Lau ✨

July 2019

Cool whiskey stones clink against Ethan’s favourite glass as he tosses them in, the sharp sound momentarily making him snap out of his thoughts. He received them from Naveen as a present for his thirty-fifth birthday, stored in a box made of dark walnut wood, with his initials carved into the top. They both laughed that it was supposed to be Ethan’s small SOS kit – a purist like himself would never put ice into his favourite liquor. Ice dilutes it. It reduces its richness. A heinous act such as that would most likely feel like committing a crime.

The box is usually displayed on a kitchen shelf, more to admire the thoughtful gesture than to put them to use. Ethan prefers to treat himself to top-shelf scotch as it is. After all, there is no better feeling than the delicious burn of warm golden-hued liquid running down his throat.

Tonight, he does not want to treat himself to such luxury. He needs to soothe the burning fever raging inside him. He needs to dull the pain.

He opens the kitchen cabinet, a single fingertip skimming over the tops of the expensive bottles. His eyes briefly run over the various labels. Johnnie Walker. Macallan. The Glenlivet. Weller. Jack Daniel’s. Yamazaki. Lagavulin. He almost reaches for the cheapest bottle in his impressive collection but changes his mind and grabs the half-opened Johnnie Walker instead.

He is profoundly desperate, but not desperate enough to torture himself like that. Besides, nothing could ever punish him more than her. And he rightfully deserves so.

The memories of the night come crashing over him like a sudden tidal wave of a tsunami, all detailed snapshots of her that are now forever etched into his very core. He will never forget the charming outline of her spine as she elegantly leant forward in an enthusiastic conversation with Governor Rivera – a view he could enjoy plentifully thanks to the backless silk halter top that gently caressed her skin with every slight movement.

He will also never forget the breath-taking sight of her graceful, long neck as she ran her fingers through her rich copper waves and gathered them together, tossing them over one shoulder. The air around her faintly smelled like mandarin, grapefruit, and juniper, but upon closer inspection, he noticed subtle hints of amber woods and musk. There was a slight oceanic note to her cologne, something salty that instantly reminded him of long summer days by the sea, fresh citruses cut on a plate in front of him. It was a bright fragrance, delicate but sharp at the same time – particularly fitting for someone like her.

But he will also never forget the palpable distance between them that evening, tangible and sturdy walls that now separate them being the result of their mutual stubbornness. (Though is truly their stubbornness at fault? Is it not his unwillingness to face his demons that has driven this wedge between them?) With every attempt to get closer, she pulled away ever further, and he could not blame her one bit, for he is the exact same person who made things so irreparably complicated.

However, he did not expect her to be so masterful at it. He still feels her beautiful eyes of the same shade as his preferred liquor boring into him as she extended her hand at the end of the dinner, offering him the most impassive goodbye possible.

“Have a good night, Dr. Ramsey.”

He takes the glass in his hand, gently swirling its content before taking a generous sip.

Her beautiful eyes of the same shade as his preferred liquor.

Ironically, what once used to offer him the much-needed escape from any distraction has become the one thing that immediately reminds him of her. Laura Levchenko. The woman that can both heal and completely ruin him at the same time.

That moment of utter hostility is nothing new to him. He has seen her beautiful face become the most flawless mask of utter coldness many times, sometimes divinely astonishing and sometimes downright cruel. But there is always that unmistakable spark in her eyes, even during moments such as those. The fire behind them rarely subsides, and one can see it clearly, as long as they pay meticulous attention.

His memories immediately start drifting to a very dangerous territory, one that he knows he should not revisit. For he remembers seeing a different kind of fire in her eyes, the type that was once reserved only for him and made him wish it would set him ablaze.

He is standing under the stream of icy cold water, teeth chattering in his head. Despite the freezing temperature of the water, he feels like he is burning within. He knows it is not physically possible, but all reason abandons him at this point, and he starts wondering if his skin might start sizzling as the cold droplets of water fall on his body. He is desperately trying to convince himself that enduring this self-imposed torture in the middle of the night is a remedy for his inebriated mind. His tolerance is no longer what it once used to be, and he can certainly think of more enjoyable activities for the day ahead than sipping on Alka Seltzer in a darkened room. Nevertheless, no half-truths nor blatant lies prevent his mind from wandering to the actual cause of his state, the beautiful woman now sound asleep in his bedroom. She is the reason why he is desperate to sober up. Her presence leaves him more intoxicated than any top-shelf liquor ever could. A part of him – the tiny fraction of his intact rationality that realises they have irreversibly made everything much more complicated for themselves – should feel guilty about the events of the past few hours. He is waiting almost impatiently for the appalling wave of remorse to invade his thoughts like a disease, involuntarily dragging him back to reality. This was not supposed to happen. But the minutes keep passing by, and regrets never come. Instead, he discovers that he would happily do it over again. The noisy thoughts that occupy his mind evaporate with the sound of the shower door being opened behind his back. He almost finds it ironic that despite his never-ending desperation for solitude, he has never welcomed anything more than her presence at that moment. She remains fixed in one place, unmoving and silent, but he can feel her eyes unabashedly observing his figure, almost reminding him of two hot coals burning through his skin. When she presses herself against his back to reach for the shower knob, she shudders under the stream of icy water, rosy nipples hardening against his cool flesh. Deft fingers quickly change the temperature, and the biting chill is suddenly replaced by soothing warmth spreading through his tense muscles. She wraps her arms around his torso and lets her cold hands rest on his pecs. The way she tenderly caresses his chest is a stark contrast to how she raked her nails across his back when his cock filled her so deliciously only a few hours ago. She undoubtedly has a marvellous view of the crimson marks on his skin, her very own work of art reserved for her eyes only, now slowly fading away. “Are you in dire need of some hypothermia to finish this memorable night?” she eventually speaks into the silence, her melodic voice cutting through the comforting drizzle of water. He scoffs incredulously, tugging a large hand through the soaked dark locks and pushing them out of his face. “Haven’t I tired you out enough after that marathon?” “Do not flatter yourself so much, Ramsey. Pride comes before a fall.” There is another sardonic remark already forming itself on the tip of his tongue, ready to strike. Sarcasm has always been their language. They have relished in the personal verbal sparring, exchanging witty quips and misanthropic comments, turning impatient just to see who gives up first like a pathetic loser and who turns out to be the winner of the day. But then she stands right in front of him, and all those words turn to ashes in his mouth like flowers withering in the scorching sun. His gaze shamelessly roams all over her as he allows himself to savour the tempting sight in all its allure. She is painfully beautiful in the simplicity of the moment, face scrubbed off any traces of make-up and messy ginger waves growing wet under the steam of water. Her flawless skin appears almost luminous under the lighting, luxurious, sinful – Bernini’s carved masterpiece brought to life under his touch.

Whenever he sets his eyes on her and momentarily gets lost in her beauty, he feels something ignite within him, as if his whole body has been suddenly set on fire. If he did not know any better, he would swear he was coming down with a severe bout of fever. She begins exploring the broad expanse of his chest with her hands and lips, fingertips trailing down his side and across his ribs, tracing the curving indentation just above the cut of his hipbone. Despite the water no longer chilling him to the bone, he finds himself shuddering. Laura pulls herself up on her tiptoes to sling a slender arm around his neck, slanting her lips over his in a searing kiss, fingers finding their way into his hair. The sudden need to touch every inch of her is becoming all-consuming, almost maddening, and he pulls her even closer, pressing her back against the cool tiles as he deepens the kiss, their tongues fighting for dominance. He has been with impressive women before, but no memory could ever compare to the feeling of having her – his fierce mythical Amazon, surrendering to no one but him. She has him wrapped around her finger, and the power she has over him is both deliciously liberating and frighteningly exciting. When she breaks the kiss, she presses her lips against the shell of his ear, and the way her teeth softly tug at his earlobe makes him see stars. If this is a dream, then he wishes never to wake up. “I woke up feeling extremely hungry,” she breathes against his skin, putting extra emphasis on the last two words, and the sound of it immediately takes him back to the moments in his bed, when she was fervently chanting his name like a prayer. She trails a fingertip down from his navel over the thin line of hair that leads to his groin. “Give me five minutes, I’ll find something in the fridge,” he says with his eyes half-closed, his mind becoming foggier with every trace and caress. It’s only when he hears her soft laughter that he momentarily snaps back into reality, realising that she has a different type of hunger in mind. “You look good enough to eat.” Oh. Ethan groans in relief at the contact as his cock eagerly springs into her touch. She is savouring the pulsating warmth, now having all of him in the palm of her hand in the most literal of ways. She begins working his length slowly and deliberately, as if they had endless time on their hands. Being with Laura makes him lose the last scraps of control left in him, and he has never welcomed anything more. Whatever fears and doubts he nurtured, whatever rationale he possessed, it is all gone – he is offering it to her like a sacrifice. The whole world ceases to exist, and he willingly surrenders to her, to the feeling of the silky skin beneath his rough fingertips, to her unyielding grip around his manhood. His mind quickly wanders back to the now half-empty packet of condoms on the bedside table. “You know the best we can do here is an hors d’oeuvre.” Her clever brain immediately connects all the dots, offering him a knowing smile full of promise. “Perfect. And let’s serve the main course in bed.” She gracefully sinks down to the floor, kneeling at his feet as if to worship. She tilts her head forward, running her tongue along the underside of the shaft before taking the whole of him into her mouth. She hums around the thick length as she takes him lower, tightening her lips to increase the pressure around the base of his cock. His hips buck involuntarily at the magnificent sensation.

She never breaks eye contact, and the fire behind her irises is enough to make him burn within. He is drowning in the amber pools of her irises, and at that moment, he realises he has never desired anyone – never needed anyone – as intensely as her. While one hand finds its way through the wet, fiery hair and grabs a hold of it to guide her movements, the other rests on the tiles for support. His fingernails absentmindedly dig into the cool tiles as if they could somehow keep him steady, though he knows nothing will help him anymore. Any and all thoughts evaporate from his mind, leaving it blissfully blank, his sole focus on the feeling of her plush lips wrapped around him. For all he cares, the Charles River running below them could overflow and wash over the whole city, and he would not bat an eyelid. As long as he can have her, the water can swallow him whole.

Ethan feels constricting tightness in his chest, as if he were held underwater against his will, dark currents sucking the breath out of his lungs. He almost wants to hurl the glass against the wall just so the shattering sound of its rupture could take his mind off the never-ending cycle of thoughts that always involve her.

And he knows he should avoid those at all costs. Especially when he remembers her in moments like that. Especially when he is desperately trying to move on and forget anything that ever involved her as more than a colleague.

He wishes to be able to down on her with the same ease that he does with so many other people. He wants to see her as nothing but another co-worker that he sees passing by every day through Edenbrook’s endless maze of corridors, perhaps even less than that. Rookie. He craves the advantage as though it were the most addictive drug – the sense of total control over every action performed, over every step taken, just like he did in the past.

But he realises that it will never be possible. She will never be just another colleague. Laura has a hold on him as no one has ever had, and he is urgently clinging to Laura's presence and the memories they had like a castaway clings to a life raft, keeping him safe from the wide sea.

He starts becoming more and more aware of how dangerous his feelings for her are. She has completely permeated his bones, gradually tearing down the many layers of the protective icy walls that surround him. Before she walked into his life and threw everything into disarray like a deadly cyclone, he was solid, impenetrable, and unmoved. Now, no longer will a moment go by when he does not think about her in some way, making him lose his footing and fall straight back into the fleeting solace she brings.

It took him two months to painstakingly fix the shattered walls he had always shielded himself with through which cracks she succeeded to catch a glimpse of the real him, in his most vulnerable state. Now that he is back, it only took her mere moments to totally breach his defences all over, leaving him raw and aching for her.

He genuinely despises himself for being unable to reason clearly and resist the temptation. Or so he believes. In fact, he loathes himself for being such a coward, for his inability to face the unavoidable truth, and for always making things so complicated, bringing tragedy with him wherever he sets his foot.

He has been at war with his feelings for too long but is only now beginning to acknowledge that he has long lost. He is a man wounded in the middle of the battlefield, hoping that his downfall will be quick and merciful. A woman like Laura Levchenko is impossible to forget. No matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise, reality always prevails in the end.

He was certain that the distance between them was precisely what he needed. Seeing her carry on with her life as if nothing ever transpired between them should therefore feel like salvation. Instead, watching her keeping him at arm's length does not only reopen old wounds from months ago, it even adds salt to them.

Sometimes, in moments like this one, he wants the white-hot pain to overcome his senses.

But as a doctor, he knows that all pain, no matter how severe, is only temporary. After any moment of despair comes relief – his could be found in forgetting anything that happened and moving on, no matter how excruciating it might be. He may have briefly caved in during the evening, but he will find a way how to put an end to it, for both their sakes. She will eventually thank him for it.

Either he will find a cure or embrace his death with dignity.

---

NOTES ET CETERA:

To explain the setting of the fic to avoid confusion – this takes place right after the dinner with Governor Rivera. The reset from Chapter 1 is in full swing… except Dr. Ramsey miscalculated badly. Without giving much away, Laura makes it clear that she is not interested in having anything to do with him on a personal level. And Ethan wants to be glad and relieved… except he is not.

Yes, cologne. You read that right. Miss Laura prefers male fragrances.

I think it's surprising that someone he barely knows is so willing to give him the comfort he needs at that very moment. No reservations. No expectations of anything in return. It's really sad to think that on top of everything he went through with Louise, he is also guarded because he is the famous Ethan Ramsey and someone always wants something from him for their own gain.

I think Ethan not moving is another reaction of surprise for the reasons listed above.

And let's not forget the most telling interaction:

This one is different too because Ethan and MC have already put their romantic feelings for one another out in the open. They have already slept together (depending on the readers' choices) and are in a tentative, upspoken romantic relationship.

Aside from physical touch, it's also obvious very few people checked up on Ethan or took care of him on the most basic level (this because he pushed everyone away when he was younger or because eventually, he became almost like a deity to other people because of his fame. What could the famous Ethan Ramsey want or need from anyone?). Just look at these interactions:

This is when MC is following him and he confronts them. Though MC is technically fibbing, Ethan is surprised when they say they only wanted to see how he was doing. As though people rarely ask him that...

And also:

The way he leans into MC's touch, longing for their care. Very telling and sad.

Anyway sorry for the novel!

Pushing through the stragglers at the crowd’s edge, they navigate around the border of emergency vehicles and into the ornate building. The lobby is just as flashy with its gleaming floors and wooden panels. A chandelier hangs in the center, formed from hundreds of blown glass leaves suspended in a spiral. A marble staircase leads up to the second floor where the bar’s warm lights shine through floor-to-ceiling windows. Piped in through hidden speakers, classical music floats under the anxious murmur of guests. Bellhops herd them towards the elevator bank, urging them upstairs to their rooms. A woman sits on a velvet chaise lounge, black lines running down her face as she gives her statement to a trio of detectives.

It’s not hard to spot the stairwell door, teeming with cops as it is. Bryce frowns when he spots the uniforms. Sloane reads his expression with ease.

“It’s your fault for wearing that jacket everywhere.”

“It’s your fault for not snagging one of those for me.”

Patting him on the arm, she tugs the hat down further and slips into the group of officers headed up the stairs. It’s easy to go unnoticed in her dark clothes and makeshift disguise -- especially when one of them loudly jokes about out-of-shape cops, prompting a wave of sarcastic remarks. Despite the jesting, they all make it up to the twelfth floor landing to join three detectives, some CSU techs, and a hotel employee.

“Why are you all here?” one of the detectives demands to know.

“Lozoya said you needed us to secure the--”

“It’s a fuckin’ roof. What the hell is there to secure?”

The officers grumble at the tone, but stand firm. “Fine, sure.” The detective waves them through. “But no takin’ photos for your Pictagrams and no botherin’ the feds.”

Sloane steps out onto the roof with the rest, lagging behind but not pulling away completely. Two men stand near the door, their backs turned away from the wind as they converse. Whatever they’re saying is lost to the noise carrying up from below, so she passes on eavesdropping and trails after the officers as they circle towards the building’s front. Yellow tape has already been posted around a section of gravel, where the loose stones have been kicked around. From someone pacing and contemplating their decision, or two someones having a fight, she isn’t sure. One of the cops makes a comment about how he must have hit the fire escape on the way down, what with how his face was caved in. The others cringe at the mental image.

Slipping her phone from her coat pocket, Sloane hides it in her palm and snaps a round of photos. At least one of them will be useful, she figures. She’s edging closer to the tape and feigning interest in the view below when she spots the signet ring. It’s gold, made of three bands stacked and melted together. On the front is a small, black triangle with the number “33” stamped in gold.

“You’re not being as subtle as you think you are.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she raises an eyebrow at the man approaching her. He’s one of the FBI agents -- obvious by the expensive suit and coat, and from his lack of a visible badge. Homicide always wears theirs around their necks.

“I’m sorry?” she asks when he comes to a stop in front of her.

He’s tall -- like really fucking tall. This close, she can see the striking blue of his eyes as he glares down at her. His breath fogs out in a heavy sigh.

“Just because the majority of these morons don’t watch CNN doesn’t mean you can get away with trespassing.” With a pointed glance down at her hand, he continues: “Or taking pictures of active crime scenes. I could have you arrested, you know, for impersonating an officer.”

She slides her phone back into her pocket and reaches up to adjust her hat.

“Maybe I’m a fan.”

He levels an unimpressed look at her.

“No one is a fan of the Boston Police Department.”

“What’s your name?” she asks, sidestepping his attempt to corral her towards the access door.

“I’m not interested in being interviewed.”

Sloane tilts her head back and assesses him: no-nonsense and a little condescending, but there’s enough of a spark of sardonic humor in there to use. She could play up the charm, but she has a feeling he wouldn’t fall for it. Getting under his skin it is, then.

“Well, considering you aren’t in coveralls and booties, you’ve clearly nothing better to do than stand around anyway.”

“Getting you out of an active crime scene is in my job description, actually. Besides, don’t you have a war-torn country to parachute into?”

“They’re on a ceasefire right now. And besides, I know who’s under the tarp downstairs.”

The agent snorts at her claim and guides her closer to the door, his hand hovering near her back but never making contact.

“You and every other lookie-loo down there with a camera phone.”

“I was supposed to have a meeting with him tomorrow,” she tells him, keeping her voice low.

The brief chuckle is enough to tell her that she isn’t winning this one.

“Looks like your schedule cleared up a bit, then. Now, if you’d like, you can join your friend in the garish Hawaiian-print jacket who’s shooting B-roll in the lobby. But if I see you up here again, I won’t hesitate to arrest you.”

Sloane shrugs off his warning and digs into her pocket for her business card.

“I have information that might be relevant to this case, if you’d like to get in touch with me.”

“I’m sure you do, Miss McTavish,” is all he says as he takes the card. “But I’m not one for schmoozing, even if you deem it ‘relevant.’”

With an aborted gesture, he waves her to go on through the door and leave. She does so without comment, which surprises him. Though the look she gives him before she disappears down the stairs tells him that this may not be their last communication.

“Reporters,” he scoffs and crumples her card into his coat pocket. With that distraction taken care of, he turns to find his partner.

|| || || || || || || || || || ||

Tuesday, January 13, 12:46 p.m.

“Ethan, hear me out: maybe we try a different type of knock.”

His hand pauses in front of the door as he turns to his partner, asking his question by raising a single brow.

“I was reading about intimidation tactics in regards to psychological manipulation,” Baz continues. “It talked about the ‘cop knock’ and how commonly associated with guilt it can be. Maybe we try a softer knock, to let them know they aren’t in trouble.”

“They might very well be in trouble, though, if they lied to the police,” Ethan points out, to which Baz blinks at him and then sighs.

“I know. But we drove all this way and if we have to turn back around because another person decides not to answer their door I’m going to scream.” At Ethan’s look of doubt, he shifts on the stoop. “Okay, fine. I’ll sigh really, really loud.”

“Very out of character for you.”

Ignoring the comment dripping with sarcasm, Baz leans forward and knocks a gentle melody against the door. To the right of the stoop, the curtains in the window move back a few inches before falling back into place.

“Mr. Stevenson, I’m Special Agent Mirani and this is Special Agent Ramsey,” he speaks to the closed door. “We’re just here to ask a few follow-up questions.”

Inside, there’s the high tone of a woman’s voice before the muffled roar of a television reaches them. Knowing that camping out front of their door isn’t going to do them any good, Ethan nudges Baz and tips his head to the sidewalk. With a sigh of defeat, Baz follows him down to the SUV parked down the block.

“That’s the third one this week,” he whines, shuffling from foot to foot to keep warm as he waits for Ethan to unlock the car. “And it’s only Tuesday.”

Pulling the keys from his pocket, Ethan curses when a paper falls out with them and onto the asphalt. He bends down and snatches it up, crushing it in his palm to relieve some of the frustration he feels. Because Baz is right -- that’s the third witness who has refused to talk to them about what they saw Saturday night. The distrust of law enforcement he can understand as a reasoning, but for there to be so many in such a small span of time is nothing less than odd. It goes against the average, which is something he finds frustrating.

He slides into the driver’s seat and turns on the car. Baz lets out a weak cry of relief as he climbs into the cab and flips on the seat warmer. The crushed card ends up tossed into the other debris of the center console, where Baz eyes it with interest.

“Have you reached out to her yet?”

“Have I reached out to the person who trespassed onto a crime scene?” Ethan scoffs. “No, can’t say that I have.”

“Maybe you should.”

“It would be a waste of time.”

Baz shoots him a look, as if he’s the one being insufferable.

“And driving out to Quincy isn’t?” he questions with a gesture to the neighborhood around them. “She said she had information. Right now, she might be the only one who’s willing to talk to us.”

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, then berating himself for the bad habit, Ethan glares out at the wintry mix settling on the trees and shrubbery. As much as the bureau likes to brag about solidarity with the press, he doesn’t like dealing with them. It’s no surprise that people whose job it is to stick their nose into other people’s business aren’t the easiest bunch to work with. Though the same could be said for his fellow agents. Including his partner.

Heaving out a sigh, Ethan hands the card over. The momentary event is cut short, however, when her phone rings out and then rolls over to her voicemail.

“This is Sloane. Leave your name, number, and reason for calling at the--” Baz hits the end call button and classical music plays through the car speakers once more.

“I could’ve left a voicemail.”

“Nobody leaves voicemails anymore.”

“Then how will she know it’s me?” Ethan asks.

With an elaborate gesture, Baz opens up the messaging app and begins tapping at the screen. Ethan rolls his eyes as he pulls out into traffic. The muddy water of the Neponset River churns below them as they head north along the interstate for Boston. The chime of a text notification rings through the cab.

“‘Can’t talk right now, in a meeting. Ready to share?’” Baz reads off.

“Tell her yes.”

Another moment of silence, then: “She says ‘no beating around the bush, then. I like that.’ Um, then says she’ll be downtown for the next hour, then has an interview at two. Are you able to meet her today, or do you want to do this over the phone?”

“I despise texting.” Ethan does a double-take when Baz’s fingers move in a flurry across the screen. “No, don’t send--”

Another chime sounds.

“She says ‘that checks out.’”

“What does she mean by that?”

“That you’re a classic type of guy, you know,” Baz fumbles. “Really… old-school, but in a cool, retro way.”

“Uh-huh. So, where does she want to meet?”

|| || || || || || || || || || ||

Tuesday, January 13, 1:34 p.m.

“Where’s your hat?”

McTavish lets out a dry chuckle at his question and hops down from the retaining wall as they approach. The leather messenger bag she carries smacks against her hip; she immediately shoves it behind her as a reflex.

“Last time I wore it, I was accused of impersonating an officer. Figured it would be safer to leave it at home.”

“A wise decision,” Ethan says. “An even wiser one would be to toss it.”

At the suggestion, she wrinkles her nose and shakes her head.

“Nah. But c’mon, you aren’t here to share fashion advice. Let’s walk and talk.”

This time of year, the Common has nothing more to offer than the bare limbs of the famous oaks and elms. Being the middle of the day, only a few people are out skating on the frog pond. Dreary weather aside, Ethan likes the winter season -- there’s less violent crime when it’s cold out. It’s hard to motivate hardened criminals into action when it’s below freezing. Not that it stopped whoever tossed Senator Farrugia off the Edenbrook’s roof.

“I assume you’ve had less than good luck when it comes to follow-ups,” McTavish says as they wander down a branching path.

“What makes you say that?” Baz asks.

Rolling her head to the side, she glances between the two of them before settling on Ethan.

“Because you wouldn’t have stooped to contacting me if things were going fine. How many times have you been stiffed?”

“One no-show and two others that wouldn’t come to the door.”

“Damn.” McTavish clicks her tongue. “And it’s only Tuesday. Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve had about the same luck.”

Ethan stops short, forcing the others to halt, as well.

“We’re not here to make conversation. At the hotel, you said you had information.”

“I do, or -- at least, I’m trying to uncover a deal he was working on with--”

“Everyone knows the deal he was working on,” he interrupts, much to her obvious frustration. “That addiction rehabilitation bill was all over every news site for the past three months. Including yours.”

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “and everyone knew he wasn’t going to go through with it. Not when the Cyrus Brothers donated to his campaign last week. It’s no coincidence that they’re one of the biggest players behind privatizing the prison system in Massachusetts. The less people clogging the prisons, the less money in their pockets.”

When he glances over to his partner for confirmation -- he’s never been one to pay much attention to the finer workings of corporate America -- Baz gives a small nod.

“Tell us something that everyone isn’t aware of, then,” Ethan demands.

“The Edenbrook and a big-name pharma company have something going on under the table.”

It’s certainly not what he was expecting her to say, as evident by the fact that he has to bite back a reaction.

“Who we talkin’?” Baz jumps in. “Lavinium? Cale-Anderson?”

“Bigger,” McTavish says with a shake of her head.

“Sachmis?”

“Think Greek.”

“Can you two stop--” Ethan tries to quash their guessing game, but he’s drowned out by Baz’s excited gasp.

“No way! Panacea?”

“Bingo.”

Crossing his arms, Ethan frowns at the name.

“What do they want with an old-money hotel, though?”

McTavish bites at her lip and fiddles with her bag’s strap.

“I’m not entirely certain just yet. But it can’t be pure coincidence that their CEO Declan Nash stays at the hotel pretty often, especially when he owns two properties in the area. I suspect it has something to do with the fact that legislators who stay at the Edenbrook later pull their support from anything that would wound Panacea’s revenue. There’s something suspicious going on there, though, I’m sure of it.”

“Nash is a total scumbag,” Baz agrees. At Ethan’s pointed look, he doubles down with: “In my professional opinion, of course.”

McTavish gives a not-so-subtle gesture to her watch.

“Damn, and it’s almost two. Okay, so here’s my deal: I give you whatever information I learn from my interviews if you share the tox results from Farrugia’s autopsy.”

“We won’t get those back until--” Baz tries to deflect, but it’s no use.

“You mean you won’t share results with the public until three weeks from now as a precaution. Especially since everyone thinks he killed himself since his mistress came forward.”

“Ah, but you don’t?”

She levels an unimpressed glance at Ethan for his tone. He doesn’t bother adding that he’s fine with the public thinking that; it gives them more time to work behind the scenes. He gets the sense that she’s smart enough to know that.

“Politicians don’t commit suicide over infidelities -- they go to sex rehab or church and then pay to get themselves out of the news circuit. C’mon, guys, you’re the feds and he’s a United States senator. Give me a little credit.”

“Why do you want them so badly?”

“I’ve got a hunch.”

Humming as he weighs his options, Ethan scrubs a hand across his jaw.

“And I’m supposed to let you in on an investigation because you have a hunch.”

“I think my hunch record speaks for itself,” she says, her chin lifting as she smirks. “I was the one who dropped the Nighthawks’ doping scandal. And I uncovered Farrugia’s shady dealings when he was the mayor of Worcester in the mid-2000s.”

The agents share a look. Maybe adding another player to the field wouldn’t be so bad. After all, they have been trying to talk to the senator’s aide for the past few days and haven’t had much luck. Though his whereabouts were confirmed the night of the supposed murder, Ethan has his suspicions. And if there’s anything the guilty hate, it’s talking to the feds.

“How easy would it be for you to secure an interview with Travis Perry?”

McTavish’s mouth curls into a scowl at the name.

“Not very,” she murmurs. The grimace drops from her face a moment later. “But I’m always up for a challenge. I’ll see what more I can do. But I think something bigger is at play here.”

“So do we,” Ethan assures her. “Like you said, this is a senator’s death we’re dealing with. We have to be methodical about this. If that means taking the time to clear some names from the board, then that’s what we’ll do.”

“But keep in mind that we are on a tight schedule here because they’re firing up the retort next Monday morning. Any physical evidence will be gone.” The corner of Baz’s mouth dips into a frown. “There’s no exhuming and running another autopsy on ashes.”

“Understood. And as much as I’d love to stay and discuss funeral plans, I’ve got an interview with a former bellhop.” With that, McTavish readjusts the strap across her shoulder and nods at them. “I’ll be back in touch when I’ve got something to share, boys.”

“Ramsey,” he offers as he reaches out to shake her hand.

“Baz,” his partner says as he does the same. “It’s what all my friends and/or secret press contacts call me.”

He rolls his eyes at Baz’s comradery. McTavish flashes him a smile, her nose scrunching up as she does, as if this is some private joke he isn’t privy to. Ethan shoves down the immediate notion of how charming he finds the expression.

“Well, you can call me Sloane, then.”

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Taglist: @openheartfanfics @writinghereandthere @maurine07 @lsvdw-blog

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Author's notes and what-have-yous:

*rolls up to the club six months later to find a closed sign on it*