Dewey   No Name By Lucy Hale  

  

Warning - Talk of child abuse. Nothing too graphic. 

Feedback - Yes, please. LucyHale1@aol.com 

  

  

  

  

 People could hear the two of them coming from the hall. Not that they
talked louder than most others, but their tones were usually easy to pick
out. Police stations weren't generally happy places, but these guys were
always laughing about something or another.  

"Okay. Let me get this straight. Some guy is riding around a dry wasteland
on a nameless horse..." 

"Uh huh. Great song. American classic." 

"Not denying that." 

"So what's the problem?" 

Jack Huey stopped dead in the hall, facing his partner to make his point.
"The guy had to call the horse something." 

Tom Dewey rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Of course he didn't. What,
is he gonna have long, drawn out conversations with the horse? Something
he's gotta get personal about?" 

"In the desert? Who else is he gonna talk to?" 

"All right, given." They started walking again, towards the bullpen. "No
one else to talk to. There's still no need to name the horse." 

"Well, what did he say when he wanted its attention?" 

"Wanted its attention? For what? 'Hey, horse, check out that babe.' Come
on, Jack." 

"Look, you've got to give a horse orders, right. You can't call them just
like a dog. Right?" 

"I dunno. Sometimes the guys in the movies just whistle." 

"Well, I'm not talking about the movies." 

Dewey thought about it. "Okay. If I accept, for the sake of argument, that
things would go easier if the horse had a name, I still don't see why one
nameless horse in a desert somewhere would be bothering you." 

Jack shrugged. "I'm just thinking of--" 

"Hey, watch out!"  

Both men turned at the same time, and a man was barreling down the hall
towards them, one handcuff fastened to his wrist, the other end dangling.
He was big, and looked mad.  

The partners barely glanced at each other. Dewey went high, Huey went low,
and they tackled the man right as he passed, knocking him to the ground
and quickly getting his hands behind his back and into the cuffs all the
way. 

The man who had shouted the warning, a uniform leading two others, came
up, breathing heavily. "Thanks. He broke away while we were putting the
cuffs on." 

"Yeah. No problem. So this guy in the desert, it's him I'm thinking of."
Huey and his partner hauled the man to his feet, passing him into the
sheepish patrolman's hands.  

Dewey brushed himself off as they started off again. "Well, why couldn't
he just say...horse." 

"'Hey, Horse?'" 

"Exactly." 

"But when he did that wouldn't he be naming the horse?" 
 
 "What the hell kind of name is Horse?" Dewey leered at Frannie Vecchio as
she passed on her way to records. 

She rolled her eyes on reflex, brushing past without a word.
 
 "Not a very creative one, but it's a name." 

 Dewey shook his head. "Nope. Just 'cause he calls it that once doesn't
mean it's a name. If my name was just what people called me--"
 
 Jack grinned at the opening. "Your name would be--" 

"Shut up." 

"Hey, guys. Welsh is kinda pissed today, look out." Ray Vecchio the Second
gave the two men a slight smile when they came in.  

They flashed easy grins, not stopping to chat. The two of them got along
with Ray Kowalski as long as they didn't have much prolonged contact, at
which time they were bound to offend him somehow, and inevitably he'd end
up slamming Tom against a wall or a desk or a car or something else. Just
made for pointless tension. 

"Oh, Jack?" 

Huey glanced back.  

"You guys finished looking at that Perkins reports? We got a body uptown
that looks like a copycat." 

Huey grimaced. "Yeah, no problem. I'll get it for you. This is the desert
we're talking about. Calling him Horse once is enough. You can remember
your name." 

Dewey's brow creased. "You mean if there was sand under our feet right
now, and I called Ray over there a temperamental asshole, that would be
his name?" 

"Not necessarily. But if it was the desert, and you meant that to be his
name, at least he would never forget it." 

"Huh. I dunno. Just because you can remember your name, doesn't mean you
won't ever forget it. And anyway, about this horse. It could have been a
rental." 

"Rental?" 

"Sure. If the horse belonged to the guy riding it, he'd have a name,
right? But if the guy just borrowed it, or rented for the day, to go
through the desert, no name's really necessary." Tom pulled the file out
and they started back for Ray. "And what's with the desert, anyway? Is
this an American desert? Someplace in Egypt? Do memory-altering properties
exist in a particular kind of desert?" 

"It doesn't matter. No, I think there's just something about the dry
weather makes you remember your name."	

Ray glanced up with a nod of thanks as Dewey passed the file over.  

"So humidity would make you forget?"  

Ray couldn't help looking back up at the two as they started off again,
walking in step with each other, carrying on their pointless conversation.
"Freaks." He shook his head and went back to work.
  

Huey shrugged. "It stands to reason." 

 "Huh. Then why isn't there a song about wandering the tropics with
amnesia?" 

Jack thought about it. "There probably used to be." 

"Hey, you two, Welsh said he wanted to see you soon as you got in."  

They nodded their thanks to Dutch and changed direction to go to Welsh's
office. 
 
 "So what happened to it? How come nobody sings that one?" 
 
 "I guess they must have forgotten it." 

"Ba dum bum." Dewey faked a rimshot, and they grinned at each other,
keeping in step, distanced from the others around them. Just like always. 

  

  

  

  

The air in the small office was tense.	

Two men were sitting, matching black suits, matching ties, and matching
FBI badges, as Welsh had seen a minute ago.  

They had come to talk to one of his men. And he didn't like that. He
didn't like that they wouldn't tell him what this was about, and he didn't
like it that they were sitting there, silent, and staring at him with
matching stares as they waited. 

It was so quiet in that office that Welsh could hear the ticking of his
watch, and his eyes drifted to his hands, folded on top of his desk.
Frannie was out doing some research for Ray and Fraser, and her absence
from around the office when these men had arrived had led to a much tenser
meeting than it would have otherwise. 

Much as he got annoyed at Vecchio's sister and her unprofessionalism, her
blatant flirting, her pointless chatter about cappuccino machines, it did
make for a more relaxed atmosphere. He could have used that right then. He
had a feeling they'd need it. 

It wasn't the matching solemn faces staring at him, or the one briefcase
sitting between them. Just something in the air told him this was bad
news. 

"So maybe that's what happened to the horse." The door came flying open,
and the summoned detective came in, grinning his normal cocky grin.
 
 "I don't follow." His partner, looking a little more dignified, followed
him, of course right in sync with his friend.
 
 "Well, it was a rental, right? So one trip it got taken to the rainforest
and forgot its name, and so now the singer took it to the desert to
refresh its memory." Dewey grinned over at Welsh. "Morning, sir. Want to
settle this for us?" 

Welsh's eyebrows came up, and he stood. "Detectives, these men are agents
with the FBI." 

Dewey and Huey glanced back and saw the agents. "Oh. Sorry, sir." Dewey
had a rather unembarrassed grin on his face. 

"Yeah. Detective Huey, would you mind giving us a minute?" 

The partners exchanged looks. "Something wrong, Lieu?" 

One of the agents spoke, rescuing Welsh from having to answer. "Lieutenant
Welsh, we actually need to borrow your office for a few minutes." 

Welsh turned at that. "Excuse me?" 

"We want to have a few words with Detective Dewey alone." 

"Holy shit," Dewey couldn't help muttering, taking in their expressions.
"Jack?" 

Huey shrugged, glancing at Welsh.  

Welsh glared at the agents, but gestured to Huey. "Let's go, detective.
Give them a few minutes." His voice made it clear a few minutes was all he
was allowing. 

They nodded to him, and Huey shot his partner one last confused look as he
was shuffled out. 

Dewey waited for the door to shut, then faced the agents. "Uh." 

"Detective." With one snap of movement, the agents rose and moved to
Welsh's desk. The first one set the briefcase on the desk, and with a snap
of movement had the case open and a picture out and pointing at Dewey. "Do
you recognize these people?" 

Dewey glanced once at the photo, and the color left his face, his nervous
attempt at a grin vanished, and he slumped down on the chair behind him. 

  

  

  

  

  

Benton Fraser couldn't help but notice that the bullpen was somewhat quiet
when he came in. Of course there was the usual hustle and bustle of a
police station. Men and women in uniform came in and out, and suspects
were being held and talked to quietly, witnesses giving statements.  

But it was a less of a bustle than usual. He approached his unofficial
partner's desk, and noted several reasons for the restrained atmosphere.
One, Francesca Vecchio was nowhere in sight. Two, while Detective Huey was
in sight, talking quietly to Leftenant Welsh, his partner wasn't in sight,
which brought the volume down another few notches.  

"Hey, Frase." Ray looked up as he reached the desk, offering a small
smile. "Hey, ya know, I'm feeling ma...uh. Mag...damn. What's that word?" 

Somehow Fraser knew instinctively as he pulled up a chair. "Magnanimous?" 

"Exactly. That's how I'm feeling. So much that I'm gonna give you
something to do to occupy yer mind while yer waitin' for me to finish
here." 

Fraser couldn't hide a slight smile. "That's most kind of you, Ray." 

"Isn't it? So here ya go. You can finish this report. Lucky guy." He slid
the paper over. "Thank me later. I gotta go get some coffee." He stood and
was out of sight a second later. 

Fraser grinned to himself as he looked over what Ray had scribbled so far.
Poor Ray. He hated paperwork. He was lucky their positions weren't
switched. Just looking at the number of forms Fraser had to fill out
during a typical day at the Consulate made Ray's head hurt. So he claimed.
 

He quickly started on the report. Fortunately he had been present when the
suspect was apprehended. Nothing new, of course, but occasionally Ray had
attempted to hand him a case he hadn't been a witness to. 

He glanced up as the door to Welsh's office came open, and a couple of men
in matching suits emerged. FBI agents, he guessed. They tended to come to
the station in groups. 

"Lieutenant?" One of the agents spoke. 

Fraser watched with interest as Welsh went over and talked to the two men
quietly. He was tempted, but his sense of duty wouldn't let him listen in
to a conversation that was obviously official.	

Welsh seemed to get disturbed as they talked, and after a moment he led
them back into the office and went in after them. As the door closed,
Fraser caught sight of Detective Dewey, already in the office. 

Strange. Huey was out here on his own. Fraser couldn't remember more than
a moment at a time he had seen the two men apart since they had become
partners. 

Huey was looking a little lost, standing there with nothing to do.  

Fraser glanced back at Ray's desk, opting not to get involved. He picked
up the pen to start writing again, but Welsh's door came flying open
again, and Dewey practically stormed out.  

Huey went to intercept his partner, but Dewey didn't even look over. His
face set, he moved quickly through the office and towards the hall. 

Welsh appeared in his doorway. "Detective." His voice was a warning, but
Dewey didn't even slow down. Welsh heaved a breath, his eyes going to
Huey. "Jack, get in here."  

Surprised, both by the use of his name and Welsh's soft voice, Huey turned
his eyes from where his partner had gone, following Welsh into his office.


Fraser's eyebrows went up as the door shut. "Hmm." 

"'Hmm' what?" Ray appeared, dropping down in his seat, the scent of coffee
and chocolate wafting after him.  

"Oh. Nothing." 

"God, I hate it when you do that." 

"Oh, it's nothing. It seems there's something going on involving
Detectives Huey and Dewey and agents of the FBI. I found it interesting
that--" 

"Frase?" 

"Yes?" 

"Who cares? You're not their unofficial partner, yer my unofficial
partner. Which mean unofficially, you should be working on that report." 

Fraser resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You see, Ray, this is why I
rarely explain to you what I mean when I make a noise like--" 

"Hey, no offense er nothin'. I'm just glad if the Feds are around they're
not lookin' to ruin my day." 

Welsh's office door opened, right on cue. "Vecchio?" 

Ray's eyes went up. "Yeah?" 

"In here. Fraser, give us a minute." 

Fraser's eyebrows shot up even higher. So Ray was involved in this now,
and he wasn't. Interesting. 

"Friggin' great. Just what I need to feed the ulcers." 

"I'm sorry, Ray, I wasn't aware you had ulcers." 

"Not yet." Ray slid out of his seat. "But they're comin. I was watching
something about 'em on TV last night." 

"A medical show?" Fraser tried not to look too impressed.  

"Nah. Lethal Weapon Two. The guy, Mel Gibson, he had an ulcer. It was the
job, I'm telling you. If it doesn't get ya killed one way, it'll find
another." 

"Detective? Pretend I just summoned you." 

Ray turned at that and headed for his boss. "Sorry, sir." 

"Yeah. Just get in here." 

Ray moved past him, looking around at the group. Huey, two Feds, and
Welsh, all looking a little too serious. And Fraser wasn't invited.
"What's goin' on?" 

"Detective, do these people look familiar?" One of the Feds handed across
a black and white picture. 

Ray took it and looked for a minute. The photo was an obvious surveillance
picture, grainy, black and white, and of two people who didn't look like
they knew they were getting their pictures taken. The man was old, in his
sixties, maybe, and the woman with him was young, maybe mid-fifties.
"Nope. Never seen 'em before." 

The agent pursed his lips over at Welsh. "This man is a known sex offender
who has recently moved to the Chicago area. Your men should have at least
seen photos." 

Welsh, to Ray's surprise, didn't snap back at the man. "Look, we've got
known sex offenders all over this city, much as I hate to admit it. And
you said yourself this guy hasn't had a record for the last twenty-five
years. We may not be as up-to-date here as you are." He shrugged.  

Ray glanced between his boss and the Feds. "Yeah? So who is the old guy?" 

The Fed looked at him. "That old guy has been under our surveillance for
over two decades now. His name is Peter Carmello. He was arrested in 1977
for child abuse and statutory rape, but the sole witness against him, the
child accusing him, vanished a month or so before trial was scheduled.
Since then we've had our eyes on him, but he hasn't been a top priority,
and we could never get anything definite on him. We'd been letting him
slide the last few years. Until we had a run-in with a few men down in New
York a couple of months ago. These men were the lowest scum you could ever
meet in your life. Their major trade was...well, I guess the only way to
put it would be the white slave trade." 

Ray's eyebrows shot up, and beside him, Huey sucked in a breath. Welsh
didn't make much of a reaction.  

"These men..." The agent shook his head. "There were four of them, and
they had a system. They would kidnap kids, no definite pattern. Sometimes
from schools, playgrounds, the streets, they would even stake out shopping
malls and toy stores. A parent turns their back for one minute, the kid
would be gone. And they would sell these kids. Asia, Europe, they even
have a few connections in South Africa and Mexico."  

Ray's eyes wandered back to the picture, his face a hard mask. He hadn't
had to deal with anything that major before, not in Chicago. He had
refused to work Vice or Sex Crimes for that very reason. These
crimes...slavery, selling people like they were property, forced
prostitution, it was appalling. When it was being done to children, it was
unthinkable. It made his stomach twist into knots and his loathing for
even the most petty criminal magnify hundreds of times, as though
pick-pockets were somehow the first in a chain that led to those bastards
shipping little kids off and selling them to sex shops in a foreign
country.  

Welsh found his voice first, and though his expression stayed calm, his
voice was hard as steel. "What does this have to do with Carmello?" he
asked, nodding at the picture Ray was glaring at.  

"The men we have in lock-up rolled on the man paying most of their bills,
and it turns out it's the same Peter Carmello we've been trying to nail.
And the lady right there is Mrs. Carmello, in the business as deep as her
husband. As I've said, the two have recently made the move to Chicago." 

Welsh flinched at that, at just the idea of those monsters in his city. 

"They'll be tying up some old loose ends, and we plan to catch them once
and for all." 

Ray looked down at the picture. These two looked like his parents. Well,
someone's parents. Hardly looked like pedophiles, or slave traders, or
whatever the FBI was going to label them as. Never could tell with people.
"So whaddaya want us to do?" 

The Agent serving as speaker glanced at his companion. They exchanged some
silent communication, and the speaker turned back to the three cops. "To
tell the truth, all we need from you is cooperation. There's only one
officer we need to use for what we have planned."  

Ray glanced at Welsh, and saw the hard, almost angry glint in his eyes.
"Who's that?" 

"Detective Dewey." 

Ray's brow creased. At the same time, Huey jerked upright from where he
was leaning against the wall, and sent a glare to the two agents. "That's
what you said before. But you never said what Dewey was going under as." 

Welsh spoke up quickly. "And I already told you, he's not going in unless
he gives consent. I don't force my detectives into anything." 

"Dewey doesn't wanna do this?" Ray glanced between the four men. "Can't ya
send someone else?" 

"In this situation, I'm afraid not. We need his cooperation." That was
directed right at Welsh, sounding precariously close to being an order.  

Welsh waved his hand. "I'll talk to him, but I'm not promising anything." 

"Whoa, whoa. Nobody answered my question." Huey wasn't happy, and it
showed. "Why does it have to be my partner? What's he going undercover
as?" 

"Technically, he's not." 

Three Chicago cops blinked at two Feds. "He isn't going undercover? You
mean you want to deliver Dewey to these guys? What, did he put them away
once or something? This some kind of setup?" 

"That's exactly what this is." 

Welsh waited exactly one more second, then blew up. "Would someone please
give a straight answer? What the hell is Dewey's role in this?" 

The Feds exchanged glances. "Detective Dewey's birth name was Thomas Dylan
Carmello. He's their son." 

"He's what?" 

"He's also the one child to actually attempt to testify against Carmello."


There was a pause as the officers absorbed that. "Hang on." Huey looked
completely lost. "Tom...?" 

"When he was ten, Peter Carmello's brother, Edward, went to a lawyer. He
claimed that his nephew was being abused, and wanted to know if there was
anything he could do about it. Word reached us, and we took the kid under
our protection. As it got closer to court date, Edward and his wife got
spooked. They took their nephew one night and vanished." The agent
shrugged. "It actually took us a few years to track them down. They had
moved to a small fishing town on Lake Michigan, and changed their name.
Edward Carmello became Thomas Edmund Dewey, and young Thomas was made his
namesake. They put down the story that they were raising their nephew
since his parents' deaths." 

Jack nodded almost numbly. "Tom told me his parents were dead." 

"As he was supposed to, as they trained him to since he was ten." 

Huey cursed quietly.  

Ray glanced over at him, then back at the Feds. "Why didn't you come for
Dewey earlier when you found out where he was? You said you've been trying
to get this guy Carmello." 

"By the time we located the Deweys, priority had dropped on Carmello. He
was just another sex offender, and truthfully we had bigger fish to worry
about. We kept an eye on him, hoping he would slip up again, because with
the years between the crimes and any trial, the sentence would have been
light if Dewey was the only one prosecuting." 

"So now what?" Ray could tell from Welsh's face that he was still missing
a key part of this little story. 

"So now, we want Dewey's help bringing them in. We want him to approach
him as exactly what he is -- their son. If we can get him to issue a few
threats of blackmail, and get Carmello to confess to what he's doing, we
can nail the bastard." 

There was a tense pause in the room as the men absorbed that little plan.
Huey spoke finally, his voice surprisingly quiet. "What...what was
he...when they tried to take him to court, when he was a kid, what..." He
trailed off, uncomfortable. 

The agent met his eyes, blatant and straightforward. "It was a typical
child abuse case. There was a history of violence. And yes, before you
ask, there was a pattern of sexual abuse." 

Huey blanched, sinking back into the couch. From the look on his face, he
hadn't been prepared to ask or get that information supplied to him.  

"So now we're offering your partner a chance to close that part of his
life. It's as simple as that." 

"Wait a minute. You're talking about one of my men." Welsh swallowed, his
face pale. "He doesn't want to do it. I saw that much. And no one's going
to force him to do something like this. No one." 

"Lieutenant--" 

Welsh cut him off. "Why not just send one of your own men in as the son?
Surely you know as much about Dewey's past as he does, and they'd have no
way of knowing what he looks like." 

A dark look passed between the two agents. "We attempted to do that, two
months ago. When we first got word about Carmello's part in the ring in
New York we were attempting to beak up. We sent a man in." 

"What happened?" 

"He was found out, the very day we sent him in. We still have no idea how
Carmello knew." 

Welsh's eyes bored into the agents. "What happened?" he repeated tersely. 

The agent hesitated. "Our man was found the next day. Dead." 

Welsh swore lightly under his breath. 

"You know if they found out he wasn't who he said he was? Maybe Carmello
didn't respond well to blackmail." Ray's arms crossed over his chest. 

"We don't. We're hoping. There's probably some identifying mark we didn't
know about, and the Carmellos found that out. I hesitate to think they'd
kill their own son." 

"But you don't know," Huey retorted. 

"No. We don't, not for sure." The Agent met the two detective's glares
with a steady look. He turned to Welsh next. "That's it, Lieutenant.
That's the situation. We want Dewey inside, and we want to put a stop to
Carmello. We can send him in--" 

"You won't use a single one of my officers, not unless they agree to it."
Welsh stood, his voice firm. "From what I heard, Dewey didn't give his
consent for this operation. And unless he does, unforced, this thing stops
before it even starts. You hear me?" 

The agents stood, seeing that the meeting was coming to an unpleasant end.
"Lieutenant, this is the best chance we could have hoped for to put away a
man we've been after for decades. I can understand your detective being a
little upset, but this is bigger than him. You should let him know that." 

Welsh glared, his mouth opening to snap a reply. 

"We'll come back tomorrow," the agent went on before Welsh could say
anything. "We'll expect to see Dewey here and ready to cooperate. I've
contacted your chief, Lieutenant. If we have to use more persuasive means
of getting cooperation from this office, we will."  

The two men turned together and headed for the door, briefcase in hand. A
moment later, they were gone. 

"Son of a bitch." Welsh kept his voice surprisingly calm.  

There was a tense pause. Ray glanced from Huey to Welsh. "So what're you
gonna do, sir?" 

Welsh made a face. "Jack, go track down your partner and get him back
here." 

Huey's expression was deadly. "Sir, you're not going to force him to--" 

"I'm just gonna talk to him, Huey. Go on." 

Jack hesitated, tense, but turned and left the office a minute later. 

Welsh sighed and dropped back down in his seat. "What a mess." 

"Sir?" 

"Yeah. Vecchio. Go on and do some work. Keep your mouth shut about this."
Welsh dismissed him with a wave of his hand. 

Ray turned and left, heading for his desk. 

Fraser looked up with poorly disguised interest. "Is there anything going
on I should know about?" 

"Uh. Nah. Not right now, Frase. We'll talk about it later." Ray glanced
around the bullpen, a frown in his eyes. "Where's Dewey?" 

"I believe he left the station while you were gone for coffee." 

"Oh." Ray glanced towards the door, as though that would make it clearer.
"Jesus. Poor guy. Who would have..." 

"Detective Dewey?" Fraser couldn't help being curious. 

"Yeah." Ray grimaced down at the paperwork waiting for him. "How 'bout we
get outta here, Frase?" 

"Don't you have to finish these reports?" 

"Nah. Not...not now. Not today." He looked around, and his eyes stopped at
Welsh's office for a minute. A darkness went through his expression. "I
just can't be here anymore right now. Let's get lost." 

  

  

  

  

  

Ray couldn't help growling at his phone as the ringing interrupted the
best scene in the movie. "Dammit." He got up, twisting to keep his eyes on
the TV screen as he moved towards the kitchen. "Keep watching, Frase. This
scene makes the whole movie worth it." 

I certainly hope so, Fraser couldn't help thinking. He had just sat
through ninety-one minutes of swearing and depravity he normally had no
interest in watching.  

Ray grabbed the phone impatiently. "Yeah?" 

"Uh. Vecchio." 

"Yeah? Huey? That you?" 

"Yeah. I...need your help." 

Ray couldn't help a smirk. "You need my help? You? Need my help?" 

"All right, dammit, never mind."  

"Hang on." Ray laughed quietly. "What's wrong?" 

"Never mind. I can handle it." There was a pause, and the distinct sound
of breaking glass. "Shit. Uh, Ray? I guess I do need your help." 

"Sure. What's up?" Ray heard the muted noise of a gunshot from the
television set behind him, and he sighed. Best scene of the movie.  

"It's Tom. He's kind of...um, can you come over here? We're at Mulligans."


Mulligans. Cop bar on first. Ray used to know it very, very well, right
after the divorce. "Sure. Be there in a few." 

Huey tried not to sound too grateful. "Thanks." 

Ray hung up, moving back to the living room. "Frase? Sounds like Dewey
went on a bender. We gotta go pick him up." 

Fraser was staring at the television screen with some horror. "Ray, that
was horrible." 

Ray's eyes drifted over, and he grinned. "Yeah. Love that movie. Let's get
out of here." 

Fraser stood automatically. "I just...I just don't understand." 

"Great, huh?" Ray tossed Fraser's pea coat to him as he headed for the
door. "I knew you'd like it." 

"The man...he shot himself. And that's it? The movie's over?" 

"Yup. I know why yer so surprised. Imagine, something cool like that
comin' out of Canada." He steered Fraser out the door. "Good music too,
huh?" 

"If you like that kind of thing." Fraser shrugged his coat on. "Did you
say we were picking up Detective Dewey?" 

"Yeah. Jack was calling from a cop bar near the station. I guess Dewey
went to drown his sorrows."  

Any other time, Ray would have made a joke. He would have made some
mocking comment about the detective with whom he had a somewhat
adversarial relationship, but this time he stayed quiet. Fraser couldn't
help but notice that, and he still didn't know exactly why. Ray hadn't
discussed what happened earlier that day, but he was restrained that
night. Even watching that awful film, laughing at Fraser's reactions to
the drug use and language, he hadn't seemed to be his usual self.  

  

  

  

  

  

"Ray!" Jack stood from the small table when Ray and Fraser came in, a
huge, artificial grin plastered to his face. "Funny seeing you here!" 

Ray's brow furrowed, but a glance down at Dewey told him to play along.
The detective was sitting among a few empty glasses, eyeing the two
newcomers with glassy suspicion. "Uh. Yeah. Funny. Just thought...y'know.
We just wanted a drink." 

"A drink?" Dewey may have been glassy, but his voice was clear. "That
really is funny, considering you're on the wagon and Fraser there's too
pure to drink anything with a kick." 

"Well. They got really good soda here." Ray moved over to the table,
followed by Fraser. "How you guys doing?" 

"Just fucking great," Dewey's eyes went back to his drink. 

Huey laughed uncomfortably. "Yeah. Great. Uh, Ray, can I talk to you for a
second?" 

"Sure thing. Frase, get yerself a drink or something." 

Fraser looked after Ray as he followed Huey, his brow furrowed. He took a
seat, turning his attention to Dewey.  

"Hey, Red, your parents are dead." 

Surprised, Fraser nodded. "Yes, they are." 

"You sure about that? 'Cause you may want to be sure." 

"No, I'm quite sure. My father in particular has made his death
very...noticeable." 

"Uh huh. That a fact?" Dewey's eyes went back to the glass. "You're a
lucky guy. 'Cause I thought they were dead. Teach me to believe what my
uncle tells me, huh?" 

Fraser studied the detective. That was probably the first time someone
told him he was lucky for losing his parents. He wasn't following Dewey's
train of thought exactly, but he had no doubt this had something to do
with what had happened earlier that day. "You know, Detective Dewey, being
confronted with the truth is not always a pleasant thing. But knowing the
full truth, no matter how ugly, is preferable to not--" 

"Shut up, Fraser." Dewey's eyes wandered up to the Mountie's. "Guess I'm
not surprised everybody knows what happened. Guess I gotta look forward to
everybody coming up and giving me their two cents on the matter." 

"I'm sorry. I actually have no idea what's going on. Ray hasn't said
anything related to work since we left the station earlier--" 

"You just can't keep quiet for a minute, can ya?" 

Fraser almost answered that. Instead, he shut his mouth and kept quiet,
glancing over at Ray and Huey. 

  

  

  

  

"Look, it's awkward. I don't want to tell him to go home and sleep it off.
I'm his partner, you know? But you guys already don't like each other, so
I just thought..." 

"Oh, sure. You want me to be the bad guy and tell him to stop embarrassing
himself." Ray smirked. 

"Well? Should be right up your alley, humiliating Tom." Huey folded his
arms in front of his chest, unable to ask Ray for help without making a
challenge of it. 

Of course, Ray's attitude didn't help. "You think he'll listen to anything
I say? Your partner isn't known for being reasonable and cooperative,
Jack." 

"He's had a bad day, all right?" 

Ray glanced over at Dewey and grimaced. "Yeah, I'll give ya that." 

Huey nodded. "And I've got exactly," he glanced at his watch, "six hours
to convince him to cooperate with the Feds before we get to work
tomorrow." 

"I can't help ya there. I got no use for the Feds. If I was Dewey, I'd say
no too." 

Huey looked over at his partner, and his expression tinged with concern.
"Look, just try to help me out here." He started back to the table before
Ray could say anything else. 

Dewey looked up when he came over. "Can't believe you called for
reinforcements, Jack." 

Huey raised his hands. "It's not like that, Tom." 

"Bull shit." Dewey turned to Ray suddenly. "They told you everything?" 

Beside Ray, Huey winced. Ray glanced over and saw the pain in his eyes,
and turned back to Dewey. "Yeah. They did." 

"Uh huh. Great." Dewey blinked glazed eyes down at the table.  

Fraser looked at Ray, his eyes questioning. 

Ray just shook his head slightly. "Look, Dewey, you gotta at least go in
and talk to Welsh about this." 

Dewey stood up without a pause. He pushed his chair back and left the
table. 

Jack cursed and got up after him. "Tom, you have to listen to us." 

"Yeah? Give me one good reason." 

"I'm your partner. I'm your best friend, I wouldn't tell you to do
something like this if you didn't--" 

"Fuck you, Jack." Dewey spun to face his partner, and his glare turned to
include Ray and Fraser. "None of you have the slightest goddamned idea
what's going on here. Don't tell me what I need to do, or what's good for
me." 

"Look, Tom, we know. Those Agents told us everything." 

If he didn't have alcohol in him, no doubt Dewey would have let out some
sarcastic remark and turned and left. He would never have kept that
conversation going. 

Instead, he was just drunk enough to turn on them. "No. I don't care what
those fucking Feds told you. You still don't know what's going on. You
have no idea what it's like. What'd they tell you? That I've got parents,
that they're selling kids? That when I was a kid I came close to putting
them in prison? Big deal. That doesn't tell you anything." He was speaking
loudly enough for everyone in the tables around them to turn and stare,
but he didn't notice. "Doesn't tell you what it's like, you know?
Everything I remember about my parents is them hurting me. My dad dishing
out his little punishments for everything I did. Coming in to my room, at
first only at night, then any damned time he felt like. And mom, she'd be
right there, letting it happen. Not saying a damned thing. If she even
thought about protesting, she didn't." 

He glared at each of them, even Fraser, who looked only confused, though
awareness was dawning. "Finally, I got out of there. My uncle...he came
around one night unexpected, heard more than he was supposed to, and got
me the hell out of there. Takes me to the cops, but gets spooked and we
come here. Coupla weeks later, he tells me my parents were killed in a car
accident. Guess he knew it would make me feel better than knowing they're
out there somewhere." He paused, swaying slightly where he stood. "So now
I got Feds showing up, telling me not only that my uncle's a liar and my
parents are alive, but that they're in town and it's my job as a police
officer to confront them, and let the FBI get it all on tape."	

He laughed slightly, a sound that was so bitter it was unrecognizable
coming from the detective. "So don't tell me what I have to do, or what's
gonna be good for me, okay? Until you got somebody like that in your
life...you don't know. You just can't fucking know what it's like to look
behind you and see this man standing there, and know as soon as you see
him that you're gonna get hurt, and there's not a goddamned thing you can
do about it. You got nowhere you can go, 'cause the people who're supposed
to protect you are the ones beating the shit out of you. You got no idea.
You..." He trailed off, his gaze locked onto Huey's. He saw the look in
his partner's eyes, the pain and hurt, and sympathy, and he stopped death,
shutting his mouth with a snap.  

A minute later, it occurred to him that there were other people around. He
glanced over at Ray and Fraser, saw them staring. His eyes shut briefly.
"Shit." 

And then the silence in the bar around them filtered through his brain. A
look of almost fright passed over him, and he looked around. People
sitting in the chairs around them were staring blatantly. A few managed to
turn around after his eyes found them, but no one attempted to pretend
they hadn't just heard everything he'd said.  

Dewey sagged where he stood, his head bowing. "Son of a bitch," he
muttered. A slight laugh bubbled out of him, humorless and
strange-sounding.  

Huey took a step forward, uncomfortable and unsure of exactly what to say.
"Tom, look..." 

Dewey stood for a moment, waiting, but Jack couldn't find a single thing
to say. So Dewey turned, finally, shooting a small smile back towards Huey
and the other two of his colleagues. "Don't worry. I'm through
embarrassing myself now. Sorry you had to call in the troops, Jack. I'm
done." He turned and went for the door. 

Jack hesitated, then started after him. "Tom, hang on." 

"Stop." Dewey turned back to him quickly. "Just...stay here." He met his
partner's eyes for a moment, drilling in his point, and then left. 

Huey stood frozen, before slowly turning back to Ray and Fraser. "I
shouldn't have called you. Sorry." His voice was low. "I'll...uh, I'll see
you guys tomorrow." He headed out the door slowly, almost dragging his
feet. 

Fraser and Ray were left sitting at the table, a stunned kind of silence
hanging over them.  

Ray turned to Fraser finally, a pitiful attempt at a smile coming and then
leaving his face. "I guess you know what's going on now." 

"I think Detective Dewey was fairly clear, yes." 

"Yeah. Well, we gotta keep it quiet for now, until Dewey makes some kinda
decision." 

"Of course."  

There was an awkward pause. "Jesus Christ," Ray said finally. "He just
doesn't seem like...like that coulda happened to him. Jesus, this sucks." 

  

  

  

  

  

Huey showed up at work early, before Welsh was even there, and was
surprised to see Ray Kowalski and Benton Fraser sitting at Ray's desk,
talking quietly.  

They looked up when he came in, and Ray stood. "Hey, Jack." 

"You guys here early?" 

"Yep. Same as you. Probably fer the same reason." 

"I doubt it," Jack said quietly, without much heat.  

"Sure. We didn't want your partner to have to face Welsh and those Feds
without some backup around." Ray paused, shifting uncomfortably.
"We...uh..." 

"What Ray is attempting to say is that he wasn't quite sure whether or not
the two of you were aware that despite past difficulties in getting along,
there is a certain comradeship that extends between--" 

"No. What I'm attempting to say is that we've got yer back, both of ya. We
work together, we should back each other up." 

"Ahh." Fraser accepted the reinterpretation with a nod. "Of course." 

Huey blinked in surprise. "Thanks, Vecchio." 

"Yeah, well. Ya know, despite bein' a couple of jerks you guys did come
through in the end with Beth Botrelle and everything. I figure we gotta
stick together." 

"Yeah. Yeah, we do." Huey managed a smile. 

"So..." Ray lowered his voice, despite the fact that there were only two
or three other people in the bullpen. "Did ya talk to him last night?
After...?" 

"No. I called his apartment a couple of times, but he didn't answer." He
paused. "I called his uncle. I don't think Tom's even told him what's
going on." 

"You think he's gonna come in?" 

Huey nodded. "Yeah. Tom's a screwball sometimes, but he wouldn't not show
for work." 

Movement caught their eyes, and Huey and Ray turned as Welsh came in,
eyeing them with surprise and suspicion. "What's going on here?" 

"Morning to you too," Ray said under his breath. "Nothing, sir. Just came
in to catch up on some paperwork." 

"All of you?" Welsh turned raised eyebrows to Huey. 

Huey met his gaze in near-challenge. "Yes, sir." 

Welsh let out a breath, coming closer to where they were standing by Ray's
desk. "Listen, I don't like this either. Don't look at me like I'm the bad
guy here. I wanted Dewey in this morning to talk it over with him, that's
all. I told those Feds, and I'll tell 'em again today, that Dewey isn't
going to do anything if he doesn't want to. The Feds have already
contacted the Chief, and I had a nice long talk with him last night. But I
don't care if the Mayor himself calls, if Dewey says no, he doesn't do
it." 

Ray almost grinned. Welsh would stand by that -- Welsh would go down in
flames protecting his detectives. They all knew it, even if they forgot
sometimes. "Yeah, we know that, Lieu." 

Huey nodded, his expression softening. "Yeah," he confirmed. "Thanks,
sir." 

Welsh nodded once tersely and headed for his office.  

  

  

  

  

Dewey came strolling in right on time, grinning the same cocky grin he
always seemed to have plastered to his face, ignoring both his partner and
Ray Vecchio and Ben Fraser, going instead to Francesca Vecchio, who was
perched on her desk pecking at her computer slowly.  

"Hey, Frannie, I got a line on some tickets to the concert tomorrow night.
Wanna go? Third row center." He wagged his eyebrows. 

Fran perked in slightly suspicious interest. "What band?" 

"Does it matter? We're talking two hours in the dark with yours truly.
Trust me, babe, you won't even hear the music." 

She rolled her eyes. "Dream on, Dewey." 

He clutched his chest. "I'm hurt. Seriously. No, really. Severely. You've
hurt me. I mean it. Real, actual pain. Physical anguish. Really, can you
see? Am I bleeding? God, that hurt me. Soulless creature." 

She laughed incredulously. "Would you get lost?" 

He let out a little cry, staggering. "Stop it! Have you no heart? What did
I ever do to you? I can't remember such agony." 

She reached out and slapped his arm, grinning. "You, Tom, are a complete
idiot." 

"Who says?" 

"Everyone in this station. Probably everyone you've ever known." 

"Oh." He straightened, flashing a grin. "As long as it's unanimous." 

She laughed as he turned and sauntered towards his desk. "You're a freak,
Tom," she called after him, shaking her head and going back to her slow
work.  

Huey slapped a smile onto his face as his partner approached. "Morning,
Tom." 

"Hey, Jack. What've we got on the ropes for today?" 

"Um." Jack glanced towards Welsh's office. "Well, I think you've gotta
talk to Welsh. After that, we've got a whole pile of paperwork to catch up
on." 

Dewey rolled his eyes. "Goody. I'd better get in there, I guess." His
carefree grin gave no indication that the day before had even happened. 

Huey couldn't help but frown at that. "Hey, Tom?" He grabbed his partner's
arm before he could take off. 

Dewey grinned down at him. "Hey, Jack." 

But Huey refused to grin. He found himself feeling almost sad as he met
his partner's brown eyes. "You...you're real good at that, aren't you?" 

Dewey's eyebrows shot up. "At what?" 

"Smiling. Acting like nothing's wrong." 

"What do you--" 

Huey cut him off, the smiling act upsetting him more than he could
understand. "I don't know you at all, do I?" 

Dewey's grin faded at that, and he returned his partner's look. "Jack..."
He glanced back at Welsh's door, and hesitated. "I'll talk to you in a few
minutes, okay?" 

"Not if you're going to keep that damned act up." 

"No act." Dewey sighed. "I'll be back." He turned and headed for the
office. 

"Hey, Tom?" 

Dewey glanced over at Ray, surprised by the use of his first name. "What?"


"We're sticking by you on this, man. You don't wanna do this, we won't let
'em force ya." 

Even more surprised, Dewey looked almost confused as he answered.
"Thanks." He sneaked a look back at Huey before heading into Welsh's
office. 

  

  

  

  

  

When the two dark suited agents from the FBI arrived at the station, they
had no friends in the detective division. They went through a near-silent
bullpen and into Welsh's office, facing down the glares of at least two
detectives. 

They went through the doors, and the silent room erupted into grumbled
conversation. Even those people who had no idea what was going on knew the
Feds were bad news. Most people in the division were fairly perceptive,
and they easily put together Huey and Ray's sudden bad mood and Dewey's
absence from the room as being involved in the Feds appearance, and that
was enough to set the cops against the agents. 

Most people went back to their business, but Huey went and perched himself
on the edge of Ray's desk, waiting for his partner to emerge from the
office, absently listening to Fraser and Ray talk. 

It took a long time for the door to open again, and for Dewey to emerge
with Welsh. The two Feds were left behind, for whatever reason, and Welsh
walked Dewey past Ray and Huey, talking to him quietly. Dewey was
listening with a closed-off look on his face, nodding slightly. 

Huey stood as soon as they came out, but they passed him by, not even
noticing. He sent a glare back towards Welsh's office, and only hesitated
for a moment before going through the door without knocking. "What's going
on?" 

The agents gazed at him impassively. "Detective, this case is of no
concern--" 

"He's my partner. What the hell's going on? If he told you no, you can't
force--" 

"Detective Dewey has agreed to help us. That's all you need to know. Now
could you please excuse us?" 

Huey gaped, then glared, then turned and left the office, making a beeline
after Dewey and Welsh. 

  

  

  

  

  

"You know you don't have to do anything you don't want to, right?" Welsh
couldn't hide the anger in his tone. "It doesn't matter what those
assholes say." 

Dewey shrugged. "Yeah it does, 'cause they're right. It doesn't matter,
sir. I'll do this tonight, and it'll be over. No big deal." 

Welsh clenched his jaw, but nodded. "All right, go get your things. One
hour?" 

Dewey nodded without meeting his eyes, and went for the door. 

Welsh grimaced, his lips pressed tightly together. A moment later he
turned and almost ran into Jack Huey. 

"Where'd he go? They said he was going to go along with this." 

"He is." Welsh let out a tired breath and turned to head back to his
office.  

Jack hesitated, then followed his boss. "How'd they talk him into it? Tom
would never have agreed to this unless--" 

"They spent twenty minutes telling him about children." Welsh paused in
his steps, glaring when he realized the Feds were still camped out in his
desk like they owned the place. He changed direction, heading for Ray and
Fraser. "They showed him a lot of pretty photos of the kids they had
'found' while investigating his parents. They made it clear that none of
those kids would be dead now if he had testified twenty years ago, and if
he didn't do this now, every kid that died from now on would be on his
head." 

Huey snapped his head towards Welsh's office, and took a step towards the
shut door. 

Welsh grabbed his arm and stopped him. "Don't do it, Jack. It's over.
Dewey's agreed to help, all we can do is be there for backup if he needs
it." 

  

  

  

  

  

Tom Dewey was not, by nature, an emotional guy. He was laid back. Easy
going. He cared enough about his aunt and uncle to go visit them at their
restaurant before work a few mornings out of the week, even risking the
embarrassment of walking around the rest of the day smelling like fish. He
would take a bullet for his partner in a heartbeat. That was about it.
Everything else was reduced to a zone in his brain, a
hey-don't-worry-about-it zone.	

He didn't like being anything but happy. If he got mad at someone, he
forgot about it five minutes later, and simply because he hated feeling
angry. That was why he and Jack got along so well. They had the same blasé
kind of attitude about almost everything. It wasn't often Tom met a guy
who shared his sense of humor, and he liked that when they were at work,
it was him and Jack against the world. Nice feeling. 

So no, he wasn't an emotional guy, not for the most part. He let things
slip, buried them, forgot about them, just so he wouldn't have to feel
bad.  

But now... 

Right then, as he stood getting fitted with a wire, ready to meet with Mr.
And Mrs. Peter Carmello at a nice restaurant the Feds had tipped them
about, he was feeling a whole hell of a lot of emotions. 

He was pissed. He was nervous, he was unhappy. He was exactly what he
tried not to be. Everything was flooding back, the old fear and
apprehension, the constant feeling of being watched, the worry that he was
going to slip up and do something wrong, and he'd wake up sometime the
next day wondering what had happened, with a few more bruises or cracked
ribs. 

Jesus Christ. His dad was alive.  

If it wasn't for Tom's attempts to block out pain and anger from his life,
he would have confronted his uncle about this. But that wouldn't do any
good -- Uncle Tom would get upset, say he only lied to protect Tom, and
nothing would get accomplished.  

No point to it. Let them keep thinking he didn't know the truth. It made
everything easier. 

He stopped his train of thought, looking at himself dubiously in the
mirror. This suit was way too expensive -- it didn't look right on him. He
had a cheap-suit kind of body.	

But he was getting ready to play a role here. He was supposed to be a
corrupt officer, so he had to dress like one. He was supposed to have
followed in his father's footsteps, and the Feds told him that he was
actually supposed to be happy to see his parents again, since he had heard
they had some big operations going on.	

Either they agreed to tell him everything, or he would try to blackmail
them. Either way, the Feds would get their tape, and he would be done with
it. 

"You ready to go, detective?" 

Dewey grimaced at his reflection, then turned his back on the mirror.
"Yeah." 

"Now, we contacted your father through an undercover officer we had in the
group your parents were working with in New York, so your story is set.
All you have to do is get him to start talking. We'll do the rest. Your
father--" 

"Look, just don't..." Tom grimaced, heading out the door and towards the
waiting car. "Don't call him that, okay? And don't worry, I know what to
do. You just make sure when he's said everything you need to hear you come
in and get him fast. I don't want to be in the same room with the man any
longer than I have to." 

The agent nodded tersely and handed Tom the keys to the sports car. He got
behind the wheel, watched the agent go back inside the small hotel room,
and sighed. 

He started the engine and pulled out onto the road, and a phone rang. 

Surprised, he looked down and saw the car phone. Jesus, they could have
warned him. He picked up the phone. "Hello?" 

"Tom. It's me." 

"Jack." Tom grinned instantly, even through his rising worries. "What's
up?" 

"Nothing. I just wanted you to know Vecchio and the Mountie and me are
gonna be parked by that restaurant. We'll be right there if you need us." 

Tom's smile grew. "Thanks, Jack." 

"Anytime," his partner said sincerely. "And I meant what I said to you
earlier. I still want to talk to you, Dewey. Without that stupid act you
were pulling." 

His grin faded. "Yeah. Want to come by tonight when this is all over? I
have the feeling I'm gonna need the company." 

"I was planning on it anyway." 

Tom relaxed at that.  

"Oh, Tom?" 

"Uh huh?" 

"The Feds, they've agreed to let us listen in on the tap. We're gonna hear
everything that goes on in there." 

His relaxation melted away, leaving him tense once again. "All right," he
said quietly, glad that at least Jack had warned him. It wasn't like he
could think about it, though -- he couldn't exactly change what was gonna
be said because Ray and Fraser were going to be listening in.  

"See you soon, man." 

"Yeah." Tom swallowed, hanging the phone up. In a way he felt better. No
matter how this went down tonight, afterwards he and Jack would be back at
his place, same as always. Like nothing at all happened.  

He saw the bright parking lot lights of the restaurant up ahead, and he
swallowed again to coat a dry throat.  

Ten minutes later he was inside the restaurant, stuffing a valet slip into
his pocket and approaching the hostess like she was the quintessence of
everything evil. "Uh. Hi. I'm meeting some people?" 

"Name?" 

He swallowed. Time to say it out loud. "Carmello." 

The woman consulted her list, then smiled brightly. "Here we are. Your
friends are already here. I'll take you to their table." 

He sucked in a deep breath, following the woman even though every instinct
in him told him to just turn and run. 

She stopped at a table and smiled at Tom. "Here you are, sir. Your waiter
will be with you in a moment." 

He nodded his thanks and stopped delaying the inevitable -- he looked down
at the seated couple. 

A spark went through him, the strangest feeling of deja vu. It was like
the last twenty-five years had never happened. He looked into those
unsmiling brown eyes and had to fight to contain the rush of fear and
anger. 

Peter Carmello had changed only in age. His face was exactly the same,
with a few more lines and thick patches of gray hair. Julia Carmello had
changed. She had colored her hair, and was wearing two times more makeup
than she ever had while he was growing up. 

They were strangers, but he could flash to so many memories of them...It
was an incongruous feeling. 

"Thomas."  

His father's voice sent a shudder down him, but he knew he had to play
along. The sooner this was over, the sooner he could forget the entire
night had ever happened. "Father. Mother." 

The older man was studying him carefully. He held out a hand suddenly.
"Your right arm." 

Dewey blinked. "Excuse me?" 

"Give me your arm." 

There was a pause, and Dewey had a rush of inspiration. He had a small,
crescent-shaped scar on the inside of his arm, and it had been there for
as long as he could remember. 

That must be how his parents had discovered the man the Feds had sent in
before wasn't really him. 

He shrugged off his suit jacket, and quickly rolled up his sleeve. With a
blank expression on his face, he lifted his arm, showing the small scar to
both people sitting across from him. 

His father studied it, then looked up at his face again. Finally he
smiled, a strange-looking expression on that face. "Tom. It's been a long
time." 

He nodded, rolling his sleeve down again. "My uncle told me you were both
dead." 

A flash of anger flitted over his father, but it left quickly. He nodded.
"I assumed as much. My brother was always too smart for his own good." 

Tom glanced over at his mother, but she remained silent, studying his face
with repressed emotion glittering in her eyes. "I got the word you were
alive and in Chicago, but I didn't believe it." 

"You're a police officer." His father didn't bother mincing words or
offering fake glad-to-see-yous.  

Tom nodded. "Have been for about eight years." 

His father's sharp eyes caught on the suit, and he saw exactly what the
Feds wanted him to see. "Most of the cops around here don't dress quite so
well." 

Tom met his eyes. "Let's not bother with speculation. I do a little
dealing, yeah. It's easy for cops to make connections in this town, and
there's always money to be made. I'm not an upstanding citizen, and
neither are either of you, so let's cut the crap." 

"Is that why you asked to meet us?" Those familiar brown eyes were almost
twinkling amusement. 

Dewey shrugged. "I don't see why we can't help each other out. Word is you
have some pretty heavy stuff going on, and I see the suit you're wearing,
so don't bother lying." He drew in a breath. "People like you can always
use a cop on their side, and I can always use a little extra money. The
fact that we're related helps, but this isn't about that." 

"Not for long." 

Dewey's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" 

Carmello shrugged easily. "I'm dying." 

Tom froze. Those words sent the emotions warring inside of him. "You're
what?" 

"Dying. Cancer. Happens to the best of us." Carmello leaned forward
slightly. "When I heard you lived here, it interested me. I would have
liked to see my son following in my footsteps. I heard you were a cop, and
I was disappointed. Maybe now I don't have reason to be." 

Tom sat back, his face clouding. "I don't know." He forced the emotion out
of his voice, unsure of whether he was happy or sad or just numb. "That's
a lot bigger than I was expecting." 

"Yes, it is. In fact..." Carmello reached under the table and pulled up a
thin briefcase. "Take this. Look through it. You'll see exactly how big
this is. We can talk." 

Dewey took the case hesitantly. "Why? Why are you giving this to me?" 

"Maybe I'm just sentimental, son." 

He couldn't hide a wince. 

"You won't betray me. I taught you a long time ago what happens when you
don't do as you're told, and I don't think you've forgotten the lessons." 

Dewey swallowed. Shoving feelings aside, he remembered the tap and the
Feds and spoke softly. "So these papers show exactly what you've been up
to the last couple of decades?" 

"More or less. The important things, anyway." Carmello gazed straight at
his son. "I don't have long left. If you don't do this, or you try and
turn it in to some of your cop friends, there will be people who will
handle you. You know I wouldn't lie about that, son. After tonight you
will be followed and watched, until you make a decision. One phone call is
all I need to make." 

Dewey swallowed. This was so much easier, and so much harder, than he
thought it would be. "I'm sorry, dad." 

Carmello frowned. "You're telling me no?" 

"No. I'm telling you you won't get a chance to make that phone call." 

Carmello sat up, eyeing him suspiciously. "Boy, if you're saying what I
think you're saying--" 

"Mr. Carmello, could you come with us?" 

They all looked up, and Dewey relaxed at the dark-suited Feds now standing
at their table.  

Carmello, to his credit, didn't bother trying to bolt, and he obviously
wasn't armed. He just turned and shot a glare at his son that Dewey knew
he would remember for the rest of his life. 

"Mrs. Carmello, if you could come too, ma'am? Detective?" 

Dewey reached over, handing the case to one of the agents without even
looking at it. 

"Thank you. Carmello? Let's go." 

His father moved slowly, his eyes staying on his son. "You shouldn't have
done this." 

Tom swallowed, but returned the stare. "You're not my father. You did when
I was ten." 

Carmello didn't have a chance to answer. The Feds pushed him towards the
front of the restaurant, followed by his mother, walking calmly behind. 

Tom's eyes went to her, and stayed on until she was gone. 

She hadn't said a single word to him. 

  

  

  

  

  

"Do you really think the guy's playing it smart, admitting to have killed
somebody? Even if he didn't do everything they said he did, he'll still go
down for a long time." 

"Jack, I hate to say this, but you have to stop listening to oldies
stations. The songs are apparently too thought-provoking for you." 

Jack weaved his way past a couple of patrolmen. "Look, I'm not saying it
bothers me. I'm just wondering. What makes a guy proclaim his innocence by
saying he shot somebody?" 

"He's not proclaiming innocence." Dewey shrugged easily, making his way
into the bullpen and nodded a grin to Ray Vecchio Part Deux. "He's just
stating the facts. Frannie! Baby!" 

"Drop dead, Dewey." 

He just wagged his eyebrows at her, moving to his desk and dropping down
to rummage through the papers for a file. 

Jack stood over him, waiting. He glanced over at Ray and saw the blond
looking towards them with an obvious question in his eyes. After all,
everyone should have expected Dewey to be a mess that morning, the day
after putting both of his parents into prison. 

Jack just smiled back. Dewey was a mess. But Jack was the only one who
knew it, and it would stay that way. His partner had a gift for covering
up his feelings with jokes and smiles, and a few days ago it bothered
Jack. 

Until last night, when he had driven his partner home and sat with him for
a long time, talking about everything. Tom admitted that hiding his
feelings probably started when he was a kid, back with his father, and he
had never learned to turn it off. He opened up to Jack, reliving his
childhood, shouting and fuming and trying not to cry over it. Jack stayed
with him, letting him know it was okay, and had ended up falling asleep on
Tom's couch.  

That morning, Tom was up and grinning and making him breakfast, but had
dropped the smiles long enough to tell Jack how grateful he was that his
partner was there for him, and that if Jack really wanted to get the whole
Tom Dewey, grins aside, well, fine. Just not at the station. 
 
 Jack agreed. Tom needed the security of that act while there were other
people around, and he respected that.  

"So you think he just shouldn't have said anything?" 

Jack looked down at the sound of Tom's voice. "No, that's not what I'm
saying. But I don't care if he shot the deputy or didn't shoot the deputy.
Admitting he shot the sheriff isn't gonna win him any points, you know?" 

"Maybe. All depends on who he's talking to. Maybe he's singing the song to
a bunch of guys who really hated the sheriff, but loved the deputy. And
he's just trying to get the facts straight." 

Ray got up to move past them to Welsh's office, and caught the last past
of that. He shook his head, relieved everything was back to normal, but
unable to avoid a snort. "Freaks." 

  

  

  

  

The End