Title: The Recommendation

Author: Melanie Mitchell (melanie_m@my-deja.com)

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Mild spoilers for "Odds", "Hunting Season" and "Call of the Wild"

Summary: There's only one obstacle left between Francesca and the Police Academy.

Archive: By all means, be my guest.

Notes: "The Recommendation" takes place a few days after the end of "Call of the Wild". In the course of the story I refer briefly to events involving Ray Vecchio and the Iguana Family; these events are detailed in my earlier story, "Betrayal", which is archived at www.freez.com/atdusc/b/Betrayal.html.

Special thanks to Vicki West and Mary Halbert for their beta-reading support, and to all the fans at RCW 139 (Ride Forever!) who were willing to tell me their views on why Frannie wanted to become a cop.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Alliance Communications; I have borrowed them with no intention of disrespect, or hope of personal gain. Near the end of the story I have quoted several conversations, which are taken from the following episodes: "Vault" by Kathy Slevin, "Heaven and Earth" by Phil Bedard and Larry Lalonde, and "Call of the Wild" by Paul Gross and R.B. Carney.

And last: Undercover is lonely, and so is writing. Please let me know what you think-- even a flung otter shows me that you care!

--Melanie M, keeper of Frannie's water pistol, and the dream it represents.

The Recommendation

CC: Lt. Harding Welsh, 27th Dist., Chicago IL (USA) PD

was the last line on the page. Lieutenant Welsh finished reading it for the third time, and shook his head with puzzlement; there was certainly no reason for the Inspector to copy an official document to his office, even this particular document. He set it down and reached for the phone, no longer surprised that he knew the phone number by heart. While the phone rang he absent-mindedly rubbed at a two-inch blue ink stain on the surface of his desk.

On the fifth ring an unfamiliar voice answered, "Canadian Consulate, Consulat du Canada. Good morning, bonjour. . ."

"Lemme talk to Inspector Thatcher, please."

"I'm sorry, sir, but the Inspector is not in the office."

"Oh. Can I leave a message for her?"

"Actually, she is not expected to return. Do you wish to speak to Inspector Trudeau?"

"Uhh. . . Naah. Thanks anyway." The phone clattered as he dropped it back into the cradle. Odd about that stain on the desk; he hadn't noticed it before. But then, the surface of the desk wasn't usually visible under the paperwork. This morning there was quite a bit of desktop showing around the two items of clutter: the photocopy from the RCMP and a thin, green file folder from CPD recruitment.

Ahh, well. Two birds, one stone. He planted his hands on the almost bare desk, pulled himself to his feet, and looked out to the squad room for his paperwork-tamer.

"Dewey! Where's Francesca?"

Detective Dewey stopped in mid-stride at the open office door. "She's down getting the toxicology report on the Nguyen murder."

"When she gets back, send her to my office." Welsh sank back into his chair and wondered whether the creaking sounds came more from the chair or from his back. He pulled the stack of arrest reports off the neat pile in his in-basket and began to read.

*******************************************

"You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?" Francesca stood quietly in the doorway, holding two steaming mugs. Welsh nodded as he quickly signed the last three reports and slid them into the out-basket.

He was concerned about this new politeness of hers. The old Francesca would have said, "Whaddaya want?" or perhaps, "What!" For that matter, the old Francesca would have told Dewey to go get his own damn toxicology report. The chaotic events following the pursuit of Holloway Muldoon had made a shadow of Francesca; drained of color and sapped of spirit, she had not pissed him off in five-- no, six days. And she'd gone back to wearing her regulation uniform, shirt to shoes.

"Have a seat."

She placed his mug of decaf on top of the ink stain on the desk, and cradled the other mug between her hands as she sat ramrod-straight in the old wooden chair. (Well now, that was an improvement. The old Francesca would have sat on the desk.) He reached out to touch the document from the RCMP, and with two fingers pushed it across the desk to her. "Inspector Thatcher sent this to me-- I don't know why. I guess she figured we'd want to know." He paused to rub an index finger along his nose, and to observe her reaction. "It's a copy of her orders for the Constable."

Her eyes were fixed on the page on the desk, her hands clenched tightly on her mug. He sipped his coffee, and spoke gently. "Fraser won't be coming back to Chicago. She's granted his request for a leave of absence; when he returns to duty, he will report to the RCMP Division in Inkivik."

"Inuvik," Francesca quietly corrected.

He glanced down at the orders. "So it is. Inuvik. You already knew this?"

She contemplated her cappuccino for a moment, remembering. "The Inspector said that she was going to take him with her to Ron. . . to Tot. . . ." She stopped, and drew a slow breath. "To Toronto. I'm-- I'm glad she changed her mind. Inuvik is what he would want." A sad, wistful smile crossed her lips, then faded. "He lived there when he was a boy."

Welsh shook his head. "The end of a colorful era in the Chicago PD." Together they observed a moment of silence.

"Lieutenant. . . . Where's Ray?"

"Your brother?"

"No, no. Other Ray."

"Oh, you mean Stanley."

"You know, he hates being called that."

"Huh." Damn, that headache was back. "Detective Kowalski has a lot of vacation time saved up. He's already on leave of absence-- he had to be officially off duty in order to go off chasing after Muldoon with Fraser in Canada." Welsh waived his hand vaguely over Fraser's orders. "I don't know where they are."

Francesca stared stonily at the page. Welsh watched her closely, knowing that she was bottling some powerful emotions about the recent events.

"Have you heard from Ray? Your brother Ray? I mean, I guess he should know." Welsh pointed at the orders, and added, "He should know that Fraser's not coming back."

"He called last night from Toledo. I'll tell him." Francesca's voice, flat and listless, suggested that she was not looking forward to that duty. "I still can't believe Ray's gone again."

"He still travelling with madame Assistant State's Attorney?"

"Stella?"

Welsh raised an eyebrow.

"Oh yeah, we're all on a first-name-basis now. Ray's got her so dazzled, *she's* paying for everything-- hotels, restaurants, gas. . . ."

The lieutenant nodded, understanding the strategy. "So he doesn't leave a trail for the Iguana Family to follow. Very smart."

"Harding?"

He grimaced. "Mmmph."

"Do you think they'll end up in Canada?"

He considered her question, then challenged her. "You tell me." He leaned back in his chair and watched the clock while she thought it through. It took her less than a minute and a half.

"When-- when we're trying to find somebody who doesn't want to be found, the first thing we do is look for known friends and associates."

Welsh pressed his lips together and nodded. Francesca caught her breath as she realized the magnitude of Fraser's mistake. "Fraser called Ray by name, right in front of the three Iguana gumballs. Now the Iguanas are looking for their traitor. And everybody in Chicago knows that Ray Vecchio partners with a Mountie named Fraser." She finished her analysis sadly. "So my brother, who may be a jerk but who is not an idiot, will not go within a hundred miles of his best friend."

"Not for the time being, anyway."

"But Fraser could protect him. . . ."

"No doubt. But your brother can take care of himself. After a year undercover with the Iguanas, he knows exactly what kinds of resources they can use to find him. He must have had a good reason to drive off with Ms. Kowalski instead of going into the Witness Protection Program." The implications of that statement sent a shudder through Welsh. "When he's sure he won't be a danger to the people he cares about, he'll come back."

"Yeah. He'll come back." Francesca closed her eyes to offer a quick prayer. A stifling silence filled the room, and Welsh drank some more coffee as he wished for an office full of bickering detectives and Mounties.

Francesca opened her eyes, and glanced over her shoulder into the squad room. "I better go. 'Cause I still gotta finish typing the quarterly manpower request."

Welsh was tempted to let her go, but there was still the other item on the desk to deal with. No sense putting it off, it wouldn't get any easier. "Actually, Francesca, I need some more of your time. Please close the door."

Her eyes widened as she reached back to shove the door closed. The lieutenant picked up the file folder, and held it up so she would see her own name on the tab. She had been doing the filing long enough at the precinct to know that green folders were used for personnel files. "Have I done something wrong?"

Welsh dropped the folder onto the desk, leaned back and sighed. "That's your academy application. The next class starts in four weeks. You could be in that class-- IF your personal references check out."

Francesca frowned, a flicker of understanding beginning to form. She took a sip of cappuccino while Welsh flipped open the cover of the file. "You list two references: Benton Fraser, and Stanley Ray Kowalski. The problem is, they're not here; and I sincerely doubt that their dog sled has a fax machine." Her face fell. "Do you think your brother would write you a recommendation?"

"Ray? My brother, Ray? No disrespect, Lieutenant, but are you out of your mind?"

The vehemence of her objection didn't surprise him. "He doesn't know that you've applied to the academy, does he?"

"No, Ray does not know. He wouldn't be exactly supportive. You can't imagine what his opinion is about me working here, even as a civilian."

"I don't have to imagine." Welsh suppressed a smile as he remembered. "He spoke to me about it, at length and in excruciating detail, eight days ago when he walked in here and saw you sitting on my desk."

"You know what he said to me, once? He said that, no matter what I did, nobody would ever respect me." Three years had passed, but she still remembered the conversation in crystal detail; she had replayed it in her mind hundreds of times since that moment, the first time she had ever envisioned herself in a police officer's uniform. Ray's casual joke had shattered that image for her, had made it almost impossible for her to pursue the dream for fear of being ridiculed. She added, with an edge of anger in her voice. "Ray is not going to write me a recommendation. I will not ask him to."

"So what do you want to do?"

"I don't know." She jabbed a finger at the file. "Just toss it. It was a stupid idea, anyway."

"Withdraw the application? That's what you want?"

"Yeah. No! I don't know..."

"Francesca. When you came to me three months ago and said that you were thinking about becoming a cop, you told me that you were hesitating because of some concerns about wearing the uniform. Something about the hat, yes?"

She remembered how hard it had been to declare her ambition to the man who now faced her across the desk. The lieutenant had taken her seriously, had agreed to keep her secret while she struggled with her fears, and his quiet encouragement had given her the confidence to submit the application. "Yeah, something about the hat."

"Last month you brought me your application and resume. At that time I asked you if you had overcome your uniform issues."

"I have," she asserted, nodding firmly.

"Has some other problem arisen?"

"Except for the fact that I don't have any references?"

"Francesca, one of the few advantages having achieved the rank of lieutenant, aside from the extravagant salary and," he glanced around the office, "luxurious accommodations, is that people tend to place some faith in my abilities as a judge of character. They would take you on my recommendation alone."

"You would give me. . . ?"

"I haven't decided whether to give you my recommendation."

Her face fell. "You won't."

"I haven't decided," he repeated, firmly. "I believe that you meet all the minimum qualifications for entrance into the academy. I wouldn't have let the process go this far if I didn't. And as your current supervisor, I forwarded your job performance evaluations to the board with your initial application."

Francesca let out a small sigh of relief.

"What I do not know is why you want to be a cop."

About six weeks worth of awkward silence seemed to tick by while Francesca's mind raced. There had been a reason, a whole list of reasons. Darn good reasons.

Mostly having to do with Fraser. (He's gone!)

Finally she found a neutral, non-Fraser-ish place to begin. "Elaine Besbriss went to the academy," she blurted, lamely.

"So she did. Made a damn fine officer. We're not talking about Elaine, we're talking about you. Not every Civilian Aid goes on to become a cop; in fact, most don't. They've seen a little of what police work is like, so they harbor fewer illusions-- delusions-- than your average Academy applicant."

"I don't have any delusions."

Welsh grinned. "You don't? How 'bout this one? When you first applied for the Civilian Aid job, I was dead set against it."

"You were?"

"I wasn't born yesterday, Francesca. I knew how you felt about the Constable. With your brother gone to Las Vegas, you wouldn't be seeing Fraser at Sunday supper any more. I take it there weren't any job openings at the Consulate?"

"They only hire Canadians."

"So you applied for the job here."

"And you hired me," she retorted.

Welsh carefully considered how far to push her. "The truth is, there were no other applicants."

"None?"

"Not one."

"So what you're telling me is I only got the job because nobody else wanted it."

"What I am telling you is that if there had been even one other qualified applicant, I would not have hired you."

"Oh." She would not look up at him. "I guess I must have been a trial to you."

"Hmmph. Your brother was a trial to me. The Constable was a trial to me. You, Francesca, are a royal pain in the ass." She winced, and Welsh was pleased. He had been trying to get a reaction out of her. So much for the stick, now for the carrot.

"Francesca, you have grown in the last year. You surprised me. I think maybe you even surprised yourself. You are very good at your job, Francesca, very good." He let the compliment sink in. "Why, in the name of all that is holy, do you want to trade that in for a badge and a gun and walking a beat when it's ten below?"

Her breath came in shallow pants, her eyes desperately searching the corners of the office as though she hoped to find the correct answer written on the wall. "I want to help people. I want to be somebody people can count on. Somebody people turn to. Somebody people will bring their problems to." For the first time since Welsh had called her a pain in the ass, Francesca looked up at the lieutenant's face. "Somebody people will respect."

"Sounds to me like you're describing what you do now."

"And maybe, for a change, I'd like to be the one who comes through in a crisis."

"What do you mean?"

"I. . . I've learned something in the last few years, Lieutenant. I learned how not to panic. I mean, I've been a hostage in a bank robbery, I've been assaulted, I've been trapped inside a burning house." She drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Every time there was. . . a stillness, a quiet place in my head where I'm thinking, 'I can be scared later. Right now, I have to deal with this, and I know I can.' And time went really, really slow, and I saw my options, and I knew what to do."

"'Zat so."

She blinked with puzzlement, surprised by the way the conversation had turned. "I don't know. I never got a chance to find out, because it's just about then that they show up-- my brother, or Fraser. They're always there to rescue me." She reached out with one hand to gently touch the copy of Fraser's orders. "At least, they used to be. But maybe, with training, and practice, I could. . . I could be the one coming to the rescue." She blushed. "So to speak."

"You want to be more like the Mountie."

"Stupid, I know."

"It's not stupid to want to emulate somebody you admire."

The corner of Francesca's mouth twitched. "Admire. Yeah, right. I admire him. I spent three and half years of my life mooning around, heels over head in admiration!"

"Head over. . . never mind."

"I thought if became a cop, he'd see that I have a brain, that I do a job that really matters. . . ." A slight choke in her voice almost betrayed her calm. "Maybe he would give me another chance."

"Is that what this is about? You want to become a cop so Fraser will give you another chance?"

"No!" She looked up at him in horror. When had she lost control of the conversation? "No, not that's not the reason. At least, it's not the main reason."

"Then what?"

"It's just. . . I want to be. . . I mean, every day it's: 'Frannie, get my toxicology report. Frannie, I need a list of '89 Corsicas registered in Cook County. Frannie, where's my search warrant?' It's never, 'Frannie, what do you think?' It's never, 'Frannie, what should we do next?' No, it's 'Frannie, stay out of the way. Frannie, you ditz, you used the wrong word again. Frannie, go home!'"

"What do you want?"

"I want to do more!"

Welsh did not know exactly what she meant by that, but he knew that it was the truth-- unguarded, unshaded truth. He sat back, crossed his arms, and waited.

"More than this." A wave of her hand took in Welsh's office, the stack of arrest reports, the filing cabinets, and extended to encompass the paperwork of the entire 27th District. "More than filing and typing and making phone calls. More than playing fetch and carry.

"You know, all day long the detectives tell me what to do, what to research. Most of the time I know what they want before they ask. Sometimes I come up with things that they didn't think about. Like. . . like when that lady Mountie was here last month. Nobody told me to investigate the murder victim, I took the initiative and found out who he really was all on my own. Even Maggie Mackenzie didn't know he was a bank robber, and I was the one who found out. Me!"

"That was good work."

"Not that anybody noticed," she added bitterly.

"So, Fraser thanks you kindly for the work you do, then takes the information you gave him and leaves you behind while he goes off with Ray to do the real police work."

God, it sounded petty. "Yeah."

"And now you've been left behind again."

In a flash, her mind's eye conjured up the image of Ben Fraser standing in a vast expanse of pristine white winter, surrounded by rugged peaks under a brilliant blue sky. Smiling. Home. Ray Kowalski was there with him, and Diefenbaker was frolicking in the snow. . .

"And you can follow, to be with him, or you can stay here and try to be like him." Welsh hated like hell to say it, and he knew that Fraser might never forgive him if she actually took the suggestion, but he had to hold out the temptation in order for her to make the choice. "I mean, you have vacation time coming, too. I hear spring is very nice in the Territories."

Her head snapped up, her startled expression confirming that she had never even considered the possibility of travelling north to Inuvik.

"Of course," he continued, "you wouldn't be able to go to Canada if you get into the Academy. And there's no vacation time during your rookie year. . . ."

The glimmer of hope sparkled briefly in her eyes. "Harding, maybe-- maybe it's best if we just um, well let it go this time. I mean, things are so, ah, up in the air right now. . . ."

For a horrible moment, Welsh thought that he had misjudged her. "You want to withdraw your application?"

"Withdraw? No! Uh, no. Postpone, temporarily. Umm, delay. For now."

"Francesca, you're dithering."

"Me? No. Okay, yes."

"I must caution you: If you withdraw your application at this late date, the department may consider that to signify a certain lack of commitment to making a career in law enforcement."

"No, sir! I have no lack of commitment."

"So. Do you want to go the Academy, or do you want to not go to the Academy? What do you want to do, Francesca?"

She searched the lieutenant's face, not knowing what she should say next. The open folder lay on the desk between them like an accusation.

"Francesca!" He stood up, repeated his question, his right index finger punctuating each word. "What Do You Want?"

"I don't know. . . ."

He circled around the desk as he threw her own words back at her. "You want a job where you can help people? Do that. You want to be the one leading the investigations? Do that. You want to make people respect you? Do that. You want to be an officer of the law in the city of Chicago? Do that."

She shrank from him, pressed down in the chair from the weight of his words. He was behind her now, leaning in and speaking in her right ear. "You want to find the next-best thing to Benton Fraser right here in Chicago and do it right this time?" Beside her now, his voice became quiet, almost gentle. "Do that."

He sat down for the final blow, leaned forward, his eyes locked with hers. "Or do you want to follow him to Inawick?"

"Inuvik," she whispered.

"Is that what you really want? Then do that."

A year ago, a month ago, she would have followed him. She would have followed him to Toronto, she would have followed him to Tuktoyaktuk or Alert or any of the other remote Canadian towns whose names she knew by heart.

Welsh waited. Like a detective in the box with a suspect, he already knew the truth, and she knew that he knew it. His part had been to push her past all her defenses and all her excuses, to a moment when there was nothing left for her to do but own up to that truth, or to deny it outright.

It was high time for Francesca to choose.

Without a sound she slumped forward onto his desk, resting her forehead on her crossed arms. He reached back to grab a dusty box of tissues from the top of a filing cabinet, thinking for a moment that he had pushed her to tears; but he quickly noticed that she was still silent, that her back rose and fell slowly, with deep, untroubled breaths. He placed the tissue box on the desk, and waited.

******************************

*****************************

The door behind her crashed open, and Francesca sat bolt upright. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, but she had not wept. Dewey leaned into the tiny office. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but we need Frannie out here."

Welsh opened his mouth to object, but Francesca beat him to it. "Does a closed door mean anything to you?" she hissed, slowly turning to face the detective. "We're having a private conversation here, which is none of your ear wax, and I AM BUSY!"

"The copier's jammed, and I gotta get these search warr..."

"Out!" Francesca blazed to her feet, her spirit grown to twice her small stature. "You can wait, and wait PATIENTLY, for us to finish, or you can go fix your own damn copier!" Dewey looked to his lieutenant for support, but Welsh did not interfere as Francesca gripped the detective's shoulder, and shoved him toward the door. "Go!"

Dewey made a hasty retreat, and Francesca slammed the door behind him, hard enough to rattle all the blinds in the tiny office. She swung around to face Welsh, and pointed at the application. "You want to know what I want?" She took a couple of heaving breaths, then repeated it, her voice low and deadly calm, "What I want? I want to stop-- I want to stop following."

With that, she dropped limply into the chair, and tossed back the rest of her cappuccino. Hot tears spilled onto her cheeks, released freely now that she had made her choice. Against all dignity, she found herself grieving helplessly for the one dream that she had just allowed to die.

Welsh yanked a tissue from the box and handed it to her, and watched her as she scrubbed at her face, annoyed by the unwanted tears. He waited patiently until she regained her composure. "Francesca, it occurs to me that if Detective Dewey tries to repair that copier, he will probably manage to electrocute himself. I can't afford to lose any more detectives."

"But..."

"Thank you, Francesca. Go deal with the copier." Welsh picked up his pen and waved a dismissal. "Be sure to get the revised manpower request to the Captain's office by close of business." She sat frozen for fifteen heartbeats, waiting for the answer that did not come. "That will be all."

She rose, picked up the signed arrest reports from his out-basket, and returned to the squad room. As she walked away, Welsh drank the last of his coffee, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. That dull pain in his forehead had spread and was now throbbing near his left ear.

The detectives in the squad room, if they looked in just now, would know that he was deep in thought.

They would be wrong. He needed these little naps.

*********************************

He opened his eyes fifteen minutes later, refreshed. Standing up, he stretched his sore shoulder muscles as he reached for his jacket. Then he opened his center desk drawer and pulled out the recommendation he had typed the night before. He slipped it into the green file folder, tucked the file under his arm, and headed to the squad room.

He stopped in the doorway, and watched her at work. She was seated on the floor beside the copier stand, her left hand supporting the top of the machine, her right arm inside it, as she used the point of a letter-opener to tease out the jammed paper. She craned her neck awkwardly, so she could see her task by the beam of the small flashlight she had clenched in her teeth. He forced himself to suppress a smile of pride, and bellowed her name in a voice he had never used with her before: "VECCHIO!"

She dropped the flashlight as she jumped up to face him, while every officer and detective in the squad room looked around in confusion for her brother.

He held the green folder up for her to see. "Make 'em proud."