned back from the keyboard. He pondered the words, and muttered to himself, "Well, this is why you wanted to talk." If Ed were sitting next to him, and he could look the man in the eye, he knew what he'd see in the deep, dark brown irises. Doubts would vanish. Besides, he was the one who didn't believe in permanence. That's what he'd told himself, anyway. The message screen beeped; Mark had sent something else.
"Some things do last, J. Look at you and me. And how 'bout Joanna? She's stuck around."
Jack sighed, and wrote, "She doesn't count. She can't change the fact that she's my daughter." He paused, but didn't send. Mark had brought everything back to the essence of Jack's quandary. As usual. He added, "And you're right. I want this to last for a long time. As long as possible." He sent.
"I assume that Ed does, too?"
"Yes, he says he does. And yes, I trust that he's telling me the truth."
"So I guess you just put on your most charming smile tonight and wow them with your stellar personality, then hope for the best. :-)"
Jack chuckled. "Yeah," he wrote.
"Then you get to go through it all again with Joanna."
His mirth faded quickly. He wasn't due to see her until Thanksgiving, in Chicago; he wasn't due to talk to her until the following week. Ed had brought her up a few times, and while Jack hadn't exactly changed the subject, he knew that he'd been skirting the issue. He also knew that Joanna did more than stick around because she didn't have any other choice. She had all the choice in the world. They'd forged a relationship because they'd wanted it. They both worked to maintain it. But she had a streak of her mother's volatility, and didn't hold back on voicing her opinion. Jack drummed his fingers on the keyboard, then wrote, "Ed says that his mother's reaction will be 'interesting' -- think that might apply to the light of my life, too?"
Within ten seconds, the answer appeared. "Absolutely. But you know what she'll do. Throw up her hands and declare that just when she thinks she's got her father all figured out, he makes her think again."
Jack's chuckle came back. "That's a good thing, don't you agree?"
"I do. I try to keep my kids on their toes. They're plotting revenge via the grandkids."
Jack shook his head. Grandchildren. He checked the computer's clock; they had only another five minutes or so before he had to go. He deliberately steered the conversation to Mark's life, and away from his own. He needed this, too.
"I understand," Van Buren said, "that you had some difficulties during the meeting with Rodgers yesterday."
Ed's heart sank. He'd hoped, unreasonably he knew, that the ME wouldn't mention it. Lennie had already told him he was okay, as long as Ed was okay.
"Ed?"
"It was just a little hard to hear what she had to say. I'm fine."
She leaned forward, her hands clasped together on the desk. Ed noticed the skin around her knuckles was taut. "Fine isn't stalking out of McCoy's office in the middle of someone else's sentence."
He uncrossed his legs, and slapped his knees in frustration. "What do you want me to say, Lieu? I'm doing the job...."
"This isn't about doing the job. I know you're doing everything you can, Ed," she said, her voice rising with conviction. "But you've got to keep your cool. How am I gonna explain it when you don't?"
He couldn't meet her eyes any longer. Ten minutes ago, he'd thought he was handling things better, obviously, than he really was. Because right then he wanted to jump up and stalk out of here, too. He uncrossed his legs, and let his elbows rest heavily on his knees. After a moment, he dropped his face into his hands and rubbed, hard.
"Look," Lieu said in a gentler tone of voice, "I understand how tough it was to hear Rodgers' conclusions. I can't imagine what that would be like, if it was someone I knew, even casually. The problem is that even though I completely understand your position, and will support you staying in the closet, I can't flat out lie to someone, on the spot, to cover for you." She sighed deeply.
"I should have told you," he said slowly, "I'm sorry." He sat back with a deep sigh of his own. "I'll go talk to Rodgers, and apologize to her, too. I meant no disrespect." He paused, and thought about what Jack had said to him in the stairwell. "I just didn't think it could get any worse."
"I know. She doesn't understand why it was Jack who went after you. You need to decide how to handle that."
He nodded.
"If the test comes back from the FBI, conclusive about the drug, I assume that there will be an exhumation of Crymson's body? The DA's office will notify next of kin?"
"Yes. Jack and I plan to talk to Anthony," he answered. "You know. It'll be better that way." As if better really applied.
"Does he have legal standing to authorize it?"
He shrugged. "I think so. Don't know."
"Okay," she said. "You can go."
He stood, smoothing out his pants legs.
"And Ed, keep me informed," she added pointedly.
"Yes, ma'am," he said. He went to the door, but turned before grasping the knob. "Thank you." She nodded, and he proceeded out of her office, straight to his desk. Lennie was hanging up the phone as Ed draped his suit coat over the back of his chair.
"Everything all right?" the man asked.
"Yeah, more or less." He sat. "I'll tell you at lunch. Who was on the phone?"
"The lady who was out feeding the stray cats, the evening of the faked suicide. She's on her way here."
"Good," he said with not nearly enough enthusiasm. Lennie noticed. "Good," he repeated with more force. He checked his watch. "I'll be back in about fifteen, twenty minutes."
"Where are you going?" Lennie asked.
He pushed back and stood, then swept his coat off of the chair and put it on in one fluid motion. "I have to go make an apology. Lieu's orders," he answered. He left, after grabbing his overcoat; giving his partner a fake grin and a lift of his shoulders.
As Jack walked into Appellate Court with Serena at his side, one face in the small gallery of onlookers stood out. It belonged to the reporter whom he'd seen on television, the night before. Jack did not make eye contact with the man, but kept walking straight to the table at the front of the room. After setting down his briefcase, he pulled out the pertinent file. The Perry case would jump one more hurdle that day, he hoped. Mr. Cole Perry would remain in prison, for the murder of his fourteen-year-old daughter, for at least the next twenty-five years if Jack had anything to say about it. He'd already added the man's case file reference number to his running list of convicted felons whose parole should be fought each time it came up. He fully expected the list to be passed along to whomever came after him, once he eventually retired.
He reviewed his notes. Next to him, Serena took out her legal pad and pen. The defense attorney arrived, and emptied out her briefcase, preparing to make her arguments. Jack ignored her, the gallery, and the woman next to him. He thought about a fourteen year old girl, strangled and left for dead in a freezing cold Riverside Park. Dumped, like refuse. He readied for intellectual battle.
Dr. Elizabeth Rodgers was in the middle of a discussion with a colleague when Ed found her. She met his eyes, briefly, and continued the conversation. Ed didn't look around the room too carefully, since it appeared to hold an autopsy in progress. To him, a corpse on the street wasn't the same as one on a slab. One was reality, with bullet holes or knife wounds or bruises. The other was sliced open, with organs laid out like those in a meat market. It was always more than he wanted to see. He was beginning to regret not calling first, when Rodgers finished talking and came up to him.
"Don't have the results back yet from the FBI, Detective," she said, writing a note on a form, clipped to a board in her hand. "I don't expect to for another couple of hours, at least."
Ed shook his head. "I'm not here about results. Do you have a few minutes?"
"Sure."
"I'd like to apologize, for yesterday. Walking out of," he paused momentarily, nearly stumbling over the correct definitive term for where they'd been, "McCoy's office, in the middle of your report." He paused again, suddenly feeling foolish under her gaze. "I meant no disrespect."
"None taken. I did wonder why--I've been known to frighten men but rarely in that type of setting," she said dryly.
"The information you gave was a little hard to hear. This case has been... intense."
"Well, take it from me, Ed, it never pays to get too involved. On a personal basis." She gave him a small grin.
"That's what Lennie says, too. But sometimes, that's not possible." He made an instantaneous decision to give her a small bit of truth. "I knew one of the victims. Casually."
Her eyebrows lifted. "I see. I assume it was Mr. Estes?"
He nodded, but didn't expound.
She sighed. "I'm sorry. If it's true that your killer used succinylcholine, it's one of the most difficult things for survivors to face. I don't envy you the task of telling his."
"Yeah," he replied. "Well, I just wanted to explain...."
"Consider it water under the bridge," she said with a wave of her hand. "And keep listening to your partner."
"Lennie's one of the best," he said, taking the opportunity presented.
She flashed him the small grin again. "Tell him he owes me a coffee. He's not getting out of it."
Ed almost smiled, but kept it covered. "I'll do that. Thanks, Doctor." She nodded, so he turned and began to walk away.
"Oh, Ed," Rodgers called to him. He turned again. "Just a question. If you knew who that victim was, why did it take almost a day to give me an ID on him?"
Shit, he swore to himself. "Well, I only knew his nickname," he said. "We needed to track down his next of kin to get an accurate make."
"So I don't put my foot in it, I assume that the Lieutenant and the DA's office know that you knew him?"
"Yes," he answered.
"Okay," she said, and waved him off.
On the walk back to the precinct, Ed did what he could to let go of any lingering anxiety he was feeling. Simply knowing Crymson, or recognizing him, didn't necessarily mean that he was gay. At least not in this context. An identification was not the same as an admission that he'd been a regular at the Tide. Looking back on it, he didn't believe he could have gotten away with that level of subterfuge with Lennie. He stopped looking back on it. He couldn't afford to second guess what he had done on this case. They still had a killer to catch. As Jack had said the night before--the game was on.
He entered the two-seven and began the climb up the stairs. He checked his watch automatically, as he did whenever he thought about Jack. Whenever he missed the man. Checked his watch to see if he could figure out where he'd be. According to his guesstimate, Jack was probably still in court. He was sorry he couldn't be there to witness it. He'd never tell Lennie, but he'd always enjoyed seeing Jack in his element. As frustrating as the trial process could be, he had faith in it, and watching Jack give it his all only bolstered that faith. He would enjoy seeing his lover go after Richard Woodbridge. See him legally bring the man to his knees.
When Ed arrived at his floor, he ran across a woman looking around, then down at a piece of paper in her hand. She seemed to be approximately fifty years old, and was dressed in blue jeans and a medium length wool coat. She also seemed lost. He asked her if he could help; she told him she was looking for Detective Briscoe. He led her into the squad room, explaining who he was, and learned that she was the cat feeder from Woodbridge's neighborhood, whom they'd been waiting to interview. Mrs. Browning.
He brought her to Lennie and hung up his overcoat again. Lennie took the woman to one of the smaller interrogation rooms off of the bull pen. Ed quickly poured himself a cup of coffee, and followed them.
"I'm sorry I didn't call sooner," Mrs. Browning was saying as Ed sat, "I was at my brother's place yesterday."
"That's okay, ma'am," Lennie said. "So about Monday evening. We understand you were walking around the neighborhood that night? About what time were you out?"
She told them she normally walked the neighborhood between eight and nine o'clock, and that it took her about an hour to fill all of the bowls she had hidden for the cats. Monday night, she'd followed her usual schedule, and had been back home by nine-fifteen.
Lennie asked, "Do you remember if you saw anything out of the ordinary? Someone you hadn't seen on your block before?"
She closed her eyes; her mouth set in a firm line of concentration. Then she opened them. "I can remember three people I didn't recognize, and I think there might have been another one, but I'm not sure if that was Monday night or Sunday. So the three? One was a boy, probably a teenager--he got out of a small car near two-forty, the duplex? He went into that building. The other two were together." Her brows knit together.
Ed's stomach fluttered. "Those two--can you describe them? What do you mean by 'together?' Walking side by side; holding hands as a couple...."
"Oh no," she interrupted him, "they were two men, and I guess I first thought they might have been a couple, because they were walking with their arms around each other. But then when I got closer, it looked like one of them was drunk. The other man was holding him up."
Ed glanced at Lennie. "Why do you think one of them was drunk?"
"Because he needed to be held upright," she replied with a hint of frustration. "You know. He couldn't walk."
Lennie asked, "The guy who needed help--did he say anything to you?"
"No. He was sort of laughing, I think."
Ed asked, "Did you get a good look at his face? The drunk one?"
"No," she said slowly, "not really. But he seemed, well, dirty. His coat looked too big." She shrugged. "That's all I can remember about him."
"How about the other guy? Did you see his face? And what did his clothes look like?" Ed took another sip of his coffee. He was deliberately keeping his voice neutral.
"Well, his clothes looked much nicer. And yes, I did see his face. We passed each other under one of the streetlights. I said 'hello,' and he said, 'hello,' and that was it." She shrugged again.
"Where were you when you passed him?" Ed asked.
"Let's see," she muttered, closing her eyes briefly again. "I think I'd just walked by two-sixty-eight."
Lennie was flipping through his notebook. "Two-sixty-eight. That's how many houses away from the one that's for sale?"
"Two houses down," she said. "But you know, now that you mention it," she continued slowly, "I thought I heard the side gate of the vacant house close, a minute or two after I'd passed them. Hmm. I'd forgotten that...."
Now Ed looked directly at his partner across the table. "Could you excuse us a minute, ma'am?" Ed asked to her as he stood. Lennie followed suit. She nodded, and they left the room. "We need a photo array," he said quickly to Lennie, after closing the door behind them.
"No problem," Lennie answered with a grin. "Had to do something constructive while you were off on your little errand. It's on my desk." Lennie walked off, and Ed found himself pacing with his hands on his hips while he waited. Within thirty seconds, Lennie returned and they went back in.
Lennie placed the photo lineup in front of Mrs. Browning. "Just let us know if you see the man from Monday night."
The woman studied the photos intently for a few very long minutes. Then she made a small noise and pointed to the photo of Woodbridge. "That's him," she said, surprise evident in her voice. She looked at each of them in turn. "Does that help?"
Lennie pulled the file back in front of him and closed it. "Yes, that helps a great deal. We'll be right back." They left again.
Ed had one very big niggling concern, even as thrilled as he was. "Lennie. Woodbridge's photo has been on the news, and in the paper this morning. She could have seen it there."
"Hey--I think this is a good ID. She doesn't seem to be fudging to me," Lennie answered.
"No, me neither," Ed admitted. "But we've got to be sure. Or some defense attorney will cut the ID to shreds."
Lennie snorted. "Jesus, you're even starting to sound like McCoy," he muttered. "Okay," he said in a more normal tone, "let's go see if Lieu will talk to her. Feel her out. Woman to woman," he finished with a touch of sarcasm.
But Ed didn't care how ridiculous he sounded. And if Jack's perspective was rubbing off on him, he figured so much the better. This was their only eyewitness. He'd be damned if he let her ID be tainted by anything. No fucking way, he said to himself, as they walked through the bull pen to Van Buren's office.
Ed explained the situation to their lieutenant. She agreed to interview the woman. Lennie and Ed went back to their desks while she proceeded to the interrogation room. Ed wanted to pace again. His partner wanted more coffee. Ed thought about Mrs. Browning's description of the "drunk." Then he couldn't seem to help himself; he checked his watch one more time.
Jack was refilling his briefcase and thinking about the arguments which had just been made to the judges. He believed he'd done exactly what he'd set out to do, and was fairly pleased with the questions which had been directed to him. Especially when compared to those thrown at Perry's defense attorney.
"My guess," Serena said quietly, as she slipped on her coat, "is that there'll only be two judges supporting the appeal."
He looked at her. "It's not a healthy habit to get into--guessing at the outcome," he said lightly. He lifted his coat off of the chair and pulled it on.
She shrugged, and pursed her lips into a small grin, "Maybe not, but still--that's what I think."
"Mr. McCoy," a voice startled Jack. He turned. The reporter was right behind them, on the gallery side of the railing. "Mr. McCoy, is it true that there's a connection between Richard Woodbridge and the murder of the gay club owner?"
He bristled at more than just the question. The tone of voice from the man clearly indicated that whomever he represented wanted to imply that sleaze permeated the entire situation.
"No comment," Jack said firmly. He turned away and grabbed his case, then moved toward the aisle. Serena was right behind him.
The reporter joined them as they walked through the gate, and rapidly toward the door. "Is it true," the man said, not breaking stride, "that the murder of the gay club owner is connected to two other murders?"
"No comment," Jack said, with more emphasis. He reached the door and exited the courtroom, making sure the door didn't hit Serena, but not bothering to show the reporter the same courtesy. The three of them headed toward the outer doors of the building.
"Mr. McCoy, can you at least confirm or deny that the murder of the gay club owner is still an open case?"
Jack stopped walking; Serena did the same. He made direct eye contact with the reporter, glancing at the tape recorder in the man's hand. "No comment," he said, moving again as soon as he'd spoken. He sensed the man wasn't tagging along this time; a look over his shoulder told him he was right. He and Serena reached the door, and pushed their way out into the crisp autumn air.
Serena began to chuckle as they walked down the steps of the courthouse, side by side.
He looked at her. "What?"
"That was quite a tease," she said.
"He deserved it," he said shortly. "Obsessed with someone's sexual preference. Bullshit." They continued down the stairs. Serena was silent. At the bottom, she asked if he'd be interested in getting some lunch before they went back to the office. His stomach growled at the thought. He surprised himself by agreeing, so they discussed food choices as they began to walk again.
Jack let his mind wander once they knew where they were going. It was a beautiful day, with a clear blue sky and only wisps of clouds visible between the tall buildings. Days like this were meant for taking off on his bike, across one bridge or another, and heading for peace and quiet. A picnic. An incredible man on a blanket under the sun. Beautiful skin, and eyes to fall into. Jack sighed to himself, and walked.
Ed sat with Lennie, eating pizza, while they reviewed their list of tasks. Mrs. Browning had proven herself a credible witness to Van Buren. The woman paid very little attention to televised news, and didn't read the newspaper. Before the interview had ended, she'd assured the lieutenant that she wouldn't talk to anyone at all about her statement, what the police had asked her, or who she'd identified. What they had learned from Mrs. Browning had also confirmed one of Lennie and Ed's hunches--that the mystery victim had probably been homeless.
The man had to be someone who Woodbridge could assume would not be missed. A transient, with no foundation of home, job, or family. At least not family who would notice the man's absence within any short period of time. If they happened to, a month or two later, it was assumed that Woodbridge would feel he was free and clear by then. He would be identified and buried and long forgotten. Indeed, one facet of Woodbridge's scheme had a good chance of succeeding. The task that Ed and Lennie had in front of them, of trying to identify someone without a face, was daunting.
They were waiting to hear from Lieu, who was waiting to hear from DA Lewin, who was speaking with the mayor. In an effort to keep a very low profile during this part of their investigation, the mayor was the only person who could answer questions about Woodbridge's work on the advisory board. Whether or not he'd ever had official contact with homeless shelters, advocates, or any type of transient housing. SROs, in particular. Their other question for the mayor concerned Woodbridge's churchgoing. Did he attend a church, and if so, where? Church might mean volunteer work at a shelter, or food bank.
Ed thought it would be a nonstarter, and not merely because no one had come forward to claim the body from a church, synagogue, or mosque. He certainly understood that murderers could see themselves as religious, but he had a hard time believing the bastard was that good--that he could have fooled a religious leader about a belief in something greater than himself. And Woodbridge had too much ego to simply go to church and sit quietly. He'd be the type who'd want to be involved in the organizational structure of the community. Lennie agreed with Ed.
They were also in agreement about the only lead they had to go on. The victim's medical condition. It seemed an obvious assumption to make that Woodbridge hadn't known about the late onset Tay-Sachs, or he would never have chosen the man to replace him. Ed had done a quick search on the Internet, to see how much information was readily available about the disease. There was enough to make the perp unwilling to take the risk of discovery. Ed and Lennie had had to make another assumption, with nothing to support it. The victim had known, himself, about his medical condition; he had been diagnosed by someone. It was a necessary assumption, because it gave them a thread to follow. To ignore the possibility wasn't an option.
Lennie was still eating his last piece of pizza; Ed was done. His phone rang. It was Latent--they'd completed the final possible search for a match on the victim's fingerprints. Nothing. The man hadn't been in the military, or employed by any branch of the US government. Ed set the phone down on the table.
"Latent came up empty," he said.
"Great," Lennie answered, with a touch of his usual sarcasm, after swallowing. "So--what happened in Lieu's office this morning?" He wiped his mouth with a napkin.
Ed stalled for a moment by taking a sip of his drink. Then he remembered something that he'd been looking forward to. He told Lennie what Van Buren had been concerned with, admitting to the other man that he wasn't doing as well as he'd thought. "I'd like to get my hands on this guy," he said in a low voice. "Alone."
"Yeah, I know, Eddie. He's the worst kind of bastard," Lennie replied harshly. He sighed. "So," he continued with a lighter tone, "I take it you went to the ME on your errand? That was the apology?"
Ed feigned nonchalance. "Yeah. Had a talk with Rodgers."
"And? Did that go okay?" Lennie's eyebrows were raised, but Ed didn't buy the cool act.
"It went well," he said. "I only told her that I knew Crymson casually, didn't tell her anything too personal. Definitely didn't explain Jack." He shrugged. "She was great. Very understanding. It was kinda nice to see a different side to her."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, you know. More human. She's a good person." He paused. "She thinks well of you, too." He waited, and wasn't disappointed. Lennie covered his reaction by drawing on his straw, but Ed saw the very slight upturn on the corners of his mouth. "Oh, and she gave me a message for you."
Lennie started to cough slightly. ""What message?" he asked, after clearing his throat.
"She said you owe her a coffee, and she's not going to let you get away with forgetting. She smiled when she said it. Nice smile," he added casually. "If I didn't know better, I'd say the two of you have a date for breakfast."
"Women," Lennie said with a lift of his shoulders, "they take things too literally sometimes."
Ed grinned at him. "Yeah, right, Lennie...." He was interrupted by his phone. This time it was Van Buren. The mayor had done some discreet checking, and couldn't find anything which would have put Woodbridge in contact with the homeless community through his office. No gay-centric homeless advocate group had asked for an audience with him, nor had there been any issues with gentrification of SROs, etcetera. Nothing, basically. The mayor had never heard that Woodbridge practiced a religion, either. She told them to start with the shelter at the top of their list and work their way down. She'd put Reina on the task of calling free clinics to find out if there were any late onset Tay-Sachs support groups in the city. Ed sighed as he ended the call. He told Lennie, and they prepared to leave, splitting the check and the tip.
"You know what?" Ed asked when they hit the sidewalk. "If you don't follow up on this date with Rodgers, my opinion of you will just sink, man."
Lennie chuckled. "And how will you know if I follow up on it or not?" He glanced at him sideways.
Ed chuckled, too, and slapped the man on the shoulder. "That answers my question. You're gonna do it. And I'll find out. Rodgers and I have bonded. I'll just ask her."
Lennie shook his finger at him. "I'll tell you, but no romance talk. Deal?"
Ed was still grinning. "Sure. Deal," he said, knowing full well he had no intention of honoring it.
With a roll of his eyes, Lennie let him know that he understood exactly the same thing. They got in the car to the accompaniment of Lennie's mutterings about the curse of being stuck with partners who believed in love.
Ed didn't argue with him. He smiled to himself, thinking about Jack's lanky body stretched out on top of his. Silver streaked hair, falling over dark hazel eyes. Eyes to sink into. Hot lips, and hotter tongue. Taste he couldn't get enough of.
Jack was relaxed on his couch, reading through case law, preparing for another motion they'd received upon his return from lunch. The Hahn trial was due to start the following week, and the defense attorney appeared to be attempting a form of water torture. A motion notification on Monday, one yesterday, and now one today. Jack planned to make a complaint to the judge at the next hearing, and felt his argument very definitely had merit. Frivolous motions were one of the most annoying things about his job. His mood wasn't the best to begin with, waiting as he was for a phone call from Rodgers about the FBI lab results. His phone rang. He got up as quickly as he could to answer it.
"McCoy," he said.
"Hey, Jack, it's Peter. How are you doing today?"
He was completely surprised, then wary. The last phone call Peter had made to his office had brought very bad news, but the man's tone was upbeat. "Fine. How 'bout yourself?"
"Good, I'm good. I was just calling to see if you had any last minute jitters about tonight, to see if I could give you any pointers, that sort of thing," Peter said.
Jack smiled. "Jitters? Not exactly. But any pointers you've got would be welcome."
"Don't worry--I'm not going to diss Ed's mom," Peter said hastily.
"I'm not worried."
"Okay. The thing to remember about her is that she's got a bullshit radar mechanism that outshines anything NASA could develop." He chuckled. "I think that's one of the things Eddie inherited from her. Anyway, just watch out for it. Although I've gotten the impression that you don't exactly put on a front for anybody."
"I think I'm too old to bother," he said lightly.
"I think you probably never did," Peter retorted with a similar light tone.
Jack laughed. "True enough."
Peter's voice turned serious. "The most important thing is that she'll want to be reassured that Ed's happy. And Jack, there isn't going to be much doubt about that. He's happier than I've seen him in years."
Jack's heart caught, unexpectedly. He felt as if he'd passed a crucial test, but it was one he'd taken blindly. Almost selfishly. "Thank you, Peter," he said sincerely.
"Good luck tonight."
After they ended the conversation, Jack went back to the couch and his work. He was actually beginning to look forward to the evening. One thing he could thoroughly understand, without reservation, was the fact that Ed's mother loved him. His own relationship with his parents was, and had been, complicated by alcohol, abuse, and expectations. But just as he hoped that he would never insist Joanna do anything merely to please him, he also hoped that he'd be supportive of her choices should he disagree with them.
He pulled out one of the case files to check on part of a police report. He had another unexpected reaction, deep in his chest. It was a report written by Ed, months before. He'd known so little about the man at the time, and he knew so much now. Peter was right; Ed was right. The Ed he knew now seemed to be happy, as much as he seemed to be cool and together before. Appearances could be deceiving. Jack knew that the "cool and together" part of Ed's facade had hid a fair amount of loneliness. But the happiness now was real. He saw it on Ed's face, and in his eyes. The sparkle there was meant for him.
Jack silently promised Ed that he'd relax and enjoy the evening. That he'd let his own happiness show. That he'd let his love for Ed show. It was the very least he could do for the man who had changed his life so completely.
Jack finished reading the faxed reports he'd received, and brought them to Nora's office. Her door was open; her assistant was not at her desk. Nora was sitting under the window. She put down papers she was reading and removed her glasses.
"What have you got?" she asked without preamble.
He sat next to her on the couch, against the arm, turning so he could face her comfortably. He handed her the reports. "Update from Anita. They've located a witness who can place Woodbridge and another man on the street behind his. Near the gate of the abandoned house. Witness even heard the gate latch close a minute after she saw Woodbridge." He was extremely pleased. This was the first eyewitness they had to anything Woodbridge had done.
Nora was scanning the first one. "Witness states the other man looked drunk," she said, then raised her eyes to his. "Has Rodgers run a blood alcohol?"
"Not yet. Looks like a solid ID. They made sure the woman hadn't seen Woodbridge's picture anywhere else in the last twenty-four hours." He was very pleased about that, too.
"Good," Nora said. She looked at the other paper. "So. RFLP test shows that the blood in the basement belonged to Ryerson, victim number one. Only him, unfortunately." Again, she looked up. "I suppose that makes some sense, given your theory of the crime."
He shrugged. "Seems to. Ryerson goes over there, with a gun, demanding more money. They struggle, Woodbridge shoots him. He doesn't land conveniently on the rug, but half on the floor. The other two murders were more carefully planned, so they'd leave no blood evidence."
She put the papers on her lap. "Okay. Where do we stand?"
"The information on Crymson's computer, and what we got from Wisconsin, gives us motive. The manuscript that's mentioned is being searched for. We've placed Ryerson in Woodbridge's house. We only have circumstantial evidence that Abbott was there. We have Crymson's letter to Anthony, which would place him in the house, but we can't use it. So we rely on pay phone LUDs, and emails from the week before the murders. The three are linked not only from their past history, but the attempt at throwing the police off the track by mutilating the bodies, and the ballistics reports. We've got no murder weapon.
But--we've got victim number 4, or 6, depending upon your point of view. We have a witness placing Woodbridge and a man near the access to his house within an hour or so of the murder. Evidence that someone washed down the back steps, presumably to cover two sets of footprints. Evidence that someone stood in front of John Doe at the time of the shooting. They're trying to identify Mr. Doe, and therefore link Woodbridge to him, but the fact that he was killed to fake a suicide is a no-brainer for a jury, whether we ever identify him or not.
We have Don Marsh, and his testimony. We don't know how Woodbridge found him, yet. Serena is working on the financials, correlating what Woodbridge's bank records say with what we know of Ryerson's and Abbott's. We're waiting for the Tech-lab to finish processing Woodbridge's computer, and the backup disks." He took a breath.
Nora had crossed her arms at some point during Jack's recitation. She was twirling her glasses. "A bit of a complicated case for a jury," she said. "Add to that the succinylcholine...."
"That will be the nail in his coffin," he said in a low, harsh voice. "We'll find out how and where he got it, and it'll tie together John Doe, Crymson, and I suspect Abbott, too."
"So you don't have any doubt about Crymson, either?"
"No, I don't. I anticipate Rodgers will call at any time and tell me the FBI found what they were looking for."
She sighed, long and deep. "Monstrous," she said with emotion.
He didn't respond, and neither of them mentioned the most important thing they didn't have: the suspect, in custody.
"How's Ed doing?" Nora asked.
"About as well as can be expected, but I suppose better than the last time you asked," he answered, crossing his legs. "He'll handle Serena as second chair professionally."
"I'm sure he will," she said gently. "And Serena?"
"She's making conciliatory gestures in my direction."
Nora's eyebrows lifted. "And?"
"And what? Do you want to know if I've decided to make allowances for her, yet? If I've found my perspective, yet?" He crossed his arms. "I haven't. Yet."
She held out the reports to him, and he released his pose to take them. "Very well," she said, "let's hope, at least, that she's learned from this experience."
Jack chose not to say what came into his head--that he didn't believe Serena was that adept at learning from her experiences. He shrugged noncommittally, and stood. "I'll be leaving today at five."
"Oh? Something fun, I hope?" She smiled.
He hesitated, then decided he no longer cared to be circumspect. "It has the potential to be fun," he answered with a small grin. "Ed's eight-year-old niece is in a school play."
"Ah," she nodded, still smiling, "that does sound like fun. What's the play?"
"Halloween something," he answered.
"The things that go bump in the night."
"From a child's perspective--a welcome distraction." He grinned again. The phone on his desk rang, interrupting them. Nora waved him off. He strode quickly across the small hallway, and grabbed the receiver on the third ring.
Jack hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, taking a very deep breath. He swiveled, and looked through the wooden slats of the venetian blinds to the city outside. To the sky, which was still bright blue in the afternoon sun. He'd anticipated the call from Rodgers; he'd anticipated the information she'd impart; he'd anticipated his own reaction to it. Unfortunately, he'd been completely off the mark about the last. He wasn't calm and resigned. He was deeply angry, and depressed.
In a conversation with Abby and Adam, a couple of years before, he'd expressed to them his own belief in the possible existence of the devil. In the absolute existence of evil. His point to them was that there were some things which could not be explained by aberrant human behavior. The most extreme example of that, in his mind, was the pedophile who'd sprayed rat poison into a ten-year-old girl's mouth so she wouldn't be able to identify him. He should have killed her, Jack thought--it would have been more humane.
Woodbridge had convinced a man, probably homeless, to come to his place. Where he'd let the man shower, had given him new clothes, and something to drink. Then he'd injected him with a paralytic, shoved the barrel of a shotgun into his mouth, and pulled the trigger. Was Woodbridge's overriding drive for survival, and escape, an example of aberrant human behavior? Jack didn't believe so.
And now he would have to call Ed. They'd have to exhume Crymson's body. Rodgers had told Jack that embalming was thought to preserve the by-product of the breakdown of the drug, which is a good thing when you are looking for proof. Jack found himself almost wishing the opposite were true. Only in this one instance, and only for the purest of emotional reasons. He knew that the existence of the drug in Crymson was the best way to prosecute Woodbridge specifically for his murder. That wasn't helping Jack feel any better.
He'd also have to contact Karen Abbott's parents, and the ME for Milwaukee County, and see if that victim had been murdered the same way. Sometimes he truly disliked his job. He swiveled again, took another deep breath, and picked up the phone.
"Fuck," Ed spat out, kicking a piece of garbage across the alley. With the cell phone to his ear, he was away from the sidewalk where he and Lennie had been heading to another shelter. He'd thought it would be easier to hear Jack away from traffic. His partner was waiting for him. "Fuck," he repeated, with less force.
"My thoughts exactly," Jack said.
He sighed deeply. "Okay," he said, "I'll call Anthony. Set up a time. I don't think I can meet with him until tomorrow morning. The evening just got more complicated; I was about to call you. My mother wants us to meet her for dinner before the play."
There was a moment of silence on the other end. "Okay," Jack said. "That would be nice."
"Nice?" Ed asked sharply.
"Yes," Jack answered with sincerity. "It would be. What time?"
Ed nearly pulled the phone back to stare at it; nearly asked where his lover had gone and who was talking on his phone. He leaned against the nearest wall and shoved a free hand into his coat pocket. "Five-thirty. Is that too early?"
"No, that's fine. You want to meet at my place, then we'll cab it to dinner? So, say, come over about five? Just a minute...." Ed heard the sound of pages turning. "And tomorrow, I can be at Anthony's any time before noon."
Ed closed his eyes. "Okay, I'll be there at five." He paused. "This sucks, Jack," he said.
"I know, Ed, I know," Jack answered gently.
They were both quiet for a few moments. Ed wished it were three months from then, when odds were the case would be long over, and perspective would be possible. Six months would be better, he immediately decided.
"Hey," Jack asked, "how about we go for a ride tonight, after the play? Come home, grab the bike and just take off for a night ride? Get away from the city."
"Yeah," Ed answered through a thickened throat, "that sounds great."
"Good." Jack paused. "I've gotta go."
"Me, too," he said with a sigh. "Love you."
"Love you, too."
They said their good-byes, and Ed ended the call. He pushed off the wall, opening his eyes. He ignored the view of the alley, for the detritus only depressed him. Reminded him too closely of this case, and everything surrounding it. He amended that. Nearly everything surrounding it. He'd found love. His relationship with Lennie had improved. If he were brutally honest, he'd have to say his relationship with Lieu had improved. His relationship with his community had changed, as well. This case wasn't the first one to blur the line between his identity as a gay man and that of a homicide detective. But this was the first one where his sexual orientation had helped them solve it. It was a first he would have just as soon passed on, if he'd had the choice.
"You know," Lennie said as they approached the next homeless shelter on their list, "that suicide note of his was truly obnoxious."
"Yeah, like that's a surprise," Ed replied with a low voice.
"I mean, this guy has the balls to say that he's doing the right thing, for once? I keep picturing him writing that, and laughing. Doing the right thing implies some kind of noble purpose. Like taking some homeless guy off the street and giving him a hot shower and some dinner--no irony intended." Lennie shook his head in disgust.
"You mean not like blowing his head off, once you've made him unable to move?" Ed asked harshly. "Well, fuck him, Lennie."
"No, thanks, but I'll be glad to throw him in a cell and lose the key."
Ed looked at him sideways. The man had a small smile playing on the corner of his mouth. A short burst of laughter, from deep in Ed's gut, broke through his anger. Now Lennie was looking at him, with his eyebrows raised. Ed shook his head and waved a hand in the air, not wanting to do anything but let the retort simply be. It was enough that his partner had been willing to make a joke like that, and had not self-censored, or even worse, turned it into something inadvertently offensive.
They spoke with the minister who ran the shelter, to see if anyone matching what little description they had of their John Doe had stayed there. If anyone with trouble walking, or talking had stayed there. The question which usually elicited positive responses, but had yet to pan out to such an extent that they got a lead. It was no different this time. Once back outside, Ed drew a line through the place, on their list.
Lennie thought their time might be better spent trying to find out how Woodbridge had obtained the succinylcholine, and forget, for now, trying to find the victim's identity. Or they could begin a concerted effort to track down the vic's doctor somehow. Ed didn't want to screw up with Lieu again, so he called her and told her what avenues they were considering.
Jack finished the third of his phone calls to Wisconsin, and attempted to stretch the tension out of his neck and shoulders. The first one had been the hardest, and had taken the longest. Karen Abbott's parents were determined to do what was necessary, to obtain justice for the murder of their only child. To Jack, it seemed they were walking a very fine line between determination and rage, however. Mr. Abbott, in particular, had nearly lost control more than once before being calmed by his wife. Jack had been grateful for Van Buren's earlier communications with them, for her own innate sense of resolve and strength in the face of their grief. They hadn't been left with any doubt about their role in the case, and Jack relied on that. They agreed to authorize the exhumation of Karen's body. The Milwaukee County ME's office had agreed to take care of the paperwork on their end, and would hopefully have results from the FBI within a few days. Perhaps by the end of the week, but by the first of the next for sure.
The last phone call had been to Sergeant Froendlich at the Middleton PD. Jack was not only calling to give the man an update, as promised, but to request some investigative assistance. They needed a confirmation, if at all possible, that the shotgun which was found with the dead man had actually belonged to Woodbridge. He had given the sergeant the make and model, and the man had readily agreed to find out what he could. He'd said that from what he remembered, the description might have matched a gun which Woodbridge, Senior had used. He'd follow up post haste. Upon learning of the faked suicide, Froendlich had gone silent. For long enough that Jack had finally checked to make sure the line was still open.
The man had replied with two sentences, which had sounded as if they'd been ground out through clenched teeth. "That punk is a real piece of work. If you're able to prosecute him, I want to be there for the trial."
"Of course," Jack had answered.
Jack knew that the state of Wisconsin might be able to prosecute, too, for the murders of fifteen years before. He was confident that that case had a much better chance of success if it came on the heels of New York's. So far, it appeared that Froendlich was the only person who cared about the old case, and he seemed to be behind any prosecutor who would convict Woodbridge of at least one of the murders. Jack would be only too happy to oblige the man. He stood and gathered papers together on his desk, doing a final straighten. He still had to check in with Serena, and tell Nora that he was leaving even earlier than he'd said. He shoved files into his briefcase as a matter of course, but honestly had little intention of working that evening. He needed distraction, and he planned to get it.
The grandmother clock in Jack's living room chimed five times, at almost the exact moment Jack finished rinsing his freshly shaved face. He'd taken a quick shower, but had not gotten dressed yet, save underwear. He heard muffled footfalls padding across carpet, heading his way, as he rehung his towel. He turned. Ed was in the bathroom doorway, wearing dark suit pants, a tan shirt, a burnt orange tie, his black leather jacket and a broad smile. Jack smiled, too; the man looked good. Really good.
"Hey," Ed said, taking two steps forward.
"Hey," Jack replied, stepping into Ed's open arms. Sighing into the strong embrace, and returning it with equal passion. He had leather under his fingers, and Ed had skin. It felt odd, at first, then a little too decadent. Ed's hands were traveling; his lips were on Jack's neck, and the two of them had to leave in ten minutes. Jack moved his head and tried to pull away, but Ed's mouth found his, and he was kissed intensely, then deeply, and suddenly his resistance was dissipating at an alarming rate. Ed smelled so good; tasted so good; felt so good. It was when he had the urge to grind their hips together that he stopped.
"I'm going to be embarrassed tonight," he said to a grinning Ed, "if we don't save this for later."
Ed stepped back, and slowly dropped his hands, stroking Jack's ass one last time. "You'd better get dressed," he said with mock seriousness.
"You're certainly in a better mood," Jack said. He poked Ed's stomach on his way into the bedroom. He pulled on a pair of suit pants, willing his erection down.
"Spend the afternoon going through shelters, then remember what you've got in your own life and things sort of lighten up," Ed replied, sitting on the bed. Jack was putting on his socks. "Plus I'm looking forward to seeing Shondra in all her glory. These things are always entertaining, and you know it's been a while since I've seen her. Then there was this invitation from Jack McCoy, to take a ride later." He shrugged. "All good."
Jack finished tucking a polo shirt into his pants. "I'm glad I could make a difference." He was. He felt the same way.
"That's not to say that I don't have things to tell you, about today and all. I'll go over it in the cab."
Jack pulled on his sweater, then started on a pair of shoes. "Grab my wallet off the dresser, would you? And my keys, too." He sat and tied his laces, while Ed did as he asked. They met near the doorway. He cupped Ed's face and kissed him, once, with a bit of heat. "Let's go. Meet mom." He grinned.
Ed chuckled as they walked into the living room. Jack picked up his coat and shrugged it on. They went out the door, and as he was locking it behind them, Ed leaned in and whispered, "By the way, I love the hell out of you."
Jack turned his head. "That's the best thing I've heard all day, Ed. I love you, too." They held hands the entire ride down the blissfully empty elevator.
Ed checked his watch as they approached the front door of the restaurant. It was five-thirty-two, which wasn't bad, considering the rush hour traffic which the cabbie had managed to weave in and out of. He looked through the glass and saw his mother, sitting with her legs crossed and her hands resting on her lap and purse. It had been a couple of months since he'd seen her. He had a momentary sense of relief that she looked healthy, and, from all outward appearances, relaxed and patiently waiting for her party to arrive. He glanced to his right; Jack met his eyes and winked. After a brief grin at each other, Ed opened the door, allowing Jack to enter first.
"Hello, Mother," he said, as she stood, smiling, and accepted his hug. The soft scent of her perfume was heart-tuggingly familiar.
She pulled back. "You're looking quite well, Edward," she said. Then her eyes shifted to Jack, at his side.
"This is Jack," he said, because that's what he'd been taught to do, though it always struck him as ever so slightly absurd.
Jack held out his hand, and his mother shook it. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Green," he said.
His mother was still smiling, but Ed didn't mistake the very clear gaze she was giving Jack as anything but what it was. She was assessing. His heart started to stutter-step, and his chest seized up, just a bit.
"The pleasure is mine, as well," she said. "Thank you for meeting me for dinner, even if it was on the early side. I trust you didn't have to abandon something vital at work, to do so?"
Jack smiled at her. "No, nothing crucial today." He met Ed's eyes briefly. "But I have been cutting down on my twelve hour days lately. Sometimes other things are more important."
Ed's mother's glance flicked his way, too. "Yes," she said to Jack with a more softened tone, "sometimes other things are, I agree." She paused, and Ed breathed again. "So," she continued, "shall we eat?"
"Yes," Ed said quickly. The others looked at him. "I'm hungry."
His mother waved to the host, who picked up three menus and motioned for them to follow. Both he and Jack waited until his mother had gone first before walking to the intended table. Jack hung back, so Ed was now between them. He watched his mother. The hem of her blue and undoubtedly silk dress fluttered under the edge of a wool coat as she walked. He saw her always perfect posture. He felt his lover behind him. So far, he thought, so good.
Even though Ed was participating in as much of the conversation as he could, he gave the majority of his attention to continued observation. His own assessment. Even though he'd told Jack that he would not be swayed by what his family thought, either about Jack personally or in the role of boyfriend, that didn't mean he would be immune to whatever happened. That he didn't want them to accept Jack. Jack and him as a couple. He was man enough to admit that that was exactly what he wanted. Acceptance. He wanted his private life to be as easy as possible, as smooth as possible, as unstressful as possible. He had enough of the opposite in his work.
One of the few women he loved unconditionally was asking the man he loved deeply about his prior life, married with a child. He waited for Jack to react with what Ed expected to be prickliness. He, himself, was about to react with prickliness. Jack took a sip of his wine, smiled at Ed, and answered his mother with a succinct but honest reply. His mother nodded, and Ed could have sworn he could see the tally above her head. He might be biased, but he was beginning to think that Jack's pros were outweighing his cons.
The two of them had already covered much of Jack's personal history, religion (with a short diversion into a comparative analysis of Catholicism and Protestantism, in particular Southern Baptist), education, and some discussion of his career. Ed was about to suggest a change of topic, to something innocuous like Shondra or one of his siblings, just to give the man a break when his mother said something which nearly caused Ed to drop the glass he was lifting.
"You know," she said, "there really is no need for you to be so formal with me. Please, call me Yvette."
Ed stared at her, but she ignored him. He drank; a large swig of wine to help him get his bearings.
"Thank you," Jack replied. He looked to his right, at Ed, and his eyebrows lifted. "Ed? Are you okay?"
He gave a short wave of his hand, smiling at him. "I'm good. Real good."
Jack smiled back, and their eyes locked. So much; he could see so much, it was almost overwhelming. Yeah, Jack, I'm good, and fuck, yeah, I love you, too. I love you, too. Amazing, huh? The eye lock was broken by each of them, at the same time, as their attention returned to the woman across the table.
She was doing something with the napkin on her lap, smoothing it out; Ed imagined she was straightening it as well, lining up the corners. She smiled at them both, then checked her watch. "I think we'd better have our coffee and dessert," she said. "I expect our little pumpkin is on her way at this very moment. We'll get the check, too, but I've been looking forward to the cheesecake here all day." She looked for their waiter, but Ed was the one to see him, over her shoulder. He called the man over, and ordered for everyone. His mother thanked him sincerely, and he had the sudden urge to get up and kiss her cheek. Instead, he lifted his glass to her, knowing that she understood exactly what he meant by it.
Jack settled back in the folding chair and crossed his legs. Ed's shoulder was pressed against his, and if asked he would admit that he was, yet again, taking advantage of circumstance to simply feel the man. He was leaning into him, ostensibly to get back some personal space from the stranger on his right. Taking advantage. Ed settled, too, and made the space between them even more minimal. The lights in the small auditorium had just gone down; the principle of the private school had just finished her welcome to the parents and their guests; the music had just started; the children in the audience had just been hushed. Jack grinned. The play began.
He thought that, overall, the dinner had gone well. He liked Yvette Green, as much for her directness as for her charm. He imagined he could see bits of Ed in her. The dry sense of humor. The unwillingness to put up with, as Peter had called it, bullshit. The intelligence. In physical characteristics, the most obvious were her eyes. Expressive, like Ed's. A haze of alcohol and relaxation had enveloped him by the time they'd left the restaurant and flagged a taxi. Upon arriving at the school, amidst what he remembered as the typical hubbub of a crowd which included a high percentage of children, they'd found the family. Ed's younger brother, Lawrence; sister-in-law, Mellonee; and Shondra's six-year-old brother, Kevin. Introductions had been made, and Jack had stayed relaxed at Ed's side, listening to the family talk, answering when addressed. Comfortable. Ed's sister, Jocelyn, the youngest of the siblings, had dashed in at the last minute as everyone was getting seated. In the "hi" she'd tossed at him, squeezing past, he'd thought he'd picked up a hint of coolness, but he hadn't paid it much attention.
The play continued. Shondra, apparently, made her entrance with four other pumpkins. The family whispering included Ed, in his ear, pointing her out. Her braids bobbed as she waddled around the stage, and Jack chuckled in response. So did Ed. He truly was enjoying himself; Ed had been right--the production was highly entertaining as much for the onstage reactions of the actors as for the ambiance they'd managed to create.
It was in the midst of this that reality came crashing in. Ed suddenly moved, and pulled out his cell phone, flipping it open. Jack heard the faint hum of its vibration, indicating an incoming call. Ed looked at the display, his eyes got wide, he poked Jack quickly and pointed to the door. Jack's heart started to pound. Ed got up and started to climb out of the row; Jack followed. By the time Jack was in the aisle, Ed was already almost to the door, nearly trotting. Jack's heart took off as he followed the man into the corridor.
"Uh huh, yeah... Yeah, okay," Ed was saying, his eyes locking with Jack's. Jack waited, while Ed listened. "Great, great. Okay, I'll let you know when we're coming. Thank you. We owe you a big one... Okay, bye." He ended the call, his thumb hitting the keypad with force. Their eyes were still locked, and Jack's heart was still thudding. "That was the Milwaukee PD. We got him, Jack, we got him. That son-of-a-bitch Woodbridge is in custody. We fucking got him." He held up his hand, and Jack smacked it. It was then, and only then, that Ed's smile broke across his face, but his eyes were now churning with emotion.
Jack threw his arms around him, and held tightly. Ed started to shake. Jack held tighter. Ed calmed. Jack closed his eyes and took a very deep breath. They had him. They fucking had him.
On to Chapter 16, Scienter