Due South Amnesty!
More WIP Amnesty. This is the beginning of an epic Due South AU that never went beyond the beginning...
It had always been one of Constable Benton Fraser's maxims that, even as Proper Preparation Prevents Poor Performance, so Vigilance Facilitates Timely Action. Unfortunately, he had as yet been unable to frame this beneficial principle in a suitably memorable phonetic form. Nevertheless, it was indubitably true, as was proven once again on the twenty-first of October, shortly before thirty-seven minutes after eight pm. This was the moment in which Stanley Raymond Kowalski fell into his arms.
Events had moved swiftly, but under Leftenant Welsh's calm and competent direction, the Chicago PD - and Fraser - responded with an equal and equivalent speed. Ten minutes after the call from the FBI, a team had been assembled, and not a quarter of an hour later, it was in position with fully one and a half minutes to spare.
Antonio Fiorentino drove up in a black limousine of the kind commonly dubbed stretch car. Four heavily muscled associates accompanied him into the restaurant, which was standard procedure and did not indicate any heightened watchfulness. No one paid undue attention to the alley across the street where Fraser and Diefenbaker waited, and the limousine moved off without delay as soon as Fiorentino had entered the building.
"Right." Leftenant Welsh's voice sounded flat and tinny through the small earpiece. "We'll give him another minute and then move in. Nobody better jump the gun and mess this up. Remember we got a bunch of civilians in there."
Fraser waited for twenty-five seconds before beginning to cross the street at a pace that would bring him to the door of The Vesuvius precisely ten seconds before the specified amount of time had elapsed.
"I'm going in now." That was Ray, brisk and calm, his voice mingling with Welsh's order to the same effect.
Diefenbaker was through the door as soon as Fraser pushed it open, loping along the corridor past Ray, who had come out of the cloak room that had apparently served as his hiding place slightly ahead of Fraser.
They reached the restaurant proper two seconds ahead of schedule. Fraser briefly contemplated pointing this out to Ray, but refrained, knowing - as he did - that his remark would only be ignored or, at worse, taken as an intentional annoyance.
The small restaurant was well-filled, though not crowded - two of the fourteen tables were still unoccupied. Fiorentino had just settled at the best table in the house, the largest one by the picture window to the garden. One of his associates had his coat folded over one arm and was waiting to receive the coats of the men Fiorentino was meeting with. The other three had moved to a smaller table that had apparently been set up especially for them, as it was fashioned from a different wood than the other tables. Unsurprisingly, it commanded an excellent view of the entire room.
As soon as Ray pushed open the frosted glass door, the four bodyguards' eyes went to him. Fraser remained standing in the doorway as Dief and Ray moved purposefully towards Mr. Fiorentino.
Mr. Fiorentino began to stand, but sat down again immediately when Leftenant Welsh and his team chose that moment to enter from the kitchen. Detectives Huey and Dewey had by now entered the garden to stand on the other side of the picture window, and the officers who had settled hastily at the surrounding tables got to their feet. Observing the target of the operation closely, Fraser noted a quick, subtle flicker of the fingers that was evidently a signal to the bodyguards, who responded by visibly relaxing and dangling their hands in carefully plain sight by their sides.
Ray and several of his colleagues proceeded to arrest everyone who had been sitting at the table by the window, as well as Mr. Fiorentino's associates. Through it all, Mr. Fiorentino remained calm and civil. No doubt he expected to employ more insidious means than gunfire to beat down the charges that the state of New York had brought against him.
Justice might yet fail in the case of Mr. Fiorentino - Fraser's painfully earned experience tended to suggest that it was even likely. But while he could do nothing to prevent a legal loophole, an amoral lawyer or even intimidated or bribed jurors or judges to impede justice, Fraser had done his part.
These days, he did his best to restrict himself to perfecting the things he could do to the exclusion of even thinking about the things he could not.
Lieutenant Welsh had turned to the room at large and was now addressing the eleven remaining diners, all of whom had been watching the proceedings with various degrees of interest and amazement. "Sorry to interrupt your evening, folks, but it'll just be another ten minutes before you can go on enjoying your dinner. We'll need to have a look at your IDs and take down your names and addresses in case we need to contact you as witnesses or for any other reason. Nothing to be worried about, it's routine."
One of the guests had risen and was walking towards the staircase.
Ray started after him. "Hey! Where are you going?"
"Bathroom," the diner replied, not stopping.
Ray began to run. The suspect began to run, as well, and took the stairs that led upwards instead of those that led down, to the bathrooms. Within moments, Fraser's partner and the man he was pursuing had disappeared from sight. Dief glanced at Fraser, plainly wishing to follow suit, and he signalled for the wolf to assist Ray. Fraser himself turned and briskly made his way outside.
Though Fraser could not see much of what was happening due to the fact that all of the windows in the second story were equipped with heavy velvet curtains, the sounds of running feet, Ray's raised voice and the clicking of Dief's claws on polished wood were barely muffled by the interposed walls and allowed him to follow events with a high amount of accuracy. The fugitive diner had been quickly cornered. Dief was growling a deep-throated warning, announcing his intent to use force if the suspect continued to resist arrest, as befitted a law enforcement animal.
Fraser's only warning were three light, almost dancing steps resounding on parquet; then, the window directly above Fraser exploded outwards beneath the weight of a man flinging himself through the glass.
The amount of time it takes a man to traverse the distance between the second-story window of an Italian restaurant in downtown Chicago and the pavement below said window, even slowed by impact with an officer of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, is infinitessimal. It is, in fact, negligible in terms of any meaningful attempt at documentation.
Thus, Fraser found himself lying stunned on the pavement, uncertain of the exact chain of events that connected the impact of the suspect with his present position, and fighting to draw breath against a painful constriction of shock around his chest. His left shoulder and hip had impacted heavily with the pavement and hurt considerably; his cheekbone was aching from the impact of a hard skull. A very sharp elbow was digging into his stomach, and there was hair in his nose. It held the chemical smell of hairwax and hairspray as well as the residue of a vaguely musk-scented shampoo, and it would make him sneeze violently in another moment.
It was very fortunate that Constable Fraser had high standards of performance and adhered so strictly to the maxims he had adopted and chosen to propagate. He recovered swiftly, straightened his posture - not quite incidentally removing his nose from the suspect's hair -, tightened his initially purely reflexive grip around the fallen man, and rolled over to confine him against the ground.
"Uh," the restrained diner grunted. "Oh, ow. Shit."
"Sir, considering the circumstances I must advise you to remain where you are without further attempts at resistance. My partner will be along presently in order to arrest you," Fraser informed his prisoner.
The announcement was greeted by a dazed look. "Huh - wha?"
"Don't move," Fraser amended.
While this command was not met with complete obedience, Fraser decided to let his prisoner's subsequent movements pass without remark or attempt at more comprehensive restraint. The suspect seemed too dazed from his fall to assail an escape in the amount of time it would take Ray to join them.
Fraser's prisoner gingerly touched a hand to his face, feeling the small cut along the left cheek, and probed at his side with a slight grimace of pain. Once he had assured himself that his looks were not likely to suffer from his reckless actions and his ribs, while no doubt bruised, were not broken, he returned his attention to the man who was pinning him to the ground.
By now, Fraser had grown used to the small double-take at the sight of the unfamiliar uniform, the pause while the person in question attempted to place the distinctive apparel, and the vaguely puzzled look as, according to each individual's level of general education and familiarity with Canada, they either failed in their attempt or succeeded, only to come up against the question of what a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in full uniform was doing in Chicago.
"Who the hell are you? They get a coked-up fashion designer to spiff up the old Chicago PD while I wasn't looking?"
"Ah, no. My name is Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police," Fraser explained. "I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father and, for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, I have remained, attached to the Canadian consulate as a liason to the Chicago police department."
Dazed eyes closed. The tousled head fell back against the pavement with an audible thump, and Fraser could not prevent a small wince. "Jeez, forget I asked."
"Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
"Huh?"
Fraser sighed and willed himself to be patient. "Who are you, sir?"
"Oh. Thought you were saying it's a pleasure meeting with and all, kinda strange under the circumstances, dontcha think?"
"Not at all - politeness is never inappropriate. Now may I perhaps trouble you to tell me your name and your reason to attempt to leave The Vesuvius in a rather precipitate manner?"
"Precipitate. Yeah, right, whatever." The stranger snorted, and after a moment, Fraser realized the sound was intended to pass for a laugh of sorts. "I am so screwed."
Fraser refrained from pointing out that this was not, in fact, the case.
****
"Stanley Raymond Kowalski," Francesca read out with a dramatic flourish. "No outstanding warrants. Born 1960 in Chicago, bla bla bla. You want the juvenile stuff? Okay, a bunch of charges of petty theft and drunk and disorderly conduct, plus one apiece of gross insult, damage to property, and bodily assault. He spent a good part of his teens in and out of corrective homes. Seems he got a bit more careful, though there was one more charge of petty theft just after he turned legal. Nothing after that except a couple of parking tickets and a lot of complaints lodged by neighbors because he likes to play deafening music and party his little heart out in the middle of the night. He's married, no job or children, at least none of either he'll admit to. Has a place on Third Street and Secours. Drivers license for motorcycles, cars, trucks, you name it. Anything more you want to know? Like did you know this guy hit on me, like, about half a dozen times already? Charming guy you picked up there, Fray-sier. "
"Actually, Francesca, he fell on me," Fraser said.
"You want to handle Kowalski, Fraser? I'll see if I can't shake Fiorentino up a bit before the Feds get here."
"Ray -"
But Ray, of course, was already gone.
All in all, Fraser would say that he had adjusted fairly well to working with his new partner. The man who had taken on Ray Vecchio's name, job and place in the world was an adequately competent police officer, and if Fraser found him a sadly inadequate replacement for his absent friend, then he took pains never to let the new Ray suspect his feelings in the matter. After all, it was hardly his fault that he was not, in fact, Ray Vecchio. Neither was it his fault that the real Ray Vecchio had been called away on an undercover assignment.
Even so, it was impossible to deny that some of the new Ray's characteristics did not sit well with Fraser.
"Glory dog," Francesca muttered. Fraser was unable to disagree.
****
"Mr. Kowalski."
Kowalski raised tired eyes to Fraser briefly before letting his chin drop back to his chest. "Heya, Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."
"Would you care for another cup of coffee?"
"Nah, just get on with it."
"Very well." Fraser sat down on the chair opposite from Kowalski and unsuccessfully attempted to catch his gaze. "Are you aware of why we are holding you?"
That earned him a shrug of feigned indifference. "Don't think about that kind of thing where you cops are concerned. Figure you'll tell me when you want me to know and not let on a second earlier."
"So you are not aware why we are holding you, is that correct?"
Another shrug and a brief, nervous glance. "Changed my mind. You said you got some more coffee?"
"Certainly." Fraser rose, took the empty styrofoam cup the suspect extended to him, and went outside to refill it. When he returned, Mr. Kowalski was watching him with a new kind of wariness that he couldn't find an immediate explanation for.
"Thanks," Kowalski mumbled as he accepted the cup, blowing onto the surface of the beverage distractedly. His eyes never left Fraser.
"Is something the matter?" Fraser felt moved to ask.
"You some kinda psychologist, you know, like that chick Feeb in the flick with the cannibal guy?"
As he had taught himself to do, Fraser consciously put aside the confusing reference to a so-called flick involving a chick, a Feeb and a cannibal, resisting the impulse to puzzle over it and instead concentrating on the main meaning of Kowalski's words. "Why would you think that?"
"You're trying to psyche me out. You left the door open. Had the partner waiting outside, right?"
"Actually, Mr. Kowalski, my inofficial partner with the Chicago PD, Detective Raymond Vecchio, is presently interrogating Mr. Fiorentino."
Kowalski snorted and gulped down a mouthful of coffee. To judge by his grimace, it wasn't to his taste, but he did not let that deter him from drinking the remainder in three swallows.
"Mr. Kowalski, you left the restaurant The Vesuvius in a rather -"
"Perspicacious," he threw in with an unsuspected grin that lit up his face with the briefest flash of good-natured mischief.
Fraser paused for a second, distracted both by the interjected word and the smile. "Considering the fact that you failed to effect your getaway and were instead taken into custody, I am forced to disagree. I was going to say precipitate."
"Dictionary Man flies again. Sorry, sorry. Go on, didn't mean ta distract ya."
"As I recall, you were the one who flew, Mr. Kowalski."
The slightly braying laugh the remark prompted from the suspect pleased Fraser. He did have a sense of humor when he chose to exercise it.
"To get back to the point I was making, you left the restaurant The Vesuvius in an extremely *precipitate* manner, obviously in a failed attempt to flee the police. By doing so, you effectively resisted arrest, in itself grounds for prosecution. Why did you feel it necessary to make such an ill-thought-out attempt?"
"Had to go to the bathroom."
"You ran from Detective Vecchio and Diefenbaker, passed a clearly marked set of restrooms, trespassed into an area of the house equally clearly marked as private, and there jumped out of a window when the Detective and Diefenbaker had driven you into a corner."
"Forgot about having to go to the bathroom with the cop and the dog chasing after me like that. Panicked me, ya know. The police makes me nervous."
"And why is that, Mr. Kowalski?"
"Come off it, you've seen my rap sheet. Childhood trauma, what do you think?"
"What would you say if I were to tell you there was an outstanding warrant for your arrest, Mr. Kowalski?"
"I would say you were full of shit, Benton Fraser of the Mounted Canadian Royal Police, Mr. Constable Sir."
Bluff called, Fraser retreated into the squad room to think.
***
It didn't take him long to come up with the answer, and Francesca was very helpful in confirming his suspicions by pulling up the file on Mr. Kowalski's wife. Barely ten minutes had passed when Fraser returned to the interrogation room.
"Diefenbaker, is that the dog?"
"Half-wolf, actually."
"Cool."
"Mr. Kowalski, are you informed as to your wife's present whereabouts?"
All expression dropped from his face immediately, leaving it closed and sullen. Fraser found himself inexplicably irritated.
"Okay, cop, here's the deal. You gonna book me for anything, get on with it. You're not, lemme go. You wanna play twenty questions, fine. But I ain't gotta talk to you about my wife. I know my rights, see? You got no business asking me stuff about my own wife. So if that's all you were wanting, you might as well save both of us a great deal of bother."
"Your wife is wanted for smuggling, fraud, and fencing stolen goods, Mr. Kowalski."
"I got nothing to say to you bout Helen."
"How do you make a living, Mr. Kowalski?"
"You accusing me of anything?"
"I was merely asking you a question. Is there a reason why you shouldn't answer me?"
"I'm an exotic dancer, Constable, and on my time off I sell my skinny ass on street corners."
Fraser was temporarily at a loss for words.
"Christ on a crutch. Look, I put up shelves and do repair work in the neighborhood, help out with a couple body shops when they got a lotta cars in or one of the mechanics is sick, bounce at one of the clubs downtown, lotsa things."
"May I assume there is proof of this?"
"Who am I to tell you what to assume? But if you want names and phone numbers to check up on me, knock yourself out. Got something to write?"
It took almost half an hour and the help of the phone book and yellow pages to compile the list. By the time it was finished, a dozen FBI agents and as many lawyers had arrived for Fiorentino, and Ray had stuck his head into the room three times with increasing impatience.
"Busy day, huh?" Kowalski commented as he handed the list over with a flourish. "There ya go, Benton Constable Fraser Sir. Anything else I can do for ya today? One lap dance is usually on the house for our friends from law enforcement."
"No thank you," Fraser said politely. "I know where to find you if there are further questions."
"That mean I can go?"
Fraser had not finished uttering the affirmative when Mr. Kowalski was on his feet and halfway out the door. He turned back just as Fraser made to follow, nearly causing a collision that was only avoided by dint of Fraser's quick reflexes.
"Hey, Fraser Constable Benton. You ever find those guys?"
"Which guys in particular are you referring to, Mr. Kowalski?"
"You know, the guys you came here on the trails of. Who killed your old man."
Fraser hesitated slightly before deciding that there was no reason not to answer. "I have not yet been able to apprehend the party or parties responsible, no."
"That sucks." Mr. Kowalski shook his moussed head. "Good luck, then. Hope you get the bastards."
"Ah, yes. As do I. Thank you kindly."
***
(Someone was going to try to kill Ray - probably his estranged criminal wife - and he was going to be forced to hide out in the Consulate. Eventually, he was going to help Fraser track down the killer of his father. And of course they were going to fall in love somewhere along the way. But... got stuck. Never got unstuck.)
And you know, there are more where these came from... a plotty XF "Alex vs the Russian Mafia" beginning, a "Mulder Strikes Back!" XF snippet, the start of a BtVS/Angel story that was thoroughly Jossed ages ago, a TPM fragment, even that horrid and mercifully unfinished 30-page ST:VOY angst-fest that was my first crime against slashdom when I was a bright-eyed baby slasher.
But I think I have inflicted quite enough upon the unsuspecting public for one day. :-)
It had always been one of Constable Benton Fraser's maxims that, even as Proper Preparation Prevents Poor Performance, so Vigilance Facilitates Timely Action. Unfortunately, he had as yet been unable to frame this beneficial principle in a suitably memorable phonetic form. Nevertheless, it was indubitably true, as was proven once again on the twenty-first of October, shortly before thirty-seven minutes after eight pm. This was the moment in which Stanley Raymond Kowalski fell into his arms.
Events had moved swiftly, but under Leftenant Welsh's calm and competent direction, the Chicago PD - and Fraser - responded with an equal and equivalent speed. Ten minutes after the call from the FBI, a team had been assembled, and not a quarter of an hour later, it was in position with fully one and a half minutes to spare.
Antonio Fiorentino drove up in a black limousine of the kind commonly dubbed stretch car. Four heavily muscled associates accompanied him into the restaurant, which was standard procedure and did not indicate any heightened watchfulness. No one paid undue attention to the alley across the street where Fraser and Diefenbaker waited, and the limousine moved off without delay as soon as Fiorentino had entered the building.
"Right." Leftenant Welsh's voice sounded flat and tinny through the small earpiece. "We'll give him another minute and then move in. Nobody better jump the gun and mess this up. Remember we got a bunch of civilians in there."
Fraser waited for twenty-five seconds before beginning to cross the street at a pace that would bring him to the door of The Vesuvius precisely ten seconds before the specified amount of time had elapsed.
"I'm going in now." That was Ray, brisk and calm, his voice mingling with Welsh's order to the same effect.
Diefenbaker was through the door as soon as Fraser pushed it open, loping along the corridor past Ray, who had come out of the cloak room that had apparently served as his hiding place slightly ahead of Fraser.
They reached the restaurant proper two seconds ahead of schedule. Fraser briefly contemplated pointing this out to Ray, but refrained, knowing - as he did - that his remark would only be ignored or, at worse, taken as an intentional annoyance.
The small restaurant was well-filled, though not crowded - two of the fourteen tables were still unoccupied. Fiorentino had just settled at the best table in the house, the largest one by the picture window to the garden. One of his associates had his coat folded over one arm and was waiting to receive the coats of the men Fiorentino was meeting with. The other three had moved to a smaller table that had apparently been set up especially for them, as it was fashioned from a different wood than the other tables. Unsurprisingly, it commanded an excellent view of the entire room.
As soon as Ray pushed open the frosted glass door, the four bodyguards' eyes went to him. Fraser remained standing in the doorway as Dief and Ray moved purposefully towards Mr. Fiorentino.
Mr. Fiorentino began to stand, but sat down again immediately when Leftenant Welsh and his team chose that moment to enter from the kitchen. Detectives Huey and Dewey had by now entered the garden to stand on the other side of the picture window, and the officers who had settled hastily at the surrounding tables got to their feet. Observing the target of the operation closely, Fraser noted a quick, subtle flicker of the fingers that was evidently a signal to the bodyguards, who responded by visibly relaxing and dangling their hands in carefully plain sight by their sides.
Ray and several of his colleagues proceeded to arrest everyone who had been sitting at the table by the window, as well as Mr. Fiorentino's associates. Through it all, Mr. Fiorentino remained calm and civil. No doubt he expected to employ more insidious means than gunfire to beat down the charges that the state of New York had brought against him.
Justice might yet fail in the case of Mr. Fiorentino - Fraser's painfully earned experience tended to suggest that it was even likely. But while he could do nothing to prevent a legal loophole, an amoral lawyer or even intimidated or bribed jurors or judges to impede justice, Fraser had done his part.
These days, he did his best to restrict himself to perfecting the things he could do to the exclusion of even thinking about the things he could not.
Lieutenant Welsh had turned to the room at large and was now addressing the eleven remaining diners, all of whom had been watching the proceedings with various degrees of interest and amazement. "Sorry to interrupt your evening, folks, but it'll just be another ten minutes before you can go on enjoying your dinner. We'll need to have a look at your IDs and take down your names and addresses in case we need to contact you as witnesses or for any other reason. Nothing to be worried about, it's routine."
One of the guests had risen and was walking towards the staircase.
Ray started after him. "Hey! Where are you going?"
"Bathroom," the diner replied, not stopping.
Ray began to run. The suspect began to run, as well, and took the stairs that led upwards instead of those that led down, to the bathrooms. Within moments, Fraser's partner and the man he was pursuing had disappeared from sight. Dief glanced at Fraser, plainly wishing to follow suit, and he signalled for the wolf to assist Ray. Fraser himself turned and briskly made his way outside.
Though Fraser could not see much of what was happening due to the fact that all of the windows in the second story were equipped with heavy velvet curtains, the sounds of running feet, Ray's raised voice and the clicking of Dief's claws on polished wood were barely muffled by the interposed walls and allowed him to follow events with a high amount of accuracy. The fugitive diner had been quickly cornered. Dief was growling a deep-throated warning, announcing his intent to use force if the suspect continued to resist arrest, as befitted a law enforcement animal.
Fraser's only warning were three light, almost dancing steps resounding on parquet; then, the window directly above Fraser exploded outwards beneath the weight of a man flinging himself through the glass.
The amount of time it takes a man to traverse the distance between the second-story window of an Italian restaurant in downtown Chicago and the pavement below said window, even slowed by impact with an officer of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, is infinitessimal. It is, in fact, negligible in terms of any meaningful attempt at documentation.
Thus, Fraser found himself lying stunned on the pavement, uncertain of the exact chain of events that connected the impact of the suspect with his present position, and fighting to draw breath against a painful constriction of shock around his chest. His left shoulder and hip had impacted heavily with the pavement and hurt considerably; his cheekbone was aching from the impact of a hard skull. A very sharp elbow was digging into his stomach, and there was hair in his nose. It held the chemical smell of hairwax and hairspray as well as the residue of a vaguely musk-scented shampoo, and it would make him sneeze violently in another moment.
It was very fortunate that Constable Fraser had high standards of performance and adhered so strictly to the maxims he had adopted and chosen to propagate. He recovered swiftly, straightened his posture - not quite incidentally removing his nose from the suspect's hair -, tightened his initially purely reflexive grip around the fallen man, and rolled over to confine him against the ground.
"Uh," the restrained diner grunted. "Oh, ow. Shit."
"Sir, considering the circumstances I must advise you to remain where you are without further attempts at resistance. My partner will be along presently in order to arrest you," Fraser informed his prisoner.
The announcement was greeted by a dazed look. "Huh - wha?"
"Don't move," Fraser amended.
While this command was not met with complete obedience, Fraser decided to let his prisoner's subsequent movements pass without remark or attempt at more comprehensive restraint. The suspect seemed too dazed from his fall to assail an escape in the amount of time it would take Ray to join them.
Fraser's prisoner gingerly touched a hand to his face, feeling the small cut along the left cheek, and probed at his side with a slight grimace of pain. Once he had assured himself that his looks were not likely to suffer from his reckless actions and his ribs, while no doubt bruised, were not broken, he returned his attention to the man who was pinning him to the ground.
By now, Fraser had grown used to the small double-take at the sight of the unfamiliar uniform, the pause while the person in question attempted to place the distinctive apparel, and the vaguely puzzled look as, according to each individual's level of general education and familiarity with Canada, they either failed in their attempt or succeeded, only to come up against the question of what a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in full uniform was doing in Chicago.
"Who the hell are you? They get a coked-up fashion designer to spiff up the old Chicago PD while I wasn't looking?"
"Ah, no. My name is Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police," Fraser explained. "I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father and, for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, I have remained, attached to the Canadian consulate as a liason to the Chicago police department."
Dazed eyes closed. The tousled head fell back against the pavement with an audible thump, and Fraser could not prevent a small wince. "Jeez, forget I asked."
"Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
"Huh?"
Fraser sighed and willed himself to be patient. "Who are you, sir?"
"Oh. Thought you were saying it's a pleasure meeting with and all, kinda strange under the circumstances, dontcha think?"
"Not at all - politeness is never inappropriate. Now may I perhaps trouble you to tell me your name and your reason to attempt to leave The Vesuvius in a rather precipitate manner?"
"Precipitate. Yeah, right, whatever." The stranger snorted, and after a moment, Fraser realized the sound was intended to pass for a laugh of sorts. "I am so screwed."
Fraser refrained from pointing out that this was not, in fact, the case.
****
"Stanley Raymond Kowalski," Francesca read out with a dramatic flourish. "No outstanding warrants. Born 1960 in Chicago, bla bla bla. You want the juvenile stuff? Okay, a bunch of charges of petty theft and drunk and disorderly conduct, plus one apiece of gross insult, damage to property, and bodily assault. He spent a good part of his teens in and out of corrective homes. Seems he got a bit more careful, though there was one more charge of petty theft just after he turned legal. Nothing after that except a couple of parking tickets and a lot of complaints lodged by neighbors because he likes to play deafening music and party his little heart out in the middle of the night. He's married, no job or children, at least none of either he'll admit to. Has a place on Third Street and Secours. Drivers license for motorcycles, cars, trucks, you name it. Anything more you want to know? Like did you know this guy hit on me, like, about half a dozen times already? Charming guy you picked up there, Fray-sier. "
"Actually, Francesca, he fell on me," Fraser said.
"You want to handle Kowalski, Fraser? I'll see if I can't shake Fiorentino up a bit before the Feds get here."
"Ray -"
But Ray, of course, was already gone.
All in all, Fraser would say that he had adjusted fairly well to working with his new partner. The man who had taken on Ray Vecchio's name, job and place in the world was an adequately competent police officer, and if Fraser found him a sadly inadequate replacement for his absent friend, then he took pains never to let the new Ray suspect his feelings in the matter. After all, it was hardly his fault that he was not, in fact, Ray Vecchio. Neither was it his fault that the real Ray Vecchio had been called away on an undercover assignment.
Even so, it was impossible to deny that some of the new Ray's characteristics did not sit well with Fraser.
"Glory dog," Francesca muttered. Fraser was unable to disagree.
****
"Mr. Kowalski."
Kowalski raised tired eyes to Fraser briefly before letting his chin drop back to his chest. "Heya, Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."
"Would you care for another cup of coffee?"
"Nah, just get on with it."
"Very well." Fraser sat down on the chair opposite from Kowalski and unsuccessfully attempted to catch his gaze. "Are you aware of why we are holding you?"
That earned him a shrug of feigned indifference. "Don't think about that kind of thing where you cops are concerned. Figure you'll tell me when you want me to know and not let on a second earlier."
"So you are not aware why we are holding you, is that correct?"
Another shrug and a brief, nervous glance. "Changed my mind. You said you got some more coffee?"
"Certainly." Fraser rose, took the empty styrofoam cup the suspect extended to him, and went outside to refill it. When he returned, Mr. Kowalski was watching him with a new kind of wariness that he couldn't find an immediate explanation for.
"Thanks," Kowalski mumbled as he accepted the cup, blowing onto the surface of the beverage distractedly. His eyes never left Fraser.
"Is something the matter?" Fraser felt moved to ask.
"You some kinda psychologist, you know, like that chick Feeb in the flick with the cannibal guy?"
As he had taught himself to do, Fraser consciously put aside the confusing reference to a so-called flick involving a chick, a Feeb and a cannibal, resisting the impulse to puzzle over it and instead concentrating on the main meaning of Kowalski's words. "Why would you think that?"
"You're trying to psyche me out. You left the door open. Had the partner waiting outside, right?"
"Actually, Mr. Kowalski, my inofficial partner with the Chicago PD, Detective Raymond Vecchio, is presently interrogating Mr. Fiorentino."
Kowalski snorted and gulped down a mouthful of coffee. To judge by his grimace, it wasn't to his taste, but he did not let that deter him from drinking the remainder in three swallows.
"Mr. Kowalski, you left the restaurant The Vesuvius in a rather -"
"Perspicacious," he threw in with an unsuspected grin that lit up his face with the briefest flash of good-natured mischief.
Fraser paused for a second, distracted both by the interjected word and the smile. "Considering the fact that you failed to effect your getaway and were instead taken into custody, I am forced to disagree. I was going to say precipitate."
"Dictionary Man flies again. Sorry, sorry. Go on, didn't mean ta distract ya."
"As I recall, you were the one who flew, Mr. Kowalski."
The slightly braying laugh the remark prompted from the suspect pleased Fraser. He did have a sense of humor when he chose to exercise it.
"To get back to the point I was making, you left the restaurant The Vesuvius in an extremely *precipitate* manner, obviously in a failed attempt to flee the police. By doing so, you effectively resisted arrest, in itself grounds for prosecution. Why did you feel it necessary to make such an ill-thought-out attempt?"
"Had to go to the bathroom."
"You ran from Detective Vecchio and Diefenbaker, passed a clearly marked set of restrooms, trespassed into an area of the house equally clearly marked as private, and there jumped out of a window when the Detective and Diefenbaker had driven you into a corner."
"Forgot about having to go to the bathroom with the cop and the dog chasing after me like that. Panicked me, ya know. The police makes me nervous."
"And why is that, Mr. Kowalski?"
"Come off it, you've seen my rap sheet. Childhood trauma, what do you think?"
"What would you say if I were to tell you there was an outstanding warrant for your arrest, Mr. Kowalski?"
"I would say you were full of shit, Benton Fraser of the Mounted Canadian Royal Police, Mr. Constable Sir."
Bluff called, Fraser retreated into the squad room to think.
***
It didn't take him long to come up with the answer, and Francesca was very helpful in confirming his suspicions by pulling up the file on Mr. Kowalski's wife. Barely ten minutes had passed when Fraser returned to the interrogation room.
"Diefenbaker, is that the dog?"
"Half-wolf, actually."
"Cool."
"Mr. Kowalski, are you informed as to your wife's present whereabouts?"
All expression dropped from his face immediately, leaving it closed and sullen. Fraser found himself inexplicably irritated.
"Okay, cop, here's the deal. You gonna book me for anything, get on with it. You're not, lemme go. You wanna play twenty questions, fine. But I ain't gotta talk to you about my wife. I know my rights, see? You got no business asking me stuff about my own wife. So if that's all you were wanting, you might as well save both of us a great deal of bother."
"Your wife is wanted for smuggling, fraud, and fencing stolen goods, Mr. Kowalski."
"I got nothing to say to you bout Helen."
"How do you make a living, Mr. Kowalski?"
"You accusing me of anything?"
"I was merely asking you a question. Is there a reason why you shouldn't answer me?"
"I'm an exotic dancer, Constable, and on my time off I sell my skinny ass on street corners."
Fraser was temporarily at a loss for words.
"Christ on a crutch. Look, I put up shelves and do repair work in the neighborhood, help out with a couple body shops when they got a lotta cars in or one of the mechanics is sick, bounce at one of the clubs downtown, lotsa things."
"May I assume there is proof of this?"
"Who am I to tell you what to assume? But if you want names and phone numbers to check up on me, knock yourself out. Got something to write?"
It took almost half an hour and the help of the phone book and yellow pages to compile the list. By the time it was finished, a dozen FBI agents and as many lawyers had arrived for Fiorentino, and Ray had stuck his head into the room three times with increasing impatience.
"Busy day, huh?" Kowalski commented as he handed the list over with a flourish. "There ya go, Benton Constable Fraser Sir. Anything else I can do for ya today? One lap dance is usually on the house for our friends from law enforcement."
"No thank you," Fraser said politely. "I know where to find you if there are further questions."
"That mean I can go?"
Fraser had not finished uttering the affirmative when Mr. Kowalski was on his feet and halfway out the door. He turned back just as Fraser made to follow, nearly causing a collision that was only avoided by dint of Fraser's quick reflexes.
"Hey, Fraser Constable Benton. You ever find those guys?"
"Which guys in particular are you referring to, Mr. Kowalski?"
"You know, the guys you came here on the trails of. Who killed your old man."
Fraser hesitated slightly before deciding that there was no reason not to answer. "I have not yet been able to apprehend the party or parties responsible, no."
"That sucks." Mr. Kowalski shook his moussed head. "Good luck, then. Hope you get the bastards."
"Ah, yes. As do I. Thank you kindly."
***
(Someone was going to try to kill Ray - probably his estranged criminal wife - and he was going to be forced to hide out in the Consulate. Eventually, he was going to help Fraser track down the killer of his father. And of course they were going to fall in love somewhere along the way. But... got stuck. Never got unstuck.)
And you know, there are more where these came from... a plotty XF "Alex vs the Russian Mafia" beginning, a "Mulder Strikes Back!" XF snippet, the start of a BtVS/Angel story that was thoroughly Jossed ages ago, a TPM fragment, even that horrid and mercifully unfinished 30-page ST:VOY angst-fest that was my first crime against slashdom when I was a bright-eyed baby slasher.
But I think I have inflicted quite enough upon the unsuspecting public for one day. :-)