Bill Boyd

billboyd @ 2004-05-01T22:28:00

2004-05-02T03:28:05Z

He dreams Nic dancing in excruciating detail, and when he wakes he wonders about it, wonders if he really remembers it that clearly, or if he had made up some of the details, like the tight, slick material of the shorts Nic had been wearing, and that there had been something glittery on Nic's skin, something that had smelled a little chemically beneath the stronger scent of Nic's sweat, the saltbitter smell of exertion and alcohol recycled through pores.

Had Nic been wearing a collar and a leash? He doesn't remember if he had, in reality, but according to the dream, yes, he had.

According to the dream, Bill had been able to feel it slithering against his chest, moving with Nic's movement, and he had been aware of it like he'd been aware of the pulse in Nic's thigh, as something peripheral but somehow very much present, like the drone of the bass on the balcony and the smell of the red wine Nic had dipped his finger into.

He rubs at his bare chest with the heel of his palm, and he has no illusions about why. He's rubbing away some kind of twisted sense-memory.

He pushes up onto one elbow, shaking his head (like that might somehow erase the dream-memory currently occupying his brain, as though Bill's brain worked on the same principle as an Etch-A-Sketch, but he knows it won't work; it would take lye soap or maybe industrial strength acid to eradicate it now that it's perching in his cranium like a raptor ready to dive in for the killing strike), and sees Keira, curled up on her side, both hands tucked up under her cheek. The sheet is tangled around her calves, and she is naked from her lovely, dimpled knees all the way up to the tangled spray of her hair on the pillow.

He lets out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, and just looks at her. The mark Nic had left on her collarbone is gone, faded away, and all the other marks from Nic as well, most likely.

And Bill isn't any good at lying to himself. Not usually anyway, even though he knows he's relatively good at avoidance when he chooses to be.

He could push these thoughts away, the confusion of it, fairly simply at this moment. He could put his hands on Keira and slide them along her sleek skin and pretend that his dick hadn't been awake long before he had touched her lovely body. It would be fairly easy.

But it's 5:14 in the morning according to the cheap digital clock sitting at Keira's bedside, and at this hour, it seems pointless to lie by avoidance.

He doesn't know why Nic had been at that particular party. Bill doesn't recall him being the entertainment before or after that one instance (and God, he hopes like hell Nic hasn't been the entertainment since then, either, since Bill had left), and maybe it isn't a regular thing for Nic, or maybe it is, but it isn't regularly people like Dominguez and his crew that he's the entertainment for, but…

Nic had recognized Dominguez, and vice versa. Nic had curled around Dominguez like an affectionate puppy, if affectionate puppies were drug-hazed and sexed-up, and Dominguez had kissed him (Bill's hands clench into fists, uncontrollable and furious and afraid) and Nic had nuzzled his face into Domingez's shoulder, and that is just fucking unacceptable.

"I needed my arse this weekend, you fuckwit!" Nic had spat furiously that day on the rooftop, and now for reasons above and beyond any personal reasons why Bill might look back on that little altercation with pleasure, he is glad that it had happened because at the very least it had kept Nic away from whatever he had needed his arse for. He considers beating Nic up again, just to be on the safe side.

He can't think of any way to keep Nic safe without telling what he knows, what he is, and he's just not willing to do that. And even if he did, he isn't sure Nic would believe it. Nic is smart but he isn't sensible, and he might do it in spite of Bill, as Bill rather thinks he already does it in spite of -- or perhaps to spite -- his uncle Ian, benign (ha!) patriarch of the most fucked up family unit in Bill's experience.

Which is another thing Bill doesn't like one little bit, and can't do a fucking thing about.

He has suspicions about McKellen, grave motherfucking suspicions, and he doesn't let the fact that he doesn't know exactly what they are diminish them in the slightest.

There are too many fucked up criminals revolving around the fringes of Ian McKellen's little galaxy for the man not to be among them, and probably greater than them.

Is Nic one of them?

Bill just doesn't know.

He clearly despises Kate, but Kate isn't really like her father as far as Bill had been able to tell with his rudimentary research. Kate is a thief, but he doesn't think Kate is a killer, and he suspects very fucking strongly that her father is of an entirely different kettle of fish. Maybe John Beckinsale's hands aren't directly bloody, but a man with the kind of connections it takes to not only get off on charges filed by the bloody Eff Bee Eye, but to also command an apology from that illustrious organization of anal retentive fuckwits (ARF for short, old law enforcement joke, haha), is not the kind of man that balks at a little bloodshed. Especially if he never has to actually do any of the work himself. Research into the charges first filed and then rescinded by the FBI (which Bill had done earlier that night, after sex and food but before he'd been able to sleep, while Keira had been snug in her bed alone), revealed that the man eventually arrested for the charges practically screamed patsy. There had been no obvious connections that Bill could find, but with some persistence (three hours of mind-numbingly boring reading), he'd eventually found a reference to a gentleman of similar name (Rob instead of Robert) as an employee of Beckinsale's circa 1979. He had located the reference in an obscure magazine that has since closed down, and even when it was in full circulation, was largely unknown at best. Somebody had missed something, Bill guesses. It's only a guess, but Bill feels pretty secure in it.

All of that aside, Bill is still fairly sure Kate and her father are not exactly birds of a feather. He suspects maybe the only thing Kate has in common with her father is a love of art. He'd checked and rechecked times and dates of trips to various places, and he'd still only come up with a handful of thefts that could be related.

The only common denominator in the things she chose seems to be that they are all valuable, are considered extremely beautiful by collectors and experts -- some of them Bill personally feels are quite horrible -- and none of them have ever surfaced again.

The combination makes Bill suspect that she steals a great deal more carefully than her father, and a great deal more specifically. It's pretty likely that she's stolen a great deal more than Bill will ever be able to track down, because art of this caliber (he learns as he reads article after article) is owned mostly by private collectors, and much of it was procured by illegal means.

Bill isn't sure if she steals the things she loves and keeps them, or if she steals things for other people, commissioned thefts, so to speak, or maybe a combination of both. Either way, some of the things she steals were probably taken from people that had stolen them to begin with, alleviating the possibility of reports being filed or the police being brought into it. Bill wouldn't call her small time, because the things he can track down have multi-million dollar values. But he doesn't think she's in it purely for the money, either.

He's not sure what she is in it for. But he doesn't think it's that.

He doubts Nic knows anything about Kate, beyond the fact that she's usurped his solitary place in his uncle's house, or about Kate's father.

But McKellen…

He just doesn't know. Does Nic know his uncle is a bad guy? Nevermind that Bill can't prove it, he still knows it; does Nic?

And how well does he know Dominguez? Does he know who he is, really, or is Nic really so totally stupid that he'd put himself in the hands of someone as "entertainment" while so stoned/drunk/out of his mind that he has absolutely no self awareness or self control?

Bill is very much afraid that he is, indeed.

He thinks about Nic straddling his lap and whispering in his ear, and he's both amused and annoyed at the whole thing, which is pretty fucking funny considering the fact that he hadn't even remembered it twenty-four hours ago, and his reaction to it is based entirely upon the fact that it's Nic, and Nic both amuses and annoys him pretty bloody consistently.

Stupid twat, Bill thinks. Bloody deserves what the fucking gets, if he's that bloody stupid.

But he can't even pretend he believes that.

He looks at Keira again, the smooth, perfect curve of her hip and the faint flush of her cheeks. A glance down at himself reveals that he is still very much hard -- not that he'd really doubted it -- and he'd really like to touch her. He'd really like to wake her with his lips and his hands, pull her body back against his and press against her, watch her eyes while she wakes up, sleepy and smiling, which he's certain she would be, but that seems…

Dishonest, maybe. He's not sure.

Weird at the very least, and he doesn't want… he can't explain…

He sighs. He doesn't know what he doesn't want and he isn't sure what he can't explain. He just knows it doesn't feel like it would be right to him, so he doesn't.

He stays on his side of the bed and watches it grow light outside Keira's bedroom window.

Working

2004-05-01T04:25:26Z

just after this...

Bill spends three hours in Starbucks and drinks three cups of coffee.

Every time he orders, the girl -- it's the same one every time, so he doesn't fucking get what her malfunction is -- seems confused that he just. wants. coffee.

Nothing with milk or foam, nothing half-caf, quarter-caf, or quadruple-caf-with-nuts-on-top. He doesn't want whipped cream and he doesn't want lowfat, skim, soy, or whole. He doesn't want a caramel or vanilla in it, and he doesn't want it over ice or blended with ice or even remotely fucking near ice.

He wants a cup of coffee. He knows they have it, he can fucking see it right there on the bloody menu. The girl -- Hazel, according to her name tag -- steps into the back to consult with the manager. Three minutes later, the manager -- Todd -- comes out of the back, takes one look at Bill, and asks, "What size, sir?"

Bill knows that they come in small, medium, and large but are not actually called small, medium, or large. "Large," Bill says.

Todd does not correct him.

The third time he gets up to get more coffee, Hazel sees him approaching and flees into the back before Bill gets to the counter. Todd comes out a moment later and refills Bill's coffee without comment, and without offering him a scone.

He doesn't particularly like Starbucks -- he actually thinks even their regular coffee type coffee tastes like burnt arse -- but it's the easiest place to use his laptop and get coffee at the same time.

He has three files open, one titled Beckinsale, one titled McKellen, and one titled Rembrant.

The Beckinsale file contains everything Bill had been able to find out about the Beckinsale family, which is a lot. The Beckinsale's, John and Marianne, are quite high profile in business and society, as often happens when an heiress (Marianne) marries a self-made man.

Kate's existence is documented, in as much as the information Bill has been able to find confirms that there is a Kate, and that she had spent several years in more boarding schools than you could shake a stick at (which is five, actually). School transcripts are ridiculous easy to get. Bill only actually gets two of them (the last two) and the one from Cambridge, of course, where she studied European History.

Up until about six months ago, she'd been gainfully employed by the National Gallery in London, and had apparently taken a sabbatical to study medieval textiles. This is all readily available information in the Museum's monthly publication, which is apparently available online for the convenience of the Gallery's patrons. It's absurdly easy to get it with nothing more strenuous than a Google search and some dedicated skimming.

He finds an article she wrote in the Gallery's publication, and skims it curiously.

In 1520, the typical Florentine women's garment was a gamurra of silk or wool, with a skirt of a single tube of fabric pleated to a waistband, and sleeves that tied on with ribbon or cord, worn over a knee-length camicia. It is interesting to note that, while Italians prided themselves on their quality of lifestyle and technological advancements, the most striking example of 16th century tailoring remains Mary of Hungary's wedding gown, with so much tailoring savvy (and a taste for the opulent) that would put Versace to shame.

The sleeves, for one, are set in over a close-fitting shirt, which allowed for both traveling ease and to boast the skills of one's tailor. While this fashion did not catch on in Europe for nearly half a century after this dress was made, it remains a precedent of which Mary can be duly proud. Equally stunning is the circle skirt, a heretofore undocumented stroke of genius that allows for minimal fabric bunching at the waistline and optimal ease of movement in the resulting folds of skirt. The fact that the voluminous damask trailed for nearly a foot behind her only adds to the design's regal appeal.

What baffles many historians to this day are the large gold brocade cuffs that, when properly attached to the sleeves, would have covered her hands entirely and made eating, dancing, and general activity almost impossible. While there has been much debate of late over their purpose, a principle factor here is being ignored, and that is: if any woman was being queened, wouldn't she want the greatest possible impact? Very little makes greater impact than priceless gold cloth that swallows the queen's hands because, as the queen, she doesn't need to use them. The implication is clear, the mystery solved, and many a Florentine woman would have gladly traded trailors.

In the author's blurb at the end of the article, it notes that Ms. Beckinsale had been instrumental in the restoration of Mary of Hapsburg's gown.

On a hunch he searches for the restoration of Mary of Hapsburg's gown, and finds several articles detailing the work, including the restoration expert's (she isn't named in the article, but Bill doesn't doubt it's her) assertion that the dress was incomplete in it's original form, which was derided by several other experts. He finds thirty articles on the process, all of them in regional and gallery publications, and saves them under kate_dress on his hard drive to read later. He can't resist skimming them for content, however, and the short version seems to be that the dress Kate had gone to restore had been missing the cuffs (mentioned so specifically in the article, and Bill guesses this is why), although that hadn't been commonly known or believed until Kate had produced proof through a painting of Mary of Hapsburg dated appropriately correctly. Apparently Kate had been "ceaseless in her dedication in searching for and recovering the lost cuffs" which she had eventually been successful at.

There are pictures of the dress before and after restoration, and while Bill is no real judge of women's fashions, now or in centuries past, he has to admit that the difference is remarkable.

And he thinks it's a little funny, now, that he'd mistaken her for another Nic (although not like Nic, not at all, not in the least), an obscure relative in men's clothes come to perch on her uncle's (although Nic had insisted quite fervently that she was not his cousin, and Bill believes him) stoop, collecting whatever breadcrumbs he cares to hand out.

No, not this girl. What is she doing here?

He finds no familial connection between the Beckinsale's (husband or wife) and McKellen when he looks, and he is not surprised.

He does manage to track down several business connections between Beckinsale (John) and McKellen. None of which are conclusive of anything at all, other than the fact that they are both British gentlemen of a certain level of wealth that insures that they move in some similar circles, both business and social. He even finds a couple of photographs of McKellen and Beckinsale together, albeit a somewhat younger McKellen. In one of them, taken at what looks like some kind of party, there is a little girl just visible behind both men, who are standing together shoulder to shoulder, smiling at the camera. She has sleek pigtails and a frilly party dress. Her small face is squinched into an expression that Bill thinks might be jealousy. She is lovely and precocious looking, and recognizably Kate.

He can't tell from the picture whom her jealousy is directed toward.

He spends too much time looking at the picture and eventually has to close it in order to concentrate on other things.

He doesn't, immediately, though. Instead he goes to the FBI's site and logs in as law enforcement and scrolls through their past listings, looking for Beckinsale, John. When he finally finds it, he sits back in his chair, stroking thoughtfully at the stubble on his jaw with the side of one index finger, barely aware of the whisk whisk sound it makes.

The entry and the links it provides to related information make it crystal clear why Bill had remembered the name. Now that he's read over it again, he remembers the events, remembers the legal battles and the extradition demands and he remembers the FBI dismissing all charges (fraud, forgery, smuggling, all across international borders, all felonies, all unsubstantiated, apparently, and Bill just doesn't believe that, he simply doesn't). He remembers seeing the news article in which an FBI representative had issued a formal apology to Mr. Beckinsale. He remembers it because it was the proverbial once in a blue moon fuckup, the kind that every cop working on a big case pays attention to, because there, but for the grace of God, etcetera etcetera.

It takes him nearly an hour to track down and cross-reference John Beckinsale, and when he's finished, he thinks it's possible that Beckinsale is a very bad man, indeed.

Aside from the civil suit in 1993, Pentimento vs. John Beckinsale, alleging that Beckinsale had sold them a forgery (settled out of court, of course), there are files on the man from the nestled in the computer banks of the law enforcement agencies in the three jurisdictions in which Beckinsale spends time, London, Sussex, and Siena (they have a Villa, how nice), all of which are extensive, all of which contain information that cannot be substantiated according to investigating officers, and all of which Bill could go to prison for procuring without proper authorization.

He doesn't save them -- there really isn't any need, he isn't investigating Beckinsale, and he can get them again if he has to.

He spends the next hour finding nothing at all on Kate's merry adventures, until he chances on a listing on the National Gallery's website that shows when and why Kate had been out on assignment on their behalf.

It's quite a list.

It takes him twenty minutes to find two instances of missing artifact-quality valuables gone missing within a week of her visit (one of which is a -- or maybe it's the, Bill isn't sure, isn't even sure what the hell the thing is -- "Two-Sided Icon with the Virgin Pafsolype and Feast Scenes and the Crucifixion and Prophets. Byzantine (Constantinople?), second half of the 14th century. Tempera on gessoed wood. Collection of the Ecumenical Patriarchate, Istanbul", according to the news coverage anyhow, and the other a supremely ugly pitcher from the 13th century B.C., which is "intricately carved" according to the newspaper article, but which looks like someone took a chisel to it and just went crazy to Bill).

He sits back again, thinking hard. He's vaguely aware of Todd, hovering at the edges of his vision, and he wonders if it's nearly closing time or something.

He's barely touched on McKellen's file, merely adding business holdings, routine information from the CLETS and triple I, none of which contains anything interesting, and he hasn't even looked at the window containing the file labeled Rembrant.

He'd say he is spending too much time on this, too much time on Kate, except…

Except Kate is inextricably linked with McKellen, though Bill can't clearly see how or why, just yet.

He feels it, though, he knows it.

And McKellen is inextricably linked with Nic and with DBY and with Bill himself, if you want to stretch it a little, and apparently Nic has some kind of connection to Dominguez, as unlikely as that seems, and he can't fucking imagine any way for that to happen that doesn't involve someone else, someone sharper and more dangerous, someone like McKellen himself.

And there is just too much he doesn't know, just too fucking much, and he has to fucking start somewhere.

Since he can't start where he really wants to start -- that would be grabbing Nic by the shoulders and shaking him until his bloody teeth rattle, shaking the stupid twat because Bill would bet anything that Nic has no idea, just no fucking idea how fucking dangerous what he's doing is (but Bill does, Bill hasn't ever had to clean up after any of Dominguez's entertainment, but he's fucking heard about it, and even if it is exaggeration, even if it's only a tenth as bad as the stories say, even if it's only a hundredth as bad, well that's bloody bad enough), shaking him and demanding to know why he was there, what the hell he thinks he's doing, who the hell had set it up -- this seems like as good a way as any.

All roads cannot lead back to Dominguez, Bill thinks, and he knows it to be true, he really does, but some part of him believes that all roads can, maybe all roads do.

A trip to the station...

2004-04-25T05:14:03Z

He takes off at DBY a couple of hours early. It's no problem with Johnny (it never is), though Bill does take the time to track him down and let him know, and remind him that he has dinner scheduled with one of the standard rags ("Yeah, oh, yeah," he'd said, face going bright and intent for a moment. "Hey, man, you think I should wear a tie?" On Bill's assertion that it couldn't hurt, he'd turned thoughtful for a moment, given a slow nod, and said: "Yeah, okay. Can I borrow that one?" Bill had given it to him, of course, though he suspects rather strongly that Johnny will forget all about putting it on when the time comes.) this evening.

He stows most of the crap from the Mustang under his desk at DBY. He just doesn't have anywhere else to bloody put it, and it's not that much anyhow. He keeps the laptop and both guns with him, though. They're the only things that would be likely to require explanations, if anyone stumbles across them.

He scoots into the station through the underground car park, because he's less likely to meet anyone from admin going that way than any other, and manages to get all the way to Susan's office without running into anyone that he might be tempted to shoot. She's on the phone when he steps into her office.

"I'll call you back, Rex," she says quickly, gesturing for him to shut the door. Then, softer, "Yeah, eight should be good. Bye."

Bill says nothing, but he can't quite keep from smirking.

"I thought you were coming in this morning," she says, ignoring the smirk. She shifts a thick file folder from in front of her to the far side of her desk, and gestures for him to sit in the chair across from her.

"I said I'd come in today, I didn't actually specify a time." He takes a seat and smirks a little more when she rolls her eyes at him.

"Have you been to see Redden?" she asks, but he can tell from her face that she knows he hasn't.

"That's my next stop," he lies.

"You need to see him, Bill. He's your boss now, he has the right to know what you're up to. And Homicide wants a statement."

"I figured," he says, and slides his hand into the outside pouch of his laptop case for his already-prepared written statement. "It should be in order."

"Don't give it to me," she says, when he moves to offer her the print out. "Give it to your boss, dammit. You don't work for me anymore, remember?"

He isn't sure if she's really as pissed off as she sounds, but he guesses that doesn't matter much. The black band around her badge means she can be as pissy as she wants to be, and he won't say a fucking word. She rubs at her temples with the fingertips and thumb of one hand, and Bill uses the time to get the Mustang keys (one for the ignition and another for the trunk and doors, as the 'stang is too old to be one-key-fits-all) off his keyring. He puts them on her desk next to the file folder -- Dominguez, it says on the flap -- and then sits back to wait. Eventually, she turns her attention back to him.

"What happened to your face," she asks, and arches a brow. She looks a little amused, but she's not smiling, and her eyes are tired.

"Tripped on my lower lip," he says, and she finally cracks a smile, albeit a small one.

"I assume you left that part out of your statement?" she asks, but doesn't give him time to answer. "I need to be somewhere." She stands and picks the keys up off the desk, sliding them into a drawer. She lays her hand on the file folder, and gives him a long look. "I've got a review board and three depositions I need to fit in before eight. I suggest you stop in and see Redden before you leave this building, Boyd." She removes her hand from the file, leaving it where it is, and grabs her jacket off the chair, sliding it on over her silk blouse and shoulder holster. The hem of the jacket falls past her badge, concealing it, along with it's black band. "He'll be gone by eight, too, God willing, so don't fuck around."

Bill doesn't stand up. It's clear that she doesn't mean for him to leave when she does, and the file folder on the edge of her desk is the reason. He can live with that. He does say, "There was a hit, Sue, but he's called it off." She pauses on her way to the door, and turns to look at him, her expression considering. "I don't know why."

She gives a nod. "You're a fucking idiot, you know," she says, but he can hear the relief in her voice, though it's not quite as strong as the anger. "And you know it's bound to be a temporary reprieve at best."

"Aye, I know that."

"You could have fucking been killed," she says flatly, and turns her back, her hand resting lightly on the door knob.

"It was the only way to find out anything," he says, but it sounds pretty fucking weak, even to him, at least in light of the slump of her shoulders and her weary eyes.

"This job," she says softly, without turning around, "will kill all of us in the end, Bill. One way or another. There isn't anything you need to know so much that it's worth your life."

"Knowing what's going on has saved my life more times than I can count, love," Bill says gently. "You know that. Finding out what's going on is what I do. It's why you wanted me here to begin with."

"That's true," she says. "And you're good at it. More than three-quarters of what we've got on Dominguez, we got from you, Bill. You're a good cop, and you're effecient and ruthless and persistent, but you said it yourself." She turns the knob and opens the door slightly, but she still doesn't look back. "You don't work for me any more."

He lets the sound of her shoes clicking away down the tiled hallway fade before he picks up the folder. He glances inside, just to double check that it's what he thinks it is before he takes it, and sees page after page of photocopied reports, observation lists, surveillance information, all dated and timestamped, all unremarkable and unofficial. He unzips his laptop case enough to slide the file inside.

He grabs a pad of post-its from her desk and scrawls ten words on it, tears the top sheet off and sticks it to her computer screen. She'll see it when she comes in, though Bill isn't sure if it'll make her feel any better or not. It's the truth, though, and that's the best he can really do.

Redden is in the pit when Bill walks in, and for several long moments, Bill is aware of being the center of attention in a group of people he doesn't really know that well.

The Vice pit isn't like the Narc pit had been. It's a lot more orderly, for one thing, and it's smaller. The only real similarity is that it's occupied by men and women that go out of their way not to look much like cops in order to blend in with a group of miscreants that they loathe. He sees Paulson, third desk from the east wall, all the way in the back, and it occurs to him that it's been a long fucking time since he really sat down with Paulson and talked about what Bill has found out, and what he's still trying to find out.

He should do that.

"Boyd," Redden says, and steps away from the cubicle of the woman he'd been talking to. "I'll get back with you on that, Anita, but back-burner it for now," he says, and she nods. He turns to Bill. "Lets go to my office." His voice is casually friendly, but his body language shows six different points of tension that indicate intent to attack, according to the rules of engagement in ten of the standard forms of tournament martial arts.

Brilliant.

Bill follows him without a word, memorizing faces (and names, when the desks have nameplates) as quickly as he can without making eye contact, just for future reference.

He doesn't spend as much time on the streets doing his actual job as he should, he's fully aware of that, but when he does go out, it's good to recognize your coworkers.

Redden steps into his office and stands beside the door until Bill is inside, then closes it behind Bill.

Bill waits for Where the hell have you been? or What exactly are you doing during the time the department is paying you for? What he actually gets, though, is: "You have a statement for me?"

Susan, Bill thinks, and dips into the outside pouch for the statement.

Redden tucks it into a folder without even glancing at it first. The folder is labeled with nothing but a number, which Bill memorizes. It'll make life easier later, when he hacks into the central database to look at the case file for the incident at his apartment.

Redden doesn't sit down, and he doesn't invite Bill to sit either. He takes a set of keys out of his jacket pocket and hands them to Bill. "It's parked in Delta-four in the garage," he says. "Not as high-profile as what you're used to, but it's appropriate, and it'll do."

Bill nods and tucks the keys into his own jacket pocket. Redden's six points of tension have eased back to four, but Bill doesn't particularly like the way Redden is looking at him, considering and assessing. It's only with real effort that he's able to keep his own body loose and non-threatening as he stands there and waits for Redden to either say something or dismiss him.

"She says you know what you're doing," Redden says eventually, thoughtfully. "Your case files show steady progress, better than some and not as good as others, which is just as it should be. She says I should let you do your thing, Bill Boyd, and that you do it best without someone looking over your shoulder, that you can be depended on not to fuck me over." Redden shifts, and Bill shifts, too, automatic, to compensate for the change in posture, and the intent it displays. A smile flickers over Redden's lips briefly, but there's no sign of amusement in his voice when he continues. "I don't trust you like she does, but I trust her, so I'm going to do as she asks. You," and he pauses, for emphasis, "are going to do what it takes to cover my ass. You are going to log into the station twice a week, and you're going to make sure your name goes on the books and people see your face. You are going to be seen on the streets by marked units at least twice a week, so that they can testify in court that they saw you doing your job. And you are never, ever going to do anything to make me regret this, Boyd, and that includes getting yourself killed."

"I hear you," Bill says, and nothing else because he can't quite work out what he's being given permission to do here, so the less he says the better.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Susan's warned me about that crap. I want a yes, sir, Detective Boyd."

"Yes, sir," Bill agrees immediately, because he's not equipped to fuck with Redden, and because in this particular instance, there's no point. He's pretty sure he's being handed what he really wants on a silver platter, and you don't look a gift horse, etcetera, etcetera. And Redden isn't asking for much, in exchange for basically letting Bill loose without a specific course and without supervision. And they're sensible precautions, for both of them.

And he wonders who Dominguez's fuckwits had killed last night. He hasn't asked. Asking Susan would've been too cruel, and he's not sure Redden would even know. But he thinks it must have really fucking hit Susan hard, hit her where it fucking counts, if she's willing to go to bat for him like this, because there isn't really any way to read this except for the way it is.

Redden gives a curt nod accompanied by a gesture that is clearly a dismissal.

Bill doesn't wait for him to ask anything else.

Delta-four contains a Mini. Barely.

It's not like a Mini takes up that much space.

It is metallic purple.

Bill just looks at it for a while, pondering this turn of events, which makes even a slick top Crown Vic with forty antennae seem cool.

He sighs, and fishes the keys out of his jacket pocket. They've got a little remote thing, and when he pushes the door unlock button, the car chirps cheerfully at him.

Like a bloody happy bird or some shite.

He's depressed to find that he has plenty of leg and head room.

To distract himself (Keira, he's sure, will love it; Nic, he's sure, will mock him mercilessly), he gets the file labeled Dominguez out of his case and flips it open, thumbing idly through the pages.

It's everything they've got, including things that aren't admissable in court, for whatever reason. Years of surveillance and intelligence.

The last page in the folder isn't a photocopied report, phone log, or surveillance sheet, however.

It's a sheet of printer paper, blank except for ten words scrawled in red ink, Susan's back-slanting, spiky handwriting. It makes him smile slightly before he even reads it, because he can guess what it says.

Do what you have to do. Don't get yourself killed, asshole.

It makes the note he'd left on her computer monitor (I'll be as careful as he lets me be, Sue.) that much more appropriate.

The Mini is so quiet (he's used to the roar of the Mustang's engine) that when he starts it he isn't sure it's caught. He turns the key again, and it makes a grinding screech of protest that echoes hugely in the enclosed car park.

"Bugger!" he mutters under his breath, and backs out of the parking spot with far more care than he usually exhibits.

In a Mini, if he's in an accident, chances are he isn't making it out alive, after all.

It's a sad, sad world when one's car seems more threating to one's immediate well-being than the powerful drug lord one has managed to piss off, he decides.

Psych Eval / encrypted

2004-03-17T14:21:13Z

William Boyd, Detective
Male
35 yoa
Referred by: Lt. Nathan Tyndall, Internal Affairs, LAPD
Performed by: Brandon Walsh, Ph.D.

Tests Administered:

Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale-3 (WAIS-3)
Impact of Event Scale - Revised (IES-R)
Novaco Anger Scale and Provocation Inventory (NAS-PI)
Cognitive Distortion Scales (CDS)
Clinician-Administered PTSD Scale (CAPS)
Structured Clinical Interview for DSM-IV PTSD Module (SCID)

Reason for Referral:

Detective Boyd (hereafter referred to as Bill) was referred for a Psychological Evaluation due to participation in an Officer involved shooting (ref. Case # 2003-07-259645B), a requirement imposed upon active duty police personnel when involved in any event considered traumatic in LAPD's policies and procedures. Also noted in the request for evaluation are alleged incidents of verbal misconduct, and suspicions by investigating officers that exposure to trauma from the aforementioned incident has "compromised Bill's ability to defuse tense situations and/or increases his tendency to escalate such situations or create confrontations." Bill has no formal psychological diagnosis at this time. He has no previous mental health interventions.

General Observations:

Bill's primary language is English. He has no known physical or mental defects that might indicate problems in responding to testing.

Bill's appearance at this evaluation was normal in every aspect. He is shorter than average, his weight appropriate to his height. His grooming was impeccable. His attire was neat and professional. Bill's posture was correct, his bearing confident. His activity level was high, and was characterized by a quick, concise methodology performing required tasks. His impulse control was good as evidenced by superior ability to perform set tasks. Bill's articulation was characterized by a pronounced, but completely understandable, Scottish accent. His voice quality fluctuated during the course of various tests performed, and during the verbal assessment that followed. Speech productivity was restricted and short during performance of tasks, while his manner of speech varied widely between tasks. His conversation style was seen to be forthright.

Bill gave maximum effort throughout testing. His interaction with the examiner was informally polite and direct. His comprehension of test questions was seen to be appropriate. His problem solving strategies were meticulous, and categorized by resourceful and innovative solutions. Bill's pace was steady and deliberate, and his motivation in the testing situation seemed high. He exhibited a flexible image. His facial expressions and demeanor were entirely variable from one phase of testing to another.

Family History:

Bill is unmarried and lives in an apartment (flat). He has never been married, and exhibits neither particular aversion to nor aspirations to matrimony. He reported that he is not currently in a serious relationship. He has no children. Present Family relationships are seen to be nonexistent.

Bill's parents are both deceased, and have been since his early adolescence. He reports one sister, living in Scotland, with which he claims to have a "normal" relationship. He has not seen her in four years. He speaks with her on the phone several times a month.

Physical/Medical History:

Bill reports no known medical conditions and takes no medication on a regular basis. He has had the usual childhood diseases, and suffered a broken arm during childhood. He had no developmental delays.

Bill has been injured in the line of duty three (3) times, none of which have been life-threatening injuries. He has occasional difficulty sleeping. He has a good appetite. He exercises regularly through a variety of martial arts routines.

Educational Background:

Bill graduated from UCLA in 1993. He majored in Computer Sciences and Psychology. He indicates that he enjoyed both of his chosen fields, but believes he is more capable with computers than with psychology. He states his grades were above average, and that he generally enjoyed College.

Skill Training and Vocational History:

During College, Bill worked a variety of part-time jobs for extra money, though the majority of his education was paid for with Scholarships. He also did work as a tutor and a guitar instructor. Bill has been employed as a Police Officer with Los Angeles Police Department for the last 10 years. He went through the Police Academy during his senior year of College. He has been a Police Officer for the entirety of his adult life.

Mental Status:

Bill was fully oriented to time, place and person. He was able to give the proper date, month and year. He was aware of the physical location. He was able to give correct answers concerning his street address, city and state. He was able to give his own name and knew his marital status and vocation.

Bill was asked about his memory functioning and reported that he had observed no problems. Observations by the examiner during the assessment found him to be precise in responding. His short-term memory was found to be normal based on the Wechsler Digit Span subtest. Delayed recall after interference was assessed by asking Bill to recall three words after a five to ten minute delay with other questions interspersed. He recalled all three words, suggesting good delayed recall. Recent memory appeared to be good. He was able to describe what he had eaten for breakfast and he could recall what his activities had been during the previous evening. His remote memory was intact. He knew his birthday, where he was born and the highest grade that he attained in school.

During the interview and testing Bill was not observed to show lapses of attention and focus. He showed no symptoms of Depression or Anxiety that could have interfered with concentration to tasks. He was asked to perform the Serial Sevens task, which required him to count by sevens backward from one hundred and he completed the task without apparent difficulty. As a further measure of concentration he was asked to recite the months of the year, the days of the week and the spelling of his own name backward. His persistence to task was good, and the task was completed quickly and accurately.

Bill's observed fund of information was consistent with reported cultural and educational experiences. On the Wechsler Information subtest, which measures the acquisition of general knowledge, Bill scored above the average range. Based on his responses to higher-level questions, he was seen to have a good fund of general knowledge. He could name the last five presidents of the United States, the temperature at which water freezes, and the longest river in the United States.

Throughout the assessment Bill was observed to have good ability to interpret proverbs. On the Wechsler Similarities subtest, which is a measure of abstract reasoning, Bill scored within the superior range. He was asked to explain the meaning of two proverbs, "Don't count your chickens before they hatch," and "Every cloud has a silver lining." His responses indicated good ability to think abstractly. He was asked to respond to the similarities between various items and his responses suggested superior ability to use abstract reasoning. His amount and productivity of speech was seen as concise and the coherence and progression of his speech was appropriate when answering questions. His general intellectual abilities were seen to fall above the average range. His judgment was considered to be appropriate.

Functional Limitations:

The Relationship between Bill and his sister appears to be limited. He had very few friends or acquaintances. His circle of peers consists of his co-workers, and he freely admits that it has declined markedly in the past few years due to the nature of his most recent assignment. He is involved with no community activities. Day to day activities include Work, martial arts performance practices, and playing his guitar.

Bill is average in performing the activities of daily living. When faced with stress, he demonstrates good coping skills. He is able to recognize normal hazards. He does not have any Adaptive Behavior Deficits.

Bill cooks simple meals and maintains his own domicile, performing all household tasks himself. He reads at or above college-level. He can manage all finances independently.

Test Results:

Bill's Full Scale IQ as measured by the WAIS-3 falls into the superior range of intellectual functioning. Both Verbal IQ and Performance IQ scores were well into the superior range. The difference between the Verbal and Performance IQ scores is meaningful, however. His somewhat lower Verbal IQ score reflects a mild level of impatience, possibly with imprecise forms of communication.

Bill's word understanding and expressive-language skills are remarkable in that he is cross-cultural, and spent his entire childhood in a country in which many words are used differently than they are used in this country. I noted extreme disparities in Bill's use of language, mostly reactive, reflecting exposure to a wide cross-section of the populace -- not uncommon for Police Officers. His use of language is relative to the use of language by those he interacts with, displaying adaptive communicative ability. His fund of information acquired from educational and life experiences is in the above average range. He showed superior abilities in conceptual thinking, quantitative reasoning, and concentration. His practical judgment in social situations was in the average range, but due to his high scores in other areas, it's an interesting disparity in his mental acuity, probably founded in his lack of experience with sincere social relationships.

Bill's visual-motor and visual-integrations skills were at an age appropriate level. He had superior abilities in abstract visual-spatial integration tasks. He showed superior abilities when he was required to anticipate and plan for the future. His ability to recognize and analyze visual detail was excellent. Bill's psychomotor speed and his ability to learn new information from rote memory was exceptional.

I used several standard tests, both self-reports and clinically administered interviews, to measure the effect of the event in terms of Bill's activation threshold for aggression and the level of stress created by the event.

On the IES-R, Bill scored under a reasonable level in all areas. His Avoidance Subscale was the lowest of the three areas measured by the IES-R, showing virtually no tendency toward suppressing high emotion engendered by the event through avoidance of situations, thoughts, or actions that might initiate recall. This result is in line with Bill's overall personality as demonstrated in clinical interviews and information contained in his file. The Intrusion Subscale was somewhat higher, but still well below even a moderate exhibition of symptoms. It shows that Bill has occasional thoughts about the event, that it effects his ability to sleep, as he mentioned himself in his clinical interview, and that he feels a healthy level of guilt and responsibility in relationship to the event. These results display typical and appropriate human reaction to events of this nature. The Hyper Arousal Subscale, measuring the extent to which the event affected the physical response to stimulus, places Bill midway between mild and moderate reactions. The verbal portion of the clinical interview reveals this to be mostly attributed to sleeping difficulties since the event, including nightmares of moderate strength but short duration and difficulty falling asleep due to thoughts concerning the event on an occasional basis. The test indicates a mild increase in his level of watchfulness, and mild physical reactions to thoughts of the incident, such as increased heart rate and sweating. Bill reports physical symptoms occur randomly and are of short duration.

On the NAS-PI (Novaco Anger Scale and Provocation Inventory) Bill specifically requested that his results be compared to a database of Law Enforcement Professionals as well as the standard mean. When I requested further explanation of this request, Bill expressed understanding that nearly all Law Enforcement Professions scored higher on NAS-PI than the general public. I expressed concern to Bill at the level of separation he felt from what he termed the "general public." He responded that it wasn't a matter of separation, that the request was instead congruous with asking for a Jury trial, in that he desires to be judged based on his peers. Bill's background in Psychology indicates that he has a clear understanding of the request made, and I acquiesced to it. There is no disparity to be found in valuing the test in this manner, since the question is not one of Bill being more likely to display anger and act violently than a member of the "general public," but whether or not Bill would be more likely to display anger and act violently than the average member of the Law Enforcement Community. He is essentially correct in his assertion.

Bill's inclination toward anger on the whole shows to be slightly higher than the public mean. Based on a panel of law enforcement professionals, however, this scale places Bill at the lower-average end of the spectrum. Essentially, Bill is more inclined to become angry -- based on cognitive, arousal, and behavior subscales -- than your average person, but less likely to become angry than your average police officer.

His cognitive subscale shows a definite inclination toward general suspicion and anger justification. He feels strongly that most people have something to hide, and it's just a matter of finding out what (this is a paraphrasing of something Bill vocalized to me during the verbal portion of this test). He has standing anger issues with both authority figures, and those that flout authority, another interesting dichotomy in his character, but one that helps to balance him. He feels constrained by rules, but does not espouse the absence of rules. He understands the need for black and white rules of conduct, but feels frustration at the areas that are not covered, or are covered in an inappropriate or ineffective manner by those rules.

The arousal subscale displays fairly high scores in all four categories, high-average compared to other law enforcement personnel and above average on the mean. Bill becomes angry easily. The intensity and duration subcategories varied widely dependent on situation. Somatic tension and irritability were more moderate, showing long-term presence.

The behavior subscale shows Bill's anger is usually expressed verbally and with indirect expression. His scores in physical or impulsive expression of anger compared low, both in regards to law enforcement and public mean. It is exactly in line with his personality as demonstrated in other tests and the verbal interview, and with reports extant in Bill's employment file. Bill becomes angry easily, but is careful to direct that anger with deliberation. He is aware of his own activators, and directs emotion deliberately into non-violent channels.

The anger regulation subscale shows to be very high compared to both groups; Bill is able to regulate anger-engendering thoughts, effect self-calming, and engage in constructive behavior when provoked. He is not a "loose cannon" or a danger to the public. I don't deny that Bill activates quickly under certain stressors, but if anything, he is more capable than the average police officer at containing and effectively and appropriately utilizing this activation.

The provocation index portion of the test indicates that Bill's stressors fall heavily into frustration, annoying traits of others, and irritations. He scored minimally in disrespectful treatment and unfairness. The validity index suggests Bill's answers to be totally consistent. Normative data in this case was compiled of 1,546 anonymous subjects for the public mean, and 512 police officers from the Los Angeles greater metropolitan area for the law enforcement mean.

On the CDS (Clinical Distortion Scales), Bill scored at a non-clinical level in all areas. He did not exhibit any particular signs of a distorted self-image or an altered perception of the world. He scored highest in the PWD (Preoccupation With Danger) category, but was still well below clinical levels. Bill shows no indication of negative thinking patterns that might interfere with optimal functioning.

I chose to administer the CAPS (Clinician-Administered PTSD Scale), in spite of the fact that Bill only barely meets the guidelines for administration, as it was specifically requested by Lieutenant Nathan Tyndall.

Guidelines for PTSD are stringent and specific. The person has to have been exposed to a traumatic event in which both of the following were present. a) The person experienced, witnessed or was confronted with an event or events that involved actual or threatened death or serious injury, or a threat to the physical integrity of self or others; and b) The person's response involved intense fear, helplessness, or horror.

The first is unquestionably true; the second is subjective. Bill's sleeping difficulties and occasional physical reactions to memories of the event might be construed as intense fear, helplessness, or horror.

Bill freely admits to dreaming occasionally about the event, and has had at least one physiological reactivity flashback on exposure to internal cues. However, PTSD guidelines require these things to be persistently re-experienced, and that does not appear to be the case here. He exhibits symptoms of psychological distress within the normal range. He has not experienced dissociative flashbacks, illusions, or hallucinations of any sort.

There appears to be no effort on Bill's part to avoid stimuli associated with the trauma, and I've noted no numbing tendencies. His diminished relationships among his co-workers were present before the event, and cannot be considered reactive. His range of emotion appears undiminished, and he does not seem to have a sense of foreshortened future. His feelings of detachment from the public were another factor present long before the event, and cannot be taken into account for the purposes of a diagnosis.

He does show persistent symptoms of increased arousal, such as difficulty falling asleep and hypervigilance, including an exaggerated startle response demonstrated by several exercises performed throughout testing, but records indicate that both of the latter were present in Bill's initial psych evaluation upon hiring into the department. Police officers in general are well known to have a higher average in these areas that the general mean, and there is no indication that Bill's scale is any higher than the average police officer's. The same is true with his general irritability. This is a personality trait that has been present in Bill for years, and cannot be used to determine a PTSD diagnosis.

The duration of what few symptoms might be assigned to the event are indeterminate at this time, and Bill shows no clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.

SCID (Structured Clinical Interview for DSM-IV PTSD Module) is simply another form of PTSD testing. Due to Lt. Tyndall's stressing of the PTSD testing for Bill, I chose to double up on this, performing both tests, although they follow similar criteria. Doing so lessens the chances of the test being effectively manipulated, and counteracts any inadvertent dishonesty or manipulation on the part of the subject.

The SCID results were in all areas similar to the CAPS results. There is no indication whatsoever that the results of any of the tests administered were skewed or manipulated by Bill in any fashion. His background in psychology makes it remotely possible that he could choose to skew the results of a particular test, but it is highly unlikely that he would be able to recreate the results of a deliberately falsified clinically administered test in a second similar, but not identical, test. None of the inconsistencies that would indicate such an attempt appear in the results of either version of the test given.

A diagnosis of PTSD cannot be supported here.

Aside from some very minor social dysfunctions, in fact, no psychological diagnoses can be supported here. Bill falls within the normal range in every test, and appears to have no evident psychosis. His reactions toward the event are those of a normal, healthy law enforcement professional, demonstrating appropriate guilt and responsibility for his actions. There are no apparent impulse control issues to address, and Navoco indicates superior impulse control to counteract quick activation of impatience. There is no indication of Bill being a danger to the public in any way.

I find all concerns listed in the request for psychological evaluation to be wholly unfounded, and recommend that Bill be returned to full and active duty, with all rank and privileges to be fully reinstated.

A busy fucking night.

2004-02-15T10:59:34Z

... right after this...

Places to go, people to meet...

... right before this.

Places to go, people to see...

2004-02-09T08:43:22Z

For a few minutes, digging fruitlessly in the Mustang's boot, Bill thinks he's left his fucking shoulder holster in the flat. Which would be just his bloody luck. The first time he's actually needed it in ages, and he can't lay his hands on the bastarding thing.

He manages a fairly impressive string of curses before he locates it, stuffed into a maroon gym bag that smells like every locker room Bill has ever been in: chemical cleaner and sweat socks. He shrugs off his jacket and pushes his arms through the straps. It takes him a few minutes to get the bloody thing sorted out, which is pretty fucking funny considering he'd worn it for so long (up to a few months ago) that it's still habit to reach for it when he gets dressed every morning.

Also in the gym bag are a wadded up pair of blue jeans, a hopelessly wrinkled (and smelly) t-shirt, a pair of socks, and a small necessities kit. Under all of that are two boxes of ammo and two loaded clips.

Bill retrieves his service weapon from its case under the spare tire, checks to be sure it's safe, and secures it in the shoulder holster. He stuffs the case in the gym bag, and both spare clips into his jacket pocket.

He thinks it's vaguely depressing how little of himself he has left in the Mustang, considering how long it's been his. He isn't sure what he'll do with the crap that he does carry around in it, however. He could stow it at the studio, or at Orlando's, he supposes, but he doesn't actually want the car anywhere near either place.

He isn't quite ready to give it up yet, but Susan is dead right about it being too fucking distinctive. He has momentary visions of what it might be replaced with -- one of narc's blatant stalker-vans, or maybe a slick-topped Crown Vic (heaven fucking forbid) with thirty bloody antennae bristling from the trunk and roof -- and sighs. Well fuck. It's never really been his car, anyhow. Get the fuck over it, Boyd.

He gazes into the boot for several seconds, pondering the Kevlar vest wedged beneath the laptop case. Eventually, he slams the boot and briefly hooks his fingertips under the edge, yanking to be sure it caught. He shrugs his jacket on, and just stands there for several seconds, thinking.

He shouldn't go to Keira's. He doesn't really want the car there, either. He's not even certain that she's aware that he knows where she lives. Although that hardly matters. If he'd accepted her earlier invitation, she'd know he knows by now.

But he can't go back to his flat, obviously. Susan's voice had indicated that very clearly, even if her words had been more judicious.

And once he takes care of business, he's going to need somewhere to bloody go. He knows better than to trust hotels, and he's not interested in safe houses that can double as holding facilities. And Orlando's is out of the question; Bill can't take Orlando looking at him with that fucked up amalgam of fear and awe and trust and love. Not tonight, and never mind that Orlando is probably the person best equipped to deal with Bill as he will inevitably be once he's slipped, if only briefly, back into MacKinnon. That fact only illustrates (pathetically) the fact that Bill's choices are exceedingly limited.

How fucked up is he, exactly, if Orlando is the only person who might understand what's going on with him. Bill snorts, grimly amused at the notion.

No matter what Susan thinks, he understands that now is the only time to go looking for information, whether it's "beyond stupid" or not.

There is a very distinct pattern to the way information travels in the lowest echelons of Dominguez's organization. It wafts downward like smoke, hazy and ephemeral and highly susceptible to interpretation. Tonight, the riff-raff will be buzzing with excitement and fear, glad to be alive (glad it hadn't been them), and terrified at the same time. Because they all understand that it might be them next time. They'd be sneering at the stupidity of their dead, bottom-feeding compatriots from one side of their mouths and railing against Dominguez's power over them from the other. And looking over their shoulders the whole time.

Right now, all they have is rumor and speculation.

By tomorrow, someone would have been sent 'round to lay out the "official word" -- and to "politely" remind them to shut their fucking gobs. Bill had performed that sort of public relations gig himself, as MacKinnon, and if he waits until that has been done, he'll get less information, or even no information.

Not acceptable.

The time to go looking for answers is now, while they're afraid and angry, before they've been told anything "official."

If he can do it before Dominguez spins it his own way, then Bill can make his version of things the standard against which every other version is measured.

Bill hadn't had shite to do with the deaths of those two idiots, but that doesn't matter. He's willing to let them think whatever they like, provided it jibes with his agenda, and he understands quite clearly how to take grapevine gossip and propaganda and fashion it into something like myth-based-on-fact. It has the added benefit of potentially eliminating Bill's dead-man-walking stigma. It's all a matter of telling it as close to the truth as will stand up under moderate scrutiny, and if he does it right, he might be able to make himself -- at least temporarily -- untouchable.

It helps that MacKinnon had been untouchable. No matter what name he goes by now, these people remember him as MacKinnon, that is who Bill will always be to them, and MacKinnon is a badass. All he has to do is reiterate that, demonstrate his willingness to continue in that vein, and whether it's real or feigned (and he doesn't know for sure himself), they'll accept it, because it will feel like business as usual to them.

All he needs to do is convince one moderately sized group (information spreads like wildfire through the creatures dangling at the bottom of the food chain) that he isn't less of a threat, isn't less formidable, because of his badge.

All in all, demonstrating a marked lack of concern for consequences isn't going to be that difficult for Bill to do. He thinks that's probably a bad sign, but he doesn't have time to really think about it now.

So no Kevlar -- MacKinnon would never -- and no pulled punches. Still having the Mustang (in all it's distinctive glory) is a plus, as well. It's recognizably Bill's (or MacKinnon's, which boils down to the same thing), and beats he hell out of trying to hail a taxi. Especially if he has to leave quickly, which won't happen if things go the way Bill intends, but which certainly could happen.

Most anything could happen in the course of the next couple of hours.

**

It only takes him ten minutes or so to take a few precautions. He's familiar with the way people act when they're cornered, and he doesn't have time to track anyone down. Once things warm up, it's fairly important that most of the people present hang around for the show.

Even if it does create a potential fire hazard.

**

He's glad not to see Rings or J.J.

He doesn't want to fuck up the first, and J.J. would've been risky. It's not so much that Bill has a problem with the whole gender thing; his general policy of not beating the crap out of females notwithstanding (and Bill isn't prepared to testify in court that J.J. even counts as a woman, he suspects she's more closely related to reptiles than human beings), J.J. richly deserves to have her fucking nose broken. But J.J. is adept at using her sex to her advantage, and she might have had the balls to actually file a fucking report with the PD if Bill had been forced get physical with her. Which would be very bad.

The low grumble of the crowd, interspersed with burst of raucous hoots and laughter, kicks up when Bill walks in. By the time he's scanned the place for familiar faces (many), though, it's settled back down to a low roar.

This isn't one of Dominguez's fucking "private" parties or flashy dance clubs, and he can sweep the entire expanse of the room quickly enough to get a firm idea of how many people he's likely to have to watch out for within the first ten seconds. No one immediately gets up to leave (some of them pissed enough to be brave, some of them just curious enough to choose to stay), so Bill picks someone (Flack Daniels -- he likely thinks he's fucking funny -- small time meth but primarily deals E, had carried a revolver jammed into the back of his jeans the last time Bill had interacted with him, likely to have a knife on him somewhere, one of Burelle's flunkies, moderately bright and left handed, if Bill's memory serves him correctly) and strolls casually over.

The look on Flack's face as Bill approaches is totally justified. They've had run-ins before, and Flack had been one of Burelle's little fuckwits. Bill doesn't really hold it against him. It's in the nature of people like Flack to attach themselves to more powerful people, and Flack had simply managed to hook himself up with someone Bill loathed.

He really doesn't hold it against Flack, but he's disappointed when Flack stands and heads toward the back. There's a fire exit back there, and unless Flack has experienced a sudden and quite pressing need to take a piss in the alley out back, he's decided that discretion is the better part of valor. Not that it will do him any good.

Bill doesn't bother to chase him. He waits just inside the corridor, which is actually pretty fucking ideal, to his way of thinking. He's visible to the main room, but doesn't have to stand with his back to it, which is good. He needs an audience, but he doesn't want to be a fucking sitting duck, either. This will actually work out fairly well. He leans back against the wall by the pay phone and crosses his arms over his chest. fingertips resting on the butt of his gun, and just waits.

He can feel the nerves coming from the main room, and is frankly glad to have a wall at his back. He divides his attention between the room and the corridor, keeping his posture indolent, keeping his expression bland and patient. He lights a fag, because MacKinnon had always smoked more than Bill ever does, as a rule.

It doesn't take Flack long to figure out there isn't much he can do back there, since the emergency exit is temporarily non-operational (thanks to a tire iron from the boot of the Mustang). Bill supposes Flack could've chosen to cower in the loo or the storage room, but he proves to be smart enough to understand that won't help him.

Sort of Flack's problem, really. Smart enough to understand simple situations, not quite smart enough to figure out how to use them to his advantage. It's why he's always been a flunkie. Another thing that Bill doesn't really hold against him.

Bill has a theory about there being a finite number of IQ points in the world. He figures he has blokes like Flack to thank for some of his, so it'd be hypocritical to blame him for it.

Of course, he'll use it against Flack, if he can. But that's par for the course in this world, unspoken but generally understood, except for by the very stupid. And Flack wasn't very stupid. Only moderately so.

At least he has the balls to walk right up to Bill, instead of lurking at the back of the corner Bill has arranged for him. Another example of Flack's inability to turn a situation to his advantage, not that Bill's complaining. It makes Bill's life easier.

Flack is bristling nerves and uncertainty, but his voice is fairly steady when he says: "MacKinnon." As soon as he says it, his eyes flicker, and Bill smiles slightly. Poor bastard. Being stupid must be crap, but being just smart enough to know you aren't smart enough must be really fucking awful. Flack is just smart enough to understand he's already made a mistake, just smart enough to realize that even acknowledging Bill -- especially using a name that he knows isn't real -- had been a mistake. He should have breezed on by. Bill isn't actually blocking his path. He should have forced Bill to make the first move.

"Hello, Flack," Bill says, holding on to his easy smile. It's pointless to deny that he's enjoying the shimmer of fear in Flack's eyes. It's the reason he has come here, after all.

Several people in the main room decide that now is a good time to leave. Bill doesn't blame them, really. He ignores the mini-exodus. They'll be back when they're sure he's gone, anyway, and most of them will claim to have been present for the whole thing in the aftermath. It won't affect things in the long run.

Flack fidgets, eyes cutting toward the main room. Bill lets him. He's not that worried about Flack finding the help he's looking for with this lot. He keeps his gaze unwavering, and says nothing. He thinks he can push Flack into another misstep, if he's willing to outwait him. Bill is, at least for the moment. Though he can't afford to let it go on too long. Someone might start feeling brave. Or stupid.

Flack doesn't disappoint him, this time, though. Impatience is just another part of Flack's problem. He'll never run with J.J., or even with the likes of Rings. There are a combination of character flaws working against the poor bugger.

"What the hell are you doing here, you fucking Narc pig?" he snarls, a bit of a desperate note to it, which makes Bill feel a little sorry for him again.

Neither of them is surprised when Bill hits him. More of a tap, really, just enough to let Flack know he's serious. "You kiss your mum with that nasty mouth, Flack?" Bill asks gently, and sees more immediate fear unfold in Flack's face. It's one of MacKinnon's stock phrases, quite deliberately used in this case. In the past, Bill had used it as combination warning and threat: Watch your fucking mouth, or I'll break your teeth, and smile while I do it.

Flack clearly remembers. He wipes blood off his lips with the back of his hand and eyes Bill warily. "What do you want?" he asks grudgingly, and refuses to meet Bill's gaze.

Bill tuts softly and hooks a finger into his belt, not-so-subtly pulling his jacket back so the butt of his gun is visible. "Honestly, how is it that natural selection hasn't edited you out, Flack? I want to believe in Darwinism, I really do, but you're a perfect manifestation of the fact that, by definition, 50% of people must always fall below the mean. I keep hoping for the mean to rise, and it just keeps not happening. Why? It's questions like these that keep me up at night."

Flack sets his jaw, but doesn't reply, which doesn't particularly bother Bill. There really isn't an answer to that question anyway.

"Well, never mind. I suppose if you could answer the question it wouldn't have occurred to me, as it applies to you." Bill shifts slightly, tenses and sets his body, and watches Flack react to it without knowing he's doing it, shrinking back, shoulders rounding. Bill has a hard time understanding how anyone could be so unaware of their own body and the messages it's sending, but he's seen it before. "Let's concentrate on asking questions you might be able to answer, shall we? How much is Dominguez paying for dead cops these days?"

Flack straightens a little, possibly feeling a bit more confident at the reminder that Bill has a big fat price on his head, and manages something that could pass for a smile. "Enough," he spits.

Bill hits him again, of course, a doubled-up up fist to the gut this time, and quite a bit harder. "Think so, do you?" he asks casually, and stands back to wait for Flack to catch his breath. He'd taken advantage of the position to check for a gun, but unless Flack is wearing an ankle holster, he seems to be without one. Rather than reassuring him, Bill is abruptly nervous. The only time he'd seen Flack go unarmed was in the company of bigger and badder fish. There isn't anyone in the main room that fits that description. Not yet, anyway.

He thinks it might be a good idea to do this as quickly as he can.

"How much?" he repeats gently, and Flack's gaze skips out to the main room for an instant, searching. Looking for someone, yeah, and while that's definitely not a good thing, at least Bill knows it. He catches the front of Flack's violently green shirt in one fist, and bounces him off the wall hard enough to stun him for a moment. He doesn't feel a moment's guilt for the loud 'thunk' of Flack's head bouncing off plaster. "I don't like to repeat myself," he says, keeping his voice quiet and deliberate. "I didn't have time to chat with the other two fuckwits, Flack, but I'll make time to have a nice, long conversation with you, if I have to."

It's bollocks, but it works. Flack's eyes widen as he processes the implication, and there is a gleam of panic in them when he cuts his gaze into the main room again. Bill sighs and whams him back against the wall again, genuinely impatient. "Pay attention, you stupid cunt. I don't have all fucking night."

"Half a million," Flack mutters grudgingly, and for a moment Bill is so shocked he nearly lets go of the idiot.

He recovers quickly (he really hasn't much choice, the low rumble in the main room has grown louder, the natives are getting restless). "Well," he says pleasantly, working hard to keep his tone amused instead of fucking gobsmacked. "It's good to be appreciated, I suppose." He'd like to ask about Orlando, but he can't get away with it, not in this persona, so he doesn't. He wishes for a moment that he hadn't jammed the tire iron through the handle of the emergency exit. It suddenly seems a lot more likely that he will be the one that needs to get the fuck out quickly, and he's blocked his own means of escape.

The amount of the payoff changes everything. It hadn't even occurred to Bill that it would be so bloody much. Never in his wildest dreams had he expected it to be even near that much.

And he understands quite clearly that even relatively smart people will risk a great deal for that kind of money.

He's in danger from every person in this place right now. His heart is pounding with the knowledge, and there is prickly new sweat gathering at the back of his neck, and while he had been wary, yeah -- because only fucking moron would go into a situation like this without being wary -- he hadn't been exactly afraid, not until now. He has badly misjudged the seriousness of this situation. He had expected it to be a lot. He had expected a hundred thousand, maybe a hundred and fifty, and that was bad enough, that would draw professionals, but half a million fucking dollars?

He's in fucking trouble.

"Who?" he asks, steady, calm, because right now appearances are everything. They'll fall on him like wild dogs if they smell fear, and he can't take them all.

"It's open fucking season, MacKinnon," Flack sneers, having another brief bout of idiotic confidence (which is bad news, it means he sees what Bill is feeling, at least a little bit -- either that, or he's made a connection that Bill wouldn’t have expected of him to be capable of), but his eyes cut away when he says it, and his tone is too quick, too confident.

Bill narrows his eyes and cocks his head, and Flack's hands curl into nervous fists at his sides. "You're not telling me everything," Bill says, and Flack's fists curl and uncurl as he sneaks a glance into the main room again. If Bill weren't in such a bloody hurry, he'd ask who the hell Flack is fucking waiting for. As it is, he hits Flack again, twice, once in the gut and once high across his cheekbone. Flack's head bounces off the wall and he whooshes as the breath leaves him, then sinks down to his knees on the filthy floor. "I'm not a patient bloke, Flack," Bill says, rubbing lightly at his knuckles. He uses his right hand to unsnap the strap across the butt of his gun, and Flack's eyes flicker up, alarmed. He has good reason to be; Bill had only unholstered his gun once in the entire three years he'd been undercover, and he'd killed two people that time. There had been a lot of speculation about it, until it had become clear that Bill didn't really need his gun to be dangerous. Bill had heard a lot of the stories about himself second and third hand, and had been highly amused by them, though it had been his practice to neither confirm nor deny any exaggerations of his encounters. "As I see it, you have two options. Tell me, and I'll go away, leaving you not too badly off. Don't tell me, and I'll shoot you, and continue this conversation with someone else, who, with luck, will be a bit smarter than you."

"You can't shoot me," Flack protests, looking up at Bill from his knees, his voice strident enough to cut through the background rumble from the main room, so that things go quiet in there. "You're a cop, you can't shoot me!" Bill doesn't divert his attention from Flack, but he's aware of his time running out, that his margin of safety is a lot fucking thinner, time-wise, than he'd initially estimated, and somewhere out there, someone has probably already used their handy-dandy mobile phone to ring and report Bill's current location to someone who is likely to be a lot more dangerous than Flack.

"Can't I?" he asks, and does something he's never done in his life.

He draws his gun and presses the barrel against Flack's forehead, and smiles.

"Are you sure, Flack?"

Apparently, Flack isn't. Bill smells the sharply bitter ammonia scent of Flack's fear at the same time that he starts talking, words coming so quickly that they're falling over one another in their hurry to escape Flack's throat.

"He called it off, Dominguez called it off a few hours ago, said to pass the word around, no one is supposed to touch you, no one is even supposes to talk to you, and he's going to fucking kill me, man!"

Bill believes him. He's too panicked to lie, and in Bill's experience, once a bloke has pissed his trousers, you can pretty much depend on getting the truth from him. But it doesn't make sense. "Why?"

"I don't know!" Flack insists quickly, his face twisted up with desperation. Billy draws the hammer back on the Sig; it's very loud in the silence that pervades the bar. It doesn't have to be cocked to fire, it's a semi-automatic, and everyone in this place knows that, but it's hard to remember details like that when the gun is jammed up against your skull. Flack makes a tiny sound, an almost-moan, and yammers: "I don't know, I don't fucking know, MacKinnon, he doesn't tell us shit, you know that, man, you fucking know that!"

It's true, Bill does. He eases the hammer down and pulls the gun back. Flack's shoulders slump, and he rubs furiously at his face for a moment.

Bill holsters the Sig and steps as far back as the narrow hall will permit. He says nothing for a moment, just looks at Flack while he thinks furiously. It doesn't make sense, it's completely out of character for Dominguez, who is a bit like a yappy dog in that once he sets his teeth into something, he never fucking lets go, no matter how hard you work to shake him off. And a hit of that size (half a million bleeding dollars!), you don't just pull it, you can't, not if it was just cash on the table rather than a contract deal. At the very least it would take time to spread the word that the offer is off the table, so Bill can't afford to feel safe yet, can't afford relief (but he feels it, he can't help it, which is stupid, foolish to trust something like this, something he doesn't yet understand), even if it means that he's probably not in immediate danger from anyone here right now.

"You're not a cop, you're fucking psycho," Flack mutters, and Bill smiles and pushes the other concerns to the back of his mind. He still has to get out of here, after all, and while that seems a lot less likely to be a problem, suddenly, he's not willing to bet his life on it.

"The two aren't mutually exclusive, you know," he says conversationally. He cracks the knuckles of his right hand by tucking each finger individually under his thumb and pressing, and watches Flack twitch with each tiny pop. "You're a touch high-strung, mate. You might consider another line of work."

Flack says nothing, which doesn't surprise Bill in the least. The conversation is basically over. Now it's just a matter of a (hopefully quiet) exit.

He turns toward the main room, still holding onto a smile that he doesn't feel, and a half-dozen people look away, unwilling to make eye contact. It's just amusing enough to make the smile feel a little more comfortable on his face.

He takes a deliberate pace through the room, fast enough to be business-like, slow enough to not be mistaken for hurrying, and he's almost out the door when his luck runs out.

Joe Bob already has his gun drawn when he opens the door and walks inside, which answers any questions Bill might have had about why he's here. Someone rang him, and he's here for Bill. Simple enough equation.

Bill wonders if Joe Bob has been "passed the word" that Bill isn't to be touched.

The look on his face makes Bill think it's unlikely. Well, that and having a gun pointed at him.

The silence seems a lot louder now that Bill is standing in the middle of it. He doesn't move (obviously), and doesn't speak. He doesn't like the look on Joe Bob's face. It's gloating and fever-bright, more evidence that he's not in the know about Dominguez having changed his mind.

Joe Bob had been one of Burelle's fuckwits as well, and he and Bill have butted heads before. Bill had kicked him in the face, once, and knocked him out, and he's the sort of bloke that holds a grudge forever.

But he isn't particularly bright and he isn't particularly fast, and Bill still might be able to get out of this alive if he doesn't fucking panic. He isn't the panicking sort, really, but he can already feel threads of red fear wriggling their way into his mind, because with half a million dollars as the prize, Joe Bob isn't likely to back down.

And in spite of what Flack had said, Bill doubts very much if Dominguez would be completely displeased if Bill didn't make it out of this bar alive.

"You really are a ballsy son of a bitch," Joe Bob says, grinning brightly, clearly prepared to gloat up a storm, which is fine by Bill, will give him a little time, at least, to figure something out. Joe Bob isn't a particularly good marksman, as far as Bill recalls, but from three feet, he can hardly fucking miss. "To just fucking walk in here like that, and think we're actually going to let you walk out again. You've got a lot of fucking balls."

The gun (Beretta 9mm, nine bullets in the clip and one in the chamber) doesn't even quiver, and Bill wonders if Joe Bob is on something that makes him braver than usual. Or maybe he's moved up into Burelle's spot -- not entirely outside the realm of possibility, and Bill hasn't exactly been in a position to keep track -- and that's what makes him so certain of himself.

"Just the standard two," Bill says tightly, not bothering to try and regulate the tension out of his voice. He's got other things to worry about. Holding a gun like that -- arm straight out, fully extended -- is hard bloody work, very taxing, and he figures he's got around 2 minutes before Joe Bob's starts feeling it. He isn't sure if it would be better to try and occupy that time, and Joe Bob's attention, until that happens and then try something (he isn't sure exactly what yet), or if he should make sure to do it before the two minute mark, in case Joe Bob (who isn't very bright or very patient) gets bored and just shoots him. There's nothing for it, he's going to have to gamble and hope for the best. "Before you shoot me, you might want to check with your mates, Joe Bob. There's some fairly pertinent news."

The opportunity presents itself so quickly that Bill almost doesn't recognize it, almost misses it. He'd expected to have to listen to Joe Bob blather for a bit longer, at least. He should've known, though, because he's seen Joe Bob cocky before, he's seen how recklessly he spends his attention when it really counts (possibly why Joe Bob never made it as a boxer), and it's Flack that Bill has to thank for two seconds worth of extra time that allow him to take advantage of Joe Bob's diverted attention. When Joe Bob cuts his eyes briefly away from Bill, presumably to find Flack or someone and look a question at him, Flack moves. In the pressing silence, the sound of Flack's boots on the floor is enormous, and he must be indicating something (though not out loud, whatever it is) to Joe Bob, something he doesn't like, because his brows draw down into a frown that could be puzzlement or displeasure (not that it really matters at this particular juncture), and he turns his head to look at Flack (probably). Bill thinks it's unlikely that there will be a better opportunity than this, so he moves.

If he's wrong, he's going to die, so he discards the possibility and takes a step forward, twisting his upper body sharply downward while he turns (a fairly standard block, if he'd actually been blocking anything, but he's not, he's winging it), in case Joe Bob starts firing (which he doesn't, bloke really is slow), putting himself well below gun level. Joe Bob is barely starting to react, gun lowering, when Bill barrels into his midsection with his elbow extended and angled upward to strike Joe Bob's solar plexus. It's probably enough to take him down all by itself (Joe Bob wheezes and starts to double over), but Bill's right hand is balled into a fist and desperately wants to connect to something (Joe Bob's left hand swings upward and fetches up against the side of Bill's face, and Bill ignores it except to be grateful it hadn't been the hand with the gun in it, because ow), so Bill drives it downward beneath his own body and into Joe Bob's groin, draws it back, pistons it forward again, does it twice more just for insurance, though Joe Bob's weight is now resting almost entirely against his shoulder, he's folded over and Bill is basically supporting him along his left side. When Bill straightens, shoving Joe Bob (doubled over and clutching at his goods) away, he topples over sideways like a bowling pin.

The gun is on the floor near Bill's left foot. No one else seems in a hurry to pick it up, so Bill does, jerking the clip out of the bottom and shoving it into his pocket. He opens the chamber and empties that out as well, adding the lone bullet to the jangle of clips in his jacket, and then thumbs the lock to disengage the slide and jerks it off, tossing it aside.

All that's left is the plastic grip, and Bill tosses it in Joe Bob's general direction.

Joe Bob hasn't moved, still curled up and clutching at himself.

Something warm trickles down the right side of Bill's face, and he uses a thumb to wipe at it. Blood. Joe Bob must've been wearing a ring or something. It had opened Bill's cheek, right across the cheekbone. It isn't serious, so Bill ignores it.

He turns to run his gaze along the rest of them, and they are all furiously otherwise occupied now, except Flack, who is looking like he's not sure if he's relieved or terrified.

"Tell Dominguez I'm still going to fucking take him down," he says, low and through clenched teeth, his whole body still thrumming with tension and the desire for violent exertion. He hates and loves this feeling, and he knows he can't trust it, that the illusion of strength and power is nothing more than adrenaline and endorphins, but it's going to take a long fucking time to wear off. It always does. "And he won't go alone."

He knows better than to make threats and promises when he's like this, too, but he does it anyhow. This threat, at least, isn't idle. Bill will take him down; he has no choice. His life ultimately depends on it. Dominguez won't stop until Bill is dead, no matter what deal is currently on or off the table, and he doesn't think for a second that this unexpected reprieve is anything but temporary.

He walks out the door without looking back over his shoulder, though the skin between his shoulder blades itches with the certainty that dozens of pairs of eyes are following him.

Once in the Mustang, hands gripping the cool, familiar feel of the steering wheel tightly, he has to force himself to drive, get a few miles away. He does it on automatic, his mind blank and empty, detached from his body.

Eventually he pulls over to let the shakes pass.

Right after the party

2004-02-02T23:58:48Z

Bill is still thinking about going home when his phone rings. He isn't particularly surprised. He'd almost been expecting it. Threes, after all.

"Boyd," he says, and whomever is on the line says nothing for long moments. Bill senses more than hears that the line is still open, and merely waits. He's about to say something ("You have three bloody seconds to identify yourself, fuckwit," is what springs to mind), when the caller finally speaks.

"Thank God."

Susan's voice is a long, slightly quavering exhalation that confirms all of Bill's worst fears about what had happened earlier in the night ("No injuries in the fire," he remembers Redden saying, and remembers thinking it was oddly phrased).

"What now?" Bill says, because there is no question that it's something. He ignores the fact that he doesn't actually want to know, ignores the thrill of uneasiness her tone (genuinely relieved, her voice completely lacking the sracastic element that normally characterizes it -- when she's talking to him, at least) sends through him. She doesn't answer immediatedly, and Bill listens to her breathing, long, deep breaths that aren't entirely steady. Unlike her, just like her screaming fury from earlier, and he wants to sigh or snarl, or both, because this is getting bloody old quickly. Bill's nerves are already wound up, already jittering and jumping, and this is only making it worse, ratcheting up his level of anxiety until he feels ready to twitch right out of his own skin. "Bleeding Christ, Susan," he finally snaps. "What the fuck?!"

"You're driving," she says -- randomly, as far as Bill can tell -- and her voice is remarkably clear and even, considering Bill can still hear how unsteady her breathing is. "Pull over."

He pulls over quickly enough to leave a shriek and the smell off heated rubber hovering in the air. Something about the way she'd said it.

"I want you out of that car. It's too distinctive. I'll send a couple of uniforms to pick it up. Don't drive it anymore."

He doesn't have to be told that this is serious. "I won't be going into protective custody either, Susan," he says, but softly. He doesn't want to piss her off (though he recognizes that it may be unavoidable), but she needs to understand that very clearly.

"I wasn't going to even ask," she says, and there is a wry edge to her voice that reassures him a little. No more dead cops if she can take that tone with him. He likes it a hell of a lot better than it's predescessor, frankly. "I don't want the hassle of all that damn paperwork anyway. Do you know how many forms you have to fill out to discipline one asshole for insubordination? It's a nightmare."

"One of life's tragedies," Bill agrees sardonically, but his hands are reaching under the wheel to drag his trouser leg up and work his gun free of the ankle holster. She's made him nervous. "So, was there a specific reason for this call, or did you just want to make me extremely twitchy?"

"Twitchy is just a bonus," she says, and fucking giggles at him.

Relief, he thinks, which is the only rational (if somewhat surreal) reason for Susan to be giggling at him. She's relieved, and it warms him, though he'll never tell her that. But that doesn't answer the question of why, exactly, she's so relieved to speak with him. "I suppose," he says carefully, "that I'm still not to go home?"

"You could, I suppose, but it'd be counterproductive for someone who doesn't want to be in police custody to come to a place that's crawling with cops."

"I see," Bill says, thinking hard.

"There were two men," she says, amusement dropping from her tone abruptly. "I had uniforms on your apartment, just on the doors, waiting. Entrances and boltholes, only. I hadn't even given an evacuation order, Bill. They must have come straight from the Bloom kid's building, or near enough. What the hell could they have been thinking?" But she continues without giving him time to answer, which is fine, since he has no idea. "They walked right in the front doors, took the elevator to your floor, and invited themselves inside. We had the building empty, cordoned off, and a tactical team in position in less than ten minutes. It's like they came here to die."

Or like they were sent there to die, Bill thinks, but doesn't say. It's speculation.

"They came out shooting. There was nothing for us to do but take them down."

"Who? Are they even Dominguez's people?" Bill asks eventually, because it just doesn't compute. He's sure she knows that.

"If they were, they aren't anymore." Her voice is laced with unmistakable satisfaction. It's the sort of smug-but-revolted pleasure all cops just can't quite help feeling at the death of a cop-killer. The sort of thing that can only really be shown to another cop, because only another cop could really understand it. Bill feels it, too, elated relief mixed with a painful, sickening clench of guilt at the feeling. He ignores it as well as he can while he listens to Susan flipping through papers on her end. "Emilio Cuevas and... Jordan Christianson. Ring any bells with you?"

"Cuevas," Bill repeats thoughtfully. "He's Dominguez's sister's kid. A meth-freak. Related, but not someone Dominguez usually uses. He's in my files if you need next-of-kin information. Mother's name is Isabella. Nice lady."

Which is true, Bill had met her a couple of times. She hadn't liked him. Of course, MacKinnon hadn't been meant to be particularly likeable.

"How do you remember this shit," Susan grumbles. Bill can hear the scratch of her pen on paper. "What the hell is this, Bill? It doesn't make sense!"

"Not unless what happened is exactly what was meant to happen," Bill says thoughtfully.

"A set up?" Susan muses. Her tone is curious, but he thinks he detects a slight note of satisfaction in it as well. He isn't surprised. Susan is far from stupid. "You think the fire was a fuck up." It's not a question.

"I think it's possible," Bill says. "If you'll check their rap sheets, I'm betting you'll find out that one of them was a firebug. Probably Christianson. I don't know his name, but I don't remember anything about Cuevas having fire-setting tendencies. It isn't totally outside the realm of possibility that Dominguez would send Cuevas after Bloom. He probably didn't think it would take anyone with any skill to get the job done, in that particular instance. But he wouldn't have sent him for me. Not unless he was trying to get rid of him."

"No family loyalty?" Susan mumurs.

It sets off a buzz of something in Bill's head unexpectedly. Not about Dominguez, either (which is stupid as fuck, not to mention careless and dangerous), but about Kate. Kate Beckinsale.

Sometimes connections are obvious, like electric lines running from pole to pole. Sometimes they aren't so obvious, buried power lines marked by tiny orange flags at uncertain intervals, things barely noted at the edges of perception. And sometimes they're all but invisible, not even marked, and you only know they're there if you happen to stumble over one and get a nasty fucking shock. This feels like that last to Bill.

Like a nasty fucking shock.

Bill had once had a professor at Uni who'd referred to this sort of leap of logic as thinking with the hind-brain. Bill doesn't quite agree with that, since the hind-brain governs instinctive and animalistic responses rather than actual thought, but he understands the designation all the same. Moments like this, moments when he makes connections this way, always feel a little instinctive; triggered by instinct, if not actually carried out by that portion of the brain.

It's a sort of free-association slide toward awareness, Susan's off the cuff comment about family loyalty sending Bill's brain through a series of sharp, sideways curves (he thinks of the Mafia, first, of the fact that Dominguez's little empire doesn't run along the same vein, he doesn't hold the sort of regard for his family that would allow him to expect the sort of unquestioning loyalty of the Milanos or the Genoveses, certainly not the kind of solidarity the Torettas had shown one another, going down to the last member under the collapsing weight of their enterprise no matter how many deals the FBI offered them), interspersed with oddly bright pauses, moments of clear understanding (and a damn good thing, too, because the last thing LAPD needs is a crimelord of that magnitude making life even more fucking difficult, not to mention the entanglements with the FBI that sort of thing would inevitably produce, as well as the PD's own organized crime division, who had so far been content to leave Dominguez to Narc, since drugs are his primary endeavor) that don't quite string together, things he senses are important, but can't clearly see how until he reaches the end (the deeper he'd got into Dominguez's organization, the more Bill had feared FBI involvement because of the boundaries and borders Dominguez habitually crosses, and for a while his worst fear had been waking up and finding Dominguez on the FBI's hitlist...) of that line of thought.

And then there it is. Beckinsale. Not this year, but last? Maybe the year before. Bill isn't sure when, but he knows where he's seen the name before. Organized Crime. He digs a little deeper into the dusty files in his mind where he keeps interesting but not neccessarily useful bits of information, his hands gripping the steering wheel as though it's his connection to this realization.

"Bill?" Susan says, jangling interruption, and Bill snarls silently at the windshield.

"Wait!" he snaps, and she does, because she knows well enough how he works sometimes, she's seen it before.

Beckinsale. Richard Beckinsale. There it is. Art theft, forgery, smuggling across international borders, organized prostitution... He can look up the details when he gets somewhere with a phone line. He has to, because ("She's not my cousin!" Nic had blurted out, sounding utterly revolted at the notion,) if there is some sort of connection between the Beckinsale's and Ian McKellen, then Bill bloody well needs to know it.

It could be money, merely the social connection of two rich men, but if it isn't...

He thinks briefly about the look on Kate's face, that wary recognition, and then about the look on McKellen's, which hadn't been anything quite as clear.

But his gut tells him that McKellen is a dangerous man, and Bill is inclined to trust that assessment. The only question is, how dangerous. McKellen's name doesn't call up twitches of recognition the way the Beckinsale name had, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything.

And if the connection is more than merely social, more than just the happenstance of everyday interaction between wealthy peers... well, that's a whole different ball game, isn't it.

"Bill," Susan says again, and Bill's hands flex and grip around the steering wheel.

"For God's sake, shut up, Sue!" he snaps, clenching his jaw hard to keep from spitting further venom at her.

If it's business, if it's fucking business, then the question becomes what business? What does McKellen do? Bill has always got the impression that McKellen is old money, wealthy family, nothing better to do with it than throw it into the pseudo-entertainment industry. He had asked, yeah, but he hadn't looked closely because McKellen is a sort of periphery figure, not directly working with the industry, and because everyone had told him basically the same story.

If that's wrong, it alters some very basic assumptions, the most fundamental of them being that the homicides themselves are unrelated to one another, aside from the fact that the resultant hits had all been executed by the same person.

That might still be true, of course, but if organized crime is involved, something of Beckinsale's calibre, then it is very possible that it is not. It's possible that they had been quite a bit more specifically motivated.

And at this point, his investigation is going exactly nowhere. The more he finds out, the more fucking unclear things get.

Also...

"Bill," Susan says, this time with audible impatience in her voice.

"What?" he snaps, barely aware of doing it.

"Tell me!"

He opens his mouth to do it, automatic, and then closes it so quickly he bites the fuck out of his tongue. He swallows an obscenity, mind racing to come up with something to tell her.

Because he sure as hell shouldn't be thinking about this now. It has nothing to do with the situation at hand, the very real and very dangerous situation that his attention should currently be devoted to, the one that is a department-fucking-sanctioned investigation. The one that is currently threatening his life. What the fuck is he doing? How the hell did his perspective on things become so bloody skewed?

"I can't," he lies smoothly. "I lost it. I thought for a second that I had... something. But no."

God, he's a total fucking prick. Stupid, stupid bloody prick!

Susan says nothing for several long, tense seconds. "You might want to get your head out of your ass, Boyd," she says finally. "I think you're starting to become immune to the smell of your own bullshit."

He smiles in spite of the fact that she could cause him trouble, if she wants to. "Let it go, yeah, Sue? It was something else."

"What the fuck else could be important right now?" she demands, voice low and tight.

"Ask me another time," he says, because he can't quite make himself lie to her again (and not only because he understands that she will take a lot from him, is willing to let him do things his own way most of the time, but if he lies to her too often, that will change), and because the only way to get out of this situation is for her to let him out of it.

There is another long silence (Bill is convinced he can actually hear her grinding her teeth), but eventually she does. "Okay. Fine. But you want to wrap your brain around this situation, Bill, and you want to fucking do it yesterday. If this was Dominguez, you won't have long to figure things out before he takes another shot at you."

"I know, Sue," Bill says, but gently. "I'll get my arse in gear. Sorry."

"Sorry?" she repeats, incredulous. "Okay, who the fuck are you and what have you done with Bill Boyd?"

Bill chuckles -- though some distant part of his brain is noting that he really fucking needs to watch himself, because uncharacteristic behavior can't help him, even if it's uncharacteristic for the better. "Working on my interpersonal skills," he says. "Acting like someone people actually like, remember? You shouldn't discourage me. I think I'm making progress."

"You're making me nervous," she says, her tone only half-joking. He doesn't answer. There isn't any point. "Anyway. I called to tell you about the corpses in your apartment."

"And to make me abandon my car," he adds. "Which I'm not going to do. Not yet."

She sighs. "Tomorrow. No later. You'll need to come to the station anyway, Bill. There's no way you can avoid making a statement on this."

"I know, and that's fine. But I need it for tonight."

"Don't go out looking for information tonight, Bill," she says sharply, and he's only mildly irritated at how well she knows him. "You still have a price on your head. It would be beyond stupid."

"I'm not an idiot," he says, and she snorts her disagreement, but doesn't call him on it, though she knows as well as he does that it's meaningless, just something to say that is neither an agreement nor a refusal.

"Look," she says instead, voice dropping slightly. "Do you need me to bring you anything from here? Is there anything... you need out of here." It's carefully phrased, but the inflection is unmistakable.

Bill hesitates. He's not sure why he's surprised. "No, Sue," he says carefully. "I'm not hiding anything." Not true, but he isn't hiding anything there. Everything he has that he doesn't want anyone to see is on his laptop in the Mustang's boot. "I wouldn't ask you to do that, if I was."

And that isn't true, either, probably, but since it's not going to be tested in this situation, it's moot. He chooses not to look too closely at it.

Instead of answering, she changes the subject. "Your psych eval crossed my desk yesterday. You'll be happy to know you aren't insane."

"Good on me," Bill says, and she snorts. He can imagine her grin. With a start of surprise, he realizes that he misses her. He misses working with people he trusts like he trusts the people in Narc.

With his life.

Of course, he'd staple his own lips together before he said something like that out loud.

"I've got to go, Bill. I've got a hell of a lot of clean up ahead of me."

"Aye," he says. "Better you than me."

"Cram it, Boyd," she says, but without rancor. "Watch your ass, Bill. I'll see you tomorrow."

And if her tone holds the slightest hint of threat, they can both pretend it doesn't mean anything, later, if they choose to.

That's one of the things he's always liked about Susan. She knows when to let go of the reins when it's obvious that they aren't doing anything but slowing him down.

"Goodnight, Susan," he says softly, and rings off.

during the party...

2004-01-06T10:18:23Z

He waits until he's sure Kate is gone before he answers his phone. It's not that he doesn't trust her... it's... Okay, he doesn't trust her. There's something very wrong about her. She can't be more than twenty, but her eyes are too much like McKellen's, not in how they look, but in how they look. She knows things the shouldn't, says things she really shouldn't -- and he hopes to God she had understood his warning very fucking clearly -- and he's going to have to make a concerted effort to come to an understanding with her about certain information being circulated. But not right now. Not tonight, for fuck's sake. There is too much going on.

"Boyd," he snarls into the mobile, and steps further into the room, putting his back to the corner so he can keep an eye out for anyone wandering in.

"It's Susan," she says, and Bill says nothing. There's no need. "Carver is dead. Shanked."

Bill closes his eyes for a moment, feels his stomach drop down to his knees, suddenly weighted like lead. "Bleeding fuck," he growls.

He can almost see her offering a quick, impatient headshake. It's in her clipped tone. "Dominguez can't afford Carver's mouth -- he cut a deal, you know -- and he can't afford the Bloom kid's mouth, either, Bill." She pauses, and Bill says nothing. "You know where he is, Bill." It's not a question.

"I might be able to find him," Bill hedges, and has to force himself not to turn and search for Orlando out the window.

Susan laughs, a short, brittle sound entirely lacking in actual amusement. "Don't fuck with me, Bill. I know you." He can hear her gathering her patience, taking a deep breath. "You wouldn't lose track of him." Like we have, goes unspoken, but Bill knows it's there. That's why she's calling, really. She's just figured out that Orlando is outside the net of police awareness, and she doesn't sound terribly happy about it. "I want him in protective custody, Bill."

"If I see him, I'll mention it," Bill says steadily, toneless.

"Bill," she says softly, and Bill grits his teeth and holds onto his temper with both hands. "He's not safe."

"Tell me something, Sue. Did you still have a uniform on Burelle's apartment?" He keeps his voice carefully flat, but he can still hear her fury in the long, quiet seconds that follow, silence broken only by the sound of her radio in the background, squawking police-band alive with activity. Someone is going to be sorry for that, he's sure.

"No. I couldn't justify twenty-four/seven surveillance with the case suspended."

Bill closes his eyes again. What had been dull and weighty dread in the pit of his stomach has now morphed into something like actual fear. She's good at giving out partial information, good at evasive respnonses using empty phrases that only sound as though they contain information, but he's better at it. "You couldn't justify twenty-four/seven... but you had some extra man-hours, didn't you, Sue. All those people working on Dominguez at loose ends. Who?"

Longer silence this time.

A rotation, he guesses. Probably nights and weekends only, because Orlando works during the day, and there would have been no need to cover an empty apartment. Bugger.

Fuck.

"Sue," he begins softly, but she cuts him off.

"I want him, Bill. I want him where I can get my fucking hands on him," and her voice is walking that thin line between shout and sob, and the pressure in Bill's chest feels like drowning.

But he says: "No."

"Goddamn you, Bill, I will fucking order you to do it if I have to. That little fucker is all I've got, and I fucking want him. Don't you dare, don't you fucking dare fuck with me." Bill winces at the ragged edge to her voice, the screaming, jittering nerves. He's never heard her sound like this, and he doesn't want to push her, not now, but he can't do what she's asking him to do.

"I don't work for you anymore, Susan," he says, and he hears her breath hitch in a gasp of shock, because she knows, they both know, that in some ways he will always work for her. But. "What am I supposed to fucking tell him? Is the fact that Carver is dead supposed to encourage him? Reassure him as to the ability of the LAPD to keep him alive? For fuck's sake, Carver was in police custody, was in fucking jail, Susan, and see how bloody well that worked out."

"Bill..."

"No. I won't. If I see him, I'll tell him, Susan. I'll let him make his own choice. But I won't bring him in so you can arrest his ass on that bogus possession warrant just so you can keep your fucking hands on him. I won't do it. Fuck you."

"He's safer with us than just out wandering by himself, Bill," she says, but she sounds tired now. She's done fighting with him. And she can't prove he knows anything.

He isn't by himself, he thinks, but doesn't say.

"He's cleaning house, Bill. Tying up loose ends. The word is out, and you know Carver was only the first."

"I know," Bill says. "Tell your people to keep their fucking heads down."

"You keep your fucking head down, Boyd." There is another long silence on the phone. The police radio is alive with chatter. Signal 27, he hears, tinny over the mobile phone line. DRT. "You just fucking watch yourself, Bill. I'm not your boss anymore. I can't pull you off the streets, but you just fucking watch yourself."

"I will," he says. Which is perfectly true. He always does.

"And don't go home. I'm about to have your building evacuated."

"Susan," he objects -- because he doesn't really think that's necessary, doesn't think there will be another fire; it's not Dominguez's style, and he suspects rather strongly that the fire was a mistake, a fuck up, and it's likely that whatever small-time idiot Dominguez had hired to hit Orlando had already paid for that mistake -- quickly, "don't..."

"Fuck you, Bill," she says. "Your sorry ass isn't the one I'm worried about."

He sighs, because it's pointless to argue about it. She's not stupid, but she doesn't understand Dominguez like he does. He hadn't ordered the fire. It was too obvious, too flashy. Far more likely that he'd ordered the hit, hired someone slightly less than stellar to perform it -- because he wouldn't think he needed someone stellar, not for Orlando -- and upon discovering the apartment empty, the stupid twat had panicked and decided spectacular overkill might confuse the matter and get him a paycheck. Dominguez wouldn't like that; not in the slightest. He wouldn't want his name associated with that sort of blatant mayhem. Dominguez likes things quiet, well-planned, and running like clockwork.

He thinks it's likely that the firebug is dead already.

"Don't go home," she repeats. "It's not safe."

"I hear you, Susan," he says. Which isn't precisely agreement.

"Swear to God, Boyd," she says tightly, and for a moment Bill thinks she's asking him to swear to God (which he doesn't really want to do, he doesn't really want to blatantly lie to her, especially not 'to God' as he's in enough danger of Hell as it is, thanks so much), but then she continues without giving him the chance to swear to anything. "If you get your stupid ass killed, I will find a way to make you pay for it." The words may not be entirely sensible, but her voice is in deadly earnest. " I swear to God, you fucking asshole."

"It'll be all right, Susan," he almost whispers. "I'll be all right."

She rings off without responding to that.

billboyd @ 2003-11-17T10:37:00

2003-11-17T16:27:31Z

Bill is actually on Johnny's street when his mobile rings. He fumbles for it in his coat pocket without taking his eyes off the road. Johnny's road is a bit on the winding side.

"Boyd," he answers, as he pretty much always does, and for a couple of heartbeats the line is silent and open. It's long enough for dread to settle in Bill's belly, and he slows down, ready to pull over if need be. In case he starts to shake.

It turns out not to be necessary.

"This is Redden," a voice says, and Bill understands that the pause was probably an indicator of a transfer from whomever had actually dialed Bill's number -- secretary, desk sergeant, or dispatcher -- to Bill's division supervisor's direct line.

He glances at the dashboard clock, which does nothing but confirm what Bill already knows.

There can be no good reason for Redden -- a man he's met only a handful of times and spoken to maybe twice -- to be ringing him after hours, when they are both off duty.

"What's happened?" Bill asks, and the dread is back again, a cold and writhing knot in the pit of his stomach.

"Captain Rutledge asked me to call," Redden says in his California drawl. "She's tied up."

"What's happened?" Bill repeats (is he not speaking fucking English?) sharply, and pulls over after all. His skin is crawling with apprehension, the potential for rage or violence. He has the idea that Redden had somehow meant his words to be reassuring, like Bill should be relieved that Redden isn't calling about his fucking job performance or something (bugger his job performance and bugger Redden). Bill is not comforted. "Where is she? Is she hurt?"

There is a slight pause (during which Bill assumes the worst, and is bloody well glad he'd pulled over), and then Redden says: "No, she isn't hurt. She's at a scene. She asked me to call you."

Okay. Not hurt. And she is having the division supervisor contact him… by mobile phone. So. Off the record. Bill says nothing for long moments, and Redden is equally silent. Why him? What would make her choose a Vice Captain for something like this? Bill's Captain? And there is something particular in the way Redden had worded it, isn't there? Something off.

"I'm listening," Bill says softly, eyes narrowed and jaw tense.

"There was a fire at an apartment building on Hollins. Gutted the whole building." Redden's voice is neutral. "No injuries in the fire." Bill says nothing, and after a few moments, Redden continues on, his voice bland. "It looks like arson."

"All right," Bill says. The back of his neck is fucking crawling with agitation. "I understand."

"Captain Rutledge will be calling you when she can get away," Redden says, his tone still completely casual, but that is an indicator of the seriousness of the situation by itself. All cops do that. When things go to hell, there isn't any other way to deal with it than to just shut down the crap that isn't needed. "She wants you to be available."

"Aye," Bill says. "I hear you." He can barely hear his own voice above the pounding rush in his ears.

"Good," Redden says quietly, and rings off.

Bill sits behind the wheel of the Mustang for fully ten minutes before he trusts himself to drive the remaining handful of blocks to Johnny's house.

before the party

2003-11-17T02:01:53Z

The eleventh victim -- the one who hasn't yet been avenged -- is one Marco Diesi. How Italian.

Bill feels a quiet sense of gratitude for Detective Bryant, the conscientious soul who had written the original homicide report. It had taken under half an hour to hack his user name and discover the original case report -- intact -- in his files. Finding that also answered some troubling questions Bill had been toying with. Namely, whether or not he had to worry about someone savvy enough with computers to track down every single copy of every single report and wipe each of them out of existence. Or perhaps it doesn't answer the question if whomever it was could do it. Just whether or not he or she had done it. Bill still doesn't know if he or she had tried, or even thought to try.

It doesn't make a lot of sense to bother with the homicide reports on file if whomever is purging them isn't going to bother with tracking down the copies. Not that Bill is complaining. If there had been any indication that the copies were being systematically sought out and deleted, Bill would've had no choice but to come clean. He'd have had to tell what he suspects -- not knows, because the truth is, he doesn't know anythng yet. He has hunches and suspicions, but he doesn't have enough facts to be sure of anything. He has guesswork, and maybe it's a little more accurate than Paulson's guesswork, but it's still all a matter of perception. He'd spent enough years in homicide to know how to put things together that Paulson didn't, and that was the only real difference.

Detective Bryant's report made lots of things about Diesi very clear, relieving Bill of the need to do a whole lot of investigation into his past. Attached to the report is Diesi's extensive -- but largely small-time -- criminal history, a thorough background check on him, and a (really helpful and revealing) list of the man's family. Which is where the clarity comes in really. Because Bill recognizes eight out of ten names on that list, and if he'd ever been involved in the investigation of organized crime outside of the realm of narcotics, he'd probably know all ten of ten.

Diesi had been mob-born, although not terribly involved with the high-end running of the business, as far as Bill can tell. Another interesting fact listed in the case report -- which isn't one of those Paulson had found and forwarded to him originally, which isn't that surprising, as the small time mobster's connection to the porn business isn't as immediately obvious as the other cases Paulson had found -- is that the widow Diesi is Ivy Diesi, nee Ivy St. Claire. And there is the connection. He doubts Paulson would have ever found it, and Bill isn't sure he would've either. Not without reading through homicide's case files one by one. Not without the help of whomever had decided that wiping out case files (probably incriminating ones, why else do it?) was a good idea. Ivy St. Claire, ascending porn princess.

Which is a name Bill recognizes, largely because he'd seen her shagging some giant blond bloke with a handlebar moustage several weeks ago, on film.

He doesn't have a file on her yet, but she isn't hard to track down on the internet. She's got a few fan sites, but mostly he jots things down on a slightly crumpled, coffee-stained notepad, working directly from the credits of her movies.

Bill has a hard time reconciling the alterations of the homicide files in his brain. Someone smart enough to leave the headers in the system so that the files still appear to be intact, but unwilling to do the wetwork neccessary to get rid of all the copies. Why? Doing something like that will complicate a police investigation, but not derail it entirely. Any given case report exists in at least a half a dozen different forms -- hand-written original, computerized version in the main files, computerized version in the docket of the detective investigationg, hard copy in the investigating detective's files, homicide docket, CSI, and maybe a couple of other places, just for backup, for documentation, for a paper trail -- and it doesn't make sense to get rid of one and leave all the others.

Unless maybe it hadn't been done to derail the police investigation.

Bill sits back on the couch, frowning and staring at a promotional shot of Ivy St. Claire on the screen of his laptop. She's pretty. Blonde and tan and grinning at the camera, her nose slightly wrinkled. Still alive, too. Married to the victim, this time, not the victim herself. Not that all the victims had been porn stars, but they'd all been in the industry personally, not married into it. Why Marco Diesi? Why not her?

He doesn't have any doubt at all that sometime in the near future, another truncated homicide report will come up when he runs a search. You don't kill someone with a name like Diesi -- with the connections that come with the name -- without answering for it. The mob is predictable that way. And he guesses it'll be the same sort of thing when it does show up, clean and simple, professional. The fact that the report had been one of the ones snipped indicates that someone, at least, thinks they're all linked. Someone who has more knowlege of what's going on than Bill does. For now.

He wonders how long he has to figure out who had been so stupid.

He needs to talk to this girl.

He stands up and stretches. It's habit more than need, the habit of long weeks of aching physically, muscles tense and tight with lack of sleep. In truth, he still feels pretty good. Rested.

He needs to find Ivy St. Claire, but it's not going to get done tonight. Tonight he has a party to go to, because Johnny will be quite put out with him if he doesn't make an appearance, considering the circumstances. With any luck, he'll get the chance to talk with Orlando alone, ask him what he knows about Ivy St. Claire, but if not, he can do that later. More improtant is the chance to talk with some of the others, Nikki (Darling) and Sean Bean (maybe, it's hard to say if he'll show up considering what this party is likely to be like), the ones that he doesn't know all that well yet, and get them to talking. Names he's heard without ever having met the people they belonged to. Miranda. Viggo. Cate. At least some of them are certain to show up at some point.

McKellen might be there, and McKellen produces. Might be interesting to find out what sorts of things he knows.

He'll also have to make time to make nice with Nic, or Keira will never forgive him.

And maybe there'd be time to make nice with Keira as well. Fuck, who is he kidding. He'll find time to make nice with Keira.

"You stupid wanker," he mutters, but there isn't any force behind it. It's hard to resist the memory of her hand cupping his jaw, her eyes all soft and shimmery from inches away. It's hard to remember that she's a distraction, hard to remember that he shouldn't, for both of their sakes.

He showers and gets dressed -- regretfully forgoing the shoulder holster this time, but not quite able to leave the ankle holster -- and doesn't notice that he barely thinks about the case at all while he dresses (the silence on the other end of the phone flashes through his mind once while he checks the safety and makes sure the gun isn't easily visible beneath his trousers, but it's brief) and gathers up keys and jacket.

billboyd @ 2003-11-13T07:00:00

2003-11-13T12:50:31Z

Today I beat Keira's fuckbuddy unconscious.

I'm pretty sure I should feel badly about that.

Big misunderstanding and all that.

I wouldn't have done it had I known who he was before the fistfight (it was actually more in the nature of a brawl, the little fucker is strong, but he's not exactly skilled, though I did end up on my arse at least once and I've go a bruise the size of a fucking grapefruit on my chest -- sharp elbows), but since I didn't know, and since beating the crap out of someone who was scaling the fucking building seemed like the appropriate response at the time, what I actually feel is... amused.

Clearly I should be ashamed of myself.

But the look on the bastard's face. Fucking priceless.

Sleeping, and it's various hazards.

2003-11-05T15:00:07Z

Bill wakes with his heartbeat thundering in his ears, and is momentarily disoriented.

Waking up with his heart doing back flips in his fucking chest, stinking of fearsweat, and feeling phantom pain searing through his thigh, is actually fairly commonplace lately, so he flounders for a moment, trying to figure out what's different here, because that's not what this is.

His heart is pounding, and he's sweaty enough that he is attached to his couch in places, like sweat forms some kind of special skin-to-leather adhesive previously unknown to science, but the pain isn't twisting hooked claws into his thigh, it's further up, and different, and … not actually pain at all.

Oh, he thinks, bemused.

He lifts his head slightly and eyeballs the tent in his pajama bottoms.

Abruptly, the dream catches up with his waking mind, and the blue and red checked flannel teepee just south of his belly button has a perfectly logical explanation.

Keira.

"Oh," he groans, and lets his head drop back onto the couch cushion.

He doesn't usually remember his dreams too specifically -- and that's been a blessing just lately -- but this one seems to be the exception that proves the rule.

He shouldn't dwell on it; he knows it. But it's a bit like the porn, isn't it? It's just lying about cluttering up his brain, and while he might not have actively sought it out (all right, so he may have done a wee bit of active porn-seeking), he just doesn't have the fucking fortitude to resist it when it's just there, at his bloody fingertips. So to speak.

It's the smell of her that really gets to him. Maybe because he's actually experienced that: the rich, heavy scent of some unnamed flower, something that probably grows wild in the Amazon. Not something with dainty little stems and leaves, either, something that grows on thick, fibrous stalks, something with vines. Maybe the sort of flower that lures unsuspecting insects with its heady scent, and then drowns them in sweet, rich sap.

That's what she feels like to him, anyhow. A beautiful, deadly trap. He wonders if those fucking bugs die happy.

But he can't deny that even in dreams, the feel of her skin had been fucking amazing.

He can't remember how they'd ended up in Johnny's pool. He has the vague impression that the dream had started out as a memory, maybe of the time he'd visited Johnny's place and swam in the pool with Orlando, but he doesn’t really remember that bit well enough to be sure. He remembers it was Johnny's pool though, remembers that Keira laughing had been like the dream-soundtrack. He remembers that Johnny had been present at first, making drinks, and that he'd had a video camera at some point, and Bill hadn't objected -- which just proves it's a fucking fantasy -- even though he'd been pressed tightly against Keira, pinning her against the tiled side of the pool, which had been cool and slick against one of his knees.

Her skin had been cool, too, and beaded with droplets of water, and his dreaming mind had noted that her breasts were the same tone as her shoulders. He wonders if that's true, if she lies naked in the sun, and if she does, would she taste like distilled sunlight?

He remembers what she tastes like in dreams.

His heart is pounding again, and he hesitates, because it feels almost wrong, even though he can't really put his finger on why. But it's the dead of the fucking night, and there isn't anyone here to see or to know, so he arches up and slides his pajamas down his hips and thighs, and kicks them off the couch impatiently. The leather under his arse and thighs is warm with his body heat, and he shifts downward until he finds a cooler spot, something that feels not unlike her slightly chilled skin in the dream. He closes his eyes and lets himself remember how her breath had fanned warm against his face with tiny hitches and sighs, and how her skin had been cool, but she had been hot inside, warm and silk-smooth and sweet, and her mouth had tasted like honey and her skin like rich cream, and she had said his name, and he had shuddered to hear it.

It's idealized, it must be, nothing is ever so smooth and perfect, but it hardly matters. He recognizes the fact that he's already idealized her in his mind, that it's not rational or reasonable in any sense, but he doesn't fucking care. He doesn't want to think of what's rational or reasonable anyhow, it's not like either of those things has played a huge role in his life, and his hand isn't as warm or as smoothhottight as Keira in dream-memory, but it will do, it will do when he can almost remember the feel of her sharp little nipples against his chest and her hands scratching at his back, her eager hips working in time with his, and the short little sounds, alternately breathy and breathless, that escape her pretty pink lips (though he has to struggle to hear those, or the memory of them, because his own breathing is loud and harsh and ragged).

He comes when he thinks of her teeth scraping against his neck, is pushed into it without warning by her muffled cry, the sound she makes in dreams when she comes, the memory of the fantasy of her clenching around him, and he shudders and bites his lip and doesn't gasp out a name, barely even makes a sound.

As the tension eases out of him and his breathing returns to something approximating normal, it occurs to him that he hasn't actually wanked to someone -- an actual someone, rather than a sort of faceless fantasy someone -- in… well, years, maybe. It's possible that hearing her laugh may have embarrassing physical consequences for him in the future, and isn't that just fucking marvelous?

This is getting out of hand.

And he desperately wants one of the two beers left in his refrigerator.

He stands up and glances at the door, just double-checking the bolt. Which is secure, of course. Just like it had been when he'd fallen asleep on his bloody couch. Just what the fuck does he think? That he'd gotten up and unlocked it at some point during dream-sex with Keira? Or maybe dream Keira had done it, sometime after the dream-orgasm that had driven her sharp little dream-teeth into his dream-neck?

"Oh, knock that shite off, Boyd, you bleeding nutter," he growls aloud. But he scoops his gun up off the coffee table with his left hand -- his right being currently unfit for contact with anything but hot, soapy water -- and takes it with him to the loo.

He showers quickly, rinsing away sweat and come and dream-residue, hot as he can stand it to get clean, and then ice cold for about sixty seconds after. And maybe that will take care of any more dreams.

He settles back onto the couch with a glass of orange juice. Not as good as beer, no, but it would have to suffice. The beer is untouchable. And the single-malt in the cupboard above the range is equally untouchable. And the bar around the corner that stays open all fucking night is absolutely unthinkable.

When it becomes clear that he isn't going back to sleep, he makes a pot of coffee and starts sifting through the logbook for evidence, looking for anything that seems off. It could take bleeding months, doing it this way, but he doesn't have any other ideas right now. Ideas and insomnia don't mix.

At ten past four, his phone rings. Bill looks at it, and for a few long moments seriously considers not answering. If it's Johnny or someone from the studio, they know to ring his mobile, and he can't think of a single reason for anyone else to be ringing him right now.

It rings nine times, and Bill eventually picks it up. He doesn't say anything, and whoever is on the other end is equally silent. The back of Bill's neck prickles uneasy awareness; his palms are abruptly slick with sweat.

He can't know who it is, of course.

But he does. Maybe not specifically, but he knows enough.

After two minutes and ten seconds, the caller hangs up. Bill sets the handset gently back in the cradle.

He spends the next two hours scouring his personal information out of utility billing systems for various companies, but it's most likely a futile expenditure of effort, he knows.

It's too late for anything that simple.

He wonders if Orlando has had any late-night callers.

musings

2003-11-03T14:42:14Z

I made it to LAPD's evidence impound the other day after the thing with Walsh. It's a bleeding warehouse, as luck would have it, and resembles my Gran's attic, except on a huge scale. Boxes and bins and dusty old paper bags on piles of shite teetering like it's about to fall over. I didn't find the evidence in any of the files I was looking for, but I'm not entirely convinced that means it isn't there. I'm not sure anyone but the actual evidence techs could find anything in that heap of crap.

I did manage to get my hands on the computerized version of the logbook for evidence though. It may or may not prove to be helpful, as getting a list of suspects from fourteen thousand names is no mean feat. It's a place to start though. Anyone who goes in must be logged in, so if worse comes to worse, I know that whomever removed the evidence (and probably whomever deleted the pertinent case files) is in that fucking list somewhere. It's going to have to wait, though, I don't have time to sift through them right now.

It's more important to try and find the next victim. Everything about this fucking case indicates that there is going to be one. The pattern has been consistent up to this point. Dead victims, dead suspect. Now I've got a loose end, a dead victim without a dead suspect, and if I'm lucky, I might be able to keep the fucker, whomever he is, alive.

All of these people seem to be at least peripherally connected to the industry. I'm betting Johnny, and probably Astin, would recognize ever single name. Astin doesn't do me any good; I've got no rapport with the tosser, and I don't expect that to change any time in the near future. Johnny... well, I don't think it's the sort of thing I could broach without being very fucking careful. I think it'd weird him out. It's not his style of small-talk. He doesn't dwell on the ugly shite.

Another couple of options have presented themselves, though. Sean Bean and Nikki Darling. Both of them are long timers. I recognized Bean almost immediately. I think he was in at least one film with Rena Rembrant. I don't know about Nikki yet.

I don't know them well enough to trade gossip, obviously. Nikki I might be able to get drunk, but I'm not sure of it. She's a sharp lady, all angles and edges. I'm fairly sure I've already set off her 'not quite right' radar. My own fault; I handled our first meeting poorly.

Bean's another story. I think getting him drunk won't be an option. I suspect that gentleman is on the wagon. He's got that look about him, the sort that just oozes off of the walking wounded. Poked about looking into his background a bit, and I can see why. If he's not on the wagon, he bloody well should be. Bloke's a menace under the influence. On the other hand, sometimes a bloke like that will talk just because someone is fucking listening. And that's something I can do, given the opportunity.

Right now, most everything seems to boil down to opportunity.

Downward Spiral

2003-11-02T03:14:49Z

The thing with Walsh had been fine. Bill isn't worried about it.

I had taken all fucking day, but he had known that going in. And Walsh had been exactly as he had expected. Completely professional and thorough. And Bill had been exactly how he had needed to be. Completely in control and manipulative.

Walsh is a decent enough bloke, and it's more than a little aggravating to find out that he feels a bit guilty about the deception. Not that he'd had to do much, but... Well, he'd done enough to keep himself safe. And he's never been much for lying to himself. He knows that the fact that he'd had to do it at all is not a good sign.

I don't have the fucking energy for this shite, he thinks, and glances at the telly, where he'd paused the tape he'd been watching; he looks away again quickly.

He makes his way into the kitchen for a beer, scratching at the skin under the waistband of his flannel pajama bottoms where the elastic had left a red, scrunchy-looking impression on his skin.

The beer is icybitter in his mouth and throat, and he downs half the bottle before he is even aware of it.

Before he is even aware of it.

"Bugger," he mutters, his fingers tightening on the chill glass of the bottle.

How many of these had he had tonight? The clock says half eight, so he's been home less than four hours. He opens the fridge and observes the two lonely bottles on the top shelf. The bin next to the fridge has three empties in it, right on top.

The coffee table has five, along with his laptop, a stack of files, and the remote for the telly.

"Christ."

Eight empties, plus the one in his hand. Nine. And the two still in the fridge made eleven. He's missing one. Ah, wait, there it is. On top of the telly. Empty.

Ten beers in four hours.

"No," he says softly. Because he just fucking knows better than this. Doesn't he?

He thinks about Keira's infectuous grin and how furious she'd looked yesterday morning when he'd left her in the diner. He should fucking know better than to do this to himself.

Has your alcohol use increased since the incident?

Ten beers in four hours.

He empties the rest of the open beer down the drain, watching it fizz in the bottom of the sink.

He should bloody know better. About a lot of things.

He makes coffee, dark and strong, and spends the rest of the night on case files, leaving the telly paused, but still not quite able to turn it off.

Insomnia and it's various hazards

2003-10-01T16:42:55Z

Bill lays in bed for more than an hour after he wakes up, head aching dully. The sun isn't even up yet, which doesn't particularly surprise him. Sleep has been dodgy just lately, as it often is when he's got a lot on his mind. He doesn't turn his face toward the glowing digital numbers displayed on the clock on the bedside table. He doesn't want to know exactly how long he'd slept. Knowing will only make him more tired.

From the corner of his eye, he can see the red-black gleam of refracted light from the alarm clock bouncing around between several empty beer bottles. It had taken more than a six pack to get him to sleep to begin with. Not a good sign. He's fully aware of that.

In a few hours (he guesses, still without looking at the clock), he'll have to go the station and let Walsh poke around inside his head to keep Tyndall off his back. He isn't terribly worried about it. He knows Walsh -- had, in fact, had several classes with him in Uni -- and he's a fair head-doctor and a decent guy. Bill suspects he'll go heavy on the standard tests, just to be safe. Something to counteract the fact that the two of them know each other, even if they are only acquaintences, never close. It will go a long way toward shutting Tyndall's gob, at least. Walsh will be meticulously professional, but fair, and there couldn't be a better combination from Bill's perspective.

He will also assume that Bill will do the same.

Which is also in Bill's best interest.

He rubs at his forehead, then down to rub his burning eyes. He doesn't keep them closed for long.

Keira's eyes live behind his closed lids, and he doesn't have the energy to deal with that right now.

WAIS-3, he thinks idly, staring at the ceiling, counting waterspots. MMPI-2, probably. CAPS, definitely, they'll be worried about PTSD. One of the impulse control tests, probably one to measure anger management. Novaco, maybe? TSI, almost certainly.

If he's lucky, maybe Rorschach. He's always wanted to actually take the ink blot test.

It's going to take hours, whatever tests they end up being. Hours of tests and probably a fairly short one-on-one interview with Walsh. Once they finish the oral portions of the various other tests, there won't be much left to fucking talk about.

On the bright side, most of the tests will be sealed, available for viewing only with a court order. The interview with Walsh will be recorded, and probably available to Tyndall, but the rest... well, Tyndall will have to be satisfied with reading Bill's results in Walsh's report.

He rolls over onto his belly and rests his forehead on his folded arms, eyes wide open in the little pocket of darkness and recycled air created by his arms. He wants a beer, but he doesn't dare show up in Walsh's office smelling even remotely of alcohol.

That will be a part of it, of course. But not all.

Has your alcohol use increased since the incident? Have your sleep habits changed? Have you relived The Event? Have you felt on edge? Avoidance? Redirection of energy? Heightened sense of danger? Headaches? Feeling disconnected? Heightened or lowered alertness? Increased or decreased awareness of surroundings? Panic attacks? Sudden onset of compulsive behavior?

And Bill will answer no to all of those questions.

He doesn't have time for PTSD anyhow.

Deceptively simple solution

2003-10-01T00:58:57Z

I ran a check of all homicide files of less than 5 k. I came up with 11.

It surprises me slightly, because these cases have come in pairs so far. Victims dead, and possible suspects dead, but clean. Revenge hits?

So why is the number of cases uneven here?

I need more fucking time. I need more fucking beer.

Put the porn down, Boyd.

Craptastic Day

2003-09-29T16:37:45Z

Bill is beginning to have serious sympathy for minimum wage workers and single mothers. Or anyone, really, who works two jobs.

He's fucking tired, he has too much shite to get done and not enough hours to do it in, and he absolutely, positively must be visibly doing his job on the weekends. The rest of the time he can sort of skate, stop by the station a couple of times a week, pick up new case files, and work on them at DBY or at home. He doesn't need to actually be present, much, to do his job. On the weekends, however, there is no way around putting certain things aside and getting out on the streets to do some investigation that's actually in-line with what the department is paying him for.

He is still a Vice Detective, no matter what little side projects he's chosen to undertake.

Like it or not.

He'd spent the first three hours of the night in the company of a series of sullen prostitutes with a history of being manhandled by their pimps -- Vice's equivalent of Domestic Violence. Bill isn't surprised to discover that the situation gets his hackles up just as readily as the more standard version. One of the things he hates about law in general is that it doesn't often allow for undefined factors. Like the fact that victims of domestic violence are often as hostile toward any sort of police involvement as the perpetrators are. And this is unquestionably domestic violence, except, under the letter of the law, it's not. And thus it's a no victim, no crime situation. Family law would allow charges to be filed by law enforcement personnel regardless of the willingness of the victim, if the law would allow that this particular dynamic falls under Family Law. Which it doesn't.

If the girl (or boy) involved refuses to testify, refuses to press charges, or wants to drop charges already filed, there isn't anything Bill can do about it.

The good news is, it lightens Bill's case load fairly quickly. The bad news is, too many of these girls (and boys) will end up on a coroner's table eventually.

It would be easy to tell himself that choosing not to do anything at all about being in a bad situation is the same as choosing to stay in said situation. Unfortunately, Bill knows better. He understands the psychology of domestic violence victims very clearly, and it just isn't that simple.

The fourth girl he's looking for evades him for a solid three-quarters of an hour. When he finally finds her, she's on her knees in an alley between an adult movie theatre and a delicatessan about a block off of the main drag.

He decides it would be impolite to interrupt, and leans against the wall outside the alley and smokes while he waits for her to finish up with her "appointment." He's got two more girls and one more boy to visit tonight pursuant to actual Vice cases. He expects all of them to pretty much blow him off (though not in the sense in which this one is currently blowing someone off). Clearing seven cases will look good as far as productivity goes, and will free up time in the upcoming week to look into the things he actually wants to look into, but...

Well, there's no sense in dwelling on it. Everyone makes choices. It isn't his job to make theirs for them.

The girl and her john emerge from the alley together just as Bill is thinking about lighting another fag. They're talking in low, fast voices, heads close together. The back of Bill's neck prickles uncomfortably at the sight of them. He can see the girl's face -- the furrow between her brows, the tight, angry set to her mouth -- but the bloke's got his back to Bill, unreadable except for his posture, which doesn't strike Bill as particularly hostile. Of course, it's hard to say from behind. Bill stays put, just watching, trying to put his finger on what, exactly, has got his hackles up.

Body language, he thinks, which makes sense, because these two are talking like they know each other, bodies comfortable in each other's space -- the hooker has her hand around the bloke's forearm -- and that doesn't resonate quite right for the sort of one-shot, furtive, anonymous-back-alley-blowjob thing.

"...wasn't what we agreed on, Rings, you fuck," she hisses, and her eyes flick in Bill's direction and widen slightly.

Bill hears the name and the gun comes out, no thought involved, while Rings is still turning to see what the girl is looking at. The girl's wide eyes get even wider, and she -- wisely -- steps away from Rings, her hands raising up into plain sight. For a moment, she looks like she might run, but it appears that staring down the barrel of Bill's 9 mm dissuades her from it.

Bill ignores her; he's no longer interested in her, but in him.

Rings had never carried, but Bill watches his hands anyway, because you just never fucking know. "Hands," Bill snarls, and Rings raises them both obligingly, his eyes narrowed into slits and fixed on Bill. He doesn't look afraid, precisely, but his eyes glitter with understanding.

The hooker's name is Caroline Mattingly. She, as opposed to Rings, looks like she's ready to piss herself. "Dude, it was just a fucking blowjob," she stammers.

Bill doesn't bother to look at her. "Bugger off, love," he says softly. Rings shifts slightly, and light reflects from his myriad piercings, but his hands stay up and empty.

"What?" she whispers, voice a breathy quaver. "He... he hasn't paid me."

Bill resists the urge to roll his eyes. At least he now knows why she's a fucking hooker; girl is felony stupid.

"Piss. Off. Now," he says, slowly and clearly.

For a moment, she just stands there, indecisive, though from Bill's perspective, there doesn't seem to be much to be bloody confused about. Stupid bint; when he finds her again -- which he will have to do tomorrow, he still has business with the brainless twit -- he's going to give her the talking to of her sodding life. Dumb hookers have a much higher mortality rate than smart ones, and the way it looks from where Bill's standing, she's due for the slab any day now.

"Don't make me say it again, you daft twat," he barks, and that finally does it. She turns tail and hauls arse, her heels click-clacking ridiculously on the pavement.

Rings looks at him for a few seconds, silent and grim, and Bill just looks back.

"How ya doin', MacKinnon," Rings says finally. "Long time no see."

"Into the alley," Bill says, and gestures with the muzzle of his gun for emphasis. Rings never had been terribly bright (smarter than the hooker, aye, but it's not like that's fucking hard), and his face and body immediately broadcast his intentions.

"Play nice," Bill hisses, and cocks the Sig deliberately, purely for the sound (it doesn't need to be cocked in order to fire), which is very loud in the silence hanging between them. "I get very fucking cranky when I have to chase people, Rings."

The moment hangs there, stretches, Rings poised on the balls of his feet, ready to flee, and Bill just waits for Rings to come to the conclusion that Bill has already reached. There isn't a snowball's chance in Hell that Rings can outrun Bill, and if Bill has to chase him, he's bloody well going to send the bugger home a few teeth shy of a full fucking grin. "Yeah," Rings says finally, and his shoulders relax as he settles himself. "I'll bet you do."

"Alley," Bill repeats, and this time Rings turns (hands going out on either side of his body to remain clearly visible from behind, he knows the drill) and takes the ten steps necessary to get them off of the sidewalk and into the protection of the space between buildings.

"That'll do," Bill says, and walks around Rings so that they're facing each other instead of having him turn. No telling what Rings has down the front on his pants, and Bill doesn't want to take the chance of having either of his hands out of sight for even an instant. He has no urge to be shot again any time in the near future.

"Going to arrest me?" Rings asks, and sound genuinely curious about it, and not terribly worried about the prospect.

It doesn't especially surprise Bill. Rings is out recreationally, that much is clear, and if he's carrying anything on him at all, it's probably not much. Personal use wont get you a felony charge, not with the stuff Rings deals, and Rings would be quite aware of that.

"Not today," Bill says. "I just want a little information."

Rings nods and makes an inexplicable gesture with both hands that reminds Bill oddly of Johnny. "Mind if I smoke," he asks, which only strengthens the association. He gives Bill a half-smirk. "I don't carry, MacKinnon, you know that."

"I know you didn't, which is an entirely different animal." Still, Bill fishes for a fag out of his own pack one-handed, lights it, and holds it out to Rings. He doesn't lower the gun.

Rings takes it, eyeing the gun a little warily, but apparently not worried enough to decline the offer.

"How do you know the bird," Bill asks, though he doesn't really give a rats arse. It's merely a starting point.

"We exchange services, on occasion," Rings says wryly, and takes a drag off the cigarette. "It's casual. This your beat now that you're not playing dealer anymore?"

Bill ignores the question. Truthfully, he only has two questions for Rings, but they're both fairly vital ones. It's best to ask other things, more open ended things, and hope Rings fills in the blanks himself. The less Rings actually knows about what Bill wants to know, the better. "You know her pimp?"

"Yeah, I've met him. Sort of a slimeball. Reminds me of Burelle, a bit." Rings smirks and drags on the fag again, and Bill resists the urge to smirk back at the idiot's transparent attempt to get under Bill's skin.

"Doesn't surprise me. He beats her up." Bill watches Rings' lip curl slightly at the information, and that doesn't surprise him either. Rings is a bit of an odd bloke, for a dealer. Never had cared much for violence.

Rings sucks on the cigarette contemplatively for a moment, then flicks it away. He gives Bill a long, serious look. "I've never had a problem with you, MacKinnon, and that's the truth. I still don't. You're doing your thing, I'm doing my thing, and I'd just as soon not get in one another's way. You aren't really interested in me; you've got bigger fish to fry. So tell me what you want to know, I'll tell you what I can, and I'll never tell a soul that we had this little chat. We can go our separate ways, return to our regularly scheduled programming, and maybe get lucky, and never see each other again."

Bill considers it. It would be pure folly to trust Rings, obviously. But maybe that doesn't matter. Or maybe it matters, but it's not as important as finding out what Bill wants to know. Maybe it doesn't matter one way or the other who Rings talks to about their "chat", because sooner or later, Dominguez is going to find out where Bill is and what he's doing, if he doesn't know already.

"Dominguez is cleaning house," Bill says. It's not really a question. It's the logical conclusion, considering recent events. Rings nods anyhow. "Am I on the list?" Rings nods again, and Bill isn't surprised, no, because he'd expected no less. Carver, especially, had been one of Domingez's favorites. But a knot of dread tightens uncomfortably in his belly, nonetheless. "What about the Bloom kid?"

Rings actually looks a bit surprised at the question. "Why do you care?"

"He's our only friendly witness," Bill points out, which is true, but isn't the only reason.

"Ah," Rings says. "Makes sense." He frowns for a moment, thinking. "I haven't heard that he is, but that doesn't mean he isn't. You know that. The big man is highly pissed at you." Rings catches Bill's gaze deliberately, as though trying to convey the seriousness of the situation. "It's a big hit, Bill. There will be a lot of people trying to collect on it. The kid... probably not as big as yours, but, like you said. He's the only witness friendly to the police. It would surprise me if there wasn't a hit on him."

"Anyone in particular I should be wary of?" Bill asks, but he already knows the answer, and it just makes him fucking tired.

"Everyone," Rings says simply.

Wondered when I'd be getting this.

2003-09-27T21:41:13Z

To: Detective William Boyd
From: Lieutenant Nathan Tyndall
Subject: Notice of Psychological Fitness for Duty Evaluation

This memorandum will serve as a written order directing you to submit to a psychological Fitness for Duty Evaluation.

This exam is requested by investigating officers in case 2003-07-259645B, for the following documented reasons.

1) Officer involved shooting is defined in the policy and procedures of the City of Los Angeles as a traumatic incident; any and all personnel present or participating in a traumatic incident will be required to undergo psychological evaluation pursuant to policy 99-5646332-8 within 90 days of said incident.

2) Inappropriate verbal conduct, as witnessed by Lt. N. Tyndall, Sgt. D. Albrecht, Sgt. S. Rutledge, and Ofc. P. Davies on the occasion of 08182003 during a standard inteview reference case 2003-07-259645B.

3) Suspcion of Investigating Officers (ref case 2003-07-259645B) that exposure to trauma has compromised your ability to defuse tense situations and/or increased your tendencey to escalate such situations or create confrontations.

The evaluation will be scheduled for your next duty day, and will be held in the office of Dr. Brandon Marsh, Interview room C, at police headquarters.

You are directed to cooperate with the psychologist's requests and completely and honestly answer any questions posed by the evaluator. The evalusation is being conducted for use by the Deptartment, however, the evaluation is confidential between the employee and the evaluator to the extent required by the Confidentiality of Medical Information Act (Civil Code Section 56 et.seq.), which allows the evaluator to release limited information to the Department. You may authorize the evaluator to release additional information to the Department.

Refusual to comply with this order or any of its parts, or with the reasonable requests of the evaluator, shall be deemed insubordination, and shall be grounds for disciplinary action, up to and including termination. Statements made to the evaluatior shall be considered compelled, and may not be used in a criminal or civil proceeding against the employee.

Lieutenant Nathan Tyndall

Listen to your Mum.

2003-09-27T14:17:39Z

My mum used to get onto me for eavesdropping. Which is just fucking funny, considering my current occupation, no? I mean what do I do, basically: I apply my childhood penchant for being a sneaky, spying wanker to new and compex situations.

The problem, as my mum explained it to me at age 6 (and then again, several times a year until she died) is that once you gain information through subterfuge (although I believe the phrase she used was 'by being a sneaking little git') is that you can't ever un-know it. Yet you have to continue on with things as though you don't know it, because you can't let anyone know how you found out.

Complicated.

The moral of this story is: do not rent (or otherwise contrive to obtain) pornographic material involving a girl whom you will continue to encounter on a daily basis, especially if you already have trouble forming coherent thought or speech in said girl's presence as it is.

Note to self: She is FIFTEEN years younger than you, you ridiculous tosser. Nearly young enough to be your fucking daughter.

Hrm

2003-09-26T17:16:58Z

Well, now. This is interesting.

Case: 03-0720996754H
Division: Homicide
Disposition: Open
See Also: 03-0728040486H
Date of Offense: 072003
Date of Report: 072103
Location: 4414 Aberdeen Dr.
Type: Residence
Classification: Homicide
Victim: Rena Rembrant aka Angela Lassiter
Victim Information: See Supplement
Responding Officer: D. Paulson
Investigating Officer: J. Fletcher
Forensic Investigator: D. Lensig, M.D.
Suspect: None
Suspect Information: None
Narrative: Original Reporting Officer
Supplemental: Homicide Detective
Crime Scene Analysis: G. Sparrow

**

The narratives (both original and supplemental) are missing from this report. So I cross-referenced the noted case number (03-0728040486H), on a bloke named Barry Lewis (one of the 8 case reports given to me by Paulson). Both narratives missing.

The interesting thing, here, is that I have the narratives for these reports. They were in the file Paulson gave me. I checked the dates on those printouts, and they were printed out weeks after the original reports were filed. Sometime since then, all pertinent documentation on both reports have been excised from the system, leaving nothing but the headers of each. Interesting thing about that: it would be noticed if they were totally missing, but leaving the headers in the computer leaves the files themselves still present, offering the illusion that nothing is amiss.

Whomever did this is familiar enough with LAPD's computer records filing system to know that.

Question: Why wait weeks after the reports were filed to do this bit of clean up?

Checking into it further, all eight of the printed out files Paulson gave me have been partially excised, headers present, narratives gone. I tried to narrow down access dates to see when it could have been done, but without full system access and administrator information, I can't pin it down.
Question: Do I have a computer savvy professional killer on my hands here?

Surely whoever actually performed the computer sleight of hand is aware that there are multiple printed copies of the report running around out there. The question is, will he be able to tell who accessed them, who printed them? Will he care?

This bloke is methodical, careful. It doesn’t make sense for him to have waited so long to delete those records, if he planned on doing so to begin with. If he were going to do it, why didn't he do it immediately? Something like that would have compromised the investigation to an almost lethal degree. So why wait? I can't imagine the same bloke who committed the four clean kills to be the same bloke who didn't think to excise incriminating reports (if he had the understanding of how to do so) until weeks after they'd been filed and distributed. I can't manage to access who printed or downloaded these reports, and when, but I'm not foolish enough to think this means it cannot be done.

Question: If someone is tidying up this mess, how clean is clean enough?

Possibilities:

1) all related documentation tracked down and purged from LAPD's mainframe.

I think there is a fairly good chance of this happening. Why bother starting if you aren't going to finish it? Which means, of course, that there are other missing reports, maybe. Deaths Paulson didn't recognize were somehow related in some way. And there is no easy way to find them, because on the surface, with headers still on file, each report appears to be present.

The good news is: if I can find a way to isolate those, find only reports that have been excised in this particular fashion, I can have a fairly complete list of every link in this chain in extremely short order.

The bad news is: I have to find a way to do that. Aside from actually pulling up and opening every homicide case on file.

2) tracking down anyone who has paper or computer copies of these files, and eliminating them.

I don't know about this one. I don't like it, because if a) the person doing the tracking down and the professional are the same person, and b) if said person is better at hacking than I am, and can isolate who has accessed those files without full access to the mainframe (or if that person somehow has full access to the mainframe), then we could have a serious fucking problem, Houston. Because this bastard has already clearly demonstrated that killing someone isn't really something he has a problem with. Which leaves a lot of open-ended questions. In a general overview of the crimes that I feel were committed by the Pro, there were certain discrepancies that could be attributed to a variety of factors. There was no rape involved, no evidence indicating personal involvement, no intimate signs of assault, no signs of anger having anything to do with the crimes themselves. This could be because this bugger is pro enough to understand that leaving such things is bad for business, or it could show signs of some kind of empathetic cognition. The former is more likely than the latter, but without more data, I can't rule either out.

If it's the former, I think this guy is likely to have no problem killing in order to remove evidence from circulation. If it's the latter, it's possible that he'll make every attempt to remove the evidence without resorting to murder.

And I have no way of knowing which is true.

Which leaves a lot of people in danger of becoming far more intimately involved in this business then they ever anticipated. Paulson, most particularly, as he so far seems to be the only person that has put these pieces together. Which makes him a prime target. Me, maybe. It depends on how well Paulson covered his tracks when he sent me computer files. Where he sent them from, how he attached them. Too many unknowns there to know for sure. Records clerks who routinely print these files out, because computer outages happen, and LAPD will have a hard copy on file. In evidence? I've never fucking bothered to check into it. In records maybe? The officers that wrote the reports themselves. When I was in homicide, I kept copies of all my own case files and reports, just in case. I doubt I'm the only one. The investigators currently assigned to the cases. The crime scene investigators, who would have access to those reports, and reason to need hard copy or computer copy on hand.

Too many people.

3) the actual physical evidence removed from LAPD's impound.

I can't think of any reason to bother with the reports and leave the physical evidence just sitting there.

Which puts another whole list of people in danger.

I think Paulson is in some serious fucking trouble here.

Sept

2003-09-26T00:43:53Z

Astin, Sean
Caucasian Male
5'7" 170ish
DOB: 02251971
Fair Hair / Light eyes (hazel?) -- DL shows brown, but they looked greenish to me

Born: Santa Monica, CA
Marital status: single, no divorce records
Employed: DBY Productions

No outstanding warrants
DL: clear and valid, class A CDL
CCH: none
Fingerprints on file: yes (conscientious fucker, isn't he?)
SS: contributes
IRS: nothing outstanding
No traffic tickets, no complaints, credit history is practically fucking perfect -- this bloke is from outer fucking space

attached: see IRS records
see SSA records
see UCLA transcripts

**

Off the top of my head, I'd peg him classic anxiety disorder. I want him to disinterest me completely, but that just ain't so, is it? The guy is a walking fucking neurosis. He's got the lowest activation threshold I have ever personally witnessed.

Literally everything stresses this bloke out. Combine this with the fact that my gut tells me his chances of psychoticism are slim and none, I have to say there is little to no chance of this bloke being a suspect. Give this bloke a gun, and his hands would sweat so much he'd drop it. Point a gun at him, and I'm betting he'd fight or flight on the spot (hell, he activates if I so much as speak to him, though he doesn't activate so easily for anyone else, so far as I've noticed -- he has the highest activation threshold with Depp, but then again, Depp raises everyone's activation threshold by his mere presence), though I don't think he'd actually be together enough to either run or attack. I think he'd faint (which I know isn't a very common flight response to high-stress activation, but that's just my best guess) or just freeze solid right there. I occasionally have trouble restraining my curiosity.

I haven't fully categorized his individual response specificity (I haven't seen him enough to do so), but I've witnessed the sweats and the repeating speech difficulties (stuttering in his case, and broken vocalization of other sorts), and muscular tension. I can't judge blood pressure or heart rate, but I'd bet on it. Orlando says he gets headaches, too. Migraines. I'm betting some Prozac would clear those buggers right up.

Poor excitable bastard.

He exhibits elements of OCD, though I hesitate to characterize this due to lack of any solid evidentiary support. -- note -- check type O - OCD re: Depp

I'm guessing much of his current behavior can be traced back to a combination of childhood instability and possibly hereditary factors. There's no real way to check this, of course, as I'm betting he'd sooner set me on fire than tell me about his childhood. Just as well, I don't really give a damn.

Most interesting is his relationship with Johnny, the way that Johnny affects his normally volatile nerves. Johnny's like a natural balm for Astin, like Johnny puts out some sort of low-grade "calm down, man" signals that Astin gets, processes, and unfailingly attempts to implement. I've seen it enough times to be sure of it, and honestly it's one of the most fascinating things I've ever seen. It's impossible to pinpoint the actual categorization for the relationship, as it ranges all over the spectrum, father, brother, lover (although I doubt very much if this is an actuality), friend, boss, caregiver (type O - OCD rearing it's head here?) and peer. Very complex, and very ritualized.

Codependency is no small part of it, although from my (limited) perspective, I'd say the results of this particular association are nearly all positive. The two of them really do almost require one another to be functional (makes me wonder what either of them did before the other was around, how fucking dysfunctional their lives must have been) in a full capacity. Johnny keeps Astin from flying to pieces on a regular basis, Astin keeps Johnny more focused on reality (as focused as Johnny is capable of being, at any rate), to the extent where he (with Astin's help) can successfully run a business of DBY's size (not monumental, but a fairly decent size). Johnny gives Astin something to focus on and strive toward, Astin gives Johnny unquestioning loyalty coupled with scrupulous honesty (and the bloke needs it, considering his unshakable optimism about the basic goodness of humanity). They complete each other to such a degree that I find it nearly impossible imagining one of them operating successfully without the other.

Conversely, Astin (who is not the sort of bloke to openly display his negative feelings) seems to treat Orlando with some slight contempt (though of such a mild nature it might not even be noticeable in someone less emotionally inept than Astin). He seems to regard Orlando as a mildly disruptive nuisance to his routine, brainless and pointless, and tends to ignore him for the most part. The exception to this being when Orlando and Johnny are interacting in Astin's presence, at which time Astin activates, indicating that this interaction is somehow a stressor for him. Jealousy? I don't have enough information to say, but I'd speculate that it is, that Astin feels threatened by Johnny's (very obvious) feelings for Orlando.

Infantile abandonment fears, fears of no longer being needed (although really, the idea that Orlando could replace Astin as Johnny's "go to guy" is frankly ridiculous -- which of course doesn't change the fact that Astin probably fears such a replacement, seeing as Johnny is such a central figure in Astin's "life"), and simple resentment are all probably factors in this behavior.

Keira he treats with some modicum of friendship (possibly as much as he's really capable of giving, which speaks well for Keira), in as much as he doesn't ignore her, speaks to her in complete sentences, and seems to activate only when Johnny is paying an inordinate amount of attention to her. He seems almost neutral toward Keira, though honestly, I've only seen the two of them interact a very few times.

He seems to place inanimate objects very high in his personal regard, possibly replacing friendships and relationships with more trustworthy things. I can't really tell if he actually humanizes his cameras, but I think it's a fair bet. Haven't seen him with them enough to be sure, and ideally I'd have to see him with them alone (or assuming he's alone, obviously) to be really sure.

He's oddly low on empathy (for the most part) for a bloke who is so internally complex. Those with deeply low self-esteem generally display a higher level of empathy than I've noted in Astin, but this may be a situation in which the presence of the observer (me) affects the behavior of the subject. He doesn't like me, and anytime I'm around he tends to shut down.

Of course, that makes every one of these observations prone to error.

But I'll make do.

billboyd @ 2003-09-25T19:40:00

2003-09-26T00:30:48Z

Depp, Johnny
Caucasian Male
5'8"
Dark Hair / Brown eyes 185lb
DL: clean
CCH: Only juvie files, looks like
Fingerprints on file: yes
SS: contributes
IRS: nothing outstanding
DBY seems to be cleanly in the black, good record with BBB, on track with IRS and EEOC, no complaints. Note: bank records, tax documentation, check resd. status of employees.

**

Interesting bloke. I'm curious as to his juvenile record, but not curious enough to actually attempt a hack that database. Too much effort for too little gain; and I'm betting it's petty shite anyhow.

So, overall I'd say he is living in his own little world, Johnny-Wood, and that's not necessarily a bad place to be. He's happy, laid back (pharmaceutically aided?), kind, intelligent (in a funny sort of passive-aggressive way), and just a good guy. Everybody likes him.

Weirdly patriarchal in some instances, like a benign pseudo-god in his own little realm. Interesting relationships with his employees, all of which I'm betting he'd consider his friends (if not his children, in some cases), including me, in spite of the brevity of our acquaintance. Madly in love with Bloom.

I know, it's at odds with the intelligent bit, but there you are. Love is not blind (and that's a good thing, in Bloom's case), but is, in fact, abysmally stupid.

Trusts everyone. So much so that I'd term in a neurosis verging on delusional (note: aspect of psychosis, check PJM for classification?). Uncalculated and utterly optimistic, without a mean bone in his body. Not a suspect. Give Depp a gun, and I'm guessing he'd handle it like he'd handle a poisonous snake, and he'd look at you with this "why in the world are you giving me this?" look on his face the whole time. Not like he doesn’t actually know what it's for, but more like he can't actually comprehend why he might need one. Must be nice to live in his world. On the other hand, I bet this guy gets the shaft more often than he deserves. Too many fuckwits in the world are just looking for guys like Depp to take advantage of (myself included). Johnny may as well have the word "mark" tattooed on his forehead, poor bastard.

Has, as far as I can tell, no activation threshold. I've never seen him angry, and I've seen enough of him to have a hard time even imagining him angry.

Bloke is singular, I'll give him that. Not a suspect. Not even remotely. This is the kind of guy that nurses baby birds with broken wings back to health.

Like Astin. Broken things. Like Bloom. They're drawn to him, because he takes care of them. He's the quintessential caregiver, though I highly doubt it ever occurs to him to think of himself that way. Even Keira, who is probably the least "broken" of all of Johnny's close circle of intimates, looks to him as a sort of stand-in father figure. It's a bit more complicated than that, yeah, because Johnny is both utterly simple and deeply complex at the same time. I think he's one of those guys that recognizes what people need from him, and is able to give it without ever even pausing to consider the consequences of giving it. He gives Keira someone to look to, someone to admire that she can also interact with as a friend, and that's a really amazing thing for a girl her age. Yeah, I mean, heroes are all well and good, but you can't really interact with them, right. Or you can, but it destroys something. It burns away that "hero" status, makes them too human. Johnny is like a hero that, once you burn away that status, you can still love like a hero. Because the human bits of him are just as admirable as the hero crap.

I'm fucking rambling here, but the bloke is just weird.

I think he's sleeping with nearly everyone in his employ. Considering the job, I guess that's not really all that unusual (just a guess, not really enough of a database to speculate on that, not that that stops me, obviously). He's not sleeping with me and I'm willing to bet Astin (I wonder if Astin is capable of that level of intimacy, even with Johnny), but I think nearly everyone else (including the people I haven't actually met yet) either are currently occasionally occupying or have at some point occupied Johnny's bed. It's nothing for him. And by that, I don't mean that it means nothing, because I think it means a lot to him. I mean, merely, that he thinks nothing of giving that part of himself to people, if they want that. He doesn't keep anything in reserve. Everything that he has to offer (which is a lot, frankly), he offers to those he cares about.

I'd bet my fucking Sig I could knock on his door right now and tell him I wanted to shag, and he'd grin at me, hold the door open, and ask me if I want a beer, man?

Is that a kind of neurosis? Hard to say. Technically, I'm sure I could categorize it if I really wanted to, but the fact is, it works for him. If I'd read it in a textbook, I'd be all over the author to site sources, which I can't give because all of this is very subtextual with him. It's all in his manner and in his eyes and in his voice when he talks to you, it's never something concrete, and yet it's absolutely understood.

Categorically, he fits nowhere and everywhere. He doesn't have any of the easily identifiable signature neuroses that are prevalent in this culture (OCD, depression, anxiety, etc). In fact, if you look at him in terms of the PEN Model, he's your classic, balls to the wall Extravert, balanced on that perfect cusp of arousal at all times. He displays no common neurosis and no common psychosis (although, to be absolutely fair, I have to note here that his sincere and complete optimism in dealing with people is

[Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<i?almost') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.]

<lj-cut text="encrypted file: Depp,Johnny">Depp, Johnny
Caucasian Male
5'8"
Dark Hair / Brown eyes 185lb
DL: clean
CCH: Only juvie files, looks like
Fingerprints on file: yes
SS: contributes
IRS: nothing outstanding
DBY seems to be cleanly in the black, good record with BBB, on track with IRS and EEOC, no complaints. Note: bank records, tax documentation, check resd. status of employees.

**

Interesting bloke. I'm curious as to his juvenile record, but not curious enough to actually attempt a hack that database. Too much effort for too little gain; and I'm betting it's petty shite anyhow.

So, overall I'd say he is living in his own little world, Johnny-Wood, and that's not necessarily a bad place to be. He's happy, laid back (pharmaceutically aided?), kind, intelligent (in a funny sort of passive-aggressive way), and just a good guy. Everybody likes him.

Weirdly patriarchal in some instances, like a benign pseudo-god in his own little realm. Interesting relationships with his employees, all of which I'm betting he'd consider his friends (if not his children, in some cases), including me, in spite of the brevity of our acquaintance. Madly in love with Bloom.

I know, it's at odds with the intelligent bit, but there you are. Love is not blind (and that's a good thing, in Bloom's case), but is, in fact, abysmally stupid.

Trusts everyone. So much so that I'd term in a neurosis verging on delusional (note: aspect of psychosis, check PJM for classification?). Uncalculated and utterly optimistic, without a mean bone in his body. Not a suspect. Give Depp a gun, and I'm guessing he'd handle it like he'd handle a poisonous snake, and he'd look at you with this "why in the world are you giving me this?" look on his face the whole time. Not like he doesn’t actually know what it's for, but more like he can't actually comprehend why he might need one. Must be nice to live in his world. On the other hand, I bet this guy gets the shaft more often than he deserves. Too many fuckwits in the world are just looking for guys like Depp to take advantage of (myself included). Johnny may as well have the word "mark" tattooed on his forehead, poor bastard.

Has, as far as I can tell, no activation threshold. I've never seen him angry, and I've seen enough of him to have a hard time even imagining him angry.

Bloke is singular, I'll give him that. Not a suspect. Not even remotely. This is the kind of guy that nurses baby birds with broken wings back to health.

Like Astin. Broken things. Like Bloom. They're drawn to him, because he takes care of them. He's the quintessential caregiver, though I highly doubt it ever occurs to him to think of himself that way. Even Keira, who is probably the least "broken" of all of Johnny's close circle of intimates, looks to him as a sort of stand-in father figure. It's a bit more complicated than that, yeah, because Johnny is both utterly simple and deeply complex at the same time. I think he's one of those guys that recognizes what people need from him, and is able to give it without ever even pausing to consider the consequences of giving it. He gives Keira someone to look to, someone to admire that she can also interact with as a friend, and that's a really amazing thing for a girl her age. Yeah, I mean, heroes are all well and good, but you can't really interact with them, right. Or you can, but it destroys something. It burns away that "hero" status, makes them too human. Johnny is like a hero that, once you burn away that status, you can still love like a hero. Because the human bits of him are just as admirable as the hero crap.

I'm fucking rambling here, but the bloke is just weird.

I think he's sleeping with nearly everyone in his employ. Considering the job, I guess that's not really all that unusual (just a guess, not really enough of a database to speculate on that, not that that stops me, obviously). He's not sleeping with me and I'm willing to bet Astin (I wonder if Astin is capable of that level of intimacy, even with Johnny), but I think nearly everyone else (including the people I haven't actually met yet) either are currently occasionally occupying or have at some point occupied Johnny's bed. It's nothing for him. And by that, I don't mean that it means nothing, because I think it means a lot to him. I mean, merely, that he thinks nothing of giving that part of himself to people, if they want that. He doesn't keep anything in reserve. Everything that he has to offer (which is a lot, frankly), he offers to those he cares about.

I'd bet my fucking Sig I could knock on his door right now and tell him I wanted to shag, and he'd grin at me, hold the door open, and ask me if I want a beer, man?

Is that a kind of neurosis? Hard to say. Technically, I'm sure I could categorize it if I really wanted to, but the fact is, it works for him. If I'd read it in a textbook, I'd be all over the author to site sources, which I can't give because all of this is very subtextual with him. It's all in his manner and in his eyes and in his voice when he talks to you, it's never something concrete, and yet it's absolutely understood.

Categorically, he fits nowhere and everywhere. He doesn't have any of the easily identifiable signature neuroses that are prevalent in this culture (OCD, depression, anxiety, etc). In fact, if you look at him in terms of the PEN Model, he's your classic, balls to the wall Extravert, balanced on that perfect cusp of arousal at all times. He displays no common neurosis and no common psychosis (although, to be absolutely fair, I have to note here that his sincere and complete optimism in dealing with people is <I?almost classifiable as delusory -- in the interest of fairness, however, it must be also noted that my observations of his social interactions and even his business interactions have been extremely limited up to this point, ie: I have absolutely no observations of Johnny dealing with those not in his actual employ, and thus cannot truly make judgments on how he deals with people outside of this oddly familial patriarchy he's got going on in this joint).

If you subscribe to the Interpersonal Circumplex school of thought, Johnny is a master of manipulation (in order to actually be so, one has to be totally unaware one is doing any manipulating whatsoever). He invites reciprocity in everything he does, and creates the first actual reinforcing system working on the friendly/social/trusting side of the circle that I have ever personally witnessed.

Aug 12 9:30 pm

2003-08-24T17:03:11Z

There's a database for porn stars. You can enter a name, and it'll spit out every film they've been in.

I'm not sure why this should surprise me.

I am not going to.

I'm not.

Aug 12 6:18pm

2003-08-23T14:45:12Z

Louise???

Aug 12, 5:34 a.m.

2003-08-23T00:54:05Z

The mobile wakes Bill from a warm, garden-scented dream, the first good dream he's had in weeks.

"Bugger," he growls, fumbling for it on the bedside table. Things go skittering off the edge (badge, empty beer bottle, lighter, a stack of videos) and onto the floor as he gropes and curses creatively under his breath. "Oi," he says into the receirver, once he finally locates it and gets the fucking thing up to his ear. "You'd better have a bloody good reason for ringing me."

"Bill, it's Susan," she says, her tone both amused and impatient. He'd have known it was her from the tone alone. She always sounds like that when she talks to him.

"It's fucking early, what do you want?" he growls, but he's already sitting up, awake, and leaning over the edge of the bed to send searching fingertips across the floor for his lighter.

"It's nice to hear your voice, too, Bill. Nothing like the sound of asshole in the morning."

"Bugger off, Sue," he bites back, but he's smiling. His fingers locate his lighter, and he retrieves it with a negligent flip. "What's happened."

Because something has, of course. It's half past five in the morning, and they aren't shagging, so it's clear that something has happened.

"Just a heads up, Billy Boy. I heard through the grapevine that Tyndall has put in a request that you be referred to the department's psychiatrist." She says nothing for a few moments. "That mouth of yours will get you in trouble yet."

"Why Susan, I didn'tknow you cared," Bill says wryly, and digs a fag out of the pack. He pauses before lighting it. "He's got his panties in a twist then. Was it something I said?"

He can almost see her rolling her eyes. "When isn't it?"

"Don't fret, love. It won't be the first time I've been referred." And it isn't. It doesn't particularly surprise him, either. He'd probably have been directed to see the department's shrink with or without Tyndall's recommendation. It's pretty standard for anyone who has either shot someone or been shot to be forced into attending a few sessions.

"I'm not fretting," she says, but she is. He smiles, but doesn't call her on it. "I just wanted to give you a heads up."

"I appreciate that, Sue," he says, quite sincerely. He lights his fag, squints one eye against the stinging smoke. Tries to remember what he'd been dreaming about, exactly.

"You all right, Bill? Really?"

It's not a question she asks easily, he knows that, so he gives it the consideration it deserves before answering.

"I will be. I'm fumbling a bit, at the moment, and I wouldn't say everything is bloody rainbows and kittens, but yeah. I'm making out." He inhales deeply on the fag, closes his eyes. "What about you? Are you getting grief out of this mess?"

"No. Not the kind you mean, anyway." She sounds tired. "They've suspended the case against Dominguez. Completely."

Bill closes his eyes. He's angry, he's fucking furious, but he isn't surprised. Fucking IA and their fucking interference in things they don't understand. Fucking Tyndall, and his fucking investigation. "They aren't investigating you?"

"No," she says quickly. "Only you, Bill." She is quiet again. Probably sitting behind her desk and rubbing at her forehead while her coffee gets cold at her elbow. "You be careful, Boyd. Be careful with the shrink. Be careful with Tyndall."

"Susan, I'm always careful." Which is true, though he knows she doesn't really believe that.

"Just... watch your mouth. You're a good cop, Bill, but you've got the crappiest personality of anyone I've ever met."

He grins and takes another drag off his fag. "Don't worry it, Sue. And don't worry about the shrink. I've got a degree in psychology, you know."

"I know it says so on your records," she says dryly. "I've never seen any evidence of your understanding of human nature live and in person."

Yes you have, he thinks, but doesn't say. "Thanks for the heads up, Susan. I do appreciate it."

"Yeah, yeah. Just practice acting like someone other people actually like."

He can hear her smiling.

"I'll get right on that, Captain," he sneers gently, and rings off.