Disclaimer:  NBC, MCA/Universal and Wolf Films owns them.
Rating:  PG-13
Summary:   Part 10.  Serena crosses a line. Jack crosses another. Ed and Lennie cross more than one.
Author's Note:   Thank you to Linda, for the insight.
Copyright March 2003 Cassatt

It was a street not unlike those found in the suburbia of New York. Old trees lined it, turning to the brilliant colors of mid-autumn. But this was a strictly working-class to middle-class suburb, built up from a small village in the twenties out of brick homes, lawns, a town hall, library, grade school and high school. This wasn't a wealthy, white community in Westchester, or Connecticut. Yet, Ed was still uncomfortable as he drove, as Lennie read out house numbers, as he watched a woman digging in a flower bed, a large dog lounging nearby in the morning sun. If he would give it a thought, he might conclude his discomfort had nothing to do with the makeup of the neighborhood. He wasn't giving it a thought, however; he was trying not to think about much at all.

"So," Lennie said, breaking the silence, "looks like it'll be in the next block. You ready to meet the family?"

Ed's stomach lurched. "So much for the not thinking...," he muttered.

"What?"

Ed darted a look at his partner. "I was trying not to think about it. But hey -- now that you've asked," he said nonchalantly, "yeah. I'm ready." He shrugged deliberately.

"Uh huh," Lennie replied with a small grin. He was still looking out the window.

Ed sighed.

"Slow down, Ed, we're getting close."

They passed three more houses when Lennie pointed to the left, telling him to turn into a driveway. He did, his heart rate increasing, his palms suddenly feeling a little damp as he shut off the engine. The house had two stories, and appeared a bit larger than the ones surrounding it. Ed thought it looked like a comfortable house. Well cared for. He saw curtains move in an upper window. The sound and vibration of the car door shutting startled him. He followed Lennie out of the car, to the trunk, reminding himself that he'd met lovers' families before, many times. They pulled out their bags. He told himself this was no big deal, no different. Lennie shut the trunk. As he heard the sound of the front door opening, he admitted this was very different. Almost unique. More important.

Lennie patted him on the shoulder, and he finally looked at the person he'd heard walking across the path. Colleen. She was taller than average, thin-framed and with dark coloring, like Jack. She hadn't bothered to hide her gray, either, and though it was less prevalent than her older brother's, it was no less attractive. Ed took a deep breath. Colleen's eyes were darting between his and Lennie's, and Ed could have sworn that she was momentarily confused.

"Hello, Mrs. Murray," Lennie said, holding out his hand, "I'm Lennie Briscoe."

Her hesitation was brief, and covered quickly. She shook hands and smiled; Ed saw a familiar crinkle around her eyes. "Pleasure to meet you, Detective Briscoe." She turned toward Ed, letting go of Lennie, holding out her hand, still smiling. "You must be Ed. Welcome," she said warmly.

He took the offered hand. "Thank you for putting us up, ma'am." He smiled, too, his heart beating hard, wondering where his cool had gone. It had dissipated so damned quickly.

She was still holding on to him. "No 'ma'am' here, Ed. I'm Colleen." She covered their grasp with her free hand and squeezed. "Just Colleen." He nodded, and she released him, breaking the eye contact. "That goes for you, too," she said to Lennie. "So -- let's go inside, put the bags into your room... are either of you hungry?"

Ed's breathing began to even out as they walked into the house, as Lennie answered in the affirmative. As Ed glanced around. He began to feel his legs again as they started up the stairs, as Colleen and Lennie chatted about horrific airplane food. Words that he ignored. He breathed, and climbed, and looked as closely as possible at family photographs on the staircase wall, slowing his steps as the chatting became white noise. There was a slight kick in his chest when he saw Jack in some, and vowed to study them more carefully at the first opportunity.

They were shown to a guest room with two twin beds, bookshelves lining one wall, and a long table under the window that held a sewing machine and piles of folded fabric. Ed went to the window, which he assumed looked out over the back yard. Lennie was asking Colleen about the bathroom; he tuned out the response.

"Would you like caffeinated or decaf?" Colleen was now standing at Ed's elbow.

She'd startled him, but he tried not to show it. "Regular. Lennie'll take the same, thanks." He looked at the landscape, then back at her. "It's a nice sized yard. Your kids must have loved it, growing up here."

She nodded. "They did. Ian uses it for football practice now." She hesitated. "Ed -- I apologize for not recognizing you immediately. Jack only told me that you were a little younger. Which is quite typical of him...."

"Typical?" Ed asked. Possibilities that hadn't previously occurred to him were suddenly staring at him in the face. Her perspective on his lover could be quite interesting.

"Oh, you know, he sometimes makes the unconscious assumption that certain details aren't important. He knows them, he assumes you must, or the sheer irrelevance of them makes them unworthy to mention. He told me the things about you that mattered." She smiled, and Ed noticed for the first time that her eyes were a paler hazel than Jack's. He could see it now that she was standing in the light of the window.

He wanted to ask her about those more important descriptors, but couldn't bring himself to do it. "Your apology is accepted," he said, "even though it's unnecessary. I understand." He did. He could easily picture Jack leaving out the fact that Ed was twenty-plus years younger and African-American. He wondered if his race had been a shock, too.

She rested a hand on his forearm. "Yes," she said, studying him, "I'm sure you do understand. I just want you to feel at home while you're here." She let go, and smiled again. "So. I'm going to go start some coffee. Then you and your partner can get to the city." She made a move toward the doorway.

"Thank you," he said, as she turned to face him. "For the coffee -- and the welcome."

"I look forward to the chance to get to know you better, Ed."

"Me, too," he replied sincerely.

"We have a problem," Serena said as she entered Jack's office. She handed him a file, which he opened. It contained bank statements from both Abbott's and Ryerson's secondary bank. "The money that was deposited in these accounts came from accounts on the Cayman Islands. Following the money just hit a brick wall," she finished.

He read the highlighted deposits. All of them, in both accounts, had come from "CSB (Cayman) Ltd." There were two identifying numbers, one for each victim. "Actually, this is only a minor problem, if it's one at all." He met her eyes. "There was a treaty signed recently between the U.S., the U.K., and the Cayman Islands Government. If we can show the CSB accounts had any connection to illegal activity, other than tax offenses, they'll release records."

"Illegal activity including murder?" she asked.

"Yes and no. Their clients were victims of homicide, not perpetrators. But we can make it work, and possibly even get them to tell us if Richard Woodbridge has an account in this bank, too. There's a lot of paperwork involved." He handed the file back to her. "I'll show you where we keep a copy of the treaty, forms, and instructions. There have been a few legal challenges to the treaty that you need to look at, too." He walked around his desk and headed for the door.

"Have we gotten records released before?"

"Once," he answered. "So we can do it again."

Serena made a noise that Jack could have interpreted as positive, or negative. He decided not to interpret it at all. They left his office.

The ride into Chicago had been a relatively short thirty minutes and smooth, as they were driving after morning rush hour. Just as Jack had said, the strange exit into the Loop had taken them under a building that stretched across the street, as though the city planners had simply ordered a hole cut into the first floor to make way for the road. Jack said it had housed the post office when he'd last lived there; Ed could see no indication whether or not that was still true.

Lennie had called Van Buren before they'd left Colleen's. Ed had listened, sipping the remainder of his coffee, while Lennie told her what they'd discovered on the pay phone LUDs. There had been one other phone call made to Woodbridge, their suspect, from the phone near the Tide. The week before the murders, on a Wednesday -- the same day that emails had been sent between all three victims. Lieu had passed along a confirmation that she'd spoken with Anthony; that he would send his email reply to Woodbridge that day and blind CC both her and Ed.

After parking in an underground garage, they came up the escalator and onto Michigan Avenue, with the city rising up on their left and the expanse of park, Art Institute, and lake to their right. There was a breeze coming off of the water that occasionally gusted to something stronger, but the sky was still clear and the temperature was cool and not cold. The walk felt good to Ed, as they headed to the bank building. He'd been pleasantly surprised by his first views of this city, and could see why Jack was still fond of it. Lennie's commentary drifted between a desire to find the best steak, and a comparative analysis of the Bulls versus the Nicks. The man had high hopes for the season, and was tired of preseason games. Ed suspected that if they were in that night, however, Lennie would be watching basketball if at all possible -- Bulls preseason notwithstanding.

It took them almost thirty minutes to make their way through the corporate hierarchy of the bank, to finally sit in front of the manager who'd been Tom Ryerson's boss two years before. After just another few, they both discovered why it had been so difficult for Van Buren to locate next of kin. Nobody in the Chicago branch had been notified of Ryerson's death. The manager claimed, after a sharp question from Lennie, that the company newsletter wasn't due out until the following week, and undoubtedly a notice would be published then.

"Aren't there people here," Ed asked, "who were still working with Ryerson? Wouldn't they need to know immediately?"

The man's lips pinched tight. "Mr. Ryerson's responsibilities were for funds whose clients were based solely at the New York branch. I'm sure the bank did what was appropriate."

Ed wasn't at all sure of that, but was unable to voice his suspicions. He was gratified by the quiet snort of disgust Lennie made, almost grinning at him in response. They still needed the cooperation of this man, and others at this institution. They had the potential now of finding someone who'd been friends with the victim, who knew of family. But they also had the uncomfortable task of having to tell whomever they found that Ryerson had been murdered.

Jack set the rest of his sandwich back on its paper wrapping. It tasted bland, boring and altogether unappetizing. He should have taken himself out to lunch, walked around the corner to Anne's and had something hot. Gotten the hell out of the office for an hour. He was restless, and slightly edgy from lack of sleep. A phone call from his sister before lunch had helped. Sort of. He'd been very pleased to hear that Ed had arrived safe and sound, and had been willing to listen to her good-natured grumping about being embarrassed when she hadn't known Ed was Ed, and had even shared a chuckle or two with her. But after he'd hung up, his leftover reaction was that he wanted to be there, too. He wanted to gauge Colleen's opinion of Ed, in person. To be with Ed and Lennie while they investigated. To take his lover out to dinner at his favorite Chicago restaurant, then maybe stop at a jazz club. Find a secluded, and likely cold, area on the lakefront to steal a heated kiss or two. He wanted to be there.

Well, he thought, he could at least leave the office to find something better to eat, and Anne's cafe was a good choice. He tossed the lunch away, got his book out of the briefcase, and was pulling on his field coat when the phone rang. He considered ignoring it for the briefest of seconds, then picked it up.

"McCoy," he said.

"Jack? It's Peter. Listen -- are you alone?" Peter's voice was strained, and a chill settled in Jack's chest in response.

"Yes," he answered, sitting again. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, man, I really, really don't want to be the one to tell you this but you need to know. I got a call from a friend, Gary, I don't think you've met him yet. Anyway, Gary was at the club last night, and Robert, the bartender, told him that he had something to tell Ed. Well, Gary called me, cause he knew Ed was in Chicago and didn't want to call him on his cell, work and all, and thought I knew where he was staying so he could leave a message." Peter paused, and Jack was about to yell at him to get to the point, when the man continued. "So I called Robert. Jesus, Jack -- Serena was in the club last night. She asked Robert if he'd ever seen Ed and Ryerson together. As in, you know, together, together."

Jack's mind was racing; the chill in his chest spreading. "Okay, Peter, thanks for letting me know. I'll find out what's going on. Don't worry. Ed'll be fine. I promise." He stood, unable to stay in the chair.

"I trust you, Jack. Tell him to call me when he gets the chance, okay? Oh, one more thing. I told Robert just to forget about it. No big, I said."

"Good. Thanks. I'll tell Ed." His fingers were tapping a staccato beat on his hip, where his hand had landed, as he ended the conversation. Once the receiver was cradled, and silence surrounded him, his mind took off. There was only one thing to do -- search Serena's office for notes, a file, something that would show him what the hell she was thinking. What the hell she was doing. Then he'd take care of it. He doubted he could feel any angrier than he did at that moment.

Ed knew when he met Joseph Happel that the man was gay. Irrelevant of the fact that they'd been pointed in his direction by Ryerson's former secretary, with Happel being described as a good friend of the victim's. Ed's gaydar was pinging like mad, and he was rarely wrong. He planned to let Lennie take the lead, so he could keep a close watch on Mr. Happel's reactions. They were directed to sit in the chairs in front of his desk; he'd closed the door behind them.

"What is this about?" Happel asked, sitting, resting his forearms on the desk. "You've come from New York just to ask me some questions?"

Lennie answered. "It's about Thomas Ryerson." Happel picked up a pen and began to turn it in the fingers of one hand. "I'm sorry," Lennie continued, "but he's dead. He was murdered last week."

Happel stared. "Oh, God," he whispered. The pen was dropped and both hands flew to his mouth. Tears welled, but didn't fall. "Oh, God," he repeated, against the tips of his fingers. Then he closed his eyes and inhaled very deeply, letting it out in a shaky breath. After a long moment, his hands dropped back down to the desk. Eventually, he made eye contact with both Lennie and Ed.

For Ed, it was like sitting through that initial meeting with Anthony all over again. This was the first person they'd met who had expressed any real grief at Tom Ryerson's death, and for reasons Ed wasn't entirely clear about, to see that was all the more upsetting. He focused on the notebook, open on his knee, and concentrated on words there in an attempt at distraction. He did not have the luxury of feeling anything right then.

"Mr. Happel," Lennie asked, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, "were you more than friends with Mr. Ryerson?"

Ed's heart caught; he looked at his partner. This was the man that not many people saw, willing as he was to express cynicism around the precinct on a daily basis. But this was the man that Ed had come to know, and even love.

Joseph Happel cleared his throat and was about to answer when his phone rang. He picked it up, spoke for a minute or two with increasing calmness. After hanging up, he said, "I'd rather talk away from this building. Have either of you had lunch yet?"

Ed shook his head; Lennie answered, "No. Any place around here serve steak?"

The man stood and they followed suit. "I can think of one or two." He opened a drawer and tossed files in it. "I'll pick the one with the most privacy. And, Detectives, for the record -- yes, Tom Ryerson was my lover. I hope that you'll be able to answer some questions for me, too," he finished quietly.

Ed spoke for the first time. "We'll do our best."

"Thank you," he replied.

On their way to the elevators, Ed couldn't help but notice the heads that turned as they passed, the eyes that followed them. Usually, he ignored the attention they invariably attracted. As he walked, however, he felt distinctly uncomfortable. He first attributed it to an office grapevine that had, no doubt, spread the word about who they were and what they were doing there. There was something underlying it all, though. He added it to his list of questions to ask over lunch.

After confirming that Serena was out of the office, apparently at lunch, Jack went to her desk and began to search. He kept one eye on the corridor, but he wasn't particularly concerned should she return. He had every right to look through the files that she kept. He only wanted to hurry so that he would have the chance to find what he was looking for. There was a short stack of folders on the surface of her desk pertaining to the case, including one he'd seen earlier in the day. But nothing that held information about Ed. In the top drawer of the file cabinet, where she kept current case files, there were more copies of things that they'd all reviewed the day before. Nothing else.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. "Where the hell would you keep it...."

He had to consider the possibility that she might have something at home, but that seemed unlike Serena. She wasn't that devious, she would more likely presume that whatever she was doing was justified. Then again, he thought, she wouldn't put something she might not want him to find in with the other files. He went back to the desk and started to search through the drawers.

In the largest one, under a few containers of extra panty hose and a box of chocolate that looked like a gift, he saw a file folder. He pulled it out; there was no label on it. He opened it and his stomach turned over. All he let himself see was Ed's name on the top sheet before he shut it quickly, closed the drawer, slid the file under his arm and walked back to his office as fast as he could without jogging. He closed and locked the door behind him.

He found that he was breathing heavily as he sat; he could hear it as well as feel it. He reopened the folder, and as he began to read, the heat of anger coursed through his body. His shoulders twitched; his jaw ached.

Serena had hired, the day before, an investigative agency much like the one she'd used to invade his own privacy. This company had given her a report on all of Ed's internet activity, which chat rooms he frequented, which web sites he returned to. Jack skimmed them, not comfortable with knowing this much personal information about his lover's on-line time, though he and Ed had talked at length about the subject. He flipped through the report, and then found something that transmuted his anger into near rage.

She, apparently, had requested that they find out as much about Ed's email as they could. They'd located his pink wall group at a mailing list server and had given her the email addresses of the group members. Since the group had picked an innocuous name, the company and likely Serena herself didn't realize what they had -- but Jack was under no illusion that she didn't plan to find out. He could not quite get his mind focused enough on why she'd done all of this; all he could see was this list of email addresses of people who risked their lives on a daily basis. People she had no right to investigate. A man she had no earthly right to hurt.

He shut the folder and took a deep breath. It helped enough. He had to call Ed. Then he'd talk to Nora. He took another deep breath and picked up the phone.

Ed had just placed a lunch order when he felt his phone vibrating against his chest. He didn't consider not answering, even though he'd set it to vibrate to keep distractions away. "Excuse me," he said to Mr. Happel, as he flipped open the phone. He couldn't stop a smile from forming when he saw who it was.

"Hey," he said to Jack. "This is a nice surprise. But I'm in the middle of something...."

"I need to talk to you. Now, if at all possible."

Ed's smile disappeared; his heart started to pound, hearing the tone of Jack's voice. "Okay, just a sec," he said, looking around the restaurant for somewhere private. He put a hand over the receiver and made his apologies to Lennie and Happel.

"Everything all right, Ed?" Lennie asked.

"Not sure." Lennie nodded and Ed walked to the back, where the phones and bathrooms were. He leaned against the wall, turning away from the crowded restaurant, and covered his free ear. "What's happened?" he asked Jack. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fucking furious. Sounds like you're at lunch? Are you alone now?"

The pounding against his rib cage increased a notch. "Yeah. We found an ex of Ryerson's; he wouldn't talk in the bank." He breathed deliberately. "Just tell me, Jack."

There was a slight hesitation, and Ed pictured the man's face pinching tight. "Serena has been investigating you. She got a company to search the internet for information about you, like she did to me. She has a list of all of the email addresses for your pink wall group -- but it doesn't look like she knows what it is. You've got to disband the group, let them know. I have the file, but I don't know whether she's made copies of this, or whether she's looking into it further, or what the hell she's even thinking."

He wasn't certain he'd heard Jack correctly. He noticed a stripe hidden in the wallpaper that he hadn't noticed before. A blue stripe. Interwoven with a white flower. Reality sank in with a suddenness that almost made him light-headed. A familiar, hot thread of rage travelled from his belly to his head, and he knew in that moment that if Serena had been standing in front of him, he would have hit her. He would not have been able to stop himself, anger management be damned.

"Ed? Are you still there?"

"Yeah," he said, trying to relax his jaw and his grip on the phone, "I'm here." He sighed harshly. "As an officer of the court, ignore what I'm about to say. I want to hurt her, Jack. Very badly."

Jack sighed, too. "I know," he said, his tone softened, "I know. I'm sorry. Don't worry -- I'm going to take care of this. But you -- you have to warn your friends...."

"Shit, I don't have my laptop and I might not be back at the house until later this evening." He paused to think. "Look, you can call Reina at the two-seven. She knows you, just tell her... tell her that I found out there's been a breach of security and she needs to contact the list owner as soon as possible. He'll do it. She can call me if she'd like, but I have to get back to this interview."

Jack was hesitating again. "You found an ex of Ryerson's? He was involved with someone?"

The question sparked a painful flare of jealousy that Ed thought he'd gotten rid of days before. "Yes, he had a lover," he hissed, "would you like his number? You could compare notes?"

"Maybe you should do it," Jack spat out, "then you'd believe me when I tell you what a lousy lay he was."

That stung. A hundred retorts raced through his mind, but he found himself unable to voice any of them. "I have to go," he managed to say through a very tight throat.

"I'm sorry, Ed. That was an unfair thing to say."

"But a true one."

"No, it's not."

The silence was heavy between them.

"Listen," Jack finally said, "I understand how you're feeling right now. Having your privacy invaded -- there's nothing I can say that will make that better. But I promise you, I'll take care of Serena, and I'll call Reina. Then I'll stop myself from hopping on a plane and coming to Chicago...."

The ache that blossomed in his chest nearly took his breath away. He wanted Jack to be standing next to him, wanted them both to be somewhere secluded so he could hold and be held. Take in the scent of the man's aftershave, feel his heart beating under his fingers and against his own chest. Accept the grounding he so desperately needed right then. His rage was just under the surface of his skin. His hurt was still reverberating. His yearning for relief was overwhelming. "I wish you were here," he admitted.

"I wish I were there, too. I'll call you later this afternoon?"

"Okay. We might not be able to talk in private until this evening, but call anyway?" He almost said 'please.'

"I will."

It was with great reluctance that he ended the phone call. He not only wanted to stay connected to Jack, but he did not want to participate in the interview of Joseph Happel. He wasn't at all sure he'd be able to keep his temper in check. He remained leaning against the wall for another minute, running through the list of techniques that he'd supposedly mastered for managing his anger. The conclusion he drew was not a promising one. His anger was justified; he'd been violated. He had no outlet to vent it, unless he were to call Serena himself. But he wanted to tell her off to her face. He breathed as deeply as the tightness in his chest allowed, and walked back toward the booth where his partner was undoubtedly waiting anxiously for his return.

After hanging up the phone, Jack allowed himself a few minutes to try to calm down. A few minutes to suppress his rage. To feel the overwhelming need to hold Ed tightly and never release him. Words were all they had, and they were wholly inadequate. There was more to discuss, but he didn't have it in him to upset Ed even further. He knew the way the man's mind worked, and once the shock had passed, Ed would be wondering what was really going on. Jack hoped to have better answers for them both.

It wasn't until he was on the verge of calling the precinct that he realized he didn't know Reina's last name. Not wanting to interrupt Ed's interview again, he instead called the direct number to Ed's desk. He was lucky - someone answered in the squad room, and he told the woman who he was looking for. He was put on hold, and within thirty seconds another woman was on the line.

"Detective Ramirez," she said, clearly confused.

"Is this Reina?" he asked.

"Yes." She sounded even more hesitant. "Who is this?"

"This is Jack McCoy. I have a message from Ed. There's been a breach of security in your pink wall email group. Ed asks that you contact the list owner immediately to have the list discontinued."

There was a long pause before she asked, "Under what circumstances did we meet?"

Jack nodded to himself, and spoke of the get-together at Ed's apartment, days before. "I ate Chinese food," he ended.

"Thank you, sir," she said. "Now, can you tell me what's happened, so I can relay it to the owner?"

Jack sighed. "I'm sorry to say that someone in my office got the list of email addresses for your group - from the server. I'm taking care of things on this end. If your friend wants to talk to me directly, that's fine, I'll give you my phone numbers." He hadn't thought twice about offering, and he still didn't reconsider as he gave her not only his direct office number, but his home one as well.

"I'll contact him right away," Reina said. "And," she hesitated, "tell your friend he has good taste in boyfriends. An honorary membership might be considered."

A thoroughly needed smile broke out. "Thank you very much," he replied sincerely. "I'll be sure to pass that along to Ed."

They ended the conversation. Jack opened the offending file and looked at the pink wall list, wondering which address belonged to Reina, then caught himself. Disgusted, he slapped the folder closed. A necessary aspect of his job was wading through the minute details of people's lives, but he'd always been clear on the boundaries. Only people under suspicion had their privacy invaded. Having a part of his own life that was a secret, another necessity, almost required a different sort of boundary. On one side were the people just like him, the fellowship, the in-crowd. On the other was everyone else. It was in the gray area, where those people who straddled this particular boundary existed, that everything hinged. Trust was all there was to rely upon. Trust. He looked at the file. His rage was rising to the surface once again.

As Ed slid into the booth, salads and drinks were being served and Lennie took the opportunity to ask if he was all right. Ed hadn't schooled his face well enough, apparently. Either that or his partner was just getting far too adept at reading his moods. He muttered that he'd tell him later, then spent the next minute trying to decide if he would, actually, tell the man what had happened. The ramifications could be long lasting, depending entirely on how far Serena grovelled and begged for his forgiveness. As much as he hated her right then, he'd be damned if he let her make his professional life miserable. He'd worked with people he'd disliked before. In his mind, however, Lennie was a wild card. He couldn't predict how he'd react, other than with anger.

"Ed, Mr. Happel has given me the name of an aunt of Mr. Ryerson's," Lennie said, interrupting his thoughts. "She lives on the south side of the city." He took a sip of his coke.

Ed picked up his fork and glanced at his salad, before making eye contact with Happel. "I'm sorry I had to leave. Would you mind repeating what you told my partner?" He stabbed some romaine, but bringing it up to his mouth his stomach churned so he returned the fork to the plate. He drank some water instead.

"Not at all," Happel answered. "Tom has a great-aunt, who I think is his only living relative. I talk to her on occasion, just to sort of check up on her, make sure she's taking her medications, that sort of thing. She's almost eighty. Still sharp as a tack."

"So Ry... Tom hadn't stayed in touch with her?"

"No."

Whatever emotions the man might be having were so deftly hidden, Ed could only guess at them. "Do you have any idea why not?" he asked.

"As I told Detective Briscoe, Tom was a very complex man. He said he was leaving Chicago for a number of reasons...." He stopped talking as the waiter had reappeared with their orders.

Lennie grinned when his steak was set down; he'd already reached for the steak sauce and was opening it before the waiter's hand had moved away. Ed was glad he'd ordered fettucini alfredo, hoping at the very least that it would go down easily. A stroke of luck that he'd wanted comfort food, for he couldn't imagine eating what Lennie was attacking with gusto. Happel was having chicken something that Ed couldn't remember now. He twirled some pasta on his fork, using his spoon, and tried a bite. It was very good, and it didn't disagree with his stomach.

"You were saying?" he prompted Happel.

"Yes, Tom's reasons for leaving." The other man put his silverware down. "Well, the most obvious was that he was being harassed at work, and the management wasn't doing anything to make it stop. I encouraged him to leave the bank entirely, but he wanted to try the New York branch instead. He thought he could move up the ladder there. Or, at least, that's what he said."

"You didn't believe him," Lennie interjected.

"No, I didn't. He was good at what he did, and he enjoyed the work, but he wasn't ambitious. And he didn't need the increase in income; his investments were paying very well. I thought he should try trading, but he said he was as close to that situation as he wanted to be, managing funds. It's difficult to explain...."

"If you could try," Ed said, "it would help. We don't understand his life in New York, and we think it has a direct bearing on his murder. This wasn't random."

Happel blanched. "Oh." He cleared his throat. "Um, it has to do with our relationship. Tom was... Tom was very reluctant to really commit. To us. He always kept himself removed, just enough removed so that I never quite got to know all of him. Sure, I met his aunt, and we spent a fair amount of time with her, and she took me in as if I was family. But Tom never completely opened up. So when he left, and broke off all communication with me, I wasn't all that surprised. But he hurt his aunt terribly. I think he sent her money, somehow, but never called and didn't answer her letters with more than an 'I'm too busy to write now' kind of response." He shrugged. "If he was just moving to change job opportunities, why cut the few ties you've got?"

Ed glanced at his partner. He knew they were both thinking the same thing. Why cut ties, indeed?

"Mr. Happel," Lennie said, "can you tell us more about the harassment? Who did it, if you know?"

Happel was eating another bite of chicken and as he swallowed, his eyes flicked over the nearby tables. "I know who was doing it, so did Tom. It was his direct supervisor and some of the supervisor's friends. I'm sure they targeted him because he was rarely interested in the socializing aspect of the job. I mean, there are other gays and lesbians working there, and as far as I know none of them have been harassed. But they went after Tom, and were pretty relentless about it. Nothing too outrageous, just a steady stream of jokes made at his expense, cartoons put on the bulletin board in the coffee room, porn links sent to him in emails."

Lennie snorted. "That's not too outrageous?"

"I've heard of much worse," Happel responded, shrugging.

This was, Ed thought, quite likely the history behind the blatant interest that had been shown in the office as they'd walked out with this man. "How long," he asked, "had it been going on before he left?"

"About a year or so."

"Had it escalated prior to him leaving?" Ed continued.

"No, not really." Happel drank some water.

"And so what made him suddenly decide he wanted to transfer to New York?"

Happel fiddled with the glass. "I asked myself that for almost three months before I accepted the fact that I had absolutely no idea," he answered, regarding Ed with a steady gaze.

Ed was the one to break the eye contact first. He was coming to dislike Ryerson intensely, for any number of reasons. That he'd had sex with Jack was getting bumped down the list; a list which was now headed by him messing with a very nice man's head. Joseph Happel appeared to be smart and caring. Good looking, too. He'd been taken for granted, and nobody deserved that. And if it hadn't been for Ryerson's damned, fucking diary, Ed thought....

Lennie's voice interrupted him again. "Did Mr. Ryerson ever talk about college?"

Happel shook his head. "No, not really."

"Do you know if he happened to come into money once he'd graduated?" Lennie asked.

"Oh, he didn't graduate." His mouth set in a line. "He said he got a degree from UWM, but he left at the beginning of his senior year. He never finished."

Ed looked sharply at Lennie. Again, he knew they were on the same wavelength. Their trip to Madison the following day had better be lucrative. The coincidences were piling up.

Jack stood in the hall between his and Nora's office, waiting for her to finish a phone call. He leaned against the wall, clutching the file to his chest with crossed arms, feigning a pose of relaxed nonchalance by crossing his ankles as well. The moment her assistant told him the DA was off the phone, he was through the door, closing it behind him and reaching her desk in two strides. He sat.

"What in the world has happened?" Nora asked.

"I need to take the triple murder case back."

Her eyebrows raised. "You've recused yourself."

"We can figure out a way around that," he said with a wave of his hand. "Serena has overstepped. I don't think she can handle this case."

"What do you mean, overstepped?"

"She's formed her own private... internal affairs investigation. She's investigating Detective Green. It's uncalled for."

"How do you know that's what she's doing, Jack? That really doesn't sound like her, at all, I have to say..."

He chuffed loudly. "She did it to you and to me." He poked the file on his lap. "I have the proof right here -- and it's damaging more people than just the detective...."

She interrupted him. "Wait a minute. First of all, just use his name," she said with a slight smile. "Serena's investigating Ed. Now, how did you find this out?"

"A friend of ours told me. Serena went to the Tide and asked the bartender if Ed had ever been seen with Ryerson, the first victim. I found this file in her office -- she's done to Ed what she did to you and me, hired a firm to do an in-depth search for Ed's internet activity, and email activity. Except this wasn't done to prove a point -- she's trying to find damaging information about him. It's completely over the line." He took a deep breath. "The firm found a list of people in the NYPD who are in the closet. Serena can take this list and get names. I won't let that happen," he stated with force.

She held out her hand. "Let me see the file."

He spread his over the folder on his knee, and tried another breath, but it only half-filled his lungs. "No, I can't." He paused. "It's private."

"Okay," she softened her voice, "that's fair. Let me just see the list of police officers."

He conceded, and thumbed through the pages, handing her the mailing list. "It's got a handle that is unrecognizable, for obvious reasons, but I know what it is. I've already spoken to Ed and to another member. It's being disbanded today."

She slipped on her glasses and read the report. "What is the group for, exactly?" she asked eventually, dropping her glasses back on the desk.

The first inklings of frustration were taking hold. This wasn't germane. "Support. Socializing. Sometimes assistance on cases. They helped us with the investigation, though it was off the record," he admitted.

She sighed. "And now our office has left them swinging in the wind, so to speak," she said quietly. "The people in this firm, who've found this, they can deduce from what else is in that file that Ed is gay?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

"And we've already learned that they won't exactly cooperate with us," she continued, "much less consider someone's life as more important than their own goals. If I try to slap them with a court order to destroy their copy of this information, it will only attract attention to it."

"I agree, unfortunately," he managed to say. The tension in his shoulders was giving him the beginnings of a headache, and he stretched his neck, hoping for some relief.

Nora put down the paper. "It's clear that I have to speak to her. Do you have any idea why she'd go to this extreme? Why she's suspicious of our own investigator? It isn't as though Ed is a perfect stranger."

He'd taken the minutes while waiting to see her to consider the possible scenarios. He had come up with a reason, but it wasn't one he could share openly. And should Serena herself bring it up, well then, he'd figure out a way to explain it to his boss. "I think she just doesn't quite understand the extent to which people in the community can bond, even relative strangers have something so basic in common. She seemed to have difficulty with Ed's rapport with Anthony Cabot, Crymson's partner. Honestly, she had difficulty seeing the two of us together," he said.

"Perhaps it's simple jealousy."

That had not even occurred to him, and it was a topic he'd just as soon be done with. He must have looked as surprised as he felt, for Nora was smiling.

"Not to make light of this really horrible situation, Jack," she said, "but maybe it's as fundamental as the fact that she's a woman being shut out by two desirable men."

He shook his head and broke the eye contact. "I'm not going there, Nora," he stated. "And if that is the situation, I really don't care."

"No, I know. So -- we put you back as the prosecutor here and where does that leave us, in terms of the complicating factors?" She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.

"I'm willing to take the risk. We're not going to indict without a strong case, given who the suspect is and the heinousness of three killings. I want to make damned sure this man gets put on death row. If our case is strong, and for some reason the judge forces me to recuse, I would hope that any of the people here with trial expertise could step in. Serena wouldn't be my first choice. I suggest you have a name in mind. And Ed and I will lay low, stay away from the club."

"All right. I admit, Serena's actions only reinforce my belief that she's in over her head." She sighed, deeply this time. "Are you going to be able to work with her for the duration?"

He sighed, too. "I don't have much choice."

"Is that a 'yes'?"

"That's an 'I don't have a clue,'" he allowed.

"Any idea how Ed will be with her?"

His stomach clenched. "I think that depends entirely on how contrite she chooses to be. He is, understandably, extremely upset."

"Yes," she murmured, "I can imagine." She sat forward and handed him the mailing list report. "I'll talk to her as soon as possible. What are you going to do with the file?"

"Shred it," he said with more force than he'd expected.

She nodded.

Ed and Lennie were sitting in the rental car, still in the underground garage, comparing their map to the directions Happel had given them for finding Ryerson's aunt. Ed finally located the correct street, so he folded the map for easier reading and put both it and the directions on his lap. He pulled and fastened his seat belt.

"You gonna tell me what happened during your phone call with McCoy?" Lennie asked. "If it's too personal, just say so."

Ed felt a sigh come all of the way up from his gut. He knew the inevitable could no longer be put off, but if he could have been anywhere else at that moment, he'd have left in a heartbeat. He unhooked his restraint.

"It wasn't personal, not exactly," he said. "It has to do with the case, but it's also pretty much directly about me...."

"Eddie -- I think that's personal." One side of Lennie's mouth showed that half-smile of his. The smile that had broken through Ed's reserves back in the first few weeks they'd been partners. The weeks of strained, tense, hell.

"Yeah," he agreed, with soft venom, "it's fucking personal." He told Lennie about Serena's violation of his privacy, everything he knew about it. He watched his partner's face go from slightly concerned to a controlled thundercloud in the span of five minutes.

"What in the world is she thinking...," Lennie muttered, looking through the windshield to a cement wall, lit a peculiar green. Then he turned toward Ed. "What are you gonna do about it?"

"I guess punching her isn't an option," Ed answered. "And honestly, Lennie? That's all I can come up with. That's as far as I can think." He stroked his mustache twice, then down to his chin, roughly. "Jack said he was going to take care of it, but I don't know what that means, yet. I wish he'd get her fired," he spat out. "But somehow I doubt that's going to happen...."

Lennie's lips tightened. "It ought to be delightful working with her from now on," he said with more than a touch of sarcasm. "So, Ed, this group of yours. Can anyone tell that they're all cops, and in the closet, from looking at the list?"

"No. If someone were to dig a bit, they could to piece together that we're cops, depending on how everyone signed up for their email addresses. If they used their real name, or not. Someone would certainly wonder why a bunch of cops formed a group about home repair, and closed the group to the public. Joining is by invitation only. The messages aren't archived, which would also be suspicious, I'd think...."

"But the stuff they found out about you -- could someone figure out that you're gay?"

He had to consciously relax the fist that had formed on his thigh. "Yeah. They could."

Lennie shook his head slowly. "In that fantasy of punching her? Put me in it, too, would'ja, partner?"

"No problem," he answered. He planned on dreaming up any number of mental images to occupy his free minutes until he talked to Jack again. He could definitely add Lennie to them. No problem at all.

Jack was looking through the piles on his credenza for a specific file when his door opened, after a quiet knock. He glanced toward it, saw Serena walking in, and returned to his searching. After he'd found what he was looking for, he turned around. Serena was standing in front of his desk, holding a stack of files to her chest.

"Yes?" he asked, surprised he could even get that out, seeing her three feet away.

She handed him the folders. "Here's everything we have so far on the triple murder. I've just come from Nora's office."

He placed the stack on his desk, and remained standing. "Fine. Get started on the paperwork needed to obtain the Cayman bank's records."

"Jack -- I did what I thought was necessary..."

He interrupted her harshly. "I really don't want to hear it. If you're going to apologize, do it to Detective Green."

Her lips pursed tightly, and she shook her head. "So you're making good on your threat? To make my professional life hell?"

He was momentarily stunned by her lack of insight. "You have absolutely no idea what you've done, do you?"

"I was following up on all possible scenarios. That's my job, as supervising attorney," she stated.

"Your job does not include hiring some idiots to investigate our own detective, outing that detective in the process!" He jabbed his finger at her. "And if you want to believe that you've been bumped back down because of a personal vendetta by me, you go right ahead." He dropped his hand. His chest was heaving, he was so angry. "I'll expect to be ready to get the subpoena first thing Monday morning. You can leave the application on your desk. I'll pick it up from there." The implication was clear. His office would be locked that weekend.

Her face smoothed out to its usual, inanimate look. "It will be ready." She hesitated. "If I have any questions tomorrow, will you be available by phone?"

"Off and on. I'll check messages."

"Okay," she said.

He didn't say anything further, and she finally turned to leave, but when she got to the door she looked back.

"I'll call Detective Green," she said through what sounded like clenched teeth, but Jack couldn't be sure.

He merely nodded in response and watched as she proceeded out of his office. Then he sat, put his feet up on the desk, tried to slow his heart rate, and pulled the stack of files she'd left closer. He planned to read every line in every report. He had to stop himself from getting out the bottle of scotch and pouring two fingers. He hadn't needed a drink this badly in quite some time.

"Turn right here, Lennie. We're looking for three forty three. Should be on the left." Ed's cell phone rang, and when he flipped it open and read the screen, his stomach reacted. "Fuck," he said with force. "Southerlyn."

Lennie was slowing down, about to pull into a parking space. "Don't answer it."

He didn't hesitate; he closed it and listened until the rings eventually stopped. "Not even sure I'll pick up the voice mail, if she leaves one." The car came to a halt. The phone beeped. She'd left one.

"No need to, for now," Lennie agreed. "Come on, let's go." He sighed as they both got out of the car.

"Sometimes this job makes me miss the gang unit," Ed muttered, walking up to the stoop.

"Never gets any easier, either," Lennie said.

They rang the bell.

"You left out one detail."

Nora's voice startled Jack out of his reading. She was leaning against the jamb, in his side doorway that was across the narrow hall from her office. Her arms were folded.

"Which detail is that?" he asked.

"The detail that specified where you'd found the file. The bottom drawer of Serena's desk." Her countenance was neutral, her tone even.

"I don't believe that is particularly relevant," he replied.

She cocked her head slightly. "Well," she said, "perhaps not. But it should be." She straightened up, turned, and went back to her work.

Jack did the same, picking up the sentence where he'd left off.

Ed thought Ryerson's great-aunt was holding up fairly well, considering. She was crying gently, in between coherent sentences, her tears absorbed by a gradually increasing pile of wadded up tissues on the table next to her chair. The afternoon sun was high in the sky, and streamed through the living room window, backlighting her hair. The thin, white curls gave her an ethereal air, at odds with the fortitude she was displaying.

"I should have stopped him," she said. "New York City is such a dangerous place. If I'd kept him here, he'd still be alive...."

Neither man had a response to that. They glanced at each other.

"Ma'am," Ed said, "it's hard to know what would have happened."

"I suppose," she replied quietly.

Lennie said, "We do need to ask you some questions."

She blew her nose and took another tissue from the box wedged next to her thigh. "Of course. Go right ahead, young man."

Ed almost laughed, the tension slipping from his shoulders in sheer relief. Lennie kept a straight face.

"We think that your nephew's murder," Lennie said, "might have something to do with his life at college. Do you remember anything unusual happening to him back then?"

"Oh, dear," she said to herself. She was quiet for a minute, then she shook her head. "No, not really. He changed when he went away, but that's to be expected, isn't it? Every boy has to grow up sometime."

"Changed how?" Ed asked.

"He became more self-confident, the longer he was at school. His mother had some worries, I remember, because Tommy stopped doing things with his high school friends, but I told her that seemed normal. You know," she said pointedly.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he dated girls in high school. That was the last time that happened. I'm sure he thought his friends just wouldn't understand."

"What about friends in college? Do you remember anything about them? Or a boyfriend?" Ed continued.

"Oh, he didn't tell me much. His father made it plain that Tommy wasn't to talk about the details of his life. He kept quiet. I think he sort of painted everyone with the same brush...."

"So do you know why he left Madison? Why he didn't graduate?" Ed asked.

"No," she said, her tone almost wistful, "I really don't. Now that you mention it, his demeanor altered quite a bit at that time. He withdrew from all of us. I always assumed that he felt badly, for not graduating. His father really wanted that for him." She turned over one hand. "Who can say? He had his reasons, I'm sure." It looked as if she'd start crying again, but she kept her composure.

"We understand," Lennie said, "that he was sending you money, regularly. Would you mind showing us a couple of bank statements? Just so we can confirm our information?"

She hesitated, her hands wringing the tissue they were holding.

"It would really help us," Lennie added.

She finally nodded, and made to get out of the chair, but was having some difficulty. Ed immediately stood to help. She gave him a brief smile and moved stiffly to a small desk in the corner of the room. He was relieved that she'd agreed; the jurisdictional issues of obtaining a warrant for her bank records were more than he wanted to deal with.

She handed Lennie a current statement, and Ed read it over the man's shoulder. There was an automatic deposit made on the thirty-first of August in the amount of two thousand dollars. Ed pulled out his notebook and pen. He wrote down the bank's identification number, and somehow wasn't surprised at the name. "CSB (Cayman) Ltd." was what the statement said. Lennie turned and met his eyes briefly, then looked at their host.

"Thank you," he said to her, handing the paper back.

"Who took care of the... arrangements?" she asked.

"Some friends," Ed answered. "We'll have our lieutenant call them so they can contact you."

"I appreciate that," she said softly.

"Is there anyone who can come over to stay with you?" he asked.

"No, I'll be fine. Joe will be here after work...."

They left after another few minutes of making sure she had appropriate phone numbers and names, and that she really was all right on her own. As they walked to the car, they wondered aloud why Thomas Ryerson had not left a will, if he'd been supporting someone who clearly needed the help. Ed thought it was because Ryerson believed he would easily survive a woman who was likely within ten years of the end of her life. The victim had been HIV negative, and from what Jack had said had been careful about safe sex -- asking potential sex partners their status, and using protection. Lennie thought Ryerson had been particularly insensitive about his responsibilities to family. Ed could only agree. He thought the man had been a very low example of human nature, overall. He yanked open the car door. Like he needed to be reminded about the sludge in the world, Ed thought to himself, as he climbed in.

Another knock on his door had Jack looking up. He was relieved to see Lieutenant Van Buren enter, for more than one reason.

"I was just about to call you," he said as she approached.

"Well, I can't say the same," she said. "I've just come from Serena -- she tells me that you're back on as the prosecutor in our triple homicide case?"

He waved her to sit. "The case now has potential political complications."

She shrugged off her coat, letting it fall over the back of the chair. "I'm going to try not to think about that," she replied dryly. "So why were you calling?"

"It's about your B and E suspect, Don Marsh. How sure are we that he had nothing to do with the murders?"

"There's nothing to indicate that he's ever done anything violent. No trouble in prison; he was never picked up carrying anything more than the tools of his trade. Which could have been used to stab someone, I suppose." She quirked her eyebrow. "Realistically? From everything I can gather, and from the conversations we've had with the people he hangs with -- the guy is strictly professional. Get in, get out. And he's the reason I'm here, as a matter of fact."

Jack held up his hand to forestall her questions. "You've checked to see if he owns a gun, I presume?"

"Nothing registered."

"What are we doing to connect him with Richard Woodbridge?"

"We've started to go over LUDs this morning. Checking Marsh's, again. But we've also pulled earlier ones for his girlfriend, and now we know his mother, too. So just in case we're going over hers. There's nothing so far. After that it'll be his friends. Now, as far as how they'd have met? I've got two detectives taking Woodbridge's photo around to the bars Marsh frequented. They're starting in a couple of hours, and will do the rounds tonight."

"They'll be discreet, won't they? No names, nothing on the photo to indicate who it is? We don't want to tip our hand to the suspect before we're ready," he said. He saw Anita's face tighten.

"My people know how to be discreet," she drawled.

"No doubt," he replied, giving her a small smile, hoping she'd take it at face value. "Okay, what did you want to talk about?"

"Marsh is doing a damned fine job at keeping himself under the radar. I don't have the money to surveil him, not until the brass gets some word from a higher authority. And even with three murders, there's no one calling me hourly for status reports on this investigation. A function of who the victims are, I'm sure..."

Jack interrupted her. "I guess the mayor's liaison to the gay community is keeping somewhat of a low profile in this situation," he said sarcastically.

Van Buren smiled, pointing at him. "Good one, Jack," she said. "Sometimes I can... never mind. Back to Mr. Marsh. I'd like to flush him out. If we could actually get our hands on him, he's up for his third strike. But if he can give us the person who hired him, I'm assuming your office would offer him a deal? What enticement would you be willing to give?"

"His situation's a tricky one," he replied. He twisted his ring. He'd wondered if Serena had thought about this issue, and before everything had hit the fan, he'd planned on talking it over with both her and Nora. "He stole something that's not worth more than a hundred dollars, but he disabled an alarm system to get it. And seemingly did it for hire. Plus we don't know if he knew about the murders beforehand; at the very least about Crymson's murder, if not the other two. So he could be charged as an accomplice." He leaned forward. "But. All that said -- I can definitely guarantee that we'd be willing to discuss the situation with him, should he decide to come forward and talk to us. Best case for him would be if we'd drop the charges. We could do that, depending. What have you got in mind, Anita?"

"Oh, I thought I'd pay a little visit to the girlfriend. We've talked once before. I'm sure that she and Marsh are in contact, somehow -- so maybe she'll pass along a message to him."

He smiled.

"It would help to have the presence of your office there," she continued. "So would you like to take a ride? Or send Serena?"

He looked at his watch; it was almost four-thirty. Three-thirty in Chicago. He was going to call Ed at five, and even though he'd left at a relatively early hour all week he'd planned to continue the pattern, and split right after his phone call. It was Friday, and since he was going to be alone that evening he thought he'd go to the Orleans for a drink.

"Jack?"

"Yes," he said, "I'll go, but I need to make a quick phone call. Would you wait for me outside?"

"Of course," she answered, grabbing her coat and purse.

Once she'd left, he dialled Ed's cell. A sudden, intense need to hear his voice caused him to close his eyes against the distractions of his office, and the corridor beyond.

"Hey," Ed said in his ear.

"Hey yourself. Where are you? I've only got a minute -- Van Buren is waiting for me in the hall."

"We're stuck in rush hour traffic, heading toward your sister's house. We were in Chicago Heights, talking to Ryerson's great-aunt." Ed paused, and Jack pictured him clearly. Resting his elbow on the car door, his long legs splayed in an attempt at comfort. Jack liked the view. "We've got some information about a Cayman bank, and other things. How did it go with your... associate?"

"I'm first chair now. And we found a Cayman bank, too. Can you give me what you've got?" He wrote down the identifying number, recognizing the name, as Ed spoke. He didn't want to be talking about this, he really didn't. He had to, he needed the information, and before he'd be talking to Ed again. But...

"First chair, really?" Ed finished.

"Really. So I'll call you later, when I get home, and we'll have time to talk. You're in for the night?"

"I'm in. And I'm doing okay, I think."

Jack sighed to himself. Ed was lying, he could hear it. He could feel it. "I love you, Ed," he said.

"Yeah," Ed said in a low voice, "me, too."

After hanging up, Jack was tempted to call Colleen and ask her to go buy some chocolate mint ice cream, Ed's favorite. Then give the man a hug. Instead, he did a rapid straighten of his desk, took his coat and left, locking the door behind him.

Ed was sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard, the laptop on his thighs. Not the most comfortable position to be in, but at least he'd changed into jeans and a sweater, his feet blissfully bare. He was checking through emails he'd just downloaded.

Colleen had offered him a beer when they'd arrived; he hadn't hesitated in accepting. Lennie was downstairs, with her and Ian, Jack's nephew, relaxing in the large room at the back of the house, a combination den and kitchen. Conversation and the hum of the television drifted up from below. Ed took a swig from the bottle.

With the vast number of emails pertaining to the pink wall group situation, spam, and some from another list he subscribed to, he'd almost overlooked a precious gem. One he'd save, possibly print off when he got home. Sent early, at eight am., by Jack. It was a remarkably sentimental letter, for its brevity and its sender. A declaration of love, and devotion, and gratitude. Written, Jack explained, in case something happened to Ed, so he would know that he was cherished. Ed understood the connotation, even though he was not entirely sure why Jack had felt the urge to write. But the unexpected occurrences of the day infused the words with an unintended, emotional charge.

Ed read the email three times. He closed his eyes, his head falling gently back until it rested against the plaster. He imagined his fingertips trailing from the silver and brown hair on Jack's head to his long, graceful toes. The surge of possessiveness and love he felt was welcome. He let it ground him. Secure him. Anchor him.

Jack walked into his apartment and deposited his briefcase on the desk chair before doing anything else. He had gone to the Orleans for a drink after being dropped back at Hogan Place by Van Buren. But sitting there, in a favorite bar of his, with the liquid warmth of twenty-year-old scotch soothing his throat, he'd felt decidedly out of place. For the first time. He'd tried chatting with a few colleagues and found himself running out of things to say. For the first time. As if the connection between his brain and his being was halfway across the country. Probably eating dinner with his sister and her family. His family. So he'd left, and had come home.

He hung up his coat. He looked to see what he had in the way of food. A gourmet frozen lasagne was the only thing that appealed, and nearly the only thing available. He'd have to shop in the morning, along with doing a myriad of other chores. One of the things he'd forgotten, about being in a more serious relationship -- time for errands, cleaning, and laundry was limited. Put aside in favor of time together. He shoved the frozen entree in the oven and turned it on. Cobbled together a salad.

It was nearly seven-thirty, and he estimated that dinner in the Murray household might be close to finished. After changing into sweats, and getting a glass of water, he settled on the couch with the phone. Talking to Ed was something he needed, personally. Almost organically. But irrelevant of his own desires, he could no longer put off telling the man he loved the rest of what Serena had done.

When Ed answered the phone, Jack could hear the ambient noise of people talking, and dishes clattering, all of which faded as Ed moved away from the remains of dinner. He said he'd go upstairs to the guest room so they could talk in privacy, and as he walked, he gave Jack a running commentary on what he was seeing. Family photos along the stairway. Jack could feel his cheeks burn in response to things Ed was saying quietly about Jack in "real life," in particular about a photo he, himself, hated. One he'd long ago given up convincing Colleen to take down. His wedding photo. It wasn't soon enough before Ed was closing a door behind him, flopping onto a bed.

Jack wanted to get business out of the way, so he told Ed about meeting with Marsh's girlfriend, and how he was now pretty well convinced that the burglar was probably alive, and hiding. From what he could read, the girlfriend's concern had been more a wariness of them, rather than worry about her lover. Ed was very relieved to hear that. He told Ed what it would take to get records from the Cayman Island's bank, deliberately leaving out Serena's name for the interim. Then he asked about Ryerson's ex, and great-aunt, intrigued as well by the coincidences that were very slowly accumulating. That Ryerson and Woodbridge had both quit school at the same time might be significant, he agreed. That they'd both lied about it could be easily explained away, or mean something, too. Add that to the additional phone call made to Woodbridge from the Tide's neighborhood pay phone -- and the investigation was definitely making some much needed progress.

"We haven't spoken to Van Buren, yet," Ed said. "She getting anywhere with connecting the suspect and Marsh?"

"She's having the Marsh's bar hangouts canvassed, with Woodbridge's photo. LUDs have been unproductive, so far. But she's going the pay phone route again. Presuming the two men talked on Sunday, or early Monday morning. Could be a needle in a haystack," Jack finished.

Silence descended, and even over the phone, it clearly wasn't a comfortable one.

"So, how are you doing?" Jack asked.

Ed sighed loudly, and there was the sound of something that Jack finally recognized as the other man rubbing his mustache. Ed did that when he was thinking, or anxious; Jack imagined in this case it was a bit of both.

"My group has re-formed, with a different server," Ed answered. "Most everyone knows by now, and have signed up again. But before the list was cutoff, there was a lot of discussion. I really didn't want to answer people's questions, which were directed to me, about why..." He petered off.

"I told Reina that the list owner could call me, even at home," Jack said, "not that I'd really thought about what I'd say."

Ed chuckled. "Apparently, you've changed at least one cop's attitude about the DA's office. Reina really, well, told some people off. And a number of lesbians backed her up, too. It got kinda lively." He paused. "Do you have any idea why Serena did this?"

"Not exactly," Jack replied truthfully. "But there's another piece to it, that I haven't told you yet. It's how I found out about her investigation in the first place." He took a deep breath, and told Ed everything. Listened to the muttered curses interrupting the narrative, and ached to touch him.

"I knew it," Ed said, when Jack had finally finished. "That damned, fucking, fucking diary! That's why, isn't it? She's convinced that those missing pages have to do with me, isn't she?"

Jack's stomach clenched. "That's a reasonable theory. But why would she pick on you? Why assume that the pages have to do with anything?" But Jack knew the answer; if it was the right question in the first place. "That part is my responsibility," he said quickly, before Ed tried to respond. "It was probably obvious that I was shocked to see the book."

Ed snorted loudly. "Don't even go there, Jack," he said with force. "If she didn't automatically assume the worst about people -- I mean, shit, even if she had some questions, why didn't she ask you? Ask me? We've worked together for almost a year now! She's just fucking nuts," he hissed.

Jack tried to inject some levity, desperate to do something, when actually he could do nothing. "Nora's theory is that Serena is jealous. Two men together shuts her out."

"That's disgusting!" Then Ed started to laugh. "That's more than disgusting! Jesus!"

Jack was smiling, hearing the intense laughter on the other end of the phone. If this is what it took to give Ed some release, then so be it. Serena's expense? He didn't care.

"Oh, man..." Ed finally moaned as the laughter died down. "I needed that. You know she left me a message? I haven't listened to it, yet. Just made my skin crawl, the thought of hearing her smug voice. But now I think I can handle it. So were you the one to move her back to second chair?"

"No. Nora told her. She and I are meeting for dinner tomorrow night. She wants to talk about Serena, out of the office. And that message from Serena is supposed to be an apology."

"Well -- that should be interesting," Ed replied sarcastically. "She apologizes so sincerely."

Jack made a noncommittal noise.

"So you have a date with Nora tomorrow night?"

Jack turned on the couch, and lay back, stretching his legs, flexing his feet. "I have a date tomorrow night," Jack answered, "but not with Nora. At least I hope it's tomorrow night. That's when my lover is supposed to come home, if things go smoothly...."

"Damned right," Ed said, and Jack could hear him smiling, "but you know, I get this silly grin on my face when I hear you call me that. Sometimes it lasts for hours."

Jack chuckled. "And is that a bad thing?"

"Not at all. Hard to explain, should I be asked. As a matter of fact, Colleen and I have a date as soon as I get back downstairs. She'll probably ask me. We're going to have more family photo fun. I've been promised stories, too."

Jack was certain the other man was grinning full out by now. "Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea -- having you stay there," he said, only half-teasing. "She's going to do her best to embarrass me. So, hey, if she asks about your silly grin, I think you should tell her the truth."

"Then I can be embarrassed, too?"

"Full equality -- the hallmark of any long-lasting relationship," he responded.

Silence again stretched between them. "Long-lasting? You think about us that way?" Ed's voice had gotten quiet, his tone serious.

Jack almost hesitated, then leapt. "Yes, I do. It's what I'd like."

"Good," Ed said softly, "because I'd like that, too."

The timer on the stove buzzed, startling him. It required a manual shutoff, so he got up. "Sorry -- my dinner is done." He headed toward the kitchen. "Well, you're not the only one with a silly grin on their face, now. Means a lot to hear you say that, Ed."

"I love you," Ed said simply. "Which reminds me, thank you for the email. That was... very special. I'm saving it."

It took him a moment to remember. He smiled as he turned off the timer. "You're welcome. I think I sent that about two years ago."

Ed made a guttural noise. "I'm with you there." His voice got soft again. "You'd better eat your dinner, Jack. We'll talk tomorrow."

Jack was reluctant. But his stomach was agreeing with Ed, growling as the scent of lasagne filled his nostrils. He suddenly remembered Peter's message, which he relayed. Then, too soon, they severed the connection.

He didn't feel like reading while he ate, so he put dinner on a tray and brought it to the bed. Where talking heads on television could fill the room with the sound of voices. Where he wouldn't have to think about the day that was nearly over. Where he could concentrate on something else entirely.

Ed was sitting at the kitchen table with Colleen, photo albums spread out around them. He was enjoying himself to such an extent that he didn't hedge any of the questions he was being asked. His candor was worth it in the long run, he figured. The tales Jack's younger sister was sharing would give him much to tease his lover about. They were also a nice contrast to some of the things Jack had told him about his childhood.

Their conversation was periodically interrupted by shouts from across the great-room; from the den, where Lennie, Ian, and Colleen's husband, James, were watching a Bulls' game.

"Isn't the quietest spot in the house to do this," Colleen said, after a particularly raucous outburst.

"It's okay," Ed replied, "I'm used to it. Big family."

Colleen looked toward her son for a moment. "Thank you, Ed, for what you told him earlier. You and Lennie. He thinks that being a cop is glamorous, and that his grandfather was a hero, just because he walked a beat. He needs to know what the reality of the profession is."

Ed hesitated. "Well, I don't mean to discourage him -- if he wants to join the force, I'd have to tell him to go for it. But you're right. He needs to know the truth. And it was a bit hard for me, I'll admit, to hear your dad being described in such glowing terms." He stopped, aware that he might have just shoved his foot past his gums. "No disrespect meant," he added hastily.

She shook her head. "None taken, believe me. I'd assumed that Jack told you things...."

"He did. Not readily, but he did."

"He and mom got the brunt of it," she said slowly. "I think he was willing to, so that it wouldn't be directed at the rest of us. I don't know that, of course, he rarely wants to talk about it. To me, anyway." She took a deep breath. "To any of us."

Ed felt a resurgence of the anger he'd been living with that day. Directed at a man who had taken on the responsibility of raising a child, and instead had made a large portion of that child's life a nightmare. It wasn't the first time he'd felt like this. The first time was when Jack had spilled it out, with an intense eye-lock that hadn't wavered. Ed had had a brief, fleeting vision of his life intertwined with Jack's, as he'd listened to the words, and understood the trust that was being given, and stared down into those deep hazel eyes. A vision that he'd considered pure fancy thirty minutes later. An hour later, he'd been seducing Jack in the kitchen, unable to stop himself. Unwilling to try.

"Sometimes," Ed finally responded to her, "it's easier to tell someone who's not intimately involved."

"True enough," she said. Then she smiled gently. "And at least he's trusted me with some parts of his life. And he has you. He does have you, doesn't he?"

Ed opened his mouth to answer; then his mind interpreted her words in a way that he was not about to discuss, so he shut it again, confused.

"You do love him," she said in a low voice, touching his forearm, "don't you?"

He smiled in relief. "Yes. I do."

"All right then." She squeezed. "Now. I think you'll get a real kick out of these," she said, pulling a new album closer. "Think the late sixties, early seventies. Big hair."

He laughed out loud when she opened it.

Jack rolled over, again, and looked at the clock for the third time. The lighted display said it was eleven-twenty. It felt like it was two am. He was so exhausted, mentally and physically, and wanted to sleep so very badly. And yet, it wasn't happening. He couldn't imagine the problem was really what it seemed to be. And yet, as he rolled over one more time and felt the empty bed next to him, he was forced to admit the truth. The bed was too big, and he was too alone in it.

He couldn't get comfortable. He couldn't stop expecting to feel Ed next to him. He'd be just about to fall asleep, then his mind would demand to know why he couldn't hear Ed's breathing. No matter how many times he'd told himself that he'd only been sleeping beside Ed for a week, which wasn't nearly long enough for it to have become a habit -- he'd reach out and feel confused when Ed wasn't there. Not even the fact that he was wearing pajamas for the first time in nine nights fooled his brain. He got out of bed, thinking that perhaps a shot of scotch and a hot washcloth on his face might help.

The alcohol did make his limbs seem heavier. He stood at the sink in the bathroom, and squeezed out excess hot water from a cloth. Evidence of Ed's presence in his life was scattered throughout the apartment. Two suits in the closet. Laundry in the hamper. But it was the most obvious there, in the bathroom, he thought. The toothbrush he'd bought Ed, in the holder across from his own. A second set of towels, on a rack that hadn't been used in years. He opened the top drawer. A different kind of razor sat next to his. And on the countertop, Ed's brand of skin lotion, and his aftershave.

Jack picked up the bottle of aftershave and removed the top. He sniffed, his eyes closing involuntarily. The ache of desire, and longing, of pure need, and love, suffused him. He had to set the bottle down quickly before he dropped it, as if it could burn his fingers. He rewet the washcloth, wrung it out again, and covered his face. The heat relaxed him further. He could still smell Ed, though; the scent was all around him.

After three more heat treatments, he put himself back under the covers. This time, he rested on his side, pulled Ed's pillow to his chest, and deliberately let the smell of the man he loved stay under his nose. In his arms. Hopefully, in his sleep. He drifted off.

Ed listened to Lennie snoring and sighed to himself. He wasn't any closer to falling asleep than he'd been a half hour before. He was almost certain it had been at least a half hour since he'd lain down, though he didn't bother to look at the clock. He was so exhausted, so emotionally wiped, that he'd expected to drop off as soon as his head had hit the pillow. But the snoring from the other bed wasn't right. There were no streetlights casting a muted glow on the ceiling. No warm, naked, slim, strong body curled up next to him. No lips to kiss good night. No love to be made. No extra watch on the bedside table.

He rolled, and sat on the edge of the bed, resting his face in his hands. He felt wired, and alone, and a deep, deep ache in his chest. He got up and slipped on his jeans as quietly as he could, then left the room, intending to go downstairs and find something to relax him. There was the unexpected sound of a very quiet television coming from the master bedroom. The bathroom light had been left on, illuminating the hallway and stairs, for which Ed was very grateful. He didn't want to wake anyone with his restlessness, knocking a table over, or falling on his ass.

In the kitchen, he got the milk out and poured a glass. He wanted to warm it. That was what his mother had always recommended for falling asleep. Something about the proteins in the milk changing when it was heated; he'd always tuned out the explanation. But the microwave would beep loudly when it was finished, no doubt. He didn't feel comfortable using it.

"Wouldn't you prefer that warm?" Colleen's voice almost caused him to drop the glass. "Sorry...."

"Just a minor heart attack," he said lightly. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"I wasn't asleep." She smiled, and put her hand out. "Warm?"

"Yes, thank you," he answered.

She put the glass in the microwave and tapped the keypad. "Having a hard time sleeping in a strange house?"

"Sort of," he answered more truthfully than he'd intended. "It's a little darker than I'm used to. No city lights, street sounds... you know."

She was relaxing against the counter, with her arms folded, studying him. "Whenever James goes away on business, I have a hell of a time sleeping by myself. I swear, that bed gets huge."

The opening was there, but he felt embarrassed to walk through it. He shrugged. "I'm in a twin," was all he'd say.

"Doesn't matter. But don't worry -- I've got something besides warm milk that might help."

Said milk was ready, and after given the options of cinnamon or nutmeg, Ed chose nutmeg. He sipped, and was momentarily pulled back to his mother's kitchen by the sense memory. Unexpectedly, his throat started to close. The mess of the day coming up quickly, mixed with a soul-deep yearning for comfort.

"Ed, what's wrong? This is more than missing my brother, isn't it?" Colleen asked softly.

He took another sip, forcing it past the lump, then cleared his throat. "The short version is that I had a very... bad day. The long version would take hours to explain. So, for a number of reasons, I miss Jack. One night apart doesn't seem like it should be that big a thing, but it's not really a normal night...."

She sighed. "I'm sorry. That's inadequate, I know, but I am." She ran a hand through her hair, with a mannerism that was so reminiscent of Jack, Ed almost smiled. "Look," she said, her tone still soft, "you finish up the milk before it cools, because believe it or not, that really will help. And then we'll go back upstairs and I'll give you my patented method for overcoming bed emptiness, when you're used to a certain warm body close by."

He did as instructed, and was relieved to feel lethargy begin to permeate his bones. He followed her to a closet in the upper hallway, where she rummaged quietly, finally picking out a night-light. She also got two spare pillows and handed them to Ed.

"Jack substitute," she whispered. "Next to you, under the covers."

He was willing to try anything, so he nodded and was following her again, into the guest room. Leaving the door open, she plugged in the night-light at the baseboard. He could see that this would be a big improvement, for him, and he hoped it wouldn't disturb Lennie. Though the man had been sleeping through everything so far, only rolling away from the doorway with barely a change in his breathing.

Before Colleen left, she cupped his face, pulled it down, and kissed his cheek. He'd mouthed a thanks, too surprised by the kiss to do anything else. He was suddenly extremely tired, and after removing his jeans, he climbed back into bed, bringing first one pillow, then both under the covers. He got situated on his side, with the pillows against his chest and legs, letting his arm rest on one. Surprisingly, just the presence of a form in the familiar spot was enough to help him let go.

Then the door opened, and Colleen handed him a three-by-five picture frame. She smiled, and left. He brought it closer, turning it so the glow of the night-light illuminated the photo. It was a close-up of Jack, with an arm around his daughter, Joanna. His heart caught, and ached. His throat threatened betrayal, but a few deep breaths calmed him enough to have faith he wouldn't cry. Lennie was snoring again. Ed ran a thumb over Jack's face, set the photo on the bedside table, closed his eyes, and let sleep take him.

On to Part Eleven, "Inchoate"

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