Chapter Text
Raymond was running late to the bimonthly captains meeting at One Police Plaza, but when a voice called out for him to hold the elevator, he obliged. The woman offered him a breathless thank you as she darted in and turned to watch the doors close. Between the second and first floors, she cleared her throat and said, “Are you in charge here?”
“I am,” Raymond said, tipping his head to her. “Captain Raymond Holt.”
The woman nodded at him and squared her shoulders a bit. “My brother was killed. Last night.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Raymond said.
“Thanks,” the woman said. “Your, um, team. Detectives. They caught the guy who did it. I’m- Well. I’m very grateful.”
Though these situations did not come up infrequently, Raymond always found himself caught somewhat off guard and unsure of the best response. A simple “you’re welcome” would probably suffice, but it sounded so insignificant. Telling a grieving family member that they were just doing their jobs seemed callus.
He thought for a moment and said, “When we cannot protect, we are here to serve.”
The woman looked confused for a moment, and then her lips curled into a small smile. “Serve and protect. I get it.”
The doors opened on the first floor, and Raymond gestured for her to exit first. She did, but she paused just after the threshold and turned back to him again. “Actually, it was mostly the one detective, Peralta,” she said. “He solved my brother’s case very fast.”
“I will pass on your regards,” Raymond said. He forced himself not to look at his watch. He was definitely going to be late, but the woman looked like she had more to say.
“I don’t know if I should say anything, because Detective Peralta really was great,” she said.
Raymond sighed to himself.
“It’s just, when I was looking at the police lineup, there was this thing with a Backstreet Boys song…”
Eight minutes later, Raymond was back at his desk, office door closed, Jake fidgeting in a chair. Raymond replied to the all-captains email chain that he would be late to the meeting and set down his cell phone. He folded his hands in front of him and stared stonily at Jake.
“The witness, who happened to be the sister of the victim, said you made the lineup sing a 1990s boy band song,” Raymond said.
“Backstreet Boys is more than just a boy band,” Jake said, then added quickly, “and it was for the case. She said she’d heard the suspect singing ‘I Want It That Way.’”
“She said you sang the chorus with them,” Raymond said.
“The hook is insanely catchy,” Jake said, and he opened his mouth in such a way that Raymond was sure he was going to start singing, so he held up a hand to pre-empt him.
“The witness is appreciative of your work solving the case, and she is not interested in seeing you disciplined,” Raymond said. Jake snapped his mouth shut. “However, this kind of childish behavior-”
“It was just a second of singing,” Jake said.
“I watched the tape. You were harmonizing,” Raymond said. “And that is why I am requesting your attendance at next month’s community policing event with the 122nd.”
Jake groaned and looked up toward the ceiling. “And by requesting-”
“It’s a Saturday. You will wear a tie.”
+++
They drove to Staten Island together in one of the unmarked sedans with odd stains on the upholstered front seats and what must be a permanent stench of burned coffee. Someone had hung a car deodorizer in the shape of a frog – which was disturbing, since frogs were not known to smell pleasant – from the rearview mirror. Raymond had torn it off and thrown it in a nearby trashcan before they left.
Jake was quiet for the first five minutes, nursing a coffee and clearly still half asleep, and Raymond took the opportunity to enjoy the Saturday morning NPR programming while he could, though it was mostly a recap of shows he’d already heard earlier in the week. Raymond was beginning to consider turning to his favorite classical music station when Jake said, “Did I mention that Charles and I ran into Adrian Pimento a couple weeks ago?”
He filled the rest of the ride with what was, in fairness, a remarkably dramatic tale, all of it entirely believable because Pimento had been involved. “So then I invited him to the wedding, and after all that he said he couldn’t make it,” Jake said. “Which, by the way, is definitely for the best. Please don’t tell Amy I invited him.”
Raymond nodded but didn’t say anything. He felt a jolt of guilt at the reminder of the wedding, which was now only three weeks away.
When Raymond had ordered Jake to attend the community meeting, the timing hadn’t occurred to him. Raymond’s own wedding had been spur of the moment – there had been no weekends spent tasting cakes or crafting signature cocktails or choosing stationery or renting tables and chairs. For an event such as Jake and Amy were planning much advance organization was involved, and when it had dawned on Raymond that he was robbing them of an entire day, he’d felt bad. The police lineup thing had been a minor transgression, after all.
But then Rosa had been involved in an active shooter situation and Jake had very nearly gone running after her, and though Jake had come to his senses before irredeemable mistakes were made, that he’d taken things as far as he had was concerning. Raymond hadn’t seen evidence of Jake’s so-called “lone wolf” behavior in a long time, and if asked he would have said that Jake had put that behind him. But then Jake had lied and defied a direct order, so he could play the hero.
Raymond knew that wasn’t quite fair. Jake had been motivated by concern for a friend, not a desire to save the day, or at least not entirely. But still, Raymond thought Jake should be better able to manage those kneejerk reactions, to be a smart detective, not a brash one. A Saturday morning community meeting wasn’t going to address that. But Raymond was still irritated enough by how the situation had played out that he’d decided not to let Jake off the hook, wedding be damned.
Anyway, Jake didn’t seem too bothered by the timing of the meeting. Perhaps he was relieved to be freed of some wedding-related chore.
The meeting itself was being hosted by the 122nd precinct, which had been the focus recently of a handful of embarrassing, and in a few cases alarming, civilian complaints. There had been accusations of police misconduct, misuse of public funding and mishandling of evidence. The most troubling incident had been an officer-involved shooting six months ago, which had been too-quickly investigated, the police absolved of all charges. Several protests had been staged outside the precinct, and this meeting had been ordered by the commissioner’s office to help improve relations and calm down the neighborhood.
Raymond had his doubts it would help, but he was a firm believer in transparency, so he didn’t mind being asked to speak about community relations in the Nine-Nine. His own precinct had been commended – quietly, without any fanfare, at Raymond’s request – for its strong ties to the neighborhood. He knew his officers respected the people they served. He knew that was true of Jake, too, and that the incident with the witness and the singing lineup had not been the result of any lack of regard for civilians.
They arrived at the meeting a few minutes early, but already the other police attendees were there, along with about a dozen civilians. The meeting was being held in a high school theater – a rather impressive one, with auditorium seating for a few hundred people and a raised stage. It wasn’t an especially inviting location, with the civilians relegated to the audience and the police speakers in folding chairs on the stage, a podium in the middle. Raymond would have chosen something that put everyone on an equal level and encouraged conversation, not lectures. He sighed as he and Jake walked down one long side aisle toward the stage.
“Holt! Over here!” Sergeant Brickhouse with the One-Two-Two was waving them over, a takeout coffee cup in the hand in the air. Even from a distance Raymond could tell when some liquid sloshed onto Brickhouse’s uniform, because the man laughed and brushed off his tie. He also had what looked to be powdered donut detritus, or else really bad dandruff, dusted across his beard and mustache.
“I cannot believe you’re making me waste a Saturday morning with Staten Island Scully,” Jake said under his breath.
Once they reached the stage they were introduced to the other panel members – two beat officers from the 122nd and Detective Lisa Wong from the 83rd.
“What are you in for?” Detective Wong said to Jake, as they took their seats.
“I made some perps sing ‘I Want It That Way’. In front of a witness,” Jake said.
“Nice,” Detective Wong said. “I accidentally showed photos of a murdered Santa Claus to a 6-year-old. Santa had been stabbed 52 times.”
“Damn,” Jake said.
Brickhouse called for the meeting to start then and everyone else sat – Raymond and Jake and Detective Wong on stage left, the One-Two-Two officers on stage right, the podium in the middle. The civilians took their seats too, scattered about the auditorium in a way that made it look even more empty than it was. Raymond counted 23 people in all, with maybe 10 clustered into the middle of the first three rows and the rest spread all over. The lights on the stage were bright, but the house lights had been dimmed and Raymond felt like they were there to put on a show. He forced what he hoped was a politely interested look on his face but feared was more like a grimace.
Brickhouse introduced everyone and invited Jake to speak first, which surprised both of them. But Jake gamely strolled up to the podium, straightening his tie as he went. Raymond had told him he did not need to wear his uniform, but he should look professional – in other words, clean jeans, no hoodie. He’d ended up in a blue plaid shirt and unpatterned tie and his leather jacket. Raymond was wearing his usual uniform, mostly because that was what he always wore at work events. It came back to transparency – show the people who you really were, not who you thought they wanted to see.
Raymond had given Jake some tips on his presentation but hadn’t gone so far as to demand to hear it in advance. In the end, it was fine. Jake talked about the kinds of cases he normally worked, kept the jokes and the gruesome details to a minimum, and worked in only one Die Hard reference. Detective Wong went next, and she blundered badly by starting off her presentation with a story about finding a manila envelope filled with fingernails in a parakeet cage while on an elder welfare check.
A woman in the audience tentatively raised her hand and said, “Was the elderly person okay?”
“Um, he was dead,” Detective Wong said. “Like, six weeks dead. The smell was real bad.”
In the silence that followed, Jake leaned toward Holt and whispered, “You appreciate me so much right now.”
He wasn’t wrong. Raymond ignored him anyway.
+++
Raymond’s presentation was thorough, thoughtful and extremely dignified. He could tell the crowd was bored. He cut himself off with 18 typed pages remaining, told the group that he would be available after the meeting for questions, and walked back to his seat. He did not sulk. Jake patted his arm in a patronizing way.
Brickhouse sauntered up next and his voice boomed out over the audience as he thanked the 99th and the 83rd for joining them. He said, “I know the past few months have been a little bit challeng-”
“Fuck you!” yelled a voice from the back of the auditorium, followed by a chorus of echoing calls from around the theater as two or three people in the audience leapt to their feet. Raymond tensed, eyes scanning the room, and Brickhouse boomed for everyone to calm down, and then Jake called out, “Gun!”
Raymond ducked on instinct, realizing as he dropped that they had no cover on this stage, that they were totally exposed. Instantly, the noise in the theater was deafening – the clatter of metal folding chairs falling over, civilians screaming, police shouting to everyone to get down. Raymond reached for his gun and remembered he hadn’t brought it – this was meant to be a friendly neighborhood meeting, not a shootout. Crouched low, Raymond looked up, tried to track the audience for shooters, and then glanced back at Jake, who was squatting just behind him.
Jake gestured with one hand toward the wings, clearly advising that they needed to get the hell off the stage, when something caught his eye and his head jerked up. Before Raymond could turn to see what had his attention, Jake jumped to his feet. He took two running steps and dove, tackling Brickhouse, who was standing dumbstruck behind the podium. Just as Jake hit Brickhouse, Raymond heard gunshots, three in quick succession, and ducked lower. Wood splinters spit off the top of podium, but Jake and Brickhouse were already on the ground.
Brickhouse landed on his back and quickly scrambled and kicked Jake away from him and rolled onto his stomach, covering his head with both hands. Jake fell awkwardly off to the side, his back to Raymond. He wasn’t moving.
Raymond spared one glance toward the audience, enough to spot at least two people with guns, and to note that they seemed focused on corralling the civilians for the moment. He sprinted across the stage to Jake, skidding to his knees beside him. Jake was unconscious, blood spilling down the right side of his face. Raymond clasped his shoulder and shook him, said his name. Jake groaned and Raymond realized he needed to make a decision, and fast: stay or go.
He took a second to survey the room. Brickhouse was still cowering nearby, not obviously injured. The two uniforms were standing, shell-shocked, their arms in the air in surrender. He couldn’t see Detective Wong. Below the stage, the shooters seemed to have formed a loose perimeter around a group of civilians.
Raymond grabbed Jake by the arm and hauled him up.
“Move, Peralta,” he hissed. “Now!”
Whether on instinct or by choice, Jake obeyed, climbing clumsily to his feet. Raymond swung Jake’s arm over his shoulders and half-dragged, half-guided him toward the wings stage right. Someone yelled “stop!” and Raymond grabbed Jake around the waist and pulled him along faster. He heard a gunshot at almost the exact moment he saw a bullet chip into the stage floor in front of them. A second shot brushed over their heads, so close Raymond could hear the whistle of it. And then they dove behind the curtains
Immediately they were enfolded in cool darkness, the curtains buffering the light as well as the noise from the auditorium. Raymond pushed them deeper backstage, blinking rapidly to adjust his vision. To their left, he saw a free-standing wall with a cut-out door in the middle, and Raymond turned them toward it and pushed Jake through the opening before diving in himself.
It was a set, poorly constructed and wobbly, but at least it was a place to hide. Raymond shoved Jake up against the fake wall and folded himself practically on top. He focused on breathing quiet and steady.
Footsteps pounded by seconds later, followed shortly by a second set. Raymond heard voices calling out that no one was backstage and they must have gotten away. “Fuck,” said one voice, dangerously close to where Raymond and Jake were huddled. “What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know,” said another voice, a woman’s. She was breathing heavily. “I think you got one of them.”
“Maybe,” the man said. They were silent, footsteps scuffing the floor. Raymond held his breath.
“Come on. We’ve still got the three that matter,” the woman said.
The man grunted, the sound coming from just the other side of the fake door in the fake wall. Raymond pressed himself further into Jake, felt Jake’s chest rise and fall with his rapid breathing.
“Yeah, you’re right,” the man said, and his footsteps moved away, toward the main stage, until they were lost to the muffled screams and cries coming from the auditorium.
Raymond let out his breath.