New York Minute 15
May. 24th, 2005 04:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardAt this point in time I have surpassed Snafu both chapter-wise and word-wise. Snafu rounded out at 19,059 words, 14 chapters and an epilogue, and 38 single-spaced pages. New York Minute, at the moment, is 21,717 words, 15 chapters, and 43 single-spaced pages, and it doesn't look like it's going to end anytime soon.
“I – hate – hospitals,” Stella pronounced very carefully, glaring at Doctor Johnson. “And I am not staying here a minute more than I have to.” She gestued at the wheelchair she was sitting in. “And I so do not want this thing. How the hell am I supposed to do my job if I have to move around in this behemoth?”
“Stella –” Mac ventured, deciding now was as good a time as any to voice his concerns over Stella’s health and physical well-being. “You have a broken leg, I don’t think –”
“Fractured,” she corrected fiercely. “Fractured, Mac. The only thing that’s broken about me is my collarbone. And two ribs. You shouldn’t take statements from emergency room doctors as gospel, Mac, they can get a little overblown sometimes –”
Johnson looked put out. “Detective Bonasera, you’ve just suffered a severe trauma. It would be best for your health if you stayed in the hospital under observation for a few more days and then took several weeks off work until –”
Stella cut him off. “This is not trauma. Trauma is getting kidnapped and tortured. Trauma is getting raped or murdered. Not this.”
“Stella, you were hit by a car,” Mac said wearily.
“And your point would be? Don’t answer that,” she added as Mac opened his mouth to speak. “I know you. Flack managed just fine on crutches. Danny didn’t have a problem working with his arm in a sling.”
“Flack and Danny are both extremely stubborn, and gunshot wounds heal much more quickly than broken bones,” Mac pointed out.
“Fractured bones.”
“Fractured bones,” he repeated to accommodate her. “Also, neither Danny nor Flack was in crutches and a sling at the same time.”
She frowned. “I’ll manage.” Turning to Johnson, she ordered, “Doc, fix me up.”
“Detective Bonasera, I really must insist –”
“Stella, I don’t think –”
“The last time I ended up in the ER they slapped a cast on, handed me some crutches, and pretty much kicked my ass back out into the street,” she said. “Next time? I’m breaking an ankle again. And you’re going across the street to look at evidence.”
Johson looked insulted again. “We put a cast on,” he said mulishly, sounding rather like a small child. “I resent the implication –”
“Mac?” Stella interrupted sweetly. “You know if I’m out of commission for too long they’ll make you hire another criminalist. With crime these days, the lab can’t really function with only three CSIs.”
Mac frowned. “No fieldwork,” he said, aware that she’d gotten the better of him once again. “Not until you’re fit for duty.”
She grinned happily. “I’m good with that.”
*
Mac frowned at the note Danny had left taped to his door. Stella rolled her wheelchair up to the bottom of the steps, looking extremely unhappy. “There are stairs everywhere,” she pouted. “How the hell am I supposed to get around? I can’t even get up to your office. I should have taken the crutches.”
“It’s extremely hard to negotiate crutches with one arm in a sling,” Mac said absently, plucking the note off the door. “What time is it, Stella?”
She glanced at her watch. “Nine forty-five. Why?”
Mac rubbed at his forehead with one hand. “Work started forty-five minutes ago.”
A slow grin spread over Stella’s face. “And you’re late,” she said gleefully. “This almost makes up for the wheelchair. I don’t think you’ve ever been late to work before –”
“Danny left a note,” Mac interrupted. He came down the steps and handed it to her.
She dangled it in front of her face. “ ‘Called Davenport from the Met case, said he wouldn’t work with Flack and wanted to talk to you, went to go work the Starbucks shooting with Flack and Aiden. Call me on my cell. Where the hell are you? Should I call Missing Persons? Hope Stella’s all right. Danny.’ He’s blunt this morning. What Met case?”
Mac shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “The Metropolitan Museum of Art –”
“Got robbed. I heard that part. The TV in the hospital may be a piece of crap, but at least it picks up some local channels.” Stella glared at him. “Mac. Did you or did you not tell Danny, Aiden, and Flack that I was awake?”
“It slipped my mind,” Mac admitted. “I suppose –”
Stella shook her head in disbelief. “I’ve known you for how many years now, and this shouldn’t surprise me anymore, but it slipped your mind? Mac, you are a piece of work. Give Danny a call, let him now you’re still alive and not a body in the morgue. And maybe let him know I’m not a body in a hospital bed anymore, if it’s not too much trouble, before they show up there and find an empty room.”
“Stella –”
She held up a hand. “Don’t want to hear it. I’ve been on my back for the past forty-eight hours, give me something to do. Even if you’re not going to let me out into the field, there’s gotta be some evidence I can look at, or case files for the Met case, or something.”
Mac blinked a little tentatively. “I’ll see what I can find, Stella.”
*
“Davenport,” barked in Mac’s ear.
Mac tapped his pen against the back of his hand. “Detective Davenport, this is Mac Taylor. I received a message that you’d given me a call earlier and I’m returning it. Is there anything that requires the immediate attention of my people? We’re rather tied up at the moment.”
There was a sound like rustling fabric. “Yeah, sorry about that. I heard about what happened to your detective yesterday, is she okay?”
“Aiden’s fine,” Mac said shortly, not really sure if he was speaking the truth or not. He hadn’t seen her since yesterday, after all. “Your case –”
“Your Detective Messer gave me a call, said something about you running a little late –”
“And you told him you didn’t want to work with Flack,” Mac said shortly, smoothing the note Danny had left out on the table. He’d written it on stationary, one that Mac recognized as Aiden’s, with a flowy exotic-looking pattern around the edge. Danny’d doodled in the white spaces left between the lines of the pattern. “Due to some unfortunate accidents –” That was one way to put it, he supposed “– the Crime Lab’s a little short of people who can work in the field at the moment. I’ll be over as soon as I can with another CSI, but if it’s not terribly urgent –”
“It’s not,” Davenport informed him. “Homicide’s got it well in hand and you and your guys did a pretty thorough job night before last. We’re just waiting for your results to get in and the ME’s report.”
Mac slid a folder that hadn’t been on his desk last night over and flipped it open. Ballistics from both the Starbucks and the Met cases. Bullets were a match. “As it is, Detective, I’ve got the ballistics report sitting in front of me right now.”
“Really? That’s wonderful –”
“It matches the gun used in the robbery to one used in a shooting CSU’s investigating. Danny and Flack are on that case right now. That gives us first crack at the suspects in the robbery, since the perp’s likely to be the same in both cases.”
There was a long moment of silence. “Detective Taylor –”
Mac cut him off. “Prints also got back to me; your perps were involved in several different robberies across the country, as was our vic from the shooting. I can make sure you get copies of both reports, and any other ones as soon as they get back, but unless there’s anything else you need immediately –”
Davenport’s voice was decidedly frosty. “That’ll be all, Detective. I or my partner will meet you at the Met, if you don’t have a problem with that.”
“I’ll see you there.”
*
“You’re telling Val,” Carmine said.
“What? Why do I gotta tell Val? Do you hate me that bad? He’ll kill me.”
“You gotta tell Val because you were the one on duty when that shit went down. I was just along for the ride, with food.”
“Food my ass,” Joey grumbled. “Fuck no, that wasn’t food, that was, like, sugar concentrated into solid form. That ain’t food, d’Alessandro. Next time, I’m buyin’.”
“Then it’s your money, Sforza. I’m not spendin’ my money for your pizza with the three-foot diameter.”
“Hey, at least I eat the whole thing.”
“It’s all going to your hips. Trust me here. And you’re still the one tellin’ Val.”
“You don’t think he hasn’t heard about it already?”
“He was meeting with the Scarpettas yesterday. He doesn’t know. When Constantine says jump, Scarpetta says, ‘how high?’ They’re not gonna interrupt a meeting just to tell Val his nephew just talked a gun away from his partner’s head.”
“So why do we gotta tell him?”
“You really want him to know later that you didn’t?”
“I – hate – hospitals,” Stella pronounced very carefully, glaring at Doctor Johnson. “And I am not staying here a minute more than I have to.” She gestued at the wheelchair she was sitting in. “And I so do not want this thing. How the hell am I supposed to do my job if I have to move around in this behemoth?”
“Stella –” Mac ventured, deciding now was as good a time as any to voice his concerns over Stella’s health and physical well-being. “You have a broken leg, I don’t think –”
“Fractured,” she corrected fiercely. “Fractured, Mac. The only thing that’s broken about me is my collarbone. And two ribs. You shouldn’t take statements from emergency room doctors as gospel, Mac, they can get a little overblown sometimes –”
Johnson looked put out. “Detective Bonasera, you’ve just suffered a severe trauma. It would be best for your health if you stayed in the hospital under observation for a few more days and then took several weeks off work until –”
Stella cut him off. “This is not trauma. Trauma is getting kidnapped and tortured. Trauma is getting raped or murdered. Not this.”
“Stella, you were hit by a car,” Mac said wearily.
“And your point would be? Don’t answer that,” she added as Mac opened his mouth to speak. “I know you. Flack managed just fine on crutches. Danny didn’t have a problem working with his arm in a sling.”
“Flack and Danny are both extremely stubborn, and gunshot wounds heal much more quickly than broken bones,” Mac pointed out.
“Fractured bones.”
“Fractured bones,” he repeated to accommodate her. “Also, neither Danny nor Flack was in crutches and a sling at the same time.”
She frowned. “I’ll manage.” Turning to Johnson, she ordered, “Doc, fix me up.”
“Detective Bonasera, I really must insist –”
“Stella, I don’t think –”
“The last time I ended up in the ER they slapped a cast on, handed me some crutches, and pretty much kicked my ass back out into the street,” she said. “Next time? I’m breaking an ankle again. And you’re going across the street to look at evidence.”
Johson looked insulted again. “We put a cast on,” he said mulishly, sounding rather like a small child. “I resent the implication –”
“Mac?” Stella interrupted sweetly. “You know if I’m out of commission for too long they’ll make you hire another criminalist. With crime these days, the lab can’t really function with only three CSIs.”
Mac frowned. “No fieldwork,” he said, aware that she’d gotten the better of him once again. “Not until you’re fit for duty.”
She grinned happily. “I’m good with that.”
*
Mac frowned at the note Danny had left taped to his door. Stella rolled her wheelchair up to the bottom of the steps, looking extremely unhappy. “There are stairs everywhere,” she pouted. “How the hell am I supposed to get around? I can’t even get up to your office. I should have taken the crutches.”
“It’s extremely hard to negotiate crutches with one arm in a sling,” Mac said absently, plucking the note off the door. “What time is it, Stella?”
She glanced at her watch. “Nine forty-five. Why?”
Mac rubbed at his forehead with one hand. “Work started forty-five minutes ago.”
A slow grin spread over Stella’s face. “And you’re late,” she said gleefully. “This almost makes up for the wheelchair. I don’t think you’ve ever been late to work before –”
“Danny left a note,” Mac interrupted. He came down the steps and handed it to her.
She dangled it in front of her face. “ ‘Called Davenport from the Met case, said he wouldn’t work with Flack and wanted to talk to you, went to go work the Starbucks shooting with Flack and Aiden. Call me on my cell. Where the hell are you? Should I call Missing Persons? Hope Stella’s all right. Danny.’ He’s blunt this morning. What Met case?”
Mac shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “The Metropolitan Museum of Art –”
“Got robbed. I heard that part. The TV in the hospital may be a piece of crap, but at least it picks up some local channels.” Stella glared at him. “Mac. Did you or did you not tell Danny, Aiden, and Flack that I was awake?”
“It slipped my mind,” Mac admitted. “I suppose –”
Stella shook her head in disbelief. “I’ve known you for how many years now, and this shouldn’t surprise me anymore, but it slipped your mind? Mac, you are a piece of work. Give Danny a call, let him now you’re still alive and not a body in the morgue. And maybe let him know I’m not a body in a hospital bed anymore, if it’s not too much trouble, before they show up there and find an empty room.”
“Stella –”
She held up a hand. “Don’t want to hear it. I’ve been on my back for the past forty-eight hours, give me something to do. Even if you’re not going to let me out into the field, there’s gotta be some evidence I can look at, or case files for the Met case, or something.”
Mac blinked a little tentatively. “I’ll see what I can find, Stella.”
*
“Davenport,” barked in Mac’s ear.
Mac tapped his pen against the back of his hand. “Detective Davenport, this is Mac Taylor. I received a message that you’d given me a call earlier and I’m returning it. Is there anything that requires the immediate attention of my people? We’re rather tied up at the moment.”
There was a sound like rustling fabric. “Yeah, sorry about that. I heard about what happened to your detective yesterday, is she okay?”
“Aiden’s fine,” Mac said shortly, not really sure if he was speaking the truth or not. He hadn’t seen her since yesterday, after all. “Your case –”
“Your Detective Messer gave me a call, said something about you running a little late –”
“And you told him you didn’t want to work with Flack,” Mac said shortly, smoothing the note Danny had left out on the table. He’d written it on stationary, one that Mac recognized as Aiden’s, with a flowy exotic-looking pattern around the edge. Danny’d doodled in the white spaces left between the lines of the pattern. “Due to some unfortunate accidents –” That was one way to put it, he supposed “– the Crime Lab’s a little short of people who can work in the field at the moment. I’ll be over as soon as I can with another CSI, but if it’s not terribly urgent –”
“It’s not,” Davenport informed him. “Homicide’s got it well in hand and you and your guys did a pretty thorough job night before last. We’re just waiting for your results to get in and the ME’s report.”
Mac slid a folder that hadn’t been on his desk last night over and flipped it open. Ballistics from both the Starbucks and the Met cases. Bullets were a match. “As it is, Detective, I’ve got the ballistics report sitting in front of me right now.”
“Really? That’s wonderful –”
“It matches the gun used in the robbery to one used in a shooting CSU’s investigating. Danny and Flack are on that case right now. That gives us first crack at the suspects in the robbery, since the perp’s likely to be the same in both cases.”
There was a long moment of silence. “Detective Taylor –”
Mac cut him off. “Prints also got back to me; your perps were involved in several different robberies across the country, as was our vic from the shooting. I can make sure you get copies of both reports, and any other ones as soon as they get back, but unless there’s anything else you need immediately –”
Davenport’s voice was decidedly frosty. “That’ll be all, Detective. I or my partner will meet you at the Met, if you don’t have a problem with that.”
“I’ll see you there.”
*
“You’re telling Val,” Carmine said.
“What? Why do I gotta tell Val? Do you hate me that bad? He’ll kill me.”
“You gotta tell Val because you were the one on duty when that shit went down. I was just along for the ride, with food.”
“Food my ass,” Joey grumbled. “Fuck no, that wasn’t food, that was, like, sugar concentrated into solid form. That ain’t food, d’Alessandro. Next time, I’m buyin’.”
“Then it’s your money, Sforza. I’m not spendin’ my money for your pizza with the three-foot diameter.”
“Hey, at least I eat the whole thing.”
“It’s all going to your hips. Trust me here. And you’re still the one tellin’ Val.”
“You don’t think he hasn’t heard about it already?”
“He was meeting with the Scarpettas yesterday. He doesn’t know. When Constantine says jump, Scarpetta says, ‘how high?’ They’re not gonna interrupt a meeting just to tell Val his nephew just talked a gun away from his partner’s head.”
“So why do we gotta tell him?”
“You really want him to know later that you didn’t?”