*This story takes place ten months after Angell's death. It's a Liz Ryder tale set in that wicked awesome home of the Red Sox, Boston. I hope you like it!* -RyderBPD

*All CSI:NY characters belong to CBS. Liz belongs to yours truly.*

Warning: This story contains profanity.
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The door to BPD closed behind me, cutting my body off from the last remnants of indoor warmth. Stepping out onto Columbus Avenue, I adjusted my hat, gloves and scarf, then pulled my coat tightly around my waist and set off towards the T stop.

March is a deceiving time in Boston. You think winter’s blown its last chilled breath and then she beats you upside the head with a surprise snowstorm. The quiet icy sidewalks were slick despite grainy salt the city had flung their way throughout the day, and as a result my pace had slowed from its usual quick clip to a tentative plodding. As I was forced to carefully inspect every step I took, I grumbled internally about the black flats that were on my feet—for despite my love of the crisp and clear air of winter, its slushy mess on the ground meant that I couldn’t wear my standard 3-inch heels.

It must have been this internal fixation on footwear that dulled my normal defensive reflexes, because I was completely surprised by the man that jumped out of the shadows and knocked me square into a lamp post. I managed to steer my head clear of the grooved iron, but the cold metal would not let my left shoulder escape its unyielding grasp. I heard a sickening crunch as my humerus smashed into its close friend the scapula, dislocating the entire joint. Recovering and turning to face my attacker, I held my right arm out in a basic defensive position. “What the hell?!” I heard myself shout. “What the f*ck do you want?”

The response came, swift and angry. “I want the seven years of my life you stole from me, you b*tch!” My racing brain couldn’t place the guy’s voice, and a dark baseball cap shielded most of his face. Odd, since he’d just identified himself as someone I was supposedly connected to. Unfortunately, the knife in his right hand left me little time for mental processing. I tried to stall him with some good old-fashioned shrink speak: “Look, sir, let’s just talk about this. You say I’ve wronged you somehow. Maybe if you explain it to me further I can help you.”

Dude wasn’t havin’ any of it. “Screw that!” he said. “I’m gonna kill you!” He rushed at me, brandishing the long knife. Although my left arm was crippled, there was nothing wrong with my legs, and just as my attacker was about to strike I lashed out with a quick roundhouse kick to neutralize his weapon. It worked, and my foot sent the knife skipping across the ice before it came to rest about twenty feet away. As the mystery man's eyes turned to follow his disappearing leverage, I punched him in the face and broke his nose. He went down hard, falling backwards and leaving his groin area exposed. I didn’t hesitate, landing another hard kick right where the sun don’t shine.

As he groaned and writhed in the middle of the sidewalk, I rubbed my aching shoulder and spat in anger close to his head. “Y’know, some people might say you had real balls, jumpin’ a woman by herself in the middle of the night. What your testicles didn’t count on was my black belt, you stupid son of a b*tch. Whoever you are, your ass is goin’ to jail.” I pulled out my phone and called the building I’d left not five minutes before. “Jimmy, I need a hand out here on Columbus,” I told my favorite desk jockey. “Some idiot thought it’d be a good idea to rough me up four blocks away from a police station.”

About thirty seconds later, two uniforms came running down the street in snow boots, guns drawn. “Ryder, you okay?” I could make out the looks of concern on their faces even in the dim light. “Yeah, boys, I’m all right. Let's get this scumbag back to PD so I can find out what his damn problem is.” While Maurizio Moretti secured the still-moaning perp, the other (a good pal of mine, Paul O’Connell) rushed to my side. “What happened?”

I relayed the story with as much detail as I could, and when I had finished O’Connell checked me out for injuries. I had some of the bastard’s blood on my hand from the punch I’d landed, but the biggest casualty was my jammed shoulder. It hurt to move my left arm even an inch, and when O’Connell saw this he urged me to go to the hospital. “I will, man, I promise,” I said, holding up my right index and middle finger in the “Scout’s Honor” sign. “But I gotta find out what this guy’s beef is first.”

He shrugged and smiled. “You got it, Doc.” The four of us made the short trip back to PD—Moretti pushing my cuffed attacker down the street in front while O’Connell and I brought up the rear. After snapping a quick photo of the assailant, the Italian half of my rescue team shoved him into an interrogation room, and once I’d constructed a makeshift sling from a pair of pantyhose in my desk I sat down across the table from the guy who’d ruined my evening.

“Start talking, jackass,” I said. “Who are you and why’d you jump me?”

In the process of plunking the perp down into a seat, Moretti had whipped off the guy's baseball hat, revealing a blazing pair of blue eyes staring out at me from underneath a mop of blonde hair. Guy looked to be about forty, evidenced by his slightly thinning follicles and the crow’s feet around his eyes.

“I told you," he shot back with a slightly southern accent. "I want those years of my life back that you took from me. I’m not sayin’ nothin' else.”

He leaned back in his chair and stayed there, giving me a look of superiority in spite of his cuffed hands.

“Fine,” I replied. “I’ll do the talking. You chose to attack me under the cover of darkness, indicating cowardice and a fear of recognition. You must have been watching me and tracking my movements for some time, for while it’s dangerous to strike so close to a police station, I’m here late every single Friday night. The presence of a knife highlights the desire for a personal attack as opposed to the quick finality of a gun. How am I doin’ so far, sport?”

Silence continued to emanate from the other end of the cold steel table. Just then, Moretti came to the interrogation room’s door and knocked on the glass. He held up a file folder and motioned for me to come out in the hall. I obliged—but not before turning to my anonymous scumbag and scoffing audibly.

“What’s up, donnaiolo?” Moretti laughed at my Italian slang, blushing and sweeping a stray black hair out of his handsome face. He sighed. “Ryder, siete una bella donna—bella, ma una saccente.” “I promise not to make you tell me what that means if you tell me what’s in that file,” I quipped. He handed me the manila folder and, opening it to the first page, I stood silent for a moment. Paper-clipped to the inside of the folder was a mug shot of a man in his early thirties. Blonde hair, blue eyes and a scar on his left cheek. I looked back through the glass, examining the room’s occupant more closely. “It’s him!” I exclaimed, turning to Moretti. “Same jerk. How'd you pin him down?”

“O’Connell ran his picture through our database of convicted felons,” Moretti explained. “Looks like this guy went away for multiple rapes seven years ago.” “What's that got to do with me?” “Looks like you and PK were the arrestings on the case, and that the perp was tryin’ to pull off an insanity plea. Only you didn’t buy his act, and told Vargas she should examine the guy in addition to the shrink his lawyer was bankrollin’. Guy’s scam fell apart under her questioning.”

I reached back into the catacombs of my mind and found hints of memories associated with the case. I had just started developing an interest in the wonders of brain chemistry, and so began closely observing the many crazies that came through BPD’s doors. In the case of this particular perp, I’d noticed a wink that had passed between the suspect and his lawyer during initial interrogation. Adding that to some inconsistencies in his story produced enough doubt in my mind to call for further investigation, and as Moretti said, the guy’s ruse cracked in half. Now what was his name? I thought to myself. Something that sounded like a guy Casey dated in high school. I hated that punk. Rayburn? No, no—Redmond? Wait, that’s it! Radman!

“Taylor Radman,” I said aloud. I glanced at the tab on the side of the folder and confirmed my recollection. “Thanks, man,” I said to Moretti. “No problem, Doc,” he said. “I’ll be right out here to hook him up once you’re done.” Tucking the folder under my immobilized left arm, I opened the door and stepped back into the cubicle of questioning. I once again took my seat across from Radman.

“You’re not gettin’ anything outta me, sweetheart,” he said. “I want a lawyer.”

I ignored this little bluff and gave him a wicked grin.

“So, you’re throwin’ a little hissy fit ‘cause I helped bust your ass all those years ago, huh Taylor?” His eyes widened and he lurched forward so that his chest was pressing into the table. “That’s right. I know who you are. And I know what you did. Sorry, buddy—just couldn’t let ya get away with that fake insanity crap. In this country people have to sack up and take responsibility for the crimes they commit.”

“Those girls wanted me!” he said, suddenly screaming. “They was mine, and I took 'em! And then you and that stupid Mick partner of yours ruined everything!”

Before I knew what I was doing, I lunged across the table and took Radman by the throat. “That ‘Mick partner’ of mine and I stopped you from raping women for seven years, you piece of sh*t! You deserved every damn minute of that prison sentence! And now, guess what? You’re goin’ back to jail for assault and the attempted murder of a Boston police officer!” By this time Moretti had burst into the room and dislodged my hand from Radman’s neck. “All right, Doc. All right. Let him go.” He squeezed my hand comfortingly, then turned to Taylor. Spinning him around, Moretti read him his Mirandas and led the mayor of Loserville down to booking.

Meanwhile, O’Connell brought me a glass of water and checked my status. “You all right?” “Yeah,” I said slowly, still shaking. “I hope I didn’t ruin your conviction chances with my little outburst. I was already amped up from the attack, y’know? And then when he said that about Pak-Man I just snapped.” A look of understanding crossed O’Connell’s face, and he nodded sympathetically. “I hear ya, Liz—and I do appreciate you stickin’ up for us Irish guys. But you gotta remember that no matter what anyone else says about him, PK was a great cop. Nobody can take the time you guys had away from ya.”

“Damn, O’Connell, you’re startin’ to sound like me,” I said, grinning. “Maybe you should be the shrink and I’ll take your drug raids down south.” “Well, that depends,” he said, pretending to seriously consider the offer. “How many single women patients you got?” We laughed, and I relaxed a little. Moretti came back from processing Radman and the two unis insisted on taking me to the hospital. I was too exhausted to argue, so after stopping at Mass General for a proper sling, the boys of Boston’s finest dropped me right in front of my door in Cambridge.

Although I’d joked around with the guys in the squad car, upon shutting my house’s heavy oak door the masquerade ended. The stress of the evening’s events escaped my lungs with a rush as I sank to the floor and began to cry. While I wasn’t surprised that I’d escaped the altercation, the sheer shock of being jumped stung my entire body. I hadn’t felt that vulnerable in years.

I’m not sure how long I sat there sobbing beneath my mail slot, but eventually I picked myself up off the floor and walked into the kitchen. Sniffing as I wiped the tears from my puffy eyes, I poured my energy into filling the kettle and then put it on to boil. Twenty minutes later, I was sipping chamomile tea and gazing into the flames of a crackling fire. The night's attack had definitely penetrated the tough front I’d been meticulously constructing over the course of my lifetime. Matty’s death and Mom’s passing were responsible for the largest cracks in its foundation, but Radman’s attempt on my life had also cut all the way to my core.

If I had been walking with a man, I thought, tonight’s attack never would have happened. This made my internal feminist bristle, and she voiced her displeasure immediately. Don't you start that blaming crap! She screamed. What happened earlier is Radman's fault and nobody else's! We've never needed a man to get through life before--why start now because of one dumbf*ck rapist?

Okay, let me rephrase that, I responded. (What, you think shrinks don't talk to themselves? Hah!) I've become careless with my life—I trust too much in my self-defense skills while I dare the world to help me prove that I'm a strong woman. Yeah, but who would you want walking by our side? Certainly not either of the losers you've dated in the last six months. Here I had to concede a point to the girl-power part of my personality--she of the black emo glasses and spiked pink hair. Both Mike and Jason, despite their hot bodies and initial interests in common with my own, ended up being Grade-A d*cks.

Sitting there in my pajamas, I realized just how lonely I was.

My pity party was interrupted by the sudden presence of four paws in my lap and a loud yowl. “I’m sorry, buddy,” I said, stroking Jack’s silky hair. “Of course I’m not alone. I’ve got you as long as I can afford to keep puttin’ food in your dish.” I smiled as I kept petting my beloved cat, producing a steady purr from his throat. Still, I couldn’t keep my mind from wandering to the one guy I’d let walk me down any street, day or night. Reaching over to the end table and picking up my phone, I stared intently at its screen as though it would dial Flack’s number for me. I couldn’t do it, though. I didn’t want to lay my fears on him in the middle of the night. He’d just recently started sleeping normally again after nine months of nightmares—with Jess’ lifeless face haunting each one.

Just then my phone rang, producing multiple reactions. I jumped about a foot in the air, Jack freaked out (ripping my PJs and raking my leg with his claws in the process) and I spilled my still-steaming tea all over the place. The surprise produced by the phone call itself, though, was nothing compared to what I felt upon seeing the name that had popped up on the Caller ID. Just one letter was stamped on the Razr’s illuminated screen: D.

Flinging the soaked Pats blanket off my lap, I drew in a deep breath and answered the phone. “Hey, man, what’s up?” The very essence of cool. He’d never know my left leg was bleeding and that I’d narrowly escaped death just hours before.

The immediately evident concern in Flack’s rich voice slid in through my ear and warmed my entire body. “Liz, you okay? What’s wrong?” Apparently my perceived “mad concealment skills” left much to be desired. “Yeah, yeah, I’m all right. Such a damn klutz--I spilled some tea on myself right before you called.” “C’mon, Ryder—I’ve heard better lies from kindergarteners. Your voice sounds like you’ve been cryin’.” For a second I thought about dropping the façade and telling him why I needed the tea and the fire in the first place. Why my arm was in a sling and why I probably wouldn’t sleep tonight. But he had called me for a reason, and I didn’t want to detract from whatever it was that he needed. “It’s cool, D—I’m fine. Just something in my throat is all. What about you? You all right?”

He paused as though he was going to pry further, but then gave in to my change of subject. “Eh, I just wanted to see if you were awake. I can’t sleep.” Relief washed over me, and I silently thanked Flack for giving me a distraction from the knife attack. I shifted into shrink mode and began tackling my friend’s problem. “You having nightmares again?” “Kinda,” he replied. “You remember how I was always dreamin’ about her face? Like she was right in front of me but I couldn’t touch her?” “Yeah, of course. Is that still happening?” His words got kind of garbled for a moment—either he was talking with a finger in his mouth or my phone had cut out. “Say again?” I asked. He sighed and cleared his throat. “Sorry. You know me. Not always good at doin’ this ‘talk about your feelings’ stuff.” “S’okay,” I said, reassuringly. “Take your time.”

When he finally spoke again his voice was softer, trembling just the slightest bit. “With those first dreams she was too real, y’know? I could see every line on her face, the pieces of her hair that stuck out funny—those gold flecks in her eyes. I woke up reachin’ out to touch her every single time. But now, I’m startin’ to have dreams where I can’t remember what she looks like. Her face is all blurry, and when I wake up I gotta look at a picture just so I don't forget.”

As he spoke I found myself nodding enthusiastically, the way I do when I’m with a patient. It’s a way of making the speaker feel validated and helps him realize that what he's experiencing is normal. I made sure to wait until Flack had finished, and then tried to speak as a friend, not just a doctor. “You’re not forgetting Jess, Flack. I know that’s what it must feel like, but what’s really happening is that your brain is working through the anger you’ve felt regarding her death. As the intensity of that rage fades, sometimes there’s a few other things that relax—like your ability to see her face perfectly clearly.”

“That’s the thing, though, Liz. . .it’s like bein’ pissed off is the only weapon I’ve had this whole time. It ain't easy bein’ so angry, but it’s like if I’m not mad about her dyin’, somehow I’m lettin’ her murderers off the hook.”

“Hm.” The infamous clinical musing—a stalling tactic used while we medical professionals think of something to say. “Does it help to think about the fact that her killer is dead?” No point in skirting the issue at one in the morning. I could almost hear him shrug over the phone as he delivered his response. “Yes and no. It’s what the bastard deserved, but it’s prob'ly the worst moment I’ve ever had as a cop. I guess any relief I feel at him bein’ dead is wiped out by me bein’ mad at myself for losin’ control like that.”

“Well, I’m not condoning shooting unarmed suspects on a regular basis, but you might wanna take what you did to that piece of sh*t as an indication of just how much you cared about Jess. This decision that makes you so angry could be turned around and seen as a declaration of love for her. Protecting her honor and avenging her death.”

“Yeah. I dunno. What I do know is that she’s been gone for ten months now and I still don’t feel like myself.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Well, yeah, actually. I gotta get out of the city. Work’s been pretty crazy and I’m thinkin’ a few days away might help me clear my head. You hangin’ around home this weekend?”

“Yeah,” I managed to squeak out. For some reason my lungs didn’t feel like breathing normally at the prospect of Flack coming up north. “Nothin’ goin’ on here but the Bruins and Celtics on TV.”

I swear I heard him smile at this. “Can I come up and stay at your place for a couple nights?”

At this point I had to ask my heart to kindly stop beating the crap out of my rib cage. The man had just described enduring heartbreak over his murdered girlfriend, for crying out loud. Not exactly a solid base for a romantic weekend. I did my best to keep from sounding like a kid crashing through puberty and offered the following:

“Oh yeah, totally. No problem. Hey, but what about Jack? Aren’t you allergic?”

“Y’know, it’s funny, but the last time I was up there I didn’t have any problems at all. I think yours might be the one cat that doesn’t make my nose act like Niagara.”

I laughed. “Good. What time you wanna come up tomorrow?”

“I’m thinkin’ around two-ish. That way I’ll have time to write down all the questions I plan on firing at your lyin’ ass so you’ll tell me what happened tonight.”

I ignored the latter part of his response, but blushed at the thought that he cared. “Two it is. Why don’t you meet me at my office down in Brookline?"

“Sure. Text me the address after we hang up.”

“You think you can figure out the Boston subway on your own? Or does it make too much sense compared to the MTA?”

Now it was his turn to ignore some of my words. “Sleep well, smartass. I’ll see ya tomorrow. Thanks for lettin’ me invite myself over.”

“Anytime, D. I hope you sleep well too. Maybe try lookin’ at a picture of Jess right now before you go to bed so you don't have to worry about forgetting her face.”

“Thanks, pal. G'night.”

“Night, Don.”

I flipped my phone closed long enough to end the call, then opened it again to fire off my office address via text message. As I typed out the numbers I reminded myself who this weekend was really supposed to benefit. The next two days are for Flack, my brain scolded my giddy heart. You stay the hell out of this.

Hitting “Send” and then turning off my phone, I stretched and doused the fire with a glass of water. I walked every inch of the hardwood floors of my house, checking all of the windows and doors. I made sure to pay special attention to the sturdy locks keeping me from the Taylor Radmans of the world. Arriving in my room, I undressed and climbed into bed. Pretty soon Jack settled into his normal spot on the pillow beside my head, the familiarity of which should have sent me into the land of dreams. But my body felt like the intersection of two hurricanes; one furiously whirling monster of fear from the attempt on my life met the other equally strong storm of my feelings for Flack, and I felt like a ravaged landscape torn up in the wake of the collision.

But eventually I managed to beat both into submission. The winds quieted, and I sensed a feeling of happy anticipation spreading through my body. I finally drifted off to sleep with thoughts of my friend in my heart and a smile on my face.