Indelible
by necessary
angel
Notes
Rating: PG for language.
Why did Ray Kowalski agree to step into Vecchio's place? This is pre-slash
if anything at all. There is a lot of stuff in here about Stella and
Ray, though it is post divorce, just. Spoilers for for Burning Down
the House, and incidental ones for Eclipse and Strange
Bedfellows, Easy Money and Mountie and Soul, also glancing
references to The Deal and Juliet is Bleeding.
Feedback: Yes please to necessary angel
Thank you to the guys on the 5Ps list who helped to knock this into shape,
and to the lovely Megan for encouragement, entertainment and editing.
Some days, some moments are etched in your head. You can't shake them;
no
matter what, you'll carry them with you forever. Most of the
time it is only long after
the moment has passed that you realize
that was when it happened. When your life
twists and turns and you
end up in a place you never expected.
Like Stella.
Twelve years old and the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, with or
without my
glasses. Okay, so I was thirteen and way out of my league.
That's not the point. If I
close my eyes I can still see her standing
there, her hair gleaming in the sun, and
feel the kick in my gut
as I squint at her. It could have happened minutes ago, not
twenty
something years ago. But I didn't know then that I would marry her. I
didn't
know that she was it for me. Just as well, really, considering
how things worked out.
But it isn't always like that.
Sometimes you feel the brand sizzle into your skin, and you know the
world is never
going to be the same again.
Like right now.
These last five minutes.
I drop the divorce papers back down on my desk. My fingers, ... my hands,
look just
the same, so why do they ache so much? I didn't read the
papers before I signed
them. Looked them over like I was, but I
didn't read them. I just signed.
The papers lay there on my desk all evening and I sat on my couch staring
right
back at them. Hockey game fuzzing away in the background until
I turned it off and
went to bed. When I got sick of looking at my
ceiling and stumbled out of bed, there
they still were on the desk,
waiting. Ignoring the fucking papers wasn't going to
change anything...
so I cracked, picked them up and yeah, Stella and I are still filed
and marked done. Last set of T's and I's all neatly dotted and crossed.
Christ. I thought Stella and I'd finally beaten the odds the day we got
married.
Should've known it wouldn't be that simple. It never was
simple between us. Not
once we'd got past high school. Jeez, not
even then, really; it just took a little time
for the truth to catch
up with us. Suffocate us.
And maybe now everything's back in its right place we'll be better off.
Stella's better
off without me. I'll be better off… could work
like that. I wrap my hands tight around
my biceps but it doesn't
help. I can't stop shaking. I've time before I need to be at
work;
I can wait this out. It's hard enough being there even when I'm doing
okay.
I do okay as long as I don't think too hard about stuff. That's easy
enough to do; I
haven't seen the top of my desk in weeks. If I can
just keep moving I'm fine. Except
that I'm not… I lost Stella.
Even the job's screwed. It looks like Dad was right about me not being
a cop. Not
that I would change what I did at the 23rd. Except for Rick. Should've done…. No.
Not going
there because it's all far too late, and what's the point of hitting
a bruise.
Accepting and moving forward, like that shrink said.
I shuffle into the kitchen area and start some real coffee going. That'll
help, keep me
ticking over. It won't take much more for Driscoll,
my Lieu, to transfer me out. It's
not working out, we both know
it. Odds were against it working from the start.
Kowalski - I.A.
collaborator. It wasn't ever going to be pretty or nice. I knew I wasn't
going to fit into his team; I think he did too. I don't care. I
keep my head down,
ignore the rest of it. He's fair, runs a tight
ship, keeps the worst of it off my back.
The clock's ticking though; hell, I've lasted at the 13th almost five
months.
Outstayed my welcome. I never was that good at realizing
when things were over. I
was doing okay, you know, not great, but
okay, until the legal crap bust it all open
again. I knew this was
coming, the last card in the deck. I signed the papers myself
for
God's sake. Due process, the wheels turn and you get spit out the other
end.
Coffee smell. I rub my eyes, which does nothing - they still feel like
someone peeled
them in the night. Okay. Mug. Candy. Spoon - better
rinse that. I'm going to do this
properly for once. Got the time
after all. It's what, five a. fucking m.? I count out the
candy
and add one extra for luck. There's just about a mug full of coffee ready
now
so I pour that in and put the jug back on the hotplate. Hot.
Sweet. The smell wraps
round my brain. Fuck, that's good; way better
than the instant crap. I've been
relying on my quick fix way too
much lately.
I do a little one, two shuffle. It doesn't help; my kitchen isn't big
enough to cut loose
in, and I can't switch my brain off, so I lean
against the counter and concentrate on
my coffee. Yeah, a Gold Coast
girl and me; oil and water. There shouldn't have been
a first date
let alone a wedding. Not that I cared about that. And Stella wasn't
one
for following the rules. Not then. Somehow it didn't matter
that Stel and I should
always have been the wrong people at the
wrong time.
We were good together. Real good. Fan –fucking – tastic in
fact. Hell; of course, we
had our differences, always had them,
finally getting married didn't change that. The
dancing was good,
the fucking was even better and the fighting matched. It didn't
matter, though. We were the right people at the right time. So what that
we ended
up having make-up sex as often as we danced ourselves into
bed. That was okay,
more than okay.
At first, anyway.
Somewhere along the way that trick stopped working. It wasn't any one
thing. I did
stupid stuff, and Stel did stupid stuff. And we couldn't
seem to stop doing it. Nothing
major, neither of us fucked around
… none of the big things. If it had been …
maybe I could've
fixed it. Or we could've fixed it. Who knows?
More coffee. More candy and I've run out of excuses. Not hungry. Besides,
I'm pretty
sure there's nothing in the place that's safe to eat.
I'm back at the desk, back to
those fucking papers. Still the same.
Black and white. Get used to it, not going to
change, fuckhead.
Irreconcilable differences.
That's what it came down to in the end. And for once the legal mumbo
jumbo really
hit the nail square on the head. All I know is we stopped.
The fights stopped ending
in sex. We weren't connecting. I'd say
night; she'd say day. I said kids and she said
career. Same miserable
suffocating circle over and over until we stopped talking. I
had
no clue how to talk to her in the end and no words that I hadn't used
a million
times before.
I crunch the bits of undissolved candy but the bitter taste is still
in my mouth. Has
been for months now. You know what didn't change
... never has changed ... the
dancing and sex, when they happen.
They don't make any difference. We're the
wrong people. Or I'm the
wrong man.
And now I have the piece of paper to prove it. I slip my wedding ring
off and stare
down at the initials and date engraved on the inside.
Five fucking years, almost to
the day. I twist the ring between
my fingers. I know I should have stopped wearing
it months ago.
I hadn't needed the shrink they'd forced me to see to tell me that.
The marriage was over and the ring shouldn't have been ... shouldn't
be ... on my
finger.
I couldn't though, couldn't face taking it off. Stupid, real fucking
stupid but it's the
last link to Stella that I can touch. I needed
that, something that I could hold,
something that marked me. Hell,
I still need that.
As a cop I know everything leaves traces. Everything leaves evidence.
But Stella's
left no traces on me. Without her ring on my finger
there is nothing on my skin to
mark the years we've spent tangled
together. I can read the rest of my life on my
body and I like that
… that Ray Kowalski's story, or most of it, is there for those who
know to read.
The faint lines and patches of smoother skin that are the only remnants
of the
permanently scabbed knees and elbows of Ray the kid.
The imprints of boxing on my knuckles and my face; nothing big, just
little dents and
creases in the skin.
The closed up holes in my ears; they'd been the source of the first big
serious fit my
Dad threw. I was fifteen. That was just the start.
Dad and me have never been
right together since, even if we are
- uh - civilized about it these days.
The tat; Stella hated that, said it was mutilation. She'd refused to
let me mark myself
with something dedicated to her. I'd wanted to.
To mark our wedding day with
something more than a gold band. Maybe
that should have been my first clue. The
second should have been
the way we lived; the only joint stuff we'd ever owned had
been
wedding gifts. Everything else was either hers or mine. We'd never even
had a
mortgage; we'd always rented for good, sensible, and practical
reasons. I know a
mortgage, and hell, even kids, can't save a marriage
from crumbling, but I can't help
but feel the lack of mortar in
our life hadn't helped.
Being a cop has left more than miles on my body and lines on my face.
There's the
smooth, raised, twisted, a whatsit... a kelatoid scar
on my thigh where I took a bullet
a few years back, that and the
ache in the knee on the same leg that still bothers me
every once
in a while. I yanked the ligaments taking down some fuckhead who
hadn't wanted a trip in a blue and white. I'm healed but the evidence
remains.
I rub one hand over my stomach, ignoring the itch from the scar on my
thigh. It only
ever itches when I think about it. I'm the wrong
side of thirty, staring forty in the
eye, and that shows on my body,
on my face. My body is... um…lived in, and I'm
cool with that.
Yeah, of course, I could do with the energy I used to have but I like
lived in, I like places and people that show how they've lived.
Stella's not like that, she doesn't show a thing. She is all smooth cool
armor in public.
And with her parents, especially her Dad. She's
always been like that except with
me. With me she was ....
I pace over to the stereo. No, can't put that on. Need it loud but my
landlady would
rip my guts out if my neighbor didn't get there first.
Fucking crappy apartment.
Sound proofing stinks here. I ditch the
empty mug and keep moving, spinning my
wedding ring on my index
finger.... My Stella was the secret Stella. The Stella who'd
danced,
in her bare feet, around our cramped apartment in her ratty T-shirts
and
jeans. Her painted toenails gleaming. The Stella who'd littered
the place with
discarded earrings and shoes. The bare, freckled,
mussed-hair girl who'd woken up
beside me every day. That had been
my Stella until the armor had crept inside our
castle.
I never saw that coming.
I knew things weren't going well. It didn't take a genius to figure that
out. It was
little stuff, really.
Stel used to pull all nighters all the time. She's a real night person,
doesn't really
start to function until the afternoon. I was used
to it, and I don't like mornings all
that much myself so we dealt
pretty well together. Some times I'd come home after
a night shift
or a stakeout to find her crashed out over her books. I've stumbled out
of an empty bed more times than I can count to find her wired on
too much caffeine
and making breakfast. Breakfast was our meal;
we both liked to wallow and it was
the one time we'd be ready to
eat at the same time.
The first time she left for work without breakfast or coffee or even
a "Morning Ray",
I'd overslept, so I put it down to that.
The next time I heard her leave. I'd just
woken up. She shrugged
it off as no big deal and it wasn't really. But it kept
happening.
Not every time, but we rarely had breakfast together after that. On our
free days off together, and that was that.
So that and the fact we rarely touched anymore... outside of in bed and
dancing. Not
that we danced much. We were still having sex, damn
good sex so... but I'm a
touchy feely guy, always have been. Stel
isn't really tactile; she always had a big
thing about personal
space, but I'd been inside her bubble right from the very start.
She used to touch me all the time, picked up my habits, I guessed. And
then she
stopped; stopped ruffling my hair, patting me on the arm
and the ass, holding my
hand, all that sort of stuff. So yeah, it
wasn't going well, but we'd had our share of
rough patches and come
through the other side.
I had my head down, weathering the storm as my Mom would say, so I just
didn't
see it. One day I went to put my arm around her, and just
for a few seconds, I saw
the same look in her eyes that she has
every time she looks at her Dad. Only it was
me she was looking
at. I couldn't see inside her any more. That's when I knew it was
all over but the crying, for her at least.
I twist the ring, tracing the edge with my thumb. I should put it away,
lock it away,
and get out of here. Find some way to kill the time
before work. "Put it away." I
jump a little at the sound
of my voice, even though it isn't much more than a
whisper. "Put
it the fuck away."
But I can't.
The gold glitters in the morning sunshine and I blink until the nicks
and scratches
that mar the surface of the metal aren't blurred.
Stella's rings had been almost like
new when she'd slipped them
off and given them back to me. Her hand had been
smooth, buffed
even nails gleaming, her skin colder than the metal. A million years
away from the hot, slightly sticky hand with its well-chewed nails
I'd held that first
day.
The rest of the jewelry that I'd given her was just as pristine as the
rings, and not
even warm from her skin, when she returned it. I
hadn't wanted to take it, but she'd
left the little glittering heap
here anyway, on the desk. That's the only time she'd
ever come here,
armor firmly in place, very carefully never touching me, always
standing out of reach. I'd been living here a week, away from her for
about a month.
I think I hated her that day.
I'm back at the desk. I pick up the photograph of Stella and me. Anything's
better
than looking at those fucking papers. Denial is my friend.
The ring is still spinning
and twisting in my other hand. I drop
the photograph and the frame thuds against
the desk.
I've seen her since. Touched her since. She never marks me when we do
fall into
bed. No marks and nothing changes the next day. "It
doesn't matter how good the
sex is Ray, it doesn't solve anything."
I've heard that almost more times than "but I
didn't do anything"
from the scumbags I talk to every day. Thing is, she means it,
and
they almost always don't. Which is why I'm here, staring at the papers
that put
the final nail into Ray'n'Stella. That put it in the box
marked done.
Nothing washes clean away; everything leaves a trace, but the only physical
evidence that's left is last year's tan line on my finger. And that
I have to squint to
see. It will have to do. It's the only mark
there is on the outside. And maybe that's
for the best. Think that
enough. Tell myself that enough, and maybe it'll become the
truth.
Yeah, right.
Let's do this. I open a drawer and start to slide the papers in. Staring
at them isn't
going to change what it says. Ow! Shit! Papercut.
Well, that marks the occasion
nicely. Fuck. I suck away a bead of
blood. I've never understood how something
that's just nothing,
hardly a scratch, can hurt like that. There's a smear of blood on
the papers now. Fits, somehow. I weigh the ring in my hand and before
I lose my
nerve I slip it in on top of the papers and shut the drawer.
I rub my thumb over the space on my finger where the metal should be;
it feels like
I'm missing something vital. Like I still feel for
the first seconds when I wake up and
reach out for Stella. Never
mind that she has never once slept in my new bed.
And she never will.
I'm in early for my shift.
The light is on in Driscoll's office. The door's shut and the blinds
are down, which is
odd, but he's in there. The night guys are packing
up but apart from that it's quiet.
Too quiet. It always feels odd
to me, being here during the dead times; better than
being stuck
in my apartment though.
I hit the gym as soon as it opened but there was no one around to spar
with. Maybe
that was just as well. I'm way out of shape. Just easing
myself back into the boxing
game now Stella isn't around to get
twisted up about it. And getting my ass kicked
yet again is probably
not that great an idea. I'm sore enough. Sore, inside and out.
I snag some coffee and sit down behind the stack of files and paperwork
that
disguises my desk. Better get some of this shifted, get Driscoll
off my back. He'd
been as close to riled as I'd ever seen him when
he'd bawled me out yesterday over
the backlog. I pick up the first
batch and get started. I'm just into the swing of it
when Driscoll's
voice pulls me out.
"Kowalski, in here!"
I look up and he is standing in the doorway to his office perfectly pressed
as usual,
apart from the frown and the sharp edge to his usually
smooth voice. Weird; takes a
lot to rattle him. I've never seen
him lose his cool in the five months that I've been
here. Not really,
and yesterday doesn't count; that was just ... a posture.
"Now! Kowalski, not next week!"
Definitely rattled.
So what's going down? Only one way to find out. Better get over there
before he
blows a fuse or something. I raise my hand. "On my
way."
He nods and moves back into his office.
Driscoll's not alone.
There's a couple of Feds sitting there facing his desk when I arrive.
"Come in. Shut the door."
The back of my neck starts to itch. Something is definitely going down.
I shut the
door and make my way over to the desk. The Feds are eyeballing
me, taking
inventory it feels like. I stare back at them, one of
them; the younger, blond one
almost smirks when he catches my gaze
but holds it back.
"These are Agents Farley and Cusack." Driscoll waves a hand
at the older, graying
Suit and then at the younger one. "Agents,
this is Detective Kowalski. Sit down,
Detective."
I find a chair and sit down, facing the Feds, and keep my mouth shut.
I've more of a
chance to learn something if they come to me. I fold
my arms across my chest. It's
the only way I can figure out of not
worrying at the space where my wedding band
should be. It's worse
than having a missing tooth.
"You've an impressive record in undercover operations, Detective."
Farley leans forward,
smiling but the smile doesn't go anywhere
near his eyes.
"What's this about, Lieu?"
"The agents are ...."
"Allow me Lieutenant." Farley again. Another oily politician's
smile. "Detective
Kowalski, we have a proposition for you."
"And that would be?"
"Long term under cover operation." Cusack watches me carefully
as he says it.
"I'm not cleared for undercover at the moment."
That was one way of putting it. I'm officially deemed too high a risk.
Truth is, there
isn't a slot in Narcotics or Vice for me; it gets
like that when you take down dirty
cops. Turning on your own. Doesn't
matter about the legalities, cops don't like that.
Some don't, not
all; enough to make a difference, though. They'd slapped me in
protective
custody after I got worked over and took me off undercover work for my
own safety.
I miss it. There's a lot less time to think when you're someone else.
"That wouldn't matter in this instance. We need secondary cover
for someone who
will be taking part in a big federal operation,
and we think you're the man to provide
that cover for us."
Farley pauses. "In fact, you were requested specifically."
I shoot a look at Driscoll, who nods. He still looks rattled. I'm not
sure why; this
would solve his main problem. Me. Or rather, the
problem a lot of guys here have
with me.
"Who?" They aren't giving much away about this gig. Undercover
as another cop. A
placeholder; I've done worse.
"We can't tell you that, yet."
"Who requested me as cover?" This is getting to be hard work.
I'm worrying at my
ring finger again; I'll rub it raw at this rate.
The Feds look at each other. Cusack consults his notebook. "Lieutenant
Harding
Welsh. He speaks very highly of you."
I feel my face heat up. I might've known. Looks like Welsh still can't
give up the
habit of patching me up. He's been doing it on and off
over the years. Ever since I
first walked into a gym and got my skinny
ass thumped all over a boxing ring. I was
thirteen. Funny; I met
him and Stella within a couple of months. And Ellery, but
that's
another game all together.
I bumped into Welsh at the gym a few weeks back. He doesn't coach these
days but
he still works out down there, every so often, probably
more than I have done over
the last few years. Stella had me going
to some yuppie gym. Talk about being the
wrong man. Fuck.
Anyhow, Welsh is now running stuff like the community boxing programs;
he was
rounding up volunteers that night. He talked me into signing
up and then we had a
few beers, or rather I did. He listened to me
bitch about Stella and drove me home
afterwards. Like I said, he's
been patching me up for years.
"Are you interested, Detective? It'll be a fresh start. Clean slate.
Give the dust time
to settle. It is going to be a long term operation,
probably a minimum of a year."
Farley flicks a quick sideways
look at Cusack while he waits for my answer.
This is too fast, way too fast and my guts knot up. I take a breath,
I can still say no,
but I know I'm not going to. This job sounds
like the answer. Like the man said, a
fresh start.
At my nod, Cusack hands me a thick folder and Farley finally starts to
let me in on
the nuts and bolts. "We want you to cover for a
Detective Vecchio at the 27th. In
effect you'll be doing the same job as you are here,
under his name and working
with his partner; he's Canadian by the
way."
"His partner's Canadian?" What the fuck?
Farley eyes me as if he knows what I'm thinking. "There are some
unusual aspects
to this assignment, but nothing you can't handle
I'm sure. Listen; read the file and
get yourself up to speed. We
don't have a lot of time. "
"No problem." And it isn't, for the first time in months I
feel light and easy.
Farley and Cusack relax visibly, and Farley's smile reaches his eyes
for the first time.
"Agent Cusack will contact you tomorrow
at home"
Driscoll stands up. "If that is all? I suggest we leave it there."
"Indeed. Goodbye, gentlemen, and thank you." Farley and Cusack
stand as one unit
and make their way to the door.
Driscoll is still frowning as he says quietly. "Take your time,
Detective; don't just
jump at this. You can still back out you know."
I nod, pick up the file and head back to my desk. I can feel Driscoll
watching me as I
go.
There aren't any surprises in the stuff on Vecchio, apart from the Canadian
partner
thing. And that's more than enough for me.
He's a RCMP guy, a Mountie of all things, working at the Canadian Consulate,
which
just happens to be in 27th District. I'm not sure I understand
the deal there; this
Fraser guy can't have any official jurisdiction
in Chicago, but he's certainly kept his
hand in. He's good too.
Very good. Even going by what's written in the case files,
and they're
never the whole story, especially as Fraser is essentially a civilian.
As for Vecchio, well he's had a run in or two with the mob, guy named
Zuko, which
isn't that surprising considering which neighborhood
he grew up in. And still lives in.
With his family. Fuck. That's
one part of the deal I'm not signing on for, not that I
can imagine
for one minute that they'd want me there.
Anyway, reading between the lines, Vecchio's bent the rules almost past
breaking a
few times,. Or he had until he teamed up with this Fraser
guy. The last couple of
years Vecchio seems to have been playing
it straight. Providing cover for him should
be a pretty smooth deal.
Now for Fraser; I rifle through the folder, looking for ... found it,
a bunch of papers,
clipped together with a photograph attached.
That must be....
I swallow hard and pull my glasses on to make certain that it's not just
my eyes.
Fuck. He's beautiful. Dark hair, just longer than a buzz
cut. Strong, stubborn looking
jaw, good bones altogether and jeez
that mouth. But it isn't just that he should be
on a recruitment
poster for the RCMP; even captured in the stillness of a photograph
there is something very vital and alive about him. It could be the eye
watering red of
his uniform jacket, but its his eyes too. Alert,
smoky blue eyes looking straight at the
camera. I shiver. I've got
that feeling you get in galleries sometimes, that the
subjects in
the paintings are watching you, that they know everything about you.
I shake myself and start reading his profile. The cop in me wants to
know who I'll be
dealing with but I can't stop myself from looking
at the photograph again and again.
"You don't have to do this, you're a good cop Kowalski. One of the
best I have here."
Driscoll is on his feet, almost in my face.
"The circumstances are not ideal here, I
know. But...."
He sighs, and sits back down.
"I do have to do this, Sir."
He looks at me sharply and then smiles. "I can see that you do.
You'll be missed
around here."
I can't help but smile back at him. He's good people. "So I guess
that'll get me off
the paper shuffle?"
"Not entirely, Detective. Clear down your closed cases, hand off
what's left to Brown,
Galucci and Donn." He's all business,
as usual, clear unflappable voice and no frown.
I nod, and make my way out of his office to start winding up my life.
I finally get the Riv parked; it handles okay but I'm still not used
it. Of course
Vecchio couldn't drive anything decent. Distinctive,
though, which means I'm stuck
with it. It is better than a pool
vehicle in any case. Besides, it helps, reminds me
what I'm supposed
to be doing. I'm a cop; he's a Chicago cop, how hard can it be....
See that, first mistake. I'm Vecchio. No he or I. No Kowalski, just Vecchio.
I lean my
head against the steering wheel and sit there for a few
seconds. I can do this. I can
do this in my sleep. It's a stroll
in the park compared to some of the gigs I've done.
Deep breath and I'm out of the car, moving towards the 27th. I haven't been down
here
before. Never seen Welsh in his lair. Big, brick, beat up old building,
bigger than
some of the other old station houses. Inside, familiar
smell of too many people, bad
coffee and too much paper. I sneak
a quick peek at the directions I'd scribbled
down and head off towards
the Squad Room.
I'm in early. Welsh said he'd be here. We can get a running start, get
a few things
settled, before the day really gets started. You can
only get so much from files. The
Feds did a pretty good job on Vecchio's
profile so I know I've got the basics down.
But I want to talk to
Welsh, work out how we are going to play this one. I mean,
first
off, I'm not even close as a double for Vecchio, looks-wise. Guess that
doesn't
matter to the Feds. If the rest of the op. is as loose as
that I'd be watching my back
if I were Vecchio.
"Ah, there you are Vecchio!" Welsh's familiar gruff rumble
makes me jump. "In early
for a change. Good I need to talk
to you." He steps past me and holds open the
Squad Room door.
I follow him to his office, taking in as much of what will be my new
home as I can
along the way. Looks like my desk in the corner, piled
with files but the nameplate is
clear and obvious even to my bad
eyes.
"Shut the door, Detective." Welsh eases himself behind his
desk and smiles for the
first time.
My lips twitch and I shut the door quickly.
"Good to see you here, Ray. Really good." Welsh holds out his
hand and I shake it.
Another quick smile apiece and we're done.
"Sit." Welsh points to the chair on my side of the desk. "I
want to go over a few
things with you."
I sit down, loosening my tie as I do. Welsh tracks my movements; his
gaze flicks
down over me and back up. I smirk at him. Vecchio's
a clothes horse, by all
accounts, so I'd thought a suit might help
me get in the groove. Being half-strangled
is worth it for the look
on Welsh's face.
"So, what's the deal?"
"The deal is, Detective, that I've had a few words with Inspector
Thatcher. As you
know, we're short handed here and I need all
the cops I can get my hands on." He
pauses, the corners of
his mouth twitching. "Inspector Thatcher has agreed that
Constable
Fraser's duties at the Consulate will be curtailed when he returns from
vacation." Glint in his eye. Welsh is enjoying this. "He'll
be here most of the time
from now on, working with you providing
backup."
"Doing cop work." I haven't the faintest idea what Fraser's
job at the Consulate
involves but having that man away from police
work is a crime. Even I can tell that
from his files.
"Exactly. Fraser's a fine officer, even if his methods are a little
unusual, and I'm sure
we can rely on him when he gets back from
vacation." Welsh looks as pleased with
himself as I ever seen
him.
Unusual? What does that mean exactly? I'm starting to wonder what I'm
letting
myself in for here. I'm mean, I'm a cop, so stepping into
another Chicago cop's life
isn't that tricky. Fraser, on the other
hand ... but Welsh seems pleased to have the
guy around, and praise
from Welsh isn't that easily won. Still, it wouldn't hurt to do a
little asking around, before Fraser gets back so I know what to expect.
I lean back
in my chair, prop my feet on Welsh's desk. He blinks
but allows it. "So, what about
the next three weeks?"
Welsh looks at me for a moment and then strokes the side of his nose
with his
thumb. A little shiver of deja voodoo creeps down my back;
haven't seen that signal
since I was one side of the ropes and Welsh
was on the other.
"I'm pairing you up with Detective Huey. I'm still waiting on his
new partner
transferring in. *Vecchio*, I know you and Huey have
history but it is only
temporary. He doesn't have a partner and
neither do you. Deal with it."
That's all I need, second hand agro, but still it fits with the feel
I've gotten from the
profile the Feds had thrown together on Vecchio.
And at least I won't be fumbling
around on my own. Welsh doesn't
miss any tricks, I've got to give him that. I smile
at him but all
I say is, "Fine. But when Fraser gets back I work with him."
Welsh nods. "In the meantime there's a pile of cases on your desk
that need your
attention."
I stand up and start to go.
"Oh, and Ray." I turn, one hand on the door. Welsh is grinning.
"Lose the suit."
I chuckle, tap my thumb to my nose and head out to my desk. Like I said,
Welsh
doesn't miss much and I know exactly which way the game is
going to be played
now. Now all I've got to do is play my hand.
All I can do.
Vecchio's desk is clear. Not empty, just clear. No personal touches,
nothing but lots
of case files and stationery. Chair's not bad.
Squad Room's empty, I've got some
breathing space. I ditch my suit
jacket and settle in.
"You got the file on the Johnston case?" I look up to find
a tall black guy standing
next to my desk. I stand. He's about
my height but broader, mid thirties, smart
eyes. He's giving me
the once over but he's slipping easily into the game.
"Yeah. Huey?" He nods. I hold out a hand and he clasps it
for a moment. "Yeah. I
got to thinking about Matthews' statement.
It seemed a little hinky to me, I don't
think he could have seen
Johnston from where he says he was."
"How the hell would you know that, uh... Vecchio?"
"Ray." He glances at me quickly and I wait. Half a beat, then
he gets it and he
smiles. "I bank there, or rather I used to."
"Hmm. Guess we better talk to him again."
I nod, grab my jacket off the back of the chair and follow Huey out of
the building.
"I'll drive." He looks at me, a faint challenge in his eyes,
when we get out front.
"If you like."
He blinks as if he expected me to put up a fight but doesn't say anything.
I wait until
we're moving out across town before I ask what's been
on my mind since I left
Welsh's office.
"So what's the deal with Fraser?"
"He's Canadian."
I snort. "Yeah, and?" I take a second glance at his face and
realize he isn't really
trying to be funny. He's actually serious.
Huey drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "It's kind of hard
to explain. He's a
good cop, he's just…."
"What?"
"Different. Put it this way: I'm never sure if he's for real; you'll
see what I mean."
"Okay." I let it drop. "So about Matthews, how do you
want to play this?"
I listen to Huey's strategizing with half an ear, wondering just what
is in store for me
when Fraser gets back. Two years this Fraser
guy has been hanging around working
cases and that's the best Huey
can come up with?
Today's the day.
Fraser's due back from his vacation at last, it's been wearing on my
last nerve
waiting for him to turn up.
People seem to really like Fraser around here even if they do get that
baffled look in
their eyes when they talk about him. And the women,
well, they don't actually drool,
but even Elaine has obviously got
a thing for him. Not that I can blame her; his
photograph is up
there with anything I've ever seen in a gallery.
Anyway, nice guy or not I've got a knot the size of Illinois in my stomach
and I can't
settle to anything, least of all the stack of paperwork
I'm supposed to be processing.
I've been doing okay, its been pretty smooth all in all, even if Vecchio's
shoes are
never going to fit me properly in a million years and
I wouldn't want them to...
"Ray!"
I don't know that voice.
Funky vowels.
Has to be him, Fraser.
I take a breath and turn.
Jesus. It's him, all right. Fuck.
Okay, ready to play Ray. I take another breath and start moving towards
him.
"Fraser, buddy."
I walk towards him. Time does that freaky slowing down thing, and I seem
to have
all the time I need to look at him.
The file photograph did him no justice at all. Hurts to look at red
wrapped around
broad shoulders, dark hair, beautiful mouth, even
better in reality. Gorgeous fucking
smile. Canada's poster boy all
right, even jittery as I am I can see that. That smile's
fading
as he takes me in.
I reach out to hug him, Vecchio and him were tight and besides, I can't
not touch
him. I keep it light but despite that he sears into me,
marking me with no effort at
all.
End