bedlamsbard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bedlamsbard) wrote2007-04-29 08:12 pm
bedlamsbard) wrote2007-04-29 08:12 pm
CSI:NY fic: Bardverse AU: scenes from "The Man Who Wasn't There"
Takes up five years after an alternate Bloody Sunday where Danny took Val up on his offer, Aiden didn't die, and Lindsay didn't come to New York until after Danny quit the NYPD.
“We have a match,” Lindsay said, bending over the keyboard. She glanced back over her shoulder, grinning at Angell. “Facial reconstruction came back on our John Doe.”
Angell picked up the paper the printer spit out. “Our JD’s a federal agent,” she said, surprised.
“John Hudson,” Lindsay said. She straightened and went over to stand next Angell, reading over the other woman’s shoulder. “He worked Organized Crime thirty years ago – disappeared in New York right after he’d gotten a conviction for a major case.”
“Who?”
“Some Mafia bigwig – Luciano Constantine.” Lindsay grinned again. “Apparently they used to call him Lucky. Guess he wasn’t – he got forty years in prison with a possibility for parole after thirty.”
“Hmm,” Angell said. She waved the sheaf of papers. “I’ll go try and get a hold of the FBI, see if I can find the agents who originally worked the case – you told Detective Taylor yet?”
“No, should I?”
“If it’s gonna be cross-jurisdictional, yeah. Just drop him a line or something.”
“I didn’t think about that,” Lindsay admitted. “I did some digging – Lucky Constantine’s still in Sing Sing, but he’s got a son, Valentine – maybe he knows something about what happened with Agent Hudson. If Hudson put Lucky Constantine away, then disappeared immediately afterwards –”
“There’s a strong probability that Constantine might have had Hudson whacked from behind bars,” Angell nodded. “Let’s go talk to Valentine Constantine after I make a few phone calls.”
-
-
“You know, I always pictured – I don’t know, checkered table cloths and tortellini?” Lindsay said, frowning up at the neon sign over the bar. “This just seems out of character.”
“You’ve been watching too many gangster movies,” Angell told her, grinning, and pushed open the door.
Lindsay blinked at the sudden change in lighting. The bar was relatively well-lit, but it was eighty-five degrees and sunny outside. It took her a minute or so to make out the lone figure at the bar.
“Valentine Constantine?” Angell said, holding up her badge. “NYPD.”
“My uncle’s out of town,” the guy at the bar said, turning. “But anything for the NYPD.”
Lindsay’s first thought was typical mobster. But he wasn’t, not really. The guy was young, maybe a few years older than her – silk shirt, charcoal slacks, gold-rimmed glasses, wedding band on his left hand, chain around his neck. There was a leather jacket slung over the back of his barstool.
“Danny Messer,” he added, running his tongue over his front teeth.
“I’m Detective Angell. This is Detective Monroe from the Crime Lab,” Angell said.
Lindsay saw him stiffen slightly, then he relaxed abruptly. “Pleased to meet you, ladies. What can I do for the NYPD?”
“You carrying?” Angell asked abruptly.
“Yeah, of course,” Messer said matter-of-factly. “Don’t get your hopes up, Detective, it’s perfectly legal and licensed.”
“Put it on the bar. I want your license too.”
He’d had his gun holstered at the small of his back. .38 Beretta, black matte, and then he dug in his pocket and tossed over his concealed weapons license on the counter too.
“Anything else?” Angell asked.
There was a pause, like he was considering something, and then Messer shrugged and slid a pair of knives out of his sleeves and onto the bar.
“What is this, 1935?” Lindsay said.
“You want to strip-search me, Detective, or is that all?” Messer said, ignoring her.
“That’ll do,” Angell said. “Linds, would you mind checking his license?”
“Yeah,” Lindsay said, and went over to pick up the card. “It’s legit.”
“I told you,” Messer shrugged. “Now what else can I do for you, Detective Angell?”
“Does the name John Hudson mean anything to you?”
To give Messer some credit, he gave it serious thought, or at least faked it pretty well. “Can’t say it does. Why, what’s this about?”
“A body,” Lindsay said. “He was shot, twice in the head. A couple of kids found it out on Staten Island two days ago.”
Messer shook his head. “Still doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“Special Agent John Hudson died thirty years ago,” Angell said, leaning forward. “He’s the one that put Luciano Constantine away in Sing Sing.”
“Good for him,” Messer said. “I wasn’t born yet when my granddad went away.”
“You didn’t like your grandfather?”
“Never met him. He got put away the year I was born.”
“What about your uncle?”
“I like Val fine,” Messer said. He inclined his head toward the bar. “You want something, Detective? While you’re here?”
“I don’t drink on the job,” Angell snapped.
Messer glanced over at Lindsay. “How about you, Monroe? On the house.”
“I want you to answer some questions,” Lindsay said.
Messer ran his tongue over his teeth again. “So ask me some.”
Angell leaned forward, one arm resting against the side of the bar. “What do you know about your grandfather?”
“Vindictive son of a bitch,” Messer said, matter-of-fact. “Dumb enough to get caught and think he could keep on being the boss after.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He put out a hit on my uncle Val from prison,” Messer said. “So if you’ve got something you can nail him for, you won’t be getting any interference from me or mine.”
“We have a match,” Lindsay said, bending over the keyboard. She glanced back over her shoulder, grinning at Angell. “Facial reconstruction came back on our John Doe.”
Angell picked up the paper the printer spit out. “Our JD’s a federal agent,” she said, surprised.
“John Hudson,” Lindsay said. She straightened and went over to stand next Angell, reading over the other woman’s shoulder. “He worked Organized Crime thirty years ago – disappeared in New York right after he’d gotten a conviction for a major case.”
“Who?”
“Some Mafia bigwig – Luciano Constantine.” Lindsay grinned again. “Apparently they used to call him Lucky. Guess he wasn’t – he got forty years in prison with a possibility for parole after thirty.”
“Hmm,” Angell said. She waved the sheaf of papers. “I’ll go try and get a hold of the FBI, see if I can find the agents who originally worked the case – you told Detective Taylor yet?”
“No, should I?”
“If it’s gonna be cross-jurisdictional, yeah. Just drop him a line or something.”
“I didn’t think about that,” Lindsay admitted. “I did some digging – Lucky Constantine’s still in Sing Sing, but he’s got a son, Valentine – maybe he knows something about what happened with Agent Hudson. If Hudson put Lucky Constantine away, then disappeared immediately afterwards –”
“There’s a strong probability that Constantine might have had Hudson whacked from behind bars,” Angell nodded. “Let’s go talk to Valentine Constantine after I make a few phone calls.”
-
-
“You know, I always pictured – I don’t know, checkered table cloths and tortellini?” Lindsay said, frowning up at the neon sign over the bar. “This just seems out of character.”
“You’ve been watching too many gangster movies,” Angell told her, grinning, and pushed open the door.
Lindsay blinked at the sudden change in lighting. The bar was relatively well-lit, but it was eighty-five degrees and sunny outside. It took her a minute or so to make out the lone figure at the bar.
“Valentine Constantine?” Angell said, holding up her badge. “NYPD.”
“My uncle’s out of town,” the guy at the bar said, turning. “But anything for the NYPD.”
Lindsay’s first thought was typical mobster. But he wasn’t, not really. The guy was young, maybe a few years older than her – silk shirt, charcoal slacks, gold-rimmed glasses, wedding band on his left hand, chain around his neck. There was a leather jacket slung over the back of his barstool.
“Danny Messer,” he added, running his tongue over his front teeth.
“I’m Detective Angell. This is Detective Monroe from the Crime Lab,” Angell said.
Lindsay saw him stiffen slightly, then he relaxed abruptly. “Pleased to meet you, ladies. What can I do for the NYPD?”
“You carrying?” Angell asked abruptly.
“Yeah, of course,” Messer said matter-of-factly. “Don’t get your hopes up, Detective, it’s perfectly legal and licensed.”
“Put it on the bar. I want your license too.”
He’d had his gun holstered at the small of his back. .38 Beretta, black matte, and then he dug in his pocket and tossed over his concealed weapons license on the counter too.
“Anything else?” Angell asked.
There was a pause, like he was considering something, and then Messer shrugged and slid a pair of knives out of his sleeves and onto the bar.
“What is this, 1935?” Lindsay said.
“You want to strip-search me, Detective, or is that all?” Messer said, ignoring her.
“That’ll do,” Angell said. “Linds, would you mind checking his license?”
“Yeah,” Lindsay said, and went over to pick up the card. “It’s legit.”
“I told you,” Messer shrugged. “Now what else can I do for you, Detective Angell?”
“Does the name John Hudson mean anything to you?”
To give Messer some credit, he gave it serious thought, or at least faked it pretty well. “Can’t say it does. Why, what’s this about?”
“A body,” Lindsay said. “He was shot, twice in the head. A couple of kids found it out on Staten Island two days ago.”
Messer shook his head. “Still doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“Special Agent John Hudson died thirty years ago,” Angell said, leaning forward. “He’s the one that put Luciano Constantine away in Sing Sing.”
“Good for him,” Messer said. “I wasn’t born yet when my granddad went away.”
“You didn’t like your grandfather?”
“Never met him. He got put away the year I was born.”
“What about your uncle?”
“I like Val fine,” Messer said. He inclined his head toward the bar. “You want something, Detective? While you’re here?”
“I don’t drink on the job,” Angell snapped.
Messer glanced over at Lindsay. “How about you, Monroe? On the house.”
“I want you to answer some questions,” Lindsay said.
Messer ran his tongue over his teeth again. “So ask me some.”
Angell leaned forward, one arm resting against the side of the bar. “What do you know about your grandfather?”
“Vindictive son of a bitch,” Messer said, matter-of-fact. “Dumb enough to get caught and think he could keep on being the boss after.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He put out a hit on my uncle Val from prison,” Messer said. “So if you’ve got something you can nail him for, you won’t be getting any interference from me or mine.”