Rhapsody for Two #6: Collateral (Wrinkle in Time Remix)
TITLE: Collateral (Wrinkle in Time remix)
AUTHOR: fixomnia
PAIRING: Flack/Angell
RATING: It's an M. Adults dealing with adult things.
SPOILERS: Various Flack/Angell scenes from Season 3-5, and Flack's season 6.
Chapter Summary: If Jessica flies through a tesseract at ten minutes before noon, travelling 500 mph at 30,000 feet, and Donald steps through the same tesseract at 12:15 pm, standing stationary at ground level, at what point will they meet up on the same plane of existence? And what the heck happens next?
Author's Note:
Having read this far, you weren't expecting me to verge into fairy-tales, were you? :) Reality junkie here.
This brief departure from canon is dedicated to the four officers of the Lakewood Police Department, Seattle WA, who were shot down at a café on November 29, 2009: Sergeant Mark Renninger, and Officers Ronald Owens, Tina Griswold and Greg Richards. Police from all over the world attended their memorial in an Honour Guard of over 20,000 marchers, and as Lt. Sythe notes below, it's still all over YouTube.
As some of you know, I'm a database geek in an RCMP detachment. Different badge, different national anthem - same family, as over a thousand Mounties who attended the memorial can attest. This incident, like the Mayerthorpe shootings in Canada, did more than call attention to the hazards of ordinary, everyday policing. It caused an awful lot of police and police families to take a hard look at their life priortities, and brought the whole family together in a tragic, but ultimately forward-looking way. While the Tillery and Lakewood shootings were six months apart (bridging prime-time drama and real-life, that is), and on opposite coasts, it seemed fitting to work in some of the reactions I remember from the brass.
And as tempting as I know it is to ignore the in-canon chapter...reading it will help this one make more sense.
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Chapter Six
Collateral (Wrinkle in Time Remix)
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The body extends like a thought
Like something you almost remember
Your memory is made of light
With your face shining like fate
Becoming something I can keep...
- The Golden Palominos, "Touch You"
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"Still doesn't make sense," he murmured into her shoulder, obstinate to the last wisp of awareness.
She stroked the sole of her foot along his leg, and smiled. His predictability was as comforting as the solid warmth of him against her back, and his strong arm tightening reflexively around her. She'd missed this terribly. Floating between sleep and consciousness together, knowing they were safe under each other's watch.
"I'm here, babe." she said. "It was weird, but it doesn't matter now."
The airport screw-up might never have happened, and any lingering residue of their difficult long-distance debriefing of the Kolovos affair was burned away in the pleasure of reuniting. She was home again.
And it was home. Montreal was home, and so was New York. She didn't have to choose. She knew that now.
She drifted off, her mind flitting back and forth over the past few days.
After a week of catching up with the Canadian contingent of Angells, she'd been driven by her brother Jerome from Ottawa to their old neighbourhood in Montreal. She'd spent the last two days of her vacation with her oldest childhood friend Monique, with whom she'd gone hostelling around France and Italy after high school. She and Monique walked all over Outremont, trying to recognize their old haunts in among new developments. They stayed up talking well into the night, recalling their early days in school, summers playing baseball and winters playing hockey, and Jess' plan to run away and hide in Monique's closet when the Angell's move to New York became a reality.
"Pourquoi tu n'as pas apporté ton copin?" Monique demanded, seeing right through Jess' carefully restrained descriptions. Jess swirled the last of her martini and blushed. She knew it was patently obvious that she missed him.
"Trop de travail," she explained, "Mais moi, j'espère que tu le rencontreres bientôt. Oubliez mes frères - je n'oserais pas me marier avec quelqu'un tu n'as pas apprécié, toi!"
"Je sauverai le prix d'avion," Monique promised, beaming. "I wouldn't want you to have to wait just for me. You, married! Who'd believe it?"
"God, I know. You better come see us soon."
After a few hours' sleep after dawn, she caught a cab to Laval and texted Don to let him know she was on her way. There was a mercifully short wait in Departures, and then she dropped into her seat on the plane, and fell into a deep sleep all the way to La Guardia.
She awoke from a vivid, semi-lucid dream, to find it was suddenly noon and brightly sunny. She was as groggy as if she'd taken sleeping meds, hauled up from the benthic depths of consciousness. This was odd. She was used to wrenching her sleeping hours around on the job, so surely one nights' interrupted rest shouldn't have such an effect.
Altitude and sleep dep, she decided, and a week of high emotions, reconnecting with friends, and two older brothers who still considered themselves to be surrogate fathers.
With her dual citizenship and her rareified security clearance, she flew through US Customs, behind a pair of teenaged German backpackers, and an Indian family with two small boys. She collected her own backpack from the carousel and began to feel a little more alert. Don would be waiting just outside the pass-doors, in the Arrivals lounge.
Only he wasn't.
Which was, she had to admit, a downer. They'd rarely spent more than a day apart since they met. It would have been nice, for once in her life, to be met by a boyfriend at the end of a journey.
Traffic, probably, she thought. High noon on the freeways, in more ways than one, and on a sunny Sunday too.
She tried his cellphone. It rang once, and then crackled, and went to silence. A second and a third call met with dead air. Not even any static.
Hm. Perhaps he'd been called into something.
She hitched up her backpack and headed over to a coffee stand, conveniently situated near a wall-mounted TV screen tuned to a news station. If there was a major event going on in the city, she'd lay odds on Don being involved somehow. He'd trained as a crisis situation tactician in Narco, before moving over to Homicide, and didn't mind being called back to assist as needed.
Sitting at the counter, idly stirring her dark roast, she flashed back on the many evenings when her mother had fed all the kids and delayed her own dinner, only for Cliff to finally telephone to say he wouldn't likely be home until much later. She remembered the look that often flickered across Chérie's face before she put on a bright smile for her children, and sat down to her solitary meal. And here she and Don were, trying to make it work from both directions. Given that their futures were looking more entwined by the day, maybe the universe was trying to send her a counter-balance to the giddy daydreams she'd been falling into lately. They were born to be cops. The badge came first, even if their relationship was a close second.
They were on the same page now, but what would happen if children came along? Or an injury serious enough to pull one of them out of duty for good?
This minor hiccup was hardly worth thinking about, by comparison.
As the caffeine began to work through her system, she thought of trying a pay phone, in case her cellphone hadn't locked on to the local network yet. She found a bank of phones nearby. This time, Don's line went straight to voicemail. And she didn't have any messages on her own line, either.
After a half hour, two messages left for Don, and three more flights' worth of arrivals, she went to the Passenger Services desk, and asked if there were any messages for her. There were none. Never mind. That's what taxis were for.
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Her phone rang when she was about ten minutes from home, and she leapt for it.
"Hey!" she said. "Where are you? Did I miss you? Your phone's been off."
"I'm here at the airport...I swear, it's been on the whole time. I've been trying to call you. I've been here an hour," he replied. "Where are you?"
"In a cab, almost home."
"Oh, jeez, I'm sorry, Jess. I don't know what happened. I got here early and everything. Even got Passenger Services to check when you cleared Customs."
This was exceedingly strange. "And they didn't say that I'd been looking for you?" she asked. "Two detectives, within minutes of each other?"
"No. Maybe I got a different clerk," he grumbled, and cussed under his breath. "Anyway, listen, I've booked off for the day. I can follow you back to your place, if you like."
"Yes, I like," she said pointedly. "Eight days is too long. I'm going into withdrawal."
"On my way."
Don wouldn't bullshit his way out of trouble, she thought. Somehow they'd been in the same concourse, trying to call one another. No more than thirty feet apart.
At least this way, she had a few minutes at her apartment before he arrived, to brush her teeth and pull a comb through her hair. She grinned at her reflection in the mirror. They'd been together nearly seven months now, and the anticipatory flutters showed no signs of letting up. This was going to be a fun homecoming.
She heard a key in the door, and ran to pull it open. And there was County Carlow, all dressed up to meet her in the charcoal suit she liked, with the blue Oxford shirt that matched his eyes. He came bearing a teddy bear, red roses and a grin as goofy as her own. Her stomach flipped and she met him with a flying tackle hug.
Jess Angell might have been empowered to the hilt and with plenty to spare, but there was something awfully good about being wordlessly grabbed and kissed by a man who wasn't going to wait another second for it. She slid her palms up his chest and flicked her tongue between his teeth till he groaned and kissed her into a breathless puddle. Mm, yeah...like that. She stroked her thumb behind his ear and played her nails over the back of his neck, and felt a shudder travel down his spine.
"Wow," he said foggily. "Hi. C'n I go out and come in again, if you're gonna do that?"
"No way, mister. You're staying right here."
She slid the knot of his tie downwards and planted a row of featherlight nips under his jawline. He growled, kicked the door closed, and half-carried her towards the couch.
"I was right behind the Indian family, and the two German kids," she said, some minutes and several more welcoming kisses later, as they sprawled comfortably together. Don remembered them, and they both agreed that there were two senior couples travelling together, right after her.
"I couldn't have missed you. We were both right there." he insisted.
Knowing how his bulldog mind worked, she thought it likely he'd be chewing on this for days. "Never mind. We're here now." she said. "And thank you for the roses. And the teddy bear! He's charming. I haven't had one since I was seven."
"I saw him in the shop, and I had to get him for you," he admitted, a little bashfully, into her neck. "Dunno why. Just seemed the thing to do. I was looking forward to it. Meeting you there. I never met a girlfriend at the airport before."
"Aw, and you were trying to make everything perfect. But here we are. And we have some serious catching up to do, mon p'tit.."
His answering squeeze told her he understood her very well. They had a great deal of talking to do, about the past week and the years ahead.
But that would have to wait until after Jess' meeting with Lt. Sythe and Internal Affairs in the morning, regarding her part in the Greek Embassy doings.
Jess felt her stomach clench all over again, and sighed, warmth and passion chilling rapidly.
She'd known from the beginning that it was unwise to play Ishmael to Stella's Ahab. It was a bit of excitement, a chance to hit back directly at corruption. And she'd had a half-formed notion that she could keep an eye on Stella, whose trust and friendship she valued very much, and haul her back from the brink if things became too dangerous. She hadn't reckoned on becoming so caught up herself that things like entrapping an Embassy official with diplomatic immunity would seem like a good idea.
Once Mac and Stella had returned from their side-jaunt to Greece, a quiet form of bureaucratic hell had broken loose. Mac, true to his Catholic roots, convinced Stella that the only way she'd be able to get past the whole thing without worrying about it her whole career, was to approach IA directly and make a full confession. Decidedly not Catholic, but pragmatic nonetheless, Stella had agreed, knowing that it would all come out one day, and she'd rather it be on her terms.
Mac did his best to absorb much of the impact, explaining that Detectives Bonasera and Angell, using a minimum of resources and some great intellegence-work, had put an end to an international smuggling operation and had repatriated a number of ancient artifacts to Greece. He pointed out their exemplary records, carefully explaining each of Stella's four complaints as being from upset civilians who didn't get that "cops are there to save their asses, not kiss 'em."
IA ignored most of this, except for the parts where Stella not only neglected to remove herself from a personal case, but disobeyed Mac's direct order, got a junior detective involved, and then placed an anomymous call to report a dead body with diplomatic ties.
Pending IA's interview with Detective Angell, Stella was told to sit at her desk and touch nothing, do nothing, say nothing, until they were ready to speak with her again. Which didn't prevent the CSI's from holding regular coffee klatches and pizza lunches in her office, for the next couple of days, talking of anything except Greece.
Sythe had called her in Ottawa. She sat on her brother Dominic's balcony, trying to keep her responses from revealing too much. Dom's clucking-hen response to her career didn't need any fuel.
"Angell, it's all out in the open," Sythe had said. "Listen, it's going to take me until tomorrow night to track you down, got it? And I need you repeat the following: 'I'm waiting for a standby flight, and I'll be there as soon as I can.' "
"You're telling me to stay away until my actual return date?"
"I am absolutely not telling you anything of the sort, nor am I telling you to be honest but brief with IA, and let your superiors and your record speak for you as much as possible. IA gave you a bad round before, and I'm in the mood for a boxing match. Let them cool off a little before you show your face."
"Uh, yes, sir."
"I am also under no circumstances telling you to try to enjoy the rest of your trip, because there isn't anything here that can't wait forty-eight hours. Would you believe, the Greek Embassy even asked us to 'be thorough' - that's code for drag our feet a little while they sort out their side."
"Yes, sir."
"And I want to hear the whole thing from start to finish before you talk to IA. Damn shame they offed each other, because otherwise it sounds like a great ride. Of course you should have told me. I'd have helped. Tell me Flack wasn't in on it."
"He wasn't. I didn't tell him anything until three days ago."
"Good. And?"
"And I'm waiting for a standby flight, and I'll be there as soon as I can. Sir."
"Excellent. See you in my office, first thing Monday morning."
Back in her own apartment, Don was determined to distract her from all of this. God help him if the boys ever found out how damned cute he could be. She certainly wasn't going to share it. Neither of them would ever hear the end of it. She was already expecting to be razzed about Don turning into a snapping turtle in her absence.
"What you feel like doing?" he asked, mid-nuzzle, bringing her attention back to the present.
"I'm pretty low on Maslow's hierarchy today. Just the basics. Shower, you, lunch, nap."
"In that order?"
"More or less. We could save time and combine the first two. Any objections?"
He raised his head and gave her a wonderfully dirty smirk. "Babe, I wouldn't exactly call this an objection."
It wasn't until the next morning that they remembered to test their cellphones. Whatever had caused the connection problem seemed to have resolved itself, and all of the messages Jess had left for him had been delivered sometime during the night.
And then, in the busy week that followed, Jess' strange homecoming faded from memory.
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"It could have been a lot worse, Stella."
"I know."
Stella crossed her arms and turned to stare out of the window of Mac's office. She, more than anyone, knew how many strings Mac had been pulling and whose swords he'd been crossing. And they both knew that he'd gone far beyond the call of team loyalty or even friendship. He'd spent a good deal of accumulated goodwill with the command rank, trying to help her.
"It's only a week," she said lightly. "Suspension and an official letter I can handle. Honestly, I was expecting worse."
"We can't lose you." Mac said, as if it explained everything. "We need you here."
Back to his old Marine self, she thought. No more "because I care" and "because I'm your friend".
"Mac, I know what you did, on my behalf," she reminded him. "You gotta know, if our positions were reversed, I'd do the same for you. Because I do care."
He looked her in the eye for the first time all morning, and the ghost of a smile appeared. "If our positons were reversed, chances are that certain people I've pissed off in my time would stop at very little to get rid of me, and discredit anyone who defended me. My biggest concern isn't the suspension, or even that you went against an order. It's what happens twenty years from now, when you're up for Chief Inspector, and the vetting turns up this whole escapade."
"Will it matter, twenty years from now?"
"Everything matters when you're up for a powerful job."
She eyed him sidelong. "What's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Mac."
He sighed and kicked back from his desk, tilting his chair back. "You'll find out anyway when Sinclair calls you in to follow-up. You were about to be considered for a promotion, before this whole Greek drama happened."
"What? You're the only one senior to me in the department. You going somewhere?"
"No. There's talk of a new Urban Narco Task Force starting up, a two-year pilot project between CSU and Narco. It's time to re-up the drug signature database for the heroin and coke coming in from South America and the Middle East, to bring it in line with current technology. And this time they want to track its movements from the entry points onto the street. It's going to take some fancy footwork with the international shipping companies and diplomatic travellers. They need someone with Major Case management experience, who can also manage the lab techs and do some media work. Your name was on the list, along with a handful of senior CSI's from the B and D Watches."
"Was?"
"Was."
"I see."
"I'd rather you heard it from me than Sinclair."
"I appreciate that," she said quietly. "Jobs come and go. Don't worry about me; I've got a lot more work to do around here before I think about looking around for the next thing. What about Angell? She was only doing what I asked her to do, and she did raise concerns."
"But not with Sythe, and not with me. It was pretty clear that you did your best to cover for her, but whatever she did was her own decision. She'll get some sort of discipline. I don't know what. She's still in her meeting."
"I'll talk to her after," Stella said. She took a breath and looked him in the eye. "So, Mac, can I make you dinner sometime next week? God knows I've got time."
He regarded her contemplatively. Just trying to say thanks, she telegraphed. That's all.
"I won't make Greek," she promised.
He laughed shortly and shook his head in surrender. "Just tell me what wine to bring," he said.
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"Two days," Jess said hollowly. "My father is going to skin me alive. This isn't exactly something I can defend."
Don made a comforting sound into his phone. He was sitting in an unmarked cruiser, parked among a thicket of trees on a ridge above the Hudson, with a pair of military micro-binoculars trained on the back of a riverside warehouse. Two hours and seventeen minutes, and no movements from the people-smugglers they were collecting evidence against, or from anyone else. Jess' call was a welcome interlude, even if she was finding it hard to keep it together. "Betcha he's had worse himself."
"Not the point. If I'm gonna be a cop at all, I'm supposed to be a better cop than he and my grandfather were. I remember how he talked about one of his guys who earned himself a suspension. He went on and on about how any good cop should know how to control himself better than to get a black mark. Or to ask for assistance from a super, if they were in over their head. Which is what he's going to tell me."
"He probably will, and then you can ask him to find you a senior cop without a single mark on their jacket. Guaranteed, it's only the ones who never pushed the envelope or did anything but hold back and kiss ass their whole careers. I sure as hell lost my temper once or twice, made a bad call now and then. You ever notice it's the ones with plenty of war-stories that get assigned to take on the real challenges? Look at Sythe. He was the Attitude Boy of Narco, and now he's heading up Homicide. And some of the lines he crossed are now written into policy. Because they worked. Hell, Danny's gonna start teaching Evidence Preservation at the Academy next year. 'Cause of all the stuff he made up as he went along."
"You are, without doubt, an awesome boyfriend," Jess told him. "But this is badge-to-badge, okay? I know I messed up. Even if I did have good intentions. The last thing I needed was to be hauled in front of an IA board again. It's only been three months since the last time. As they did not neglect to point out."
"Okay, so you messed up. This is me as a Detective. As a friend, sure, you wanted to help Stella, but as a cop, what steps should you have taken?"
She took a breath, and he could see her pulling herself up straight, as if she was standing in front of Sythe's desk about to make her report. "Tried to get Stella to give me her notes and back off, for one. Mac ordered her to stand down, and she was way too invested. I'd still have pushed for a sting. It was the only way to get to them. Not sure I'd have advocated getting a known felon to help make decoys, but we've used the expertise of forgers before. Try to sort out some other way to get Kolovos on board the freighter. And sure as hell call in Diakos' body properly. His death and Kolovos escaping was on the Greeks, not us. Papakota waited forty years to get his revenge on a government he blamed for stealing his family's land, and Kolovos managed to get off-island before anyone even knew."
"And that," said Don, "is what you tell your father. And that is what you put in a letter to IA, before they ask you for it. What you're being tagged for is a break in command discipline, that's all - Stella's gotta take the brunt of the fallout on this one. So you write out how the operation could've been made legit, and if it's any good, someone will pull it out and use it someday, and you'll look like you were thinking two steps ahead. That's exactly what I'd have done, if Stella came to me."
"Which is why she didn't. She wanted to deal with it herself. From what I gather, that's always been her blind spot. You'd have told her to back off and trust Mac to make the connections."
"Pretty sure they'll be hashin' that one out between them."
"No doubt."
"So, did they give you a specific two days?"
"Any two consecutive days next week. At least I handed off all my cases before I left. I've got a ton of e-mails and phone calls to return, but other than that, my desk is still pretty clear."
"Coulda been a lot worse," Don said, unknowingly echoing Mac. "I thought Stella'd get more than a week, actually. I think IA likes you guys better than they let on."
"They're certainly getting to know me. Think maybe I should transfer there, instead of Crim Intel?"
"Nah, you can't hold a frown without crackin'. Oh, hey, I got action on the waterfront here. About damn time."
He switched binoculars for Nikon DSLR, and began clicking away, capturing the overall scene, and then zooming in on faces, as well as he could from his distant perch. It occured to him that a satellite in earth-orbit would likely get better shots than he could with the camera, but until the department ponied up for military-grade equipment, he'd have to make do.
"Migrant workers and handlers?" Jess asked.
"Fuck yeah. This has federal warrant written all over it. That's a schoolbus of smuggled Chinese if I ever saw one. And that's a guard dog. Nasty mother, too. We'll need Animal Control. And medics, to check everyone out. Can you start the paper, and give Judge Finlayson a heads up? She's all over this file. I'll e-mail these photos to her by the time you get to the courthouse."
"I'm on it."
He was flipping her a few free Brownie points with the Judge, she knew, but she'd let him get away with it.
Funny, the ways cops showed their love.
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"He's what?" Mac asked, in genuine confusion. "You sure about that? Why didn't we know about this?"
Sythe, leaning against the door of Mac's office with crossed arms, shook his head. "Connor only decided in the middle of the night. He talked to his lawyer, and then called his girlfriend to bring him a suit and his shaving kit. Spent the night writing his testimony, and doesn't want to talk to or even see his father."
"What the hell is Robert Dunbrook playing at?" asked Mac, not for the first time. "You think Connor's being paid, or is paying someone? In money or testimony? His own father, maybe?"
"I spoke to the officers on duty. They know a jailhouse revelation when they see it. I'm sure the father's aware of it by now, but unless it was planned before Connor's arrest, I don't think Robert had any role in Connor's decision. Connor hasn't seen or spoken to anyone but his lawyer and his girlfriend since his arrest. Not even his father's dream team. Now we know why. Connor's never stood up to his old man before, but he just wasn't prepared to go through a murder trial for something he didn't do. Not if he knows what really happened."
"This damned family. Just when I think I have them figured out. I'm sure there's money at the bottom of this, and not just Ann Steele's clean-up fees. If Dunbrook thinks his bailing out the department is going to keep him or his boy out of reach of the law, they're about to learn differently. Keep me in the loop with the Grand Jury this morning, will you?"
"Of course. Carmody and Sig are escorting him and a pile of lawyers there right now."
"Not Flack? He's been in on this thing since the beginning."
"He's out talking to an informant of his. And Angell's riding out her suspension today and tomorrow. It's just babysitting. But's it's a high-profile case. The young fellas deserve a piece of it."
"Let's hope not too big a piece. The less excitement the better. Between Stella, Jess and Connor Dunbrook, we've got enough to deal with. Last thing we need is Dunbrook selling papers off our troubles."
So it came to pass that Flack and Terrence were in the middle of a conversation about a black Escalade rumoured to be all-over bullet-proofed, and Jess was working out the sting of her father's remarks at the gym, when the Tillery Diner exploded in a hail of glass shards and bullets.
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"They comin' in from all over," said Lt. Dawkins. "Washington State, New Mexico...more'n a thousand Mounties, and the same from overseas. This ain't no Honour Guard. It's a damn rock festival, only the stars are gonna be appearin' in flag-draped coffins. I hear couple thousand folks applied for vendor tags for the day. Food stalls, ball-caps and sunglasses, all sorts of police souvenirs n' crap..."
"This is exactly the sort of dilemma that people like Dunbrook make their millions off of," Sythe replied darkly. "It's sickening that we lost two of our best men, but it's going to send paper sales through the roof - and police approval ratings, on both sides of the House. Meanwhile, Carmody's wife is in hysterics because Carmody hated, absolutely hated any kind of fanfare, and Sigurdson's family are thinking up interesting ways to sue the department for not doing more to protect him. How the hell do you protect an officer from things we can't possibly predict? That's why cops exist in the first place. I get that they're grieving, but Christ Almighty..."
"I wouldn't say that too loud," Dawkins observed. "Stick to the everyday-hero line, I would, if I was you."
"Don't we always? Of course I want to help them. I liked Sig and Carmody. I know their families. I miss them. But you can't...it's what we do, and their families know that. They've refused Victims Services - so far - and the Widows and Childrens' Foundation has barely had a chance to make contact with them."
"They're angry," Dawkins said mildly. "They wanna know why. They gotta put blame somewheres. Wouldn't you, if it was your kids?"
Sythe raised his hands, about to retort, but let them drop back on his desk, helplessly. "Maybe that's why I don't have any," he replied. "No parent should have to go through that. It's why I remustered as a cop, after the Golan Heights. The world isn't safe. It never was. It's only humans who think it's supposed to be - because people like you and me work like hell in the background to make them think so. I'm not like you, Brad. I can't adopt every young cop I work with. But what I'm good at is keeping people safe, and I feel like shit 'cause I dropped the ball. On two guys I've known since they left Academy."
"There's no way on earth anyone coulda- "
"I know that. I know that. Makes no difference. Dammit, if Connor had only decided to testify just a day later. Flack would've heard about the Escalade in time to put out a BOLO on it, and he probably would've made a good guess who the target was. But there's no way to know."
"No. There ain't. You gonna recommend any policy changes? Carmody and Sig had the trainin' and equipment for just about anythin' but a high-level assault. What else can city cops do?"
"Damned if I know. What sort of policy do you write on ambushes in a civilian, open space, with military-grade equipment? That's out of the Iraq theatre playbook, not ours. Do we make sure nobody leaves the office without Type III anti-rifle kevlar all over, and a gas mask, and goes straight into an armoured Humvee? I don't think New Yorkers want to see that. They sure as hell won't pay for it. There's just no way we could've anticipated a sulky-ass white-collar security tech would get kidnapped during the first hour he was out of jail."
"Mac Taylor said as how they had the police band tuned up, and were ready to tag whoever on their list of targets came up first. That it was this kid Cade who did the plannin', after he was kicked out of the Army. Is Cade talkin'?"
"Nope. He won't be talking much for a while. Cracked skull."
"Eh? The hell your boys do?"
"Simon Cade did it himself. Carmody shot him in the shoulder, at the diner, so he was bleeding pretty bad already. When they tracked the group to the barracks, Flack got him in the back of the leg, on the run. Cade tried to kill himself right there. Flack managed to disarm him, but then Cade tried to bash his brains out on the window-frame of the Avalanche, on the way in. Nearly did, too. He'll get patched up, and some lawyer will argue him off of Death Row on the grounds that he was obviously nuts to begin with, and is now brain-damaged. And they'll win."
"God help us."
"Taylor and Sinclair are actually working together on a memo to the Mayor to lift the moratorium on state executions. They're amping each other up like...well, like a pair of old Marines who've just found a war to fight instead of each other."
"Oh, Lawd. And the old man himself?"
"Oh, Dunbrook's never been more popular. You saw yesterday's headlines? "Heroes in uniform", "Guardian Angels of our Streets", that sort of thing? The other rags are stomping all over him, claiming that he basically bought the cops, or that he must've known his son would be kidnapped, and made sure he took out insurance, that sort of crap. Some are saying Dunbrook planned it to distract from his court case and win sympathy."
"You think he did?"
"I think Robert Dunbrook's counting on the fact that people will only remember that he loves the NYPD for saving his son, and will forget that two New York police officers died in the process. So yeah, it's going to be a rock festival out there tomorrow, but I don't mind. Sig and Carmody deserve it, and it's good for morale. Nobody's going to forget that two of our men went down trying to keep the city safe."
"And the optics don't hurt a bit."
"No," Sythe agreed. "They don't. You better believe there's gonna be YouTube clips of police from all over the world coming to pay their respects, even if I have to put 'em there myself."
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"So much for family dinner out," Jess sighed. "But maybe this is better, in a depressing sort of way. The dads get to meet at a massive police event. Totally within their arena. And the moms will have dozens of younger police spouses to fuss over. They'll be fine."
"First time I've seen you in uniform. In person, anyway." Flack said, distracted by the sight of her expertly flipping and knotting her tie. Her neatly pressed collar and the coiled knot of hair at her nape accentuated the graceful column of her throat, and he resisted the urge to lean over and nibble. A mark on her pale skin would not earn him any points, especially today, which was a pity: Jess in regs was entirely appealing, from duty cap to highly polished boots. Maybe later on...
"It suits you. Really, I mean. Not just the whole uniform...thing."
She slid him an amused glance.
"Had it tailored." she told him, in a stage whisper. She went on to explain: "Most of the girls have a dress uniform altered to fit properly, for ceremonial events. What time are we meeting the dads?"
"Twelve-thirty, at the muster station. They're with the retired officers up front, so they'll start about a half hour before we do. My mom's gonna be at the Civic Center a bit early, setting up for the reception, so we can pick yours up on the way and introduce them there. Tie okay?"
He knew his tie, bar and insignia were perfectly straight, but she fiddled with it anyway. Like Jess, he wore his shield tucked into the breast pocket of his duty jacket, with a black mourning band wrapped around it. She smoothed a tiny crease out of his shirt and leaned into him. There was something terribly poignant about that small moment, between comforting each other over the loss of two friends, and the casual affection in her deft movements. He took her hands in his, and she tilted her head, regarding him seriously.
"What?" he asked.
"You look good in Dress Order," she told him. A brief smile touched his face, and she looked more closely at him. "You doing okay?"
"Rough day," he said huskily, and cleared his throat. "Carmody, Sig, my parents meeting yours...If there had to be a day like this, Jess, I'm glad you're here."
She blinked hurriedly and swallowed. "It'll be fine," she told him. "It's not like we've been trying to keep them apart. We've been trying to fix a date to get them all together for ages. They understand cop schedules. You know my folks adore you."
"It's not yours I'm worried about."
It wouldn't take much to send Don Flack Sr. into a maudlin downward spiral, especially if he was half-tanked before the parade even started. Between his father's pride in his own past policing career, and the unvoiced truths of a difficult family life, the old man might well find the sight of a police funeral and a son in uniform shattering to his composure. He might retreat into cold, stony silence, or he might turn barstool raconteur, and become the life of the party until Mary made their farewells and pulled him away.
"Mm. You think your dad'll be coasting?"
"I wish I knew. Mom said she didn't see him drinking, when I talked to her this morning. But that doesn't mean a whole lot."
"We'll deal with it when we see him. My guess is, he'll be better today than he's been in ages. He'll remember who he was. Who he is."
"Maybe so. I hope so. More'n twenty thousand turning out today," Flack said, awed. "That's what gets me in the gut. Giving up holidays, leaving their families, coming across the country, or farther than that, on their own dime, to march in this thing. 'Cause of Carmody and that crazy kid Sig."
" 'Cause of every one of us who ever went down, and never got more than a line in a community newspaper," Jess reminded him. "And to remind us we're not alone out there."
He squeezed her hands briefly, and, looking up, he saw them in the mirror over the dresser, two footsoldiers in a neverending war against crime and opression. No, they weren't alone out there. Least of all the two of them. They invested a lot in making sure that connection stayed strong, in among their busy days and nights. Whatever else went on, they had each other to come home to, a place of safety to rest and re-focus.
He wondered how they'd feel, watching a child of theirs go through the internal decision process and rigorous training of becoming a police officer, and putting on the same uniform. Maybe even taking on his or Jess' badge number, as Jess had done.
It was an incredibly exciting thought. It had occurred to him before, as a half-formed fancy, but today it hit him hard. Would they both be alive to see a child of theirs graduate high school, let alone Academy? Just one of them? Or neither?
How long could they go through every day, not knowing what random twist of fate might wrench them apart? And what would they have of each other to hold onto?
It was too easy, and too comforting, to keep telling each other there was no need to rush a wedding. They talked frequently about what they hoped for in a marriage, and the patterns they wanted not to fall into. It was a forgone conclusion that they'd make it all happen, but they hadn't even been together a year.
It was a day to focus on Carmody and Sig, and to support their families, he reminded himself. Otherwise, he thought, he'd have asked her right there and then to just marry him and work out the practical details as they went. On a day like this, with mortality and life choices in high relief, pragmatism took a back seat to plangent human truths.
However many days he had left, he wanted to be with Jess at the end of them.
His cellphone rang, which was probably for the best. He kissed her again and went to retrieve it.
"Flack. Yes, sir. Yeah, we're heading out soon...Yeah? Hell yeah, count me in. Hang on." he covered the phone, and said to Jess: "It's Sythe. He's planning a thing at Harper's tonight, just for Homicide Squad. Kind of a wake. Harper's offered to close just for us. You wanna go?" Jess nodded vigorously, on her way to the kitchen, and he went back to his call. "Yeah, we'll be there, sir. See you at the parade."
"I'm making a thermos of tea to take with," called Jess. "You want anything?"
"No, I'm good. Thought you were strictly coffee in the morning."
"It's this herbal stuff, for stress," she called back. "Sam introduced me to it. Chamomile, St. John's Wort, peppermint...tastes like weeds, but it works. Helped take the edge of being suspended, that's for sure. You talked to Sam? About all this?"
Sam's path to sobriety had been mainly steady, give or take a couple of predictable tumbles off the wagon. But the reminder that Don faced the same daily hazards as Sig and Carmody would almost certainly give her a setback. He was still the only family member she communicated with.
"Yeah, we talked," he assured her. "She's okay. She asked if I thought she should come to the reception, try to connect with Mom and Dad again. We decided it wasn't the day for it. Did you know Grady called her up the minute after the shooting hit the news? He knew she'd want to talk to someone non-Flack and non-cop. Sounds like they've been hangin' out a fair bit. My club-rat sister is turning into a bookstore nerd who has coffee with her priest buddy. And actually talks to him."
"That's interesting."
"Yeah. She doesn't let many people in."
"Yeah, but it's Grady. He's solid as a rock."
"And she knows you're happy about him being in her life," Jess pointed out, shrugging her knapsack over one shoulder. "She's working hard to impress you, you know. It's a big part of what's keeping her going."
"She's succeeding."
"You should tell her."
"I will. You ready?"
She leaned over and planted a rather inspiring kiss on his mouth.
"Let's go."
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Flack Sr., sober as a newly-appointed judge and as good-tempered as a bear awoken in winter, seemed to come to life upon meeting Cliff Angell. Much of this was Cliff's doing, based on numerous conversations over the past few months with his daughter and his more-or-less adopted son.
"Detective Sergeant Flack. Good to finally meet you," Cliff said heartily, in response to Don's introduction, as though he'd heard nothing but tales of honour and bravery about the man. He'd made it clear to Jess and Don that if ever he, a fellow retired cop, was in a position to speak candidly with Don's old man about the support available to alcoholic ex-cops and their families, he was game. But they were just meeting. Trust would take a long time, if it ever came.
Flack Sr. returned his handshake, and said gruffly: "And you, sir. That's one bright gel you got. She's welcome at our house anytime, for sure."
Cliff grinned and slewed his eyes at his daughter, who actually blushed under her uniform cap. He refrained from pointing out that Flack Sr. hadn't made his own daughter welcome in years. He also decided not to mention the fact that by now, Don was a regular at the Angell's all-afternoon Sunday lunches for family and friends, whether or not Jess was with him. And that even Samantha had come along with the kids once or twice, shy as a colt around parental types, and with the predictable anxiety of the recently sober, but a real delight once she settled in. Don's father was a proud man, and wouldn't take kindly to the implication that the Angells were far more functional and welcoming than the Flacks. Especially since it was obvious that they were.
"I think Chérie's already sorting out the family silver for those kids," he said, when the charming young pair had made their farewells and gone to form ranks with their unit. "She really likes that boy of yours. Pity she isn't here to meet you, but she'll be at the reception later."
"My wife - our Mary - had a very nice card from her on her birthday," Flack said. "I look forward to meeting her. French-Canadian, is she not?"
"Yep. Forty-five years of marriage and I still can't keep up when she tells me off en français. Just as well, maybe. By the time the kids translate for me, it's all over."
Flack grinned appreciatively at this, right up to his blue eyes, and suddenly looked a lot like his middle child. Cliff had a flash of the charismatic leader-of-men he'd heard tales about since arriving at the NYPD.
They stood side by side, Flack neatly fitted into his old uniform, and Cliff, considerably larger of girth than in days of old, in navy trousers, white dress shirt and his uniform jacket and cap. Looking around, there seemed to be a visible demarcation line between those who had relaxed into retirement, and those who had kept their police physiques. Cliff was secretly pleased that Flack could chalk himself a mark of superiority. It gave Cliff a bit of a psychological advantage, so as not to appear as any kind of competitor, but just a fellow dad and retiree.
"Makes you think, doesn't it?" Cliff murmured, looking over the sea of people in the square, various blocks of uniforms following barked commands as they lined up in marching order. "How'd us old warhorses get so damned lucky? How many of these kids will get to retire?"
"Mine nearly didn't," Flack said. "I'm thankful every day the boy pulled through. Knowing he's keeping the job going, it's like I left the best part of me right back there in the precinct. Maybe one day he'll say the same."
Cliff nodded. Days like these brought up memory and regret in equal measure for everyone, for the most part regarded as personal confessions, rather than an invitation to talk.
It was then he glanced down and saw the tremor in Flack's hands, and felt a surge of pity. He almost wanted to suggest that they fall out for a quick dram before the parade, to fortify themselves. Many of the old gang would have a flask on them. But Flack apparently was self-aware enough to know that he wouldn't stop at one, and he was too proud to do any dishonour to his badge or his family on a day like this. He'd suffer through the day, and probably be unreachable through a whiskey fog for the rest of the weekend.
One day I'll tell him how much my daughter taught me, when I finally let her grow up, he promised himself. He was surprised at how quickly he'd extended his affection and concern for Flack Junior to his father - and how readily his scheming managerial mind was turning the problem over, seeking the right path to take. But then, he reasoned, he treated all his friends and family as if they were his squad, and naturally sought to strengthen the weak points and play up the strong ones, for the betterment of the whole.
"Guess we both did something right," he said mildly, "somewhere along the way. Makes you want to hold 'em a little tighter, doesn't it? You just never know."
Donald Flack didn't reply. Cliff didn't expect him to. Seeds need time to take root.
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"We're doing this? Really?"
Jess' smile threatened to outshine the summer evening sun as she nodded, even though the tears she'd spent the day holding back were now tumbling down her cheeks onto her uniform blouse. She cupped his face tenderly in her hands, and kissed him over and over.
"Yes. Oh, my God, yes. Isn't this crazy, to get all...look at me, I'm a complete basket-case! It's not like we didn't know - but to actually do it - and today..."
Don, nearly in the same state, laughed and rambled happily on: "Trust you to upstage me! I was this close to just asking you. Right in the middle of the parade and everything. But this is perfect. I swear, the look on my mom's face...she thought we were messing with her head. And today makes sense, after all. It is sort of about remembering Carmody and Sig."
"It totally is. What a thing to remember them by. Betcha we're not the only ones who decided to make it official today. It's definitely a heads-up not to wait for 'someday.' "
"Well, we sure as hell won't be getting the award for Most Unexpected," said Don. "So much for turning up at a scene with wedding bands and seeing who notices. They're gonna know as soon as they see your face, babe."
She laughed and kissed him again. "My face! Check the mirror, babe. C'mon. Let's go. People are waiting."
They stared at one another for a moment, still in shock, took a deep breath, and turned to get out of the car.
Together they went into Harper's to meet the remaining members of the Murder Squad, along with a good number of representatives from the Crime Lab. There was no need to flash their badges. Frank Harper himself unlatched the door for them, recognizing them instantly, and Don shook his hand.
"This is good of you, man," he told the proprietor. "I know Friday's your busy night."
"Least I can do for you guys," Frank said, as he waved them inside.
The sight of the two of them in uniform and hand in hand was enough of a rarity that every eye in the place fixed upon them as they passed. They made a token attempt to rein in their matching grins, but failed completely, as they approached their close friends at their usual table in the back.
Mouse glanced up and a great smile spread over her pixieish face. Lindsay eyes widened, and she poked Danny, who stopped fidgeting in his uniform blues and blinked as suspicion turned to delighted comprehension.
Don wrapped his arm around her shoulders and gave her an affirmative squeeze.
"Guys - " she began, "We don't want this to take away from our boys, but...guess what?"
Don, who didn't do overt displays in front of the team, pulled off his cap, leaned down and kissed her thoroughly. The table erupted. Stella shrieked happily, and even Sythe smacked the table and hollered with everyone else.
Emerging, Jess stood flushed and giggling, shy under so much scrutiny, and caught sight of Adam and Hawkes bumping fists. Someone must have had a pool running on them, and hadn't yet learned never, ever to bet against those two.
"So, how'd it happen?" Danny asked. "This just went down today?"
"Couple hours ago, at the memorial reception," Don told him, as they sat down across from the Messers. "Weird, I know, but what else is new?"
"Bunch of the police wives were talking about how long they'd been married to cops, and it turned into a sort of competition," Jess explained, "And Mary asked us when we were going to start the clock and, by the way, stop living in sin. As a joke."
Don picked up the thread: "So I say, 'But Mom, we have our own apartments, we're only visiting in sin.' My mom's totally cracking up - and Jess just goes, 'Well, my lease runs out in September, so I guess that'll do.' And I say, 'Yeah, September sounds good. We better pin down leave dates.' And that was it. Our mothers were absolutely gobsmacked. They couldn't tell if we were serious."
"And then we bust out crying and they figured out it was for real."
"You bust out crying, I didn't."
"You did."
"Okay, a bit."
"Oh, shit, now I'm starting again..."
"Oh, my God, you guys," Danny muttered, "I thought Linds and I were gooshy."
They were spared having to answer this by Frank Harper, who hadn't made a name for himself as the cops' favoured bar host by sheer luck. He appeared with a bottle of champagne, which he displayed over his arm with a comical debonair flourish for Don to examine.
"Gonna be a lot of toasts tonight," he said, "But you guys get first call."
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Les traductions / Aistriúcháin:
"Pourquoi tu n'as pas apporté ton copin?"
- Why didn't you bring your fella?
"Trop de travail...Mais moi, j'espère que tu le rencontreres bientôt. Oubliez mes frères - je n'oserais pas me marier avec quelqu'un tu n'as pas apprécié, toi!"
- Too much work. But I hope you meet him soon. Forget my brothers - I wouldn't dare marry someone you didn't approve of!"
"Je sauverai le prix d'avion,"
- I'll save up the plane fare.
"Mon p'tit"
- Short for "Mon petit": literally "My little", but meaning "Beloved" or "Little one"
AUTHOR: fixomnia
PAIRING: Flack/Angell
RATING: It's an M. Adults dealing with adult things.
SPOILERS: Various Flack/Angell scenes from Season 3-5, and Flack's season 6.
Chapter Summary: If Jessica flies through a tesseract at ten minutes before noon, travelling 500 mph at 30,000 feet, and Donald steps through the same tesseract at 12:15 pm, standing stationary at ground level, at what point will they meet up on the same plane of existence? And what the heck happens next?
Author's Note:
Having read this far, you weren't expecting me to verge into fairy-tales, were you? :) Reality junkie here.
This brief departure from canon is dedicated to the four officers of the Lakewood Police Department, Seattle WA, who were shot down at a café on November 29, 2009: Sergeant Mark Renninger, and Officers Ronald Owens, Tina Griswold and Greg Richards. Police from all over the world attended their memorial in an Honour Guard of over 20,000 marchers, and as Lt. Sythe notes below, it's still all over YouTube.
As some of you know, I'm a database geek in an RCMP detachment. Different badge, different national anthem - same family, as over a thousand Mounties who attended the memorial can attest. This incident, like the Mayerthorpe shootings in Canada, did more than call attention to the hazards of ordinary, everyday policing. It caused an awful lot of police and police families to take a hard look at their life priortities, and brought the whole family together in a tragic, but ultimately forward-looking way. While the Tillery and Lakewood shootings were six months apart (bridging prime-time drama and real-life, that is), and on opposite coasts, it seemed fitting to work in some of the reactions I remember from the brass.
And as tempting as I know it is to ignore the in-canon chapter...reading it will help this one make more sense.
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Chapter Six
Collateral (Wrinkle in Time Remix)
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The body extends like a thought
Like something you almost remember
Your memory is made of light
With your face shining like fate
Becoming something I can keep...
- The Golden Palominos, "Touch You"
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"Still doesn't make sense," he murmured into her shoulder, obstinate to the last wisp of awareness.
She stroked the sole of her foot along his leg, and smiled. His predictability was as comforting as the solid warmth of him against her back, and his strong arm tightening reflexively around her. She'd missed this terribly. Floating between sleep and consciousness together, knowing they were safe under each other's watch.
"I'm here, babe." she said. "It was weird, but it doesn't matter now."
The airport screw-up might never have happened, and any lingering residue of their difficult long-distance debriefing of the Kolovos affair was burned away in the pleasure of reuniting. She was home again.
And it was home. Montreal was home, and so was New York. She didn't have to choose. She knew that now.
She drifted off, her mind flitting back and forth over the past few days.
After a week of catching up with the Canadian contingent of Angells, she'd been driven by her brother Jerome from Ottawa to their old neighbourhood in Montreal. She'd spent the last two days of her vacation with her oldest childhood friend Monique, with whom she'd gone hostelling around France and Italy after high school. She and Monique walked all over Outremont, trying to recognize their old haunts in among new developments. They stayed up talking well into the night, recalling their early days in school, summers playing baseball and winters playing hockey, and Jess' plan to run away and hide in Monique's closet when the Angell's move to New York became a reality.
"Pourquoi tu n'as pas apporté ton copin?" Monique demanded, seeing right through Jess' carefully restrained descriptions. Jess swirled the last of her martini and blushed. She knew it was patently obvious that she missed him.
"Trop de travail," she explained, "Mais moi, j'espère que tu le rencontreres bientôt. Oubliez mes frères - je n'oserais pas me marier avec quelqu'un tu n'as pas apprécié, toi!"
"Je sauverai le prix d'avion," Monique promised, beaming. "I wouldn't want you to have to wait just for me. You, married! Who'd believe it?"
"God, I know. You better come see us soon."
After a few hours' sleep after dawn, she caught a cab to Laval and texted Don to let him know she was on her way. There was a mercifully short wait in Departures, and then she dropped into her seat on the plane, and fell into a deep sleep all the way to La Guardia.
She awoke from a vivid, semi-lucid dream, to find it was suddenly noon and brightly sunny. She was as groggy as if she'd taken sleeping meds, hauled up from the benthic depths of consciousness. This was odd. She was used to wrenching her sleeping hours around on the job, so surely one nights' interrupted rest shouldn't have such an effect.
Altitude and sleep dep, she decided, and a week of high emotions, reconnecting with friends, and two older brothers who still considered themselves to be surrogate fathers.
With her dual citizenship and her rareified security clearance, she flew through US Customs, behind a pair of teenaged German backpackers, and an Indian family with two small boys. She collected her own backpack from the carousel and began to feel a little more alert. Don would be waiting just outside the pass-doors, in the Arrivals lounge.
Only he wasn't.
Which was, she had to admit, a downer. They'd rarely spent more than a day apart since they met. It would have been nice, for once in her life, to be met by a boyfriend at the end of a journey.
Traffic, probably, she thought. High noon on the freeways, in more ways than one, and on a sunny Sunday too.
She tried his cellphone. It rang once, and then crackled, and went to silence. A second and a third call met with dead air. Not even any static.
Hm. Perhaps he'd been called into something.
She hitched up her backpack and headed over to a coffee stand, conveniently situated near a wall-mounted TV screen tuned to a news station. If there was a major event going on in the city, she'd lay odds on Don being involved somehow. He'd trained as a crisis situation tactician in Narco, before moving over to Homicide, and didn't mind being called back to assist as needed.
Sitting at the counter, idly stirring her dark roast, she flashed back on the many evenings when her mother had fed all the kids and delayed her own dinner, only for Cliff to finally telephone to say he wouldn't likely be home until much later. She remembered the look that often flickered across Chérie's face before she put on a bright smile for her children, and sat down to her solitary meal. And here she and Don were, trying to make it work from both directions. Given that their futures were looking more entwined by the day, maybe the universe was trying to send her a counter-balance to the giddy daydreams she'd been falling into lately. They were born to be cops. The badge came first, even if their relationship was a close second.
They were on the same page now, but what would happen if children came along? Or an injury serious enough to pull one of them out of duty for good?
This minor hiccup was hardly worth thinking about, by comparison.
As the caffeine began to work through her system, she thought of trying a pay phone, in case her cellphone hadn't locked on to the local network yet. She found a bank of phones nearby. This time, Don's line went straight to voicemail. And she didn't have any messages on her own line, either.
After a half hour, two messages left for Don, and three more flights' worth of arrivals, she went to the Passenger Services desk, and asked if there were any messages for her. There were none. Never mind. That's what taxis were for.
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Her phone rang when she was about ten minutes from home, and she leapt for it.
"Hey!" she said. "Where are you? Did I miss you? Your phone's been off."
"I'm here at the airport...I swear, it's been on the whole time. I've been trying to call you. I've been here an hour," he replied. "Where are you?"
"In a cab, almost home."
"Oh, jeez, I'm sorry, Jess. I don't know what happened. I got here early and everything. Even got Passenger Services to check when you cleared Customs."
This was exceedingly strange. "And they didn't say that I'd been looking for you?" she asked. "Two detectives, within minutes of each other?"
"No. Maybe I got a different clerk," he grumbled, and cussed under his breath. "Anyway, listen, I've booked off for the day. I can follow you back to your place, if you like."
"Yes, I like," she said pointedly. "Eight days is too long. I'm going into withdrawal."
"On my way."
Don wouldn't bullshit his way out of trouble, she thought. Somehow they'd been in the same concourse, trying to call one another. No more than thirty feet apart.
At least this way, she had a few minutes at her apartment before he arrived, to brush her teeth and pull a comb through her hair. She grinned at her reflection in the mirror. They'd been together nearly seven months now, and the anticipatory flutters showed no signs of letting up. This was going to be a fun homecoming.
She heard a key in the door, and ran to pull it open. And there was County Carlow, all dressed up to meet her in the charcoal suit she liked, with the blue Oxford shirt that matched his eyes. He came bearing a teddy bear, red roses and a grin as goofy as her own. Her stomach flipped and she met him with a flying tackle hug.
Jess Angell might have been empowered to the hilt and with plenty to spare, but there was something awfully good about being wordlessly grabbed and kissed by a man who wasn't going to wait another second for it. She slid her palms up his chest and flicked her tongue between his teeth till he groaned and kissed her into a breathless puddle. Mm, yeah...like that. She stroked her thumb behind his ear and played her nails over the back of his neck, and felt a shudder travel down his spine.
"Wow," he said foggily. "Hi. C'n I go out and come in again, if you're gonna do that?"
"No way, mister. You're staying right here."
She slid the knot of his tie downwards and planted a row of featherlight nips under his jawline. He growled, kicked the door closed, and half-carried her towards the couch.
"I was right behind the Indian family, and the two German kids," she said, some minutes and several more welcoming kisses later, as they sprawled comfortably together. Don remembered them, and they both agreed that there were two senior couples travelling together, right after her.
"I couldn't have missed you. We were both right there." he insisted.
Knowing how his bulldog mind worked, she thought it likely he'd be chewing on this for days. "Never mind. We're here now." she said. "And thank you for the roses. And the teddy bear! He's charming. I haven't had one since I was seven."
"I saw him in the shop, and I had to get him for you," he admitted, a little bashfully, into her neck. "Dunno why. Just seemed the thing to do. I was looking forward to it. Meeting you there. I never met a girlfriend at the airport before."
"Aw, and you were trying to make everything perfect. But here we are. And we have some serious catching up to do, mon p'tit.."
His answering squeeze told her he understood her very well. They had a great deal of talking to do, about the past week and the years ahead.
But that would have to wait until after Jess' meeting with Lt. Sythe and Internal Affairs in the morning, regarding her part in the Greek Embassy doings.
Jess felt her stomach clench all over again, and sighed, warmth and passion chilling rapidly.
She'd known from the beginning that it was unwise to play Ishmael to Stella's Ahab. It was a bit of excitement, a chance to hit back directly at corruption. And she'd had a half-formed notion that she could keep an eye on Stella, whose trust and friendship she valued very much, and haul her back from the brink if things became too dangerous. She hadn't reckoned on becoming so caught up herself that things like entrapping an Embassy official with diplomatic immunity would seem like a good idea.
Once Mac and Stella had returned from their side-jaunt to Greece, a quiet form of bureaucratic hell had broken loose. Mac, true to his Catholic roots, convinced Stella that the only way she'd be able to get past the whole thing without worrying about it her whole career, was to approach IA directly and make a full confession. Decidedly not Catholic, but pragmatic nonetheless, Stella had agreed, knowing that it would all come out one day, and she'd rather it be on her terms.
Mac did his best to absorb much of the impact, explaining that Detectives Bonasera and Angell, using a minimum of resources and some great intellegence-work, had put an end to an international smuggling operation and had repatriated a number of ancient artifacts to Greece. He pointed out their exemplary records, carefully explaining each of Stella's four complaints as being from upset civilians who didn't get that "cops are there to save their asses, not kiss 'em."
IA ignored most of this, except for the parts where Stella not only neglected to remove herself from a personal case, but disobeyed Mac's direct order, got a junior detective involved, and then placed an anomymous call to report a dead body with diplomatic ties.
Pending IA's interview with Detective Angell, Stella was told to sit at her desk and touch nothing, do nothing, say nothing, until they were ready to speak with her again. Which didn't prevent the CSI's from holding regular coffee klatches and pizza lunches in her office, for the next couple of days, talking of anything except Greece.
Sythe had called her in Ottawa. She sat on her brother Dominic's balcony, trying to keep her responses from revealing too much. Dom's clucking-hen response to her career didn't need any fuel.
"Angell, it's all out in the open," Sythe had said. "Listen, it's going to take me until tomorrow night to track you down, got it? And I need you repeat the following: 'I'm waiting for a standby flight, and I'll be there as soon as I can.' "
"You're telling me to stay away until my actual return date?"
"I am absolutely not telling you anything of the sort, nor am I telling you to be honest but brief with IA, and let your superiors and your record speak for you as much as possible. IA gave you a bad round before, and I'm in the mood for a boxing match. Let them cool off a little before you show your face."
"Uh, yes, sir."
"I am also under no circumstances telling you to try to enjoy the rest of your trip, because there isn't anything here that can't wait forty-eight hours. Would you believe, the Greek Embassy even asked us to 'be thorough' - that's code for drag our feet a little while they sort out their side."
"Yes, sir."
"And I want to hear the whole thing from start to finish before you talk to IA. Damn shame they offed each other, because otherwise it sounds like a great ride. Of course you should have told me. I'd have helped. Tell me Flack wasn't in on it."
"He wasn't. I didn't tell him anything until three days ago."
"Good. And?"
"And I'm waiting for a standby flight, and I'll be there as soon as I can. Sir."
"Excellent. See you in my office, first thing Monday morning."
Back in her own apartment, Don was determined to distract her from all of this. God help him if the boys ever found out how damned cute he could be. She certainly wasn't going to share it. Neither of them would ever hear the end of it. She was already expecting to be razzed about Don turning into a snapping turtle in her absence.
"What you feel like doing?" he asked, mid-nuzzle, bringing her attention back to the present.
"I'm pretty low on Maslow's hierarchy today. Just the basics. Shower, you, lunch, nap."
"In that order?"
"More or less. We could save time and combine the first two. Any objections?"
He raised his head and gave her a wonderfully dirty smirk. "Babe, I wouldn't exactly call this an objection."
It wasn't until the next morning that they remembered to test their cellphones. Whatever had caused the connection problem seemed to have resolved itself, and all of the messages Jess had left for him had been delivered sometime during the night.
And then, in the busy week that followed, Jess' strange homecoming faded from memory.
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"It could have been a lot worse, Stella."
"I know."
Stella crossed her arms and turned to stare out of the window of Mac's office. She, more than anyone, knew how many strings Mac had been pulling and whose swords he'd been crossing. And they both knew that he'd gone far beyond the call of team loyalty or even friendship. He'd spent a good deal of accumulated goodwill with the command rank, trying to help her.
"It's only a week," she said lightly. "Suspension and an official letter I can handle. Honestly, I was expecting worse."
"We can't lose you." Mac said, as if it explained everything. "We need you here."
Back to his old Marine self, she thought. No more "because I care" and "because I'm your friend".
"Mac, I know what you did, on my behalf," she reminded him. "You gotta know, if our positions were reversed, I'd do the same for you. Because I do care."
He looked her in the eye for the first time all morning, and the ghost of a smile appeared. "If our positons were reversed, chances are that certain people I've pissed off in my time would stop at very little to get rid of me, and discredit anyone who defended me. My biggest concern isn't the suspension, or even that you went against an order. It's what happens twenty years from now, when you're up for Chief Inspector, and the vetting turns up this whole escapade."
"Will it matter, twenty years from now?"
"Everything matters when you're up for a powerful job."
She eyed him sidelong. "What's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Mac."
He sighed and kicked back from his desk, tilting his chair back. "You'll find out anyway when Sinclair calls you in to follow-up. You were about to be considered for a promotion, before this whole Greek drama happened."
"What? You're the only one senior to me in the department. You going somewhere?"
"No. There's talk of a new Urban Narco Task Force starting up, a two-year pilot project between CSU and Narco. It's time to re-up the drug signature database for the heroin and coke coming in from South America and the Middle East, to bring it in line with current technology. And this time they want to track its movements from the entry points onto the street. It's going to take some fancy footwork with the international shipping companies and diplomatic travellers. They need someone with Major Case management experience, who can also manage the lab techs and do some media work. Your name was on the list, along with a handful of senior CSI's from the B and D Watches."
"Was?"
"Was."
"I see."
"I'd rather you heard it from me than Sinclair."
"I appreciate that," she said quietly. "Jobs come and go. Don't worry about me; I've got a lot more work to do around here before I think about looking around for the next thing. What about Angell? She was only doing what I asked her to do, and she did raise concerns."
"But not with Sythe, and not with me. It was pretty clear that you did your best to cover for her, but whatever she did was her own decision. She'll get some sort of discipline. I don't know what. She's still in her meeting."
"I'll talk to her after," Stella said. She took a breath and looked him in the eye. "So, Mac, can I make you dinner sometime next week? God knows I've got time."
He regarded her contemplatively. Just trying to say thanks, she telegraphed. That's all.
"I won't make Greek," she promised.
He laughed shortly and shook his head in surrender. "Just tell me what wine to bring," he said.
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"Two days," Jess said hollowly. "My father is going to skin me alive. This isn't exactly something I can defend."
Don made a comforting sound into his phone. He was sitting in an unmarked cruiser, parked among a thicket of trees on a ridge above the Hudson, with a pair of military micro-binoculars trained on the back of a riverside warehouse. Two hours and seventeen minutes, and no movements from the people-smugglers they were collecting evidence against, or from anyone else. Jess' call was a welcome interlude, even if she was finding it hard to keep it together. "Betcha he's had worse himself."
"Not the point. If I'm gonna be a cop at all, I'm supposed to be a better cop than he and my grandfather were. I remember how he talked about one of his guys who earned himself a suspension. He went on and on about how any good cop should know how to control himself better than to get a black mark. Or to ask for assistance from a super, if they were in over their head. Which is what he's going to tell me."
"He probably will, and then you can ask him to find you a senior cop without a single mark on their jacket. Guaranteed, it's only the ones who never pushed the envelope or did anything but hold back and kiss ass their whole careers. I sure as hell lost my temper once or twice, made a bad call now and then. You ever notice it's the ones with plenty of war-stories that get assigned to take on the real challenges? Look at Sythe. He was the Attitude Boy of Narco, and now he's heading up Homicide. And some of the lines he crossed are now written into policy. Because they worked. Hell, Danny's gonna start teaching Evidence Preservation at the Academy next year. 'Cause of all the stuff he made up as he went along."
"You are, without doubt, an awesome boyfriend," Jess told him. "But this is badge-to-badge, okay? I know I messed up. Even if I did have good intentions. The last thing I needed was to be hauled in front of an IA board again. It's only been three months since the last time. As they did not neglect to point out."
"Okay, so you messed up. This is me as a Detective. As a friend, sure, you wanted to help Stella, but as a cop, what steps should you have taken?"
She took a breath, and he could see her pulling herself up straight, as if she was standing in front of Sythe's desk about to make her report. "Tried to get Stella to give me her notes and back off, for one. Mac ordered her to stand down, and she was way too invested. I'd still have pushed for a sting. It was the only way to get to them. Not sure I'd have advocated getting a known felon to help make decoys, but we've used the expertise of forgers before. Try to sort out some other way to get Kolovos on board the freighter. And sure as hell call in Diakos' body properly. His death and Kolovos escaping was on the Greeks, not us. Papakota waited forty years to get his revenge on a government he blamed for stealing his family's land, and Kolovos managed to get off-island before anyone even knew."
"And that," said Don, "is what you tell your father. And that is what you put in a letter to IA, before they ask you for it. What you're being tagged for is a break in command discipline, that's all - Stella's gotta take the brunt of the fallout on this one. So you write out how the operation could've been made legit, and if it's any good, someone will pull it out and use it someday, and you'll look like you were thinking two steps ahead. That's exactly what I'd have done, if Stella came to me."
"Which is why she didn't. She wanted to deal with it herself. From what I gather, that's always been her blind spot. You'd have told her to back off and trust Mac to make the connections."
"Pretty sure they'll be hashin' that one out between them."
"No doubt."
"So, did they give you a specific two days?"
"Any two consecutive days next week. At least I handed off all my cases before I left. I've got a ton of e-mails and phone calls to return, but other than that, my desk is still pretty clear."
"Coulda been a lot worse," Don said, unknowingly echoing Mac. "I thought Stella'd get more than a week, actually. I think IA likes you guys better than they let on."
"They're certainly getting to know me. Think maybe I should transfer there, instead of Crim Intel?"
"Nah, you can't hold a frown without crackin'. Oh, hey, I got action on the waterfront here. About damn time."
He switched binoculars for Nikon DSLR, and began clicking away, capturing the overall scene, and then zooming in on faces, as well as he could from his distant perch. It occured to him that a satellite in earth-orbit would likely get better shots than he could with the camera, but until the department ponied up for military-grade equipment, he'd have to make do.
"Migrant workers and handlers?" Jess asked.
"Fuck yeah. This has federal warrant written all over it. That's a schoolbus of smuggled Chinese if I ever saw one. And that's a guard dog. Nasty mother, too. We'll need Animal Control. And medics, to check everyone out. Can you start the paper, and give Judge Finlayson a heads up? She's all over this file. I'll e-mail these photos to her by the time you get to the courthouse."
"I'm on it."
He was flipping her a few free Brownie points with the Judge, she knew, but she'd let him get away with it.
Funny, the ways cops showed their love.
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"He's what?" Mac asked, in genuine confusion. "You sure about that? Why didn't we know about this?"
Sythe, leaning against the door of Mac's office with crossed arms, shook his head. "Connor only decided in the middle of the night. He talked to his lawyer, and then called his girlfriend to bring him a suit and his shaving kit. Spent the night writing his testimony, and doesn't want to talk to or even see his father."
"What the hell is Robert Dunbrook playing at?" asked Mac, not for the first time. "You think Connor's being paid, or is paying someone? In money or testimony? His own father, maybe?"
"I spoke to the officers on duty. They know a jailhouse revelation when they see it. I'm sure the father's aware of it by now, but unless it was planned before Connor's arrest, I don't think Robert had any role in Connor's decision. Connor hasn't seen or spoken to anyone but his lawyer and his girlfriend since his arrest. Not even his father's dream team. Now we know why. Connor's never stood up to his old man before, but he just wasn't prepared to go through a murder trial for something he didn't do. Not if he knows what really happened."
"This damned family. Just when I think I have them figured out. I'm sure there's money at the bottom of this, and not just Ann Steele's clean-up fees. If Dunbrook thinks his bailing out the department is going to keep him or his boy out of reach of the law, they're about to learn differently. Keep me in the loop with the Grand Jury this morning, will you?"
"Of course. Carmody and Sig are escorting him and a pile of lawyers there right now."
"Not Flack? He's been in on this thing since the beginning."
"He's out talking to an informant of his. And Angell's riding out her suspension today and tomorrow. It's just babysitting. But's it's a high-profile case. The young fellas deserve a piece of it."
"Let's hope not too big a piece. The less excitement the better. Between Stella, Jess and Connor Dunbrook, we've got enough to deal with. Last thing we need is Dunbrook selling papers off our troubles."
So it came to pass that Flack and Terrence were in the middle of a conversation about a black Escalade rumoured to be all-over bullet-proofed, and Jess was working out the sting of her father's remarks at the gym, when the Tillery Diner exploded in a hail of glass shards and bullets.
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"They comin' in from all over," said Lt. Dawkins. "Washington State, New Mexico...more'n a thousand Mounties, and the same from overseas. This ain't no Honour Guard. It's a damn rock festival, only the stars are gonna be appearin' in flag-draped coffins. I hear couple thousand folks applied for vendor tags for the day. Food stalls, ball-caps and sunglasses, all sorts of police souvenirs n' crap..."
"This is exactly the sort of dilemma that people like Dunbrook make their millions off of," Sythe replied darkly. "It's sickening that we lost two of our best men, but it's going to send paper sales through the roof - and police approval ratings, on both sides of the House. Meanwhile, Carmody's wife is in hysterics because Carmody hated, absolutely hated any kind of fanfare, and Sigurdson's family are thinking up interesting ways to sue the department for not doing more to protect him. How the hell do you protect an officer from things we can't possibly predict? That's why cops exist in the first place. I get that they're grieving, but Christ Almighty..."
"I wouldn't say that too loud," Dawkins observed. "Stick to the everyday-hero line, I would, if I was you."
"Don't we always? Of course I want to help them. I liked Sig and Carmody. I know their families. I miss them. But you can't...it's what we do, and their families know that. They've refused Victims Services - so far - and the Widows and Childrens' Foundation has barely had a chance to make contact with them."
"They're angry," Dawkins said mildly. "They wanna know why. They gotta put blame somewheres. Wouldn't you, if it was your kids?"
Sythe raised his hands, about to retort, but let them drop back on his desk, helplessly. "Maybe that's why I don't have any," he replied. "No parent should have to go through that. It's why I remustered as a cop, after the Golan Heights. The world isn't safe. It never was. It's only humans who think it's supposed to be - because people like you and me work like hell in the background to make them think so. I'm not like you, Brad. I can't adopt every young cop I work with. But what I'm good at is keeping people safe, and I feel like shit 'cause I dropped the ball. On two guys I've known since they left Academy."
"There's no way on earth anyone coulda- "
"I know that. I know that. Makes no difference. Dammit, if Connor had only decided to testify just a day later. Flack would've heard about the Escalade in time to put out a BOLO on it, and he probably would've made a good guess who the target was. But there's no way to know."
"No. There ain't. You gonna recommend any policy changes? Carmody and Sig had the trainin' and equipment for just about anythin' but a high-level assault. What else can city cops do?"
"Damned if I know. What sort of policy do you write on ambushes in a civilian, open space, with military-grade equipment? That's out of the Iraq theatre playbook, not ours. Do we make sure nobody leaves the office without Type III anti-rifle kevlar all over, and a gas mask, and goes straight into an armoured Humvee? I don't think New Yorkers want to see that. They sure as hell won't pay for it. There's just no way we could've anticipated a sulky-ass white-collar security tech would get kidnapped during the first hour he was out of jail."
"Mac Taylor said as how they had the police band tuned up, and were ready to tag whoever on their list of targets came up first. That it was this kid Cade who did the plannin', after he was kicked out of the Army. Is Cade talkin'?"
"Nope. He won't be talking much for a while. Cracked skull."
"Eh? The hell your boys do?"
"Simon Cade did it himself. Carmody shot him in the shoulder, at the diner, so he was bleeding pretty bad already. When they tracked the group to the barracks, Flack got him in the back of the leg, on the run. Cade tried to kill himself right there. Flack managed to disarm him, but then Cade tried to bash his brains out on the window-frame of the Avalanche, on the way in. Nearly did, too. He'll get patched up, and some lawyer will argue him off of Death Row on the grounds that he was obviously nuts to begin with, and is now brain-damaged. And they'll win."
"God help us."
"Taylor and Sinclair are actually working together on a memo to the Mayor to lift the moratorium on state executions. They're amping each other up like...well, like a pair of old Marines who've just found a war to fight instead of each other."
"Oh, Lawd. And the old man himself?"
"Oh, Dunbrook's never been more popular. You saw yesterday's headlines? "Heroes in uniform", "Guardian Angels of our Streets", that sort of thing? The other rags are stomping all over him, claiming that he basically bought the cops, or that he must've known his son would be kidnapped, and made sure he took out insurance, that sort of crap. Some are saying Dunbrook planned it to distract from his court case and win sympathy."
"You think he did?"
"I think Robert Dunbrook's counting on the fact that people will only remember that he loves the NYPD for saving his son, and will forget that two New York police officers died in the process. So yeah, it's going to be a rock festival out there tomorrow, but I don't mind. Sig and Carmody deserve it, and it's good for morale. Nobody's going to forget that two of our men went down trying to keep the city safe."
"And the optics don't hurt a bit."
"No," Sythe agreed. "They don't. You better believe there's gonna be YouTube clips of police from all over the world coming to pay their respects, even if I have to put 'em there myself."
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"So much for family dinner out," Jess sighed. "But maybe this is better, in a depressing sort of way. The dads get to meet at a massive police event. Totally within their arena. And the moms will have dozens of younger police spouses to fuss over. They'll be fine."
"First time I've seen you in uniform. In person, anyway." Flack said, distracted by the sight of her expertly flipping and knotting her tie. Her neatly pressed collar and the coiled knot of hair at her nape accentuated the graceful column of her throat, and he resisted the urge to lean over and nibble. A mark on her pale skin would not earn him any points, especially today, which was a pity: Jess in regs was entirely appealing, from duty cap to highly polished boots. Maybe later on...
"It suits you. Really, I mean. Not just the whole uniform...thing."
She slid him an amused glance.
"Had it tailored." she told him, in a stage whisper. She went on to explain: "Most of the girls have a dress uniform altered to fit properly, for ceremonial events. What time are we meeting the dads?"
"Twelve-thirty, at the muster station. They're with the retired officers up front, so they'll start about a half hour before we do. My mom's gonna be at the Civic Center a bit early, setting up for the reception, so we can pick yours up on the way and introduce them there. Tie okay?"
He knew his tie, bar and insignia were perfectly straight, but she fiddled with it anyway. Like Jess, he wore his shield tucked into the breast pocket of his duty jacket, with a black mourning band wrapped around it. She smoothed a tiny crease out of his shirt and leaned into him. There was something terribly poignant about that small moment, between comforting each other over the loss of two friends, and the casual affection in her deft movements. He took her hands in his, and she tilted her head, regarding him seriously.
"What?" he asked.
"You look good in Dress Order," she told him. A brief smile touched his face, and she looked more closely at him. "You doing okay?"
"Rough day," he said huskily, and cleared his throat. "Carmody, Sig, my parents meeting yours...If there had to be a day like this, Jess, I'm glad you're here."
She blinked hurriedly and swallowed. "It'll be fine," she told him. "It's not like we've been trying to keep them apart. We've been trying to fix a date to get them all together for ages. They understand cop schedules. You know my folks adore you."
"It's not yours I'm worried about."
It wouldn't take much to send Don Flack Sr. into a maudlin downward spiral, especially if he was half-tanked before the parade even started. Between his father's pride in his own past policing career, and the unvoiced truths of a difficult family life, the old man might well find the sight of a police funeral and a son in uniform shattering to his composure. He might retreat into cold, stony silence, or he might turn barstool raconteur, and become the life of the party until Mary made their farewells and pulled him away.
"Mm. You think your dad'll be coasting?"
"I wish I knew. Mom said she didn't see him drinking, when I talked to her this morning. But that doesn't mean a whole lot."
"We'll deal with it when we see him. My guess is, he'll be better today than he's been in ages. He'll remember who he was. Who he is."
"Maybe so. I hope so. More'n twenty thousand turning out today," Flack said, awed. "That's what gets me in the gut. Giving up holidays, leaving their families, coming across the country, or farther than that, on their own dime, to march in this thing. 'Cause of Carmody and that crazy kid Sig."
" 'Cause of every one of us who ever went down, and never got more than a line in a community newspaper," Jess reminded him. "And to remind us we're not alone out there."
He squeezed her hands briefly, and, looking up, he saw them in the mirror over the dresser, two footsoldiers in a neverending war against crime and opression. No, they weren't alone out there. Least of all the two of them. They invested a lot in making sure that connection stayed strong, in among their busy days and nights. Whatever else went on, they had each other to come home to, a place of safety to rest and re-focus.
He wondered how they'd feel, watching a child of theirs go through the internal decision process and rigorous training of becoming a police officer, and putting on the same uniform. Maybe even taking on his or Jess' badge number, as Jess had done.
It was an incredibly exciting thought. It had occurred to him before, as a half-formed fancy, but today it hit him hard. Would they both be alive to see a child of theirs graduate high school, let alone Academy? Just one of them? Or neither?
How long could they go through every day, not knowing what random twist of fate might wrench them apart? And what would they have of each other to hold onto?
It was too easy, and too comforting, to keep telling each other there was no need to rush a wedding. They talked frequently about what they hoped for in a marriage, and the patterns they wanted not to fall into. It was a forgone conclusion that they'd make it all happen, but they hadn't even been together a year.
It was a day to focus on Carmody and Sig, and to support their families, he reminded himself. Otherwise, he thought, he'd have asked her right there and then to just marry him and work out the practical details as they went. On a day like this, with mortality and life choices in high relief, pragmatism took a back seat to plangent human truths.
However many days he had left, he wanted to be with Jess at the end of them.
His cellphone rang, which was probably for the best. He kissed her again and went to retrieve it.
"Flack. Yes, sir. Yeah, we're heading out soon...Yeah? Hell yeah, count me in. Hang on." he covered the phone, and said to Jess: "It's Sythe. He's planning a thing at Harper's tonight, just for Homicide Squad. Kind of a wake. Harper's offered to close just for us. You wanna go?" Jess nodded vigorously, on her way to the kitchen, and he went back to his call. "Yeah, we'll be there, sir. See you at the parade."
"I'm making a thermos of tea to take with," called Jess. "You want anything?"
"No, I'm good. Thought you were strictly coffee in the morning."
"It's this herbal stuff, for stress," she called back. "Sam introduced me to it. Chamomile, St. John's Wort, peppermint...tastes like weeds, but it works. Helped take the edge of being suspended, that's for sure. You talked to Sam? About all this?"
Sam's path to sobriety had been mainly steady, give or take a couple of predictable tumbles off the wagon. But the reminder that Don faced the same daily hazards as Sig and Carmody would almost certainly give her a setback. He was still the only family member she communicated with.
"Yeah, we talked," he assured her. "She's okay. She asked if I thought she should come to the reception, try to connect with Mom and Dad again. We decided it wasn't the day for it. Did you know Grady called her up the minute after the shooting hit the news? He knew she'd want to talk to someone non-Flack and non-cop. Sounds like they've been hangin' out a fair bit. My club-rat sister is turning into a bookstore nerd who has coffee with her priest buddy. And actually talks to him."
"That's interesting."
"Yeah. She doesn't let many people in."
"Yeah, but it's Grady. He's solid as a rock."
"And she knows you're happy about him being in her life," Jess pointed out, shrugging her knapsack over one shoulder. "She's working hard to impress you, you know. It's a big part of what's keeping her going."
"She's succeeding."
"You should tell her."
"I will. You ready?"
She leaned over and planted a rather inspiring kiss on his mouth.
"Let's go."
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Flack Sr., sober as a newly-appointed judge and as good-tempered as a bear awoken in winter, seemed to come to life upon meeting Cliff Angell. Much of this was Cliff's doing, based on numerous conversations over the past few months with his daughter and his more-or-less adopted son.
"Detective Sergeant Flack. Good to finally meet you," Cliff said heartily, in response to Don's introduction, as though he'd heard nothing but tales of honour and bravery about the man. He'd made it clear to Jess and Don that if ever he, a fellow retired cop, was in a position to speak candidly with Don's old man about the support available to alcoholic ex-cops and their families, he was game. But they were just meeting. Trust would take a long time, if it ever came.
Flack Sr. returned his handshake, and said gruffly: "And you, sir. That's one bright gel you got. She's welcome at our house anytime, for sure."
Cliff grinned and slewed his eyes at his daughter, who actually blushed under her uniform cap. He refrained from pointing out that Flack Sr. hadn't made his own daughter welcome in years. He also decided not to mention the fact that by now, Don was a regular at the Angell's all-afternoon Sunday lunches for family and friends, whether or not Jess was with him. And that even Samantha had come along with the kids once or twice, shy as a colt around parental types, and with the predictable anxiety of the recently sober, but a real delight once she settled in. Don's father was a proud man, and wouldn't take kindly to the implication that the Angells were far more functional and welcoming than the Flacks. Especially since it was obvious that they were.
"I think Chérie's already sorting out the family silver for those kids," he said, when the charming young pair had made their farewells and gone to form ranks with their unit. "She really likes that boy of yours. Pity she isn't here to meet you, but she'll be at the reception later."
"My wife - our Mary - had a very nice card from her on her birthday," Flack said. "I look forward to meeting her. French-Canadian, is she not?"
"Yep. Forty-five years of marriage and I still can't keep up when she tells me off en français. Just as well, maybe. By the time the kids translate for me, it's all over."
Flack grinned appreciatively at this, right up to his blue eyes, and suddenly looked a lot like his middle child. Cliff had a flash of the charismatic leader-of-men he'd heard tales about since arriving at the NYPD.
They stood side by side, Flack neatly fitted into his old uniform, and Cliff, considerably larger of girth than in days of old, in navy trousers, white dress shirt and his uniform jacket and cap. Looking around, there seemed to be a visible demarcation line between those who had relaxed into retirement, and those who had kept their police physiques. Cliff was secretly pleased that Flack could chalk himself a mark of superiority. It gave Cliff a bit of a psychological advantage, so as not to appear as any kind of competitor, but just a fellow dad and retiree.
"Makes you think, doesn't it?" Cliff murmured, looking over the sea of people in the square, various blocks of uniforms following barked commands as they lined up in marching order. "How'd us old warhorses get so damned lucky? How many of these kids will get to retire?"
"Mine nearly didn't," Flack said. "I'm thankful every day the boy pulled through. Knowing he's keeping the job going, it's like I left the best part of me right back there in the precinct. Maybe one day he'll say the same."
Cliff nodded. Days like these brought up memory and regret in equal measure for everyone, for the most part regarded as personal confessions, rather than an invitation to talk.
It was then he glanced down and saw the tremor in Flack's hands, and felt a surge of pity. He almost wanted to suggest that they fall out for a quick dram before the parade, to fortify themselves. Many of the old gang would have a flask on them. But Flack apparently was self-aware enough to know that he wouldn't stop at one, and he was too proud to do any dishonour to his badge or his family on a day like this. He'd suffer through the day, and probably be unreachable through a whiskey fog for the rest of the weekend.
One day I'll tell him how much my daughter taught me, when I finally let her grow up, he promised himself. He was surprised at how quickly he'd extended his affection and concern for Flack Junior to his father - and how readily his scheming managerial mind was turning the problem over, seeking the right path to take. But then, he reasoned, he treated all his friends and family as if they were his squad, and naturally sought to strengthen the weak points and play up the strong ones, for the betterment of the whole.
"Guess we both did something right," he said mildly, "somewhere along the way. Makes you want to hold 'em a little tighter, doesn't it? You just never know."
Donald Flack didn't reply. Cliff didn't expect him to. Seeds need time to take root.
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"We're doing this? Really?"
Jess' smile threatened to outshine the summer evening sun as she nodded, even though the tears she'd spent the day holding back were now tumbling down her cheeks onto her uniform blouse. She cupped his face tenderly in her hands, and kissed him over and over.
"Yes. Oh, my God, yes. Isn't this crazy, to get all...look at me, I'm a complete basket-case! It's not like we didn't know - but to actually do it - and today..."
Don, nearly in the same state, laughed and rambled happily on: "Trust you to upstage me! I was this close to just asking you. Right in the middle of the parade and everything. But this is perfect. I swear, the look on my mom's face...she thought we were messing with her head. And today makes sense, after all. It is sort of about remembering Carmody and Sig."
"It totally is. What a thing to remember them by. Betcha we're not the only ones who decided to make it official today. It's definitely a heads-up not to wait for 'someday.' "
"Well, we sure as hell won't be getting the award for Most Unexpected," said Don. "So much for turning up at a scene with wedding bands and seeing who notices. They're gonna know as soon as they see your face, babe."
She laughed and kissed him again. "My face! Check the mirror, babe. C'mon. Let's go. People are waiting."
They stared at one another for a moment, still in shock, took a deep breath, and turned to get out of the car.
Together they went into Harper's to meet the remaining members of the Murder Squad, along with a good number of representatives from the Crime Lab. There was no need to flash their badges. Frank Harper himself unlatched the door for them, recognizing them instantly, and Don shook his hand.
"This is good of you, man," he told the proprietor. "I know Friday's your busy night."
"Least I can do for you guys," Frank said, as he waved them inside.
The sight of the two of them in uniform and hand in hand was enough of a rarity that every eye in the place fixed upon them as they passed. They made a token attempt to rein in their matching grins, but failed completely, as they approached their close friends at their usual table in the back.
Mouse glanced up and a great smile spread over her pixieish face. Lindsay eyes widened, and she poked Danny, who stopped fidgeting in his uniform blues and blinked as suspicion turned to delighted comprehension.
Don wrapped his arm around her shoulders and gave her an affirmative squeeze.
"Guys - " she began, "We don't want this to take away from our boys, but...guess what?"
Don, who didn't do overt displays in front of the team, pulled off his cap, leaned down and kissed her thoroughly. The table erupted. Stella shrieked happily, and even Sythe smacked the table and hollered with everyone else.
Emerging, Jess stood flushed and giggling, shy under so much scrutiny, and caught sight of Adam and Hawkes bumping fists. Someone must have had a pool running on them, and hadn't yet learned never, ever to bet against those two.
"So, how'd it happen?" Danny asked. "This just went down today?"
"Couple hours ago, at the memorial reception," Don told him, as they sat down across from the Messers. "Weird, I know, but what else is new?"
"Bunch of the police wives were talking about how long they'd been married to cops, and it turned into a sort of competition," Jess explained, "And Mary asked us when we were going to start the clock and, by the way, stop living in sin. As a joke."
Don picked up the thread: "So I say, 'But Mom, we have our own apartments, we're only visiting in sin.' My mom's totally cracking up - and Jess just goes, 'Well, my lease runs out in September, so I guess that'll do.' And I say, 'Yeah, September sounds good. We better pin down leave dates.' And that was it. Our mothers were absolutely gobsmacked. They couldn't tell if we were serious."
"And then we bust out crying and they figured out it was for real."
"You bust out crying, I didn't."
"You did."
"Okay, a bit."
"Oh, shit, now I'm starting again..."
"Oh, my God, you guys," Danny muttered, "I thought Linds and I were gooshy."
They were spared having to answer this by Frank Harper, who hadn't made a name for himself as the cops' favoured bar host by sheer luck. He appeared with a bottle of champagne, which he displayed over his arm with a comical debonair flourish for Don to examine.
"Gonna be a lot of toasts tonight," he said, "But you guys get first call."
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Les traductions / Aistriúcháin:
"Pourquoi tu n'as pas apporté ton copin?"
- Why didn't you bring your fella?
"Trop de travail...Mais moi, j'espère que tu le rencontreres bientôt. Oubliez mes frères - je n'oserais pas me marier avec quelqu'un tu n'as pas apprécié, toi!"
- Too much work. But I hope you meet him soon. Forget my brothers - I wouldn't dare marry someone you didn't approve of!"
"Je sauverai le prix d'avion,"
- I'll save up the plane fare.
"Mon p'tit"
- Short for "Mon petit": literally "My little", but meaning "Beloved" or "Little one"