Broken Blue Lines: Love. Hate. Criminal Justice.: An FBI Crime Drama / LGBT+ Love Story

by Ariadne Beckett

  Theo blinked rapidly and looked away. “I remember you taking my best friend away, and sending him into a prison I didn’t know if he’d ever walk out of. I remember visiting him there the first time he was allowed to see me, and wondering why he looked different, and realizing the light was gone from his eyes. It came back, but - I can’t look at you with the love and trust that he does. I look at him and see a man who loves his abuser.”

  John expected to feel anger, but what hit him was grief. “You think I abuse Nick?”

  An ugly image of grabbing Nick by his injured wrist and jerking him forward in the rain. Another of Nick’s cry of pain. Mari, asking why Nick was afraid of him. Nick, confessing to having been beaten by his father.

  “I think you did something so horrible to him that no amount of kindness and friendship after the fact can ever make it right,” said Theo.

  John winced when Theo hit that particular sore spot. “I never thought he’d wind up in maximum security. I didn’t do that to him, and Nick knows it. Prison wasn’t some random act of cosmic cruelty, he brought it on himself. But I see the scars it left, an’ try to heal them.”

  “In other words, trying to clean up your own mess.”

  “No. Trying to clean up the mess of common, random ills of society and a bereft childhood. And I’m doing it because Nick Aster, brilliant, charming Nick Aster, was so alone and so desperate for honesty and caring that he threw himself at the man who arrested him.”

  Theo’s silence was as close to a concession as John was going to get. John picked a hole in the soft wood of the deck railing with his fingernail, wondering about the tone his words and thoughts had been taking.

  Threw himself at the man who arrested him.

  Don’t leave me, Nick.

  The people I love.

  The perfect feeling of Nick’s trusting body cuddled next to his, the heartbreakingly endearing way he clung to John’s chest with his arm....

  And Mari. Mari seemed to be treating the man with an easy intimacy that almost assumed Nick belonged in their bed.

  “Nick asked to be a part of my world,” said John. “I didn’t come force this on him.”

  “He said you protected him from being sent back to prison when his anklet failed in the middle of the night.”

  Another small concession, an admission that maybe, just maybe, John wasn’t Cerberus incarnate.

  “Are you seriously still so astonished that I care about him? Or want to protect him from harm?” asked John.

  “Yes.”

  “You think I’m....what?”

  “I think to normals, you’re a good man, on the side of the angels, and all that. But when it comes to people like us, you’re a particularly ruthless predator. There was a story all over the Internet about a lion that protected a baby gazelle, and everyone was all heartwarmed about it. But what the video didn’t tell them was that the lions had killed the gazelle’s mother, and they later ate the baby. They just weren’t hungry when the video was taken. I’m afraid that with you, and Nick....it’s all very heartwarming, but you just aren’t hungry right now.”

  John had to think about that, about Nick sleeping between him and his wife like a child in need of comfort. About Nick lying in his arms, bleeding and in shock, looking up at him in pure and absolute trust. About the immense affection and protectiveness he felt for the man.

  And about the fact that he would put his playful, loyal, trusting best friend in handcuffs and throw him back in prison. It was a very real and even likely possible outcome of their partnership.

  But he wouldn’t be betraying Nick. It would mean Nick had betrayed him. It would mean Nick had taken a selfish and impulsive route, leaving John to deal with the guilt and grief.

  “And I’m afraid I’m the frog, carrying the scorpion across the river only to get stung when I reach the shore,” said John finally.

  “Will you make me one promise?” asked Theo.

  “No.”

  “Fine. Will you let me make one request?”

  “I’ll listen.”

  “Whatever happens, bear in mind that Nick does not trust. He protects himself from the pain of betrayal and abandonment the way some people do the pain of a broken heart. He trusts you. More than I think maybe anyone, ever. Please don’t ever break that trust. He endured years alone in exile before he even asked you to give him a chance. He’s trying to stop being a scorpion because he admires the frog.”

  John picked up a pot that was sitting on the railing and inspected the plant without seeing it. That plea had been honesty and passion and even an implication of trust. He set the pot down, and trusted a criminal with some honesty of his own.

  “I don’t want him to cover up the bruises,” said John. “I want people to see how ugly the damage is, not try to sanitize it. They didn’t have to hold him while he suffered, they should at least have to see this.”

  “Nick has never chosen the ugly over the beautiful,” said Theo with quiet dignity.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I Demand an Espresso Machine

  NICK

  Nick’s jaw dropped when they walked into the office and every agent gave him a standing ovation. The smiles he greeted them with were genuine in an instant. He was given gentle hugs and handshakes and warm welcomes. A couple of the younger agents froze up, unsure what to say to him when they saw the bruising that Theo had been able to minimize but not hide.

  "I'm just practicing my makeup for the next Art Crimes costume party," said Nick. They gave him sweet, reassured smiles.

  He grinned. “I’ve been counting the days until I could come back to work. You guys have no idea how deeply, sincerely I love all of the Art Crimes ....coffee.”

  Nick stopped short at his desk, which was littered with cards and notes and flowers and ice packs with bows on them. He sat gingerly and sorted through them with wonder.

  John dragged over a nearby chair and sat close enough to be supportive, far away enough not to intrude.

  It seemed like every FBI unit in the building had sent him a card signed by their agents, with messages like “I’m sorry,” and “Anklet or badge, you’re one of us,” and “We will not let this stand.”

  One agent on another floor sent a card simply saying, “I’ve been where you are. Call or come by my office if you could use someone to talk to.”

  There was a tall stack of envelopes that looked similar. They were all NYPD letterhead, as were the sheets of paper inside. None of them bore a return address, and the messages were unsigned.

  “Not on my behalf.”

  “With love and support from those of us holding the REAL blue line.”

  “We care.”

  “This is not the soul of the NYPD. We’re sorry.”

  “If we ever meet, I will be protecting you, not hurting you.”

  “I saw you in there. I couldn’t help. I never can. I’m so sorry.”

  “This is my first month on the force. I promise never to do to anyone what was done to you.”

  They went on and on, brief, anonymous messages, heartfelt, from officers all over the city. Clearly an underground letter-writing campaign.

  There were two cards in one envelope from Sing Sing, one signed by the members of the prison staff who’d come to care about him, the other signed by his friends among the inmates.

  “I’m glad I came to work,” said Nick, a little elated. “Did I mention I love the FBI?”

  John patted him on the back. “You are one very loved guy. You wanna run away now?”

  Nick shook his head fiercely to shake away the lump in his throat. “You do this?”

  “Nope. Didn’t even know.”

  John was adamant that sans Anklet No. 2, Nick would be working out of his office, with him at all times. He had a probie set up an FBI networked computer at a small desk while Nick watched, remembering John saying in the hospital that it was going to be hard to let Nick out of sight after this. And how basically okay that notion had been at the time.


  And he still was. The crippling fear had, thankfully, taken its leave. But strictly on a logical basis, if there was any chance he might find himself on the wrong end of an arrest warrant, a fierce and protective FBI agent would be more than welcome.

  Nick settled down behind the desk and grinned.

  “So does working out of your office mean I’m promoted?”

  “No.”

  “I think it makes me your equal, really.”

  “No.”

  “What if I close a case today?”

  “No. But I’d like to see you try. And remember, no field work. Not even a little.”

  Once Nick was certain John hadn’t figured out the real reason Nick had been so eager to come to work, Nick used his FBI computer access to research “his” case. It was a big, sprawling, nasty thing. It took him an hour just to identify the common thread and key players.

  Dan Fisher, FBI Public Corruption Unit. He’d transferred from the domestic intelligence branch of the FBI two years prior, and seemed to live to take down those who abused the public trust. Fanatic government transparency advocate. Lead investigator on the case.

  A meticulously unnamed whistle-blower in Rikers, obviously a rather high-placed one. He suspected that there were high-ranking NYPD officials behind the culture that allowed endemic abuse and neglect of inmates. He postulated that pretrial suspects were coerced into taking plea deals. Faced with intolerable conditions and abuse during a long stay in jail versus accepting a plea that would put them in a more humane state prison ....

  John’s door opened, and Wash entered, bringing with him the scent of coffee. Good coffee. He handed the steaming paper cups to Nick and John.

  “Welcome back.”

  Nick sipped. “Wait -- all I had to do was get beat up in order to get a get a decent cup of coffee around here? Why has nobody told me this before?”

  John rolled his eyes. “Because it’s you. You’d overdo it, land in the hospital, and demand an espresso machine.”

  “I demand an espresso machine,” said Nick.

  Wash tapped his fingers on John’s desk with an amused half-smile. “Yep. This is the Art Crimes Unit I remember.”

  Wash left, and Nick turned his attention back to Assistant Chief Chad Starr. Name was familiar, and Nick closed his eyes and thought for a second.

  Oh, wow.

  It was the spittle-shooting middle-aged bluster machine who’d arrested Nick during an undercover sting. Starr had tried to have him prosecuted for crimes he’d committed while undercover on direct assignment from the FBI. It appeared Starr didn’t remember Nick too fondly either, because he was quite helpful in suggesting ways to utterly screw him.

  Then there was Chris LeBlanc, a handsome NYPD Public Affairs Captain and aspirant to Commissioner. Carefully cultivating an attitude of righteous rage on behalf of the department, leading the charge to indict Nick and many other inmates. Convincingly playing the “career criminals trying to slander a fine and noble department, NYC’s heroes of 9/11 and its brave, selfless corrections officers” card. He carefully worded public statements about the dangers of believing the wild tales and staged actions of a professional con artist.

  Nick noted several low-dangling closet-skeletons from his days on the street and was going to move on when Kelly walked in with more coffee.

  “It’s been, like, an hour since Wash brought coffee,” said Nick. “I’m liking this.”

  Kelly saw the cups on the two desks, and groaned. She handed hers over anyway. “It’s Pamper Your Felon Day.”

  Nick beamed at her. “I love my cat burglar. You can pamper me any time.”

  “Uhhhh ....” Kelly took a rapid step back, rolling her eyes.

  “Hey!” protested Nick. “Not like that! I wasn’t flirting, I swear.”

  John actually came to his aid. “He really does love it. I’m surprised he didn’t bring it into the office with him.”

  Kelly looked down at her feet with an embarrassed smile. “You’re fun to pamper. I’m glad you like the cat burglar.”

  She and Nick exchanged a gentle hug, and she left. Nick went back to his research.

  Marion Day was a fierce anti-police-brutality advocate wounded during Occupy Wall Street. She was collecting stories from all and sundry regarding inmate abuse in Rikers and publishing them on her website, with an unfortunate lack of fact-checking but worldwide viral support. She clearly had hackers and leakers and activists on her side.

  She devoted an entire page of the site to Nick and the horrible trauma he’d endured, playing up his innocence of any crime when arrested as much as LeBlanc was demonizing him.

  There was an internet petition being circulated by the ACLU pleading with the federal government to prosecute his attackers.

  There was an Assistant US Attorney working on just that, hand in hand with Dan Fisher.

  Nick’s interest sharpened. AUSA Elsbeth Werner was, in a way, Nick’s attorney. And a very highly placed one at that.

  Nick closed his eyes and plotted. Then went to work.

  He started with an email to Elsbeth Werner. He explained to her that under no circumstances would he be testifying as anything but a hostile witness against any law enforcement officer. Nor would he participate in any effort to prosecute inmates.

  She should not mistake the fact that he was a willing consultant as a propensity for snitching or plea bargaining. He would do neither. He would also not be filing a civil suit against the NYPD.

  But, he pointed out, the NYPD didn’t know that yet. If she wished to use this information to force certain concessions in return for him agreeing in writing not to sue or pursue criminal charges, she was encouraged to do so. As long as said agreement included a guarantee that he would not face charges or lawsuits.

  With a sideways glance at John, Nick pressed send. Then he set Theo to work getting his hacker buddies to round up dirty secrets and closet-skeletons.

  NICK

  AUSA Elsbeth Werner was standing in John’s office two hours later with a Coach bag-turned-briefcase, three more mochas, and a confounded expression.

  “I have something exactly like what you propose drafted, and NYPD counsel indicated that it would be accepted. But Agent Fisher told me ....okay, implied ....uh, I was under the impression that you wouldn’t make any deal at all.”

  Nick and John exchanged puzzled glances.

  “He never showed me or asked me about anything like this,” said Nick. “Can I see a copy?”

  She slipped a file out of the meticulously organized briefcase, tucked her straight hair neatly back behind her ear, and handed it to Nick.

  Nick flipped through the lightly rose-scented pages, speed reading it.

  Werner pointed. “You’ll notice nothing in here bars Agent Langley here from pressing charges, or the US Department of Justice from prosecuting the guards who attacked you. It simply takes you personally out of the picture. And honestly, we don’t need your cooperation to make a case.”

  “You won’t be able to sue,” John protested.

  Nick shot back, “Already said I wasn’t going to.”

  “You might change your mind.”

  “John - I need to make the deal.”

  “No,” said John. “I am not letting this injustice stand. They will not bully you into rolling over.”

  “Hey,” said Nick in a soft voice. “One thing prison taught me was you don’t get justice. You will be punished and you will suffer and it won’t be fair. But people are everything, because their friendship will get you through. With the guards and the inmates, the most important thing in the world is they trust you and like you enough to be kind when you need it.”

  John clearly didn’t like that answer. In fact, he hated it, and turned away in a huff.

  Nick turned his attention back to Werner. “This doesn’t look like it bars me from discussing the case publicly?”

  Warner’s hazel eyes lit up and she grinned almost gleefully. “Why no. It doesn’t. Funny you should notice that.”<
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  Nick picked up the lone pen on his little desk and signed the agreement.

  Werner took it from him. “I’ll try to get this signed today. I’ll let you know as soon as it happens so you don’t have to worry any longer about being arrested.”

  Nick managed, with a wobble, to stand and shake her hand. “Thank you very much, Elsbeth. Good luck with the case.”

  She smiled with a sort of amused cunning in her eyes. “I won’t need it.”