Handwriting, Chapter One of The Unusual Suspects
Title: Handwriting, Chapter One of The Unusual Suspects
Author: CelesteAvonne
Disclaimer: For Fun and Fun Alone!
Spoilers: References to all 10 episodes of The Unusuals.
Pairing/Characters: All canon pairings, including Shraeger/Davis, Walsh/Beaumont, Delahoy/Crumb, and Banks/Demopolis
Rating: PG13
Word Count: ~10,000 (split between posts)
Summary: A mugger attacks random disconnected people, leaving clues written on the victim's hands. This starts Shraeger and Walsh on the path to find a killer who seems to know all of Second Squads secrets. Meanwhile, Dr. Crumb decides to take matters into her own hands with Delahoy, wrecking Banks' illusions of a calm, normal life in the process.
Warnings: More fish puns, an unfortunate dog, and a doctor named Zimsky.
Continued from last post...
Davis slid into the booth of Noodles! Noodles! and folded his coat on the seat beside him. For a moment, he stared at the top of Casey’s head as she puzzled over the menu.
Upon closer inspection, he saw it was not a menu but a case file.
Without looking up, she said, “I ordered us spring rolls and tea. Oolong.”
“Thanks, Casey,” he said. “Any chance I’ll see your face or am I dining with The Grudge?”
She glanced up, squinted at him, returned to her file. “Sorry,” she said. “You like Oolong, right?”
“Oolong is fine,” he said. “You’re upset.”
“Worried,” she said. “It’s this case. It’s-” She shook her hands. “-bleh, work. Let’s talk about you.”
“Today Mrs. Tuplantis told me she wants to cut her stepson from the will because he insists on wearing a wig and heels to their neighbor’s pool parties in the Hamptons,” Davis said.
“Harsh.” She smiled.
“Yes,” Davis said. “No yacht for Conrad until he grows up and decides to dress like a man. He’s forty, by the way.”
Casey laughed. “What does a forty-year-old cross-dresser need with a yacht anyway?”
“Exactly,” he said. “Casey, I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh?”
The waitress brought their tea and spring rolls. When she asked if they were ready to order, Casey abruptly shooed her away.
Davis grinned. “The other night, when you stayed over...”
“That was a good night.”
“An even better morning,” he said.
“Wait. Wait,” Casey said. “I see where you’re going with this, and while I can say that I really like the idea, like I like your apartment and your coffee maker and the way you sing when you’re making breakfast-”
“-I... sing?-”
“-Old Boston songs. Adorable,” she said.
“But?”
“But I like it for the future,” she said. “Not yet. Not now.”
“I’m talking about the future, Casey,” Davis said. “I’m moving. In January.”
Casey blinked. “Moving? Moving where? Not out of the city-”
Davis laughed as if he could never consider it. Much to her relief. “No,” he said. “I bought a place from a client. It’s on 6th, just below the park. It’s one of those obnoxiously expensive places where all the snooty rich people live.”
Casey pursed her lips. “You wanna live where all the snooty rich people live?”
“It’s a beautiful place.”
“There are lots of beautiful, reasonable places.”
“You should see the view from the balcony.”
“It has a balcony?” Casey opened her menu. “I mean, my place is nice, comfortable, modest. I have a view of a brick wall, but, y’know, it’s... cozy.”
“Do you even know your neighbors?” he asked.
“I know Mr. Delano,” she said.
“Is he the guy in the novelty apron with the strategically-placed hot peppers?”
“No, that’s Mr. Bergdorf. Mr. Delano walks around with the plunger and the rubber gloves.”
“Right,” Davis said. “The guy who yells.”
“My building is charming,” Casey said. “You gonna order or what?”
Davis suppressed a smile and scanned his menu.
After a moment, Casey said, “You remember I mentioned my friend Cole’s wedding on the 24th?”
“I remember.”
“You’re gonna be my date.”
“Can I wear my top hat?”
“You have a top hat?”
“I am filthy rich.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Next time I’m at your place, I’m wearing the top hat.”
Davis eyed her sidelong.
“And nothing else,” Casey whispered.
“Deal.”
“And the wedding?”
“I’m in.”
“Then let’s eat.”
~~~
Leo Banks smoothed raindrops from his pants legs. He squeezed into a kind of cramped breakfast nook piled high with sewing scraps, magazines, and bits of old jewelry. The victim of the snatch-and-grab lilted around the kitchen, pouring tea and arranging cookies on a plate, her patchwork skirt streaming out behind her. She was early 20s, blond, and sported more tattoos than the cast of the Sons of Anarchy, what Eric would call an “earthy” girl.
Banks checked his phone again. No message from Eric. No response to his texts, ditto on the calls. Banks was beyond worried now. He’d moved into full-blown anxiety. He’d already decided to interview this girl and swing by Eric’s place to check on him.
This whole situation unnerved him. It was against protocol for Banks to interview this woman alone in her house, but with Alvarez constantly peeking at their logs, Banks felt he had to cover for Delahoy on this one. Actually, now that he thought about it, he’d been covering for Delahoy a lot lately...
“Do you take stevia, honey, or agave in your tea?” the girl asked.
“Uh. None, thanks,” he answered. “So Miss...” Banks checked his notepad. “Harper.”
“Harper’s my first name,” she said over her shoulder. “You know, like the author?”
“Right,” he said. “So, Miss...?”
“Wrenway.” She brought the tray and stacked it on the cluttered table.
“Miss Wrenway,” Banks said, scribbling that into his notes. “Report says you had a computer inside a suitcase and someone snatched it?”
She bit her lip. “It wasn’t a computer,” she admitted. “It was a Golden Retriever. You have nice hands.”
Banks stammered, “Uh - Golden Retriever?”
Miss Wrenway sat back and held her mug between her hands. “I’ve been house sitting for friends who are in Bangkok on business. They had this dog, Elsie, and she was old, really old, like 119 in dog years. I was nervous about caring for her, but they assured me she was just fine.”
“But she wasn’t fine?” Banks guessed.
“No, she died Sunday night.” She sipped her tea.
“It’s Tuesday,” he said.
“I know.” She grimaced. “I didn’t know what to do. I wrapped her in some sheets and waited until it was morning in China to call them. They said not to worry, they’d already made plans for her eventual passing, so they gave me the vet’s address in Chelsea.”
“Oh,” Banks said. He was beginning to see where the story was going.
“Elsie was a big dog, Detective Banks,” Wrenway went on. “She weighed, like, eighty pounds. I couldn’t afford to take a taxi all the way to Chelsea, but how was I going to carry this eighty-pound dog on the subway?”
“So you put it in a suitcase...”
“Exactly. It was on wheels and had a handle.” She gave him a thin smile. “So then, this guy on the subway struck up a conversation, guess he thought I was a tourist because he mentioned the suitcase. Well, I couldn’t tell him there was a dead dog inside. So I said, ‘No, it’s a computer. I’m moving it for a friend.’”
“Oh dear,” Banks said.
“I should’ve known. Soon as the train stopped, off he went-”
“-And somewhere in New York, a fence is opening a case containing one deceased canine.” He chuckled.
“Oh, it’s terrible,” she said, trying not to laugh. “You think you’ll be able to recover it? My friends love that dog. I mean they did love her. They made arrangements for her burial.”
“Well,” Banks said. “We’ll do what we can. I’ll get a description of the bag and the guy who grabbed it.”
She was staring at his hands again.
He said, “Miss Wrenway?”
“Sorry. Sorry.” She set her cup aside. “I read palms. I could do yours, if you like.”
Banks considered. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I got some place I have to be. But thank you. Another time, maybe?”
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll just, um, tell you about the guy...”
Through the rest of the interview, the girl kept glancing at his hands, and Leo grew more and more uneasy, and wished, for the thousandth time, that Delahoy was there.
~~~
The door to Monica Crumb’s had swelled in its frame. She flounced against it, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Here, let me,” Delahoy said. He shouldered into it. It squawked, but held firm.
“It warps when it rains,” Monica apologized.
“I see that,” he said. He slammed into it again. The wood groaned, but stuck. He decided on steady pressure, then, and, gripping the handle, he gave it a good steady push.
She looked worried.
“It’s all right, I do this sort of thing all the time,” he said.
“I’m concerned you’ll break my door,” she told him. “I can’t afford a replacement.”
He smiled through the strain. “Right,” he said. Then, with a pop, it opened.
“Milady.”
She minced in, moving quickly through the dimly-lit studio, toeing books and scarves and - dishes? - under the velvet settee that crouched in her front room. Eric scratched his head as he followed behind her. She deposited their take-out on a tottery antique table, then turned to him, sweeping her arms wide.
“So, here it is,” she said. Then she hugged her arms to her body and bit her lip. “You’re my first visitor.”
“That’s... really?”
She nodded.
He gazed around the dark, cramped space, and nodded appreciatively. She had an impressive number of fairly weighty books piled on makeshift shelves. Several half-melted candles dripped from the squat mantle in her living room. Another low table was stacked with colorful glass bottles and brass figurines. In the corner, he followed the rungs of a questionable looking ladder to the semi-attached loft where he assumed she must sleep.
“So, this is what they call Gothic in all the guidebooks,” he said. “You sure you’re not the understudy to a guy named Igor?”
There it was again, that smile. It winked out before he was sure he’d seen it, but he found himself watching her, looking for another wisp of it to appear.
“I have wine,” she said, going to her pantry, no smile now. “Someone should drink it.”
She began to struggle then with the corkscrew. It may have been the cutest thing he’d ever seen, even if it did border on pathetic.
“Here, let me,” he said, snatching it from her.
She relinquished the task gratefully and hurried to get the plates and glasses. “We can eat on the fire escape,” she said. “I have a nice view of the river. Take off your coat.”
“Sure.” He peeled off his damp trench and draped it over the back of her settee. “How long you lived here?”
“Three years,” she said. She passed him a plate of Szechwan beef, a glass of wine, and chopsticks.
“And I’m the first visitor?”
“Everyone who knows me is related to me, so I see them at my parents’ house in Newark,” she explained. She led him to the window that opened to the fire escape. She set her plate on the radiator and heaved up the sash. It shrieked like nails on a chalkboard, sending a fresh stab of pain between his eyes. “Sorry,” she said.
He blinked back tears. “It’s fine.” He waved her on. “Go, go.”
“Okay.” She climbed onto the fire escape, where she had two milk crates arranged around an empty wire spool. He passed her plate through, then joined her. He glanced up to find a canvas awning stretched above them, sheltering them from the rain.
A wide sweep of the river spread out before them, dotted with tugs and tankers and ferries. At night, the view probably went for spectacular.
“So this is your spot?” he said.
Monica had shoveled in a mouthful of noodles, so she nodded fervently.
“Good spot,” he said. “See what you mean about the river. Aren’t you afraid a seagull might come pick you off? I’ve seen some big as bicycles...”
She choked on her noodles. He grinned.
Food was still weird to him, so he picked at his Szechwan beef. It was spicy, which helped, but it tasted the way cigarette smoke smells, so... not great.
Monica swallowed. After a moment, she said, “Can I tell you a secret?”
“You have another secret?”
“Yes.”
“This one as big as the last one?”
She stabbed at her noodles with the chopsticks. “Maybe?”
“Sure, you can tell me your secret,” Eric said. “I might not even blackmail you over it.”
“Promise?”
“Pinky swear.”
She drew a deep breath. He braced himself. She said, “I hated my job.”
“You - you hated your job? That’s your big secret?”
“Yes,” she said.
“But-”
“I’m Asian!” she said.
“I noticed.”
“My parents wanted me to go into medicine,” she said. “But I have zero bedside manner-”
“-This I also noticed.”
She shrugged. “And I’m good at the forensic part, the whole puzzle of death, you know?”
“Sure, yeah, death’s puzzle.”
“But I hated the paperwork and the odd hours and the smell and then one night, it came to me, the truth of it all...”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“That we all end up in body bags,” she said.
He chuckled dryly. “There’s a romantic sentiment.”
“Sorry-”
“Nah, don’t be,” he said. “Dying, remember? Anyway, it’s not unlike my job.”
“But don’t you hate it?” she asked.
A faint glimmer lit his eyes. “No,” he said. “Sure, long hours, odd smells, and the paperwork, what’s to like about those? But I love the job. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be a cop. I mean, back in high school, I was the guy who - who kept everyone in the crosswalk, who took everyone’s keys at the parties. Like Lloyd Dobler. I was Lloyd Dobler.”
“I don’t know who that is,” she said.
“What?” He sniffed. “Lloyd Dobler. Say Anything.” She nibbled a wonton and shook her head. “80s flick, In Your Eyes on the boom box? No?”
“No.”
“What are you, fifteen?”
“I’m 28,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Meaning you were born in 1981; there is no excuse.”
“Yes, I was born in '81. In Korea,” she said.
“Fine, you get the pass. But we’re making a list: Things you should see. Fundamental things. Also, things I wanna see, you know, one last time.”
She poked through her noodles.
He said, “The Longest Yard, definitely. The Goonies. E.T. - No, not E. T. Too depressing. The Shining. Lethal Weapon.” He trailed off, then pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Buddy cops,” she said. “Oh.” Then, her voice careful and quiet, Monica asked, “Eric, are you here with me because you’re avoiding your friend?”
He brought his hands together. “No... No.” Then, “Probably, yes.”
“He doesn’t know.”
“Nobody knows,” Eric said. “’Cept us. We know.”
She set her plate aside. “What were you going to do? Wait until your brain was riddled with cancerous holes, until you lost control of your major organs and your body finally gave out on you?”
“You paint a real bleak picture, you know that?” he snapped.
Her shoulders sagged. He felt even more wretched. But she was right.
He sighed. “I have to tell him.”
“You should,” she agreed.
“I don’t know how,” he said. His throat threatened to close, but he forced himself to continue. “He’s my karass.”
“He’s your what?” Monica asked. She looked cautiously alarmed.
“Karass,” he explained, trying not to laugh at her expression. “It’s-it’s like family, but more the people you know. Your friends. Your co-workers. People who keep popping up in your life. You, for example. You’re my karass, too. We’re karass.”
“It sounds horrid,” she said. Then hastily added, “The word, not the concept.”
“Yeah yeah,” he said. “I could fall for you, y’know? I mean, if things in my life weren’t like a slow motion plane crash-”
She eyed him sidewise. “You’re crazy.”
“I’m dying,” he said. “C’mon. You’re exactly my type.”
Again, she seemed to sag into herself. A dejected kind of sigh. “I’m nobody’s type.”
“That’s not true.” Eric touched her hair.
She angled away from him, and then pulled the fortune cookie from her pocket. She passed it to him; a peace offering.
“Now?” he asked.
She nodded, gravely.
“Okay,” he said. “Here goes.”
He cracked it open. Read it. Re-read it. Laughed. “Your greatest ally is your own mind,” he said aloud. He sniffed. “I think this one must be yours.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Maybe it’s ours?”
He passed her half the cookie and popped his half in his mouth. It tasted like canned tomato paste. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe it is.”
~~~
“Can I get you anything?” Beaumont asked. “Water?”
She smiled at Cole. Cole smiled back. Across the table, the fish stared down at his fins. He looked miserable. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and every time he moved the rubber of his suit made embarrassing squelchy noises.
“Look,” he told them. “I didn’t even mean to rob that store.”
“Someone put you up to it?” Cole asked.
“No, nothing like that,” the fish said.
Beaumont said, “Then what was it like, Gil? Mind if I call you Gil?”
“My name’s Luis.”
“I like Gil,” Beaumont said.
“Marlin’s good, too,” Cole said. “We would call ’im that.”
“Marlin’s a game fish. He doesn’t really look like a Marlin...”
Luis the fish threw up his fins. “For the last time, I’m a trout. And my name’s Luis. And will you please stop with the damn fish jokes?”
“Oh, look, Cole, he’s starting to flounder,” Beaumont said.
“Just so long as he doesn’t keel over,” Cole said.
Luis touched his fins to his forehead. He said, “Here’s how it went down, okay. I just got this job at Immanuel’s Fish Market. My boss is a funny guy, thought we’d sell more fish if I wore a costume and waved at people on the street-”
“-Waved,” Cole said, chuckling.
“Nice,” Beaumont agreed.
Luis ignored them. “I went into the liquor store for a pack of cigarettes, and the guy behind the counter totally wigged. He practically threw the money at me. Then he said he had a gun. What was I supposed to do? I ran!”
“What were you supposed to do?” Beaumont balked.
“Probably not take the money,” Cole added.
Beaumont nodded. “Might’ve been wise. Yeah.”
Luis was shaking his head. “Next thing I knew police were chasing me through Times Square.”
Cole touched Beaumont’s arm. “They brought out the big net.”
“It was a good haul,” Beaumont said. Then she turned serious. “See, Gil, we already read all that here in our report. But certain things just don’t line up, if you catch my drift.”
Luis looked from Cole to Beaumont then back. “What things?”
“This isn’t your first arrest, is it, Gil?” Beaumont asked.
“No,” Luis said.
Beaumont opened the file and began to lay out a number of files between them. “Drunk and disorderly. Illegal possession of a hand gun. Theft by check. Forgery-”
“Holy mackerel, Luis,” Cole said. “Forgery?”
“Look, I used to run with a bad crowd, but I- I’ve changed. I got a job and everything. I know it’s a dumb job. I wear a fish suit, for Christ’s sake, but it brings in money, and I’m trying to go straight.” Luis sat back in his chair. His lower lip trembled, like he was about to cry. “Look, I swear.”
Beaumont turned to Cole. “You believe this guy?”
“I’m bitin’,” Cole said.
Beaumont gave him a surreptitious wink.
“I swear,” Luis said again.
“This bad crowd you ran with,” Beaumont said. “Were they by any chance interested in, say... Mexican music?”
Luis grew suddenly very still.
There was a knock on the door. Beaumont sent a questioning look at Cole, who responded with the barest of shrugs.
As she got up to answer it, she said, “Take your time. Mullet over.” She opened the door wide enough for Alvarez to put his face in.
“You seen my phone?” Alvarez asked.
“You check your desk?” Beaumont snapped.
“Yes,” Alvarez answered.
“Well, I haven’t seen it,” she said.
“Cole-?”
“-is in the middle of an interrogation,” Beaumont said, carefully slicing out each syllable.
“Right. Of course. As you were.” Alvarez pulled the door closed, and Beaumont returned to the table.
“See,” Cole was saying. “In this scenario, you’re the little fish-”
“-And the guys you know, your Baltimore friends,” Beaumont said. “They’re the big fish. We can work a deal here...”
“Kind of a - bait and switch sort of deal?” Luis said hopefully.
“Look at that, Cole.” Beaumont smiled. “Now he’s speaking our language.”
~~~
Leo Banks held the address for Dr. Monica Crumb on a slip of paper between his fingers. After he swung by Delahoy’s place and found it empty, Banks began to get desperate, but getting Crumb’s information had been simple enough. She was next on his list to contact. He’d done some of the leg work on the Golden Retriever case and was waiting on some calls, but it was clear that it would be a long night.
Another long night.
Right now, he had another call to make. He pressed his phone to his ear while he waited for it to connect. Alvarez came up and tapped on Banks’ desk.
“You seen my phone?” Alvarez asked.
Banks swiveled his chair to face the wall as Bridget Demopolis answered on the other end.
Banks said, “Hey, Bridge. Hey - No. No. I’m-” he flicked the paper with his thumb. “I’m not gonna make it tonight.” He listened for a minute before cutting back in. “Yeah, no. It’s - No, it’s Eric. He’s MIA.” Another pause. “No, it’s like him. It’s very like him. But - yeah - yes. I know. Thanks. Hm-mm, you too. Bye.”
As he hung up, he turned to find Delahoy in the doorway, looking rumpled and contrite.
Banks made a series of miffled noises.
Delahoy said, “Hey.”
“Hey?” Banks exploded. “Missing five hours, and you say, Hey? We have a case-”
“Calm down,” Delahoy said quietly. “Your eyes are doing that buggy thing. It’s creeping me out.”
“Oh, calm down, he says. You disappear after lunch, and Dr. Crumb’s all like-”
“-Leo,” Delahoy shouted. “We need to talk.”
Banks froze mid-erratic-gesture. He said, “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
“Not here,” Delahoy said. “Get your coat.”
“Uh. Sure,” Banks said.
~~~
Walsh was on hold with the lab when Banks and Delahoy left. Across from him, Shraeger spoke with a dispatcher who received a call about a suspicious figure wearing a ski mask.
Alvarez hovered near them, attempting several times to get their attention, but they doggedly ignored him.
“Green?” Shraeger said. Walsh, frustrated, tapped his pen on the desk. Shraeger said, “No, no thanks. Our guy is blue and red. More Spiderman, less Ninja Turtle. But thanks again, and let us know if you get anything else.”
“Walsh,” Alvarez said.
“Not now, Eddie,” Walsh snapped. Alvarez held up his hands and headed off to the break room.
“What was that about, with Delahoy and Banks?” Shraeger asked.
“Lover’s spat?” Walsh offered.
She nodded, like, That’s fair. “Any luck with the lab?”
“Been on hold for-” he checked his watch “-eighteen minutes.”
Shraeger blew out a sigh. “I’ve got a lot of phone work, too. Did you know there are 314 area codes in the United States?”
“Well there’s a creepy coincidence,” Walsh asked.
“Oh yeah,” she said, plucking at the printout on her desk. “I’ve got all of the greater metropolitan area plus New Jersey here. Gonna be a long night. But the report came in on the cat figurine. No prints, just like you thought, but they set it’s part of a set.”
“Yeah?” Walsh asked. “Like... bookends?”
“It’s the rook of a chess board,” Shraeger said.
Sergeant Brown entered and cut across the office like a storm cloud. He leaned over their desks and said, in a heavy, quiet voice, “Your guy again. Victim found at Greenwich and Houston.”
Walsh ended his phone call. “Handwriting?” he asked.
“Worse,” the Sergeant said.
“You said the victim was found?” Shraeger asked.
“He’s in the morgue,” the Sergeant said.
“That’s not our guy’s MO,” she said.
“His MO has escalated,” Sergeant Brown told her. “Get down to the morgue. Check it out, but keep it quiet, huh? This one’s just turned ugly.”
“Yes sir,” Walsh said, and he and Shraeger headed out as well.
~~~
They entered the morgue to find a young blond man pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He was scruffy in the way of table-top role players, the kind who lives in a basement apartment far from sunlight and subsists on pizza, ramen, and Mountain Dew. He wore a crisp white lab coat and horn-rim glasses. The pin on his lapel read, “Ask me about Zombies!” The body he was about to examine lay beneath a sheet on the metal table, its long, pale feet jutting out at the far end. Instead of a toe tag, a red ribbon had been tied into a bow across the ball of the victim’s foot.
Walsh said, “Where’s Dr. Crumb?”
The man held up his gloved hands in lieu of a hand shake. “Yeah, Dr. Crumb’s been let go. I’m the new guy, Dr. Zimsky. They call me the Zed,” he said. He laughed.
Walsh merely stared at him. Shraeger scratched her ear.
“Pulp Fiction,” Dr. Zimsky said. “Zed’s dead? Nothing?”
“Um, no,” Shraeger said. “What’s with the ribbon?”
“This place needs some color, dontcha think? I call it the Zimsky Effect. Just because there’s doom and gloom up in here, doesn’t mean we can’t inject a little fun. Amiright?”
“It’s a morgue,” Walsh said.
Zimsky whistled. “Tough crowd. You must be Detectives Shraeger and Walsh.”
Walsh pointed to the body. “That our handwriting victim?”
“Why, yes!” Zimsky said. “Under sheet number one, we have Ross Ryerson. ID lists him as forty-four, a Capricorn, and organ donor. Also, he’s survived by no one, so I’m checking dentals to confirm the man was who he said he was.”
Shraeger and Walsh exchanged an uncomfortable glance. Shraeger said, “Cause of death?”
Zimsky whipped the sheet back to reveal the body of Ross Ryerson and the quite obvious cause of death. “Gonna take a stab at pointy object to the heart,” Zimsky said.
Shraeger sucked air over her teeth. “Wow, that’s... impressive.”
She looked over at Walsh, who had whitened considerably. She turned back to the body and saw what she’d missed in all of the gaping chest wound.
Carved into the skin above the guy’s heart was a three digit number: 7-8-9.
“Walsh?” she said.
He swallowed thickly. “It’s a badge number,” he said.
“What? Wait. How do you know?”
He gripped the edge of the examining table and blew out a steadying breath. “I know,” he said, “Because it’s Kowalski’s.”
END OF PART ONE
Author: CelesteAvonne
Disclaimer: For Fun and Fun Alone!
Spoilers: References to all 10 episodes of The Unusuals.
Pairing/Characters: All canon pairings, including Shraeger/Davis, Walsh/Beaumont, Delahoy/Crumb, and Banks/Demopolis
Rating: PG13
Word Count: ~10,000 (split between posts)
Summary: A mugger attacks random disconnected people, leaving clues written on the victim's hands. This starts Shraeger and Walsh on the path to find a killer who seems to know all of Second Squads secrets. Meanwhile, Dr. Crumb decides to take matters into her own hands with Delahoy, wrecking Banks' illusions of a calm, normal life in the process.
Warnings: More fish puns, an unfortunate dog, and a doctor named Zimsky.
Continued from last post...
Davis slid into the booth of Noodles! Noodles! and folded his coat on the seat beside him. For a moment, he stared at the top of Casey’s head as she puzzled over the menu.
Upon closer inspection, he saw it was not a menu but a case file.
Without looking up, she said, “I ordered us spring rolls and tea. Oolong.”
“Thanks, Casey,” he said. “Any chance I’ll see your face or am I dining with The Grudge?”
She glanced up, squinted at him, returned to her file. “Sorry,” she said. “You like Oolong, right?”
“Oolong is fine,” he said. “You’re upset.”
“Worried,” she said. “It’s this case. It’s-” She shook her hands. “-bleh, work. Let’s talk about you.”
“Today Mrs. Tuplantis told me she wants to cut her stepson from the will because he insists on wearing a wig and heels to their neighbor’s pool parties in the Hamptons,” Davis said.
“Harsh.” She smiled.
“Yes,” Davis said. “No yacht for Conrad until he grows up and decides to dress like a man. He’s forty, by the way.”
Casey laughed. “What does a forty-year-old cross-dresser need with a yacht anyway?”
“Exactly,” he said. “Casey, I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh?”
The waitress brought their tea and spring rolls. When she asked if they were ready to order, Casey abruptly shooed her away.
Davis grinned. “The other night, when you stayed over...”
“That was a good night.”
“An even better morning,” he said.
“Wait. Wait,” Casey said. “I see where you’re going with this, and while I can say that I really like the idea, like I like your apartment and your coffee maker and the way you sing when you’re making breakfast-”
“-I... sing?-”
“-Old Boston songs. Adorable,” she said.
“But?”
“But I like it for the future,” she said. “Not yet. Not now.”
“I’m talking about the future, Casey,” Davis said. “I’m moving. In January.”
Casey blinked. “Moving? Moving where? Not out of the city-”
Davis laughed as if he could never consider it. Much to her relief. “No,” he said. “I bought a place from a client. It’s on 6th, just below the park. It’s one of those obnoxiously expensive places where all the snooty rich people live.”
Casey pursed her lips. “You wanna live where all the snooty rich people live?”
“It’s a beautiful place.”
“There are lots of beautiful, reasonable places.”
“You should see the view from the balcony.”
“It has a balcony?” Casey opened her menu. “I mean, my place is nice, comfortable, modest. I have a view of a brick wall, but, y’know, it’s... cozy.”
“Do you even know your neighbors?” he asked.
“I know Mr. Delano,” she said.
“Is he the guy in the novelty apron with the strategically-placed hot peppers?”
“No, that’s Mr. Bergdorf. Mr. Delano walks around with the plunger and the rubber gloves.”
“Right,” Davis said. “The guy who yells.”
“My building is charming,” Casey said. “You gonna order or what?”
Davis suppressed a smile and scanned his menu.
After a moment, Casey said, “You remember I mentioned my friend Cole’s wedding on the 24th?”
“I remember.”
“You’re gonna be my date.”
“Can I wear my top hat?”
“You have a top hat?”
“I am filthy rich.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Next time I’m at your place, I’m wearing the top hat.”
Davis eyed her sidelong.
“And nothing else,” Casey whispered.
“Deal.”
“And the wedding?”
“I’m in.”
“Then let’s eat.”
~~~
Leo Banks smoothed raindrops from his pants legs. He squeezed into a kind of cramped breakfast nook piled high with sewing scraps, magazines, and bits of old jewelry. The victim of the snatch-and-grab lilted around the kitchen, pouring tea and arranging cookies on a plate, her patchwork skirt streaming out behind her. She was early 20s, blond, and sported more tattoos than the cast of the Sons of Anarchy, what Eric would call an “earthy” girl.
Banks checked his phone again. No message from Eric. No response to his texts, ditto on the calls. Banks was beyond worried now. He’d moved into full-blown anxiety. He’d already decided to interview this girl and swing by Eric’s place to check on him.
This whole situation unnerved him. It was against protocol for Banks to interview this woman alone in her house, but with Alvarez constantly peeking at their logs, Banks felt he had to cover for Delahoy on this one. Actually, now that he thought about it, he’d been covering for Delahoy a lot lately...
“Do you take stevia, honey, or agave in your tea?” the girl asked.
“Uh. None, thanks,” he answered. “So Miss...” Banks checked his notepad. “Harper.”
“Harper’s my first name,” she said over her shoulder. “You know, like the author?”
“Right,” he said. “So, Miss...?”
“Wrenway.” She brought the tray and stacked it on the cluttered table.
“Miss Wrenway,” Banks said, scribbling that into his notes. “Report says you had a computer inside a suitcase and someone snatched it?”
She bit her lip. “It wasn’t a computer,” she admitted. “It was a Golden Retriever. You have nice hands.”
Banks stammered, “Uh - Golden Retriever?”
Miss Wrenway sat back and held her mug between her hands. “I’ve been house sitting for friends who are in Bangkok on business. They had this dog, Elsie, and she was old, really old, like 119 in dog years. I was nervous about caring for her, but they assured me she was just fine.”
“But she wasn’t fine?” Banks guessed.
“No, she died Sunday night.” She sipped her tea.
“It’s Tuesday,” he said.
“I know.” She grimaced. “I didn’t know what to do. I wrapped her in some sheets and waited until it was morning in China to call them. They said not to worry, they’d already made plans for her eventual passing, so they gave me the vet’s address in Chelsea.”
“Oh,” Banks said. He was beginning to see where the story was going.
“Elsie was a big dog, Detective Banks,” Wrenway went on. “She weighed, like, eighty pounds. I couldn’t afford to take a taxi all the way to Chelsea, but how was I going to carry this eighty-pound dog on the subway?”
“So you put it in a suitcase...”
“Exactly. It was on wheels and had a handle.” She gave him a thin smile. “So then, this guy on the subway struck up a conversation, guess he thought I was a tourist because he mentioned the suitcase. Well, I couldn’t tell him there was a dead dog inside. So I said, ‘No, it’s a computer. I’m moving it for a friend.’”
“Oh dear,” Banks said.
“I should’ve known. Soon as the train stopped, off he went-”
“-And somewhere in New York, a fence is opening a case containing one deceased canine.” He chuckled.
“Oh, it’s terrible,” she said, trying not to laugh. “You think you’ll be able to recover it? My friends love that dog. I mean they did love her. They made arrangements for her burial.”
“Well,” Banks said. “We’ll do what we can. I’ll get a description of the bag and the guy who grabbed it.”
She was staring at his hands again.
He said, “Miss Wrenway?”
“Sorry. Sorry.” She set her cup aside. “I read palms. I could do yours, if you like.”
Banks considered. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I got some place I have to be. But thank you. Another time, maybe?”
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll just, um, tell you about the guy...”
Through the rest of the interview, the girl kept glancing at his hands, and Leo grew more and more uneasy, and wished, for the thousandth time, that Delahoy was there.
~~~
The door to Monica Crumb’s had swelled in its frame. She flounced against it, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Here, let me,” Delahoy said. He shouldered into it. It squawked, but held firm.
“It warps when it rains,” Monica apologized.
“I see that,” he said. He slammed into it again. The wood groaned, but stuck. He decided on steady pressure, then, and, gripping the handle, he gave it a good steady push.
She looked worried.
“It’s all right, I do this sort of thing all the time,” he said.
“I’m concerned you’ll break my door,” she told him. “I can’t afford a replacement.”
He smiled through the strain. “Right,” he said. Then, with a pop, it opened.
“Milady.”
She minced in, moving quickly through the dimly-lit studio, toeing books and scarves and - dishes? - under the velvet settee that crouched in her front room. Eric scratched his head as he followed behind her. She deposited their take-out on a tottery antique table, then turned to him, sweeping her arms wide.
“So, here it is,” she said. Then she hugged her arms to her body and bit her lip. “You’re my first visitor.”
“That’s... really?”
She nodded.
He gazed around the dark, cramped space, and nodded appreciatively. She had an impressive number of fairly weighty books piled on makeshift shelves. Several half-melted candles dripped from the squat mantle in her living room. Another low table was stacked with colorful glass bottles and brass figurines. In the corner, he followed the rungs of a questionable looking ladder to the semi-attached loft where he assumed she must sleep.
“So, this is what they call Gothic in all the guidebooks,” he said. “You sure you’re not the understudy to a guy named Igor?”
There it was again, that smile. It winked out before he was sure he’d seen it, but he found himself watching her, looking for another wisp of it to appear.
“I have wine,” she said, going to her pantry, no smile now. “Someone should drink it.”
She began to struggle then with the corkscrew. It may have been the cutest thing he’d ever seen, even if it did border on pathetic.
“Here, let me,” he said, snatching it from her.
She relinquished the task gratefully and hurried to get the plates and glasses. “We can eat on the fire escape,” she said. “I have a nice view of the river. Take off your coat.”
“Sure.” He peeled off his damp trench and draped it over the back of her settee. “How long you lived here?”
“Three years,” she said. She passed him a plate of Szechwan beef, a glass of wine, and chopsticks.
“And I’m the first visitor?”
“Everyone who knows me is related to me, so I see them at my parents’ house in Newark,” she explained. She led him to the window that opened to the fire escape. She set her plate on the radiator and heaved up the sash. It shrieked like nails on a chalkboard, sending a fresh stab of pain between his eyes. “Sorry,” she said.
He blinked back tears. “It’s fine.” He waved her on. “Go, go.”
“Okay.” She climbed onto the fire escape, where she had two milk crates arranged around an empty wire spool. He passed her plate through, then joined her. He glanced up to find a canvas awning stretched above them, sheltering them from the rain.
A wide sweep of the river spread out before them, dotted with tugs and tankers and ferries. At night, the view probably went for spectacular.
“So this is your spot?” he said.
Monica had shoveled in a mouthful of noodles, so she nodded fervently.
“Good spot,” he said. “See what you mean about the river. Aren’t you afraid a seagull might come pick you off? I’ve seen some big as bicycles...”
She choked on her noodles. He grinned.
Food was still weird to him, so he picked at his Szechwan beef. It was spicy, which helped, but it tasted the way cigarette smoke smells, so... not great.
Monica swallowed. After a moment, she said, “Can I tell you a secret?”
“You have another secret?”
“Yes.”
“This one as big as the last one?”
She stabbed at her noodles with the chopsticks. “Maybe?”
“Sure, you can tell me your secret,” Eric said. “I might not even blackmail you over it.”
“Promise?”
“Pinky swear.”
She drew a deep breath. He braced himself. She said, “I hated my job.”
“You - you hated your job? That’s your big secret?”
“Yes,” she said.
“But-”
“I’m Asian!” she said.
“I noticed.”
“My parents wanted me to go into medicine,” she said. “But I have zero bedside manner-”
“-This I also noticed.”
She shrugged. “And I’m good at the forensic part, the whole puzzle of death, you know?”
“Sure, yeah, death’s puzzle.”
“But I hated the paperwork and the odd hours and the smell and then one night, it came to me, the truth of it all...”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“That we all end up in body bags,” she said.
He chuckled dryly. “There’s a romantic sentiment.”
“Sorry-”
“Nah, don’t be,” he said. “Dying, remember? Anyway, it’s not unlike my job.”
“But don’t you hate it?” she asked.
A faint glimmer lit his eyes. “No,” he said. “Sure, long hours, odd smells, and the paperwork, what’s to like about those? But I love the job. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be a cop. I mean, back in high school, I was the guy who - who kept everyone in the crosswalk, who took everyone’s keys at the parties. Like Lloyd Dobler. I was Lloyd Dobler.”
“I don’t know who that is,” she said.
“What?” He sniffed. “Lloyd Dobler. Say Anything.” She nibbled a wonton and shook her head. “80s flick, In Your Eyes on the boom box? No?”
“No.”
“What are you, fifteen?”
“I’m 28,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Meaning you were born in 1981; there is no excuse.”
“Yes, I was born in '81. In Korea,” she said.
“Fine, you get the pass. But we’re making a list: Things you should see. Fundamental things. Also, things I wanna see, you know, one last time.”
She poked through her noodles.
He said, “The Longest Yard, definitely. The Goonies. E.T. - No, not E. T. Too depressing. The Shining. Lethal Weapon.” He trailed off, then pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Buddy cops,” she said. “Oh.” Then, her voice careful and quiet, Monica asked, “Eric, are you here with me because you’re avoiding your friend?”
He brought his hands together. “No... No.” Then, “Probably, yes.”
“He doesn’t know.”
“Nobody knows,” Eric said. “’Cept us. We know.”
She set her plate aside. “What were you going to do? Wait until your brain was riddled with cancerous holes, until you lost control of your major organs and your body finally gave out on you?”
“You paint a real bleak picture, you know that?” he snapped.
Her shoulders sagged. He felt even more wretched. But she was right.
He sighed. “I have to tell him.”
“You should,” she agreed.
“I don’t know how,” he said. His throat threatened to close, but he forced himself to continue. “He’s my karass.”
“He’s your what?” Monica asked. She looked cautiously alarmed.
“Karass,” he explained, trying not to laugh at her expression. “It’s-it’s like family, but more the people you know. Your friends. Your co-workers. People who keep popping up in your life. You, for example. You’re my karass, too. We’re karass.”
“It sounds horrid,” she said. Then hastily added, “The word, not the concept.”
“Yeah yeah,” he said. “I could fall for you, y’know? I mean, if things in my life weren’t like a slow motion plane crash-”
She eyed him sidewise. “You’re crazy.”
“I’m dying,” he said. “C’mon. You’re exactly my type.”
Again, she seemed to sag into herself. A dejected kind of sigh. “I’m nobody’s type.”
“That’s not true.” Eric touched her hair.
She angled away from him, and then pulled the fortune cookie from her pocket. She passed it to him; a peace offering.
“Now?” he asked.
She nodded, gravely.
“Okay,” he said. “Here goes.”
He cracked it open. Read it. Re-read it. Laughed. “Your greatest ally is your own mind,” he said aloud. He sniffed. “I think this one must be yours.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Maybe it’s ours?”
He passed her half the cookie and popped his half in his mouth. It tasted like canned tomato paste. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe it is.”
~~~
“Can I get you anything?” Beaumont asked. “Water?”
She smiled at Cole. Cole smiled back. Across the table, the fish stared down at his fins. He looked miserable. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and every time he moved the rubber of his suit made embarrassing squelchy noises.
“Look,” he told them. “I didn’t even mean to rob that store.”
“Someone put you up to it?” Cole asked.
“No, nothing like that,” the fish said.
Beaumont said, “Then what was it like, Gil? Mind if I call you Gil?”
“My name’s Luis.”
“I like Gil,” Beaumont said.
“Marlin’s good, too,” Cole said. “We would call ’im that.”
“Marlin’s a game fish. He doesn’t really look like a Marlin...”
Luis the fish threw up his fins. “For the last time, I’m a trout. And my name’s Luis. And will you please stop with the damn fish jokes?”
“Oh, look, Cole, he’s starting to flounder,” Beaumont said.
“Just so long as he doesn’t keel over,” Cole said.
Luis touched his fins to his forehead. He said, “Here’s how it went down, okay. I just got this job at Immanuel’s Fish Market. My boss is a funny guy, thought we’d sell more fish if I wore a costume and waved at people on the street-”
“-Waved,” Cole said, chuckling.
“Nice,” Beaumont agreed.
Luis ignored them. “I went into the liquor store for a pack of cigarettes, and the guy behind the counter totally wigged. He practically threw the money at me. Then he said he had a gun. What was I supposed to do? I ran!”
“What were you supposed to do?” Beaumont balked.
“Probably not take the money,” Cole added.
Beaumont nodded. “Might’ve been wise. Yeah.”
Luis was shaking his head. “Next thing I knew police were chasing me through Times Square.”
Cole touched Beaumont’s arm. “They brought out the big net.”
“It was a good haul,” Beaumont said. Then she turned serious. “See, Gil, we already read all that here in our report. But certain things just don’t line up, if you catch my drift.”
Luis looked from Cole to Beaumont then back. “What things?”
“This isn’t your first arrest, is it, Gil?” Beaumont asked.
“No,” Luis said.
Beaumont opened the file and began to lay out a number of files between them. “Drunk and disorderly. Illegal possession of a hand gun. Theft by check. Forgery-”
“Holy mackerel, Luis,” Cole said. “Forgery?”
“Look, I used to run with a bad crowd, but I- I’ve changed. I got a job and everything. I know it’s a dumb job. I wear a fish suit, for Christ’s sake, but it brings in money, and I’m trying to go straight.” Luis sat back in his chair. His lower lip trembled, like he was about to cry. “Look, I swear.”
Beaumont turned to Cole. “You believe this guy?”
“I’m bitin’,” Cole said.
Beaumont gave him a surreptitious wink.
“I swear,” Luis said again.
“This bad crowd you ran with,” Beaumont said. “Were they by any chance interested in, say... Mexican music?”
Luis grew suddenly very still.
There was a knock on the door. Beaumont sent a questioning look at Cole, who responded with the barest of shrugs.
As she got up to answer it, she said, “Take your time. Mullet over.” She opened the door wide enough for Alvarez to put his face in.
“You seen my phone?” Alvarez asked.
“You check your desk?” Beaumont snapped.
“Yes,” Alvarez answered.
“Well, I haven’t seen it,” she said.
“Cole-?”
“-is in the middle of an interrogation,” Beaumont said, carefully slicing out each syllable.
“Right. Of course. As you were.” Alvarez pulled the door closed, and Beaumont returned to the table.
“See,” Cole was saying. “In this scenario, you’re the little fish-”
“-And the guys you know, your Baltimore friends,” Beaumont said. “They’re the big fish. We can work a deal here...”
“Kind of a - bait and switch sort of deal?” Luis said hopefully.
“Look at that, Cole.” Beaumont smiled. “Now he’s speaking our language.”
~~~
Leo Banks held the address for Dr. Monica Crumb on a slip of paper between his fingers. After he swung by Delahoy’s place and found it empty, Banks began to get desperate, but getting Crumb’s information had been simple enough. She was next on his list to contact. He’d done some of the leg work on the Golden Retriever case and was waiting on some calls, but it was clear that it would be a long night.
Another long night.
Right now, he had another call to make. He pressed his phone to his ear while he waited for it to connect. Alvarez came up and tapped on Banks’ desk.
“You seen my phone?” Alvarez asked.
Banks swiveled his chair to face the wall as Bridget Demopolis answered on the other end.
Banks said, “Hey, Bridge. Hey - No. No. I’m-” he flicked the paper with his thumb. “I’m not gonna make it tonight.” He listened for a minute before cutting back in. “Yeah, no. It’s - No, it’s Eric. He’s MIA.” Another pause. “No, it’s like him. It’s very like him. But - yeah - yes. I know. Thanks. Hm-mm, you too. Bye.”
As he hung up, he turned to find Delahoy in the doorway, looking rumpled and contrite.
Banks made a series of miffled noises.
Delahoy said, “Hey.”
“Hey?” Banks exploded. “Missing five hours, and you say, Hey? We have a case-”
“Calm down,” Delahoy said quietly. “Your eyes are doing that buggy thing. It’s creeping me out.”
“Oh, calm down, he says. You disappear after lunch, and Dr. Crumb’s all like-”
“-Leo,” Delahoy shouted. “We need to talk.”
Banks froze mid-erratic-gesture. He said, “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
“Not here,” Delahoy said. “Get your coat.”
“Uh. Sure,” Banks said.
~~~
Walsh was on hold with the lab when Banks and Delahoy left. Across from him, Shraeger spoke with a dispatcher who received a call about a suspicious figure wearing a ski mask.
Alvarez hovered near them, attempting several times to get their attention, but they doggedly ignored him.
“Green?” Shraeger said. Walsh, frustrated, tapped his pen on the desk. Shraeger said, “No, no thanks. Our guy is blue and red. More Spiderman, less Ninja Turtle. But thanks again, and let us know if you get anything else.”
“Walsh,” Alvarez said.
“Not now, Eddie,” Walsh snapped. Alvarez held up his hands and headed off to the break room.
“What was that about, with Delahoy and Banks?” Shraeger asked.
“Lover’s spat?” Walsh offered.
She nodded, like, That’s fair. “Any luck with the lab?”
“Been on hold for-” he checked his watch “-eighteen minutes.”
Shraeger blew out a sigh. “I’ve got a lot of phone work, too. Did you know there are 314 area codes in the United States?”
“Well there’s a creepy coincidence,” Walsh asked.
“Oh yeah,” she said, plucking at the printout on her desk. “I’ve got all of the greater metropolitan area plus New Jersey here. Gonna be a long night. But the report came in on the cat figurine. No prints, just like you thought, but they set it’s part of a set.”
“Yeah?” Walsh asked. “Like... bookends?”
“It’s the rook of a chess board,” Shraeger said.
Sergeant Brown entered and cut across the office like a storm cloud. He leaned over their desks and said, in a heavy, quiet voice, “Your guy again. Victim found at Greenwich and Houston.”
Walsh ended his phone call. “Handwriting?” he asked.
“Worse,” the Sergeant said.
“You said the victim was found?” Shraeger asked.
“He’s in the morgue,” the Sergeant said.
“That’s not our guy’s MO,” she said.
“His MO has escalated,” Sergeant Brown told her. “Get down to the morgue. Check it out, but keep it quiet, huh? This one’s just turned ugly.”
“Yes sir,” Walsh said, and he and Shraeger headed out as well.
~~~
They entered the morgue to find a young blond man pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He was scruffy in the way of table-top role players, the kind who lives in a basement apartment far from sunlight and subsists on pizza, ramen, and Mountain Dew. He wore a crisp white lab coat and horn-rim glasses. The pin on his lapel read, “Ask me about Zombies!” The body he was about to examine lay beneath a sheet on the metal table, its long, pale feet jutting out at the far end. Instead of a toe tag, a red ribbon had been tied into a bow across the ball of the victim’s foot.
Walsh said, “Where’s Dr. Crumb?”
The man held up his gloved hands in lieu of a hand shake. “Yeah, Dr. Crumb’s been let go. I’m the new guy, Dr. Zimsky. They call me the Zed,” he said. He laughed.
Walsh merely stared at him. Shraeger scratched her ear.
“Pulp Fiction,” Dr. Zimsky said. “Zed’s dead? Nothing?”
“Um, no,” Shraeger said. “What’s with the ribbon?”
“This place needs some color, dontcha think? I call it the Zimsky Effect. Just because there’s doom and gloom up in here, doesn’t mean we can’t inject a little fun. Amiright?”
“It’s a morgue,” Walsh said.
Zimsky whistled. “Tough crowd. You must be Detectives Shraeger and Walsh.”
Walsh pointed to the body. “That our handwriting victim?”
“Why, yes!” Zimsky said. “Under sheet number one, we have Ross Ryerson. ID lists him as forty-four, a Capricorn, and organ donor. Also, he’s survived by no one, so I’m checking dentals to confirm the man was who he said he was.”
Shraeger and Walsh exchanged an uncomfortable glance. Shraeger said, “Cause of death?”
Zimsky whipped the sheet back to reveal the body of Ross Ryerson and the quite obvious cause of death. “Gonna take a stab at pointy object to the heart,” Zimsky said.
Shraeger sucked air over her teeth. “Wow, that’s... impressive.”
She looked over at Walsh, who had whitened considerably. She turned back to the body and saw what she’d missed in all of the gaping chest wound.
Carved into the skin above the guy’s heart was a three digit number: 7-8-9.
“Walsh?” she said.
He swallowed thickly. “It’s a badge number,” he said.
“What? Wait. How do you know?”
He gripped the edge of the examining table and blew out a steadying breath. “I know,” he said, “Because it’s Kowalski’s.”
END OF PART ONE