"How on earth do you get yourself out of bed in weather like this?" Eames asks as she clocks in. It's half past seven and Goren is seated at his side of the desk, an empty cup before him. He is reading what seems to be a coroner's report - she must have missed something. "What time did you get here?"

A detective whose face she knows but can't place overhears, and offers, "Maniac clocked in at half six. Don't ask me how he does it."

Eames whistles softly. "Don't you ever sleep?"

"Occasionally," he answers distractedly. Eames knows her partner, his posture, his facial expressions. From the looks of things, he hasn't made a major movement for close on an hour. His right hand has a death grip on the file as he turns the pages with his left. His eyebrows are drawn together, his eyes half-closed but searching.

She knows that look. It's the look of absolute concentration, the one he gets when he puts two and two together in that unique Goren way and gets seventeen and somehow it's the right answer. He makes these leaps frequently and unerringly, and it never ceases to amaze her, to intimidate her in a way she can't quite figure out.

"Look at this," he says abruptly, setting the report down on the table as she scurries to his side. He opens his mouth, like he's about to say something infuriatingly deep and overwhelmingly accurate, something he couldn't possibly know but does anyway, and then he looks up. His lips remain parted, the epiphany unspoken, and Eames follows his gaze to see Logan drag himself through the door of Major Case. He looks like he hasn't slept in weeks, although he seemed fine only last night when they parted ways outside the federal prison.

"Hey, Logan," she greets him, her voice carrying across the hum of conversation in the room. "Wake up in the wrong bed this morning?"

Logan turns to her with what is probably a snappy retort on his lips, but his words seem to fail him as he registers Goren's presence. Eames feels herself frown as she looks down at her partner, then back at Logan. Goren is smiling ever so slightly, an expression nobody but her would notice on his normally expressionless face. Logan, on the other hand, looks like he's been shot. He shuts his mouth wordlessly and turns back to the coffee machine.

Eames wonders why in the hell anyone would actually want to drink station house coffee. The percolator probably hasn't been cleaned in years; every cup of coffee it makes, no matter the raw materials used or the amount of sugar and milk added, tastes like motor oil. She returns her attention to Goren. "Wonder what's eating him?"

Goren's gaze is fixed on the back of Logan's head. It's a miracle the other detective doesn't have a bald spot, the way her partner is staring. "Yes," he says calmly. "I wonder."

Eames is now thoroughly confused, but she reacts in her typical Alex Eames way and temporarily resigns herself to ignorance. "You were saying?"

Goren still hasn't taken his eyes off of Logan, who having gotten his coffee is now sitting at his desk. His thick eyebrows are pulled down and together into a unibrow that does nothing to ease the sharpness of his nose or to detract from his harsh Irish good looks. Goren stands suddenly, one of those trademark unpredictable motions that have been known to freak out perps, and pushes the file into Eames' hands. "I was saying I'll get back to you on that. Excuse me a moment."

She watches in disbelief as he crosses the distance, bends down and mutters something into Logan's ear. She watches the other detective's shoulders tighten, watches his mouth compress into a thin line, and watches as he gets to his feet and follows Goren out the door.

Bobby Goren, she reflects, is a mystery even she cannot unravel.