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FIC: Guilty by Association - Charles/Erik, XMFC - (5/??)
Title: Guilty by Association (5/??)
Author: Regann
Pairing: Charles/Erik (XMFC)
Rating: PG-13/R
Word Count: ~4,700 for the chapter (total: 50,000+)
Warnings: discussion of murder, violence and prostitution
Disclaimer: I don't own anything; I just play with them.
Notes: Everything I know about law enforcement and investigative journalism, I learned from watching television. Don't expect any more realism here than you'd find on an episode of CSI or L&O. There is also State of Play influence in this fic as well, although you don't need to have seen it to understand anything in this fic.
Summary: While investigating the homicide of a John Doe who he suspects might've been murdered while working the streets as a prostitute, Detective Erik Lehnsherr finds an unexpected ally in a hooker named Charles who seems as determined as he to solve the case. As they become more deeply involved both with the case and each other, there's just one thing that Charles neglects to mention -- that he's really an investigative journalist, one quickly convinced that what they're dealing with is more than simple murder. cop!Erik, fake-hooker-slash-reporter!Charles, Modern AU.
Previous Parts available at LJ, DW and AO3.
Guilty by Association (Part 5)
Erik had made several resolutions to himself when he'd reluctantly agreed to allow Charles to remain on the periphery of his case, and one of the most important had been that he wouldn't let himself fall into bed with Charles again. No matter how it came about, he had decided, it didn't have a place between them as long as the case was there.
But Charles wasn't just maddeningly addictive, he also was imminently persuasive because Erik had barely blinked before they were in a heated embrace, mouths locked together as Charles moved to straddle his legs. Erik's hands were operating of their own accord because they were sliding down the arching line of Charles's back to rest on the swell of his ass as Charles rocked against him.
There was no telling how far along they would've gone since Erik's good sense had all but fled but, luckily for him, the sound of someone clearing their throat made them guiltily jump apart.
"I think I've got the wrong VIP room..." the female voice said, and Erik could just see over Charles's shoulder enough to make out a petite, dark-haired young woman, dressed in a leather miniskirt, sequined bustier and spiked-heeled boots.
"Are you Angel?" Charles asked, also glancing over his shoulder at her.
She nodded, stepping a little farther into the VIP room.
He sighed, levering himself off to Erik back to his original seat by his side. "Then you've got the right suite."
Angel smirked a little. "You guys seemed to be doing fine on your own, but whatever. You know it's double for both of you, right?"
"That's not what we had in mind," Erik told her quickly.
"Although I'm sure it would be magical," Charles added with a devilish grin of his own, which made Erik turn to glare at him. "We were hoping you would be willing to talk," he added, ignoring Erik's stern look.
"While you guys make out? I guess I'm down with that," she said. "What do you want me to say?"
"You've got this wrong." Erik shot Charles a dark look but he looked completely unrepentant, mouth swollen and red. Erik pointedly looked away, reaching into his pocket to pull out the photo of John Doe. "We're here to ask you about this man. We believe you may know him."
Angel didn't have to get close to the bed to recognize the photo, if her sudden, troubled expression was any indication. Even with her dark skin, it was easy to see she'd lost a little color when her eyes darted over the photo's surface. "You're a cop?"
"I am," he admitted, coming to his feet. He crossed the distance between them and held out the photo. "I think this man might've been a friend of yours and I'd like to find out who did this to him."
Angel accepted the photo he held out, blinking her false-lash-heavy lids to stave off the moisture in her eyes. Instead of answering the question, she glanced over at Charles. "You're a cop, too?"
When Erik looked over at Charles, he noticed that Charles had went from teasing to utterly serious in mere seconds, his face transformed into a gentle mask of understanding. He scrambled off the bed as well, reaching over to lay a soft hand on Angel's wrist where she gripped the photo. "No, Angel, I'm not," he told her. "I'm just someone who wants to find out what happened to this man, something we won't be able to do without knowing who he is." He shared a look with the girl, one that led to them both glancing over at Erik. "You can trust, Detective Lehnsherr, Angel. I promise."
Angel took a warbling breath, trying to suppress a sniffle. "His name is Elliot Smith," she said. "We were roommates for awhile."
"Did he...?" Erik stopped, cleared his throat. "We're operating under the theory that he was working the streets as a prostitute. Could he have been?"
When she seemed hesitant to answer, Charles added, "We need the truth, Angel, or else we'll never figure out who killed him."
"He didn't work the street, hadn't since before I met him," she finally said. "But he was working as an escort. But, like...high-class, you know? Rich clients, fancy hotels, weekends away sometimes. The boyfriend experience and all."
Erik had pulled out his notepad and was furiously scribbling down Angel's answers. "You're sure?"
She nodded. "When he got hooked up into it, he started making a load of cash, it's why we stopped sharing an apartment. I couldn't afford more on rent but he upgraded. Got a fancy apartment and everything."
"Do you know where?"
Angel nodded a little and gave them a fashionable Tribeca address. "I knew when Maria showed me the photo that he was dead, that something had happened to him, but...I didn't want to think about it."
"It's all right, love," Charles murmured, comforting hand on her arm. Erik watched them as he moved off to one corner of the small room, pulling out his cell phone. Darwin answered on the third ring.
"You really need to get a life," Darwin said as soon as he answered. "And stop interrupting mine."
"Our John Doe's name seems to be Elliot Smith," Erik told him. "I've even got a possible address. I need you to start digging around."
Darwin sighed. "Send it over and I'll get to it first thing in the morning," he said. "I've got to get some sleep, man."
"I don't think you're worried about sleeping," Erik shot back, but Darwin just snorted and cut the connection. When he looked up, he noticed that Angel and Charles were no longer in the room, so he stuck his head out into the hall. "Charles?"
After a few annoyed moments of solitude, Charles finally re-appeared alone, taking the last few steps of the staircase quickly and hurrying over to where Erik was loitering outside of their VIP room. "Where did you go?" he asked.
"I settled our bill," Charles told him and Erik couldn't help but wonder how Charles had the money he'd been flashing around the club. "Also," Charles continued, holding up something silvery and metallic, "Angel was kind enough to supply me with Elliot's spare house key. Apparently, she waters his plants for him when he goes out of town." Erik wasn't sure what to say, so it was lucky that Charles seemed content to carry on the conversation single-handedly. "Fancy a drive down to Elliot's apartment?"
They grabbed their coats, then waited for the valet to bring Erik's vehicle around while Erik busied himself texting the information to Darwin. Charles was busy on his own phone, some kind of sleek and expensive smartphone that Erik wasn't tech-savvy enough to recognize, which he slipped into his coat pocket as they climbed into the car. The drive was silent though not uncomfortable and Erik couldn't help but sneak glances at Charles as he navigated the late-night streets. Despite the airs he put on, Charles looked very focused and a little tired, if the way he let his head rest against the cool glass of the passenger door window was any indication.
"Isn't all this playing detective cutting into your bottom line?" Erik asked because he was actually curious.
"I'm freelance," Charles said. "I set my own hours, my own schedule. It's not a problem to re-arrange a few appointments to leave my evenings free for you." Erik recalled Angel's description of Elliot -- the boyfriend experience and all -- and wondered if Charles's own business veered in the same direction. He stopped himself from asking, though, because they pulled up in front of the address Angel had given them.
Elliot's loft was very high-end, way better than anything Erik could ever imagine renting in New York. As soon as he unlocked the door and stepped inside, he noticed the spacious setup and swanky furniture, the wealth of electronics and modern art pieces that decorated the walls. Charles was shamelessly making poking around, first into the kitchen, then the bathroom before disappearing into what Erik assumed was the bedroom. Erik followed on his heels, coming up behind him where Charles stood at the foot of the bed, studying the room which wouldn't have been out of place in a magazine layout.
"Not very personal, is it?" Charles observed.
"No." Erik noticed the lack of photographs or personal objects anywhere in the room, not even a knickknack on the bedside table, just a lamp and a cordless phone cradle.
"Bedrooms usually have a bit more personality of the occupant in them," Charles continued, flicking his gaze in Erik's direction. "Yours certainly does."
Erik wasn't certain what Charles meant by that, but he let it slide, asking instead, "And yours?"
Charles gave him another one of those flirtatious smiles he was so good at. He sidled up next to Erik where the detective was eyeing the random assortment of items on the Elliot's dresser. "You should come over sometime," he said, making sure he was standing close enough that his breath ghosted over Erik's cheek as he spoke. "See for yourself."
Erik gave him a warning look which failed in removing the smug expression from Charles's face. Erik left him behind in the bedroom and headed back into the living room where a row of bookshelves commanded one wall and a cluttered computer desk seemed to be the only lived-in spot in the place.
As Erik was scoping out the desk, Charles came out of the bedroom to nose around the bookshelves, slowly perusing the titles as if he were in a library.
"I think we've found our John Doe," Erik said after a moment, eyeing the evidence half-hidden by the laptop dock.
"How do you know?" Charles asked.
Erik used his sleeve to pick up a framed photo from the desk. "See?"
Erik continued to examine the photo even as he held it out to Charles, the picture showing a smiling, living version of the face he'd been flashing around town for days. Though Erik had seen it in his victim, it was even more obvious in the candid shot of Elliot how he'd made his money as an escort. He was young, handsome, with wavy dark hair, laughing blue eyes, and a slim, athletic build. Dressed as he was in the photo in a dark suit and tie, he wouldn't have looked out of place anywhere. "See?" Erik said. "That's him."
Charles nodded, as he watched Erik carefully replace the photo. "It's so very sad, isn't it?" he said.
"It always is," Erik answered. His eyes strayed back to the photo, taking in the other details it revealed. Elliot had his arm thrown over a pretty dark-haired girl who perfectly matched him in her well-cut black cocktail dress. They both held wine glasses and the background looked to be at some kind of party. "I wonder who the girl is."
"Maybe a sister? Friend? Lover?" Charles offered. "They're all equally possible." He looked away, toward the high windows that overlooked the street below. "I wonder if she misses him."
Erik thought there was a story there with the sad way Charles's eyes wouldn't meet his, but he didn't want to pry, so he changed the subject. "Since it looks like this is the vic's apartment, we should probably clear out of here so I can call in a CSU team. You can't be here for that."
"Don't you at least want to finish looking around before they trample through here?" Charles asked.
"You mean, you want to finish looking around before I run you off?" Erik asked back.
Charles grinned. "You've caught me."
"If I find anything interesting, I'll let you know," Erik offered, even though he knew he shouldn't have. Still, Charles had come through where no one had on finding out John Doe's -- Elliot's -- identity and Erik wanted to show his gratitude for that.
Charles nodded his agreement. "I guess I'll be on my way then."
"I could give you a ride somewhere if you needed it," Erik offered, suddenly remembering that he'd driven them there. "Or call you a cab."
"No need," Charles told him, shaking his head as he pulled out his cell phone. "I have someone who'll come pick me up."
Erik wondered who actually Charles had that would come give him a ride at midnight but he figured it was probably part of the world he lived in. He watched as Charles tucked himself into a far corner of the room and had a quick, hushed conversation before he re-pocketed the cell. "It'll just be a few minutes and I'd rather not wait on the street, if you don't mind."
Erik agreed with a wave of his hand and Charles parked himself near the windows to watch for his ride. Erik tried not to focus on Charles but instead on everything around him that might offer some insight on who had killed Elliot Smith and why. It was more difficult than he wanted to admit, especially when Charles was leaning against the sill, gazing into the blue glow of the city outside of the apartment's filmy curtains, himself looking not unlike something from a magazine, but Erik managed to lose himself in a thick file of what seemed to be financial papers and receipts that Elliot had kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. He was still looking through it, trying to discern a pattern in the purchases or the location when he felt a cool touch to the back of his neck.
He jerked away in surprise and looked up into Charles's startled expression. "I apologize," Charles said. "I just wanted to let you know I'm leaving. You can call your CSU team now."
Erik was already pulling out his phone. "Thanks."
"Good night, Erik," Charles said before he slipped out the door.
As he made the call on his cell, Erik wandered toward the window, looking down at the street where a lone car idled near the curb. It was black and sporty; like Charles's phone, something obviously very expensive but too rich for Erik to recognize immediately. He watched as Charles emerged from the building and the driver door of the car was flung open as the driver, a woman, stepped out. Even from the distance, Erik could tell she was young and beautiful, with long blonde hair and shapely legs left on display by her snug blue dress. She all but threw herself at Charles, arms wrapping tight around his neck. Charles returned the embrace, even sweeping her around a little as he said something, then landed a kiss on her temple.
He could hear Charles's voice in his head, saying Lover? and I wonder if she misses him with such sadness in his voice.
When Erik turned his back on them after that, he tried to tell himself it was respect for Charles's privacy and not jealousy that made him do it, but he'd never been good at lying, not even to himself.
When the CSU team finally arrived, they found themselves dealing with a very cranky Detective Lehnsherr.
**
Charles spent much of the drive back to the brownstone ignoring Raven's questions about his late-night call and trying to remind her to slow as she whipped around the streets, too busy gesticulating with her hands to keep them on the wheel. He'd had a busy night and was still trying to process how it had diverted the direction of the story.
For one, he was beginning to doubt that the Tabram and Doe -- now, Smith -- cases were as related as the police had once thought. Angel's revelation about her friend's occupation, if it bore out, meant that Tabram and Smith had as little chance to inhabiting the same circles as Tabram had with Charles. The evidence from the Tabram murder clearly supported the straightforward conclusion of a transaction-gone-wrong; it had only been the second murder that had elevated its importance past that. But it was looking more and more like the Tabram and Elliot cases shared nothing more than a general vicinity.
"Are you tired?" Charles asked Raven as they padded into the house.
She looked at him in confusion as she dropped her purse on the couch. "No?"
"Would you like to join for a cup of coffee and a midnight chat?" he asked her.
"You don't ever drink coffee," she pointed out. "What's up?"
"I need the caffeine buzz," he told her, as he reached into his coat and slowly pulled out a scuffed rectangle made of soft, brown leather. "If I'm going to get through this tonight."
Raven's eyes widened. "What is it and where did you get it?"
"It's the John Doe's -- well, he's not a John Doe anymore," he amended. "It's what looks to be his datebook."
"Where did you get that?" she demanded, excitement building in her voice. For all her stalwart resistance to following her father and brother into the family business, Raven still had the instincts and the curiosity that Charles thought made the Xaviers so successful in journalism.
"His apartment," he explained, handing it over to Raven. She ran a hand over the leather cover, all its contents still zipped inside. "That's where I was when you came to get me. I had to clear out before the police got there with the CSU team."
It had been hiding in one of the bedroom drawers and Charles had barely managed to hide it in his coat before Erik had caught him. He might've considered it a breach of their arrangement to steal a piece of evidence from the detective's nose, but Charles couldn't count on Erik's continued magnanimity, not when it could end at any moment. Charles promised himself, though, if he found anything truly earth-shattering, he'd return the favor.
Raven hugged the datebook to her chest. "You go change," she ordered, waving with her free hand at Charles's suit. "I'll start the machine."
After quickly changing into a T-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, Charles joined his sister in the kitchen where his seldom-used coffee machine was gurgling along on the path to a pot of dark, strong brew. Raven had kicked off her shoes and sat in a chair with knees tucked under her chin, waiting for him to dig into book's interior.
"So are you going to tell me about this great source you have that lets you photocopy police records and steal evidence before the crime scene people show up?" Raven asked as he poured them each a cup of coffee.
"It's not Hank," he deadpanned, placing her mug of sugary, milky coffee in front of her on the table. "He only sends me his reports."
"That's a no, then," she said, reaching for her coffee. "Fine."
When Charles unzipped the planner, it was full of loose bits of paper -- notes, stubs, receipts -- which he tucked into the back as he quickly flipped through three months' worth of pages to reach the ones dedicated to the day of the murder. "Of course there's nothing," he said, more to himself than anyone. "That would've been too easy." Next, Charles checked the next days before the murder but there wasn't anything written on the entire week, other than a hastily scribbled word that looked to say "BAS" or "BAZ" in Elliot's messy scrawl under Monday.
"There's still the rest of it to go through," Raven said in sympathy.
"True, but it'll be a job," Charles said. "I was hoping for something a little more directed."
Not long after, both siblings decided to turn in, not even the coffee doing its work to keep them alert much past midnight. Charles was up bright and early the next morning, but was quickly frustrated when he couldn't get Moira on the phone.
"She's out at some thing," Sean explained when Charles gave up and called him instead. "She's covering the Governor's press conference this morning."
That was how Charles found himself skirting around TV cameras and gawkers as he loitered at the back of Governor Shaw's press conference, watching the back of Moira's head intently, waiting for the conference to disband. With the election so close, the incumbent had spent a great deal of time in the city instead of up in Albany, but Charles could understand his reasoning. As always, the Governor looked immaculate as he stood in front of the room of reporters, stylish and poised in his suit, flashing his politician's smile. Charles had met Shaw on several occasions and while he didn't support the man's politics, he'd always found him charming if slightly oily, not unlike most career politicians he knew.
He'd arrived just in time to catch Shaw's closing statements, something about the future and his resolve, all the kind of things politicians tended to say when re-election loomed. Charles let his eyes wander over the people moving around the edges of the room, his attention momentarily caught by a rough-looking man who hovered in a far corner, looking ill-at-ease and a little out of place. He was incongruent enough to make Charles frown, but the small mystery flew out of his mind when he noticed the press members were finally starting to break off from the audience as Shaw hustled off-stage.
Charles watched as Moira slowly walked toward him, eyes down on her phone. "You called me three times and texted me twice," she said, almost an accusation. "What's so important?"
"Elliot Smith," he said quietly in her ear, gently leading her away by the elbow.
"Who's that?"
He grinned. "Our John Doe."
Moira grabbed some coffee on her way back to the office and Charles used the time to fill her in on what he'd learned the night before, leaving out the details about Erik's involvement. He told her about getting the name from Angel, his visit to Elliot's apartment, and then the datebook he'd managed to smuggle out before the police arrived.
"Don't get caught," she warned. "I don't want to bail you out again."
He rolled his eyes. "It was one time," he told her. "I'm still in contact with my source over there. So far, he's been fairly good at helping me eschew police interest."
Moira looked delighted over the fact he still had his mysterious police source. He wondered if she'd feel the same if she knew exactly what he'd been doing to keep that source around. "I'll have Sean dig into Elliot Smith," she told him. "So far, he hasn't found much in his background work, so he could use the break."
"I'm hoping I'll hear from my source today about they found in Smith's apartment that was any help," Charles said. "There was at least a laptop to look through, on top of a lot of files. Maybe what they have is more illuminating than the datebook."
Charles soon parted ways with Moira, as she hurried back to the office to write up her coverage of Shaw's press conference, while Charles had more investigating to do. He decided he'd given Hank enough time and space to recover from his guilt for alerting Charles to the story in the first place. Hank answered on the first ring.
"I can't talk to you!" he said in lieu of an actual salutation.
"Good day to you, too, Hank," Charles said pleasantly.
"I'm serious, I can't talk right now," Hank said, speaking too closely into the phone so that his words were muffled and breathy.
"I really would like to discuss the Smith case with you a little more," continued Charles.
"Smith case?" Hank asked.
"You know, our former John Doe."
Hank let out a panicked yelp. "How do you even know that?" he demanded. "I just got orders to match him against Smith's dental records!"
"As I keep telling you, you aren't my only source," Charles reminded him. "When can we chat? I have some ideas about the story that I think you can help me with."
After a moment of static-filled silence, Hank sighed. "I really can't talk here. But I guess we could meet for lunch."
Since it was nearing that hour already, Charles quickly agreed and caught a cab so he could meet Hank at a small diner near enough for Hank to dash out without too much trouble. It gave him a moment's pause to risk being so near where he might run into Erik, but he was relatively certain the bustling lunch crowds would protect him from being seen.
Hank was already at the diner, hunched over his chicken salad and looking every inch the 15-year-old wunderkind that Charles had met at Harvard. It was something he and Raven had in common, an ability to instantly transform themselves into mulish teenagers by a simple change in posture.
"I'm not telling you anything new," Hank said as soon as he sat down.
Charles rolled his eyes. "Then why did you agree to meet me?"
Hank thought about it for a moment. "Because we're friends?"
"Which is why you'll answer my questions," Charles said, idly patting his arm.
"If I do, you'll write about it again," Hank said. "Don't think I didn't recognize the byline, Francis."
"I'm a reporter, Hank, it's what I do," Charles reminded him. "Now, cheer up. I found out some of it on my own."
Hank sighed, shoulders slumping forward in acceptance. "What is it?"
Charles explained how his own conclusions were starting to make him doubt the police's early theory that the Tabram and Smith cases were related. "It's looking less and less certain from where I sit," Charles told him. "I was wondering about what the forensics were saying on the matter."
"The shallow similarities are striking, but that's where they end," Hank admitted. "The more closely I examine Smith's murder, the more I find ways that they're vastly different."
"What do you mean?"
Hank swirled his straw in his glass. "Tabram bled out at the scene; Smith didn't. Tabram had way more distinct stab wounds than Smith and it looks like the first one got Smith right in the heart, where Tabram had, well, nicks in several of his organs and that's what led to his death. All the forensic details are diverging the more I look at them."
"So not the same killer?" Charles wanted to know.
Hank shrugged. "It's possible but it's looking more unlikely. Different knives, different stab wounds, different kill patterns..."
"Looking for the connection has been leading the police off in the wrong direction," Charles said. "They've been wasting time trying to find the link -- and Smith's identity, of course."
"But Detective Lehnsherr figured it out," Hank said. "I told you he was a good detective which is why you have to be discreet, Charles, with anything I tell you. If he found out I was talking to a reporter..."
"Don't worry, Hank, I promise I'll be discreet enough, even for your Detective Lehnsherr," Charles said, trying not to laugh at the joke only he knew was in his words. "Speaking of, how has he been lately?"
"I'm not sure, I avoid him as much as I can," he admitted. "When I can get away with it, I communicate only through email or Darwin."
"Darwin?" Charles asked.
"Detective Muñoz, his partner." Hank said. "Why are you so interested in Lehnsherr?"
Charles shrugged. "You've got me wondering about him. Mean, gruff, but a great detective, champion of the downtrodden. He sounds like a very fascinating man."
"I don't think he's your type," Hank said. "He probably doesn't suffer reporters to live or whatever."
Charles laughed. "You're probably right about that," he agreed. "But what do you know about my type? We might get along famously."
Hank shook his head. "Trust me, you guys would never click."
Charles once again had to hide his amusement, this time behind his glass. "Pity we'll never know."
End of Part 5
Author: Regann
Pairing: Charles/Erik (XMFC)
Rating: PG-13/R
Word Count: ~4,700 for the chapter (total: 50,000+)
Warnings: discussion of murder, violence and prostitution
Disclaimer: I don't own anything; I just play with them.
Notes: Everything I know about law enforcement and investigative journalism, I learned from watching television. Don't expect any more realism here than you'd find on an episode of CSI or L&O. There is also State of Play influence in this fic as well, although you don't need to have seen it to understand anything in this fic.
Summary: While investigating the homicide of a John Doe who he suspects might've been murdered while working the streets as a prostitute, Detective Erik Lehnsherr finds an unexpected ally in a hooker named Charles who seems as determined as he to solve the case. As they become more deeply involved both with the case and each other, there's just one thing that Charles neglects to mention -- that he's really an investigative journalist, one quickly convinced that what they're dealing with is more than simple murder. cop!Erik, fake-hooker-slash-reporter!Charles, Modern AU.
Previous Parts available at LJ, DW and AO3.
Guilty by Association (Part 5)
Erik had made several resolutions to himself when he'd reluctantly agreed to allow Charles to remain on the periphery of his case, and one of the most important had been that he wouldn't let himself fall into bed with Charles again. No matter how it came about, he had decided, it didn't have a place between them as long as the case was there.
But Charles wasn't just maddeningly addictive, he also was imminently persuasive because Erik had barely blinked before they were in a heated embrace, mouths locked together as Charles moved to straddle his legs. Erik's hands were operating of their own accord because they were sliding down the arching line of Charles's back to rest on the swell of his ass as Charles rocked against him.
There was no telling how far along they would've gone since Erik's good sense had all but fled but, luckily for him, the sound of someone clearing their throat made them guiltily jump apart.
"I think I've got the wrong VIP room..." the female voice said, and Erik could just see over Charles's shoulder enough to make out a petite, dark-haired young woman, dressed in a leather miniskirt, sequined bustier and spiked-heeled boots.
"Are you Angel?" Charles asked, also glancing over his shoulder at her.
She nodded, stepping a little farther into the VIP room.
He sighed, levering himself off to Erik back to his original seat by his side. "Then you've got the right suite."
Angel smirked a little. "You guys seemed to be doing fine on your own, but whatever. You know it's double for both of you, right?"
"That's not what we had in mind," Erik told her quickly.
"Although I'm sure it would be magical," Charles added with a devilish grin of his own, which made Erik turn to glare at him. "We were hoping you would be willing to talk," he added, ignoring Erik's stern look.
"While you guys make out? I guess I'm down with that," she said. "What do you want me to say?"
"You've got this wrong." Erik shot Charles a dark look but he looked completely unrepentant, mouth swollen and red. Erik pointedly looked away, reaching into his pocket to pull out the photo of John Doe. "We're here to ask you about this man. We believe you may know him."
Angel didn't have to get close to the bed to recognize the photo, if her sudden, troubled expression was any indication. Even with her dark skin, it was easy to see she'd lost a little color when her eyes darted over the photo's surface. "You're a cop?"
"I am," he admitted, coming to his feet. He crossed the distance between them and held out the photo. "I think this man might've been a friend of yours and I'd like to find out who did this to him."
Angel accepted the photo he held out, blinking her false-lash-heavy lids to stave off the moisture in her eyes. Instead of answering the question, she glanced over at Charles. "You're a cop, too?"
When Erik looked over at Charles, he noticed that Charles had went from teasing to utterly serious in mere seconds, his face transformed into a gentle mask of understanding. He scrambled off the bed as well, reaching over to lay a soft hand on Angel's wrist where she gripped the photo. "No, Angel, I'm not," he told her. "I'm just someone who wants to find out what happened to this man, something we won't be able to do without knowing who he is." He shared a look with the girl, one that led to them both glancing over at Erik. "You can trust, Detective Lehnsherr, Angel. I promise."
Angel took a warbling breath, trying to suppress a sniffle. "His name is Elliot Smith," she said. "We were roommates for awhile."
"Did he...?" Erik stopped, cleared his throat. "We're operating under the theory that he was working the streets as a prostitute. Could he have been?"
When she seemed hesitant to answer, Charles added, "We need the truth, Angel, or else we'll never figure out who killed him."
"He didn't work the street, hadn't since before I met him," she finally said. "But he was working as an escort. But, like...high-class, you know? Rich clients, fancy hotels, weekends away sometimes. The boyfriend experience and all."
Erik had pulled out his notepad and was furiously scribbling down Angel's answers. "You're sure?"
She nodded. "When he got hooked up into it, he started making a load of cash, it's why we stopped sharing an apartment. I couldn't afford more on rent but he upgraded. Got a fancy apartment and everything."
"Do you know where?"
Angel nodded a little and gave them a fashionable Tribeca address. "I knew when Maria showed me the photo that he was dead, that something had happened to him, but...I didn't want to think about it."
"It's all right, love," Charles murmured, comforting hand on her arm. Erik watched them as he moved off to one corner of the small room, pulling out his cell phone. Darwin answered on the third ring.
"You really need to get a life," Darwin said as soon as he answered. "And stop interrupting mine."
"Our John Doe's name seems to be Elliot Smith," Erik told him. "I've even got a possible address. I need you to start digging around."
Darwin sighed. "Send it over and I'll get to it first thing in the morning," he said. "I've got to get some sleep, man."
"I don't think you're worried about sleeping," Erik shot back, but Darwin just snorted and cut the connection. When he looked up, he noticed that Angel and Charles were no longer in the room, so he stuck his head out into the hall. "Charles?"
After a few annoyed moments of solitude, Charles finally re-appeared alone, taking the last few steps of the staircase quickly and hurrying over to where Erik was loitering outside of their VIP room. "Where did you go?" he asked.
"I settled our bill," Charles told him and Erik couldn't help but wonder how Charles had the money he'd been flashing around the club. "Also," Charles continued, holding up something silvery and metallic, "Angel was kind enough to supply me with Elliot's spare house key. Apparently, she waters his plants for him when he goes out of town." Erik wasn't sure what to say, so it was lucky that Charles seemed content to carry on the conversation single-handedly. "Fancy a drive down to Elliot's apartment?"
They grabbed their coats, then waited for the valet to bring Erik's vehicle around while Erik busied himself texting the information to Darwin. Charles was busy on his own phone, some kind of sleek and expensive smartphone that Erik wasn't tech-savvy enough to recognize, which he slipped into his coat pocket as they climbed into the car. The drive was silent though not uncomfortable and Erik couldn't help but sneak glances at Charles as he navigated the late-night streets. Despite the airs he put on, Charles looked very focused and a little tired, if the way he let his head rest against the cool glass of the passenger door window was any indication.
"Isn't all this playing detective cutting into your bottom line?" Erik asked because he was actually curious.
"I'm freelance," Charles said. "I set my own hours, my own schedule. It's not a problem to re-arrange a few appointments to leave my evenings free for you." Erik recalled Angel's description of Elliot -- the boyfriend experience and all -- and wondered if Charles's own business veered in the same direction. He stopped himself from asking, though, because they pulled up in front of the address Angel had given them.
Elliot's loft was very high-end, way better than anything Erik could ever imagine renting in New York. As soon as he unlocked the door and stepped inside, he noticed the spacious setup and swanky furniture, the wealth of electronics and modern art pieces that decorated the walls. Charles was shamelessly making poking around, first into the kitchen, then the bathroom before disappearing into what Erik assumed was the bedroom. Erik followed on his heels, coming up behind him where Charles stood at the foot of the bed, studying the room which wouldn't have been out of place in a magazine layout.
"Not very personal, is it?" Charles observed.
"No." Erik noticed the lack of photographs or personal objects anywhere in the room, not even a knickknack on the bedside table, just a lamp and a cordless phone cradle.
"Bedrooms usually have a bit more personality of the occupant in them," Charles continued, flicking his gaze in Erik's direction. "Yours certainly does."
Erik wasn't certain what Charles meant by that, but he let it slide, asking instead, "And yours?"
Charles gave him another one of those flirtatious smiles he was so good at. He sidled up next to Erik where the detective was eyeing the random assortment of items on the Elliot's dresser. "You should come over sometime," he said, making sure he was standing close enough that his breath ghosted over Erik's cheek as he spoke. "See for yourself."
Erik gave him a warning look which failed in removing the smug expression from Charles's face. Erik left him behind in the bedroom and headed back into the living room where a row of bookshelves commanded one wall and a cluttered computer desk seemed to be the only lived-in spot in the place.
As Erik was scoping out the desk, Charles came out of the bedroom to nose around the bookshelves, slowly perusing the titles as if he were in a library.
"I think we've found our John Doe," Erik said after a moment, eyeing the evidence half-hidden by the laptop dock.
"How do you know?" Charles asked.
Erik used his sleeve to pick up a framed photo from the desk. "See?"
Erik continued to examine the photo even as he held it out to Charles, the picture showing a smiling, living version of the face he'd been flashing around town for days. Though Erik had seen it in his victim, it was even more obvious in the candid shot of Elliot how he'd made his money as an escort. He was young, handsome, with wavy dark hair, laughing blue eyes, and a slim, athletic build. Dressed as he was in the photo in a dark suit and tie, he wouldn't have looked out of place anywhere. "See?" Erik said. "That's him."
Charles nodded, as he watched Erik carefully replace the photo. "It's so very sad, isn't it?" he said.
"It always is," Erik answered. His eyes strayed back to the photo, taking in the other details it revealed. Elliot had his arm thrown over a pretty dark-haired girl who perfectly matched him in her well-cut black cocktail dress. They both held wine glasses and the background looked to be at some kind of party. "I wonder who the girl is."
"Maybe a sister? Friend? Lover?" Charles offered. "They're all equally possible." He looked away, toward the high windows that overlooked the street below. "I wonder if she misses him."
Erik thought there was a story there with the sad way Charles's eyes wouldn't meet his, but he didn't want to pry, so he changed the subject. "Since it looks like this is the vic's apartment, we should probably clear out of here so I can call in a CSU team. You can't be here for that."
"Don't you at least want to finish looking around before they trample through here?" Charles asked.
"You mean, you want to finish looking around before I run you off?" Erik asked back.
Charles grinned. "You've caught me."
"If I find anything interesting, I'll let you know," Erik offered, even though he knew he shouldn't have. Still, Charles had come through where no one had on finding out John Doe's -- Elliot's -- identity and Erik wanted to show his gratitude for that.
Charles nodded his agreement. "I guess I'll be on my way then."
"I could give you a ride somewhere if you needed it," Erik offered, suddenly remembering that he'd driven them there. "Or call you a cab."
"No need," Charles told him, shaking his head as he pulled out his cell phone. "I have someone who'll come pick me up."
Erik wondered who actually Charles had that would come give him a ride at midnight but he figured it was probably part of the world he lived in. He watched as Charles tucked himself into a far corner of the room and had a quick, hushed conversation before he re-pocketed the cell. "It'll just be a few minutes and I'd rather not wait on the street, if you don't mind."
Erik agreed with a wave of his hand and Charles parked himself near the windows to watch for his ride. Erik tried not to focus on Charles but instead on everything around him that might offer some insight on who had killed Elliot Smith and why. It was more difficult than he wanted to admit, especially when Charles was leaning against the sill, gazing into the blue glow of the city outside of the apartment's filmy curtains, himself looking not unlike something from a magazine, but Erik managed to lose himself in a thick file of what seemed to be financial papers and receipts that Elliot had kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. He was still looking through it, trying to discern a pattern in the purchases or the location when he felt a cool touch to the back of his neck.
He jerked away in surprise and looked up into Charles's startled expression. "I apologize," Charles said. "I just wanted to let you know I'm leaving. You can call your CSU team now."
Erik was already pulling out his phone. "Thanks."
"Good night, Erik," Charles said before he slipped out the door.
As he made the call on his cell, Erik wandered toward the window, looking down at the street where a lone car idled near the curb. It was black and sporty; like Charles's phone, something obviously very expensive but too rich for Erik to recognize immediately. He watched as Charles emerged from the building and the driver door of the car was flung open as the driver, a woman, stepped out. Even from the distance, Erik could tell she was young and beautiful, with long blonde hair and shapely legs left on display by her snug blue dress. She all but threw herself at Charles, arms wrapping tight around his neck. Charles returned the embrace, even sweeping her around a little as he said something, then landed a kiss on her temple.
He could hear Charles's voice in his head, saying Lover? and I wonder if she misses him with such sadness in his voice.
When Erik turned his back on them after that, he tried to tell himself it was respect for Charles's privacy and not jealousy that made him do it, but he'd never been good at lying, not even to himself.
When the CSU team finally arrived, they found themselves dealing with a very cranky Detective Lehnsherr.
**
Charles spent much of the drive back to the brownstone ignoring Raven's questions about his late-night call and trying to remind her to slow as she whipped around the streets, too busy gesticulating with her hands to keep them on the wheel. He'd had a busy night and was still trying to process how it had diverted the direction of the story.
For one, he was beginning to doubt that the Tabram and Doe -- now, Smith -- cases were as related as the police had once thought. Angel's revelation about her friend's occupation, if it bore out, meant that Tabram and Smith had as little chance to inhabiting the same circles as Tabram had with Charles. The evidence from the Tabram murder clearly supported the straightforward conclusion of a transaction-gone-wrong; it had only been the second murder that had elevated its importance past that. But it was looking more and more like the Tabram and Elliot cases shared nothing more than a general vicinity.
"Are you tired?" Charles asked Raven as they padded into the house.
She looked at him in confusion as she dropped her purse on the couch. "No?"
"Would you like to join for a cup of coffee and a midnight chat?" he asked her.
"You don't ever drink coffee," she pointed out. "What's up?"
"I need the caffeine buzz," he told her, as he reached into his coat and slowly pulled out a scuffed rectangle made of soft, brown leather. "If I'm going to get through this tonight."
Raven's eyes widened. "What is it and where did you get it?"
"It's the John Doe's -- well, he's not a John Doe anymore," he amended. "It's what looks to be his datebook."
"Where did you get that?" she demanded, excitement building in her voice. For all her stalwart resistance to following her father and brother into the family business, Raven still had the instincts and the curiosity that Charles thought made the Xaviers so successful in journalism.
"His apartment," he explained, handing it over to Raven. She ran a hand over the leather cover, all its contents still zipped inside. "That's where I was when you came to get me. I had to clear out before the police got there with the CSU team."
It had been hiding in one of the bedroom drawers and Charles had barely managed to hide it in his coat before Erik had caught him. He might've considered it a breach of their arrangement to steal a piece of evidence from the detective's nose, but Charles couldn't count on Erik's continued magnanimity, not when it could end at any moment. Charles promised himself, though, if he found anything truly earth-shattering, he'd return the favor.
Raven hugged the datebook to her chest. "You go change," she ordered, waving with her free hand at Charles's suit. "I'll start the machine."
After quickly changing into a T-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, Charles joined his sister in the kitchen where his seldom-used coffee machine was gurgling along on the path to a pot of dark, strong brew. Raven had kicked off her shoes and sat in a chair with knees tucked under her chin, waiting for him to dig into book's interior.
"So are you going to tell me about this great source you have that lets you photocopy police records and steal evidence before the crime scene people show up?" Raven asked as he poured them each a cup of coffee.
"It's not Hank," he deadpanned, placing her mug of sugary, milky coffee in front of her on the table. "He only sends me his reports."
"That's a no, then," she said, reaching for her coffee. "Fine."
When Charles unzipped the planner, it was full of loose bits of paper -- notes, stubs, receipts -- which he tucked into the back as he quickly flipped through three months' worth of pages to reach the ones dedicated to the day of the murder. "Of course there's nothing," he said, more to himself than anyone. "That would've been too easy." Next, Charles checked the next days before the murder but there wasn't anything written on the entire week, other than a hastily scribbled word that looked to say "BAS" or "BAZ" in Elliot's messy scrawl under Monday.
"There's still the rest of it to go through," Raven said in sympathy.
"True, but it'll be a job," Charles said. "I was hoping for something a little more directed."
Not long after, both siblings decided to turn in, not even the coffee doing its work to keep them alert much past midnight. Charles was up bright and early the next morning, but was quickly frustrated when he couldn't get Moira on the phone.
"She's out at some thing," Sean explained when Charles gave up and called him instead. "She's covering the Governor's press conference this morning."
That was how Charles found himself skirting around TV cameras and gawkers as he loitered at the back of Governor Shaw's press conference, watching the back of Moira's head intently, waiting for the conference to disband. With the election so close, the incumbent had spent a great deal of time in the city instead of up in Albany, but Charles could understand his reasoning. As always, the Governor looked immaculate as he stood in front of the room of reporters, stylish and poised in his suit, flashing his politician's smile. Charles had met Shaw on several occasions and while he didn't support the man's politics, he'd always found him charming if slightly oily, not unlike most career politicians he knew.
He'd arrived just in time to catch Shaw's closing statements, something about the future and his resolve, all the kind of things politicians tended to say when re-election loomed. Charles let his eyes wander over the people moving around the edges of the room, his attention momentarily caught by a rough-looking man who hovered in a far corner, looking ill-at-ease and a little out of place. He was incongruent enough to make Charles frown, but the small mystery flew out of his mind when he noticed the press members were finally starting to break off from the audience as Shaw hustled off-stage.
Charles watched as Moira slowly walked toward him, eyes down on her phone. "You called me three times and texted me twice," she said, almost an accusation. "What's so important?"
"Elliot Smith," he said quietly in her ear, gently leading her away by the elbow.
"Who's that?"
He grinned. "Our John Doe."
Moira grabbed some coffee on her way back to the office and Charles used the time to fill her in on what he'd learned the night before, leaving out the details about Erik's involvement. He told her about getting the name from Angel, his visit to Elliot's apartment, and then the datebook he'd managed to smuggle out before the police arrived.
"Don't get caught," she warned. "I don't want to bail you out again."
He rolled his eyes. "It was one time," he told her. "I'm still in contact with my source over there. So far, he's been fairly good at helping me eschew police interest."
Moira looked delighted over the fact he still had his mysterious police source. He wondered if she'd feel the same if she knew exactly what he'd been doing to keep that source around. "I'll have Sean dig into Elliot Smith," she told him. "So far, he hasn't found much in his background work, so he could use the break."
"I'm hoping I'll hear from my source today about they found in Smith's apartment that was any help," Charles said. "There was at least a laptop to look through, on top of a lot of files. Maybe what they have is more illuminating than the datebook."
Charles soon parted ways with Moira, as she hurried back to the office to write up her coverage of Shaw's press conference, while Charles had more investigating to do. He decided he'd given Hank enough time and space to recover from his guilt for alerting Charles to the story in the first place. Hank answered on the first ring.
"I can't talk to you!" he said in lieu of an actual salutation.
"Good day to you, too, Hank," Charles said pleasantly.
"I'm serious, I can't talk right now," Hank said, speaking too closely into the phone so that his words were muffled and breathy.
"I really would like to discuss the Smith case with you a little more," continued Charles.
"Smith case?" Hank asked.
"You know, our former John Doe."
Hank let out a panicked yelp. "How do you even know that?" he demanded. "I just got orders to match him against Smith's dental records!"
"As I keep telling you, you aren't my only source," Charles reminded him. "When can we chat? I have some ideas about the story that I think you can help me with."
After a moment of static-filled silence, Hank sighed. "I really can't talk here. But I guess we could meet for lunch."
Since it was nearing that hour already, Charles quickly agreed and caught a cab so he could meet Hank at a small diner near enough for Hank to dash out without too much trouble. It gave him a moment's pause to risk being so near where he might run into Erik, but he was relatively certain the bustling lunch crowds would protect him from being seen.
Hank was already at the diner, hunched over his chicken salad and looking every inch the 15-year-old wunderkind that Charles had met at Harvard. It was something he and Raven had in common, an ability to instantly transform themselves into mulish teenagers by a simple change in posture.
"I'm not telling you anything new," Hank said as soon as he sat down.
Charles rolled his eyes. "Then why did you agree to meet me?"
Hank thought about it for a moment. "Because we're friends?"
"Which is why you'll answer my questions," Charles said, idly patting his arm.
"If I do, you'll write about it again," Hank said. "Don't think I didn't recognize the byline, Francis."
"I'm a reporter, Hank, it's what I do," Charles reminded him. "Now, cheer up. I found out some of it on my own."
Hank sighed, shoulders slumping forward in acceptance. "What is it?"
Charles explained how his own conclusions were starting to make him doubt the police's early theory that the Tabram and Smith cases were related. "It's looking less and less certain from where I sit," Charles told him. "I was wondering about what the forensics were saying on the matter."
"The shallow similarities are striking, but that's where they end," Hank admitted. "The more closely I examine Smith's murder, the more I find ways that they're vastly different."
"What do you mean?"
Hank swirled his straw in his glass. "Tabram bled out at the scene; Smith didn't. Tabram had way more distinct stab wounds than Smith and it looks like the first one got Smith right in the heart, where Tabram had, well, nicks in several of his organs and that's what led to his death. All the forensic details are diverging the more I look at them."
"So not the same killer?" Charles wanted to know.
Hank shrugged. "It's possible but it's looking more unlikely. Different knives, different stab wounds, different kill patterns..."
"Looking for the connection has been leading the police off in the wrong direction," Charles said. "They've been wasting time trying to find the link -- and Smith's identity, of course."
"But Detective Lehnsherr figured it out," Hank said. "I told you he was a good detective which is why you have to be discreet, Charles, with anything I tell you. If he found out I was talking to a reporter..."
"Don't worry, Hank, I promise I'll be discreet enough, even for your Detective Lehnsherr," Charles said, trying not to laugh at the joke only he knew was in his words. "Speaking of, how has he been lately?"
"I'm not sure, I avoid him as much as I can," he admitted. "When I can get away with it, I communicate only through email or Darwin."
"Darwin?" Charles asked.
"Detective Muñoz, his partner." Hank said. "Why are you so interested in Lehnsherr?"
Charles shrugged. "You've got me wondering about him. Mean, gruff, but a great detective, champion of the downtrodden. He sounds like a very fascinating man."
"I don't think he's your type," Hank said. "He probably doesn't suffer reporters to live or whatever."
Charles laughed. "You're probably right about that," he agreed. "But what do you know about my type? We might get along famously."
Hank shook his head. "Trust me, you guys would never click."
Charles once again had to hide his amusement, this time behind his glass. "Pity we'll never know."
End of Part 5