1.23

He drops back behind Bridget as they head back into the precinct, trying to school his features into something serious and work-like and failing dismally, and he's never been quite so grateful to Captain Gerrard for refusing to come in early, because he's certain that if the Captain had spotted him at that moment, he'd get kicked in the ass on the way out the door.

The fact that he still really wants to grab Bridget by the wrist, pull her around, and kiss her doesn't help matters.

Flack waits until Aiden comes to claim her before settling at his desk again, and cracking his knuckles. It's a habit he's had since he was thirteen, and it's driven his whole family crazy more times than he can count, but for some inexplicable reason, sometimes it's soothing. It helps his mind settle.

At least, it does most of the time. Today, it doesn't seem to be doing much of anything. He should be getting back to the conundrum of Michael Firachenzo, considering how to best proceed, but his thoughts are about as far from that idea as they can possibly be without hovering over Australia. He pops one thumb, and then the other, and then he puts his headphones on, muting the dull roar of the precinct with Metallica, and returns to the case file. He's vibrating, though, constantly distracted, and it only takes a few minutes for him to give up, close the folder again, and turn to his computer instead.

Detectives aren't supposed to have more-than-professional relationships with consultants. It's something he's been considering a lot lately. It's not just between detectives and consultants, either. Most members of the NYPD are discouraged from having more-than-friendly relationships with colleagues. Internal Affairs doesn't have a strict policy against it, per se, but it's highly frowned upon. After all, as much as some like to pretend otherwise, the job can be dangerous. Losing one uniform in a shoot-out shouldn't mean losing another to sick leave, or counseling, or to resignation altogether. It's harsh, but he's always thought it made good sense. He's never had a reason to go against it before now, either.

He's really not good at this tension thing. In the past, he's never had a problem asking a woman out, and if this was any other circumstance, he wouldn't be hesitating. He wouldn't be kicking himself every time he reached out to touch her. He wouldn't be searching for loopholes. He wouldn't be sitting here imagining what would happen if he just said Screw it, walked up to her, and kissed her, right now, in front of everyone, not caring who sees. Because he wants to, and it almost scares him how much he wants to.

And despite everything, the rules don't keep him from watching her, from touching her, from noticing the way her ears go red sometimes when she looks at him, from wondering how far down the freckles go. Because she does have freckles, a very interesting smattering of them over the bridge of her nose, behind her ear, and down her throat. He doesn't usually notice freckles, and hers are faded with time and the clouds of the city, but they especially stand out when she blushes. Come to think of it, that's probably how he noticed them in the first place.

Aiden catches his eye, follows his gaze. Her mouth quirks, just the slightest bit, before she sits on the edge of the nearest desk – Flack thinks it's Patton's – and shifts so that Bridget's turned away from him, and can't see it when Aiden lifts an eyebrow in his direction. Flack scowls at her. She winks, and then focuses on Bridget again, ignoring Patton's dirty look when he walks up to find her sitting on his desk. That's Aiden, all right. Besides, Patton likes her. He won't be grouchy once Aiden bats her eyelashes and promises to try and work his next case.

He glances back at Bridget. Her hair seems to have gone completely feral today, but it's not necessarily a bad thing. He finds himself thinking about what she would do if he walked up and took a strand of it in his hand. Then he shakes his head a few times and forces himself back to solitaire, putting a red jack on a black queen. He'd been very tempted back at the park, too. She'd been sitting close enough for him to be able to feel the heat of her, and smell her shampoo. Green apples and cinnamon. It's still haunting him.

Flack shakes his head, fiercely. He's refused to let himself think about any of this in any sort of rational way since he spoke to Aiden all those weeks ago, and if any of this was logical, six weeks of little interaction should have been enough to cure him of it. But it hasn't; if anything, it's done nothing but make it worse, and for God's sake, he doesn't break rules. He doesn't. He bends rules – Flack has bent more rules than he can count. Some rules are made to be bent. But he bent those rules for results, for the job. Gerrard may have cussed him out royally for it, but he hadn't been able to critique the closed cases that ended up on his desk because of it. This rule, though, this particular rule – he can't justify it with a perp in lockup and another solved case on his record. It's something he wants, not for the department, not for anyone other than himself.

In fact, the only reason he can think of as to why he hasn't flashed the metaphorical middle finger at Internal Affairs and gone for whoever the hell he wants is because of her.

I'm not the best partner. I'm kind of a bad luck charm.

He's stuck with three aces and no hope of getting at the fourth. Flack closes the solitaire game and forces his mind back to skeezy druggies. He picks up the phone, and keys out Danny's extension. After all, the testimony of Mike Firachenzo gives them more than enough ammo for a real warrant. "Yo. You have time for cracking open an apartment? I need it gutted for heroin residue."

"This for the Takayama case?" He asks, and when Flack tells him the details, he can nearly hear the vicious grin in Messer's voice. "Damn straight I have time. Call me when you get the warrant."

Right. The warrant. Flack hangs up, runs his thumb over the rim of the coffee cup, and then starts working.

The 'banger in lockup is propositioning people again. I'm not sure if it's the same 'banger or a different one – to be totally honest, they all start to look the same after a while – but the Spanish is quite similar, and this time, Aiden's the one looking at him in disgust. I don't think she knows enough Spanish to understand what he's telling us to do, but the meaning's clear just the same. "Who's he talking to?"

I shrug. "Both of us. And Pierce. But we're closer. So mostly us."

"You're popular lately, then, ah?"

"He likes you more, don't pin this on me. And only with assholes." First Silas Meyer, then Barry McCaffery; my luck with men seems to be holding strong. Oh, and Gerrard, but I don't count him. The 'banger starts going on about Pierce's piercings, and I cross my legs at the knee and ignore him. After all, what else is he going to do trapped in lockup all day, carve flowers into the wall? At least shouting expletives at cops who probably can't understand him keeps him from doing something worse. "I met Barry McCaffery yesterday."

Aiden grimaces in commiseration. Clearly, she's met him too. "You want a sexual harassment complaint filed?"

"I'll get the form later." No point in letting his crap go undetected. Even if it degenerates into nothing but a he said, she said argument, it still means the complaint will be on file, and if he does it to someone else, that'll raise some eyebrows. Jackass. "Did you have to file one?"

"You kiddin'? I've filed three. Don't go anywhere near that bastard if I can help it." She glances at me over the top of her file, and then goes back to flipping papers. "You and Flack were gone a while."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Absolutely nothing." Her lips twitch; she's fighting a smirk. "I just have a healthy interest in the situation, that's all."

It's then that the 'banger says something absolutely and utterly repulsive, and finally, I can't stand it anymore. I straighten. "Oy! Callete el hocico, cabron!"

He blows me a kiss, but he flinches when one of the unis – I think his name is Truby – passes by the bars of his cell and smacks them hard enough for the metal to sing. Grumbling, the 'banger retreats. I turn back to Aiden. "Try unhealthy. And whatever situation you've conjured up in that brain of yours, it's imaginary, so quit it."

"Fine." She flutters through her papers, and then gives me a coy look. "You know he's watchin' you right now, right?"

Dull heat flushes up into my cheeks, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I dig my nails into the nearest desk. "Bull."

"Nope. God's honest truth."

"Bull. He is not." I'm not going to look behind me. I will not. If I do, it'll just encourage her, and that's the last thing I need at the moment. "And nothing happened, Aiden. Drop it."

"Then you wanna tell me why you were grinning like an idiot when you two came back in?"

"I was not." It's petty and childish, but it's the only thing I can think to say. She's not bothering to hide her smile, now. Aiden closes her file and slings an arm around my shoulders in a rare burst of affection, and in the cage, the 'banger whistles.

"Shut up," Aiden snaps at him, and looks back at me again. "C'mon, you can tell me."

"There's nothing to tell." And honestly, by Aiden's standards, there really isn't. Still, I'm not stupid enough to lie to her. She knows me too well. She'd pick it out in a second. "To be honest, I'd rather not talk about it."

"So something did happen."

"Shut up, Aiden."

"Make me."

"You are such a—"

"Dr. Carter." It's Kaile Maka. Her eyes flick between Aiden and I curiously, but she doesn't ask. "I didn't expect to see you here so early."

"Something came up." And that same something is why Flack's back at his desk, going over the witness list again. I clear my throat and pull away from Aiden, who collects her files and excuses herself without a word. "I would have called you, I just wasn't sure if you were awake."

"Perfectly all right." She wavers on the verge of speaking, and then thinks better of it. "I called Bellevue this morning; we're free to come in whenever is convenient for you. Is there any particular time you would prefer, or…?"

I glance back at the 'banger. He's finally gone quiet. A six-foot-three cop weighing roughly three hundred pounds sitting by the bars will do that. I look at Kaile again, and then say, "Well, now would be good, if that's all right by you."

She checks her watch. Then she smiles, slow and sharp, like a wolf. "I was hoping you'd say that. Come on. My car's outside."

The waiting room at Bellevue Psychiatry is clean and sterile and crammed to the gills with people. Some of them are hobos, looking for a place to stay; others are of richer backgrounds, looking nervously around, some with bandages on their wrists, others with handcuffs and police escorts. "The jumpers," Kaile says quietly in my ear as she navigates the maze of chairs, nodding to the secretary behind the counter. "We usually bring them here before taking them home. At least here they might be able to get some help."

"What about their families?"

"We call them once the doctors have a chance to check them out." She flashes her ID to the guard at the door, and he swipes a card to let us in. "And most of these people have already been admitted at least once. It's difficult to keep them all here, no matter how much help they need."

"I went straight from forensic psychology to dealing with teenagers in a halfway house." The door closes behind us, and cuts off the burbles and murmurs of the waiting room. Instead, far in the distance, I hear someone sobbing, and it drives the hairs up on my arms. I don't know what to think. This place feels more like a stereotype than anything else. "And I interned at another halfway house, so I never really…made it into a hospital."

"Which halfway house?"

"Danner Youth Crisis Center. The one down by Port Authority? I was there for a few months in my senior year of college." Before I'd ditched the city and gone back to Tucson to help Mayday with Rosie and my uncle Frank through the death of my aunt Delia. My parents had never factored much into the matter. "But it's a lot different than this place."

"I'll bet." We take the stairs up to the second floor, and Kaile turns down a passage, purposefully. She's been here before, knows where she's going. "The city wants Rosa out of here as soon as possible. It's expensive to keep her here, but until we know precisely where to take her and what she'll do once she gets out, we can't release her, either. DA's breathin' down my neck about expenses. Anything you can do would be really helpful at this point."

"I'll do what I can."

Dr. Markus Talon is a pudgy man in his early fifties, with smile lines around his mouth and very pale hair that has nothing to do with age. When Kaile knocks, he gets to his feet and gives her a warm handshake before glancing at me and asking, in a surprisingly wispy voice, "And who is this?"

I introduce myself, and hold out my hand. His handshake is a bit limpid, his hands plush and inkstained. Definitely not a surgeon. Worry lines crease in his forehead when he glances back at Kaile. "There's been no improvement in her condition, I'm afraid. Yesterday she broke a window when one of the interns left her unsupervised. We caught up with her halfway down the street and brought her back."

Kaile's eyebrows snap together. Her voice goes chilly. "You didn't tell me that when I called you yesterday."

"It happened about four hours after you called, Detective, I didn't want to bother you at dinner." Kaile grunts, and fingers something in her pocket. Probably her cigarette case. Still, Dr. Talon gives her a nervous look. "I'm sorry, should I have called you?"

"No, it's all right." It's not encouraging, but there wasn't much Kaile could have done about it. "I'd like to look in on her for a few minutes, if that's possible."

"Of course." He stands, locking his computer, and grabs a keycard from on top of his desk, gesturing towards the doors again. "She's two floors up. You don't mind if we take the elevator? My doctor's been nagging at me about blood pressure."

So either a panic attack for me or a heart attack for the esteemed Dr. Talon? I'll go with panic attack. I clench my fingers around the phone in my pocket and start my breathing exercises, in for seven, out for eleven, keeping half an ear on Kaile and the good doctor. "Other than her escape, how's she been doing?"

"No real improvement. I'm quite certain she knows exactly what she's doing, and she just doesn't want to talk." He sighs. "As much as I'd like to keep her here, Detective, there have been problems."

"I don't want her in a cell, Dr. Talon. Can't you do something?"

Dr. Talon makes an impatient noise, and swipes his card. The elevator doors open. I look at the mirrored walls, and take another breath. Keep breathing. "Neither do I, but at this point, there's not much I can do. Have you spoken to the DA's office?"

"Multiple times. She's pregnant, Doctor; I don't want her anywhere near the system."

"Neither do I, but if she continues to behave the way she has been..."

Kaile gives him a I have no control here shrug and glances back at me. "Are you all right, Dr. Carter?"

"Fine." My voice is a bit higher than normal. Still, she doesn't know me well enough to tell. I keep my hands clenched in my pockets and stare at the opposite wall, which has one of those ocean prints in a large frame, until the elevator doors close and all I can see is my pasty face. Usually I don't look this pale. Unlike my parents, who both burn like lobsters in the sun, I've always been lucky enough to tan. Now I just look sick. "Just a little claustrophobic, is all."

Dr. Talon's eyes snap to me. "Really? I would have thought not."

I fight the urge to bite his head off. Just because I'm a psychologist doesn't mean I don't have problems of my own. "It'll pass. Can I ask how you were able to figure out her name, if she hasn't been giving you any other details?"

"One of the other girls told us. A Ukrainian girl, I think. She said Rosa had been pregnant when she'd been brought in, didn't tell anyone who the father was. She thought it might have been through rape, which wouldn't surprise me." The elevator shudders, and then starts to move up. Only two floors, Bridget. Breathe. God, I'm useless. "Natalia was sent back home a few days later, and nobody else seemed to know anything about Rosa. Newcomer, still high, you know the drill."

I do. As much as I hate it, I do. Girls taken off the street, tricked into Manhattan on the promise of work and a new life, sold into sexual slavery, kept placid with drugs, given diseases, despair, death, making little to no money, raped and beaten: everything that could possibly destroy a human being, all wrapped up into one simple word. Trafficking. The second that human beings stop making me sick is the second I stop working for the police. Dr. Talon continues: "We've been taking care of her as best we can, but there are…difficulties. She rarely eats, barely sleeps. She stares out the window most days. She throws things, gets violent. We've had to sedate her on several occasions. She tries to escape almost weekly. Though we thought she was getting better, until yesterday."

The elevator dings, and the doors open. Kaile steps aside, and lets me out first. I want to throw my arms around her. Even if the narrow corridors aren't much better, at least I don't see myself reflected on and on and on into infinity, and at least the walls aren't closing in. There are fewer windows along this floor, only doors with little squares of glass inlaid at eye level, some with latches, some without. We walk along for a while, and our footsteps echo along the walls. Talon's still talking. "She came in with chlamydia and a broken arm; we've treated both. Aside from her voicelessness, she's in perfect health."

"Rape kit?" I ask Kaile. After all, I only have Rosa's medical file, not the case file. Kaile shrugs.

"We have a sperm donor, but we haven't tested paternity. Rosa hasn't given permission. Besides, he's not in the system."

Of course he isn't. Dr. Talon stops in front of room 474, and glances in through the window. "She's awake."

Rosa Gonzalez is smaller than I expected her to be, thin aside from the slightest curve of her stomach; she's curled into her chair, which she's tugged as near to the little barred window as she can, and she's staring out into the street, her hair hanging in long, barely-clean ropes over her face. She must hear us, because she turns, and glares at the door before looking back at the world outside. Kaile gives me a helpless look. "That's usually all we can get from her. She's just…she's stubborn."

"I can't guarantee anything," I tell her again, and she nods, impatient.

"I know. I'd just appreciate it if you'd try."

Dr. Talon glances at me. "You're certain you want to go in? She doesn't…take to new people very well."

"I can handle myself." I've had chairs thrown at me before anyway. They're not that hard to dodge. "Besides, I'd rather try than not."

"All right." He swipes the card and waits for the light to turn green before turning the handle, looking back at me. "We'll stay out here and observe, if you don't mind. She usually refuses to interact at all if there's more than one person inside."

"Is she on anything?"

"Only prenatal vitamins. The sedative from last night should have worn off by now."

Well, that's encouraging. I glance back at Rosa. "Do you think she's an immigrant?"

"Possibly. She doesn't respond often enough for us to be able to tell."

"I'll try Spanish then."

Dr. Talon bites his lip. "I'm afraid I don't…"

"You can record it if you're worrying about what I'll say," I snap back at him, and curse myself. The elevator's put me in a worse mood than I thought. I look back to Kaile, and then I say, "Has anyone tried Spanish with her?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"It might get a different response, then. But I'll stick to English as best I can." After all, he's her assigned physician. He has a right to know what she says, if she even responds, which I doubt she will. But still. "If that's acceptable?"

"Perfectly." The door's locked itself again. Talon swipes the card once more, and then turns the knob. "Have at it, Dr. Carter."

The room smells like bad air freshener and stale sweat. No blood, though. Her wrists are bandageless. There's a fresh cut on her shoulder, maybe from the broken window, and a small Band-Aid on the inside of her elbow from the sedative, but otherwise she's spotless. She turns to the door again, and her eyes fix on me as I step over the threshold, balancing on my toes, waiting for her to toss something. She doesn't move. Instead, she crosses her arms protectively over her stomach, watching me with narrowed eyes. Judging from Talon's expression, it's a miracle she hasn't tried to kill me yet.

"Hola, Rosa."

Nothing. I stay near the door, and search for the camera. It's almost invisible in its nook up in the ceiling, and there are dents around it; it's probably something else she's chucked things at. After a breath of silence, I shut the door behind me, and stay against the wall. "Me llamo Bridget Carter. Como esta?"

Rosa says nothing. The scar on her jaw is much less livid now, fading into her brown skin, but it's still quite obvious, especially if you know it's there. She's very skinny, but not in an unhealthy way. She's been living in a hospital for a month after all. The baby bump isn't quite obvious yet; it could just be the remains of a healthy lunch.

"Lo siento, Rosa." I keep my face settled and smiling, crossing the room to sit in the chair opposite hers. Her eyes follow me the whole way, and she pulls her knees up against her chest, putting her legs between me and her stomach. My Spanish is so rusty it takes me a second or two to remember the right words, and even then, I'm pretty sure I have one or two things wrong. I need to start practicing again. "Tengo que utilizar el inglés. Los médicos no hablan español. Lo entiendes, sí?"

Silence. Aside from her eyes, she hasn't moved a single muscle since I sat down. She hasn't even blinked. Her whole demeanor is screaming. Get away from me. You'd have to be blind not to notice it. I glance back at the door, and I can see Kaile and Dr. Talon waiting behind the window, watching carefully. Kaile's worrying her lip between her teeth. I turn back to Rosa. "Rosa, I'm not a doctor, okay? I'm not a cop, either. Detective Maka brought me in because she wanted to see how you were doing and you've been throwing things at everyone else."

Her eyes flicker to the door, and fix on Kaile. Her mouth stays stubbornly closed. Even though I've never dealt with selective mutism – if this can even be called that; she's just keeping her mouth shut, she's not stuck with it – I can already tell this is pretty pointless. I sigh, and lean back in my chair, staring out the window. She has a good view of the street, even if it's only of cobbles and concrete and cars going up and down the block. People walk by Bellevue very quickly; some of them cast nervous glances up at the windows. The woman in the blue pantsuit could be anything from a stockbroker to a nanny to a magazine editor; whatever she's doing, she's making way more money than I am, judging by her shoes. I glance back at Rosa. "Do you make up stories for them? The people outside."

That makes her move. Slowly, she turns. Rosa stares for an indefinable moment; then she presses her face into her knees and begins to rock, back and forth, like a child caught alone in a thunderstorm. I want to reach out, put a hand on her shoulder, help her somehow, but something holds me back. After a minute or two of silence, I clear my throat, and start to talk. I don't expect her to respond; she's closed her ears to it all. But still, I chatter for a while, commenting on the cars, the hospital, the sliver of the outside world she can see beyond her windows. It's nothing but inane babble. After a while, I go silent, and sit there, waiting. The quiet seems to weigh me down, a solid mass that chokes the words away. Eventually, even that passes. I get to my feet, and brush the dust off the back of my pants.

"Lo siento, Rosa." She twitches, but doesn't lift her face. "It was nice to meet you."

She says nothing, and stays in her chair, cringing when the door clicks quietly shut behind me.

I find Kaile and Talon a few doors down, in a makeshift cafeteria filled with uniformed nurses and patients with wide pupils and slack faces. Some watch me as I pass. There's an old man ion the corner, playing chess with another patient, an anorexic-looking girl of about twelve or thirteen. Her profile reminds me of Rosario, and my stomach crunches down to about the size of a walnut.

Kaile can't hide the shimmer of hope when I join them at the table. "Anything?"

I shake my head. "She didn't even squeak. It was like she couldn't hear me at all."

Kaile looks away. Talon just shakes his head. He expected this, I'm sure. "I'm sorry you came out here for nothing, Dr. Carter."

"It's no problem," I reply, more for Kaile than for the good doctor, but he's already turned away from me.

"I'm afraid she'll have to be transferred out of here soon. Somewhere she'll be safe. We need the room, Detective, she can't be kept here indefinitely."

"I know that." Kaile's voice is rough, almost inaudible. "A few more days. That's all I ask."

"The DA's office—"

"Friday, Dr. Talon. That's all I ask. You can give me until Friday, surely."

Talon wavers. His eyes flicker over the other patients, resting on the girl playing chess. Then he looks back at Kaile, and nods, slowly. "Friday, Detective. But that's as far as I'm willing to go."

With that, he sweeps away. Kaile sits quite still, as though she's been frozen in carbonite, and when she takes a breath, I'm surprised not to hear her lungs crack. Then she glances over at me. "I'm sorry, Dr. Carter. I seem to have wasted your time."

I shake my head. I don't care about that. "Where will she go?"

Kaile pauses. Then she slips her hand into her pocket. I hear the cigarette case clicking open and shut and open again, in cycles of three. She's thinking hard. After a second or two, she shakes her head. "I don't know."

"She can't go back out onto the street."

"I know that." The cigarette case starts clicking faster, in sixteenth notes rather than halves. "We can't keep her here, either. I don't want to put her into the system, but since we're pretty sure she's under eighteen, that might be our only option."

"What, foster care?"

"That or a halfway house. The other option is a juvenile detention center." She winces at the look on my face. "I don't like it any more than you do, Dr. Carter, but if she keeps her mouth shut we don't have many more options. If I could take her in I would, but I wouldn't be able to watch her and besides, I don't want to compromise our case in court…if it even comes to that."

A particularly forbidding look flashes across her face at that thought. I don't have anything to say to that. I've done more than enough complaining about the United States court system over the years, after all. It's not as though it's flawless. In fact, one might call it the opposite. But still, I keep my mouth shut, and watch Kaile quietly until she stands and says, "I'll take you back to the station. Unless you have somewhere else you need to go?"

"Nah. Station's fine."

We head back down the hall. Most of the patients are still stuck in their rooms, some talking to nothing, some lying back on their beds, some arguing with nurses, some smiling and waving at us as we pass. In room 474, Rosa Gonzalez is still staring out the window, but her hand is making slow, soothing circles over the bump in her stomach. I turn away. Kaile catches my eye. "Something wrong?"

"No," I say, but I turn back to look at the door as we step into the elevator. Even as the doors close and I shut my eyes, breathing steadily to keep my heart from breaking through my ribs, the image stays with me. And this time, I know why.

She looked like Mayday.

A/N:

There we go, new chapter! I'm not sure how much I like this one. :/

I'll have more soon!