+18 - eps 28-32 - On the sixth installment of the Blackbird series, Cassidy sends Gillian and her team with Brock and Russel to Tampa, Florida, to look into the death of a girl while winter storm Jonas beats the East Coast. But this seemingly ordina...
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**picture: Brookland, DC
Andrea's laughter woke Brock up. He still lay on the comforter, but it'd been folded to cover him. The curtains were closed to keep the morning sun from disturbing his sleep. It was past eight. Gillian had let him sleep in. He heard too many voices behind the closed door. Looked like all the punks were there. He sat up on bed, wondering if he felt in shape to have breakfast with their picnic spirit. Then he recalled what had happened before he went to sleep and sighed. Get the memo, Brockner. She's shielded behind her team. She doesn't want any reminder of that kiss. He slipped his feet into his shoes and went to the door, rubbing his face. He craved a shower and a change of clothes.
A general burst of loud laughter greeted him when he walked out of Gillian's room. The living area was completely occupied, and he saw Andrea, Connor and Tanya in the kitchen, delivering mugs and plates as they laughed.
Andrea's happy voice overcame the noise. "Morning, Dad! You're right in time for breakfast!"
He managed a tired smile and looked for Gillian. There she was, sitting by the window. Barricaded behind the table and surrounded by Ron and Fred. She faced him, still giggling, and tried to look half as serious as him.
"I'm going to my place for an hour, if you don't mind."
"Can I stay, Dad?" asked Andrea.
He nodded with another mild smile, retrieved his suit coat from the couch—his fingertips tingled with a fleeting flashback—and left.
The quiet solitude of his apartment felt like a balm after the last few days. He went to his room in no hurry and kicked off his shoes as he unbuttoned his shirt. His phone buzzed as he picked clean clothes to wear after the shower. He fished it from his pants pocket and took the call, wondering what would Cassidy want so early on a Sunday morning.
"Let me talk to Gillian," Cassidy said as soon as he picked up.
Brock scowled. "I'm not with her, sir. Why don't you try her phone?"
"I've been calling her for twenty minutes. She's not picking up."
So there was no emergency. It was just Gillian giving Cassidy the silence treatment. She'd shut him out after he tried to make her drop the case over and over. It'd take him a good while to win her trust back, if ever.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm at home right now. She's with her team at her apartment."
"Text me the address," Cassidy said, and disconnected.
Brock arched his eyebrows. The Section Chief planned to pay Gillian a visit? What did he expect to achieve by showing up at the apartment? Whatever he had in mind, Brock wasn't about to meddle between those two. So he texted Cassidy the address, grabbed his towels and went to meet his shower as if it were a deeply-missed friend. His phone stayed in his room, on the nightstand, so he didn't hear it buzzing again. Neither did he read Cassidy's text, telling him to warn Gillian he was on the way to discuss the case.
Cassidy was used to Brock taking his sweet time to reply texts, mostly because he usually forgot his phone muted or out of hand. So he drove down the quiet DC streets on that cold, sunny Sunday, as he answered his companion's questions the best he could.
The first thing he noticed as he pulled over was the complete absence of federal vehicles.
"Where the hell is the detail?" he grunted.
"Detail?" asked the man by his side.
"Yeah, Graff threatened them last night. Well, not them, their children."
"D'you have anything to prove it?"
"A recorded conversation with a potential witness who delivered the message."
They got out of the car and the man that came with Cassidy stopped, looking down at his chest, where he thought he'd seen a red dot. Cassidy turned to him and found him looking around, then up.
"What."
The man shook his head. "Nothing. Let's go."
They crossed the street, walking one after the other. Had they been side by side, the man would've seen the red dot of light on Cassidy's forehead, beaming down straight from the roof.
