Four Walls

open bottle of Chianti Classico, the cork sticking up out of it.

Under normal circumstances, Flack would've gotten a wineglass out of the china closet, but-with all respect to an excellent Tuscan red-he needed this sooner rather than later. Besides, opening and closing doors was proving to be agonizing. He could just get a regular milk glass out of the dry rack next to the sink without having to open or close anything.

Pouring out the remainder of the Chianti, he then put the pill in his mouth and downed a mouthful of the wine.

Peyton Driscoll usually got in early. She had promised a full autopsy report on Malik Washburne first thing in the morning. For all Flack knew, she'd had a prelim the night before, but after a full day at RHCF, he'd come straight home. If something important came up, Mac or somebody would've called him. Or not-it wasn't as if anybody involved in the case was going anywhere, and Mac had even commented to Flack that he looked like he needed a good night's sleep.

A pity he didn't get one.

The pharmacy opened at eight, he knew. Flack intended to be there as soon as the gate went up.

So what if it was weak. Sometimes weakness was a strength.

* * *

Seeing the video on the web, watching herself making love to a man she thought she knew.

'So I broke up with Frankie right then and there. Told him I never wanted to see him again.'

Sneaking up on her in the parking lot, wondering why she wouldn't return his phone calls, as if he didn't know.

'Did you think it was funny? Did you think it would turn me on?'

Walking into the apartment to find him standing there, lighting candles, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

'It's one of my rules: no men in my place. Just in case things go bad, I always have a safe place to go to.'

Rushing to the phone to call 911-or Flack or the landlord, somebody-only to have him rip the phone out of the wall and throw it across the room with a clatter. Suddenly everything changes: a seemingly harmless guy who won't take no for an answer has become dangerous.

'All right, that's it. I'm making a phone call.'

Feeling the phone cord bite into her wrists behind her back as he ties her up, angrily wondering how she could treat him like one of the suspects she meets at work, never mind that he's acting just like one himself.

'I loved your statue-so beautiful. And I loved all the I-love-you messages. And I really meant to call you-I did.'

Sitting in the bathtub, her fingers slick with her own blood as she tries desperately to grip the blade that she'd managed to pry out of her leg razor so she could slice the phone cord apart and be free.

'I remember the doorbell ringing-but I don't know why.'

Digging through the handbag with bloody fingers, trying desperately to find and hold her Glock, when he comes leaping over the divider, knocking her to the floor with a bone-jarring impact.

'You caught me off guard. Can you blame me?'

He grabs the Glock and tries to shoot her, but he doesn't know how to shoot a handgun and never takes the safety off. She takes advantage of his confusion and grabs the weapon from his hand.

'That's the name and number of my lawyer, Courtney Bracey. You want to talk to me, set it up with her.'

Stella bolted upright.

It wasn't the first time she'd dreamed about that terrible night when Frankie Mala broke into her apartment and held her captive. Usually, any mention of a rape or kidnapping or sexual assault triggered that reaction.

But this time, it had been Jack Morgenstern in the dream, taking Frankie's place. Morgenstern who tied her up, Morgenstern who tried to shoot her, Morgenstern whom she was about to shoot three times in the chest.

Rubbing her eyes while sitting in the very bed where Frankie had tied her up, she looked over at the clock radio on the end table, which told her that it was a little before five.

She was getting up in a few hours anyhow. This morning, she had a meeting with the ADA to go over next week's testimony in the Osborne case, then it was back to the grind with the Maria Campagna murder-which was obviously preying on her mind if the prime suspect was showing up in her dreams.

As she padded to the kitchen-the same kitchen where she'd found Frankie blithely setting the table-she reflected with frustration on how little useful evidence they actually had. There was no sign of Maria's fingernail on Morgenstern's clothes, nor anywhere in his house. The bruise that was forming on Morgenstern's chest was shaped vaguely enough that it could have come from the impact of a teenager's protected foot, or a woman's fist, or both.

Everything at the lab was getting bumped for Mac's prison case, so Stella didn't know the results of the trace left on Maria's knuckles yet. She just had to hope they'd discover something definitive there.

They also hadn't found Maria's necklace in Morgenstern's house. Angell had double-checked with Maria's mother, and she said Maria had indeed worn the necklace when she left for work the previous day.

Any decent lawyer would blow through that evidence like a shotgun through cardboard, and Bracey-no matter how annoying she might be-was more than a decent lawyer.

They needed the proverbial smoking gun.

Stella liked it better when criminals were stupid. Then they were easy to intimidate with circumstantial evidence. Morgenstern, though, wouldn't intimidate easily, especially after what he went through on that rape case.

She had read up on Morgenstern's case. The actual rapist didn't look anything like Morgenstern, but he did match the general description. The victim never got a good look at her attacker, so her ID of him wasn't solid, but Morgenstern's alibi for the time of the rape had simply been that he was alone in his Belmont apartment, which hadn't helped his case.

In all fairness, Stella could see how he would be wary of the NYPD after being put through the wringer like that.

But at the end of the day, he was still the most viable suspect they had.

They just needed to prove it.

She needed to prove it.

Walking to the counter, she put on a pot of coffee. No sense trying to get back to sleep now. She'd down some caffeine, shower, and maybe go to the gym. She suddenly felt the need to take out her frustrations on an innocent punching bag.

* * *

I'm jogging, just like I do every night.

The night wind is blowing in my face.

The car takes the place of the wind, shining light that blinds me.

I know the drill. I don't stop them from searching me.

I think it's insane, but I know better than to resist.

That's what they taught me, you do what the cops tell you to do.

I don't know where the money in my pocket came from. I don't know why they're handcuffing me.

I do know how it makes me feel. I'm helpless. No control. Just like in the ER, when the patient won't come back to life no matter what I do.