I’m so bored with the USA
but what can I do?
Yankee detectives
are always on the TV
‘cause killers in America
work seven days a week
“I’m So Bored with the USA”-- the Clash
For a police officer, someone whose work often depended on subtlety and detachment, Rosemary Burke had a lousy poker face. As Jimmy glanced at her smug smile, the words ‘cat’ and ‘canary’ floated through his mind.
“So what do you reckon?” Kid’s voice asked near his ear, sarcastically. “You think she got her extension?”
Jimmy turned to face him. “What are you talking about?”
Kid looked surprised. “Mate. Where’ve you been? Everyone’s talking about it.”
Jimmy was taken aback, and it occurred to him that it was a little unpleasant to have someone else--even Kid--fill him in on the goings-on around here. Kid was supposed to be the newcomer here, not him. But the feeling passed.
“I’ve been…distracted, I guess.”
“Rosemary’s petitioned for an extension to her trial. She’s asked to be allowed to continue until the case is resolved. I think she’s supposed to hear something today.” Kid nodded his head in Rosemary’s direction. “I think she did.”
Hot anger was boiling in Jimmy’s veins where blood was supposed to be. Did she really have the audacity to ask for such a thing? Did she really have the nerve? And just as quickly, he answered his own question. She did, and she had.
Who the hell knew how long this case could take? Months? A year? Was Rosemary going to be given the time and the power to run the STF into the ground before someone finally stepped in and said enough was enough?
Already the signs were all around: The faces of the other officers reflected tension and fatigue, irritation. Petty bickering was becoming commonplace. Teaspoon looked worried. Lou seemed stressed. The STF had never had any trouble balancing dedication to their work with a healthy dose of levity to keep it all in perspective, but Jimmy couldn’t really remember the last time he had heard someone laugh, and certainly not in Rosemary’s presence.
Morale was clearly slipping, and it was making Jimmy edgy with frustration. He couldn’t stand what was happening to his team, couldn’t bear to see Rosemary systematically stripping away the strengths and foundation that Teaspoon had spent his entire career building up.
And on top of it all was Paulie. He’d only been here a few weeks, and he appeared to be behaving like an angel--albeit a slightly surly one with a mouth on him--but Jimmy couldn’t shake the feeling that the kid was up to something. Paulie never met his eye anymore, and he avoided Nan completely, and that had always been his method of dodging confrontation. No one knew him better than Nan, no one knew better his flaws and foibles, and more important, his sly and subtle tricks of evasion.
Outwardly, he’d dyed his hair an absolutely appalling shade of deep purple, which was only a slight improvement over the electric orange a couple weeks back. And Jimmy was pretty certain he’d seen a tattoo on Paul’s upper arm, but so far he hadn’t found the courage to mention it to Nan; she had enough to worry about right now.
They knew he had a friend--vague references had been made to someone named Jesse, but Paulie balked when pressed for details, and Jimmy and Nan had decided that if the worst influence the kid had on Paul was purple hair and a bad attitude, they’d count themselves as lucky.
“It doesn’t mean she’s going to get the job,” Kid was saying reassuringly. “You know, it doesn’t mean that she won’t totally muck it up.”
“I don’t know if we can afford to wait that long,” replied Jimmy, seething, and Kid nodded in resignation. They both knew there were already whispered rumblings of a vote of no confidence against Rosemary. So far no one had had the temerity to do it, but the talk was growing stronger all the same.
A thought was growing in Jimmy’s mind, one that he had been entertaining without admitting it even to himself. As he glanced over at Rosemary once more, the insufferably superior carriage of her body, the disdainful look in her eyes, the idea was taking root and becoming impossible to ignore.
The thought stayed with him all morning, and in the afternoon when they broke for lunch, he continued to mull it over as he walked toward the corner deli. It swam around and around his head, and when he tried to push it out of his mind, it forced its way back to the forefront. It wouldn’t be ignored.
There were thunderous, clattering footsteps behind him, but Jimmy only noticed when he realised that someone was calling his name. He turned. Nan was running, perspiration streaking down her hairline, her face red with heat and exertion, an enormous smile on her lovely face.
She and Jimmy made a conscious effort not to spend much time together during the day, so in spite of his internal struggle, it made Jimmy’s heart surge happily to see her now and to know they had an entire hour ahead of them, free from Rosemary’s cold, calculating eyes, eyes that were ready for the slightest slip into impropriety.
Nan finally caught up with him and stopped, leaning forward, hands on her knees as she panted and tried to catch her breath, the sweat clinging to her temples and neck. “Oh, Jimmy!” she exclaimed. She was still beaming. “Oh, Jimmy!” she said again. “I’ve just got the best news! I mean, it’s not the best news, it’s sad on the one hand, but on the other hand, it’s flipping fantastic news.”
Jimmy just grinned. “So it’s good news then?”
Nan shot him a look under narrowed eyebrows. “Don’t take the mickey, Jimmy. I’m serious!”
“I can see that,” he said, “but how about we have this conversation with the benefit of air-conditioning? Think it can keep until then?”
“No!” she cried impatiently, and then laughed. Her excitement couldn’t help bubbling over. It lifted Jimmy’s spirits a little to see her infectious enthusiasm. “Jimmy, I just talked to Guv. This is the sad bit--She’s leaving AMIT. She was given a promotion. She’s got a post at Scotland Yard.”
“That’s amazing,” Jimmy said, and for just a moment he felt the same excitement and pride in Emma. It was a remarkable opportunity, and no less than she deserved. But after a moment, a feeling of trepidation began to creep slowly through his body.
“But you said there was fantastic news too,” he prodded, though even as he spoke, he knew what he was expecting to hear. With Emma gone, there were only two officers left behind who were truly worthy of taking over leadership of AMIT: Iain Langley and Nan. They were both whip-smart, capable, respected by their peers, and hungry for the opportunity. Even as his heart sank, Jimmy braced himself for the news he would have been ecstatic to hear a month ago.
To her credit, Nan had decided against Emma’s suspenseful method of delivering the goods. She said, confidently yet humbly, “I’ve got the job. I’ve got AMIT. They’re finally dividing up the team, and Iain and I have been offered the posts.”
In spite of the heat of the day, Jimmy felt cold. His veins ran ice. “Wow,” he managed softly.
“I’m not supposed to say anything. It’s not official just yet, red tape and appearance’s sake and all that. I can’t say anything to the boys, not for a couple weeks at least. But I had to tell you, of course.”
“Of course.”
“It’s DCI, Jimmy,” Nan said in a voice of awe. “DCI. Do you realise? Do you realise what this means for me?”
“Yeah. I realise.”
By now she had taken his hand and begun to lead him toward the deli again. “I always hoped this would happen one day, but I never dreamed it could be so soon. Do you know, Jimmy, I’ll be the youngest DCI in the Met? Can you believe it? I suppose there’ll be some aggro over the whole thing--you know, Emma Shannon’s pet and all that--but sod it. I don’t care. I want this.”
If she noticed he was subdued, she didn’t comment, and for just a moment Jimmy wanted to shake her. I don’t care. I want this, she’d said. There was so much goodness in her, so much generosity, so much warmth and openness and compassion, but she’d just summed herself up in less than ten words. When it came to what she really wanted, Nan didn’t care about anything else.
You don’t care, he thought. It’s what you want. What about me? What do I want? Do you even know, Nan Kenworthy?
She was chattering away beside him, but he didn’t hear the words. He didn’t feel her hand in his, the slight sweatiness of her hot palm, the length of her strong, slim fingers. He didn’t notice the coolness of the air-conditioning in the deli. He placed an order for pastrami on rye, but he wasn’t entirely aware of it. And through it all, Nan spoke. She smiled. She laughed, confident, sure, unquestioning. Perfectly certain that Jimmy was thrilled for her, proud of her, excited.
Jimmy knew he wasn’t being fair. Nan loved him. She wanted what was best for him. She knew he wanted what was best for her. She thought he was happy for her, that he was just quietly letting her have her moment of glory. Why should she think otherwise? Hadn’t they discussed this very possibility a hundred times? Hadn’t he always known that Nan wanted more than a position as an occasional second-in-command? She’d been upfront with him about her goals, about her insatiable ambition. “If the chance comes along, I’m taking it. I want it.” She’d said it more than once.
He knew this. Why was he being so hard on her? Why was the irritation building up in him the longer she spoke? “Ask me what I want,” he wanted to say. “Ask me what I think about all this.” He wanted to say, “I gave up everything for you. When will you give up something for me?”
But he said nothing. He knew he was being unreasonable--was he being unreasonable?--and so he smiled at her. Because he did love her, more than anything in the world. Because he was happy for her. She deserved this, she’d earned this.
But mostly, he smiled because he had no idea what to say to her. Because he knew it was unfair to expect her to know what was going on in his mind, the turmoil that had begun to churn once more at her news.
She had no way of knowing he wanted to apply for Teaspoon’s position. She had no way of knowing he wanted to stay in New York. And how the hell was he supposed to tell her now?
Island Nation Fashions was clearly beyond salvaging. Flames were still leaping from the building, mile-high, bright red and orange against the dark sky. The hot summer night was positively unbearable with the heat that emanated from the roaring fire. It could be felt all the way down the block.
The neighbourhood was crackling with horror and excitement. A crowd of at least forty people had sprung up around the protective barriers the police had assembled, and there was a cacophony of screams and panicked voices filling the night air, television crews setting up, journalists jockeying for prime spots. Battling with all this noise was, of course, the noise of the fire itself, a furious, violent inferno that roared and raged. Glass was shattering. Police officers and fire fighters were yelling: at the crowds, at each other, at the fire itself.
It was a tangle of confusion, of utter madness by the time the squad car screeched to a halt, and its passengers spilled onto the sidewalk. Jimmy, Nan, Noah, and Buck leapt out of the car, the doors slamming shut, and they barrelled through the crowds, their badges already held out in preparation.
The call had come just as darkness was settling, just as everyone was finally entertaining the possibility of heading home. Everyone was yawning when Ike answered the phone. From the first few seconds of the conversation, it was clear the fire chief was advising them of yet another fire.
“Island Nation Fashions!” Ike had roared a moment later as he slammed the phone down.
Jimmy had jumped to his feet. “Is it France’s?”
“That’s what I’m about to find out,” Ike had answered, already turning to a computer.
Rosemary was not there, so Teaspoon had immediately taken charge. “All right, I want Hickok, Cross, Dixon, Kenworthy--take a squad car, get over there on the double. McSwain? Address?”
Island Nation Fashions was in lower Manhattan, in a rundown district that was slowly becoming trendy again, thanks to flashy boutiques and popular new nightclubs. The fashion house itself was at the end of the block, near several brick apartment buildings. The residents watched in terror, fervently praying the fire was contained and kept away from their homes.
The fire chief, George Abramowitz, by now well-known to even the AMIT officers, was standing inside a ring of his fire fighters. Even above the noise of the crowd and the fire and the blast of the water hoses, everyone could hear Bram’s big, booming voice, its compressed Brooklyn accent.
“All right, we got seventy-five to eighty per cent of the fire contained. We got Hennessy and Church scopin’ out the first floor, we got Davis and Rhodes on the second, Johnson and Kim on the third. The office was already closed and according to the owner, all employees are accounted for, but we all know that don’t mean a damn thing. You boys get your breath back and then get back in to relieve the others. I’m right here if things go bad again.” With a slap on the back of the nearest man, Abramowitz dismissed them and reached into the truck for a clipboard.
“Bram!” Jimmy shouted, deciding now was as good a time as any. If the fire was largely contained and Bram himself was able to take a breather, things might not be as dire.
Abramowitz looked up in annoyance, but when he saw Jimmy he allowed himself a small smile. “Hickok! I’ll be damned! What the hell are you doing here? I heard you moved to England.” At Jimmy’s nod, he grimaced. “Pfft. What the hell did you do that for?”
“Is this a bad time?”
Abramowitz raised an eyebrow and stared at Jimmy. “Nah, Hickok, this here is prime socialising time. In fact, I prefer to do all my catching-up in the middle of a raging inferno, I find it very soothing to the nerves.”
“Bram--”
“Yeah, come on, I got a minute. It’s looking good, and we’ve actually got more guys than we need right now, which is a nice change.”
“What’s it looking like?” asked Jimmy.
“Same,” Abramowitz replied. “Candle wax. Gasoline. Matches. Gunpowder after the fact. It’s a damn miracle these buildings aren’t in worse shape. Somebody knows what they’re doing.”
Jimmy nodded. “We figured that.”
“Don’t think they’re out to hurt anyone, then? Well, small favours, I guess.” He peered at Jimmy with interest. “I hear you guys are thinking it’s Frankie and Elizabeth.”
“Well, that’s what we’re--”
There was a sudden squawk from the walkie-talkie at the fire chief’s shoulder. “Captain, we’re bringing out two people. We found them trapped on the second floor, trying to get out the fire escape.”
Abramowitz let loose a stream of impressively creative expletives. Then, “Alive?” he asked gruffly.
“Hanging in there.”
“We’ll have two stretchers ready,” promised Abramowitz. “I’ll radio ahead to Sinai.”
“Captain?”
“Yeah?”
“Uh,” the voice sounded hesitant, “make it St Maria’s.”
Abramowitz’s face went a deathly white. “The children’s hospital?”
Jimmy closed his eyes. He felt sick.
“Yeah, I’d say they’re both in their early teens, fifteen, sixteen at the most. Two boys.”
More cursing. Abramowitz swallowed hard. “Teenagers,” he said, “that’s--that’s good. Better than it could be. They’re hardy, those teenage boys.”
“Yessir,” the voice replied respectfully.
“All right. I’ll radio St Maria’s.” Abramowitz turned from Jimmy. “Dammit,” he growled. “Dammit.”
Jimmy stood silently, sympathetic. He knew the terrible, sinking feeling of a case involving children, how helpless you felt, how full of dread. He knew how hard you worked, how relentless you became, when the outcome concerned a child.
While Bram radioed ahead to the children’s hospital, Jimmy’s gaze skimmed over the crowd, watching the other officers speak with the people gathered there. He watched the fire fighters handle the water hoses with perfect control and admired the hell out of them.
Two bright yellow figures were emerging from the building, a slim body held in each of their embraces. The faces were impossible to see, but by the slightness of the bodies it was clear they were young. There was a flash of purple, of bright green, a hand falling limply to the side. Jimmy turned away.
Purple.
Jimmy froze. Oh no. Oh God, no.
He stood, facing away from the fire, and couldn’t move. His heart wasn’t beating, was it? It didn’t feel like it was beating. But every nerve ending felt electric, his hair was standing on end, so he must still be alive.
Purple.
No. No. It couldn’t be. No. This was Manhattan, the craziest city in the world. Anything goes. You could walk down any street in the city and run into five purple-haired kids.
No.
Jimmy’s instincts had never been wrong, but they had to be wrong sometime, didn’t they? Instincts weren’t infallible. They weren’t divine intervention. Sometimes they were wrong, they just were.
Purple.
What had Paulie worn that day? What had he said before he’d left the apartment? “I’m going off with a mate,” he’d said. “I won’t be any trouble,” he’d said. “I’ll be back before midnight,” he’d said, standing there before them, in the kitchen, with his mischievous grin.
With his purple hair.
With his bright green shirt.
I can’t move, Jimmy thought, but he could feel his heart again. It was pumping so hard he could feel it slamming against his ribcage. And he wasn’t frozen anymore. He was moving. He was whirling around. He was running.
“Hickok!” Bram yelled as Jimmy tore through the fire fighters. “Dammit Hickok, you’re not supposed to--”
But Bram’s words were lost. Jimmy didn’t hear him. His ears were too full of the fire, of his blood pulsing, of Paulie’s voice. “I won’t be any trouble… I won’t be any trouble… I won’t be any trouble… I won’t be any trouble…”
The fire fighter was carrying the purple-green figure to the ambulance, talking fervently to a red-haired man in a rumpled suit who kept place beside him. Jimmy was next to them in a flash. He recognised the man in the suit as Flynn Malone. Flynn recognised him too. His eyes widened. “Hickok, you know you’re not supposed to be back here.”
“Flynn, I think--I think…” Jimmy couldn’t finish the words. He couldn’t speak, because he had just seen the face under the purple hair, above the bright green shirt.
His stomach plummeted to his shoes.
It was easy to see why the firemen had mistaken Paulie for someone only in his early teens. He looked impossibly young now, his face blackened, a horrible red gash oozing blood onto his pristine, pale English complexion. He looked like a baby. For the first time since Jimmy had known him, he looked innocent.
“He’s my… He’s my…”
Flynn knew that tone. He looked down at Paulie in the fire fighter’s arms. “You know him,” he said. They continued walking toward the ambulance. “Hickok, there’s no time, they’ve got to get him in--”
“I know,” Jimmy said hoarsely. “Flynn, can I--?”
“Yeah, I’ll let the boys know.”
For a moment Jimmy thought he was going to throw up. And then he did throw up, all over the sidewalk, and it was humiliating, but he didn’t care. Standing back up, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“Hickok!” Flynn was yelling. He was at the ambulance doors, ready to close them.
There was no time. No time to find Nan--oh Jesus, Nan--or Noah or anyone. There was no time to think, and so Jimmy didn’t.
He ran to the ambulance and jumped in the back. The paramedics were working hard on Paul. He was already hooked up to tubes and machines. Jimmy settled himself at the back of the vehicle, staying out of the paramedics’ way.
“You know him?” the woman demanded. “What’s his name?”
“P-Paul,” croaked Jimmy.
Then the paramedics began working in earnest. “Paul!” they were both shouting. “Paul! Can you hear us? Paul, we’re going to help you! Can you wake up, Paul? Paul!”
After an interminable wait, Paulie’s head began to move, gently, side to side. Then, as they continued to work on him, his eyes began to flutter open. The whites of his eyes were completely red, obliterating the brilliant blue that was so like Nan’s.
His gaze swept slowly around the ambulance, his eyes hazy and unfocused, his head lolling. Jimmy could see the moment Paulie recognised him. His swollen eyes widened. “Jimmy,” he mouthed.
“I’m here, Paulie.”
“You can get a little closer. But be careful not to touch him, we don’t know how badly he’s burned yet,” urged the paramedic.
“Jimmy,” he breathed again, “it hurts.”
Tears sprang to Jimmy’s eyes. “I know, I know, Paulie, but they’re gonna help you, okay?”
Paulie whispered something, but it took a moment for Jimmy to realise what he’d said. “Am I going to die, Jimmy?”
“No,” was what Jimmy wanted to say, but he found he couldn’t speak. His throat was constricted with fear, paralysing fear he’d felt only once before in his life.
“You’re not going to die,” the female paramedic said in what sounded like a remarkably cheerful voice. “You’re in good shape, Paul. Bad shape, but… good shape.” She smiled at him encouragingly. “We’ll fix you right up.”
Paulie’s voice was a little stronger this time. If you strained to hear over the siren, and the beeping of the machine, you could just make out his words.
“Well, if I don’t die, Nan will kill me,” was what he said, and then he grinned brokenly and closed his eyes once more.
I just don't care
don't care at all
I've banged my head too long
on these brick walls
"Brick Walls" -- David Gray
Nan thought she had known fear before. Nearly two years ago in London, when she'd been taken from her home by Julian Westward and held for days, not knowing if she would live to see her family and Jimmy again. That had been fear. And last Christmas, when Granddad had collapsed on the floor of the church during Christmas Eve services, that had been fear too.
But it all paled in comparison to the terror coursing through Nan's body as she raced through the halls of St Maria's Children's Hospital. At some point she had twisted her ankle, and her bad leg had screamed in protest, but she ran on, her hair whipping her in the face, her ankle throbbing with pain. She searched desperately for room 314-B and when she found it, she burst through the door.
The room was still and quiet. Jimmy sat in the chair next to Paulie's bed, and Paulie lay on the bed swathed in bandages and white sheets, tubes in his nose, IVs in his arms, various machines beeping and clicking along. He looked innocent and helpless. He looked like a purple-haired angel.
At the sight of him, Nan dissolved into tears, huge, gulping tears, and sank to the floor. Jimmy immediately jumped from his chair and crossed the room, taking her into his strong, lovely arms, holding her tightly.
"He's going to be fine. He's going to be fine, Nan. The doctors said so."
Nan's eyes were burning. She could smell the smoke from the fire, whether from her or Jimmy, or from her imagination, she didn't know. She was gasping for air, trying to catch her breath through her tears. She could feel her nose running, could feel her throat closing up. She didn't recognise the ugly, ragged sound of her own voice as she asked, "You're sure?"
"I'm sure. The doctors are sure."
A fresh moan tore from Nan's throat, but she stifled it as best she could when she saw Paulie stir. 'Thank God I'm not pregnant,' she thought. 'I'm not strong enough for this. Maybe I'm not cut out to have kids at all.'
Jimmy let her cry. He was murmuring soothing words in a voice of pure love and understanding. One hand stroked her dishevelled hair, the other held her tightly against him. They stayed that way for a long time, perhaps five minutes, until Nan's sobs began to quiet and her body to calm itself. Finally she pulled gently away and sniffed loudly, wiping her nose and eyes.
"Okay?" asked Jimmy, taking her face between his hands. Her eyes were swollen and her nose and face were red. He kissed her lips tenderly.
Nan grabbed Jimmy's wrist in one hand and held on tight. She nodded, her eyes fixed on Paulie in the hospital bed. "Okay," she agreed.
They rose together and walked to Paulie's bedside, staring down at him in awe and desperation. He was an impossible pain in the arse most of the time, cheeky and insolent, with no regard for rules or order. But he was theirs, and they loved him, and the thought that he was going to be okay was all that held their world together right now.
"Look at him," Nan murmured.
"He looks deceptively sweet, doesn't he?" Jimmy said, glad that it felt okay to smile again.
"I am bloody sweet," came a hoarse croak from the bed.
Paulie was looking up at them, the blue of his eyes eerily bright against the deeply reddened sclera. He managed a faint smile. "Heya, Nan."
Nan didn't trust herself to speak. She just smiled as best she could through her foggy eyes.
"Are you going to kill me, then?"
His cousin swallowed hard. "Not till I get the doctor's okay," she said softly, and bent down, laying a kiss on the one small, unblemished spot on Paul's forehead.
"I'm sorry, Nan."
"I know you are, pet."
Paulie shifted slightly in the bed and winced from the pain. "What's going to happen to me?"
It was Jimmy who managed to answer. "You'll need a couple large skin grafts, and you'll be here under observation for at least the next--"
"No," he interrupted, "what's going to happen to me?"
"We don't have to discuss that now," said Nan.
"I want to know."
Nan found that she couldn't speak. She dropped into the chair next to the bed and looked to Jimmy again, this time for strength.
"No, we're not going to discuss that now. You need rest, Paulie. Right now you don't need to worry about anything except getting better." Jimmy was firm and his unwavering gaze brooked no nonsense. Paul knew Jimmy and he knew he wasn't going to back down.
The boy closed his eyes, his long lashes fanning against his cheeks, his mouth quivering, making him appear more vulnerable than ever. Both Nan and Jimmy watched him, their hearts in their eyes, their bodies heavy with fatigue and stress. They caught each other's eye but said nothing. There was nothing much to say.
At the very least, Paulie and the boy, Jesse, were facing a charge of breaking-and-entering. Paulie's juvenile court records from London were already under review: petty theft, nothing more, but under the circumstances, damning all the same. A minor felony, a fine, possibly probation. And that was the very best-case scenario.
But the very worst… The very worst was unfathomable. The two boys were under suspicion of arson. Footage salvaged from the building security cameras showed Paulie and his friend appearing on-site well before the fire took place, showed them skulking about, fiddling in the accounting office, trolling through the racks of designer clothes, and staying well past the time the fire began, which spoke of either their innocence or their stupidity.
Nan knew Paulie was far from blameless, but his crimes of the past had been childish, small-time stuff: graffiti here, a stolen pack of cigarettes there. None of it excusable, but even the most cynical police officer would be hard-pressed to see the record of a petty thief not yet of legal age, and assume the next step for him was carefully-planned serial arson. It wasn't impossible, but it was highly improbable.
Moreover, the connection to Elizabeth France was being verified. Already the police department and the fire department were aware that the fire at Island Nation Fashions was exactly like those already under investigation. Once that was confirmed, Paulie would no longer be under suspicion: He hadn't even been in the country at the time of the initial fires, and even with his connection to the NYPD, it was patently clear that he could not, and did not, have sufficient information to commit a copycat crime.
But in the meantime, there was going to be a hell of a lot of waiting, and even then it wouldn't mean Paulie was totally off the hook. However you looked at it, he had quite clearly broken the law.
"Your parents are coming," Nan said quietly, changing the subject. "They'll be here tomorrow afternoon."
"I don't want to see them," Paulie said, looking mutinous even with his eyes closed.
"They're your parents, pet, they love you and they're worried. And I've called Granddad and Uncle Jamie, they know you're all right now. They want to be here, but Granddad's doctor won't allow him to make the trip, and Uncle Jamie needs to stay with him."
Until Nan said it, Paulie wasn't aware just how much he'd been hoping, in the back of his mind, that the two old geezers would be coming. Where other kids might long for their mother, Paulie had been comforting himself with the thought that surely Granddad and Jamie would be there soon, with their separate smells of spices and tobacco and old, musty books, blending together with London air in that unifying scent that was like home to both Paulie and Nan. He'd comforted himself with the thought that soon he'd hear their gentle, clucking voices, feel Granddad's soft hand on his forehead, hear Jamie's indulgent chuckle soothing his worries away. Now that he knew they weren't coming, Paulie realised he was going to cry, and it pissed him right off.
"Ow," he complained as the salty tears burned his stinging eyes. He raised one arm and wiped them roughly.
Nan observed him. She knew what was upsetting him, she had seen it register in the collapsing of his haughty face the moment she spoke the words, but wisely she didn't comment. "They send their love," was all she said, reaching out with one hand to touch Paulie's. Paulie didn't respond and didn't even appear to have heard, but Nan was rewarded with his fingers closing over hers.
There was a knock at the door, and then Kid was popping his head round. "I've got Teaspoon with me as well. Bad time?" he asked politely.
They all checked Paulie for confirmation. He shrugged and Nan nodded to Kid, who walked in, followed closely by a concerned Teaspoon.
"All right, Paulie?" Kid greeted the boy, patting him gently on his blanket-covered foot.
"How's things, Kid?"
"Better than you, from the look of it. You remember Chief Hunter?"
Teaspoon smiled. "Glad to hear you're going to be fine, son," he said kindly. "Real, real glad."
Kid hesitated. "Listen, Nan, Jimmy. I'm not just here to check Paulie's okay. We've got news. Big news. I don't know if… Should we all step outside?"
"Is this about the fire?" asked Paulie.
Kid looked at Nan.
"Paulie," she said, "maybe Kid's right. Maybe we should all--"
"No! Please. Please, I want to know what's going to happen to me and Jesse. Please, Nan."
There was an almost palpable moment of uncertainty exchanged amongst Teaspoon, Kid, Jimmy, and Nan, and then they seemed to decide as one. Reaching over Paulie's bed, Kid passed Nan the file he'd been clutching in his other hand.
"What is this? The Island Nation profile?"
Kid shook his head. "No, it's the other boy's record."
Frowning, Nan took the thick folder. "Jesse's? Good God, but it must weigh at least two pounds! What kind of sixteen-year-old boy has a record like this?" She flipped it open, and immediately three words leapt out at her.
Jesse Robert James.
She looked up and found that Kid and Teaspoon were already staring at her with expectant, knowing eyes.
"The kind of sixteen-year-old boy who's Frankie James's brother," said Kid.
Paulie's parents, Travis and Joan, arrived from Dubai, exhausted from the 24-hour flight and obviously frightened for their son. They were a striking couple: Paulie's mother was very elegant, and beautiful in a crisp, angular, British sort of way, and his father was handsome, with a clever face and a strong resemblance to both Paulie and Nan, with the same dark blue eyes they had all inherited from Will.
With Paulie safe (and recalcitrant) in his parents' care, Nan was free to throw herself back into work. The discovery that Frankie James had a brother, and one who had been virtually under their noses, had lit a fire under the STF, and the case now seemed more urgent than ever before.
But immediately, yet another spanner was thrown into the works.
"The property's not Elizabeth's," Ike informed them.
"But it has to be," protested Buck.
"It's not," Ike said flatly. "She's not listed anywhere in the records. The property's listed as being owned by a…" he scanned the page quickly, "Wesley Kuhlman."
"Elizabeth's old partner?" asked Lou, puzzled. "He died five years ago. Shouldn't the CEO or Vice-President or someone have corrected the ownership by now? Anyway, even if he's listed as the owner, it's still a connection to Elizabeth. I say it counts."
Ike was skimming the records as Lou spoke. When she finished he turned to her with an expression of confusion. "It says the property was purchased by Kuhlman in October of 1996."
"That's impossible. He died that June," said Jimmy. Then, more insistently, "I read the damn coroner's report. The man was full of bullet holes. He died."
Everyone was staring at him uncertainly. The STF officers, particularly, seemed frozen in place as they tried to work out how five years ago, a man who had been buried in June had managed to purchase a highly lucrative business four months later. Jimmy felt his hair begin to stand on end.
"Who was listed as the owner before Kuhlman?" asked Abbie Narducci.
"I'm going to need another minute," Ike responded, as his eyes focused on his computer once more, his fingers typing madly away.
"It's not legal to list a dead person as brand, spanking new owner, is it?" added Nan flippantly, hoping to lighten the mood if only a little.
"Of course it's not legal," snapped Rosemary, eyes flashing at Nan, her voice cold and clipped. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Knock it off, Rosemary," Jimmy barked, before he could check himself.
"Jimmy, it's okay," said Nan.
"Why don't you stay out of this, James? I thought you weren't going to let your personal life influence your behaviour on this team."
"My personal life has nothing to do with this. You're out of line and you know it."
The room was growing quieter by the second, and thick with tension. Every officer present could feel their spines stiffening, their jaws tightening. This was more than a tangled mess of Jimmy's past with Rosemary and his relationship with Nan, and they all knew it. Rosemary was steadily becoming intolerable, but most of her frustrations and outbursts were directed at Nan and Jimmy, and they were growing in intensity and malice.
However much Jimmy was influenced by his love for Nan, the fact of the matter was that Rosemary Burke had long ago crossed the line, and they were all-save Anello, Rosemary's sycophant-on Jimmy's side. Their affection and admiration for Jimmy, their respect for Nan, and their contempt for Rosemary, made it impossible for anyone to be impartial. Even had neutrality been feasible, it was difficult not to see that Rosemary's vicious attacks were far more personally-motivated than either Nan's or Jimmy's behaviour warranted.
"Need I remind you," Rosemary said through clenched teeth, "that her presence here is entirely contingent upon you restraining your actions?"
Jimmy was standing up. His expression was furious and he was seething. "And need I remind you that your presence here is temporary, and entirely contingent upon your management of this team? Or in your case, mismanagement."
The air was perfectly still, not a ringing telephone or buzzing fax machine to disturb the quiet. Jimmy wished fervently for Teaspoon's presence.
Slowly Rosemary stood, pushing back her chair. She met Jimmy's gaze. Her eyes were darkening in anger. When she spoke, her voice crackled with rage, and it was low, almost a growl. "You are out of order, James."
"And you have been out of order since the moment you took over this team."
Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy could see Nan's face going red. She was leaning forward, her body tensing as if she were about to spring and tackle Rosemary to the ground. He suspected it was not entirely out of the realm of possibility.
"If you have issues with my handling of this team, then by all means file a formal complaint."
"Don't think for a second that idea hasn't occurred to me."
"Or maybe you think you could do better?"
"I'd say if I could treat my officers with even an ounce of respect, then mission damn well accomplished."
Someone whistled softly. Jimmy thought it might have been Shane Rowling, but he didn't look to see. He was watching Rosemary. She was fighting so hard for control she was almost shaking with the effort. He could see the fine trembling of her body. He remembered this side of her all too well. Once he had been helpless against it, doing anything he could to assuage her anger. Now he was only enraged in return.
It was Ike who broke in, dissipating some of the strain. "Robert J. Gabriel," he said.
Everyone turned to look at him.
"Who?" asked Lou.
"Exactly," answered Ike. He rapped the computer screen impatiently with the back of his hand. "Robert J. Gabriel. He sold the property to Kuhlman; he's listed as the owner prior to October 1996."
Lou's face fell. "But… So you mean, there's no connection to Elizabeth?"
"I'll do a search for any records, but for now, no. Just Kuhlman's name."
"And he's dead," said Buck unnecessarily.
Rosemary looked absolutely thunderstruck. She was unaccustomed to being wrong. "But that's impossible," she said disbelievingly. "Check again, Ike."
"I've researched it thoroughly," Ike said with annoyance. "There's a paper trail clear as day. See for yourself." He swivelled the screen around toward her.
"But it's impossible," she said again.
"It's not impossible. It's here in black and white."
The room erupted into a buzz of confusion and outrage. Nan, who was looking over his shoulder, scanned the documents on Ike's screen. It was just as he said, not that she was foolish enough to doubt Ike's skills. But there it was, plain as day, a matter of public record. She read quickly, from top to bottom. It all looked perfectly straightforward.
Robert J. Gabriel… DOB: 02/29/1932… Owner: Walford Textiles…
Nan froze. Quickly she read it all again, and then again. Was she completely mad? She read through one more time. No, not mad, but suddenly, horribly certain.
Nan distrusted much about herself, but when it came to her skills and instinct as a police officer, it was the one aspect of herself she almost never doubted. It was the one area in her life where she could act and react with complete confidence, and she knew what her gut was telling her now.
Shame and mortification burned through her as quickly and wholly as the blaze at Island Nation. She could feel her face growing hot. The thought of telling Rosemary made her sick.
"Ike," she whispered, while conversation continued around them.
He looked at her. Immediately he noted her stricken face. "Cor, Nan, what is it?"
"I know what Paulie and Frankie's brother were doing there."
"What?" He was stunned.
Without a word, she pointed to the screen, where it read the name Robert J. Gabriel. "Robert J., for Jesse Robert James. Gabriel for Paul Gabriel Kenworthy." She pointed to the birth date: "February 29th, 1932. Granddad's birthday." She swallowed hard. "Walford Textiles."
"Jesus," interrupted Ike, paling. "Walford Square."
"Where Paulie hangs out with his mates," she said.
"In the East End. London."
They looked at each other, silent, stunned. Then Nan said, "Frankie knew we were on to him. He sent Paulie and Jesse to do his dirty work. He sent them to clean up the records, remove his name, or maybe Elizabeth's, to falsify the information."
"No," Ike said firmly, "he sent his brother. Don't do this to yourself, Nan. This isn't Paulie's work, you know that."
"Ike, look at this!" Nan jabbed one slim finger against the screen, pointing out each bit of information by turn. "Paulie's name, Granddad's birthday, Walford effing Square. Paulie…he's…the one class at school he's good in is computers. He was suspended for hacking into the school computer and changing his grades," she said, her breath growing panicky and shallow as she dropped her head into one hand. "Frankie sent them to do his dirty work, and he nearly got them killed." She was speaking rapidly now, her voice rising. "God, I've bollocksed it completely. Again. Oh my God, Granddad trusted me."
Nan's distress was more than Ike could stand to watch. He put a hand on her arm and waited until she lifted her eyes, holding her gaze, trying to curb her panic. "Nan, listen to me. Listen to me," he ordered her as her eyes began filling with tears. "Nan."
As always, when Ike spoke, Nan snapped to attention. It was the effect he had on them all. He spoke so infrequently and said so little, that when he made a point of it, his words carried an insight and weight impossible to ignore. Nan knew he measured his words with great care, and over the years she had learned to respect every one.
"Nan," he was saying, "Paulie is in trouble. You've known that for a long time. He needs help. He needs more help than you, or your granddad, or Jimmy, or any of you can give him. He's tried and God knows your family has, but it is time to take a step back. It is time to realise you are human, and Paulie's mistakes are not anyone's fault but Paulie's. You have no responsibility for them. You've done the best you could."
The world seemed to be just the two of them, just Ike's words and the intensity of his eyes. The conversations and noise and movement around them seemed to fade away. Nan nodded vigorously, letting Ike's words soak into her, desperately needing to believe them. The tears spilled onto her cheeks and she wiped them quickly away. She felt another headache coming on.
Ike was continuing. "Having said that... Nan, you've got to pull yourself together. In all the years I've known you, you've never had trouble separating the personal and the professional. You've never really needed to. But now you've got to. Whatever Paul's done, he's got to face up to. Right now you haven't got time to feel sorry for yourself, or to beat yourself up over what's happened. You've got to go to Teaspoon, straight away. You've got to tell him and we've got to start dealing with this, because you and I both know the repercussions are… incomprehensible," he finished quietly.
He waited for Nan to reply, but she found she couldn't say anything, though she nodded in response. It seemed as if his words were sinking in, and Ike worried at the glazed look in her eyes as she stood, waiting for a moment while she collected herself. Then without another word or look, she turned and walked out, ignoring Rosemary's furious glare, toward Teaspoon's office.
Ike watched her go before turning back to his computer. The words were blurred in front of him now. He thought of his friend, the often-traumatic, non-stop roller coaster ride her life had become in the last few years. He thought of the strength of her nature, how much she weathered and still managed to stay strong, and of her delicacy, how each new obstacle seemed to chip away a little of her essence, leaving irreparable fractures in her spirit. And he wondered just how much more stress and strain Nan Kenworthy could take before all those cracks she was holding together finally began to show.
to be continued…