Chapter Eight

"Hey. You two. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, get over here."

Sergeant Platt, standing behind her tidy front desk with a frown, gestured them over. Her elbows hit the desk with a small thud. She stared them down.

Suppressing a smile, Imogen followed Jay to the desk. "That would be Detective Rosencrantz, thank you very much."

"Why are you Rosencrantz?" Jay glanced at her with a smirk as he leaned against the front desk. Turning back to Platt, he nodded. "What's up, Sarge?"

"Some Ivory Tower kid has a couple of questions for you regarding paperwork filed for the last case." She pointed over their shoulders towards the corner conference room near the staircase. A short, average looking black male in a grey suit and black loafers paced back and forth inside. "Deal with him so I can get back to work without the administration physically looking over my shoulder, please."

Jay sighed. He patted the top of her front desk counter once before turning away to go deal with red tape and paperwork. Imogen had no desire to join him. Instead, she just smiled at Platt.

"About that talk. You free for lunch?" Imogen said.

She frowned. "Not today. The Tower's on my ass about getting inventory all squared away." Though the lobby of the 21st District had meandering cops and a few disgruntled civilians moving about and chatting, a silence lingered between them. Platt looked back up. "I am glad your safe, though."

"So am I, Sarge. Believe me," she said. A lump formed in her throat as she said it. It was true. It had to be true. She was glad to be safe. But where she'd once sealed off her heart to work her job, now filled with pain in the quiet hours. She hated it. "I'll see you later."

Imogen tapped the desk with the palm of her hand, turned away, and buzzed herself up to Intelligence. She couldn't hear much as she took the right hand stairs. Where last time there had been laughter, now she heard only rapid plastic taps of keys typing and the clicks of a computer mouse.

Only one person sat in the main room. Imogen didn't recognize her. Brown hair, pale skin, dark brown eyes with a small scrape across her cheek that still looked red around the edges. The long sleeved green shirt she wore complemented her well. As Imogen ascended the stairs, the woman glanced up.

"Detective Adler?" she asked.

Imogen nodded. "That's me. You are?"

"Officer Kim Burgess." She didn't stand, but offered up a tight smile. Leaning back in her black wheeled desk chair, she folded her arms and took a break from the paperwork she had been up to. "You're Jay's friend? Old partner From Organized Crime?"

Gossip traveled at the speed of light in District 21. In every district, really. Imogen huffed out a small laugh and walked further into the room, passing each desk and trying to memorize each inch.

"That's right," Imogen said. "Though we rode patrol together first."

Most of the desks had little to distinguish between. Only the occasional framed 5x7 family photo identified the owners. The one closest to the door had one of these. A plain black frame, fancy plastic not wood, held a print of two black children, a boy and girl. The boy looked about fifteen and the girl slightly younger. Twelve, may? Thirteen? Atwater's desk, perhaps.

She glanced around at the others. Burgess had a framed photo as well. Unlike Atwater's sleek, black fake wooden frame, Burgess's appeared to be a traditional if cheap brown wood. The picture itself contained Burgess and another woman who by the looks of it must've been a sister or a cousin. She had the same pale skin, dark hair, and dark eyes, the same facial structure. They were drinking champagne. Beside that photo was a smaller one, a 4x6, of a young girl's school photo.

"Hey, she's back!"

Imogen turned away from where she'd been discreetly inspecting the desks to see Adam Ruzek and Kevin Atwater coming up the stairs. She felt herself grinning without meaning to. She liked Ruzek. He reminded her a bit of herself before...

No.

She gripped her hands tightly into fists inside her leather jacket to stop the shaking. With her hands still in the pockets of her jacket she gestured to the empty desk furthest into the room on the right hand side. "This one mine?"

Ruzek's smile dropped. She noticed his jaw tighten, muscles tensing at the question. Atwater paused as well. His mouth opened ever so slightly but he said nothing, instead glancing from Burgess to Ruzek, gaze lingering on his friend for a moment. In the end, neither responded. Burgess did, standing away from her own desk.

"Uh, yeah. Its-" She trailed off for a moment, struggling to find her words. Finally, she just nodded. "Yeah. No one's using it now."

Now. Imogen took a deep breath through her nose and nodded. This must've been Olinsky's. "I'll take good care of it."

Ruzek nodded. He didn't make eye contact with her. "Yeah. Well." It didn't take long for him to sink into his own chair and start tapping away at his keyboard.

An uncomfortable silence descended on the central office room of Intelligence. Atwater had settled into his desk as well while Burgess had disappeared down a side hallway. The symphony of keystrokes and mouse clicks filled the air again as Imogen wandered into the side breakroom.

They had the basics: a coffee machine that looked like it probably made a mediocre cup at best, a white fridge with various flyers, scribbled notes, and take out business cards held up by magnets, a tiny microwave, and hung up on a white metal rack over the sink, three drying CPD mugs. Imogen slipped her hands into her pockets. She couldn't help but smile as she recognized Jay's handwriting. "If you take the last paper plate, replace the goddamn pack." Evidently the oversized sticky note hadn't been enough. He'd taped the sides down, too. An unknown troublemaker had written a quick "fuck you :D" below Jay's note.

She crossed her arms over her chest, back against the counter, and took a deep breath. She could still smell the coffee that one of the others must've been brewing not long ago. Imogen wasted no time starting another pot. Though her chest still hurt a bit from that morning's run, she was glad that her arm hadn't put up too much of a fuss.

Approaching footsteps caused her to look up several minutes later, pulled out of her musings. Jay's new partner shot her a small, tight smile as she moved into the room. Her blonde hair parted at the center and fell loosely over her red plaid button down. Imogen flashed an equally small but not unfriendly smile back. She pushed away from the counter.

"Detective Upton, right?" Imogen said. "I'm sorry, it's been a bit of a whirlwind—"

That made the other woman smile wider. "Don't worry about it. Hailey's fine."

"Then call me Imogen."

Hailey glanced at the slowly brewing pot of coffee past her. "You know, for all the time we have to spend waiting for that coffee you'd think it would actually taste good."

The sarcastic half-snort, half-laugh hadn't been intentional. But Imogen had no intention of apologizing about it either. "That'll be the day. I'm not typically one for conspiracies, but I think CPD buys us the worst coffee to try to get us to wash it down with stuff from vending."

Hailey let out a light laugh. "I can get behind that theory."

With the coffee pot finally full, Imogen pulled down the two clean coffee mugs from over the sink, filling them both to the brim. She had a hunch that Hailey drank hers black. The thanks she got confirmed it. They stood in the breakroom for a few moments, silently drinking. Imogen scrunched up her face at the taste. But coffee was coffee.

"So, you were undercover for awhile," Hailey said.

Imogen glanced over the top of her mug. As the scalding hot liquid burned her tongue, she tried to come up with a response. What had prompted this?

"Yeah," she said.

The corner of Hailey's mouth twitched up into a small smile. "Don't worry. I won't press for details." She took another drink as well before resting the mug on the counter. "I got promoted to Detective after a UC op. One of the hardest things I've ever done," she said, trailing off a bit.

Based on the pain behind Hailey's eyes, on the way her shoulders sagged and her breathing deepened, Imogen believed her. She set down her mug and sat at the brown wooden table. "How long were you under?"

"A year."

Outside the breakroom, Atwater and Ruzek had started chatting again. Imogen couldn't make out exactly what was said, but there was something about poker nights, a benefit auction, and the outrageous price of a good tux. Which each tick of the clock, another memory surfaced. Blood on clothes, golden shell casings clattering to concrete floors.

"Yours?" Hailey asked. As she looked down at Imogen, she cocked her head. "The op?"

"Six months," Imogen said. When Hailey didn't respond, she added, "Here, at least. It's still classified. But uh, before that." Words were difficult to form as it felt like a fist had grabbed her throat and strangled her. It was a feeling she knew all too well. "Before that, I worked off and on with the FBI doing UC work, too. So about five years total. Give or take a few months."

Hailey didn't say anything at first. She pursed her lips for a moment before taking another drink. As the coffee hit her lips, she made a face. It almost made Imogen smile. But after a few more beats, she spoke up again.

"Must've been hard. A year was hard enough for me," Hailey said. "I can't imagine five."

"Yeah, well, luckily I'm well trained." Imogen stood from the table, wiping her sweating palms against her black jeans before sticking them back in her pockets. No sense in letting a detective see she couldn't stop the tremors. She gulped down the last of this second coffee of the day. "My minor in theater served me well." She pretended to cheers the air before placing the mug into the sink.

"We got a case Boss?"

Imogen heard and saw Ruzek stand up from his desk when Voight stormed past him. Jay trailed up behind. He hadn't even reached the top of the stairs, hands in his pockets. A gravely "no" from Voight and the arrival of Platt behind Jay made Imogen turn and look at Hailey in confusion. She just shrugged in response. Both moved into the main room.

Voight turned back to the confused Intelligence unit and just shook his head. "Until we get a case, we're doing housekeeping."

"Housekeeping?" Burgess asked.

Platt nodded. "That's right. Until all you ducklings get to spread your wings again, I need you to sort through Intelligence's supplies and files, record them and sort them, and get me an inventory on anything missing by the end of shift."

"Oh come on, Sarge." Ruzek sat back down in his chair, the force of the movement rolling him back a few inches. He tossed a pencil onto the desk. "Can't you just get one of the uniforms to do it?"

Platt's thousand yard death stare got him to close his mouth but not wipe the annoyance off his face. Imogen couldn't help but smirk. When she noticed Jay look over at her, she discreetly covered her mouth with her right hand, pretending to stop a sneeze. But he saw right through it.

"We have a secretary now," Jay said. "Adler can do it."

"Hey!"

But Platt cut her off. "Uh uh. Adler's got her own assignment for the day. And don't look so excited about it, girl," she said. "The boxes you put into storage before heading to DC got dropped off this morning. Go through and claim your stuff, or toss 'em. I don't care either way, but get them out of the way."

"Got it."

Voight nodded, looking over his team for a few heartbeats before gesturing to the left, down a side hallway. "Get to work. Antonio's over at Vice helping on a case, so split the work between the five of you."

"You got it boss," Ruzek muttered, still spinning ever so slightly in his chair. He finally pushed away from it when Voight went into his office and Platt turned back to Imogen. Ruzek sighed. "Where are we starting?"

As Jay handed over an alligator-clipped packet of white forms and scratch paper and the others circled up, Imogen wait for Platt by the open breakroom door. Platt tried to offer her a smile. It was warm, or as warm as the desk sergeant was capable of outside of rare comforting moments. Shuffling from one foot to the other, arms across her chest, Imogen nodded.

"Come on. I'll show yah," Platt said.

It felt oddly like being taken down to a dungeon. She'd been downstairs a few times, usually when coming up through the back entrance of the District and never when it was in use by Intelligence. It still had the same chipping slate grey walls, worn down iron and steel caging and doors, and smooth though occasionally chipped grey concrete floors. The ominous rusty metal caged holding cell still stood along the side. One of the large, pop up plastic and metal tables held a half dozen cardboard boxes in the center of the room.

Imogen paused at the bottom of the stairs. Her feet froze to the ground. She couldn't move, couldn't force herself through the invisible barrier between herself and the boxes she'd packaged so carefully half a decade ago.

Lowering her voice, Platt laid a hand on her shoulder. "Come on," she said. She moved into the room. By the time Imogen had joined her at the tables, Platt had grabbed a box cutter and duct tape from a nearby shelving unit. "Now, anything you don't want, just toss in there."

Imogen followed her gesture over to a large, grey plastic industrial garbage bin. The black contractor bag tied around the rim couldn't have been too full. Imogen couldn't decide if she hoped to top it off by the end of shift or if she hoped to leave it empty.

"Thanks, Sarge," Imogen said, finally finding her voice. "I'll have it out of the way by end of shift."

"Yeah, course."

After the retreating echo of Platt's boots in the stairwell faded, Imogen found herself all alone. She knew exactly what was in those boxes. The labels of Kitchen Utensils, Clothes, and Pots & Pans had been a ruse. They all held photos. Photos from her childhood, photos from high school, photos from college, plenty from her time working the beat with Jay as a patrolman. Some had other keepsakes, too.

Imogen pulled out a well-wrapped breakable from the first box. She knew what was hidden beneath the tissue and packing paper. It didn't take long before she'd uncovered a set of participation and placement medals from her Irish step dancing days. Flashes filled her mind of wrists that ached from tying up ghillies over and over, and the pain of pulling down her glued on poodle socks after a long day. Imogen couldn't help but smile.

The box had photos, too. Eventually stumbled on one of her and Maeve and Ashley in their royal blue costumes, hair tied back under tightly curled wigs, posed in front of a pop up stage at what must've been a feis from '94 or '95. Imogen could practically hear the counts in her head. Hop-one-two-three, hop-two-two-three. Keep those arms down, Imogen.

"How's it going?"

Imogen's heart leapt into her chest as she all but threw the medal she'd been holding down onto the table. She grabbed her forehead and massage it for a second, turning back around to face Ruzek. The fear turned into embarrassment, then quickly to anger. But he didn't laugh at the way she'd startled like a deer.

"Sorry—"

"Don't apologize." Imogen instantly regretted the edge to her voice. Not his fault she'd freaked. So she took a deep breath and gestured lazily at the box she'd finished cleaning out. "It's just a lot of junk."

"Are those ghillies?"

Imogen turned back to him, momentarily surprised he knew the proper word for the Irish soft shoes before remembering he'd grown up in Canaryville. She nodded. Picking them up, she ran her hands over the worn black leather bodies and soft tan soles. They were tiny, from elementary school.

"I think these were my second pair," Imogen said. She glanced up. "You dance?"

He shook his head. "Nah, my sister did though. Now she's trying to get my nephew into it." Ruzek moved over to one of the other tables nearby and tossed his clipboard down beside his mug of coffee. "Gotta go through my CI files. Some new Ivory Tower bullshit."

Turning back to her own work, she flipped to the last photo in the final pack. She burst out laughing. "Oh my god."

"What?" Ruzek looked back over. "The longer I can put off this busy work the happier I'll be."

She moved over to his table and placed the photo she'd found in front of him. "This is from the St. Patrick's Day parade. That's Mrs. Halstead." Imogen pointed to the beautiful red-haired woman next to her own mother, dark haired and dark eyed. Nine year old Imogen stood in front of them on the sidewalk all decked out in her costume and hair, everything except her dance shoes. Instead, she wore white gym shoes.

"Oh my god, is that Jay and Will?" Ruzek picked up the photo and let out a small laugh. At that point, she and Jay were only slightly different in height but even only a year older, Will had several inches on them. "Oh my god. That's at the South Side parade, right?"

"Yeah. I danced in it—"

"What's all the laughter about down here?"

"Speak of the devil," Ruzek said. He got up from the table, still holding onto the photo. Raising his voice, he said, "I gotta say, Jay, you were a pretty cute kid. Don't know what happened."

The smile on Jay's face faded as he started to object, but Hailey pushed past him at the bottom of the stairs. "Wait, let me see," she said.

Imogen stayed back, half leaning, half sitting on the table with her stuff. As Hailey chuckled at the photo, she just watched them. Jay shook his head. Moments later he'd grabbed the photo and moved to join Imogen.

"You've got the same brooding scowl in that picture as you do right now," Ruzek said.

With a scoffed, Jay allowed her to take it from him. "If I'd known you were gonna ruin my reputation around here, I'd have left you jobless for a few more weeks."

"Oh please."

But she did tuck the photo back into the pack with the rest from Spring '94. Everything from that first box went back into the box. She couldn't throw it away. Not yet. Not this. Not normalcy. So as Ruzek, Jay, and Hailey settled down and got back to work on their files and assignments, she taped it back up and started on the next box in silence. Better not to distract them. Not yet at least. She smirked. That could wait until she found photos from Senior Prom.