A/N: Set during the second/third season.
Beta: J.A.B.
Warnings: Talk of sex, not explicit
Revised: April 2, 2008

CI CI Eames CI CI Goren CI CI Eames CI CI Goren CI CI

My name is Detective Alexandra Eames. You can call me Detective, or Alex, or you can do what my partner does and call me Eames. I’ll answer to all three, but no one calls me Eames like Bobby Goren.

‘Eames’ just seems to slide off his tongue when he’s excited about a clue he’s found or notices information that will put the last nail in the coffin of our suspect.

This morning, as soon as I walk into the bullpen and pull out my padded pink desk chair, Bobby looks up at me with those intense eyes and says my name in that way while holding out a bundle of crime scene photos for me to look over.

There are two reasons he does this. The first is that he wants me to understand what he’s seeing and what he’s thinking. The second is something no one would ever believe if I told him or her—he wants my sanction.

Six foot four Bobby Goren, the walking dictionary/thesaurus/encyclopedia, the one who knows I don’t know how many languages, who can read a book in a few hours and summarize the whole text in three or four sentences, wants my approval.

This was surprising to me in the beginning because he doesn’t seem to care one way or the other how most people view him when he’s running down a suspect. And he’ll argue with just about anybody when he thinks he’s right about something, including me.

It took a minute, but I see what he’s getting at and I know what’s coming next. I look over at him to see he’s already skipping ahead to the interrogation room in his mind. It’s all he can do to talk with some coherence to Deakins and Carver about going back to the still secure crime scene for a little re-casing so we can go get our main suspect and put him back in the hot seat.

As we leave our floor at 1PP, I point threateningly at Carter and Timmons when Bobby leaves me to go catch the elevator. The two men wave my threat away with fake scowls and sneers.

“You’re going down!” I stage whisper loud enough for the detectives that sit near our desks to hear. “I’m gonna rain all over your little parade!”

“Hey, Goren didn’t come through for you last week,” snarked Carter in his deep voice. “We’re taking it this week, Eames. Nothing to it.”

Carter damn sure doesn’t say my name like Bobby does.

I stand a moment and glare at my two rivals. They are still sneering when Bobby pops back into the squad almost dancing in his eagerness to get going. He’s two seconds away from just grabbing me, so I turn my back on Carter and his cohort and try to keep up with Bobby on the way to the SUV.

It takes us just three minutes at Peter Taller’s home to find what we saw in the photos. How we didn’t see it before is a mystery. Sometimes we’re looking so hard for the hidden that we miss what’s out in plain sight.

Really, who would have guessed that Taller is so damn stupid after all his wisecracks to us?

Bobby carefully helps the CSU guy collect the new evidence and then cradles it as if it’s a newborn child. Afraid one wrong move would do harm to the whole case.

It’s kind of endearing that he’s this focused. Well, to me. I’m not sure how the CSU and lab people are going to react to having Bobby leaning over their shoulders the whole time. Because, knowing my partner, he’ll walk this evidence through the process. Bobby won’t let it out of his sight as he starts forming the questions for the interrogation room.

It takes a while, but not as long as it could, to get the new evidence processed. I snicker to myself as one of the female lab workers, with a harried look on her face, has to again ask Bobby to move back so she can reach her equipment.

He apologizes, moves out of the way and then slowly drifts back until he’s practically pressing into the back of her chair again.

When we finally get the all clear, my partner snatches the evidence away like a starving dog snatches a hotdog from a grill. He’s flipping through the stuff and we walk back to Deakins’ office to call Carver, murmuring to himself about what he sees.

He’s anxious on the way to pick up the suspect, fidgeting in the SUV on the way there and on the way back to 1PP. Every few minutes, he turns as far as he can in the passenger seat to look for the unit carrying Peter Taller to our House.

I don’t say anything about his behavior. It’s part of his charm that he’s seen so much and done so much but still has this eager spark.

I almost change my mind when he starts playing with the windows and looking through the ashtray at the assortment of change and tokens.

Once we get there, Taller’s lawyer is called because the first words out of the man’s mouth it to ask for representation. Damn it all.

As we wait for the lawyer in the observation room, Carter and Timmons just happen to walk by about six times, peering in the windows of the doors. They are both carrying folders and papers, but I know they are just casing out the situation.

Carefully positioning my body to shield my hand, I flash the finger the next time Carter’s moon face passes the window. Carter awkwardly ducks out of view.

Bobby doesn’t pay us any mind; he’s already in his interrogation mindset. He’s pacing back and forth by the one-way mirror, watching Taller.

With a burst of energy, the door of the observation room flies open and Taller’s corpse-looking lawyer stalks in. Honest to God, he takes one look, sees Goren and groans. “Goren, don’t any other detectives work here?”

Bobby looks up from his zone and frowns, not getting it. “Yes.”

The lawyer just shakes his head and goes to meet with his client.

Ten minutes later, it’s show time. Deakins and Carver are left behind the mirror as we get down to business, Bobby carrying his trusty binder of information.

Up to this point in the investigation, Bobby and Taller have circled each other, both getting in jabs and smartass remarks. There was no clear winner because Bobby was holding back for the interview room. He likes to surprise and then study faces and bodies for reactions.

I decide not to sit at the metal table, but lean against the wall by the door. This gives me a good view of the suspect with his back to the gray wall.

Bobby opens his suit jacket, takes a seat and places his binder on the silver surface of the table. With a screech, he pushes his chair closer to Taller and then suddenly leans in close. I can tell by the way the lawyer frowns that he’s not happy that Bobby is that close to his client.

Well, tough noogies.

Bobby’s voice is low and . . . caressing. “Connie was a-a beautiful woman.” He flips open his binder and pulls out a family photo of Connie dressed in white robes in her church play. She seems to glow and her smile was enough to break your heart.

“Like an angel,” I say in a deadpan voice, but Taller doesn’t look at me. He’s too busy looking at Connie’s picture.

I’m the daughter of a cop, and I know cop procedure and culture like the back of my hand. I’ve heard stories for as long as I can remember about The Job and how to read suspects . . . how to break suspects.

But there’s a depth of intimacy between Bobby Goren and his suspects that always surprises me. He’s like their best friend, their confidant, their lover and their worst enemy all rolled up into one.

There’s no unbreechable personal space during an interview when Bobby has picked out his prey. He gets in close enough to share the same air with the perp.

Bobby slouches down in his chair because he likes being eye to eye with his opponent. Then he lets his dark, intense eyes speak half his words, convey half of his meaning. Every glance at the suspect, every blink of his eyes, is just to focus the questions.

As Taller looks away from the picture we received from her family, Bobby leans in again. “She-she was perfect. So innocent, so trusting. I bet she turned heads whenever you two went out. You were the envy of all your neighbors and friends.”

Taller jerks his eyes away from the picture and looks at the mirror, his face blank.

“Look at her!” Bobby doesn’t yell, but his voice is like a slap

Taller jumps at the command and tries to glare at my partner.

Bobby ignores the glare and tips his head to his left shoulder.

I shift against the gray wall and study the object of Goren’s fascination to make sure trouble isn’t brewing. Sometimes Goren is so caught up in the words that he forgets about actions.

I make sure I’m there to watch out for him when he gets like this. For when he has the interrogation room tunnel vision.

Now, he leans forward, his lips almost near Taller’s left ear. “She’s not so perfect now, is she?” His right hand blindly digs into his binder to pull out a crime scene photo in shocking color. Neon and blazing in the stark lighting of the drab room.

This photo, Taller can’t keep his eyes off of.

“She’s not so perfect like this, is she?” The soft question that makes the suspect shudder in the metal chair. And I’m talking about a forty year old, one hundred and eighty pound man who’s served in combat. Goren actually makes the man shudder.

My partner stops for a moment and studies Taller’s posture with hooded eyes. Then he flicks his eyes to where I’m standing, and even though Bobby is not smiling, he’s smiling almost like a predator. I can tell.

I smile back.

He turns back to Taller and forces eye contact by scrunching down in the chair again. The man is reluctant to give in to a cop, but a soft word from Bobby has the man glancing up from the bloody woman in the crime scene photo.

His dead wife.

It’s almost like flirting, as if Bobby’s wooing the suspect into confessing. Be it man or woman, Goren shows the same level of intimacy in this room.

Until the tone changes.

“She found out, didn’t she? Then she asked you where you go when you stay out until early in the mornings and then come home smelling like beer . . . and sex? Or maybe it was the-the look in her eyes, the words she used, and the disgust when she finally realized after she found the photos.” Goren swipes his hand over the blood Connie. “But, she’s down on-on your level now. Dirty, broken . . . quiet.”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” stutters Taller.

Bobby carefully pulls out the new evidence and lays photo after photo out on the table. The lawyer hisses and places a warning hand on Taller’s shoulder.

“She found the photos, Peter. These photos. Of the women you slept with . . . that you degraded sexually . . . when you told your wife you were at work.”

“That’s not me! You didn’t find them in my house!”

Bobby shakes his head. “Did you really think she wouldn’t find them in your wedding album? Where you that stupid? Or did it give you a thrill knowing that these-these images were right under her perfect nose the whole time. Right next to the pictures of her dancing with her father at your reception and getting hugged by her Aunt Ruth.”

Taller looks stunned and I allow myself to be smug. Just a matter of time . . .

“You can’t—”

Bobby picks up a photo and then shoves it into Taller’s face. “What exactly are you doing in this photo, Peter? You know, I read the statements of your, uh, conquests, but I just couldn’t picture the action.” Bobby stops for a moment and then waves a hand in my direction. “My partner, Detective Eames, was in Vice and saw some pretty kinky stuff you know, but she’s never seen this before.” He puts the photo back on the table and contemplates it again as he points to an object in the background. “Is that a jar of—”

“Shut up!” Taller hisses as he leans back from the table and the photos. Away from Goren.

Now, I outwardly smirk. “Doesn’t look like you’re just having a snack there, Peter.”

The lawyer is still tugging on Taller’s shoulder. “Detectives—”

“No, Detective Eames has a point. You’re not having a snack . . . are you, Peter? Connie found these and—” Bobby cuts his words short and pauses, looking at Taller with a questioning look.

I’m a good detective, but I’m not always sure what it is during an interview that signals Goren’s attack. I guess some private question has been answered or the perp’s body language screams weakness and Bobby just pounces. Then it’s sarcasm, harshness and anger unrelenting. Sometimes it gets scary, the look in those dark eyes when he gets going.

“So, what?” Bobby started up again. “You couldn’t stand that she knew what a-a complete pig you are? That her parents were right when they told her that you would break her heart someday?”

Bobby pushes all of the pictures closer to Taller; the contrast between them is breathtaking. Soft white perfection against bloody rags and raw flesh.

“Tell me she didn’t beg you to stop. Tell me she didn’t say she loved you until the last moment when you cut her throat. Tell me she didn’t try to touch you as she bled out!”

Sometimes the suspects look shocked at the change in Goren, as he or she has been betrayed by a close friend. Even the hardest criminal could be drawn in by my partner’s sincerity. Sometimes they even look to me for an answer or for help.

I ignore Taller’s sudden look and wait.

He turns back to Bobby. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I loved her! I wouldn’t have done this!”

Sometimes I wonder when Bobby learned to do this. Childhood? The Army? Working undercover in narcotics? Dealing with his dysfunctional family?

“She loved you. Married you. Wanted to have children with you.” Bobby digs out the report that shows the treatments Connie had been taking to get pregnant. “She just wanted a life with you . . . instead you drove around looking for prostitutes willing to play out your little sexual fantasies.”

He stops suddenly and puts on a concerned face. “Maybe it-it wasn’t that Connie was disgusted by the photos after all. Maybe she liked what she saw, is that it, Peter? Maybe she decided being, uh, pure and perfect wasn’t doing it for her . . . or for you.”

Taller looks pale, sick and faintly scandalized. “No! God! Connie was . . . she wasn’t—”

“The girls we talked to at the place you liked to hang out had all kinds of interesting things to say about you . . . Peter,” I put in from my position on the wall.

“She’s right. Back at the beginning, when we knew you liked the working girls, we talked to a few that recognized you.” Four plastic covered statements smack the table in front of Taller. “The pros were glad to give you up for some consideration the next time they get into trouble. Paragraph after paragraph of how you like to get off. Hey, some of us didn’t believe half the things they had to say until we found these dirty, dirty photos in Connie’s wedding album.”

Bobby lets his face relax into an understanding expression. His eyes fixed on the floor, his lashes near his cheeks. He suddenly looks submissive, as if he has no power here. No leverage. As if it’s all up to the suspect what happens next.

I snort quietly to myself. I don’t believe that for a second because I’ve watched The Goren Show for almost three years now.

“Come on, after she found the photos, after she freaked, you wanted to show her what it was like. That you weren’t dirty and she wasn’t perfect,” whispers Goren to Taller, eyes still diverted. “You just . . . wanted to show her and she wouldn’t cooperate. That made you angry. You were trying to show her and she just put you off.”

“All she had to do was—” began Taller and then his lawyer cut him off with a hand motion.

Now comes the touching. It’s a hand on an elbow or a brush across a shoulder, it’s as if Bobby wants to ground the suspect as he or she struggles with the idea of confessing their crimes. Their sins.

This time, it’s a caress on a bare forearm. Then . . . a firm clasp of fingers on skin.

“All she had to do was just try, right?” Bobby whispers, leaning forward almost as if he wants Taller to whisper the horrible truth in his ear like two teenage girls swapping secrets about their hot chemistry teacher. “What was the harm in that? She loved you. She could do that for you, if she really loved you, right?”

I stand up and study the tableau in front of me for signs of an explosion. If the suspect is going to get violent, now is the time.

Instead of violence, there are tears. Sudden, explosive tears that renders Taller almost incoherent.

He’s a rainmaker, my partner. There are betting pools in MCS as to how many suspects Goren can make cry in a week, a month. So far, I’m ahead by forty bucks. That covers all the personal bets I’ve lost to Bobby over his profiling.

Staring at the before and after pictures of his wife and in a stuttering voice, Taller spills his guts, trying to make Bobby understand why he did what he did. Why he killed this lovely woman who just wanted to have a family with him.

Why she’s never going to have the children she was planning for and how she’ll never be able to talk to her parents again.

Bobby nods at Taller, but backs off slightly. His job is nearly over and he needs to start putting the intimacy away and create some distance.

Taller’s lawyer is pissed, but resigned, as the door opens and Ron Carver is there to talk deal.

Bobby stands, buttons his jacket and then drifts over to me as the two lawyers talk. He settles against the wall on my right, still watching Peter Taller as the tears dry on the man’s face.

“Have fun?” I ask and the corners of his mouth rise slightly, but it’s his eyes that show how he’s feeling.

He’s happy that we closed the case. Happy that Connie Carrico has justice and her family can find what peace they can with her killer in jail.

“One more and you’ll win this week’s betting pool,” he responds with overly wide and innocent eyes. His eyes are innocent, but his voice is not.

“You rat, where did you hear about that?”

Bobby shifts from foot to foot and then resettles as Carver lays out his best offer. “Miss Pris.”

I scoff. That woman worships the ground Bobby walks on, of course she would tell him about the bets. “I need to keep you away from the secretaries from now on.”

He rolls his eyes. “Doesn’t matter, Eames. She calls me on the phone whenever she gets the good gossip.”

Damn woman, ruining all my fun.

He doesn’t seem upset about the betting pool. At least it’s not about him doing crazy stunts anymore. I discouraged that after I got involved with the betting. “Well?”

Bobby shrugs his free shoulder. “As long as you keep paying up on our bets, I don’t mind.”

Carver stands up and shakes the other lawyer’s slim hand. Deakins comes in with two uniforms and Peter Taller is taken away.

Good riddance.

As we exit the room, I can see Carter standing nonchalantly with one of the secretaries. They were pretending to have a very intense conversation about the piece of paper in Carter’s hands.

With Bobby and Deakins standing right there, I yell down to Carter as if I’m in Central Park. “Hey! You’re going down, Carter! You too, Zorlenski! Pass the word around, when it rains, it pours!”

Deakins sounds like he’s swallowed his tongue. He’s been in on the action for the past six months and he doesn’t realize that Bobby knows.

Bobby raises his right eyebrow and gives me that half smile that makes most women want to tuck in his shirt. “How many more before you win?” Like he doesn’t know. He just wants to push some of Deakins’ buttons.

Deakins chokes again.

I raise my chin. “One more.”

My partner rocks back and forth with barely suppressed amusement. “Huh, we have that Chu case. Should have the daughter in the interrogation room by Monday.”

Ha! Two days before my betting deadline! I turn to Carter, but Bobby’s hand catches my elbow.

I look up to see his eyes shinning. “You know, I might be getting the wrong idea here, but I’m beginning to think you only want me for my rainmaking abilities. Since you keep yelling . . . and gloating.”

“Oh, you!” I push him away from me and turn back to Carter. “Going down! You and your partner! You had better have my cash on Monday ‘cause I’m not taking any rain checks!”

Bobby just chuffed out a laugh and stepped around a stunned Deakins to go back to his desk.

Man, I can’t wait for Monday.

End.