Presumed
Author's notes: This comes sometime towards the end of Season Two. I guess it should be rated PG-13, for violence and occasional language, and A, for angst. I apologise to the creators of the Sopranos.
From the diary of Fraser Snr.
Ten years ago, I would never have walked into something like this. A bear trap, so poorly camouflaged a child could have seen it. But I didn't. I pried it open and got my leg out, but there was no way I could make it back. I was prepared to die out here - to be honest, felt I deserved it. If a man gets too old for a job he should know it, and stop.
But then Buck found me. I don't know how. No one knew where I was going. But he found me. And carried me back. Three days over terrain a mule couldn't navigate, laughing his ass off the entire way. Riding like that, completely helpless, slung over Buck's shoulder and staring down his back, I came to understand two things.
One, at a certain point in life a man's hips spread, and there's nothing you can do about it.
And two, there's a very easy way to define a friendship. A friend is someone who won't stop until he finds you, and brings you home.
*
"Fraser, don't let go!"
"I'm not going to . . . try and relax, Ray."
"Relax! I'm hanging off the side of a mountain and you're asking me to . . ."
Pressing his numbed cheek closer to the icy rock face, Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, tried unsuccessfully to block out the sound of Ray's voice. He needed to think. He couldn't be sure for quite how long they had been dangling over the glacier edge, frozen darkness beneath them, the ground packed so hard it was impossible to find a handhold. All he knew was that he was currently clinging to that same glacier mountain, one hand wrapped tightly around a rock outcrop above him, the other hand gripping Ray Vecchio's wrist. His fingers were frozen, and his arms trembled with the effort and pain of holding both their weight.
"You don't have any Mountie trick that's gonna get us out of this, do you? Something your grandmother told you?"
"Strangely enough, Ray, she said little on the subject of falling off mountains." You're becoming hysterical, he told himself sharply, trying to calm the adrenaline shock his heart was taking. I'm sure there is a perfectly logical . . .
"Fraser!" Ray yelped as Fraser's grip began to slip. Odd, the Mountie noted, his hands were so cold he could no longer feel them weaken. With an effort he tried to strengthen his grip, but found that he no longer had control over his arms. Pain through the sinews of his muscles, a deep ache in his bones he would never forget . . . and the cold. . .
"Fraser!" Another cry, as Ray suddenly lost his own grip around the Mountie's wrist, and found nothing to catch him. Time froze, as Fraser turned his head to watch his best friend fall, plummet into the darkness with an echoing cry. He called back, reaching out with his hand to only brush against the folds of expensive cloth. Then he was gone, a flurry of coat tails and wide eyes.
"Ray . . . !"
* * * *
Fraser sat bolt upright in bed, the name of his friend still on his lips. With a concerned whine, Diefenbaker looked up from where his head was resting at the foot of Fraser's bed, and looked up at the Mountie with curious eyes.
"A bad dream," he explained, and the wolf gave a disinterested sniff and went back to sleep. Fraser found it more difficult to dismiss it, however.
Rolling back over, he tried his hardest to get back to sleep, but found that every time he closed his eyes he was faced with the same image. His friend, tumbling backwards into the darkness, a look of . . . betrayal, on his face. He had trusted the Mountie to hold him, to rescue him, and he had failed. Only a dream . . .
"Come on," Fraser announced, flinging back the bed covers and disturbing Dief. "I'm buying breakfast."
* * * *
Actually, it was more like a midnight snack when Fraser and Dief emerged from their apartment, Fraser dressed in comfortable jeans and shirt rather than the formal uniform. Late enough to be discounted as night but too early to be morning. The city was dark, an early winter frost lacing the sidewalk with an intricate powdery icing. A few all-night Quick-E-Marts spoilt the serenity, spilling light, garbage, and tasteless music onto the streets. As Fraser passed one, Dief's eyes lit up and he gave a whine, sniffing the air eagerly.
"No. Food this late will only give you indigestion."
Another whine.
"Yes, I know you're hungry but Dief, it seems you're always hungry. Honestly, maybe I should just take you back up to the Territories and leave you there for a few days, see if you can survive without pizza and doughnuts."
He gave a heavy sigh, then returned to studying the sidewalk beneath his feet. The only people he passed were either homeless, hidden in shop doorways beneath layers of cardboard and blanket, or dark, hooded figures with business to attend to and no interest in a Canadian or his wolf. Fraser noticed none of them, his thoughts consumed by the image of the glacier cliff. It had been so real . . . If he closed his eyes he could still feel the desperate strength of Ray's grip around his wrist, and his arms ached as though deeply bruised beyond belief.
But it wasn't real, he reminded himself. Ray had not fallen towards a terrible death. True, Fraser had not seen his friend in almost a week, consumed as he was by a new undercover case that Welsh had him and Huey working on, but that was no reason for this irrational fear, unless . . .
He dismissed that thought quickly. Irrational, he reminded himself, totally irrational. Ray had left him a note at the Consulate, to make up for having no time to say goodbye, to be wished good luck.
*Fraser. Hope Turnbull gets this right. I'm going away for a few days - work - can't tell you the details. Feels like the Pentagon in here sometimes. Tell Franny not to touch the car. Sorry I missed you. Ray.*
Diefenbaker gave a sudden short, sharp bark. Fraser glanced down at him, then followed his gaze across the street to a small, openly lit shop, in the front window of which turned several huge great spikes of roughly red meat, fat literally dripping off them.
"Oh please. You have no idea what's in those things!"
Dief gave him a gentle nudge, then trotted across the empty road towards the light. Fraser shook his head, remembering Ray's disgust at Gardino's love of kebabs. I've only seen two kinds of people eat that stuff. You're either completely out of your face, or very, very desperate. You can't eat them sober - you start to worry about what goes in them.
Apparently wolves were a third kind of person.
* * * *
There was a note waiting for him when he arrived at the Consulate the following morning. Turnbull looked up at him with a cheerful expression, holding out the scrap of paper like an obedient puppy hoping for praise. Fraser was half tempted to pat him on the head.
"Lieutenant Welsh called for you. If I may be so presumptuous, sir, but he did sound very anxious to hear from you."
Fraser glanced at the note in his hand.
*Constable. Please come to the station house. Urgent - please phone on this number if you need to.* And then there was a number, one Fraser didn't recognize, perhaps because it belonged to the Lieutenant's office phone.
There was a slow feeling of dread creeping over him, one that he tried, and failed, to shake off. He glanced at Diefenbaker, then back at Turnbull.
"Please tell Inspector Thatcher where I am. And Turnbull, look after Diefenbaker."
"My pleasure sir." Turnbull gave Dief a bright grin. "I love animals."
If Fraser had been watching, he would have seen Diefenbaker wince. But he didn't, had already turned and was walking, half-running out of the door. He was afraid. So afraid.
* * * *
"They've found a body."
Fraser barely heard Welsh as he led the Mountie through the station house to Mort's basement. Just four simple words, echoing through his mind. No denial, no fear, no anger, no grief. Just . . . nothing. Empty. Numb.
Welsh glanced at his companion with obvious concern. He wasn't sure how to act - wasn't even sure how he himself felt. No emotion, just a pale, tense face and blank eyes. He stuck close to the Mountie but at the same time felt the need for physical detachment, as though any touch might send Mountie over the edge. If he hadn't already. He kept talking, feeling it stupid but necessary.
"They found him about an hour ago. Some guy out walking his dog near the lake called us in. The body, well, it's pretty badly decomposed . . ." He paused, finding it hard to believe that he could keep talking like this, and then realizing he couldn't stop. "Mort thinks there's little doubt, but we need someone to make an official identification and Miss Vecchio . . ."
"I understand."
Do you? Welsh was having hard enough time trying to control his own feelings, without having to deal with this stone-faced monstrosity. There was nothing, no flicker, no shudder, no waver . . . Welsh could have coped with anything. He'd coped with Francesca, upstairs in one of the interrogation rooms being gently comforted by Huey, until she was stable enough to identify some of the evidence found on . . . on the body. The victim. Not Vecchio. But this, this was the worst. The silence.
They'd arrived at the lab, where Mort had already arranged the body under a thin sheet, behind a glass screen in a room beyond. Better this way, Welsh had decided, than being in the same room, if not for the Mountie then at least for himself. And Fraser had made no protest.
He paused by the window, hand on the blinds, and took another sideways glance at the Mountie. "Are you sure about this? We could get someone else . . ."
"No."
There was no one else.
Welsh took a steadying breath, then pulled on the cord that would raise the blinds. Silence. A long, deep silence. Welsh waited for several moments, moments which turned into minutes, until he finally couldn't stand it any longer and asked:
"Is it . . ?"
"Yes."
And that was it. A simple answer, as passionless as all the others. Then Fraser trembled, and suddenly turned and fled, out of the room, up into the station house above. Welsh considered letting him go, then decided to follow him, that it was best not to leave him on his own. He made his way up the stairs to the main corridor of the station, and caught a glimpse of the Mountie weaving his way through a jostled crowd of people who parted before him, giving him space. They all knew. He almost made it to the far end when one of the side doors to the interrogation rooms opened, and Francesca stepped out into his path.
She stood staring at him, her face a mess, mascara smudged down her cheeks, eyes red from crying. Her lips trembled gently, and then she flung herself at the Mountie, grabbing him around the waist and pulling him close. He took her in his embrace, holding her until her sobs died down. With quick gestures and pointed looks, Welsh managed to clear everyone out of the corridor and then disappeared around the corner to make sure no one disturbed the silence.
"Oh god, Fraser . . . he's dead. He's really . . . I thought he had just gone off somewhere, with some woman and then I get this phonecall and, oh god Fraser, they had his crucifix, the one ma gave him on his eighteenth, and they wanted to know if it was his . . ." She buried her face in his uniform and clung to him, trembling with grief.
Fraser held her, stroking the side of her face with his free hand. "Francesca . . ."
She pulled away, enough to look up at him, pausing in her tears. "Are you. . . . are you okay? The Lieutenant said that you, that you had to, because I, I couldn't . . ."
"I'm . . ." He paused, then changed the subject. "Francesca, someone should take you home. I could call Mrs. Vecchio . . ."
"No." She shook her head. "Ma's still on holiday. And you shouldn't, I mean, one of the other detectives said they would call her. I can't, I can't tell her . . . And I have to stay here. I have to . . . there are things I need to do, and I . . . oh god . . . . the last time I saw him, we argued. You know that? I was yelling at him because he wouldn't lend me the car while he was away, that stupid car, because it was his pride and joy and he said I couldn't drive. He took the keys and left, and that was the last time . . . They tell you all this stuff, and you get used to it, because he's a cop and you have to, you have to expect the phonecall . . . but I never thought . . . I can't believe I was mad at him over that! And now . . . He can't be dead, Fraser, he can't be."
There was a gentle touch on his shoulder, and Fraser turned his head to see Elaine standing behind him. There were no tears on her cheeks, but her eyes were liquid and hollow, and she reached out to Francesca with compassion and shared grief.
"Francesca, if you want to sit down . . ."
She nodded tearfully, and detached herself from Fraser to join with Elaine, allowing the other woman to wrap an arm around her waist and lead her away. Fraser paused for a moment, watching her leave, then turned before Welsh could catch him and fled from the station.
* * * *
He isn't dead. He can't be.
The image from his dream, of holding onto Ray's hand as they both dangled over the precipice, came back to haunt him. Of letting go, and watching Ray fall. It isn't true. He wouldn't leave me. But he had identified the body, hadn't he? Seeing . . . seeing the body on the table, so badly disfigured. It was Ray, wasn't it? Or maybe he had just said that because he had been so afraid, because he had half-believed his own fears from the day before.
He was sat in the city park, in a bench under the trees, hair plastered to his head and soaked to the skin by the torrential downpour that had forced everyone else to their homes. And he barely noticed he was shivering.
"Nice weather for some."
Fraser Snr sat down beside his son and glanced at him with concern. For a ghost, or a hallucination, whichever, the rain passed through his without ruffling a single hair, but he was able to reach out and catch a single raindrop in his open palm.
Fraser looked up at his father, blinking back tears. "Is he dead?"
"How the hell should I know, son? Just because I'm dead it doesn't mean I know all the faces up here. Or down there. Whatever. This isn't the Yukon."
"I don't think . . ."
"What? That he's really dead? You tell me - you did identify his body, Benton."
"I'm not sure." He stared out across the sheets of rain, to the dimly lit streets beyond the trees. "Maybe. Maybe I was just afraid of not knowing."
Fraser Snr.'s voice took on a softer tone. "Son, I realize that the death of a friend is a hard thing to accept, but you have lost people before. The truth is you did identify the body, however much you question yourself afterwards."
"Francesca said they found his gold crucifix."
"Well? Believe me, Benton, you shouldn't go looking for an answer when there isn't one any different to the one you already hold in your hand. I know. Sometimes, you can try to make yourself believe something when the truth is far more simple. You just don't want to believe it."
Won't let myself. "I can't believe it. Not like this. No explanation."
"There is always an explanation. It's just not necessarily the one you were hoping for."
"Then I want to find it." He looked up, his expression intent. "There has to be a reason. I want to know why."
* * * *
Another dream, more real than the last. Leaning over a deep precipice, wet earth soaking his shirt, a torrential river swelled by recent rain meters beneath Ray's feet. He reached out with one hand, felt his friend's fingers digging into his wrist, and pulled back vainly.
"Don't let go." Pleading. Ray looked up with those big brown eyes, his free hand scrabbling at the cliff face and only loosening pebbles, turning his fingers bloody.
"I won't, I promise." But he could already feel his grasp weakening.
"Please, Benny . . ."
"Just hold on." Fingers slick with mud, Fraser felt his friend slip from beneath him, struggled to regain his hold and found himself grasping air. Suddenly the world fell silent, just the sound of the breeze as Ray tumbled backwards, eyes wide and face pale.
"Ray!"
He sat up in bed, breathing quickly. So real. He paused, raising his arm and flexing it experimentally, wincing as his muscles protested. Dief looked up from the end of the bed and gave a sympathetic whimper.
"I'm okay," he assured him, and the wolf settled his head back into his paws. Holding his palm out in front of his face Fraser stared into the dark, thinking back over the events of the day. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, part of him even felt guilty, laid down on the bed for barely a second. Not that he had slept for very long. Only a few hours since . . . He paused, frowning slightly, then clenched his hand into a fist. "The car," he said aloud. "The Riv."
* * * *
The station house was in chaos. Admittedly, the chaos was silent, tear stained and sombre, cold coffee and overfull ashtrays. But with Elaine working at off-peak the paperwork had piled up until Welsh could barely see the desks for the piles of folders and post-sticks that littered them. There was a sort of emptiness to the silence, an emptiness that was very different to when Gardino had died. Then, there had been someone to hate, someone to blame, but this time there was no suspect. Meaningless loss was always the worst to handle, and Welsh wasn't sure if anyone was handling it all that well.
"Lieutenant."
He turned at the sound of his name, trying not to drop the collection of unfinished reports he held in his arms. "Constable. I would have thought you would take some time off."
"I need to speak to you, sir."
"In my office." Knocking the door open with one shoulder, Welsh dumped the files on his desk then took his seat and waved a hand at the other chair. "What can I do for you?"
"It's about Ray. I believe you should reopen the investigation."
He didn't know what to say. Couldn't find the words of comfort, of strength, and knew that an hour later and he would know exactly what he should have said. Only then it would be too late. And now . . .
"Constable . . . Fraser . . ."
It seemed like everyone was taking first name terms, and it felt odd, the first time. But this time things weren't official.
"Why?" And he left it at that.
Fraser seemed to consider for a long time, then said softly: "He's my friend."
"The body. Do you have doubts over your original identification?"
"I . . ." Hesitated. "I'm not sure."
"Fraser . . ." And it hurt to say it, to admit it, a job he had done so many times before, but none had been quite so hard . . . except maybe Gardino's . . .
"Fraser, Ray is dead."
"No." And it was that simple. Welsh looked up at the Mountie, expecting more, and when no more was forthcoming prompted:
"And why do you think this?"
Because I dreamt about him. Because I'm his friend, maybe closer than that, and I don't want to lose him. I don't want to let go.
"The car, sir."
"The car."
"Before Ray left to work on this assignment he argued with Francesca, over his car. She wanted to borrow it but he refused. He took the keys."
"And?"
"Sir, those keys were not found on the body pulled from the lake."
He won't even name the victim. "Fraser, those keys could be anywhere. They may have fallen into the lake itself when the mugger tried to dispose of the body, he may not have taken them on assignment, he may have lost them . . ."
"Ray would never have lost the keys to the car. Not that car. And he would not have left them at home, not with Francesca there. Sir."
Welsh sighed. He had had to deal with officers losing friends to the job, but never denial. And this was denial, had to be, unless he could somehow overlook all the evidence to the contrary and accept Fraser's evidence on face value.
"I'm sorry, Constable. Forensics went over that area with a fine toothcomb. Nothing was left untouched. Believe me, I know how much you want it to be different, but Vecchio is dead. We are looking into his attacker but from your point of view . . . the case is closed." He wanted desperately to say something more, but there were no words of comfort that could possibly make a difference. He knew it, and the man before him knew it.
Fraser ducked his head, then looked up. "Thank you for your time, Lieutenant."
And he turned on his heel, and was gone, passing though a room of concerned glances and hushed whispers. Elaine's tear-stained face, looking up from paperwork, cold coffee on the desk beside her. Deja vu.
* * * *
Was this where he died?
Fraser shook off the coldness that threatened to envelop him and tried to concentrate on the job in hand. Huey and Ray had been working on an undercover sting operation, according to Welsh, although he had still been reluctant to tell anything. Ray and Huey were undercover, posing as small time con-men, dealers, pimps, whatever their employers asked. Just enough to get certain information. Ray had been undercover on and off for the past two months, but it was this last week that was the climax to months of collaboration between the Chicago police force and the FBI.
Across the road from where Fraser stood was the building, the run down warehouse beside the river, the place where Ray had last been seen. He'd refused the offer of a lift from one of the SWAT team, saying he wanted to 'clear his head' after the past few days. Fraser had spoken to him before about his feelings on undercover work, on his dread of the lies, the constant pretence at being someone else. He'd walked off into the night, away from the sirens behind him, and that was the last anyone had seen of him. Supposedly the mugger had attacked him on the way home, Welsh said.
The warehouse stood empty, curiously silent after the chaos of the past few days. It stood as a memorial to the dockyards of its birth, dockyards that now stood abandoned in favour of greener, and cheaper pasture. Even Diefenbaker seemed unwilling to disturb the silence, keeping close to the Mountie's legs.
"I know," he said softly, giving the wolf an absent pat on the head. "I feel it too."
The yard outside the warehouse was made of rough gravel, scuffed with the tracks of cop cars and SWAT vehicles. Bright yellow tape trailed from the open doorway, and Fraser brushed past it as he entered. Silence greeted him. A room lit with dusty light, shadowed by boarded up windows and towers of cardboard boxes. A table stood in the centre, and a few broken chairs; nothing else. There was the occasional bullet hole in the wall here and there, a scar from the night before, a reminder of violence and death and pain.
Was this where you hid? You and Huey taking cover, seeing the faces of the men around you as they realized who had betrayed them? Was this where it ended?
Diefenbaker began snuffling across the floor and Fraser followed him. There was nothing he could find that even vaguely resembled a clue; a box of matches crushed beneath feet, a disused lighter, ash from any number of differing brands of cigarette, ancient stains on the floor. Eventually, and after tasting the floor beneath him several times, Fraser stood up, walked back to the door. Dief gave a small whine and followed him, brushed past his legs as though eager to get out into the open air again.
The wind felt cool against his face when he stepped outside, and he took a moment to take a steadying breath, regain his balance after the oppression inside. He turned, slowly, looked up at the warehouse.
I can't lose you like this. I need to know.
A bark shattered the silence. He turned, ran over to where the brief flash of a white tail could be seen disappearing around the corner of the building. Between the warehouse and its neighbour, an abandoned soap factory, was a narrow alley filled with cardboard boxes and broken glass, a dumping ground for any waste. There was a narrow gate at the bottom that divided the land between the warehouse and the factory. Dief was on his hind legs, paws up against the wood, whining. Fraser studied the door, then the floor around it, kneeling.
"What is it?"
Another whine. Fraser patted him on the head absently, then ran his fingers across the ground. There were marks in the dirt, several large scrapes that curved out from the wall and ran under the rim of the door. Fraser stood, felt the smooth surface of the door, then slid his fingers around its edge and lifted and pulled at the same time. After some effort, the ramshackle gate creaked on its hinges and swung towards him, following the scrape marks on the floor. Eventually he had it so it was leaning against the wall, smooth surface against brick, the other side of the wood marked and rotting.
Dief looked up at him curiously.
"I know. I'm not blind you know. The gate has always been hung against this wall -" his fingers rested against the wood, briefly, "and you can see the erosion of rain water. But someone has forced it across, hiding . . ." He paused, slipped around the edge of the door to stand on the other side. Here the alley opened up to a small driveway, gravelled. One side looked out on the river behind the soap factory; the other provided a view of the road, barred across with a large sign that warned in faded letters: "No parking except for access."
Walking around the edge, Fraser studied the ground closely. There were marks in the dirt, tire tracks, and recent. Heavy too, a van, he guessed, from the size of the wheel trim and the space between the marks. The dirt was scuffed in one area, as though there had been a struggle. Fraser bent down to the ground, brushed the fine layer of dust from its surface.
A wet nose brushed his hand, as Dief sniffed the ground curiously. The wolf paused, looked up and across, staring into Fraser's eyes with startling clarity. Swallowing hard, Fraser took a handful of the wolf's fur, gripped tightly.
"I know, I know. It doesn't mean anything. It's probably nothing."
Then why does everything in me tell me no? he asked himself. Why can't I let it go?
* * * *
He never got to Welsh's office. Elaine suddenly appeared from around her desk, stood in his path, reached out to grab his arm.
"Fraser!"
He stopped still suddenly, stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending. "Elaine . . ." finally, as though just remembering the words.
"What are you doing here?" She pulled him aside, into the break room, away from the prying eyes of her fellow officers. He caught a glimpse of Huey, looking up from his desk to stare bemusedly at the Mountie.
"I wanted to see Lieutenant Welsh."
"He's in a meeting with some Feds. It's not important." She looked at him seriously. "How are you? We've been worried."
He never wanted to stop, to have to talk to her, to open up. But he needed her, the position she was in, and hated himself for it.
"I'm fine, Elaine. Actually . . . I was hoping for your help."
She turned her face up to his, her eyes lighting up briefly. "You know everyone here is looking out for you."
"Actually," and he couldn't help but hear the shame in his voice, "I was hoping to see the case notes on Ray's . . ." He couldn't say it. The words became lodged in his throat and he hesitated, corrected: "on the mugging."
"Oh." Her face fell, looking up at him with sad eyes, holding his gaze for a moment before turning away. She paused, studying her hands, clasping them together tightly. "Why?"
"I . . ." He couldn't lie to her, couldn't think of what to say. "I have some doubts. About the details of the case."
"Fraser . . ."
"There were marks in the dirt near the front of the warehouse, tire tracks . . ."
She turned back towards him, but refused to meet his eyes. "I'm going to tell you what Welsh will tell you," she said softly. "The truth. Fraser, Ray wasn't . . . it didn't happen at the warehouse, the body was found over half a mile away. And there were a lot of cars coming in and out of there all night. Plus which . . ." She bit her lip, added quietly: "There was a witness."
He stared at her, unseeing. "A witness?" he repeated, numbly.
"Some supervisor guy, works at the IRS building. Said he was on his way home when he saw two men struggling down near the dock, one matching Ray's description, but he didn't get too good a look on the other. You know, white, male, wearing a black jacket . . ." She studied her hands again. "I know," softly, "how much you want Ray to still be alive. Believe me, I want the same thing. I keep coming around the corner and if I'm really quick, I'll think he's still there. I've started making coffee for Welsh and Huey and the others, started pouring an extra cup for Ray." Then she looked up at him, reached out to catch his sleeve, eyes liquid. "Then I remember. Then I remember he's gone."
His jaw clenched around tears, tightly, and he said nothing for a moment, struggling to reign everything in. Finally: "I have to know. I have to be sure."
A small pause. "I guess I can understand that." She pulled back, glanced at the open doorway. Lowered her voice. "The case file, I'll, uh, I'll need it back, after, but there's a photocopier down the hall that no one's using . . ."
Sincerely: "Thank you."
She gave him a smile that matched her sad eyes. "Wait here. Everyone's pretty busy at the moment, I don't think anyone will notice if I'm not there for a few minutes." She turned to go, paused at the doorway. Glanced back. "If there's something there, I know you'll find it."
"Thank you, Elaine."
"Uh-huh." She turned, quickly, disappeared back around the corner. Fraser sank back into a chair, elbows resting on the tabletop, head resting in his hands, staring at the table for a moment.
If Elaine was found out, she'd likely be reprimanded, unofficially at best if Welsh or one of the other detectives caught her. If it was one of the Feds, or Welsh's CO, then chances were the consequences would be far more serious. She was taking a risk.
But at that moment, it didn't matter. None of it mattered. But there was a witness, a reliable witness. And though he might be able to hide the doubt from his father, and from Dief, he couldn't hide it from himself.
These characters are not mine, I only borrowed them and promise to put them back when I'm done! Comments appreciated.