FIC: "At First Sight I: By Our Eyes" (3/4) (Law & Order Logan/Stone Logan/OMC NC-17 Slash)
Continued from "At First Sight I: By Our Eyes" (2/4)
For Notes, Warnings, Ratings, and Disclaimers, please see Part 1
At First Sight I: By Our Eyes (3/4)
"Thanks for taking the time to talk to me, Doctor." Ben stirred his coffee gingerly, wondering if it was just his imagination that the stirrer was sticking sluggishly to the bottom of the cup. He set the stirrer aside, but didn't lift the cup. Instead, he planted his hands on the table, waiting.
"Sure." Dr. Udall had proved to be much younger than Ben had expected, surely not more than twenty-five, if that. He was blessed with dark good looks that were neither Hispanic nor Indian nor African-American, but perhaps some blend of all three. His voice was soft, and well-educated, no big surprise, but his dark eyes were regarding Ben with genuine puzzlement. "What I'm not sure," he went on, "is exactly why you want to talk to me. I wasn't on Webster's team, I never even saw him. I just happened to be here that night."
"But you still remember the case, even now," Ben observed, and wondered why he flinched.
"Everybody remembers it," Udall said presently. "Half the surgeons on shift were in there trying to save him." He quickly finished assembling the chicken salad sandwich on his tray, and lifted it to his mouth for a small, fastidious bite. While he chewed, Ben reached into his pocket, pulling out a photograph and sliding it across the table.
"Then, if you weren't in surgery, you might have seen this man there that night. Was he there?"
Udall glanced at the picture, and nodded. "Sure," he said, swallowing. "The brother. I remember him."
Ben pushed the picture closer. "I want you to be absolutely sure. This is the man you saw?"
After giving the photograph another dutiful look, Udall pushed it back. "That's him," he confirmed.
Slowly, Ben retrieved the picture. "Would it surprise you, Doctor, to learn that Mr. Webster denies ever having been here that night?"
Apparently it did. The doctor's sandwich stopped halfway to his mouth, and he stared at Ben as if he'd gone insane. "Yes," he said at last. "It would." His thick brows drew together. "That's crazy," he said. "He was here, half the staff saw him. Why would he deny it?"
"I don't know. Maybe you could tell me."
"Do I look like a mind reader? I barely spoke to him. He was almost hysterical, crying, ranting. I think they ended up asking him to leave." Udall shook his head. "Why are you asking me?" he asked. "I wasn't even remotely involved with either the boy or his brother."
"And yet you remember very clearly what happened."
Udall picked up his sandwich, bit, and chewed. After he'd swallowed, he said, with unnecessary care. "A friend of mine was involved. I guess it stuck in my mind because he talked about it."
"Officer Logan?" Ben inquired, and Udall stiffened as if Ben had slapped him across the face. Judging from his expression, Ben might as well have.
"Okay," he said evenly. "Yeah. I stitched up his partner, and we got to talking about the kid. I guess it sunk in."
"Enough that when Officer Logan came back the next day, you mentioned to him that you'd seen Carl's brother."
"I guess so." Udall carefully replaced his sandwich on his tray, as if it suddenly nauseated him. "I wanted him to know. He seemed worried about the kid."
"So you volunteered that you'd seen Jake Webster."
Udall made an exasperated noise. "For the last time, yes." He leaned forward, his face set in an expression of cold anger. "What the hell is this about? Is it a crime to talk about who was and wasn't in the ER on a certain night? It wasn't like I was giving away state secrets. It was just a conversation."
Ben felt as though he'd been punched in the gut. *It was just a conversation.* Logan's exact words. Coincidence? If not, if Logan had actually bothered to rehearse it with him, the question then became
'Why?' "Did Officer Logan tell you to say that?"
"No." Now he was looking at Ben as though he were deranged. "Look. I haven't seen him in over a month, all right?" His expression was cold now, and his mouth tightened in what Ben realized belatedly was pure fury. "Very cute, Counselor," he said tightly, and stood up, reaching for his tray. "Stupid of me to think you'd bother over a kid like Webster. Well, you've had your fun. If you'll excuse me, I've got work to do." With that, he walked off, leaving Ben feeling as though he'd stepped on solid ground, only to have it sink under his feet. Leaving the dubious coffee behind, of which he hadn't even taken a single sip, Ben scrambled up and darted after Udall, catching him up just as he was about to slip through the doors.
"Doctor," he said urgently, and laid a hand on his arm. "Doctor, whatever you may be thinking, I *am* only here to find out the truth about Jake Webster."
"Sure." Udall pulled away from him, and started walking down the corridor, hands shoved in his pockets.
"Doctor!" Cursing under his breath, Ben trotted after, his long legs eating up the ground far faster even than Udall's furious stride. "Doctor, I'm not interested in getting you or Officer Logan in trouble. I just want to know about Jake."
Udall whirled abruptly in mid-stride, turning to face Ben so suddenly that he very nearly plowed into him. "I've told you what I know," he insisted. "If that's all you're really after, then this conversation ended about five minutes ago. Good night."
"Wait! Please," Ben added as Udall turned, then faltered. "Please, that is all I'm after. But I need to know who else talked to Webster that night."
"Why, so you can harass them, too?"
That did it. Ben took a step closer, lowering his voice to what a former associate had once referred to as "ball-busting range." "If you think this is harassment, sir," he said. "then I'll be glad to re-educate you down at Central Booking."
Muscles bunched along the line of Udall's jaw. He didn't back down, but Ben saw the threat hit home. He swallowed, and met Ben's eyes. "What do you want?"
"Just the names of the people on staff who might have spoken to Jake Webster. I promise you, if they cooperate, they will not be harassed, not even by your standards."
Udall breathed deep, once. "That's all?"
"That's all."
The other man regarded him for a long, wary moment, until Ben began to wonder exactly what kind of test he was being assessed for. "Look," he said at last. "I don't want to lose my job. I don't want Mike to lose his job. If I tell you the names, you'll forget you ever spoke to me, okay?"
Ben began to feel as though he were swimming in molasses, floating in a dark, unfathomable morass of sudden hidden meaning. He felt, despite the fact that it was only the two of them here in this hall, that he and Nicholas Udall were having two completely different conversations with one another. "Doctor," he said, and worked to make his voice reasonable again, reassuring. "Doctor, the guilty flee when no man pursueth. I swear to you, the only thing on my mind right now is finding out why Jake Webster chose to lie about being here the night his brother died. Anything else is secondary."
Udall didn't look reassured. "I wish I could believe you, Mr. Stone," he said quietly. He sighed, and looked down. "Will I have to testify?"
"Does that make a difference?"
"It does if they ask me where we were when I told Mike about Mr. Webster."
Ben opened his mouth to ask what difference that would make, then shut it again. Oh. Slowly, he began to understand what Udall was telling him--what he'd been trying to tell him all along. Or he thought he did. For a second, he couldn't even speak, his brain churning with so many thoughts that he could hardly pick enough words from the morass to form a sentence. Dear God. Dr. Udall . . . and Mike Logan. It was obvious, now.
*Obvious to you,* a more cynical portion of his mind finally retorted, and Ben realized that he needed to make sure. He blinked, settling his thoughts firmly in place, and tried to think of how to convey what he needed to Dr. Udall, without compromising him, or Logan . . . or anyone else. Ben lowered his voice, leaning a little closer, and saw the doctor's eyes dart to him again, wary and confused. "Doctor," he said quietly, "Just to be sure we understand one another . . . I don't care if you spoke to Officer Logan in here, or at a bar--" He paused carefully. "Or across a pillow. Does that help clear things up?"
Udall flushed deeply, but less, Ben suspected, from embarrassment than from the sudden release from worry. "Yes," he said stiffly, but the strain of trying to conceal his relief was apparent. "Thank you," he added. He glanced around, as if only now making sure that the two of them were alone, then reached in his pocket for a pen. "Here. Let me write down those names."
-----
Ben left the hospital with a list of six names in his pocket, the unwarranted gratitude of an ER doctor, and the dazed, unfocused feeling of a man who, innocently lifting the sofa cushion to find a lost penny, discovers a hundred-dollar bill instead. Or, to be more accurate, discovers a love letter written by his wife to her boyfriend. Girlfriend. Either way, it was something he didn't want to know. Correction. Something he had no right to know.
The proper thing to do, as he well knew, would be to forget he ever had the knowledge. Mike Logan's personal life had no bearing whatsoever on this case, and it was Ben's duty to set aside all other considerations, no matter how intriguing or shocking they might be. In Logan's shoes, he told himself firmly, he would certainly appreciate a District Attorney who could keep his mouth shut, and refrain from bringing up the subject ever again. After all, he, of all people, should cherish the gift of privacy when it came to what happened behind the bedroom doors.
None of this soul-searching, however, explained why, as Ben drove back to his office, he had to close his eyes more than once to block out the picture of long, pale limbs tangling with brown, of two bodies locked together on tossed, rumpled sheets. It was unprofessional, he told himself sternly, even as his mind veered resolutely away from the image. He had no business engaging in any kind of speculation about a certain officer's sex life, not even to imagine what his face might look like flushed with passion, or how those full, curved lips would feel in a kiss, or pressed against bare skin . . .
Ben squeezed his eyes shut. This was not helping. What difference did it make, after all, to find out that Logan had slept with Nicholas Udall? A very big one, apparently. Ben admitted it. He had, in a small corner of his mind, assessed Mike Logan as an attractive man. Ben was human, and he had long ago given up trying to pretend to he didn't find other of his fellow beings appealing. Those considerations, however, didn't belong as part of the job of the District Attorney. He was long used to setting them aside, to breaking down the people in his office into defendants, witnesses, lawyers, and clerks, letting whatever function they served take precedence over the package they came in. He had never let it cross that fine line, and he was angry at himself for allowing the simple knowledge of Logan's involvement with another man to cloud his perceptions. It didn't matter, he told himself sternly. Logan was a witness, a fellow officer of the court, and therefore as off-limits as any other colleague, male or female. Period. Ben only wished that the decision made him feel better.
-----
The next day, Ben was ready to talk to Jake Webster. He'd turned Udall's list over to Spinelli, without explaining where he'd gotten it, and within a few short hours Spinelli had assembled a gratifying array of doctors and nurses who would gladly testify that Mr. Webster's appearance was not a figment of Udall's imagination. That, and more.
Ben had never met Jake Webster before. He'd been described as Carl's older brother, but Ben was startled to discover that "older" was very much a relative term. He couldn't, Ben realized, be much more than nineteen or twenty himself, scarcely older than Carl. He was tall, and burly, his build much more in keeping with his father than his mother, but it was clear that he hadn't inherited much more than his father's bulk. He came in meekly, and sat where Ben pointed, twisting his thick hands in his lap while he studied Ben with pale, nervous eyes. Any other time, Ben might have pitied him. But there was another Webster boy that right now held the lion's share of any sympathy he might have to offer.
As soon as Jake was seated, Ben stood and walked around the desk, leaning over to lay a slim folder in front of him.
"Mr. Webster. This is a copy of the statement you gave to detective Spinelli the day after your brother was killed. Would you look at it, please?"
Jake's eyes darted to him, and his mouth opened, beginning to shape a question. Then he shut his lips, and turned to the folder, opening it slowly and taking out the typed sheets.
"Do you remember what you said?" Ben asked.
"Yes." It was the first word Jake had spoken, and he had to clear his throat before going on. "Yes, I do."
"You told Detective Spinelli that you were home all night. That you didn't hear about your brother's death until your mother's lawyer phoned you at eight in the morning."
"That's right."
Ben let the words hang there, let them sink in, let Jake hear the last echoes of the lie. He straightened slowly, and reached around for a second, rather thicker folder, and placed it carefully beside the first. "Then perhaps you'd care to explain, sir, why six nurses and doctors in the emergency room where your brother died, all remember you being there, all night."
The shock on Webster's face was almost comical, the innocent outrage of a child discovered in an impossible fib. He gulped. "You talked to them?" he asked incredulously. "Why . . .?"
"Because it's my job," Ben said quietly. He sank slowly into the chair across from him, folding his hands on top of the table. "Why did you lie?" he asked gently.
For a long time, Jake could only stare at him, his eyes round with shock, and fear. His lips worked, a pale tongue reaching out to lick them nervously. "I was scared," he finally admitted, the small, meek voice hardly fitting with his sturdy, rough bulk. "I knew--Carl was dead," Jake said, his voice almost a whisper. "There wasn't anything else I could do for him, see? I knew I couldn't let my old man know that--that I was there."
"But there was more to it, wasn't there?" Ben prompted gently. "You called 911, didn't you?"
The awe on Jake's face might have been flattering, if it wasn't also pathetic. "How did you find out?"
Out came another paper, a folded, creased printout from the phone company. "These are the usage details from your parents' phone. Someone there spoke to you for three minutes. The call to 911 came in less than a minute later."
The young man's lips pursed, tightening as he studied the papers in front of him. His teeth raked at his lower lip, and Ben thought he saw his chin begin to quiver, as if he were on the verge of tears. Ben swallowed, and pushed. "You tried to help him," he said softly. "You knew he was in trouble, so you called the police. You went to the hospital. What I don't understand is why you would lie about it."
The quiver ceased abruptly, as Jake clamped his mouth tight once more. "Because Carl was dead!" he burst out. "He was dead, and there wasn't anything anyone could do about it! What does it matter what happened?"
"It matters a great deal," Ben said sternly. "Your brother wasn't killed in an accident. He wasn't hit by a bus, or killed by a disease. He was murdered. And I think that you know by whom."
But Jake shook his head stubbornly. "I don't," he insisted.
"But you know something. That's why you lied." Ben waited. "Mr. Webster," he said evenly, "I'm almost ready to go to trial, to prosecute your father for your brother's murder. And when I do, I'm going to subpoena you as a witness, and you'll have to take the stand, and swear an oath to tell the truth. And I'll be asking these questions again."
Jack was staring, wide-eyed. "He'll kill her," he said flatly. "He'll kill both of us."
"Not if we put him away for murder. He killed your brother, Jake. If that means anything to you, then you'll help me put him in prison."
A long, still silence fell over the room, over the space between the two men. Ben didn't dare break it, not even to add another plea. The balance between Jake's cooperation and his refusal was as thin as the blade of a knife. One push, either way, and it would tip over. Ben wanted that push to come from Jake.
"He called me," Jake said, his voice soft, and sad. Ben breathed a silent sigh. "He called me, and he said that Dad was crazy, that he was worse than Carl had ever seen him. He begged me to help him. Then I heard Dad yelling, and the phone went dead." He stopped.
After a pause, Ben prodded him. "So you called 911."
Jake nodded. "I told them what was happening, then I got in my car and started over there. I live in Brooklyn," he said, apologizing. "By the time I got there . . ." He turned away, breathing deep, his eyes suddenly bright. "All I could do was go to the hospital after that. I stayed until Carl--" His voice broke. He looked down, staring at his beefy hands, lying loose in his lap. "I wanted him to come and live with me," he said presently. "But he wouldn't. He was afraid that Dad . . . without him there . . . that Mom . . ." He looked away again. "I should have stayed," he whispered. "I should have stayed, and taken care of them. But I--" He looked down. "I couldn't." He breathed deep, then lifted his head, facing Ben with the tears bright in his eyes. "I'll testify," he said.
-----
By the time the trial began, and Ben was ready to begin prepping his witnesses, he'd convinced himself that he'd dealt sufficiently with his feelings about Mike Logan. It wasn't, after all, as if he had much choice. Whatever he'd learned, albeit inadvertently, from Nicholas Udall, he had no right to know. Every personal and professional ethic he held dear told him, in no uncertain terms, that it would be the worst kind of invasion of Mike's privacy to act on that knowledge, in thought, word, or deed. But, dear God, sometimes it was hard.
After the divorce, after Helen had left him, he'd wondered sometimes if he would ever have the courage to date anyone again, male or female. It had taken nearly a year before he had so much as ventured to ask an old friend for a casual dinner, and more long months had passed before he'd allowed himself to accept a more intimate invitation from another equally old friend. It had been an agonizing experience, the brief moment of release as painful as it was pleasurable, and after it was over he had embarrassed both himself and his partner by succumbing to tears. He'd yet to find the courage, or even the desire, to try the experiment again. Until he'd met Mike Logan.
The easiest thing, he supposed, would be to pass the whole thing off as simple lust. Ben could argue to himself that he was attracted to Logan for his looks, for his young, lithe figure, for the broad shoulders and strong arms and big, capable hands. He could probably convince himself, too, that it was the tactile itch of wanting to touch that thick, sleek hair, to explore the long planes of his face, to look closely, just once, into those deep gray eyes, and to find out, once and for all, if those soft, curving lips could keep the promises he imagined them making.
Unfortunately, this kind of thinking, he realized, wasn't helping at all. Especially when it was only half of the truth anyway. His own damn ethics had, after all, twisted around to betray him. *Look at the person, not the body. Treat them as human beings, not as objects.* So he'd looked at Mike Logan, looked at the quick mind behind the anonymous blue uniform, looked at the passionate anger, barely controlled, that had arisen on behalf of the victim. His compassion, his dedication, his youthful enthusiasm for a job that routinely made cynics out of fresh-faced rookies . . . all of it had been allowed to get through, to create an admiration for the young cop that had, at first, absolutely nothing to do with his long-limbed body, with the feral, dangerous grace with which he moved, and nothing to do with the quiet fire that smoldered behind those cool eyes. But now that he'd seen it, Ben couldn't make himself ignore it. It was all Nick Udall's fault.
It was a well-rehearsed refrain by now, Ben wishing that he'd never spoken to the young doctor, wishing, too, that the other man's fears hadn't betrayed him. Betrayed Mike. What was the phrase? "The bell can't be unrung," something like that. Nick Udall's words had turned Logan into a sexual creature, had revealed him as a man with a life beyond the uniform, beyond the job. Ben would have liked to believe that it would have been the same if Dr. Udall was a woman, but that was one lie he couldn't even tell to himself. No, the truth was that now that Ben knew that Mike Logan was a man who loved other men, he couldn't seem to help himself from imagining that he could be one of those other men. He despised himself for it, even as he indulged in the fantasies, in the dreams that he hoped would purge Logan from his mind. Finally, he believed that it just might have worked.
The illusion lasted all of about a minute after Logan showed up for his first prep session, just long enough for Ben to shake his hand, and invite him to take a seat. Logan was wearing black tonight, black knit shirt, black jeans. Ben found himself comparing it to the dark blue he'd worn before, deciding if he liked the contrast to the pale skin, or if the blue had been a better choice for accenting his eyes. About then, he realized that all his careful pretensions had been a lie, and hated himself for it.
Pretensions aside, Ben couldn't help but notice, as Logan took the offered chair and settled himself carefully into it, that he seemed nervous. His hands were just a little too busy, the line of his jaw just a shade too tight. With those clues, Ben felt perfectly justified in asking, as he returned to his own chair, "Is everything all right, Officer?"
Logan stiffened in the chair, his chin coming up defiantly. "Yeah," he said, far too quickly. "Everything's fine. Why?"
He all but barked the last, and Ben leaned back, startled, even as he forced himself to suppress a smile. "You seem a little nervous," he explained, and saw the other man's shoulders relax a fraction, as if Logan were willing the tension away.
"I've never done this before," he finally said, the admission forced reluctantly from him. "I dunno," he went on. "This all seems a little . . . unethical."
"Preparing a witness?" Ben shrugged. "It's common practice, Officer. Unclear testimony confuses the jury, and if the jury gets confused they might just give up. Neither side wants that."
"Yeah, but rehearsing it makes the whole thing seem kind of . . . predetermined."
It was an objection Ben had dealt with before, and he warmed gratefully to the subject, glad of the excuse to turn to the job at once, to focus on his work and ignore the all-too-obvious distractions occupying the chair not four feet from his. "It's not all rehearsal," he said. "I won't expect you to recite your testimony word for word. Far from it. I just want to make sure that when you do give your answers, you're clear, and I'm clear, on exactly what the facts are, and how you'll present them."
This didn't seem to reassure Logan. "Yeah," he said darkly. "Spin control. Great."
"That's not a fair judgment," Ben said quietly. He leaned back again, studying the other man speculatively, wondering how best to put it to someone who was so clearly uncomfortable with the notion of adjusting the truth. "Think of it this way," he said after a while. "Would you rather go in there without any preparation, and have Joseph Webster's lawyer trip you up on some minor detail that you'd never thought of before? Would you rather give him the chance to twist your words, and persuade the jury that his client wasn't responsible for Carl's death? These sessions won't change the truth. They'll just make sure that the truth gets told."
Logan still looked unconvinced, but he nodded grudgingly. "Okay." He sat back in the chair, spreading his hands. "Let's go."
Having been over the ground twice before, the session was mostly to familiarize Logan with the questions, to cue him on the sequence of the story, and to impart a few tips on giving testimony. Ben had guessed that he'd pick up fairly quickly on what was expected of him, and by the end of Ben's questions he was delivering exactly what Ben wanted: clear, concise answers, informative and to the point.
"Very good," Ben said when they'd finished, and saw the other man relax a little in his chair. "But that's the easy part," he added, and saw Logan's dark brows come together. "Next, you'll be cross-examined by the defense, and they'll be doing their best to poke holes in every scrap of testimony."
"So what do I do?"
"Don't help them," Ben said firmly. "If possible, just answer yes or no, and if you have to make a statement, make it short. Remember, their questions are designed to elicit information that will further their case. If you imagine every word out of your mouth as adding weight to their side, you won't be far wrong. They'll also do their best to try to make you look foolish, or confused." Ben paused, giving him an assessing look, and added, "Or make you lose that Irish temper."
A corner of Logan's mouth quirked up. "Equal opportunity harassment, huh?"
"Something like that." Ben reached back for his other notepad, and propped it on his knee. "Ready?"
"Sure."
Ben ran his eyes down the points he'd mapped out for himself, planning the best spot for an attack. It was a part of the job he secretly enjoyed, poking holes in his own case, finding the imperfections and flaws and doing his darndest to torpedo himself. Helen would have called it masochistic.
The thought was enough to sober him, and take a little of the thrill away. *The perfect damper for every moment,* he thought wistfully, and ran his pen down the page to the first question.
Because it was Logan's first time, he went easy on him, asking the questions in a straightforward manner, simply getting him used to what would and would not help the case. By the time they were finished, it was nearly eight, and Ben was ready to go home.
"That's all for now," he said at last, and turned his pages of notes back to the front. "Thank you, Officer. We'll do this again on Thursday."
Logan merely nodded shortly, and stood up. "Sure." He went to the door without another word, but when he would have opened it, his hand touching the knob, he suddenly stopped, his body frozen, hesitating. Ben glanced up, studying the impassive back that was turned to him, then slipped his glasses off and raised his voice.
"Officer? Is something wrong?"
It was almost as if Logan had forgotten Ben was there. He jerked, startled, and turned his back to give Ben a brief, piercing stare. "No," he said quickly. "Everything's fine. I'll see you Thursday." He opened the door, and stepped through, reaching back to pull it to. But his hand hesitated again, lingering on the knob instead of pulling it, and as Ben watched, his brows climbing, Logan strode back inside, letting the door shut behind him with a bang. He stared at Ben for a long moment, his jaw working, and Ben felt a small tightness begin in his belly. Even before he spoke, he knew what the other man was going to say.
"Look," Logan said harshly, "I know, okay?"
Deliberately, Ben chose to misunderstand. "Know what?" he asked mildly, and saw Logan's face tense in anger.
"Don't," he said tightly. "I talked to Nick Udall this weekend. He told me that you talked to him about Jake Webster." Logan paused, swallowing. "And he told me what else you talked about."
Ah. Slowly, Ben reached up and removed his glasses. Despite the fact that he'd sworn never to have this conversation, he found, now that the moment was here, that the words were ready, as if he'd rehearsed them a thousand times. Maybe he had, at that.
He put the glasses carefully on the desk, and folded his hands in front of them, not quite able, yet, to meet the angry, all-too-vulnerable eyes that were, he was sure, still focused on him from across the room. "I'd hoped," he said, and heard the tired resignation in his voice, heard also the relief of no longer having to hold in the secret, "that you wouldn't find out. Dr. Udall gave me the impression that you weren't . . ." He tripped briefly over the phrase, and finally amended, "that he hadn't seen you in a while."
"He made the time. You can guess why." Logan's jaw worked, and he folded his arms over his chest. "So. What are you going to do?"
That was easy. "Absolutely nothing," Ben told him firmly. He leaned back, rocking gently in his chair. "Whatever you may think, it's hardly relevant to the case."
For a second, the other man all but gaped. "It's pretty relevant to me, Counselor," he finally got out.
Ben let his expression soften. "I realize that," he said quietly. "But I'm here to prosecute a murder. Not publish the bedroom secrets of the NYPD."
"So you don't care." Logan's voice was unexpectedly harsh. "It makes no difference to you."
"Should it?" The words were out before Ben could censor them, before he was sure that he really wanted to. He felt a little ill, and it wasn't hard to guess why. The truth was that it *had* made a difference, a big one. But he wasn't sure that Logan would appreciate knowing that right now.
While the words settled between them, laden, Ben was sure, with any number of dangerous meanings, Logan took a step forward, leaning down to brace his hands on the back of the chair. "I'm a good cop," he said, almost growling the words. "I want to stay a cop. And now you've got this hanging over my head. One word, and it's all over. You don't know what that feels like."
The anger that surged up in Ben's chest was hot and quick, exactly, he realized, like the metaphorical kettle that had finally boiled over. What the hell, after all, did this young man know about the disaster that such secrets could make of a life? "Are you so sure about that?" he heard himself say, and then shut his mouth hard, appalled and dismayed. Dear lord, were the wounds still that deep? Had everything he'd been through in the last two years left him that vulnerable, that fragile? Apparently so. The rest of the words were there, the story ready to pour out at the slightest provocation, the least excuse. But he clamped his lips, determined that, if nothing else, he could at least keep his dignity, if not his secrets. He took a deep, controlling breath, and forced himself to be calm, willing his next words to be rational, reasonable. "You aren't," he said, and surprised himself with the sudden gentleness in his voice, "the only one with secrets, Officer."
He'd thought he was being discreet, that the extra qualifier might just mitigate the implications of his first, hasty words. Instead, he watched Mike's eyes widen, the soft gray growing clearer as his face took on an almost comical expression of shocked understanding.
"Shit," he said, and shut his mouth quickly, as if unaware until he heard the word that he'd spoken out loud. "Wow." He stood upright, his hands twitching awkwardly at his sides as he tried visibly to find the words, the expression, to say what he wanted. "I'm sorry," he said at last, and the soft, careful rumble of that deep voice was surprisingly soothing, a gentle, apologetic caress over Ben's strained nerves. It was exactly the balm to finish the cure Ben had started for himself, and he felt himself relax, turning to look up at the other man with his equilibrium restored, in control once more.
"It's all right, Officer," Ben said. He leaned forward, dragging a finger idly along the rim of his desk. "I should have told you," he said presently. "You had a right to know that I knew."
"Yeah, well . . ." Logan looked away. "I guess we're even now, huh?" He cleared his throat, and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I better get going," he said. "I've got an early shift tomorrow." The excuse was lame, his eagerness to be gone almost palpable, but Ben couldn't fault him for it, not when he himself was suddenly very eager to be alone, to sort out the morass of emotions that were warring in his gut.
All he did, though, was nod. "I'll see you on Thursday, then."
"Yeah." Logan shifted from foot to foot, and nodded shortly. "Thursday." He hovered another moment, as if he wanted to say more, then the desire to escape won out. He nodded a last time, lifting a hand in farewell, then turned and all but fled out of the office.
Left alone, Ben sank slowly back in his chair, staring thoughtfully at the piles of papers in front of him. Intellectually, he knew that he had betrayed himself. Something that even his most intimate friends didn't know, and he'd all but poured it out to this angry young stranger. It didn't help, either, that even as soon as he acknowledged the error, he was finding unpleasant excuses to explain his own behavior. *Face it,* he told himself harshly, *you wanted him to know. Wanted him to realize that you were available, as if the thought had ever crossed his mind.* Ben felt the heat steal over his cheeks as he replayed the scene in his head, wondering if his intentions had been as embarrassingly obvious to Logan as they were, now, to him.
But that hadn't been the only reason, he protested to himself. He'd discovered Logan's secret, and it was only fair that Logan be given some assurance that he wouldn't be betrayed. An exchange of secrets was the best seal Ben could have thought of for his promises, a show of good faith. *That's my story,* he thought grimly, *and I'm sticking to it.*
-----
Once outside the confines of the court building, Mike wished briefly that he hadn't driven down here. It was a nice night, balmy and breezy, and he would have liked to have had the excuse to walk home. It was a long way, but he didn't have anywhere to be, and the walk might have been a good means of clearing the turmoil of thoughts in his head.
Ben Stone was gay. He laid the words out in his head, looking them over, trying to wrap his mind around their meaning. Of all the things that could have happened, all the scenarios he'd run through his head, this was one he'd never considered. The best he'd hoped for, after Nick had told him what Stone had learned, was that Stone could be persuaded to keep it to himself. Well, that's exactly what had happened. But, good lord, he'd never expected the why.
*Don't look the gift horse in the mouth,* a more sensible, pragmatic part of his mind advised. *Just be grateful that Stone's a fellow queer, and leave it at that. Solidarity,* Mike thought sourly.
He considered phoning Nick, but the prospect didn't inspire much enthusiasm. Their last conversation had been awkward, strained and stilted, and he wasn't sure he wanted to repeat it. But Nick had a right to know, and whether or not he wanted to admit it, Mike still cared enough about him that he couldn't leave him hanging, not when he could ease his mind. Also, thinking about Nick was one way to distract himself from analyzing what he'd just learned about one Benjamin Stone.
-----
Nick answered the phone himself, despite its being in the middle of his usual shift. *Serves you right,* Mike told himself. *You don't know his schedule anymore, you shouldn't exactly be shocked.*
"Hi, Nick," he said. "It's Mike."
There was a brief pause, an almost audible shifting of gears taking place across the phone line. "Hi," Nick finally said, tentatively. "What's up?"
It didn't take a genius to read the emotions coming over the phone. "Is this a bad time?" Mike asked.
Another pause, and then Nick laughed. "No," he said, and this time there was genuine warmth in the words. "No, I'm sorry, I was just surprised to hear from you. But I do have company."
Ah. Nick hadn't exactly been secretive about the fact that he was seeing someone else now, but Mike still appreciated the easy honesty. "This won't take long," he assured him. "I just wanted you to know that I talked to Ben Stone today."
"What did he say?" The tension was back in Nick's voice, and Mike hastened to relieve it.
"Everything's fine. He's not going to say anything."
"Thank God." The relief in Nick's voice was palpable. "He said he wouldn't, but . . ."
"He won't," Mike assured him. It was on the tip of his tongue to explain further, to tell Nick that the last thing Stone was going to do was out someone else, but something made him shut his mouth on the words. "Trust me," he said instead. "He'll keep it to himself." Mike cleared his throat. "Anyway, I won't keep you. I just wanted you to know."
"Thanks for calling, Mike. I appreciate it."
"You're welcome."
After hanging up, Mike went into the kitchen and poked listlessly through the cabinets, looking for something to cook for supper. He finally settled on a frozen dinner he found squirreled away in the back of the freezer, and stuck it in the oven to cook. Then he opened a beer and leaned against the counter, staring at the wall. When the buzzer went off half an hour later, he was still standing there, the beer bottle empty in his hand.
It wasn't even that Mike wanted him back. The relationship had been good while it lasted, satisfying on any number of levels. It wasn't as if they'd broken up badly, either. Or as if they'd broken up at all. They'd simply fallen out of the habit of seeing each other, until one day they suddenly were no longer dating. It was a song and dance Mike knew all too well, but he had to admit that there'd been more than the usual twinge when he'd realized that it was happening between him and Nick. But that was life, and now it was time for Mike to get on with his.
-----
The next session with Stone was scheduled for six in the evening plenty of time for Mike to eat an early supper and drive downtown to One Hogan Place. He took his time, but even so it was still ten minutes short of the appointed hour when he finally stepped off the elevator into the quiet dimness of the DA offices. The air was hot and still, a reflection of the unseasonable warmth outside. Mike unbuttoned his collar as he walked down the hall to Stone's office, pushing his sleeves up above his elbows.
It had been a long day. It was the first really warm day of the year, and predictably, tempers had risen along with the heat. He and Ricky had spent the whole day playing teacher, getting people to kiss and make up, and, failing that, taking them downtown to the principal's office. Summer was coming.
Stone's secretary was gone for the day, but the door to his office was slightly ajar. Mike could see him through the open door, perched on the edge of his desk, leafing through a thick book propped on his knee. Sitting there, his sleeves rolled up, tie undone, peering down through his crookedly donned glasses at the book in his lap, he looked . . . Mike wasn't sure what. Human, maybe, and the thought made him grin wryly at himself.
It was the same old story. Lawyers vs. cops. Even, Mike reflected, when they were supposedly on the same side. Stone was no different. He didn't trust the police, didn't trust Mike. Or he hadn't. The last time they'd met, after all, Stone had trusted him a whole hell of a lot. Mike still wasn't sure what to make of that.
Stone looked up as Mike rapped softly on the doorjamb, tilting his head back to view Mike through his slipping glasses. "Officer Logan," he said, his voice betraying no surprise. "You're early."
"Yeah. Traffic let me down."
That got a faint smile, and Stone stood, gesturing to a chair. "Have a seat, then." He moved to the bookcases, shelving the book he'd been studying next to a row of identical brown-backed volumes. "I was just reading up on some decisions," he said, and turned back, taking off his glasses and tucking them in his pocket. "Rehearsing my opening arguments for tomorrow."
"Nice of you to spare me some time," Mike said dryly.
Stone spread his hands. "You're my star witness, Officer." He reached behind him, and picked up a folder. "Are you ready?"
The examination was old hat now. Mike had been through the story so many times that he almost knew it by heart. But Stone was asking each question as though it was for the first time, and Mike did his best to pretend that that was what was going on, that he hadn't already memorized every detail of that night. As if he could ever forget.
-----
Logan was doing well. He was remembering the facts in sequence, repeating the story consistently without reciting it by rote. So long as he didn't freeze on the stand, they'd be fine. At least while Ben was asking the questions, anyway.
Finally, though, Ben ran through all the questions he had, and picked up his other notepad, preparing to be the defense. He didn't give Logan a chance to break this time, no pause for instructions or rehearsal. This was a dry run of the real thing, and he saw Logan shift in his chair, his hands folding over the chair arms as if bracing himself. Ben gave him another second, then plunged in.
"So," he began, "you went to the Webster home five times, is that correct?"
He saw Logan start to nod, then the officer corrected himself and said simply. "Yes."
"And each time, you found that Carl Webster had been beaten."
"Yes."
"And did you ever arrest his father?"
"Yes. Three times."
"But he was never charged."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because Carl Webster wouldn't press charges."
"Did he give a reason?"
"He said he was afraid of his father."
Ben pursed his lips. "All the more reason to want him locked up, I'd think." Logan said nothing, and Ben gave him a mental nod of approval. But he went on without pausing. "And yet you didn't lock him up. You went there five times, Officer, but there was never enough evidence to even charge Joseph Webster of any crime."
Logan took a deep breath. "We responded to a 911 call."
"And did nothing."
"We contained the situation," Logan said, and Ben was surprised at the sudden heat in his voice. "We broke up the argument. We took Mr. Webster in."
"And then released him."
"Because his son refused to press charges."
"And how hard did you try to get him to accuse his father? How much pressure did it take?"
"We asked him, he said no."
"Officer Logan, you visited this household five times. If there was such an obvious threat to Carl Webster's life, why didn't you see it?" Ben leaned closer, letting his gaze burning into the other man's, pitching his voice low, mocking him. Accusing him. "Carl Webster called 911 for help," Ben said quietly. "And you did nothing to help him. So tell me, Officer, who is really to blame for his death?"
"I tried to help!" Logan exploded. "Okay? I told him to get away from that son-of-a-bitch. I told him he wouldn't stop, I--"
"Logan!" Ben caught his arm as he surged up, shaking him to remind him of where he was. Logan's eyes were blazing, his mouth tight with fury, and for a split second Ben thought he might actually hit him. He shook him again. "Logan!" Ben barked sharply, and Logan started, as if he'd only just then realized what he was doing. He unclenched his fists and sank back into his seat, curving his hands over the cool wood of the armrests. He gripped the slats hard, his knuckles turning white, but it still wasn't enough to disguise the trembling in his hands.
Ben had obviously struck a nerve. He just wished he had any idea what the nerve was. He found himself reaching out, hesitated, then completed the gesture anyway, placing a gentle hand on Logan's shoulder. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yeah." Logan's voice was rough, but he seemed under control once more. He started to lift a hand, as if to wipe his brow, then let it fall. "I'm okay."
Ben didn't move his hand. "You sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure," Logan said tightly. "Let's get on with it, okay?"
Finally, Ben slid his hand away. But instead of resuming the questions, he reached behind him for a chair, pulling it up until he was sitting facing Logan, his notes propped on his thigh. "You want to tell me what just happened?"
The "No" was written as clearly over the policeman's face as if he'd spoken it aloud, but all he said was, "It was nothing." Logan cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
Ben gave an exasperated sigh. "That was hardly 'nothing,' Officer." He waited. "Officer Logan," he tried again, lowering his voice "if there's something personal here, I need to know."
"Look, the kid died. Isn't that personal enough?" But Ben wasn't fooled for a second. Not anymore.
Presently, Ben stood, tossing his notes on his desk, shoving his hands in his pockets while he paced to the far wall, and back. "I can't go through with this if you won't tell me the truth," he said to the neatly arrayed books on his shelf. "I can't have you losing control like that Monday. If you do, we're sunk."
"It won't happen," Logan muttered.
Like hell. Ben turned back. "It happened just now," he pointed out with pardonable sharpness.
It took Logan a long time to answer. "I--look, I just don't like seeing kids get beat to death by their parents," he said at last. "Is that a problem?"
Ben took a deep breath. "No. But if it keeps me from successfully prosecuting one of the killers, then it becomes a problem."
The gray eyes were staring, almost incredulous, but Logan's voice was taut with anger. "So I'm just supposed to shut that off?" he asked unbelievingly. "I'm supposed to sit there and act like none of it happened, like I didn't wash that kid's blood off my uniform the next day?"
It was one of the hardest things Ben had ever had to do, but he nodded. "Yes," he said softly. "That's exactly what you're supposed to do."
Logan swallowed, almost visibly forcing the anger down again. "And what if I can't?"
This time, Ben didn't hesitate. "Then we lose. And a killer walks." He stood up, pushing his hands over his hair, searching for the words to explain, to make Logan understand. He wasn't sure there were any words that could. "You said that you wanted to put Joseph Webster in prison," he finally said, addressing his words to the back of Logan's head. "If you want to accomplish that, then I suggest that you find a way." Logan said nothing, but there was something there, something in the set of those broad shoulders, in the angle of that bowed head, that told Ben that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to be said. Something more that Logan was willing to say.
Ben let the silence stretch for a moment, studying Logan from behind, trying to judge his state of mind from nothing more than the shift of his shirt against his back. Finally, Ben saw the other man's shoulders lift with a soft, deep breath, saw the light flow over that dark hair as Mike tilted his neck, an infinitesimal relaxation. It was now or never. "Would you care to tell me about it?" Ben asked, striving with every bit of his learned skill to make the words neutral, unfreighted. "If you tell me, then maybe we can do something to make sure this doesn't happen again."
For a long time, Ben was sure Logan wouldn't answer. He merely sat, unmoving, not even turning his head to look at Ben. Ben began to wonder what he would do if this failed, wonder how he could ever trust Logan to take the stand, when, finally, Logan spoke.
"Okay." His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat before going on. "Okay, yeah, there's something personal." He finally turned, twisting in the chair to look up at Ben's face, his eyes hard, and defiant. "I know what it's like," he said, and Ben felt his stomach chill. He felt suddenly sick, and felt, too, like a fool for not having guessed it before. All that experience, all that training, and he'd still failed to see what was in front of his own eyes. He didn't want Logan to go on, didn't want to hear the rest, but he knew he had no choice. He'd opened this door, and now he could hardly refuse to look inside.
If Logan saw the dismay on his face, he ignored it. Or he didn't care. "My mother," he said, quick and defiant, as if daring Ben to stop him from telling. "Nearly every day, there was something I did, or something my old man did, or something she did, and I'd get the crap smacked out of me for it." Suddenly Logan stood up, pacing to the far door, staring at the rippled glass as if he could see right through it. "If you're looking for something personal," he said to the door, "you've got it."
The room fell quiet. Having brought it this far, having orchestrated this whole thing, having forced this confession, Ben was at a loss what to do next. There was nothing he could say, and the only thing he wanted to do, he couldn't. He had no right, and it shamed him that he even thought that any touch from him could comfort Logan right now. So Ben did nothing, waiting until finally Logan breathed deep, and spoke again. "Maybe you should get someone else to do this," he said, and turned back to face Ben again. "I don't want to be the one who screws this up."
Ben looked away, then back at him. "I'm sorry," he said, tasting the inadequacy of the words, hating them, but meaning them with all his heart nonetheless. "I didn't know."
"Yeah, well." Logan cleared his throat. "It was a long time ago." He heaved himself off the wall and returned to his chair, folding his arms over his chest while he looked up at Ben again. "Any other secrets you need out of me?" he asked sarcastically.
"That wasn't my intention," Ben said, but the words came out gentler than he expected, tinged, he was sure, with shame. "I apologize," he went on, forcing himself to return to work mode, to become a professional once more, both for his sake as well as Logan's. "I still meant what I said," he went on. "If we're going to win this case, you'll have to put your personal feelings aside."
"Yeah, so what else is new," Logan muttered. He leaned back in the chair, passing a hand over his eyes. "Look. I meant what I said, too. I want this to go down right. Maybe you should get Ricky after all."
"No," Ben said firmly, and Logan looked up at him. "No," he said again. "I have the right man." He folded his arms, and sat on the edge of his desk. "Now all you have to do is prove me right."
From the look on Logan's face, it was clear that he didn't think, right now, that he could. "And what if Chapman tries to use that against me. Can he?"
"No. You're not on trial here, Officer." Ben tried to smile, tried to reassure him. "You'll be fine. Trust me."
Continued in "At First Sight I: By Our Eyes" (4/4)
For Notes, Warnings, Ratings, and Disclaimers, please see Part 1
At First Sight I: By Our Eyes (3/4)
"Thanks for taking the time to talk to me, Doctor." Ben stirred his coffee gingerly, wondering if it was just his imagination that the stirrer was sticking sluggishly to the bottom of the cup. He set the stirrer aside, but didn't lift the cup. Instead, he planted his hands on the table, waiting.
"Sure." Dr. Udall had proved to be much younger than Ben had expected, surely not more than twenty-five, if that. He was blessed with dark good looks that were neither Hispanic nor Indian nor African-American, but perhaps some blend of all three. His voice was soft, and well-educated, no big surprise, but his dark eyes were regarding Ben with genuine puzzlement. "What I'm not sure," he went on, "is exactly why you want to talk to me. I wasn't on Webster's team, I never even saw him. I just happened to be here that night."
"But you still remember the case, even now," Ben observed, and wondered why he flinched.
"Everybody remembers it," Udall said presently. "Half the surgeons on shift were in there trying to save him." He quickly finished assembling the chicken salad sandwich on his tray, and lifted it to his mouth for a small, fastidious bite. While he chewed, Ben reached into his pocket, pulling out a photograph and sliding it across the table.
"Then, if you weren't in surgery, you might have seen this man there that night. Was he there?"
Udall glanced at the picture, and nodded. "Sure," he said, swallowing. "The brother. I remember him."
Ben pushed the picture closer. "I want you to be absolutely sure. This is the man you saw?"
After giving the photograph another dutiful look, Udall pushed it back. "That's him," he confirmed.
Slowly, Ben retrieved the picture. "Would it surprise you, Doctor, to learn that Mr. Webster denies ever having been here that night?"
Apparently it did. The doctor's sandwich stopped halfway to his mouth, and he stared at Ben as if he'd gone insane. "Yes," he said at last. "It would." His thick brows drew together. "That's crazy," he said. "He was here, half the staff saw him. Why would he deny it?"
"I don't know. Maybe you could tell me."
"Do I look like a mind reader? I barely spoke to him. He was almost hysterical, crying, ranting. I think they ended up asking him to leave." Udall shook his head. "Why are you asking me?" he asked. "I wasn't even remotely involved with either the boy or his brother."
"And yet you remember very clearly what happened."
Udall picked up his sandwich, bit, and chewed. After he'd swallowed, he said, with unnecessary care. "A friend of mine was involved. I guess it stuck in my mind because he talked about it."
"Officer Logan?" Ben inquired, and Udall stiffened as if Ben had slapped him across the face. Judging from his expression, Ben might as well have.
"Okay," he said evenly. "Yeah. I stitched up his partner, and we got to talking about the kid. I guess it sunk in."
"Enough that when Officer Logan came back the next day, you mentioned to him that you'd seen Carl's brother."
"I guess so." Udall carefully replaced his sandwich on his tray, as if it suddenly nauseated him. "I wanted him to know. He seemed worried about the kid."
"So you volunteered that you'd seen Jake Webster."
Udall made an exasperated noise. "For the last time, yes." He leaned forward, his face set in an expression of cold anger. "What the hell is this about? Is it a crime to talk about who was and wasn't in the ER on a certain night? It wasn't like I was giving away state secrets. It was just a conversation."
Ben felt as though he'd been punched in the gut. *It was just a conversation.* Logan's exact words. Coincidence? If not, if Logan had actually bothered to rehearse it with him, the question then became
'Why?' "Did Officer Logan tell you to say that?"
"No." Now he was looking at Ben as though he were deranged. "Look. I haven't seen him in over a month, all right?" His expression was cold now, and his mouth tightened in what Ben realized belatedly was pure fury. "Very cute, Counselor," he said tightly, and stood up, reaching for his tray. "Stupid of me to think you'd bother over a kid like Webster. Well, you've had your fun. If you'll excuse me, I've got work to do." With that, he walked off, leaving Ben feeling as though he'd stepped on solid ground, only to have it sink under his feet. Leaving the dubious coffee behind, of which he hadn't even taken a single sip, Ben scrambled up and darted after Udall, catching him up just as he was about to slip through the doors.
"Doctor," he said urgently, and laid a hand on his arm. "Doctor, whatever you may be thinking, I *am* only here to find out the truth about Jake Webster."
"Sure." Udall pulled away from him, and started walking down the corridor, hands shoved in his pockets.
"Doctor!" Cursing under his breath, Ben trotted after, his long legs eating up the ground far faster even than Udall's furious stride. "Doctor, I'm not interested in getting you or Officer Logan in trouble. I just want to know about Jake."
Udall whirled abruptly in mid-stride, turning to face Ben so suddenly that he very nearly plowed into him. "I've told you what I know," he insisted. "If that's all you're really after, then this conversation ended about five minutes ago. Good night."
"Wait! Please," Ben added as Udall turned, then faltered. "Please, that is all I'm after. But I need to know who else talked to Webster that night."
"Why, so you can harass them, too?"
That did it. Ben took a step closer, lowering his voice to what a former associate had once referred to as "ball-busting range." "If you think this is harassment, sir," he said. "then I'll be glad to re-educate you down at Central Booking."
Muscles bunched along the line of Udall's jaw. He didn't back down, but Ben saw the threat hit home. He swallowed, and met Ben's eyes. "What do you want?"
"Just the names of the people on staff who might have spoken to Jake Webster. I promise you, if they cooperate, they will not be harassed, not even by your standards."
Udall breathed deep, once. "That's all?"
"That's all."
The other man regarded him for a long, wary moment, until Ben began to wonder exactly what kind of test he was being assessed for. "Look," he said at last. "I don't want to lose my job. I don't want Mike to lose his job. If I tell you the names, you'll forget you ever spoke to me, okay?"
Ben began to feel as though he were swimming in molasses, floating in a dark, unfathomable morass of sudden hidden meaning. He felt, despite the fact that it was only the two of them here in this hall, that he and Nicholas Udall were having two completely different conversations with one another. "Doctor," he said, and worked to make his voice reasonable again, reassuring. "Doctor, the guilty flee when no man pursueth. I swear to you, the only thing on my mind right now is finding out why Jake Webster chose to lie about being here the night his brother died. Anything else is secondary."
Udall didn't look reassured. "I wish I could believe you, Mr. Stone," he said quietly. He sighed, and looked down. "Will I have to testify?"
"Does that make a difference?"
"It does if they ask me where we were when I told Mike about Mr. Webster."
Ben opened his mouth to ask what difference that would make, then shut it again. Oh. Slowly, he began to understand what Udall was telling him--what he'd been trying to tell him all along. Or he thought he did. For a second, he couldn't even speak, his brain churning with so many thoughts that he could hardly pick enough words from the morass to form a sentence. Dear God. Dr. Udall . . . and Mike Logan. It was obvious, now.
*Obvious to you,* a more cynical portion of his mind finally retorted, and Ben realized that he needed to make sure. He blinked, settling his thoughts firmly in place, and tried to think of how to convey what he needed to Dr. Udall, without compromising him, or Logan . . . or anyone else. Ben lowered his voice, leaning a little closer, and saw the doctor's eyes dart to him again, wary and confused. "Doctor," he said quietly, "Just to be sure we understand one another . . . I don't care if you spoke to Officer Logan in here, or at a bar--" He paused carefully. "Or across a pillow. Does that help clear things up?"
Udall flushed deeply, but less, Ben suspected, from embarrassment than from the sudden release from worry. "Yes," he said stiffly, but the strain of trying to conceal his relief was apparent. "Thank you," he added. He glanced around, as if only now making sure that the two of them were alone, then reached in his pocket for a pen. "Here. Let me write down those names."
-----
Ben left the hospital with a list of six names in his pocket, the unwarranted gratitude of an ER doctor, and the dazed, unfocused feeling of a man who, innocently lifting the sofa cushion to find a lost penny, discovers a hundred-dollar bill instead. Or, to be more accurate, discovers a love letter written by his wife to her boyfriend. Girlfriend. Either way, it was something he didn't want to know. Correction. Something he had no right to know.
The proper thing to do, as he well knew, would be to forget he ever had the knowledge. Mike Logan's personal life had no bearing whatsoever on this case, and it was Ben's duty to set aside all other considerations, no matter how intriguing or shocking they might be. In Logan's shoes, he told himself firmly, he would certainly appreciate a District Attorney who could keep his mouth shut, and refrain from bringing up the subject ever again. After all, he, of all people, should cherish the gift of privacy when it came to what happened behind the bedroom doors.
None of this soul-searching, however, explained why, as Ben drove back to his office, he had to close his eyes more than once to block out the picture of long, pale limbs tangling with brown, of two bodies locked together on tossed, rumpled sheets. It was unprofessional, he told himself sternly, even as his mind veered resolutely away from the image. He had no business engaging in any kind of speculation about a certain officer's sex life, not even to imagine what his face might look like flushed with passion, or how those full, curved lips would feel in a kiss, or pressed against bare skin . . .
Ben squeezed his eyes shut. This was not helping. What difference did it make, after all, to find out that Logan had slept with Nicholas Udall? A very big one, apparently. Ben admitted it. He had, in a small corner of his mind, assessed Mike Logan as an attractive man. Ben was human, and he had long ago given up trying to pretend to he didn't find other of his fellow beings appealing. Those considerations, however, didn't belong as part of the job of the District Attorney. He was long used to setting them aside, to breaking down the people in his office into defendants, witnesses, lawyers, and clerks, letting whatever function they served take precedence over the package they came in. He had never let it cross that fine line, and he was angry at himself for allowing the simple knowledge of Logan's involvement with another man to cloud his perceptions. It didn't matter, he told himself sternly. Logan was a witness, a fellow officer of the court, and therefore as off-limits as any other colleague, male or female. Period. Ben only wished that the decision made him feel better.
-----
The next day, Ben was ready to talk to Jake Webster. He'd turned Udall's list over to Spinelli, without explaining where he'd gotten it, and within a few short hours Spinelli had assembled a gratifying array of doctors and nurses who would gladly testify that Mr. Webster's appearance was not a figment of Udall's imagination. That, and more.
Ben had never met Jake Webster before. He'd been described as Carl's older brother, but Ben was startled to discover that "older" was very much a relative term. He couldn't, Ben realized, be much more than nineteen or twenty himself, scarcely older than Carl. He was tall, and burly, his build much more in keeping with his father than his mother, but it was clear that he hadn't inherited much more than his father's bulk. He came in meekly, and sat where Ben pointed, twisting his thick hands in his lap while he studied Ben with pale, nervous eyes. Any other time, Ben might have pitied him. But there was another Webster boy that right now held the lion's share of any sympathy he might have to offer.
As soon as Jake was seated, Ben stood and walked around the desk, leaning over to lay a slim folder in front of him.
"Mr. Webster. This is a copy of the statement you gave to detective Spinelli the day after your brother was killed. Would you look at it, please?"
Jake's eyes darted to him, and his mouth opened, beginning to shape a question. Then he shut his lips, and turned to the folder, opening it slowly and taking out the typed sheets.
"Do you remember what you said?" Ben asked.
"Yes." It was the first word Jake had spoken, and he had to clear his throat before going on. "Yes, I do."
"You told Detective Spinelli that you were home all night. That you didn't hear about your brother's death until your mother's lawyer phoned you at eight in the morning."
"That's right."
Ben let the words hang there, let them sink in, let Jake hear the last echoes of the lie. He straightened slowly, and reached around for a second, rather thicker folder, and placed it carefully beside the first. "Then perhaps you'd care to explain, sir, why six nurses and doctors in the emergency room where your brother died, all remember you being there, all night."
The shock on Webster's face was almost comical, the innocent outrage of a child discovered in an impossible fib. He gulped. "You talked to them?" he asked incredulously. "Why . . .?"
"Because it's my job," Ben said quietly. He sank slowly into the chair across from him, folding his hands on top of the table. "Why did you lie?" he asked gently.
For a long time, Jake could only stare at him, his eyes round with shock, and fear. His lips worked, a pale tongue reaching out to lick them nervously. "I was scared," he finally admitted, the small, meek voice hardly fitting with his sturdy, rough bulk. "I knew--Carl was dead," Jake said, his voice almost a whisper. "There wasn't anything else I could do for him, see? I knew I couldn't let my old man know that--that I was there."
"But there was more to it, wasn't there?" Ben prompted gently. "You called 911, didn't you?"
The awe on Jake's face might have been flattering, if it wasn't also pathetic. "How did you find out?"
Out came another paper, a folded, creased printout from the phone company. "These are the usage details from your parents' phone. Someone there spoke to you for three minutes. The call to 911 came in less than a minute later."
The young man's lips pursed, tightening as he studied the papers in front of him. His teeth raked at his lower lip, and Ben thought he saw his chin begin to quiver, as if he were on the verge of tears. Ben swallowed, and pushed. "You tried to help him," he said softly. "You knew he was in trouble, so you called the police. You went to the hospital. What I don't understand is why you would lie about it."
The quiver ceased abruptly, as Jake clamped his mouth tight once more. "Because Carl was dead!" he burst out. "He was dead, and there wasn't anything anyone could do about it! What does it matter what happened?"
"It matters a great deal," Ben said sternly. "Your brother wasn't killed in an accident. He wasn't hit by a bus, or killed by a disease. He was murdered. And I think that you know by whom."
But Jake shook his head stubbornly. "I don't," he insisted.
"But you know something. That's why you lied." Ben waited. "Mr. Webster," he said evenly, "I'm almost ready to go to trial, to prosecute your father for your brother's murder. And when I do, I'm going to subpoena you as a witness, and you'll have to take the stand, and swear an oath to tell the truth. And I'll be asking these questions again."
Jack was staring, wide-eyed. "He'll kill her," he said flatly. "He'll kill both of us."
"Not if we put him away for murder. He killed your brother, Jake. If that means anything to you, then you'll help me put him in prison."
A long, still silence fell over the room, over the space between the two men. Ben didn't dare break it, not even to add another plea. The balance between Jake's cooperation and his refusal was as thin as the blade of a knife. One push, either way, and it would tip over. Ben wanted that push to come from Jake.
"He called me," Jake said, his voice soft, and sad. Ben breathed a silent sigh. "He called me, and he said that Dad was crazy, that he was worse than Carl had ever seen him. He begged me to help him. Then I heard Dad yelling, and the phone went dead." He stopped.
After a pause, Ben prodded him. "So you called 911."
Jake nodded. "I told them what was happening, then I got in my car and started over there. I live in Brooklyn," he said, apologizing. "By the time I got there . . ." He turned away, breathing deep, his eyes suddenly bright. "All I could do was go to the hospital after that. I stayed until Carl--" His voice broke. He looked down, staring at his beefy hands, lying loose in his lap. "I wanted him to come and live with me," he said presently. "But he wouldn't. He was afraid that Dad . . . without him there . . . that Mom . . ." He looked away again. "I should have stayed," he whispered. "I should have stayed, and taken care of them. But I--" He looked down. "I couldn't." He breathed deep, then lifted his head, facing Ben with the tears bright in his eyes. "I'll testify," he said.
-----
By the time the trial began, and Ben was ready to begin prepping his witnesses, he'd convinced himself that he'd dealt sufficiently with his feelings about Mike Logan. It wasn't, after all, as if he had much choice. Whatever he'd learned, albeit inadvertently, from Nicholas Udall, he had no right to know. Every personal and professional ethic he held dear told him, in no uncertain terms, that it would be the worst kind of invasion of Mike's privacy to act on that knowledge, in thought, word, or deed. But, dear God, sometimes it was hard.
After the divorce, after Helen had left him, he'd wondered sometimes if he would ever have the courage to date anyone again, male or female. It had taken nearly a year before he had so much as ventured to ask an old friend for a casual dinner, and more long months had passed before he'd allowed himself to accept a more intimate invitation from another equally old friend. It had been an agonizing experience, the brief moment of release as painful as it was pleasurable, and after it was over he had embarrassed both himself and his partner by succumbing to tears. He'd yet to find the courage, or even the desire, to try the experiment again. Until he'd met Mike Logan.
The easiest thing, he supposed, would be to pass the whole thing off as simple lust. Ben could argue to himself that he was attracted to Logan for his looks, for his young, lithe figure, for the broad shoulders and strong arms and big, capable hands. He could probably convince himself, too, that it was the tactile itch of wanting to touch that thick, sleek hair, to explore the long planes of his face, to look closely, just once, into those deep gray eyes, and to find out, once and for all, if those soft, curving lips could keep the promises he imagined them making.
Unfortunately, this kind of thinking, he realized, wasn't helping at all. Especially when it was only half of the truth anyway. His own damn ethics had, after all, twisted around to betray him. *Look at the person, not the body. Treat them as human beings, not as objects.* So he'd looked at Mike Logan, looked at the quick mind behind the anonymous blue uniform, looked at the passionate anger, barely controlled, that had arisen on behalf of the victim. His compassion, his dedication, his youthful enthusiasm for a job that routinely made cynics out of fresh-faced rookies . . . all of it had been allowed to get through, to create an admiration for the young cop that had, at first, absolutely nothing to do with his long-limbed body, with the feral, dangerous grace with which he moved, and nothing to do with the quiet fire that smoldered behind those cool eyes. But now that he'd seen it, Ben couldn't make himself ignore it. It was all Nick Udall's fault.
It was a well-rehearsed refrain by now, Ben wishing that he'd never spoken to the young doctor, wishing, too, that the other man's fears hadn't betrayed him. Betrayed Mike. What was the phrase? "The bell can't be unrung," something like that. Nick Udall's words had turned Logan into a sexual creature, had revealed him as a man with a life beyond the uniform, beyond the job. Ben would have liked to believe that it would have been the same if Dr. Udall was a woman, but that was one lie he couldn't even tell to himself. No, the truth was that now that Ben knew that Mike Logan was a man who loved other men, he couldn't seem to help himself from imagining that he could be one of those other men. He despised himself for it, even as he indulged in the fantasies, in the dreams that he hoped would purge Logan from his mind. Finally, he believed that it just might have worked.
The illusion lasted all of about a minute after Logan showed up for his first prep session, just long enough for Ben to shake his hand, and invite him to take a seat. Logan was wearing black tonight, black knit shirt, black jeans. Ben found himself comparing it to the dark blue he'd worn before, deciding if he liked the contrast to the pale skin, or if the blue had been a better choice for accenting his eyes. About then, he realized that all his careful pretensions had been a lie, and hated himself for it.
Pretensions aside, Ben couldn't help but notice, as Logan took the offered chair and settled himself carefully into it, that he seemed nervous. His hands were just a little too busy, the line of his jaw just a shade too tight. With those clues, Ben felt perfectly justified in asking, as he returned to his own chair, "Is everything all right, Officer?"
Logan stiffened in the chair, his chin coming up defiantly. "Yeah," he said, far too quickly. "Everything's fine. Why?"
He all but barked the last, and Ben leaned back, startled, even as he forced himself to suppress a smile. "You seem a little nervous," he explained, and saw the other man's shoulders relax a fraction, as if Logan were willing the tension away.
"I've never done this before," he finally said, the admission forced reluctantly from him. "I dunno," he went on. "This all seems a little . . . unethical."
"Preparing a witness?" Ben shrugged. "It's common practice, Officer. Unclear testimony confuses the jury, and if the jury gets confused they might just give up. Neither side wants that."
"Yeah, but rehearsing it makes the whole thing seem kind of . . . predetermined."
It was an objection Ben had dealt with before, and he warmed gratefully to the subject, glad of the excuse to turn to the job at once, to focus on his work and ignore the all-too-obvious distractions occupying the chair not four feet from his. "It's not all rehearsal," he said. "I won't expect you to recite your testimony word for word. Far from it. I just want to make sure that when you do give your answers, you're clear, and I'm clear, on exactly what the facts are, and how you'll present them."
This didn't seem to reassure Logan. "Yeah," he said darkly. "Spin control. Great."
"That's not a fair judgment," Ben said quietly. He leaned back again, studying the other man speculatively, wondering how best to put it to someone who was so clearly uncomfortable with the notion of adjusting the truth. "Think of it this way," he said after a while. "Would you rather go in there without any preparation, and have Joseph Webster's lawyer trip you up on some minor detail that you'd never thought of before? Would you rather give him the chance to twist your words, and persuade the jury that his client wasn't responsible for Carl's death? These sessions won't change the truth. They'll just make sure that the truth gets told."
Logan still looked unconvinced, but he nodded grudgingly. "Okay." He sat back in the chair, spreading his hands. "Let's go."
Having been over the ground twice before, the session was mostly to familiarize Logan with the questions, to cue him on the sequence of the story, and to impart a few tips on giving testimony. Ben had guessed that he'd pick up fairly quickly on what was expected of him, and by the end of Ben's questions he was delivering exactly what Ben wanted: clear, concise answers, informative and to the point.
"Very good," Ben said when they'd finished, and saw the other man relax a little in his chair. "But that's the easy part," he added, and saw Logan's dark brows come together. "Next, you'll be cross-examined by the defense, and they'll be doing their best to poke holes in every scrap of testimony."
"So what do I do?"
"Don't help them," Ben said firmly. "If possible, just answer yes or no, and if you have to make a statement, make it short. Remember, their questions are designed to elicit information that will further their case. If you imagine every word out of your mouth as adding weight to their side, you won't be far wrong. They'll also do their best to try to make you look foolish, or confused." Ben paused, giving him an assessing look, and added, "Or make you lose that Irish temper."
A corner of Logan's mouth quirked up. "Equal opportunity harassment, huh?"
"Something like that." Ben reached back for his other notepad, and propped it on his knee. "Ready?"
"Sure."
Ben ran his eyes down the points he'd mapped out for himself, planning the best spot for an attack. It was a part of the job he secretly enjoyed, poking holes in his own case, finding the imperfections and flaws and doing his darndest to torpedo himself. Helen would have called it masochistic.
The thought was enough to sober him, and take a little of the thrill away. *The perfect damper for every moment,* he thought wistfully, and ran his pen down the page to the first question.
Because it was Logan's first time, he went easy on him, asking the questions in a straightforward manner, simply getting him used to what would and would not help the case. By the time they were finished, it was nearly eight, and Ben was ready to go home.
"That's all for now," he said at last, and turned his pages of notes back to the front. "Thank you, Officer. We'll do this again on Thursday."
Logan merely nodded shortly, and stood up. "Sure." He went to the door without another word, but when he would have opened it, his hand touching the knob, he suddenly stopped, his body frozen, hesitating. Ben glanced up, studying the impassive back that was turned to him, then slipped his glasses off and raised his voice.
"Officer? Is something wrong?"
It was almost as if Logan had forgotten Ben was there. He jerked, startled, and turned his back to give Ben a brief, piercing stare. "No," he said quickly. "Everything's fine. I'll see you Thursday." He opened the door, and stepped through, reaching back to pull it to. But his hand hesitated again, lingering on the knob instead of pulling it, and as Ben watched, his brows climbing, Logan strode back inside, letting the door shut behind him with a bang. He stared at Ben for a long moment, his jaw working, and Ben felt a small tightness begin in his belly. Even before he spoke, he knew what the other man was going to say.
"Look," Logan said harshly, "I know, okay?"
Deliberately, Ben chose to misunderstand. "Know what?" he asked mildly, and saw Logan's face tense in anger.
"Don't," he said tightly. "I talked to Nick Udall this weekend. He told me that you talked to him about Jake Webster." Logan paused, swallowing. "And he told me what else you talked about."
Ah. Slowly, Ben reached up and removed his glasses. Despite the fact that he'd sworn never to have this conversation, he found, now that the moment was here, that the words were ready, as if he'd rehearsed them a thousand times. Maybe he had, at that.
He put the glasses carefully on the desk, and folded his hands in front of them, not quite able, yet, to meet the angry, all-too-vulnerable eyes that were, he was sure, still focused on him from across the room. "I'd hoped," he said, and heard the tired resignation in his voice, heard also the relief of no longer having to hold in the secret, "that you wouldn't find out. Dr. Udall gave me the impression that you weren't . . ." He tripped briefly over the phrase, and finally amended, "that he hadn't seen you in a while."
"He made the time. You can guess why." Logan's jaw worked, and he folded his arms over his chest. "So. What are you going to do?"
That was easy. "Absolutely nothing," Ben told him firmly. He leaned back, rocking gently in his chair. "Whatever you may think, it's hardly relevant to the case."
For a second, the other man all but gaped. "It's pretty relevant to me, Counselor," he finally got out.
Ben let his expression soften. "I realize that," he said quietly. "But I'm here to prosecute a murder. Not publish the bedroom secrets of the NYPD."
"So you don't care." Logan's voice was unexpectedly harsh. "It makes no difference to you."
"Should it?" The words were out before Ben could censor them, before he was sure that he really wanted to. He felt a little ill, and it wasn't hard to guess why. The truth was that it *had* made a difference, a big one. But he wasn't sure that Logan would appreciate knowing that right now.
While the words settled between them, laden, Ben was sure, with any number of dangerous meanings, Logan took a step forward, leaning down to brace his hands on the back of the chair. "I'm a good cop," he said, almost growling the words. "I want to stay a cop. And now you've got this hanging over my head. One word, and it's all over. You don't know what that feels like."
The anger that surged up in Ben's chest was hot and quick, exactly, he realized, like the metaphorical kettle that had finally boiled over. What the hell, after all, did this young man know about the disaster that such secrets could make of a life? "Are you so sure about that?" he heard himself say, and then shut his mouth hard, appalled and dismayed. Dear lord, were the wounds still that deep? Had everything he'd been through in the last two years left him that vulnerable, that fragile? Apparently so. The rest of the words were there, the story ready to pour out at the slightest provocation, the least excuse. But he clamped his lips, determined that, if nothing else, he could at least keep his dignity, if not his secrets. He took a deep, controlling breath, and forced himself to be calm, willing his next words to be rational, reasonable. "You aren't," he said, and surprised himself with the sudden gentleness in his voice, "the only one with secrets, Officer."
He'd thought he was being discreet, that the extra qualifier might just mitigate the implications of his first, hasty words. Instead, he watched Mike's eyes widen, the soft gray growing clearer as his face took on an almost comical expression of shocked understanding.
"Shit," he said, and shut his mouth quickly, as if unaware until he heard the word that he'd spoken out loud. "Wow." He stood upright, his hands twitching awkwardly at his sides as he tried visibly to find the words, the expression, to say what he wanted. "I'm sorry," he said at last, and the soft, careful rumble of that deep voice was surprisingly soothing, a gentle, apologetic caress over Ben's strained nerves. It was exactly the balm to finish the cure Ben had started for himself, and he felt himself relax, turning to look up at the other man with his equilibrium restored, in control once more.
"It's all right, Officer," Ben said. He leaned forward, dragging a finger idly along the rim of his desk. "I should have told you," he said presently. "You had a right to know that I knew."
"Yeah, well . . ." Logan looked away. "I guess we're even now, huh?" He cleared his throat, and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I better get going," he said. "I've got an early shift tomorrow." The excuse was lame, his eagerness to be gone almost palpable, but Ben couldn't fault him for it, not when he himself was suddenly very eager to be alone, to sort out the morass of emotions that were warring in his gut.
All he did, though, was nod. "I'll see you on Thursday, then."
"Yeah." Logan shifted from foot to foot, and nodded shortly. "Thursday." He hovered another moment, as if he wanted to say more, then the desire to escape won out. He nodded a last time, lifting a hand in farewell, then turned and all but fled out of the office.
Left alone, Ben sank slowly back in his chair, staring thoughtfully at the piles of papers in front of him. Intellectually, he knew that he had betrayed himself. Something that even his most intimate friends didn't know, and he'd all but poured it out to this angry young stranger. It didn't help, either, that even as soon as he acknowledged the error, he was finding unpleasant excuses to explain his own behavior. *Face it,* he told himself harshly, *you wanted him to know. Wanted him to realize that you were available, as if the thought had ever crossed his mind.* Ben felt the heat steal over his cheeks as he replayed the scene in his head, wondering if his intentions had been as embarrassingly obvious to Logan as they were, now, to him.
But that hadn't been the only reason, he protested to himself. He'd discovered Logan's secret, and it was only fair that Logan be given some assurance that he wouldn't be betrayed. An exchange of secrets was the best seal Ben could have thought of for his promises, a show of good faith. *That's my story,* he thought grimly, *and I'm sticking to it.*
-----
Once outside the confines of the court building, Mike wished briefly that he hadn't driven down here. It was a nice night, balmy and breezy, and he would have liked to have had the excuse to walk home. It was a long way, but he didn't have anywhere to be, and the walk might have been a good means of clearing the turmoil of thoughts in his head.
Ben Stone was gay. He laid the words out in his head, looking them over, trying to wrap his mind around their meaning. Of all the things that could have happened, all the scenarios he'd run through his head, this was one he'd never considered. The best he'd hoped for, after Nick had told him what Stone had learned, was that Stone could be persuaded to keep it to himself. Well, that's exactly what had happened. But, good lord, he'd never expected the why.
*Don't look the gift horse in the mouth,* a more sensible, pragmatic part of his mind advised. *Just be grateful that Stone's a fellow queer, and leave it at that. Solidarity,* Mike thought sourly.
He considered phoning Nick, but the prospect didn't inspire much enthusiasm. Their last conversation had been awkward, strained and stilted, and he wasn't sure he wanted to repeat it. But Nick had a right to know, and whether or not he wanted to admit it, Mike still cared enough about him that he couldn't leave him hanging, not when he could ease his mind. Also, thinking about Nick was one way to distract himself from analyzing what he'd just learned about one Benjamin Stone.
-----
Nick answered the phone himself, despite its being in the middle of his usual shift. *Serves you right,* Mike told himself. *You don't know his schedule anymore, you shouldn't exactly be shocked.*
"Hi, Nick," he said. "It's Mike."
There was a brief pause, an almost audible shifting of gears taking place across the phone line. "Hi," Nick finally said, tentatively. "What's up?"
It didn't take a genius to read the emotions coming over the phone. "Is this a bad time?" Mike asked.
Another pause, and then Nick laughed. "No," he said, and this time there was genuine warmth in the words. "No, I'm sorry, I was just surprised to hear from you. But I do have company."
Ah. Nick hadn't exactly been secretive about the fact that he was seeing someone else now, but Mike still appreciated the easy honesty. "This won't take long," he assured him. "I just wanted you to know that I talked to Ben Stone today."
"What did he say?" The tension was back in Nick's voice, and Mike hastened to relieve it.
"Everything's fine. He's not going to say anything."
"Thank God." The relief in Nick's voice was palpable. "He said he wouldn't, but . . ."
"He won't," Mike assured him. It was on the tip of his tongue to explain further, to tell Nick that the last thing Stone was going to do was out someone else, but something made him shut his mouth on the words. "Trust me," he said instead. "He'll keep it to himself." Mike cleared his throat. "Anyway, I won't keep you. I just wanted you to know."
"Thanks for calling, Mike. I appreciate it."
"You're welcome."
After hanging up, Mike went into the kitchen and poked listlessly through the cabinets, looking for something to cook for supper. He finally settled on a frozen dinner he found squirreled away in the back of the freezer, and stuck it in the oven to cook. Then he opened a beer and leaned against the counter, staring at the wall. When the buzzer went off half an hour later, he was still standing there, the beer bottle empty in his hand.
It wasn't even that Mike wanted him back. The relationship had been good while it lasted, satisfying on any number of levels. It wasn't as if they'd broken up badly, either. Or as if they'd broken up at all. They'd simply fallen out of the habit of seeing each other, until one day they suddenly were no longer dating. It was a song and dance Mike knew all too well, but he had to admit that there'd been more than the usual twinge when he'd realized that it was happening between him and Nick. But that was life, and now it was time for Mike to get on with his.
-----
The next session with Stone was scheduled for six in the evening plenty of time for Mike to eat an early supper and drive downtown to One Hogan Place. He took his time, but even so it was still ten minutes short of the appointed hour when he finally stepped off the elevator into the quiet dimness of the DA offices. The air was hot and still, a reflection of the unseasonable warmth outside. Mike unbuttoned his collar as he walked down the hall to Stone's office, pushing his sleeves up above his elbows.
It had been a long day. It was the first really warm day of the year, and predictably, tempers had risen along with the heat. He and Ricky had spent the whole day playing teacher, getting people to kiss and make up, and, failing that, taking them downtown to the principal's office. Summer was coming.
Stone's secretary was gone for the day, but the door to his office was slightly ajar. Mike could see him through the open door, perched on the edge of his desk, leafing through a thick book propped on his knee. Sitting there, his sleeves rolled up, tie undone, peering down through his crookedly donned glasses at the book in his lap, he looked . . . Mike wasn't sure what. Human, maybe, and the thought made him grin wryly at himself.
It was the same old story. Lawyers vs. cops. Even, Mike reflected, when they were supposedly on the same side. Stone was no different. He didn't trust the police, didn't trust Mike. Or he hadn't. The last time they'd met, after all, Stone had trusted him a whole hell of a lot. Mike still wasn't sure what to make of that.
Stone looked up as Mike rapped softly on the doorjamb, tilting his head back to view Mike through his slipping glasses. "Officer Logan," he said, his voice betraying no surprise. "You're early."
"Yeah. Traffic let me down."
That got a faint smile, and Stone stood, gesturing to a chair. "Have a seat, then." He moved to the bookcases, shelving the book he'd been studying next to a row of identical brown-backed volumes. "I was just reading up on some decisions," he said, and turned back, taking off his glasses and tucking them in his pocket. "Rehearsing my opening arguments for tomorrow."
"Nice of you to spare me some time," Mike said dryly.
Stone spread his hands. "You're my star witness, Officer." He reached behind him, and picked up a folder. "Are you ready?"
The examination was old hat now. Mike had been through the story so many times that he almost knew it by heart. But Stone was asking each question as though it was for the first time, and Mike did his best to pretend that that was what was going on, that he hadn't already memorized every detail of that night. As if he could ever forget.
-----
Logan was doing well. He was remembering the facts in sequence, repeating the story consistently without reciting it by rote. So long as he didn't freeze on the stand, they'd be fine. At least while Ben was asking the questions, anyway.
Finally, though, Ben ran through all the questions he had, and picked up his other notepad, preparing to be the defense. He didn't give Logan a chance to break this time, no pause for instructions or rehearsal. This was a dry run of the real thing, and he saw Logan shift in his chair, his hands folding over the chair arms as if bracing himself. Ben gave him another second, then plunged in.
"So," he began, "you went to the Webster home five times, is that correct?"
He saw Logan start to nod, then the officer corrected himself and said simply. "Yes."
"And each time, you found that Carl Webster had been beaten."
"Yes."
"And did you ever arrest his father?"
"Yes. Three times."
"But he was never charged."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because Carl Webster wouldn't press charges."
"Did he give a reason?"
"He said he was afraid of his father."
Ben pursed his lips. "All the more reason to want him locked up, I'd think." Logan said nothing, and Ben gave him a mental nod of approval. But he went on without pausing. "And yet you didn't lock him up. You went there five times, Officer, but there was never enough evidence to even charge Joseph Webster of any crime."
Logan took a deep breath. "We responded to a 911 call."
"And did nothing."
"We contained the situation," Logan said, and Ben was surprised at the sudden heat in his voice. "We broke up the argument. We took Mr. Webster in."
"And then released him."
"Because his son refused to press charges."
"And how hard did you try to get him to accuse his father? How much pressure did it take?"
"We asked him, he said no."
"Officer Logan, you visited this household five times. If there was such an obvious threat to Carl Webster's life, why didn't you see it?" Ben leaned closer, letting his gaze burning into the other man's, pitching his voice low, mocking him. Accusing him. "Carl Webster called 911 for help," Ben said quietly. "And you did nothing to help him. So tell me, Officer, who is really to blame for his death?"
"I tried to help!" Logan exploded. "Okay? I told him to get away from that son-of-a-bitch. I told him he wouldn't stop, I--"
"Logan!" Ben caught his arm as he surged up, shaking him to remind him of where he was. Logan's eyes were blazing, his mouth tight with fury, and for a split second Ben thought he might actually hit him. He shook him again. "Logan!" Ben barked sharply, and Logan started, as if he'd only just then realized what he was doing. He unclenched his fists and sank back into his seat, curving his hands over the cool wood of the armrests. He gripped the slats hard, his knuckles turning white, but it still wasn't enough to disguise the trembling in his hands.
Ben had obviously struck a nerve. He just wished he had any idea what the nerve was. He found himself reaching out, hesitated, then completed the gesture anyway, placing a gentle hand on Logan's shoulder. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yeah." Logan's voice was rough, but he seemed under control once more. He started to lift a hand, as if to wipe his brow, then let it fall. "I'm okay."
Ben didn't move his hand. "You sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure," Logan said tightly. "Let's get on with it, okay?"
Finally, Ben slid his hand away. But instead of resuming the questions, he reached behind him for a chair, pulling it up until he was sitting facing Logan, his notes propped on his thigh. "You want to tell me what just happened?"
The "No" was written as clearly over the policeman's face as if he'd spoken it aloud, but all he said was, "It was nothing." Logan cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
Ben gave an exasperated sigh. "That was hardly 'nothing,' Officer." He waited. "Officer Logan," he tried again, lowering his voice "if there's something personal here, I need to know."
"Look, the kid died. Isn't that personal enough?" But Ben wasn't fooled for a second. Not anymore.
Presently, Ben stood, tossing his notes on his desk, shoving his hands in his pockets while he paced to the far wall, and back. "I can't go through with this if you won't tell me the truth," he said to the neatly arrayed books on his shelf. "I can't have you losing control like that Monday. If you do, we're sunk."
"It won't happen," Logan muttered.
Like hell. Ben turned back. "It happened just now," he pointed out with pardonable sharpness.
It took Logan a long time to answer. "I--look, I just don't like seeing kids get beat to death by their parents," he said at last. "Is that a problem?"
Ben took a deep breath. "No. But if it keeps me from successfully prosecuting one of the killers, then it becomes a problem."
The gray eyes were staring, almost incredulous, but Logan's voice was taut with anger. "So I'm just supposed to shut that off?" he asked unbelievingly. "I'm supposed to sit there and act like none of it happened, like I didn't wash that kid's blood off my uniform the next day?"
It was one of the hardest things Ben had ever had to do, but he nodded. "Yes," he said softly. "That's exactly what you're supposed to do."
Logan swallowed, almost visibly forcing the anger down again. "And what if I can't?"
This time, Ben didn't hesitate. "Then we lose. And a killer walks." He stood up, pushing his hands over his hair, searching for the words to explain, to make Logan understand. He wasn't sure there were any words that could. "You said that you wanted to put Joseph Webster in prison," he finally said, addressing his words to the back of Logan's head. "If you want to accomplish that, then I suggest that you find a way." Logan said nothing, but there was something there, something in the set of those broad shoulders, in the angle of that bowed head, that told Ben that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to be said. Something more that Logan was willing to say.
Ben let the silence stretch for a moment, studying Logan from behind, trying to judge his state of mind from nothing more than the shift of his shirt against his back. Finally, Ben saw the other man's shoulders lift with a soft, deep breath, saw the light flow over that dark hair as Mike tilted his neck, an infinitesimal relaxation. It was now or never. "Would you care to tell me about it?" Ben asked, striving with every bit of his learned skill to make the words neutral, unfreighted. "If you tell me, then maybe we can do something to make sure this doesn't happen again."
For a long time, Ben was sure Logan wouldn't answer. He merely sat, unmoving, not even turning his head to look at Ben. Ben began to wonder what he would do if this failed, wonder how he could ever trust Logan to take the stand, when, finally, Logan spoke.
"Okay." His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat before going on. "Okay, yeah, there's something personal." He finally turned, twisting in the chair to look up at Ben's face, his eyes hard, and defiant. "I know what it's like," he said, and Ben felt his stomach chill. He felt suddenly sick, and felt, too, like a fool for not having guessed it before. All that experience, all that training, and he'd still failed to see what was in front of his own eyes. He didn't want Logan to go on, didn't want to hear the rest, but he knew he had no choice. He'd opened this door, and now he could hardly refuse to look inside.
If Logan saw the dismay on his face, he ignored it. Or he didn't care. "My mother," he said, quick and defiant, as if daring Ben to stop him from telling. "Nearly every day, there was something I did, or something my old man did, or something she did, and I'd get the crap smacked out of me for it." Suddenly Logan stood up, pacing to the far door, staring at the rippled glass as if he could see right through it. "If you're looking for something personal," he said to the door, "you've got it."
The room fell quiet. Having brought it this far, having orchestrated this whole thing, having forced this confession, Ben was at a loss what to do next. There was nothing he could say, and the only thing he wanted to do, he couldn't. He had no right, and it shamed him that he even thought that any touch from him could comfort Logan right now. So Ben did nothing, waiting until finally Logan breathed deep, and spoke again. "Maybe you should get someone else to do this," he said, and turned back to face Ben again. "I don't want to be the one who screws this up."
Ben looked away, then back at him. "I'm sorry," he said, tasting the inadequacy of the words, hating them, but meaning them with all his heart nonetheless. "I didn't know."
"Yeah, well." Logan cleared his throat. "It was a long time ago." He heaved himself off the wall and returned to his chair, folding his arms over his chest while he looked up at Ben again. "Any other secrets you need out of me?" he asked sarcastically.
"That wasn't my intention," Ben said, but the words came out gentler than he expected, tinged, he was sure, with shame. "I apologize," he went on, forcing himself to return to work mode, to become a professional once more, both for his sake as well as Logan's. "I still meant what I said," he went on. "If we're going to win this case, you'll have to put your personal feelings aside."
"Yeah, so what else is new," Logan muttered. He leaned back in the chair, passing a hand over his eyes. "Look. I meant what I said, too. I want this to go down right. Maybe you should get Ricky after all."
"No," Ben said firmly, and Logan looked up at him. "No," he said again. "I have the right man." He folded his arms, and sat on the edge of his desk. "Now all you have to do is prove me right."
From the look on Logan's face, it was clear that he didn't think, right now, that he could. "And what if Chapman tries to use that against me. Can he?"
"No. You're not on trial here, Officer." Ben tried to smile, tried to reassure him. "You'll be fine. Trust me."
Continued in "At First Sight I: By Our Eyes" (4/4)