No smoke without fire

[max-hudson.livejournal.com]

Fucking city no-smoking ordinances.

Max is huddled out of Gotham's rain under a local bar's overhang. Big downside of being the city's DA - you can't bring a suit against the people you work for, much less prosecute a law you promoted to get the job in the first damned place. Cupping his hands around the lighter to deflect the constantly shifting stiff breeze, he swears again as the flame sputters and dies once more, then snatches the unlit cigarette from his mouth in irritation.

He stares across the busy lunch hour street, focusing on nothing in particular. Bringing a suit against the people he works for. Ironic, considering he's thinking of doing just that. Or he would, if he had more to go on than a damn partial from a knife sheath. Even tiptoeing around the charges isn't getting him anywhere -- and someone on the inside knows he's thinking about making a case.

Nobody thinks this is a good idea -- not even his old campaign manager. "It's political suicide," he'd said over the phone last night. "Who really gives a fuck if this guy killed him? He did the world a favor."

This is all leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. It's too much like when he left the Army, and that incident still rankles. Then, his CO had vanished -- chickened out, he figured -- and let eight of his buddies get killed in a hail of RPG fire. He'd pursued it then, and it'd meant the end of his military career. He was told to drop it and take an honorable discharge or he'd take the fall himself. The only goddamn survivor of the patrol, three weeks in the ward with shrapnel to the leg, and he'd be the damn scapegoat because nobody else was alive to counter the CO's story.

Fuckers.

He took the discharge. He shouldn't have; but it was the only reason it hadn't made so much as a blip on his political radar. Personally? That was something else.

Now this Rooker case. He can drop it, tell Montoya to drop it. Some two-bit dealer with nothing to offer doesn't match up to the eight friends he lost.

The cigarette is shoved back into a pocket along with his lighter. So why hasn't he?

Max tugs up the collar of his trenchcoat in a futile effort to repel the rain before he makes his way across the road and back towards the office. Lunch is forgotten. He'd lost his appetite, anyway.

Comments

[marylin-parker.livejournal.com]

Marylin is sorting through the last of the morning mail when the storm cloud finally sweeps into the office. "You must have won a speed eating contest."

She seems unusually subdued. How is that different from her normal state of appearance? A faint shade of purple is present under her eyes. Sleep has not been a faithful companion these last few nights.

[max-hudson.livejournal.com]

She's not the only one. Max sheds his drenched coat as he passes by her. "Only if you're talking about eating crow."

The shucked garment is tossed unceremoniously onto a chair in his office.

[marylin-parker.livejournal.com]

"Most expensive dish on the menu," she comments, her expression perfectly neutral as always.

The rain soaked mass is lifted from the chair and hung on the coat tree.

[max-hudson.livejournal.com]

There's a soft flumpf as he flops into his chair behind the desk and picks up the phone's receiver. His fingers hover over the keypad, the dial tone buzzing insistently in his ear. He has to call Montoya and tell her to forget this whole damned thing.

So why isn't he dialing?

"Don't you have some interns to punish with your presence?" he mutters, almost as an afterthought.

[marylin-parker.livejournal.com]

"Do I need to bring you a phone book?"

[max-hudson.livejournal.com]

He sits back in the chair, and looks at the receiver in his hand before looking back at her. "Only if it's so I can throw it at you."

[marylin-parker.livejournal.com]

"Are you willing to do the paperwork?"

[max-hudson.livejournal.com]

"I have people. And a Bissell in the closet."

[marylin-parker.livejournal.com]

There is no witty reply, no clever continuance of their normal repartee. Marylin reaches for the door and a moment later, their conversation lapses into privacy.

[max-hudson.livejournal.com]

Strange as it may seem, their arguments are part of the routine. The lack of it throws him off, and Max is a creature of habit. The receiver drops from his ear to his shoulder as he stares at the door, then he swears under his breath.

Drop the fucking case, already.

He draws a hand down over his face. The phone starts beeping, having been off the hook too long.

"Fine, fine." He reaches over and stabs a finger at it, renewing the dial tone. Montoya's going to get a call, and she's not going to like it.

Neither does he.

[marylin-parker.livejournal.com]

The number of times she's closed the door independent of his wishes can be counted on one hand. All previous instances involved weighty issues with far reaching ramifications.

She waits before speaking, her eyes on the phone.

[max-hudson.livejournal.com]

He looks up at the older woman as he waits for the detective to pick up. "Did you get the number of the truck that hit you?"

[marylin-parker.livejournal.com]

"No," is the unequivocal answer. "The number of the sedan that's been following me home the last three days is a different matter all together."

[max-hudson.livejournal.com]

There's the briefest of pauses. "I told Jim to keep it low-key," he mutters in response. It's impossible to tell if he's joking or not.

[det-montoya.livejournal.com]

The line picks up. The voice on the other end? Pissed. And barely containing it. "Montoya."

[max-hudson.livejournal.com]

His gaze remains on his secretary for the time being. "Hudson. Tell me you've got something I can use on the Rooker case or I send it to the basement." He's never been one for pleasantries.

[det-montoya.livejournal.com]

He had to pick now of all times to call. As if her day wasn't going bad enough. "Tracked down a shop keeper who may remember Rooker purchasing the knife."

[max-hudson.livejournal.com]

"Buying a knife isn't a crime. Short of having an actual witness to the crime, you're basically telling me you've got squat."

[det-montoya.livejournal.com]

She's already lost her temper once today. Hell if she's gunna do it again. There's a pause on the other end of the line as she takes the second to breathe in and let it out. "Circumstantial," she admits. "Enough to cast a shadow. Wish I could hand it to you on a goddamn platter but it ain't gunna happen."

[max-hudson.livejournal.com]

There's a pause on the line. Max knows he's going to hate himself for what he says next, but he's got no choice. "I've got too much on my plate to deal in uncertainties, Detective. This case is being shelved."

[det-montoya.livejournal.com]

"Shelved or buried? I'm barkin' up the right tree. 'Else I wouldn't have been threatened. Not too keen on lettin' it slide."

If he wants her off the case, it'll require an order.

[max-hudson.livejournal.com]

Max looks back up at Marylin. Threatened wouldn't begin to cut it. "Some battles are worth fighting, Detective. I'm informing you right now that this one isn't. Right now, I have thirty cases pending involving felonious assault and at least half of them are rape victims. Would you prefer I spent all my waking moments on a possibility that may well not exist in their stead? Drop the damned investigation, or I will hold you responsible for the safety of my staff, and you will have to personally explain to these victims exactly why their attackers remain unpunished."

[det-montoya.livejournal.com]

She stands and plants a hand on the desktop. "You're feeding me bullshit. I'm not askin' for all your waking moments. You juggle cases all the time, high risk and low. What makes this one so different?"

[max-hudson.livejournal.com]

The expression on the District Attorney's face darkens. "This isn't an invitation for debate, Montoya. It's a goddamn order."

[det-montoya.livejournal.com]

Montoya? Never been known for taking an order she doesn't like with any amount of grace.

"It's bullshit... sir."

Dial tone immediately follows.

[max-hudson.livejournal.com]

Max lets the receiver drop from his ear to his shoulder with a weary sigh, then he leans forward and sets it back on its hook. A long silence precedes his next words as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Go home, Marylin."

[marylin-parker.livejournal.com]

She regards him for what seems like an eternity before her gaze drops to the floor. Against her better judgment, she turns to obey. Not a word escapes her.

[max-hudson.livejournal.com]

Max Hudson remains in his office until well past nine that night.

The better part of a bottle of single malt will not.