**Flack meets his match in Doctor Liz Ryder, a sassy former Boston Police Officer called in to consult on a complex case. This story is written in the first person and is done in a journal-entry style. It contains some swearing and material regarding sexually motivated crimes against women.**

*All CSI:NY characters belong to CBS. Liz belongs to yours truly.*
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1

I'm sitting here in my apartment by the big bay window, looking at the maze of sidewalk panels that twist all over Cambridge. There's something about living in close proximity to academia, even if many of those Harvard kids are spoiled, pretentious little f*ckers. At least they dress well.

I definitely won't be mentioning my choice of residential locale on Monday, though. New Yorkers already think of us Bostonians as academic snots--no reason to give them any more ammo.

Yeah, this assignment should be an interesting one. According to the chief, NYPD has acquired a real doozy. . .serial rapist and murderer who's got five distinct personalities. They've been able to discern info on one of his victims, but in order to find both closure for all of the families and any women he might have left alive, they need someone to get in touch with all five identities. And that's where I come in.

One part of me is annoyed by all of this. After all, NYC is constantly telling the rest of the world about how damn great they are--one would think they'd have their own behavioral specialist to stick in a room with this wacko (nice technical term, huh?). By contrast, though, I also feel a touch superior and flattered. There's nobody who does what I do quite like I do.

After all, it's cases like this that serve to reaffirm why I do what I do. As a young and angry BPD officer, it always felt good to slap a drug dealer or two--"accidentally" punch a wife-beater--find a reason for excessive force when busting a knife-wielding gangbanger. But my current work, backed by the power of a PhD, requires so much more than physical presence. The mental stamina required to deflect the horrible sounds of the things these scumbags do AND to get inside their heads is massive. Every day I make sure I still have the cojones to do it.

And every day they still drop.

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2

I kept wondering how to start this entry, but finally settled on pure in-the-moment description and just went for it. Any hope of a cohesive thought process has been ripped clean through by the f*cked-up chorus of taxi horns rising into the air and through the paper-thin glass that the NYPD's guest house architect laughably called a window.

Interesting first week here in Manhattan. I left on Monday, taking the train out of South Station. Reviewing some old case files and cleaning up a few billing discrepancies took longer than I thought--such that I was forced to hastily cram papers together as we pulled into Grand Central. Walking through the train station gave me the perfect opportunity to shift into NYC mode. We're tough in Boston, but the enormity of New York requires a special hybrid of steely strength and cat-like reflexes, especially for a woman traveling alone. Stop too long to look at someone juggling Jell-O cups in the subway and boom! Your purse is gone.

Not that I was underestimating my skills, mind you. I got my black belt in karate before my 21st birthday and am working toward Master rank in Yang Style Tai Chi. I'm smiling just thinking about the delicious contrast between the two. . .such a perfect reflection they are of the dualities that make up my life. Always straddling that center line between shadow and sun.

Anyway, I lugged my suitcases out to the street and hailed a cab. "NYPD--14th Precinct, please," I said.

I didn't have to say please, really--and my accent wouldn't be doing me any favors over the next month. But I usually save my best b*tch for the thugs I interrogate. No need to harp on a guy trying to make some money just like the rest of us. I'd picked a good one to be nice to, as he blended conversation with the right amount of silence. Are you listening, Peter? I thought.

Peter's my ex-boyfriend. Intellectually stimulating and funny, we always enjoyed nice dinners together. He, though, always insisted on talking out every detail of our relationship troubles, sometimes right after a fight. I'm a throw sh*t, stomp around and hit things kind of girl, so naturally this got on my nerves. Plus, homeboy wanted to get married AND never understood the beauty of sitting in sweatpants for 4 NFL games on Sundays, all the while drinking Sam Adams and yelling at the TV. Bye, Pete.

Cab arrived at NYPD just past 10. I tipped my driver and went into the building.

I wasn't sure what to expect from the NYPD blues, so I'd kept my attire pretty simple. Black suit pants and jacket with a long-sleeved light blue sweater. And my favorite Steve Madden tall boots. Nice to have that snug feeling around my calves--it always makes me happy to know that I'm ripped. I stopped at the Info Desk at the end of the marble-tiled hallway. The young receptionist eyed me with disdain and pretended to do a few non-existent things before looking up, annoyed.

"Detective Flack, hon," I said, with a touch of condescension. "Where can I find him?"

"Through those doors," she said, pointing with a manicured index finger. "He's the one with the ugly tie."

Ouch, I thought. Surely she's kidding. I wheeled my bags through the double doors, scanning the crowded room.

Typical police station, really. All kinds of people coming in and out, phones left to ring a few times before finally getting answered by underpaid and overworked cops. Rows of desks, a few occupied by detectives asking those all-important questions regarding a suspect's whereabouts.

My eyes finally rested on the center of the room, where three guys stood around a desk talking. Two were in uniform, and actually made for a decent pair--one blonde and built, the other a lanky redhead. But the third guy was the looker of the group. Tall, dark hair, broad shoulders, nice smile. . .damn. Gonna have to work extra hard to focus around here, I thought. The other two had names emblazoned on their uniforms, so the guy in the suit had to be Detective Flack. Suppressing a smirk, I noticed that his tie was indeed a crazy pattern of green and purple. Reminded me of watching Barney while I baby-sat my cousins back in the day.

Crossing the room, suitcases in tow, I arrived at the periphery of the group of men just as Flack said, "Man, the Rangers were this close to beating the Bruins last night."

I couldn't help it. I broke out into a cough/laugh and said, "Actually, that's more like this (and I held my arms wide for emphasis) much. . .that's how much Avery's last shot missed by."

The two uniforms raised their eyebrows and walked off, while Flack whirled around and gave me the first of many crazily contorted facial expressions to come. "That's crap and you know it," he said. "Wideman doesn't trip him right at the end, that game's ours. Wait a minute, who are you anyway?"

"Liz Ryder," I said. "Boston PD, here to help you guys with the Craig interrogation."

He raised his eyebrows, looking skeptical. "Boston PD, huh? After that internal dope running scandal I'd think you were the ones needing all the help you can get."

"Well, I'm not just here to pick apart this rapist, you know," I replied, not missing a beat. "Miss Mary Sunshine at the front desk sent me in here to serve as your wardrobe consultant. Word is you blinded someone in the department with your tribute to Christmas wrapping paper there." I gestured to his tie.

He opened his mouth to respond, but stopped and bit his tongue instead. In rather sexy fashion, I thought.

"Well, Ms. Ryder--" he began.
"Liz," I interjected.
"Well, Ms. Ryder, let's get someone to help you with your bags. Then why don't you come back down here and we'll finish our conversation."
"Sounds great, Detective Flack," I said, mockingly.

He motioned to another officer in plainclothes to escort me out of the room, and as I left watched with his hands on his hips, shaking his head with a smile. As I went through the double doors again I heard:

"Got ourselves a bit of a New England firecracker there, don't we fellas?"

They laughed, and so did I--but my laugh was knowing.

They had no idea what they were in for.
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3

Been here in NY for two weeks now. Nasty, rainy weather. . .blech. Give me seventies and sunny or crisp, clear and freezing. None of this fifty-ish and drizzling crap. Mom puts up with that sh*t in Seattle all the time. No thank you.

So far this Craig case is progressing slowly. Five personalities is a lot to wade through with benevolent people, never mind violent criminals. The first day I actually sat in with Mike I wore the most plain clothes possible so as not to make an impression. I had to find out which personality he kills with. So I went through my usual seemingly boring questions about colors, numbers and animals, picking up on the subtle divisions that were beginning to materialize. Turns out Mr. Craig is aware of three of his personalities, which will make it harder to extract the murder details. But the two he doesn't know about will be his undoing. They're gonna give him away and point me (ok, us) not only to his victims' bodies but also to the last surviving woman. Poor girl. She's the main reason for our toils.

One person who wasn't on board with my methods was Detective Flack. He kept pressing me to get to the bottom of Craig's problems. I put up with it for a while and then tore into him one afternoon.

"Ms. Ryder, we're running out of time here," he was saying. "Can't you move the process along before we're all in wheelchairs and drinkin' Metamucil?"

"Detective, I assure you I'm working at the quickest speed possible under the circumstances," I replied, gritting my teeth.

"That's not what I see," he said defiantly. "What I see is that he's gettin' a fashion show while the rest of us are trying to find out how many women he's killed!"

He was referring to my way of working with split personalities, particularly violent male suspects. The trick is to find out what each individual personality likes and then visually match those preferences with my own appearance. The suspect lets his guard down and is more forthcoming with information as a result. That day I'd cycled through a gum-chewing schoolgirl, a stern librarian type, a doctor in scrubs and a waitress.

"Look, Flack--"

"No, don't give me that, Liz! I can't just sit here and watch you turn my department into a circus while that whack job in there runs circles around us! What do I tell the chief when he wants an update? 'Sorry, boss, we got squat for leads--but on the bright side, morale among suspects is at an all-time high!?'"

"Dammit, Don, we don't just have squat!" I yelled, standing up and slapping my desk. "Do I wish Craig was a little more forthcoming? Yes! But this type of work takes time and patience. The mind is a fascinating tangled web and with my work I'm unraveling, bit by bit, the pathology behind his murders! Your buddy Mac seems to get that--why can't you?"

He looked at me with disdain. "Spoken like a true lab rat," he muttered.

I lost it.

"Lab rat? Did you even read my file, Flack? I spent 10 years on the streets of Boston with my own boys in blue. Drug busts in Roxbury, breaking up prostitution rings on Jamaica Plain, fishing bodies out of Back Bay and knowing which Irishmen were packing in Southie. Do I work out of an analyst's office now, after going to night school to earn my PhD? Yeah, but you better bet your ass that I've been out there, been where you are now. I've seen the horrible things men do to women and I hear ya. Believe me, I hear ya. So let me do my damn job and we'll have one less dead girl on our hands."

I stopped and took a breath. Flack had both of those light blue eyes trained on my own, which I knew were still blazing angrily after my outburst. He pursed his lips together, knotted his brow, and painted an expression of concession with his mouth.

"All right, I'm sorry," he said. "This one's gotten under my skin."

The faintest semblance of a smirk appeared in the right corner of my mouth as I said, "Nah, A-Rod is sorry. Joba Chamberlain's whole family is sorry. You're just human, that's all."

He bit his tongue like he did on the first day I met him, shaking his head. "You're a real piece of work, Ryder," he said, reaching for the doorknob and taking a step into the hallway.

"Hey, Don," I called after him.

He stepped back, eyebrows raised in curiosity. "Yeah?"

"You see the guy who made the tie you're wearing, let me know--dude could probably use a good shrink session."

Scoffing, he grinned and closed the door behind him. I heard his voice break into "New York, New York" as he walked down the hallway. As I got back to the papers on my desk, I realized my cheeks were burning.

He'd called me Liz.
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4

And so, my time in New York is at an end. Or at least that's what I would've said if you'd asked me 24 hours ago.

I arrived at NYPD yesterday morning with a slight twinge of sadness. It was supposed to be my last day, and the most I was expecting to have to take care of was some box-packing and maybe a few goodbyes.

When I got to my desk, Danny Messer was perched on its edge, arms folded and a cracking attempt at a serious expression on his face. "Fenway," he started. "Fenway, Fenwway, Fenway. You can't leave right now, at the beginning of da season! Who am I gonna tease about Lowell's sad little attempts at heroism or Youkilis' shiny bald head?"

"Messer," I sighed, "if it makes you feel any better, I'll be thinking about you up north. I'll be able to hear your screams all the way from Boston while you guys still lose after spending 440 million dollars. CC is gonna equal Cold Coors for you, my friend."

"Cold Coors?" Danny's face contorted appropriately.

Yep, s'what you're gonna be drinkin' on the couch this fall while I'm sitting in the stands at the playoffs."

"Get outta here, Liz," he said. "The dynasty is back. You watch."

"Oh, I'll watch, " I sneered. "I'll watch your pinstriped, clean-shaven, product-endorsing kings crash and burn just like they did last year."

Flack's voice suddenly wafted over my left shoulder. "I just love the sound of misguided smack talk in the morning, Mess--don't you?"

Slowly turning around on my Stuart Weitzmans, I gave Don my best fake b*tch face. "Yeah, you laugh now, Flack--talk to me in October when your pretty new Yankee Stadium is empty and the Green Monster is singin' with doubles."

"Whatever, Ryder. Your little boy Pedroia's too busy making commercials to keep his MVP skills up. We're takin' it all this year." As he was jawing at me, though, his face changed a little and for a second I thought I caught a glimpse of wistfulness. He coughed and said, "What's up, D--whatcha got for me?"

My two NY adversaries adjourned to Flack's desk, where Danny pulled open a case file and began going over the contents. I closed my office door behind me, looking at the costumes hanging on a rack in the corner. It had been an intense few weeks, but I'd finally broken Mike down.

It turns out that my prior assessment of the situation was wrong--when I initially examined Mr. Craig, he'd displayed awareness of two out of his four extra personalities. However, in the course of my evaluation I'd come to discover that this was because someone had repeated back two names Craig had randomly uttered in initial interrogation and he'd pretended to possess those as two alternate identities. B*stard thought he was being smart. In actuality, he had no idea what the other personalities were--and as I found out, he'd killed and raped one woman with each personality.

As Mike Craig, he'd used his position as a clubhouse manager for the Giants to crush his first victim between two huge weight machines and then toss her on the 50-yard line. Next came Terry, the middle aged construction worker who'd clocked a snooping news reporter in the back of the head with a stop sign. Then Alan, the young investment banker who strangled a secretary with--of all things--a white collared shirt. Number Four was Robert, the doctor in his sixties who buried two hypodermic needles into a nurse's neck and dumped her in a body bag. Lastly--and this was interesting--there was Tamara, a hand model. Poisoned the "other woman" due to "professional jealousy," but because he/she used a slow-acting toxic substance we were able to get to her in time. The guy's mansion was a huge mess, with clothes matching each of his jobs strewn about. I wondered how he'd managed to stay employed at all of those places, never mind find the time to brutalize all of those women. Damn, what a month. And what a f*cking nutcase.

I was just pulling out Craig's thick file to make some closing notes when Flack tapped on the cracked door and walked through.

"Won't you come in?" I said, grinning.

"Oh, yeah--why thank you, Dr. Ryder," he shot back. He seemed a little nervous, which was weird. In the short time I'd known him he'd always been Mr. Chill (with the exception of his reactions to crimes against women), he of the quick quip and laughing eyes. Totally too cool for school. He recovered quickly, though.

"So, doc, when're you headed back North?" Flack gave that last word an exaggerated Haverill-type accent, making it sound like "Nawth."

"Nowt until tomorrah," I replied, laughing at how much we both sounded like Kevin Costner's sad attempts at a Bostonian speech pattern. "Why do you cay-ah?"

"You think you have time for dinner before you and all your outfits leave?"

"I always have time for food, Don--it's the company that makes the difference. You mean dinner with the whole CSI crew or just the two of us?"

"I thought it'd be nice to do just a cop thing. You know those crazy lab rats." He smiled.

"So, does this mean I'm a real cop now? I thought I was just a couch jockey, spouting psycho-babble and giving fashion shows."

He winced, recalling our argument from a couple of weeks ago. "Yeah, I deserved that one," he conceded. "The offer's genuine, though. How 'bout it?"

I gave him a skeptical look, pretending to entertain the idea of saying no while my heart smacked against my ribcage. "Yeah, okay," I said, attempting to exude nonchalance. "You want to go after you're done at six or do you need some time to cry about your Yanks and their upcoming losing season first?"

"Six it is, Ryder," he said, sighing as he rolled his eyes and made his way into the hall.

I spent the next couple of hours cleaning out the office and checking in with BPD's chief. He was pretty happy with the way the case had turned out--anytime we can upstage the New Yorkers makes for a good day, he'd said. I neglected to tell Chief Fitz that I'd actually been very impressed with the coordination between the NYPD and the crime lab. Taylor, Bonasera, Monroe, Hawkes, Messer, Adam--they'd all put tons of time and energy into the Craig case, and aside from Danny's good-natured ribbing plus a few initial brush-offs from Lindsay, I'd received their unconditional support as we all worked to send this guy to jail, if not his death. B*stard deserved the latter after stealing life out from underneath all of those women.

Anyway, I knew I'd hold all of the CSI's in very high esteem long after my trip home. I took everything I needed from my office back to the NYPD guesthouse, stacked all of my crap by the door so that it was train-station ready, and changed into a knee-length black skirt and long-sleeved green top before heading back out to meet Flack. The green clothes I have generally bring out my eyes while contrasting nicely with my red hair. I hadn't changed my shoes, though. . .gotta love a pair of black pumps you can wear to the desk and to dinner.

I checked my watch en route to PD--five to six. The Bruins were playing the Rangers at 7:30 and I didn't want to miss it. I figured I could catch it one of two ways--find a sports bar after dinner or convince Flack to let me watch it at his place. Number two was my preferred choice. I didn't really know what to expect from Don, though. Although we'd definitely had our share of witty exchanges over the last month, his dinner invitation had come as a total surprise. I would've been happy with a wink and a handshake. I wondered why I was dwelling on thoughts of him at all, actually--because clearly, even if we had a little fun tonight, a relationship between a Bostonian and a New Yorker who love their respective cities isn't what you'd call immediately workable. Still, I liked the visual imagery associated with the two of us spending more time together.

I turned a few heads walking back into NYPD, but the only one I really cared about was still buried in a file when I walked up, sat on his desk and crossed my legs.

"All right, Detective--time to stop working for the day. You can scare the scum of New York while you walk me to dinner."

He tossed the file on his desk and sat back in his chair, hands behind his head. "So, Doc, you decided to show up, huh? You sure you don't have to go back home and ask The Big Dig how it feels about springing another leak?"

"C'mon, smartass," I said, kicking his chair with my right heel. As he lurched forward, his left hand brushed up against my calf. I commenced to pretend like it was nothing--not an easy feat when the feel of an electric shock has shot through your body.

We walked out into the drizzly New York night, sharing Flack's big black umbrella. I told him about visiting Mom out in Seattle, where nobody owns an umbrella unless they're a new transplant--and their Ralph Lauren wool coat equivalent is a rainproof Columbia jacket. Families occupied a good portion of the night's opening conversation. By the time I got to Mom and Dad's divorce and choosing the East Coast over the West, we'd been seated in a pub, dark stouts in hand.

He'd described his family sparingly. Long lines of cops all committed to doing the right thing, no matter how difficult that was. Told me about his sister and how she lived just across town, which sounded nice but apparently they didn't see each other much. I thought he was going to change the subject but then he said,

"Yeah, actually, Liz, there's something I wanted to ask you. I sorta found out a couple of weeks ago that Sam has a drinking problem--overheard an AA meeting, y'know--and I haven't talked to her since. I don't think she even wants to talk to me. Apparently she thinks I'm not only 'the perfect one' but that I think she's a screw-up. I mean, she's made mistakes and all, but I just wanna help her. She's my baby sister, you know?"

He rubbed his eyes and pushed a hand through his hair. I'd never heard him talk about anything with such vulnerability before. Waiting until I was sure he was done, I inquired, "Well, what do you think Sam is using alcohol for? Is she escaping from something? Using it to be with friends or lovers?"

"I wish I knew," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "When I graduated from high school, I went straight to the academy. Gave good structure to a smartass kid from Queens. But Sam--she's always bounced around, taking a couple community college classes here, working a bartender gig there. She keeps gettin' into trouble, and I bailed her out for a while, but I'm reachin' the end of my rope."

I nodded, not professionally but sympathetically--my younger sister could be similarly frustrating. "What can I do to help?" I asked.

He looked at me and said, "I don't know. I'm sorry, Liz--I don't usually do this whole opening up thing. I don't wanna be the guy that dumps his problems on a cute girl just because she happens to be a brilliant shrink."

I blushed but kept listening, keeping Flack's sister in mind.

"I just need to know how to help her," he said. "I'm at a loss here."

"Well," I began, "it sounds like she's found a group to go to, which is a good thing. I know it hurts that she didn't tell you about it, but at least she's getting out of her apartment instead of curling up on her couch and drinking, getting further and further locked inside her head. What you can do is start separating Detective Flack, authority figure from her big brother Donny--you know? She doesn't need lectures right now, because believe me, she hates herself enough for the numbness and the dependency that won't go away.Try to remind her of some little things from times where she's been happy in her life. Keep calling, even when she doesn't pick up. You won't be able to change her behavior by sternly threatening her, because her response to that will be to just drink more. Basically, she needs to know that you love her and that you won't abandon her."

I stopped suddenly, wondering if I'd overstepped my bounds. "That's just my initial thought on the situation, Don--I'm not trying to tell you how to run your life. I'm the overprotective older sibling in my family too, and I know what it means to want to wring your sister's neck but hug her at the same time. You just have to forget about everything that's happened between you in the past and make her recovery the number one priority--no matter how badly she's f*cked up."

He sat for a moment, digesting what I had said. Then those ice-blue eyes looked straight through me, and putting his large, tough left hand over both of my own, Flack simply said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I said, smiling. By this time we'd drained another beer each and finished dinner (chicken burger and fries for me, Irish stew for him). Looking at my watch, I said, "Well, Detective--"

Before I could continue, he blurted, "Nah, Ryder, you can't go home yet! Don't I get the rest of my shrink session?"

I grinned. "Actually, I have a date with another group of guys." His look of shock was so genuine that I decided to let the other shoe drop before he could get upset. "I'm gonna watch the Bruins beat the crap out of the Rangers at your place."

His face relaxed out of its momentary panic and showed that familiar smirk. "How do you know my apartment is free tonight, Ryder? I could actually watch the game with a New York woman, you know--at least she'd know what it's like to root for a classy team."

"Yeah, you could," I said, standing up and grabbing the check. "But she wouldn't know as much about hockey as I do." After we'd split our bill down the middle and put our coats on, we headed back out into the night. As I listened to the rain drumming on top of Flack's umbrella, I realized there was nowhere else I'd rather be than exchanging hockey smack talk with this guy.

We got to his place around 7:20, ten minutes before game time. Flack eased my jacket off my shoulders, leaving me free to gaze around the top-floor apartment. It had a comfortable feel to it, with higher-than-usual ceilings and dark green paint on the walls. I crossed the room and gazed out through a sliding glass door, across the balcony and into the rain being flung about by gusts of wind.

"Like the view?" Flack had sidled up behind my right shoulder and was staring out over the New York night as well. As I inhaled to respond I caught a hint of his cologne, which was completely intoxicating. Turning and recovering, I shrugged and said, "Yeah, it's all right--not sure if it beats my bay window over Cambridge, though. You'll have to check that out sometime and let me know what you think."

He gave me a look that was a cross between curious and cool. "I don't know, Ryder--maybe if I'm not too busy celebrating the ass-kicking my Rangers are about to bring down on your Bruins. I'll bring you some consolation flowers."

"Flack, you've already brought enough color into my life with your tie selections," I snarked back. "Who needs bouquets when I have your closet?" We stood there just looking at each other, and for a second I thought about grabbing his tie and pulling him into my chest. But there was city pride on the line.

"C'mon, Detective--you got anything to drink in this sweeping palace of yours?"

"Sure, if your sophisticated professional palate can handle it," he said, grinning. "I'm actually a wine drinker most of the time, but as any real sports fan knows, when the game's on, you're drinkin' beer."

"Well, just grab me one of the darkest beers you've got," I said. "Where's your bathroom?"

"It's through the bedroom," he said, pointing with the bottle opener he'd busted out. "No psychoanalyzing the configuration of clothes on my floor now, hah?"

I put on a serious clinical face. "That all depends on my findings, Detective. You might be in need of some more articles of clothing on your floor. You never know." With that, I turned and headed toward his room, stopping to kick off my heels near the front door. Humming a little as I padded across the hardwood floor, I glanced at the large, comfortable-looking bed abutting one of the walls. White comforter, which surprised me. Most guys I'd slept with had dark blankets so they could be lazy about laundry. Not like I was complaining about his choice, though. The visual of his olive skin and black hair contrasting with that white duvet kicked up my excitement level one more notch. I noted a few sets of grey t-shirts and athletic shorts strewn about a couple of dumbbells before stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door.

Inside, I looked in the mirror and finger-combed my hair a little bit. I looked around, taking in my surroundings as I tried to keep my heart rate in check. Nice bathroom for a guy--world map shower curtain, dark green bath mat, Sports Illustrated in the magazine rack next to the john.

There's no way around it, I thought. I'm nervous and I can't quite will it away. This was a weird sensation for me, as someone who's both a therapist and a good-looking woman usually confident around men. What is wrong with you? I asked my reflection. Watch the damn game and if it feels right, go ahead and sleep with him! What's the problem?

The problem was that I was feeling things about Flack that I hadn't felt about a man in a long time. Instead of falling neatly into one of the categories of conquest or adversary, he and that damned expressive face of his were creating a third box: ridiculously attractive, fun, witty sports fan I want to get to know better. Huh? I shook my head, trying desperately to clear it. I don't even know what he thinks of me, I mused. Let's not get too carried away here.

Flushing the toilet for effect, I washed my hands and made the walk back through his room to the entryway. Flack had taken his tie off and was sitting on the sofa, pretending to be entirely focused on the flat-screen TV tuned to Versus. "Have a seat, Liz," he said, gesturing to the couch. I obliged, and once seated he handed me a Boston Lager.

"Detective Flack's fridge has Sam Adams in it?!" I was comically aghast. "Don Flack, NYPD sleuth, king of the Big Apple and master of his city vista drinks brew from the Boston Beer Company?"

"You're welcome, Ryder," he said, taking a pillow from his side of the couch and playfully tossing it in my direction. "Now shut your Hah-vahd mouth and prepare to be destroyed."

I wasn't sure if Flack's downstairs neighbors were home, but if so I imagined they were pretty confused over the next few hours. Flack and I took turns being exalted and exasperated as my boys in black and yellow battled his own in red and blue. Nobody scored in the first period, but we had some scares when Avery got a few breakaways. This prompted Flack to punch my right shoulder and jest, "Uh-oh, Ryder. . .your D's lookin' a little shaky. Doesn't bode well for the rest of the game. . . ."

"I'm not worried, Detective," I shot back. "All it takes it one busty blonde standing in the front row and Avery'll chase that sh*t right outta Madison Square Garden." He didn't quite know what to say to that, so he got up and fetched a Guinness from the fridge. "Can I get you anything else, Ms. Beantown?"

"I'll have one of those, if you don't mind," I said, gesturing to the bottle of black stuff in his hand. "I'd be insulting my Irish heritage if I had anything else."

"You've got the Emerald Isle in your veins too, huh?" he said, handing me my beer. "My ol' man's responsible for my Irish. Mom gave me the Italian. Now you see where the deep well of insults comes from." So saying, he spread his arms wide, smiling.

"Not to mention that temper," I teased. "You ever yell in Gaelic during your interrogations?" As soon as I said it, I had to shove out of my head the thought of what it would sound like to hear him scream "yes" over and over again in Irish.

"No, but I have been known to 'accidentally' knock the occasional drug pusher off a swing."

"Now there's a resume builder," I mused. "Served as playground cleanup crew member." He came around the couch again and sat as we turned our attention back to the game. The skates flew fast and furious in the second period, and Flack & I responded by edging ever closer to the TV. With five minutes to go, Antropov intercepted what should've been an easy pass between two Bruins. He kicked it with a skate, flew out to the left and while crossing parallel to the goal buried the puck in the back of the net. Flack went nuts, leaping to his feet in celebration.

"Oh snap, Liz! That's what your little team of figure skaters gets when you walk into our house! Who's gonna be chased outta the Garden now, huh?"

I was attempting to keep my anger in check, but to do so was like asking me to stop drinking Dunkin' Donuts coffee or to give up my season tickets at Fenway. There are few things in this world more painful for a Bostonian than seeing her team lose to a crew from New York--and it's even worse when one of their fans is fist-pumping at the TV not five feet away from you. But we Boston fans are nothing if not resilient. So I pursed my lips, crossed my arms, narrowed my eyes to slits and said, "C'mon, sit down, Flack. Your celebration dance looks like a squirrel trying to get lucky."

He turned and gave me an exaggerated pouty face. "Awwww, is widdle Lizzie's team losing? Does she need a hug? A better defense with sharper passes, maybe?"

"I find Han Solo to be an appropriate muse in this case," I said, standing up and putting my index finger square in the middle of Flack's visible patch of chest hair. "As in, laugh it up, fuzzball. Just you wait until the third period. Unlike your Rangers and many other things from New York, we finish strong."

For the first time that night he gave me a full once-over, and for a second I thought he might have taken me too seriously. My momentary fears were set aside, though, as he turned, sat down, and quipped, "Well, here's where I find Luke Skywalker to be a perfect muse--aaahhh." And of course he put his hands behind his head. I gave him a slight kick with my right foot, then sat and slowly stretched my legs into his lap.

"Just make sure you don't go kissing your sister," I said. Then you'll really need to see me for therapy."

I left my legs snaked over his thighs as we talked during the second intermission. We were swapping cop stories and trying to out-crazy the other. I thought I was doing pretty well, having brought up the MBTA killer we busted 5 winters ago--this sicko had started murdering homeless people, painting them the color of the line they'd been riding, and then setting them up like statues outside of T stations. When we finally caught up to him (after weeks of Bostonians refusing to ride the subway and massive traffic congestion), he was covered in all five T line colors--red, orange, silver, blue and green--and jumped in front of the Silver Line at the Airport stop. SPLAT.

Flack managed to top me with the Shane Casey story, though. To catch such a vengeful killer only to have him escape again and try to frame a CSI for murder is a frightening thing. . .not to mention the horrific deaths he carried out. Railroad spikes through the eyes, decapitation--ugh. And the use of t-shirts as a medium for all of that! How openly brazen. I was commenting on Casey's ability to convince himself of his brother's innocence and the instant shattering of the psyche that happened upon his learning otherwise when I stopped and caught Don giving me an amused look.

"Can I help you, Detective?" I said, with mock irritation. "Whassamatter with you?"

"Nothin'," he said with a small smile. "I just like the way your face lights up when you talk about the brain. You ever think of being a medical doc at all?"

I paused, considering the question. "Nah, not really," I said. "Don't get me wrong, I've always been interested in anatomy" (and here I winked)," but as a cop whenever a body came our way I was always more interested in why a murderer did what he did as opposed to whatever had happened structurally."

"I think sometimes there's no reason behind what a few of those scumbags do," Flack said, taking another sip of Guinness. "Some people kill because they want a bag of rock, not because their ma didn't hold 'em tight enough, y'know?"

"I'm with you there," I said, nodding. "I don't think of brain chemistry as an excuse for crime--more like a tool to use when trying to map out the elements of a murder. It helps me get inside a killer's head so I can hear what the victim never got to say. But I can't tell you how many times I've wished for a big rubber stamp that says 'F*cking Nutcase' and clear a few files off my desk that way."

Actually, I thought, I wish I could clear off a desk with you. But it was time for the third period, and so I slid my legs out of Flack's lap to turn back toward the TV.

My earlier promise turned out to be realized in a hurry. Two minutes into the third period, Thornton dug out a puck deep in Ranger territory, skated around the back side of the goal and passed it out to Kessel, who shot it directly between Lundqvist's legs! Tie score, 1-1!

I shot off the couch and jumped in the air, yelling, "Yeah, baby! That's the way we do it up north, boys! What's that I hear at the Garden? Oh, that's right, the golden sound of silence. So much for King Henrik, Flack!"

My New York counterpart was more agitated and upset than I'd ever seen. Clasping his hands together, he was literally gnawing on his left middle knuckle as he rocked back and forth--then turned and hit the pillow next to him as he yelled, "Dammit!" I sat down right next to him and took his hand. Giving him a pair of big doe eyes, I softened my voice and said, "Don?"

"What?" He snapped.

"Does widdle Donny need a tissue? Or maybe quicker moving legs for Lundqvist? You just let me know, okay? I'll be right over here."

His angry face slowly melted into a wicked grin. He sighed and said, "Ryder, I'm saving this left shoulder just for your cryin' ass after we win this game." With that--and the remnants of a creased smile--he turned back to the game. We kept watching, eyes darting back and forth to follow the puck. Five minutes after Kessel's goal, Drury blatantly hooked Chara as he was attempting to slap a shot out of our end. All 6'9'' of him went sprawling across the ice--but he didn't stay there for long. Jumping to his skates, Chara flew up behind Drury and shoved him in the back.

Pandemonium ensued on the ice and in Flack's apartment. While the boys at the Garden slugged it out on the ice, Flack and I were both on our feet yelling at the TV.

"Get im' Cap'n!" I shouted, making a fist and pounding it into my open hand.

"Aw, c'mon, D!" Flack screamed. "Hit that lousy giant where it hurts!"

Eventually we both sat down again as the penalties were dished out. One minute to Drury for hooking and two to Chara for fighting. Flack and I were both muttering at our separate ends of the couch, and through my own grexing I could only make out a few of his words: "Didn't hook at all. . .big freak and his temper. . .a**hole." Thus came a dangerous time for my Bruins a minute later as Drury came back in but we were still down a man. The Rangers mounted several good attacks, and we got lucky once when Callahan bounced one off the crossbar--but eventually we were back at full strength and the battle raged on.

Sadly, victory was not to be mine. With thirty seconds left and every indication pointing to overtime, Hnidy slipped as he was trying to pass to Lucic and Orr snatched it up. He faked once to Avery, then kept it himself and drove it right past Timmy's glove for the win. Sh*t.

As Flack whooped and hollered next to me, I picked up my beer and downed the rest of it in one swig. I turned to my couch partner, stuck out my right hand and said, "Well played, Flack. Good game."

He met my hand with his own and with a sincere tone said, "Right back atcha. Though you might wanna offer Hnidy a few free therapy sessions to find out if big-time choking runs in the family."

"Ah, shut up, Flack. We've still got the better record and we're ahead in the season series."

Still grinning like I did when the Sox beat the Yanks in '04, Flack sat back, put his feet on the coffee table and said, "Doesn't get much better than this. My boys beatin' the Bruins while I watch the game with a beautiful enemy." He raised his eyebrows at me while his mouth creased into an upturned line. Woof.

Still, I had to play it cool. "Shall I leave you and your ego alone?" I asked. "I don't know if there's enough space for all three of us in here."

"C'mon, Ryder--you know you'd be doin' the same thing if your guys had come out on top."

"Yeah, okay," I admitted. "But I'm gonna need some extra incentive to stay if I gotta put up with your gloating."

"I'll see what I can do."

As he said this, he slid over towards me and reached down near my shins. Grasping my right calf in his left hand, he pulled my legs into his lap and began working on some of the tightness in my muscles. His hands, although big, were a nice combination of weathered on the top and smooth palms. I tried not to let my eyes roll back in my head, but his long fingers touching my legs just felt so good.

"Not bad, Liz," he was saying. "You must work out."

"Yeah, I'm a runner," I replied. "Started in junior high, mostly to get away from my parents' fights. Also won a few distance races in high school--y'know, mile and two-mile."

"Thats a lotta laps around the track," he said, shaking his head. "Didn't you get bored?"

"Nah, it was actually one of the only times in my life where I could just be alone. On the track it's just you and the ground--you're focusing on putting air into your lungs and pushing it back out. Your side is aching and your chest is burning but you know you've got the raw power in you to finish the race. Running's a thing of beauty. Plus, it means I got stamina like you wouldn't believe."

It was my turn to raise an eyebrow at him. But I was enjoying our little game of chase and didn't want it to end just yet. So I cleared my throat and said, "Ok, Mr. Ranger, SportsCenter time--what do you think gave your boys the win tonight?" I held out a pretend microphone for effect.

"Well, doc," he began with exaggerated enthusiasm, "I'd say it would have to be our crisper passing, our quickness on the ice, our stellar goalie and my undying support."

"And what do you think contributed to the Bruins' demise?"

"Besides that face-plant by Hnidy at the end of the game and those wussy-ass excuses for punches that Chara threw at Drury, I'd have to guess that they were distracted by the incredibly sexy legs of one of their fans, Doctor Elizabeth Ryder."

Before I could even think about blushing or offering a sarcastic response, Flack had moved towards me and lifted me into his lap. As he pushed a stray hair out of my face and tucked it behind my ear, he looked at me and said,

"Whaddya think, Liz,--you wanna stay for the postgame show?"

"Yeah, I managed to say. "I just hope I score more than the Bruins did tonight."

He smiled, took my face in his right hand, and kissed me.
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