Disclaimer:  NBC, MCA/Universal and Wolf Films owns them.
Rating:  NC17 (mild)
Summary:   Part 16.  Jack and Ed see in the dark. Ed and Lennie take another trip.
Copyright November, 2003, Cassatt

The corridor outside of the auditorium was quiet, except for the sound of Ed's voice speaking into his cell phone. Jack was sitting next to him, on a bench, near the principal's office. The adrenaline rush he'd just lived through was beginning to wear off, but his mind was still working at a rapid pace. He was automatically going over the case, as it stood, running through the checklist he'd given Nora that afternoon. Thinking about the Grand Jury presentation. He needed to call Nora, so she could call the mayor. He imagined the man would not mind having his evening interrupted in this particular instance, if he was even home at that hour. It wasn't yet eight o'clock.

Ed ended his call to Van Buren at almost the exact moment they both heard applause and cheers coming from behind the closed doors ten yards away.

"She's gonna make arrangements," Ed said, "for a flight out as early as possible tomorrow. The usual stuff to go through with the airlines, weapons, etcetera."

The doors opened and people started filling up the space nearby. Jack and Ed had left their jackets inside, and Jack said he would retrieve them while Lennie was called. "I'll meet you back here," he said, with a hand on Ed's thigh. He could feel the muscle tension under his fingers, so he gave a quick squeeze. He would definitely take the man on a ride before sleep. Ed nodded; Jack stood and headed toward the auditorium.

He never made it to the door. Ed's family met him, and Lawrence handed him both jackets. Mellonee kept walking, turning to her right, presumably to pick up Shondra. The boy, Kevin, held on to his aunt Jocelyn's hand. Jack thanked the other man, then apologized for leaving before the end of the show.

"Is everything all right?" Yvette asked, stopping her son from responding.

Jack met her eyes, momentarily taken aback by their intensity. "Yes, it was actually good news. The prime suspect in a multiple murder was taken into custody, in Milwaukee. We'd been hoping he would be caught. Waiting for the call."

"Milwaukee? This is the same case that Edward was investigating last week? In the Midwest?"

"Yes."

Ed joined them, and handed Jack the phone. He smiled his thanks, gave Ed his jacket, then apologized again to the others for having to take care of business. He was anxious to make the call, and after one last look at Ed, he walked down the hallway. Away from the crowd, and the noise.

"He has to call the DA," Ed said to his family. He knew he didn't need to make excuses, but his brother was watching Jack walk away from them. He didn't like the look in his eyes.

"Right now," Lawrence said.

"Yes," Ed said, feeling his jaw tighten. "Right now. Ms. Lewin has to call the mayor."

"Lawrence," his mother said, "that was inappropriate." Her eyes darted to Ed's. "The mayor? Goodness. What kind of case is this?"

"A bad one. A very bad one," he replied, kicking himself for letting his brother get to him. Letting that bit of information out, which was really none of anyone's business but the NYPD's, and Jack's.

His mother's eyebrows raised. "I see. So what they were speculating about, on the news, is true? This has to do with the man who was on the mayor's advisory board? The one who committed suicide?"

Ed sighed, and looked around them, at the crowd. "I'll be going to Milwaukee tomorrow, to bring someone back, under arrest. I'm sure it'll be on the news by tomorrow night. That's all I can say."

Jocelyn asked, "This have to do with the guy who ran that bar?"

"That bar?" Ed responded with more than a touch of sarcasm, and anger. "You mean the one where all the fags meet?" He stared at her. She stared back.

"What's a fag?" Kevin asked.

Lawrence took his son's hand and pulled the boy to his side, away from Jocelyn. "Nothing you need to know about now," he said to him.

Ed shoved his hands into his pants' pockets. No, he thought, you'll find out when you're older, when your uncle Ed takes you aside and tells you the truth. In case the genes manifest in you, too. So you know you're not alone. He glanced over his shoulder. Jack was still on the phone.

"Edward," his mother's gentle voice pulled his attention back. "Does this case have to do with the man who owned the bar? Did you know him?"

"Yes, it does, and yes, I did," he answered. "He wasn't a personal friend, but I knew him."

His mother rested a hand on his forearm. "I'm sorry. So you've found his murderer?"

He let himself relax in her gaze. He felt his throat tighten, and swallowed hard. "Yes, Mom. We've found him," he answered in a low voice, not trusting that it would remain as steady as he needed. "Jack will be prosecuting him--four counts."

"Four? Well," she said slowly, patting his arm, "he doesn't stand much of a chance against Jack, does he?"

"No, he doesn't."

She let go, and smiled at him. Jack was suddenly at his elbow, handing him the phone, touching his shoulder, looking serious.

"Hey, bro," Lawrence said. Ed met his eyes. "Sorry."

Ed nodded, and silently accepted the apology. He knew what his brother meant, and he knew he was sincere. Shondra and her mother came dashing up, and all attention became focused on the girl, to Ed's relief. Jack moved closer. Ed turned his head to him. The chaos around the two of them faded, for merely a moment. It was a moment more than long enough for Ed. He was ready to leave. Ready for some alone time. Ready to escape from the city, with Jack.

The lights of the George Washington Bridge and the New Jersey shoreline shone like the stars in the sky. From the hillside bench, where Ed and Jack were sitting, Ed could see beyond the silhouettes of trees to the river, glistening from the reflection. He watched the cars speeding across the span. People coming into Manhattan, for their own form of night life. Their own selection from everything the city had to offer. Wednesday night or Friday, it didn't make any difference.

In the midst of the evening crowd, Ed had been given his ride on the back of Jack's bike, clutching the man's waist through layers of sweater and coat. Pressing his thighs through but two layers of denim; his jeans and Jack's. Ed was more and more convinced that the sensation of wrapping himself nearly around his lover, as the motorcycle swayed from side to side through turns and curves, was one of the best feelings in his life. He held fantasies of the two of them taking off for longer and longer trips. Going to Boston. Going to Maine. Miami Beach. Chicago.

This night, Jack had brought him to Fort Tryon Park. Where Jack had said there was a bench which held some significance to him, and by extension to them. Jack had grinned when he told Ed where they were going. It was a grin Ed had learned to read over the prior two weeks. Jack wasn't embarrassed, because he didn't get embarrassed, but he was on the verge of it. Ed had kissed the grin off of his mouth, standing in the man's bedroom after changing clothes. He had tasted the emotions swirling in Jack's bloodstream. He had told Jack he loved him, softly, in his ear. Jack had smiled a different smile as he took Ed's hand and led them out of the apartment.

Now, sitting on said bench, in the chilly air, with the view laid out before them, Ed put an arm around Jack's shoulders and pulled the two of them a little closer. The park was fairly deserted, overall, and completely deserted where they were. Jack sighed deeply, and worked a hand between Ed's waist and the back of the bench until his arm was encircling Ed, too. They stretched out their legs and relaxed. Ed was content. Even if his ass was getting cold.

"Nice spot," he said.

"Good one for thinking," Jack replied. "Sorting things out."

Ed looked at him in the near dark. The grin was back. "I'm real glad it helped you, then."

"Me, too, Ed." Jack caressed the side of Ed's waist. "So. Seems like we made some headway with your mother."

Ed chuckled gently. "Yeah, you could say that. Who knows, with the holidays coming up you may get invited to some family type things. If my mother has anything to say about it...."

Jack was quiet for a moment. "I'm going back to Chicago for Thanksgiving. Joanna will be there; she usually splits her holiday time between my family and her mother's. I'd like you to come with me."

Ed's stomach reacted, with a flutter. He didn't hesitate. "I'd love to, Jack. That'd be great." He would deal with any ramifications with his own family. He didn't care. He smiled broadly, not being able to prevent it.

"Good. That's good," Jack said, and smiled, too, and Ed could have sworn he sensed some internal shift in the man. Jack became even more relaxed at his side. "And this weekend," Jack continued, "I've made an appointment to see a guy about buying a bike. A BMW. Want to come with? Nice ride, up to Westchester."

"Sure. You want a new bike?" Ed was surprised.

"Well, it's used, but it looks like a good deal. Yeah, I'd like another bike. More power, more comfortable on longer trips, especially for two people. Besides, it's all black."

"Oh, and you're buying it because of that," Ed teased.

"Hey, you know what they say. Black is beautiful." Jack was grinning again.

Ed wished they were in higher light, so he could truly see into the man's eyes. He'd heard the change in his voice, that undefinable something behind Jack's simple words. He shifted enough to face him more directly, not really giving an iota of concern about where they were. He touched the skin of Jack's cheek and the grin disappeared. Everything in him ached for contact. He gave in, and kissed him, sliding his hand behind Jack's head to deepen the connection, feeling Jack's hand slip inside his leather coat to clutch the back of his shirt. His heartbeat jumped as their mouths merged; he wanted to move them both so Jack could be under him, pressed up tightly against him. Jack was swirling his tongue along the roof of Ed's mouth; he wanted them to be on the grass, with hands sliding over skin. With skin sliding over skin. He wanted. He needed.

"Take me in the bushes," he mumbled into Jack's mouth, "or take me home. Now."

Jack pulled back and nodded. He reached, then handed Ed a helmet. They both took a few deep breaths and smiled slowly at each other. As they stood, and adjusted their clothing, and put on headgear, Ed looked out to the river. The lights of the bridge were glittering, like the tiny specks of gold Ed sometimes saw in his lover's eyes. He grabbed Jack's hand, and squeezed. Once. For love.

Jack fought the urge to close his eyes against the intensity of sensation, but instead looked down the length of his body. The glow from the streetlights outside of Ed's bedroom bathed Ed in gold as he kissed a meandering path across Jack's skin. It was unusual for them to leave the lights off, and make love by the streetlights alone. By unspoken agreement, they'd climbed into bed with neither of them touching the lamps. It was the continuation of their night ride; their small tryst in the park; their desire to shut out the world. Their desire for darkness, instead of light. Jack followed his lover's hand as it caressed chest, and abdomen, and hip. The thin, silver bracelet Ed wore was a match for Jack's coloring in the near dark; and while his blood burned and raced and filled his burgeoning erection, Jack had the fleeting fantasy that he, himself, encircled Ed's wrist. He kissed the inside of it, all day, every day, and held himself close. Always there.

Jack kept watching Ed's hand, moving over him. It never ceased to drive him to the edge, to see the contrast of their skin tones. To feel the strength of the body pressing against him. To taste the sweet recesses of the mouth which loved him so freely. To know that this was Ed, and to understand more and more of who the man was.

Jack felt a moan creep up from his gut, as Ed wrapped a hand around his erection, and lips around the head. As much as Jack wanted what could be next, he needed something more. He pulled Ed's shoulders, and the man let go, and moved back up, and met Jack's eager mouth with the warmth of his own. Jack got what he needed. Ed, touching him from lips to toes. Skin against skin. Heat against heat. Hardness against hardness. Dark against light.

With one last groan, Ed collapsed onto Jack's chest, heaving along with the man under him. He was still pulsating inside of his lover; Jack was doing the same, squeezed in between their bellies. Ed's eyes were shut tight. Jack's arms were now wrapped around him. Sweet release with such intensity sapped nearly every last bit of his energy, with aftershocks moving through him, and blackness encroaching his mind. He fought the dark off, needing to see something. He moved off of Jack's neck and propped himself on an almost dead arm. Jack's face was relaxed; his eyes were closed; his cheeks were flushed. Ed ran fingers through silver hair, bringing out a noise from deep in Jack's throat. Ed's bracelet caught the low lights from the street, glinting softly. Jack's eyes opened and locked with his. If he could say anything at all to the man, at that very moment, he would tell him there was nothing in the world that would drag him away from the two of them. From all that they were, under the covers. In the dark. He let himself drop back down, and took Jack's mouth in a deep kiss. Tasting the afterglow in them both. The blood-rich desire. The love.

Ed was walking. He was in the airport. It was crowded. Lennie was next to him, and Woodbridge was between them. The man was handcuffed to Lennie. Telling Lennie a joke, pissing Ed off, causing his partner to roll his eyes every few seconds. They were walking. Then Lennie said he needed a magazine for the plane ride and started off toward a news stand, with Woodbridge in tow. Ed didn't follow, suddenly finding himself ten yards from both men, watching as Lennie took the cuff off of his own wrist, and cuffed Woodbridge's hands together. Lennie picked up the magazine he'd wanted and took the other man's elbow, steering him toward the cash register. Woodbridge spun on his heel and made a dash in the opposite direction. Ed tried to follow him, but his legs were too slow. He pulled out his gun and yelled at the man to stop. He pointed the gun. Woodbridge stumbled. People were all around, some screaming, some covering their heads. Ed cocked the gun, and managed two steps closer. Woodbridge was trying to get up. His eyes pinned Ed. Ed fired. The man's head exploded in a spray of red.

Ed woke up with a gasp, his heart pounding and beads of sweat cooling on his forehead in the night air. The ceiling gradually came into focus; his heart was still hammering. His stomach was beginning to roil, even only half-awake. "Shit," he muttered harshly. He didn't look at the clock. He closed his eyes, but the dream was still there, so he opened them again, quickly. He'd never shot anyone during his career. He'd used his hands, and he'd been prepared to shoot any number of times, but he'd never had to do it. He was grateful for that fact, truth be told. The dream he had just experienced was as close as he wanted to come. It was a dream he had had a few other times since joining Homicide. That didn't make it any easier, nor did the message he'd received from his subconscious. He had blown off Woodbridge's head because he'd wanted to.

Jack stirred, and rolled over, facing him. He asked Ed if he was okay. Ed hesitated, then admitted he wasn't, but didn't elaborate other than to say a dream had been bad. Jack tugged on him, and Ed went with it, ending up with his head on Jack's chest and the man's arm around his shoulders. When he closed his eyes this time, the airport had faded. He let the scent of Jack's skin and the lift and fall of his chest lull him back under. He was asleep within a minute.

They'd overslept enough to make the morning a rushed one. Lennie was due to pick up Ed in less than a half hour, so they could stop by the precinct and still get to the airport by seven. Jack had yanked on jeans and a tee shirt, splashed some water on his face, brushed his teeth and wet-combed his hair. Shower and shaving would have to wait until later. He had left Ed under the hot water, and had come into the kitchen to make some coffee. Possibly find something that Ed could take to eat on the go. While the coffee brewed, he looked through the things they'd loaded into the freezer over the weekend, and pulled out the bagels. He fixed Ed a bagel with schmear, hearing the shower end, shaving completed, and drawers opening and closing in the bedroom. He found a baggie and slid Ed's breakfast into it. He poured two cups of coffee, and as he was adding cream to them both, the man entered the kitchen. The scents of soap, aftershave and Ed woke up Jack's pulse more completely than coffee could ever do. Jack smiled at him.

Ed slipped his arms around Jack's waist and brought them together. Jack felt a surge of something at the chest to hip contact; a swell of emotion so deep his heartbeat responded with a single thud. He didn't analyze it any further than to recognize one simple thing in that moment. He loved Ed. It was enough.

Ed sighed in his ear, then said, "Thank you for breakfast."

"Any time."

After a squeeze, they let go; Ed looked at his watch. "Lennie'll be here in five." He put on his suit jacket, which had been dropped on the counter. Adjusted his holster and slipped his badge into the jacket's inside pocket. Jack handed him a cup; he took a few quick sips.

"If you run into any unforeseen problems with the legalities today," Jack said, "and can't get a hold of me, call Serena. I'll tell her to stick by the phone." Jack was leaning against the counter, drinking coffee.

Ed nodded. "We will." He came up to Jack, and kept coming until he was in nearly full body contact, once again. He braced himself on either side of Jack's hips, and said quietly, "Good luck with Anthony. I know I didn't want to tell him, but I'm sorry I won't be there. I wanted us to do it together...."

Jack placed a hand on Ed's chest. "I know, Ed. But at least I can tell him what you're doing today."

Ed nodded again, but his lips were in a tight line. His eyes dropped until he was staring at Jack's tee shirt.

"What?" Jack asked.

Ed raised his glance, and Jack could see something behind the dark brown irises. "It's a good thing there will be so many witnesses today," Ed said in a low voice.

"Oh," Jack answered gently. He moved his hand from the front of Ed's shirt to cup his cheek. "You'll be okay."

"Luckily, I won't have much choice."

Jack pushed off of the counter's edge and kissed the man intensely, with passion, and heat, and sighed as Ed returned it with just as much emotion. He only wanted to remind Ed that he was loved. That he wasn't alone. That he could trust in the two of them. But body memories of the night before were overwhelming him, and he didn't want to stand before Lennie Briscoe with obvious signs of arousal, so he slowed down his kisses, pulling away just as the front doorbell for the building buzzed.

"Love you," Jack said while they were still breathing each other's air.

"Yeah," Ed said, his voice still low, "love you, too, Jack." He moved away and walked to his apartment door, hitting the button to let Lennie into the building. Jack watched his lover get an overcoat from the closet and fill up pockets with keys, cell phone, wallet and bagel. Jack picked up his coffee again, and sipped, while Ed let Lennie into the apartment. Jack greeted the man, telling him the same thing he'd told Ed about calling if they ran into problems. He kept things as even and as seemingly normal as possible, given that he was standing in Ed's kitchen dressed only in jeans and a tee shirt.

Ed approached him one last time, took his hand and stared deeply into Jack's eyes. Jack caressed the soft skin, his thumb sliding over the silver bracelet. "Go, get him," Jack said intently. Ed nodded, then left for the door. Jack met Lennie's eyes across the room. Lennie held the eye contact, then set his mouth with apparent determination, gave a brief nod, and followed Ed. After a final look over his shoulder, Ed walked out of the apartment with his partner. The door closed. Silence descended.

"Get him, Ed, and come home to me," Jack said quietly. "Let me take care of the bastard." He refilled his cup, lightened it, and headed to a hot shower.

Jack was loading the dishwasher as a last task before leaving for work when Ed's phone rang. The answering machine kicked on just as Jack closed the washer and dried his hands. He heard Ed's voice coming from the desk in the living room. The machine beeped; he headed for the closet to get his coat.

"Hey, Eddie," a man's voice floated into the hallway. Jack stopped, his heart skipping. It wasn't a voice he recognized. "Listen, babe, I know it's been a few months but hey, what can I say? I've got a really huge favor to ask, and if we're gonna be frank with each other, you do owe me still. My editor is all over my back about this Woodbridge rumor, and he asked me to use my contact with the NYPD to get the real story. So I'm here, begging my contact, sweetest ass in all of New York. Call me, would'ja? Today?" The click of the man's phone was loud in the quiet apartment. The machine turned itself off.

Jack had an urge, a strong urge. A nearly overwhelming urge. To erase the message and call star-sixty-nine so he could talk to this person. He knew exactly what he would say to him. Ed is my babe, not yours -- got it? He opened the closet and yanked out his coat, putting it on with enough enthusiasm to send his key ring flying out of the pocket. He picked it up. Ed's keys made it twice as heavy as it used to be.

"My babe," he said, under his breath, trying out the word in its new context. "My lover."

He lifted his helmet off of the hall table, and thought about the evening before. About the night before. The intensity of the past twelve hours. He deliberately did not think about the day ahead of him. Not quite yet. He looked over the apartment from where he stood. Nearly two weeks before, he'd done the same thing, but then, Ed had been fast asleep in his bed. Now, he was miles in the air. Jack left, locking the door behind him.

Ed thanked the cabin hostess for the coffee, ignoring the gleam in her eye as she replied with, "just ask if you need anything else, Detective." He would have appreciated something more than two tiny containers of what they claimed was half-and-half, but she'd already told Lennie that two was all each passenger could receive.

"Hey," Lennie said quietly to him, after she'd moved on, "you could ask her for a phone number for me, pal." He chuckled.

"Oh, you think I'm pimping for you?" Ed finished lightening his drink and took a tentative sip. Drinkable, but barely so. Nearly equivalent to the precinct's coffee, so at least he was used to the taste.

"Like I need you to do that," Lennie retorted.

Ed took the baggie out of the seat pocket in front of him, where he'd stashed it upon sitting. He still had half of his bagel left, and he intended to enjoy it. Doubly so because of how it had come to be in his possession.

"I don't need you to do that," Lennie continued.

"Hey, relax, man," Ed said around a bite. "I know that. You probably date more than I do. Or did, anyway. Well, I mean, maybe. Depends upon your definition of dating." He hesitated, seeing the look of wariness settle on Lennie's face. "We won't go there."

Lennie drank some coffee. "Good."

Ed pulled out something else he'd stashed in the pocket, a newspaper crossword puzzle. "So, wanna help me with this?"

"Did you bring a pencil with you?"

Ed tried not to roll his eyes. They usually argued about pen versus pencil, and he wasn't in the mood. "No, I didn't. It's pen only, unless you want to schmooze the woman with the cart."

Lennie muttered something else, which Ed couldn't make out, but agreed. They worked companionably on the puzzle for a few minutes, with Ed eating the rest of his breakfast and Lennie working on an airline danish. Ed licked his fingers after the last bite and folded the baggie.

He asked, "Have you ever done this before? Gone to pick up a suspect from another state?"

"A few times. One of them turned out to be quite an experience. The guy died right after they'd cuffed him to me. Croaked--there on the train platform in Baltimore." Lennie shook his head. "He was a real piece of work."

Ed's heart took a flying leap against the wall of his chest as his dream came back with a start. Living Technicolor, behind his eyelids. "Huh," was all he could get out in response.

Lennie looked at him hard for a long minute. "What?"

Ed thought about lying to him, about smoothing it all over. But his partner had to have his back, and as much as Ed didn't want Lennie deciding that he needed to watch over every move he made, he did concede that the man would probably understand. So he told Lennie a little about his dream, about how edgy he was feeling, about how he was looking forward to dragging their suspect back to New York, and about how much he wasn't looking forward to spending hours in close proximity to him. How much he really wouldn't mind if the guy got sucked through a hole in the fuselage.

They had a short talk about the pros and cons of revenge. About what can drive a person to that extreme. It helped. Ed relaxed enough to trust himself for the day ahead. Eventually, they returned to filling in words, gently arguing about definitions. Ed let the other memories of the night before relax him further. He wished he could tell Lennie something else intensely personal. Precisely how lucky he felt to have fallen for Jack. He knew he couldn't. He told himself that that was okay.

"This is where I think it gets interesting," Serena said.

She and Jack had the bank records which had been discovered in Woodbridge's office, along with those they'd obtained from both Karen Abbott's bank and Thomas Ryerson's. The papers were spread out over the T-table in his office. Serena had constructed a timeline which they were studying.

She pointed to the middle of the three page spread. "Here. A year and a half ago, when Abbott comes to New York and gets her job at the gallery. She opens a bank account in early June, with ten thousand dollars, two weeks before the gay parade. Two weeks after the parade, mid-July, she sends her parents five thousand out of that same account. Now," she said, pointing further along the timeline. "Look at her secondary US account, which she used to pay her parents a monthly stipend, starting in August. This one is opened in late July with a transfer, from her Cayman Islands account, of ten thousand, and gets periodic transfers to cover the money she's sending to her parents.

Here's Ryerson's accounts. He has a primary US account and a secondary US account, too. But he's had the secondary US account since he arrived in New York the year before Abbott did. Now, also in late July, he transfers fifteen thousand from his Cayman account into the secondary account. Before that, he'd only made one deposit into it, also from Cayman, to open the account. He uses this secondary US account to start purchasing art from Abbott's gallery. He uses the Cayman account to send money to his great-aunt in Chicago, probably to get around gift tax laws." She took a breath.

Jack looked at Woodbridge's name on the chart, and pointed to the month of July. "Woodbridge is making cash withdrawals from his Cayman account here, too?"

Serena answered, "According to the statements he had in his file cabinet, he's taking cash out of the Cayman account over a three day period, in mid-July, which end up totalling one hundred thousand. But, there's no record of where that money went. None that we have anyway. He doesn't put it in his US accounts. It vanishes."

Jack met her eyes, but wasn't really seeing her. "He's got another account down there. He destroyed the paper trail for that one."

"Probably. But back to the interesting part," she said with a small smile. She pointed to July again. "Woodbridge starts making his donations to the gay groups, starting in mid-July, and by the middle of August, he's donated fifty thousand dollars. All from one of his US accounts, I'm sure so he could claim some tax deductions for them. At the end of the little donation period, he transfers fifty thousand from his Cayman account to cover the donations."

"So he's now taken a total of one hundred and fifty thousand out of the Cayman account. One hundred of which disappears, fifty of which he donates to gay causes," Jack said. He understood immediately what Serena's point was. "That son of a bitch. He paid off Crymson with the donations. It was a bribe, more than a payoff. That son of a bitch. Crymson was not just angry at the nomination because the man was a murderer. He'd gotten the nod in the first place because he'd tried to bribe Crymson into silence."

"Or Crymson told him that was how he could pay his share of the blackmail," Serena said.

Jack took a deep breath, but had to concede that she could be right. "It could have gone down that way, too." He looked at the timeline. "So he has another Cayman account. Which explains something else."

"What's that?"

"How in the hell he thought he'd be able to live another life."

Serena tapped the table top with her pen. "I've asked the tech-lab geniuses to see if they can find a trace of another account somewhere on his hard drive. This guy is too meticulous to not have been keeping some records of all of this."

"Good," Jack said. "And I agree. He's way too meticulous to keep the details only in his head. Contact the person in Justice who you spoke to before. Expand the request to the Cayman bank." He paused. "And book the Grand Jury for tomorrow. I want indictments before the weekend."

She nodded.

Anthony reacted as Jack had expected, as he had the last time Jack had been sitting on a chair across from him in his apartment. Russell was quiet this time, but he held on to Anthony's hand with a near death-grip and kept looking at him as if expecting the other man to collapse at any moment. Anthony didn't collapse. Jack continued to give him his complete attention, and in the prolonged, uneasy silence, they all sat. Waiting.

The tension broke when Anthony wrenched his hand away from Russell and stood quickly, then walked to a window, shoving his fists into his pockets along the way. Jack watched his shoulders shake. After a minute, he wiped his face. After two, he took a deep breath and returned to the couch.

"I'm sorry," Jack repeated himself.

"Yeah, um," Anthony said, then had to stop. His mouth clenched and he took another breath. "So, we need to exhume... the body? What do you need?"

"Do you have the legal authority to sign the order? You buried him, right?"

"Yes," Anthony answered quietly. "I must have it. We have... had a living trust, giving me sole discretion over his remains. He wanted to be buried with me, not be taken back to Alabama, and with... never mind. I'll check with my estate lawyer, but I believe I can sign."

"If you buried him, you can take care of the exhumation." Jack took the papers out of his briefcase and showed the man where to put his signature, handing him a pen in the process. Anthony signed. "Good," Jack said, keeping his voice gentle. Quite unexpectedly, his stomach had begun to churn as he watched Crymson's survivor hold himself together. He felt the urge to take a deep breath himself. "Now, I have a couple of questions." He proceeded to ask Anthony if his lover had ever said anything specific about Woodbridge's nomination, other than he just didn't like the nominee.

Anthony closed his eyes for a moment. "What do you mean?"

"I mean anything, any comment about how he got the nomination, what Crymson thought of his character. We have a theory. I'm looking to confirm it." Jack didn't elaborate.

While Anthony was thinking, Russell spoke up. "I remember something he said. At dinner, during the time the committee was meeting about it all, because I'd asked him how it was going. He made a crack about not trusting people who wave money around." Russell shrugged. "I thought it was kind of odd, since Crym was always working to help raise money for this group and that, and here was this guy who had donated a lot of money to places which really needed it. So I asked him what he meant."

"And?" Jack asked, mentally crossing his fingers.

"He said something to the effect that he preferred people with pure motives. I can't remember exactly. I asked him to explain why he was saying that, and he changed the subject."

Anthony grimaced. "It's what he did every time. I should have pressed him more...."

Russell took his hand again. "Stop, Tony," he said somewhat harshly. To Jack, he asked, "What's your theory?"

"We've still haven't found concrete evidence confirming that the other two victims from Madison were blackmailing Woodbridge. Only circumstantial evidence. But, it appears that at about the same time money was disappearing from his account, and money was appearing in Ms. Abbott's and Mr. Ryerson's accounts, Woodbridge was also making his donations to the various gay and lesbian groups. It's possible that that was what Crymson demanded of him." He held up his hand, forestalling the retort he could see Russell about to make. "Or it's what Woodbridge offered to do, to elicit Crymson's silence. Like I said, it's completely circumstantial."

"But it certainly would make Crym's reactions to that whole situation more logical," Anthony said. "If that prick got the nomination only because he'd made these huge contributions, and in reality he had absolutely no interest in our community, Crym would have been beside himself with anger. And even guilt." Anthony sighed deeply, then asked, "Does it make a difference on what Woodbridge will be charged with for... this murder?"

"No. He'll be charged with first degree murder. That hasn't changed. But we want to give the jury the full picture, and Crymson's participation is still a bit unclear. Your information will be helpful." Jack picked up the exhumation order and slipped it back into his briefcase.

"Mr. McCoy," Anthony asked, with the strongest voice he'd used since Jack had entered the apartment, "how did they catch him? Why in Milwaukee?"

Jack smiled. This he would actually enjoy telling the man. He only hoped that Anthony found a small semblance of justice in the story. What Jack knew of it, anyway.

Ed and Lennie walked off of the plane and into the passenger terminal at Mitchell International Airport in Milwaukee. They'd had to change planes in Detroit; annoying but unavoidable. It was either that, or fly into O'Hare and drive, an option they didn't want for the return trip. When, all things being equal, they'd have a prisoner in handcuffs to escort, which was not that easy to deal with from a logistical standpoint. Sitting in an airport in the Motor City for forty minutes would be a snap in comparison to arranging land transportation between states.

They saw a uniformed police officer scanning the exiting passengers and approached her, taking out their badges along the way. Lennie introduced them both; they all shook hands, and the officer informed them that she was their driver for the day.

"I've been instructed," she said as they began to walk, "to take you to the victims' home so that you can interview them. We have their statements at the precinct."

"Okay, let's go," Lennie said. "How long is the drive?"

"Not long. About twenty minutes from here, then it's only about ten minutes to the station."

Lennie looked at Ed, and he responded by nodding his agreement with the man's unspoken comment. With luck, they could be back on a plane by two, or three at the latest. Ed was really wanting to walk and stretch his legs, but the officer was quite a bit shorter than they were, and her stride couldn't match theirs. He adjusted. He listened to his partner make small talk with their escort. He felt his heartbeat as it skipped, every minute or so.

It was Karen Abbott's father who answered the door, greeting them with a grim smile and a hearty handshake. Her mother joined them within seconds, and when Ed expressed their condolences she locked eyes with him. She said only, "Thank you," but he understood the full meaning behind the two words. Then she and her husband led them into the living room, where everyone took seats. She offered them something to drink, some coffee, whatever they wanted. Ed asked for a glass of water; Lennie did, too. The MPD officer declined. Mrs. Abbott left the room.

"Mr. Abbott," Lennie said, "we'd like you to tell us what happened last night. Just so we can hear it directly."

The man cleared his throat, then leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands. His eyes, bright with high emotion, darted between Ed and Lennie. "Well, after we got the calls from your lieutenant and Mr. McCoy, I started thinking that maybe I could be a little more, what do you call it, proactive. I know that we were told just to keep looking for this Woodbridge guy, see if we could catch him watching the house, but it seemed to me that was leaving too much to chance."

Ed glanced at the officer, then said, "But you knew that the police had been alerted."

"Sure, but since he could have been in any kind of car, right, the odds of the police catching him were pretty small." His hands started to work together. "So what we did was to take our car and park it down the street, empty the driveway. Then we kept the lights off inside. Made it look like nobody was home. And I sat here, in the dark, with my shotgun on my lap. I waited for him." The movement of his hands was getting erratic.

Lennie asked, "You would have waited for days?"

"Yeah. Weeks," he replied harshly, "if necessary."

Ed wanted to calm the man back down. "So you sat here," he said, using his gentlest tone, "and then what happened?"

Mrs. Abbott returned with the water, handing Ed and Lennie each a glass. She perched on the couch beside her husband. Ed took a long drink, and kept his eyes on the man across from him.

Mr. Abbott replied with the same harsh tone, "The goddamned bastard had a goddamned key to the back door! I heard the door being opened, and I told Louise to go hide in the closet, real quiet like, and I waited until he came down the hall, slinking like a goddamned snake, and when he got right there," he paused and pointed to entry foyer, "I cocked my shotgun and told him not to move, or I'd blow his head off."

Ed's stomach lurched. Lennie asked, "He had a key? So your daughter had a key to this house? Why didn't you tell us that it was missing from her things?"

Mrs. Abbott answered, "We didn't think of it. She kept it in her jewelry box, in a drawer. I only went into the box to find..." Her voice faltered for a moment, then she continued, "to find a necklace for her to be buried in, and didn't open the drawer."

"How would Woodbridge," Ed asked, "know where to find the key in the first place?"

The woman smiled a soft smile. "Karen had always kept it in that same place. Ever since she left for college. I assume he must have seen it while they were dating."

Lennie sighed, then asked, "So, then what happened? You had a gun pointed at him. He did what?"

The smile on Mr. Abbott's face was not nearly as soft as his wife's had been. It was almost feral. "He told me that he had a gun, too, and that he would shoot me if I didn't let him leave. I didn't see a gun, but he was pretty much in the dark where he was standing. I told him I didn't care if he shot me or not, I would still kill him. I knew Louise had the cell phone and was calling the police. I told him to drop the gun. He tried to smooth talk me, saying that he must have made a mistake, that he was looking for a friend's house and somehow the key his friend gave him opened my door. I let him go on for a while. Let him think that he was getting somewhere with me. Then I heard a number of cars stopping outside, real fast. He heard 'em, too, and took off for the back door. I almost shot at him. I almost did. I ran after him but the police caught him as he opened the door." He paused, his breathing shallow. "I woulda killed him," he finished.

His wife rested a hand on his shoulder and slowly rubbed up and down his back. "We got the man, Fred," she said. "He's going to prison." She met Ed's, then Lennie's eyes. "This morning, we found what he was looking for. He wouldn't have been able to get to it." She stood and went to an antique desk under a window, overlooking the back yard. She returned with a thick, manila envelope which she placed on the coffee table. "We just got back from the bank. We found out that Karen had a safe-deposit box here in Milwaukee, at our branch. She'd hidden the key for it, along with a note, telling us where the box was. I should have thought of it days ago, when Lieutenant Van Buren talked to us about this manuscript you were looking for." Her eyes filled, her voice faltering again.

Mr. Abbott said, "Our daughter had a stuffed animal that she got as a kid. The body was like an empty bag -- you know, for peejays. She used it for hiding things. Sure enough, she'd put a tee shirt in there, and in the middle of it was a note and the key, pinned to the shirt."

Ed picked up the envelope from the table and opened the flap. Inside was what, indeed, looked like a manuscript. "Have either of you read this?"

"We haven't had the chance," Louise Abbott replied. She glanced at her husband. "But that's okay," she continued quietly, "we can wait to hear what it says. You take it to Mr. McCoy."

Once again, Ed understood what was not being said. There was only so much that they could process, only so much they could confront, for now. He promised them that the EADA would see it. They didn't know that might happen that very night. He assumed that the MPD could give them an evidence bag, to preserve the chain of evidence. He looked forward to signing his name to the outside of it.

Jack stepped off of the elevator, onto the tenth floor at Hogan Place, thinking about the tuna sandwich in the paper bag he carried and the man he slept with who was halfway across the continent. Jennifer had the phone to her ear, but waved him over and then hit the hold button. She told him that Detective Green was on the line and Jack's heart fluttered a little--a physical reminder of how the title "detective" plus the name "Green" had become one of the triggers which electrified his pulse.

He told Jennifer he'd take it in his office and walked as quickly as he could to get there, deliberately not thinking about the other triggers his body now held. Like what the sight of Ed's back did, as the man was stretched out before him. Or how the graze of Ed's lips burned the skin of his hip. He opened his door and trotted to the phone. No preamble; Ed told him that they had been given the manuscript that everyone involved in the case had wanted to find. No chance to talk privately; Jack understood. No opportunity to check in below the surface; Jack knew. Even so, Jack was thrilled that the novel, or short story, or whatever it was had turned up. He was anxious to read it.

Ed said that things were going well, and Jack couldn't stop himself; he replied that he was very glad, and he had been thinking about him, and had things to tell him, and looked forward to Ed's return home. The brief silence in response was also eloquent; Jack heard what Ed couldn't say, and smiled. He replied for them both with, "I love you, too, babe." Ed's soft laughter was reward enough. Jack was still smiling as he hung up the phone.

"That McCoy can be quite the cut up," Lennie said, with a hint of sarcasm, looking over his shoulder from the front seat.

Ed slipped the phone into his pocket and did his best to appear serious. Their driver's eyes were on him through the rear view mirror. "Yeah," he answered Lennnie, "sometimes."

The woman said, "Our ADAs are the same way, but I guess I thought in a big city like New York, there'd be lots of attitude. Especially with the pressure of a case like you guys are working, huh?"

Ed didn't answer right away, because he wasn't quite sure how to play it. He couldn't seem to make himself say something snarky about Jack, even as a front, so he waited to see if Lennie would. He watched his partner struggle. "There can be attitude," Ed finally said. "But some of us get along better with McCoy than others."

Lennie glanced briefly over his shoulder again, then said to the driver, "Which is probably a good thing. You know, balance and all that."

Ed nodded and deliberately looked out the window, watching the small city of Milwaukee pass by. His smile was definitely only internal now, and ribbing Lennie was not the main reason for it. Jack had called him babe. It couldn't have sounded better if the man had said it to Ed between the sheets. Face to face. Skin to skin.

Nora walked into Jack's office, while he was eating lunch, and sat in front of his desk. She said, "Don't let me interrupt. Well, a little interruption. I'm due at City Hall shortly--yet another conference with Rudy. This time he wants to hear details about our decision to seek the death penalty." She sat back, folded her arms, and crossed her legs.

Jack swallowed a bite of tuna sandwich. "I'm getting the impression that you don't necessarily want to go over this with him?"

She shrugged. "That's a fair inference. I understand why he wants to discuss it, believe me, but I don't want this office to be seen as making the decision for political reasons."

"And what would those political reasons be, from his perspective?"

"I'm not sure," she said. "I'm getting the impression that he's having second thoughts, about his... enthusiasm, shall we say? He's pro death penalty; he's been betrayed; but he does know this person. He trusted him. Richard Woodbridge is not some faceless killer who deserves to have revenge exacted upon him for the good of society."

He ate more of his sandwich and followed it with a bite of pickle. "You already know what I think about it, Nora. The statute's in place. We can't apply it in some cases and not in others. He'll get that." He hesitated. "I'm sure he does get that."

"My job is to reassure him," she said with a wry grin. "So. We prove that these murders fall under aggravating factor eleven, since they were serial murders. But I think that factor seven might apply as well."

He nodded. "I've been thinking the same thing. We can charge him with kidnapping Mr. Doe, because of the use of the succinylcholine. The other part of seven, murder in the furtherance of immediate flight, would also apply to Mr. Doe."

"Charge him with kidnapping for each person he used the drug against, once the analysis comes back from the FBI."

"Be happy to," Jack said with feeling. He began to wrap up what little was left of the tuna sandwich.

"You going to finish that pickle?" Nora asked, reaching across the desk. He shook his head and pushed the foil holding the spear toward her. She took it, and ate a bite.

"I think you're allowed a lunch break," Jack said, grinning.

"I'm getting lunch in the mayor's office. He likes to feed me, for some reason. Unfortunately, I'm not that crazy about the selections." She sighed. "What I wouldn't give for a pastrami sandwich today." She ate the rest of the pickle. "You're expected at the news conference, later. You and Serena. I'll have details when I get back."

"I love news conferences," Jack said drily.

She stood and dropped the foil into his garbage can. "Well, then, the next few months should be quite delightful for you," she replied, with equal sarcasm.

Jack sighed a long, deep sigh as she walked out the door.

The first person Ed saw as they entered the detective bureau was Sergeant Froendlich from Middleton. The sergeant stood and flashed them a smile before reaching out to shake their hands, Lennie first.

"Are you still here," Lennie asked, "because the judge hasn't signed off?"

"No, no," Froendlich answered, "I just wanted to thank you personally. I've given my statement. Papers are all in order, as far as I know."

Ed smiled at him, allowing his relief to show. He, too, had worried that Woodbridge's extradition was stalled upon seeing Froendlich there. The man from Woodbridge's past had been able to help in a very concrete way. He had identified their doer, to the judge, no matter what fake identification Woodbridge had been carrying at the time of his arrest. "So," Ed asked him, "you've talked to Woodbridge?"

"Oh, yeah," the man answered. "It gave me great pleasure to tell him why I was here. Don't think I can adequately express it, to tell you the truth. Can't say the feeling was mutual."

Lennie remarked, "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Ed looked to the two Milwaukee detectives standing with Froendlich and apologized, then introduced himself and his partner. More hand shaking followed.

"Your perp hasn't said too much," Detective Martin said. "He tried the ID thing, we ignored it, and that's really the last sentence to come out of his mouth. Other than to ask for a phone to call his lawyer. Whoever he has in New York called someone here, who showed up this morning and basically couldn't do much in front of the judge, once the good sergeant here shocked the hell out of him. Sorry you missed it. It was sweet. We also told the judge that if he wished, we were sure that the mayor of New York City would be happy to fly here and make the identification. That was even sweeter. Don't think the lawyer had been given that little bit of information." The man grinned widely.

"Sorry I missed it, too," Ed answered sincerely. "Did you find his car? Anything in it?"

"We did. We towed in a car with New York plates this morning, from the Abbott's neighborhood, after your lieutenant confirmed the registration. It's registered to the same fake name that was on Woodbridge's ID. Can't quite figure that one out. It takes a while for plates to come, here; New York has got to take even longer." The man shrugged. "So this guy was cooking up another identity over a month ago?"

Ed met his partner's eyes and saw the same question in them that he had. "No idea," Ed answered.

Lennie asked, "What did you find in the car? Anything useful?"

The second detective walked a few steps to a table and brought back a cardboard carton sealed with evidence tape. "Inside here is his identification, fake passport, etcetera, along with a number of files and records. Most of it is financial."

"Great," Ed said with a grin of his own, hoping the papers would be as lucrative as he thought they might. He handed the detective the manila envelope he'd been carrying under his arm and asked that it be put into the box of evidence. If they could keep Woodbridge from knowing they had it, so much the better, he decided. After placing the envelope in a separate evidence bag, which Ed signed with as much enjoyment as he'd anticipated, the carton was officially unsealed. The manuscript was put inside; the carton was sealed up again, then fitted with some twine and a handle so it could be more easily carried through the airport. Ed and Lennie would take it as carry-on; it would never be out of their sight. The impounded car, along with the rest of its contents, would be transported to New York by the US Marshalls.

The most disappointing news, though not really unexpected, was that no weapon had been found either on Woodbridge's person or in his car. Ed and Lennie had thought that the man, probably, would have already gotten rid of the gun, or hidden it somewhere in New York for use against Don Marsh. They didn't imagine that Woodbridge would be as willing to risk murdering both of Karen Abbott's parents, especially since he was supposed to be dead. Find the manuscript and destroy it? Get rid of Marsh? Those were risks worth taking, they had assumed. Assumptions which had turned out to be absolutely on target.

The sound of five sets of footsteps walking down marble stairs bounced off of the walls, reverberating with a dull echo. Ed's heartbeat was doing the same, in his ears, at double the pace. The thudding was beginning to distract him; it was almost annoying. He'd arrested innumerable perps over the course of his career; many of whom he'd dearly, dearly wanted to put away. As the group of them walked down the stairway toward Milwaukee's version of The Tombs, Ed felt this impending arrest in a much more visceral way. It was nearly organic. A need as strong as sex, or food. Or Jack.

They reached the bottom and while Lennie handed over the extradition paperwork to the clerk for completion, Ed turned to the small cell block. The man he was looking for was not in the nearest cell, so he walked a few paces to look in the next one. He passed the joint wall. His eyes finally landed on the man he'd been hunting for two weeks and his heart rate sped up even faster.

Richard Woodbridge certainly didn't have the appearance of a member of the Mayor's Advisory Board. He wore blue jeans, what looked like heavy duty walking shoes, and a rumpled long-sleeved black tee shirt. Ed instantly decided that black was not a good color for the man; his light brown hair and fair skin looked washed out and haggard against it. Whereas before, Ed had thought Woodbridge resembled Richard Gere, now his impression was of a hungover Dennis Leary.

A voice on his right startled him. "Doesn't look like a serial killer," Froendlich said quietly, with a harsh tone, "does he?"

Woodbridge looked up and directly at Ed. Ed held the eye contact. "Not until you look in his eyes," he answered Froendlich, while still staring into the cell. Woodbridge went back to reading a magazine, lounging on the cot. Ed looked at the sergeant. "Cold as ice."

Froendlich nodded. "So," he said in a loud enough voice that the prisoner couldn't help but hear, "what kind of a prosecutor is your Mr. McCoy?"

Ed answered sincerely, "One of the best I've ever worked with."

"Good."

Lennie came up to him and said that everything was in order. The guard and the two Milwaukee detectives were now standing there, too. "Come on, Eddie," Lennie said with his characteristic grin, grabbing Ed's shoulder, "let's go put this creep under arrest. You can do the honors."

Ed grinned back at him. "My pleasure."

The guard opened the cell door, holding outerwear very similar to one of Jack's field coats. "Get up," the guard told Woodbridge, and handed him the coat. The man complied, dropping the magazine. Ed and Lennie followed the guard into the cell.

"Mr. Woodbridge," Lennie said heartily, "I'm Detective Briscoe and this here is my partner, Detective Green. We're from New York City. Better put that coat on. You're goin' on a trip."

Ed unhooked the handcuffs from his belt. Woodbridge slipped on his coat, his blue eyes darting to Lennie and back to Ed. Ed grabbed one of the man's arms, and snapped a cuff on his wrist. "Richard Woodbridge," Ed said, his heartbeat now pounding, "you're under arrest for the murders of Thomas Jerold Ryerson, Karen Ann Abbott, Granville Charles Estes and John Doe." He attached the other cuff to his own wrist. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney and to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand these rights?"

Woodbridge gave only a slight nod in response.

Ed spat out, "Do you understand these rights?"

"Yes," Woodbridge answered in a low, steely, even voice.

"Good," Ed said with force. "Let's go." He walked the prisoner out of the cell with Lennie flanking the man's other side, and headed toward the stairs at the end of the cell block. He was now attached to someone he would just as soon drop kick into oblivion. Or strangle. They couldn't get home fast enough.

Jack called Van Buren, to find out if there was anyone working the Tay-Sachs lead that day. In terms of his prosecution, as he'd told Nora, whether or not they identified John Doe would not be that crucial. Helpful, absolutely. With an identification, there were always possibilities of discovering what the connection was between the victim and the killer. In this case, the body being found in the killer's house made the how and the why of Woodbridge running into Mr. Doe almost moot. But juries and Grand Juries liked all of the pieces to fit together, and there very well might be some family members out there who didn't know their loved one was on his way to Potter's Field.

Anita told him that she'd put Reina on it for the day, since the woman was particularly adept at following leads through records, and institutions. Reina had spent the morning talking to clerks at State Disability and then the Social Security Administration, attempting to discern whether or not it was possible to search their databases for people who had been diagnosed with late onset Tay-Sachs. It was Van Buren's opinion that a subpoena would be needed, since neither bureaucracy was willing to deal with the issues of confidentiality their requests had raised. Jack thought it might be possible to get a subpoena, given the limited nature of the search. How many people would have the same parameters as their Mr. Doe? Two? Three? Ten?

Reina was, at the moment, trying to find a list of doctors specializing in the disease in the metropolitan area. She'd contacted a national Tay-Sachs organization, which Ed had found on the internet, and was waiting for a call back from them. She was still running through a list of free clinics in the city, to see if any of them offered support groups.

Jack ended the call, satisfied with what was being done. He checked his watch and took a long sip of his after lunch cup of coffee. He jotted a few notes on the legal pad in front of him, trying to ignore the urge to call Ed's cell phone. They should have picked up Woodbridge by now. He drank more coffee, which seemed to hit his stomach at the exact same moment the phone rang. He grabbed the receiver.

Ed was sitting in the aisle seat, with Lennie to his left and Woodbridge next to the window. They had had to enter the plane before anyone else and sit in the very back row, which, although affording them an unimpaired view of the occupants, was the row Ed hated the most for flying. The prisoner's hands were now cuffed together and resting on the drop down table; the man himself was staring out the window, ignoring the general commotion of a plane loading up with passengers. It wasn't supposed to be a full flight. Ed was glad.

He had called Jack on route to the airport, to let him know that Woodbridge was in custody and they were on their way back, confirming the flight number. Jack knew that Ed was the one who would be cuffed to Woodbridge, therefore within a few short feet of the phone against Ed's ear. Jack had been all business this time. Even if Ed had expected it, still, he felt slightly disconcerted when he ended the call. He had a momentary lapse of reality. Or perhaps, now that he was thinking about it, sitting on the plane, what he had had was a momentary displacement. A very brief throwback, to a time two weeks before. He didn't like it, mostly due to the ease with which he and Jack had fallen into a strictly professional conversation. Exactly as if that was the sum total of their relationship. As if the prior two weeks hadn't happened. As if he didn't love the man as deeply as he really did.

He let out an involuntary sigh and, ignoring Lennie's quick glance his way, he looked past him, to Woodbridge's profile. The man was still staring out the window, to the tarmac. His hands were folded together, like Ed's grandfather's when he said grace before the Sunday meal. Ed thought that there was really only one upside to a negation of the prior two weeks. He might have convinced Crymson to talk to him at the bar, that Saturday night. He might have prevented the man's murder.

One of the hostesses came up to them and asked if they would be allowing the prisoner to eat a meal. Lennie asked the man if he was hungry; Woodbridge said he was; the hostess smiled in his direction and walked back up the aisle. Ed could have sworn the woman was flirting, and it turned his stomach. He told Lennie he'd be right back, then followed her, catching her as she helped someone stow their carry-on bag in the overhead compartment.

"Excuse me," he said quietly, when she'd finished. He kept one eye on his partner. She turned. "We would appreciate it if you did not address the man we're transporting."

She cocked her head. "I wasn't aware that I did that."

"You were talking to us, but you smiled at him. I understand that you're just trying to make every passenger feel welcome, but he's not one of your passengers." Ed smiled, this time. "He's not being taken back to New York for parking tickets, or securities violations, or anything else of a nonviolent nature."

She blanched slightly, and after a significant pause, she said, "I understand, Detective."

"Green," he supplied, flashing some charm of his own at her, "Detective Green."

She smiled back, so he returned to his seat. He'd be damned if this trip even held a hint of a pleasure ride for Woodbridge. The bastard was going to be officially alone, from now on, if Ed had anything to say about it. The solitude would no longer be by Woodbridge's choice.

Lennie had been making general remarks in Woodbridge's direction since lunch had been served; nothing officially interrogative, only Lennie-type remarks. Ed picked at his food, and watched Woodbridge's reactions to them. Not surprisingly, he was as cool as Skoda had predicted, sometimes even doing a bit of remarking himself, sometimes coming close to casual bantering. So far, nothing Lennie had tried had gotten a rise out of him. Ed wondered what would.

"Well," Ed said as he sipped his coffee, "I just gotta say, man, that house of yours was impressive." He shook his head for emphasis, and silently logged what he'd just seen. Woodbridge had flinched. Barely, but noticeably. "How much did that set you back, anyway?"

"Enough," Woodbridge answered. "More than you'll ever see in your lifetime."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Ed retorted good-naturedly. "Some of us are pretty good at investing...."

Woodbridge chuckled. "Yes, the NYPD are well-known for living the high life."

Lennie said, with a sneer, "At least we sleep the sleep of the innocent at night."

Woodbridge shrugged and went back to looking out the window.

Ed said, "I think the stuff that I liked the best was your computer setup. You sure didn't mess around with buying low-end, cheap, off the shelf equipment. You should have seen our tech guys' eyes light up when we brought that into the lab." Ed saw the man's shoulders tense. "They've been having a real good time with your system."

Lennie added, "Think they might want to thank you even, if they were so inclined to thank someone like you." Woodbridge turned away from the window and sat back in his seat, but kept his eyes forward.

"Must have been a surprise," Ed continued, "to see us crawling all over your house when you turned the corner, huh?"

The man didn't respond.

"I think I'd hate it, personally, to have people pawing through my private things," Ed said. At that, Woodbridge's eyes darted to him, but Ed couldn't tell what he was thinking, or feeling. Something was off, so he decided to push it. "And you know, it's the small stuff that would make me feel so violated. Like that folder we found in your file cabinet. Interesting reading. That letter from Mrs. Downes, for example..." Ed stopped talking, because Woodbridge had finally moved, whipping his head toward them and swiftly raising his hands.

"Whoa, there," Lennie said harshly, shoving the cuffed hands back down on the drop-table. The man's lunch tray bounced, as did Lennie's. "You do that again and we'll cuff you behind your back."

Woodbridge settled, but didn't look at either of them. Ed finished his coffee, and waved the hostesses to them, to remove their trays. She came and took things away, asking them if they needed anything else; Ed and Lennie said no. After she left, Woodbridge finally spoke.

"I need to use the bathroom," he said.

Lennie sighed. "Okay, my partner will take you."

Ed was already in the aisle and standing out of the way so Lennie could do the same. Woodbridge followed, somewhat awkwardly, and when he was between the two of them, he said to Lennie, with another surge of intensity, "I don't want him to take me."

Ed was surprised, then curious. "Too bad," he replied, "it's me or nobody." He reached for Woodbridge's arm, and felt the man almost wrench it away. Ed tightened his grip. "Come on."

He walked him the few yards to the bathroom, which luckily was unoccupied. He opened the door and let go of Woodbridge, almost pushing him into the small room, but didn't allow the door to be fully closed. Even though there was nothing the prisoner could do in the room, Ed was going to keep an eye on him, via the mirror.

Woodbridge turned around. "I think I'm within my rights," he said coldly, "to have the door closed."

Ed pretended to think about it, then shook his head. "Actually, you don't have a whole helluva lot of rights at the moment. You'll pee when you need it, but you'd better get used to the lack of privacy. And at the moment, you're not gonna be out of my sight." He watched the man struggle, and it looked like a rather serious struggle. Ed didn't think for a moment that Woodbridge had never stood at a urinal next to another man; that was inconceivable. And yet, the hesitation was becoming prolonged. "Look," Ed said with a bit of force, "you want to pee or don't you? Cause my legs are tired, and I'd really like to sit."

Woodbridge finally turned to the toilet and then turned a bit more, so his back was nearly to the mirror, attempting to block Ed's view. Ed watched this with irritation, until without warning, something clicked in his mind. The click was major, and caused Ed's blood to turn cold. Woodbridge knew he was gay, or assumed it. This fanaticism for privacy wasn't because of the pushing Ed had done about the letter from the man's teacher. Ed had seen it before, in school, coming from a soon-to-be-ex-friend of his after the young man had accused him of being a fag. Ed's mind raced. How, and why, would Woodbridge assume this? Something else clicked, and it was just as major.

Woodbridge knew, or thought he might know, because he had read everything on Crymson's computer. Crymson's letter to Anthony. It certainly didn't out Ed, but it placed Ed in Crymson's circle of acquaintances. As his mind carried the possibility through, Ed concluded that nothing would come of Woodbridge's assumption, because then he'd have to admit that he'd had possession of the stolen property. On the other hand, the man's actions in this airplane could prove he was guilty. Ed mulled that over while his prisoner finished emptying his bladder. Mulled it over, and over.

First on, last off, was the FAA regulation for the transportation of prisoners. In Detroit, the three men at the back of the plane waited while it emptied. They were finally able to follow the rest of the passengers, and, once again with Woodbridge cuffed to him, Ed led him up the aisle, with Lennie and their carton of evidence bringing up the rear. Ed wasn't particularly looking forward to killing time in the terminal, waiting for the continuation of their flight. It would be crowded, as almost every airport terminal was, and Ed was tiring of the attention drawn their way. He was also tiring of having Woodbridge around him, feeling the man's hand brush up against the back of his whenever their timing got off. Thoughts of Crymson had been firmly set aside when he'd walked into the Milwaukee PD, but every so often Ed would look at this man and have the overwhelming desire to hit him. Just once. One fleeting, satisfying time of venting his rage. The urge would pass, and Ed would continue the intellectual game of tripping up their perp.

After they disembarked, Lennie said he really wanted to get something decent to read, for the next flight. Unexpectedly, Ed's dream returned, in a rush, and all he could do was nod his acquiescence. He tried to still his heartbeat, now slightly erratic, through sheer force of will as they walked to a newsstand. Ed saw an opportunity and he grabbed it, almost as much for its distractive as its probative value. While Lennie looked through the sports magazines, Ed pretended to chat up the man cuffed to his wrist. Ed reached for a Playboy magazine and began leafing through it. Woodbridge was watching him, as well as the pages as they turned.

"You want one of these?" Ed asked him. "You could use some reading material, too."

Woodbridge didn't answer.

Ed stopped at a particularly artsy layout. "She's hot, don't you think? You know, I shouldn't be looking at this. My lover would have my head for it." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other man grin to himself. Ed turned the page. "Yeah, man, I really don't want to piss her off...." Again, Woodbridge showed a subtle reaction, his eyes darting to Ed's face. "No, she is somebody you do not want to cross, and she's way too good between the sheets to make this," he said, closing the magazine, "worth it. You want it, though? Nobody'll see you read it, being at the back of the plane and all. And from what I saw of your bedroom, you definitely need something to give you some relief. No girlfriend, no boyfriend; Jesus, how do you manage?" Blue eyes were flashing at him, as Ed held the magazine out.

"I'm not interested in the magazine, Detective Green," Woodbridge said cooly. "And for the record, I'm not gay."

"Well, no, you wouldn't be gay, since you and the female victim used to be involved. Strictly speaking, you might be considered bisexual," Ed said with a shrug. "We did wonder if you were involved with the other victim, Ryerson, too. Seems like a lot of people thought that. How'd that feel? Killing two former lovers?"

Woodbridge stared at him, with the same icy look he'd given Ed in the Milwaukee holding cell. The man didn't respond, however, and on the other side of him, Lennie had selected a basketball magazine and was now watching both of them. Ed shoved the Playboy back in its slot and told his partner he was ready to leave. While Lennie paid, Ed hummed to himself with feigned nonchalance, mulling again. He was more certain than ever that his assumption was right.

Jack hung up the phone and swung his chair around, so he could look through the wooden blinds and out the window. The sun was beginning to set; lights were beginning to be more noticeable in the buildings across the street. He needed a minute, almost, just to breathe. The afternoon had been busier than usual, since he was organizing the case he'd be presenting to the Grand Jury the next day. Serena had been in and out, helping, and Jack had to admit that she was going above and beyond her usual level of work. If only he didn't cringe when he looked into her eyes, he thought, things might be just as normal as they'd been two weeks before.

According to Jack's watch, Ed's plane was due to land in merely half an hour. Richard Woodbridge would be processed through Central Booking in more than enough time for both detectives to be present at the mayor's press conference. He didn't think that either man would be very happy to be there, but the mayor wanted it, so it would happen. Once that was over, however, it would be Jack's turn to do something special for one of them. Order the best Chinese food in the city to be delivered, and damn the cost. Open a bottle of wine. Take him to bed, for a very private, and very hot, celebration. Love the hell out of him.

Jack looked at the photo of Joanna, on his credenza. The best time to call her was on Saturday morning, when she was almost certainly at home. He was anxious to tell her now; it wasn't something to face with trepidation. Ed hadn't even given the Thanksgiving trip a second thought, and for some inexplicable reason that had made all the difference. Jack smiled to himself. He'd been compiling a mental list of places in Chicago he wanted to take Ed, throughout the day, during his spare moments of quiet. This moment ended just as abruptly as the others had, with a ringing telephone. Jack sighed, turned back to his desk, and answered it.

Ed and Lennie stood in Central Booking, completing the paperwork. Woodbridge was cuffed behind his back, and Ed had hold of his biceps. Lennie turned in the man's personal effects: one ring, one watch, one narrow gold chain necklace. The details finished, the metal door was opened and they walked Woodbridge in.

"This is it," Ed said to him, allowing his happiness at that fact to show. He undid the cuffs and ordered the man to sit on the bench and remove his shoes. The belt was next. These things were also handed to the guards, in turn.

"He's all yours, fellas," Lennie said gruffly.

Ed had thought of a dozen remarks he'd like to make to Woodbridge, on the last leg of their journey. He rejected all of them. Looking at the man, sitting on the bench, cool and defiant, Ed pointed at him and said in a low, harsh, voice, "Your days of freedom are over, Woodbridge." He wanted to add "you're a fucking, evil, bastard," but somehow he refrained. He had another of his urges. He wanted to scream into his face that Jack was going to put him in the death chamber. He wanted to grab him and slam his head against the wall. Punch him in the groin, and the stomach, and the face. See the man's blood pour out of his nose. He could feel his control finally slipping; his hands were clenching; his pulse was racing.

Someone grabbed his arm. "Come on, Ed," Lennie said. "Come on. We're done."

Ed didn't look at his partner, but nodded, while still watching Woodbridge. His fists unclenched, and with one last, long glare at the murderer, he turned and left. He walked, but didn't feel the floor, or see what he was looking at. He did notice that Lennie stopped at the clerk's window, and was handed a piece of paper.

"It's from Lieu," Lennie said, catching up with him. "She says to call. Why didn't she use the cell?"

With nearly numb fingers, Ed pulled out his phone. "Battery's almost gone." Lennie pursed his lips and nodded, then went back to the window. Ed watched him use the phone and saw him shake his head with what looked like frustration. Lennie came back, checking his watch along the way.

"We have to show up at a press conference, given by the mayor, City Hall," he said, "We've got about twenty minutes. Lieu will be there. So will the DAs."

An ache blossomed in Ed's chest that was so deep, he almost couldn't think. "Okay," he said. "I'll walk, it's just a few blocks."

"Good idea," Lennie said with a gentle smile. "I could sure use to stretch my legs."

"Yeah," Ed said. "Me, too."

They left, and hit the sidewalk, amongst the bustling rush-hour crowd of pedestrians. Lennie kept up a running banter of small talk, but all Ed could think was that he was on his way to see Jack. All he could feel was some strange, creeping lethargy. The strong need to be somewhere private. Have some alcohol and let it seep into his bones. The fucking bastard Woodbridge was behind bars. Their bars. They had him.

Jack was standing between Nora and Serena, behind the podium and to the right of the mayor. The rather large crowd of reporters spread out in front of them had video cameras, or still cameras, or pads of paper. The podium held at least eight microphones, each crammed against the other around the edge. Jack was surprised to see how much coverage this was warranting, given the real lack of interest up until a few days ago. But he'd been involved in enough high profile cases to understand the feeding frenzy that could swell to outlandish proportions within a very short period of time.

The mayor was making some general remarks about the state of the city, since there was still a couple of minutes before the conference was scheduled to start. Van Buren had said that Ed and Lennie were on their way, and Jack couldn't seem to keep his eyes from darting to the doors. He was finally rewarded by the sight of both men coming up the stairs of the vestibule, then of Ed pulling open the glass door and walking through, with Lennie right behind him. Jack's first thought at seeing Ed was that the man looked exhausted. His first impulse was to bring him to his side and pull him close.

As the detectives skirted the reporters, Ed's eyes found his, and their glances locked together. Jack had been right, his lover was completely worn-out. Jack gave him a soft smile; Ed nodded once, and smiled gently back. Eventually, Ed and Lennie joined Van Buren on the other side of the mayor, and with that, the man governing New York City began the announcements. Jack faced front again, though he was acutely aware of exactly where Ed was. How many feet away. How close.

The press conference was officially over; some reporters were still milling around, trying to get the mayor or the District Attorney to answer just one more question. Those who had broadcast deadlines had left in a hurry. Jack excused himself from his colleagues' company and went directly to Ed, motioning him with his head to follow. Lennie and Van Buren ignored the situation; Ed left them and went with Jack until they were both some yards away.

"You look wiped," Jack said, as quietly as possible.

"Yeah, you could say that." Ed had his hands in his overcoat pockets, but was leaning toward him. Jack wanted to grab his face and kiss him.

"My place," he continued.

Ed nodded, and finally smiled again, a small one, barely noticeable. "I have to go home first: shower, change...."

Jack returned the small smile. "Save the shower, for after dinner. We're going to celebrate."

Ed's smile became more apparent. "Okay," he said, with a lift in his voice.

"Okay," Jack replied. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the reporters heading his way. "Call me before you leave, and I'll order dinner."

Ed nodded, then also noticed the man approaching, and Jack saw Ed's shoulders sag. "Hey," Ed said to the reporter, "how's it going?"

"Eddie, why the hell didn't you return my call, man?" The reporter, whose voice Jack had heard that morning, held the ubiquitous notebook in one hand and pen in the other. Jack thought he looked near to Ed in age, with close-cropped, brown hair and black, narrow glasses which nearly hid his eyes. Jack tried not to glare at him.

"What call?" Ed asked.

"This morning, early, I left a message at your home number. I would have--"

Ed interrupted him, and said very distinctly, "I didn't spend the night at my place. You understand." He smiled.

The other man looked slightly taken aback. "Yeah, sure... I get the message." He paused a beat, then said brightly, "So, you got anything you can add to this story for me?" He turned to Jack, as if noticing him for the first time. "Or you, Mr. McCoy?"

Jack shook his head, as Ed replied, "No, sorry, bro, I really don't. Hizzoner said it all." Again, he smiled.

"Okay, well, there's no harm in asking," the man said, smiling for the first time. The smile on his face was as phony as the ones Ed had been flashing, Jack thought. The small notebook was flipped closed, pen was put into pocket, and the man continued, "Thanks, anyway. See you around?"

"Sure," Ed answered, "I'll see you around."

He left, and before Jack could ask any of the dozen questions that were pounding in his head, Ed said in the same quiet voice they'd been using before being interrupted, "He's sort of an ex. We went out for a while, nothing serious. Works for the Daily News. He seems to think that he's still got some prerogative with me." He shrugged. "He runs in a different crowd. Punk element. Not too politically oriented." He smiled again, but this time it was warm, and directed at Jack and Jack alone. "What can I say? I was kind of desperate at the time."

Jack chuckled. "I know the feeling." Babe.

"Lennie's coming this way. I'd better go. See you in a little bit."

"Okay." He watched Ed walk away, meet his partner and Van Buren, and continue to the front door of the building. He moved, too, and headed to where Nora and Serena appeared to be saying their good-byes to the mayor. A few more official duties, and he'd be on his way home. Then he could hear what had happened that day, with Woodbridge; if Ed had learned anything useful from him. How the man he loved had fared, really.

It wasn't often that Jack cared much about the arresting process; he'd ordered it too many times over the past twenty-odd years to think about it anymore. This one, though, this one was different. He wanted to know every detail Ed could impart. The bastard was behind bars, and now it was up to him to see that he stayed there. To say that he was looking forward to it was an understatement.

The Chinese food had been ordered; wine was chilling in the freezer for lack of time; dishes and utensils were out and some classic jazz was on the stereo. Jack had changed into blue jeans and a long-sleeved polo shirt, and was sipping one finger of scotch while sorting through the mail. He tossed most of it into the recycling bin in the kitchen. He checked the wine; it was ready enough so he put it in the refrigerator. A major piece of distraction might be coming through the door at any minute, and frozen white wine was not going to ruin Jack's plans. He was searching for the corkscrew in a kitchen drawer when he heard the door to his apartment open, then close. He abandoned his task and went to greet Ed.

He took Ed into his arms the moment the other man had finished hanging up his coat. Hellos were murmured against each other's necks. Jack held Ed tightly, feeling the same surge of emotion at the body contact that he'd felt that morning. Ed was clutching just as tightly, and Jack suddenly sensed something that went beyond greeting, or relief at being together again, or even love. Ed was holding on with what felt like near-desperation.

Jack pulled back and looked at him closely. Emotions were swirling behind Ed's eyes. Then Ed kissed him, fervently, bringing a hand up behind Jack's head and diving into his mouth with that pliant tongue of his. Jack's mind went blank for a long moment, as love and lust scorched his blood. A pause in the kissing, and Jack's brain kicked in. He pulled back again, unlocking their lips.

"What is it?" Jack asked, breathing shallowly. "What happened?"

Ed dropped his hand to the small of Jack's back, and stared at him. He finally answered, in a low, intense voice, "I want you to put me on the stand to testify that Woodbridge knows I'm gay. Cause he does. I've got proof he read Crymson's letter."

Jack's heart started to pound. "What? You're not going to testify that you're gay, Ed," he stated, with disbelief.

"Yes. I am."

Jack pulled out of the embrace and stared back at his lover. "That is not an option," he said with more force, his own emotions causing his voice to rise.

Ed's eyes were still locked with his. "Yes," he said, his voice rising, too. "It is."

The doorbell rang.

On to Chapter 17, The Weight of Evidence

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