ds_flashfiction | Secrets Challenge by keerawa (Reply)

Title: Suspicion is the Silent Killer
Author: keerawa
Characters: Ray K, Fraser, Welsh (gen)
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1759 words
Thanks to: My beta,

nos4a2no9
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Alliance/Atlantis. I just feed them when they follow me home.
Author's Notes: This is an off-shoot of a long, Fraser POV case-fic I'm working on. Ray insisted on getting his two cents in. Set shortly after Eclipse.

Fraser's a good cop. He's a true blue, "Oh Canada"-singing Boy Scout who does the job so parents can tuck their kids in safe at night. 'Course, there's more to the guy that that. I've seen flashes… loneliness, a freaky sense of humor, and I think Mr. Polite's got a temper. Somebody real's hiding under that Mountie mask.

I know all about masks. Sometimes they get to be so much a part of you, you got no idea if you've still got a face underneath. But, hey, that's why they pay me the big bucks for undercover work.

Now, everybody's got secrets. Everybody lies. That's just the way it is. But I get wound tight when I can't read the folks close to me. Blame it on Snyder. He was my cellmate summer before last, when I went under as an inmate in Cook County jail for a few weeks. I was there to prove one of the guards was smuggling coke inside. Snyder seemed like an okay guy. Got a funny vibe off him, but I figured it was none of my business, and we got along fine. Right up until he tried to shank me in my bunk one night. Turned out he was in deep to the Latin Kings, and they didn't appreciate rival dealers on their cellblock. Who knew?

Since then, anybody I can't figure out, I dig in 'til I find out what the fuck is up. Didn't help much with Stella. Still, I'd rather get stabbed in the heart than in the back, any day. Don’t know what Fraser's deal is yet, but he's my partner, and he's one of the good guys.

So why is he concealing evidence from me? It should have been a simple enough case. The perp pistol-whipped some old Chinese lady while robbing her pawnshop. It's not like he's gonna be a criminal mastermind.

First Fraser sent me out of the hospital room during his interview with Mrs. Chen. No big deal – I could see I was making her nervous and I don't speak Chinese, anyway. But then we get to the pawnshop to interview the son. The guy starts with, "I'm sorry, we're closed." And my partner cuts him off with this whole freakin' monologue in Chinese. Fraser whispered an explanation; "He may be more forthcoming in his native tongue, Ray." Maybe, but he didn't say a word to me. Talked plenty to Fraser, who just today started keeping his notes in some kinda code. I know. I peeked over his shoulder when he was writing.

At which point, I got this nasty little tingle, like the one that warned me when my cover was blown in the Marconi case. So I smiled, played it cool. Told myself I was getting paranoid in my middle age. Fraser was distant as we canvassed the neighborhood. Distracted. I carried out the interviews with a grin on my face and a sinking feeling in my gut.

When we got back to the station, Fraser went straight to Elaine's computer and started typing away. I walked into the can. Needed some time to think.

Last week I KO'd an IA investigation into Ray Vecchio. He'd been accused of pinching 9 kilos of H out of the evidence locker. The IA guy had some kind of personal beef with Welsh. They didn't have much evidence Vecchio was guilty. But I didn't have any to prove he was innocent, either. And now Fraser was acting all queer.

There was no way Fraser was dirty. None. Must just be something about this case.

I racked my brain, went back through my briefings on Vecchio and Fraser's cases. There'd been this one kidnapping in Chinatown...

I washed my hands and face, and went down to the file room. I didn't ask Elaine to get the file for me. I didn’t know the score around the 27th. Didn't even know what fucking game everybody was playing. Until I figured it out, I was playing this one close to my chest.

I pulled the Lee kidnapping file and headed back up to the bullpen. I kicked back at my desk and read through it, all casual-like. Fraser was still tapping away on the computer. Hadn't even noticed I was gone.

According to the file, Fraser'd called in the cavalry on a kidnapping nobody would admit existed. The thing turned into a big organized crime bust against the Triad. There's always a lot of money floating around in organized crime cases, and plenty of cops ready to cash in. I paged through the file. Vecchio'd brought in the key witness, but Detectives Huey and Gardino had signed all of the evidence reports until the Feds took over. Why? I pulled my glasses out and put them on so I could scan through the pages faster.

There it was in black and white. The FBI had registered a complaint against Fraser and Vecchio for interfering in their investigation. A flicker of red in the corner of my eye made me sit up and slide the file into the middle of the pile of crap on my desk.

Fraser greeted me with a blank face. "Are you ready to go, Ray?"

I took my glasses off and kept my body relaxed, feet up on the desk. "Sure, Fraser. You want to grab something to eat?"

I've partied with hopped-up drug pushers, traded dirty jokes with neo-nazis, and exchanged cold dead stares with contract killers. I can handle dinner with a Mountie. After all, I'm carrying, and he's not.

Fraser's tongue ran across his lower lip. "Ah, no. Not tonight. I promised Turnbull that I would sample his latest creation."

Good news is, Fraser's nowhere near as good a liar as I am. For a second I was tempted to invite myself along, just to see what he could come up with on the fly. But the point isn't to yank his chain. It's to figure out what the fuck is going on.

I drove Fraser and Dief back to the Consulate. Normally we'd talk about the case we're working, but Fraser's not holding up his end of the conversation. It reminded me of getaway driving for that psycho skinhead, Lazarus. Lazarus used to get all quiet right before a job.

With Fraser riding shotgun I couldn't draw my gun if he grabbed for me. Not that he would, but if he did, I'd be screwed. Sure, I could draw left-handed from my shoulder holster, but it was too slow. I tried not to let that bother me. I ranted about Grace not getting the MVP this year until we pulled up to the Consulate and he slid out with a "Thank you kindly, Ray." He almost forgot his wolf in the back seat.

As soon as the Consulate door closed I was off, speeding back to the station. I had to talk to Welsh. I've known Welsh for years. I can trust him. Definitely. 100%.

Probably.

The Lieu was working late, a single desk lamp lighting a warm circle of papers on his desk. I walked into his office, closed the door behind me, and pulled the blinds. The itch between my shoulder blades wasn't so bad now.

Welsh's tie had been pulled loose over the day. The reading glasses perched on his nose made him look like somebody's grandpa. "Something I can help you with, Vecchio?" he asked, focused on his paperwork.

I cleared my throat, nervous, 'cause you don't ask a Lieutenant if his men are dirty. You just don't. "Tell me about Vecchio."

Welsh's chair squeaked as he sat back. "You've been briefed," he said shortly, looking up at me.

"Yeah, but … is there anything else? Were the two of them working on something, something secret maybe, that wasn't in the briefing?" It’s the only thing I can think of that might explain why Fraser's acting so weird.

Welsh took his glasses off and laid them down deliberately on his blotter. "If so, they didn't choose to confide in me."

Fuck. One perfectly good explanation down the tubes. I shifted my weight from one foot to another. "Okay. Okay. But that IA investigation last week, there was nothing to it, right?"

The temperature in the room dropped. Welsh's face was stone. "Why do you ask?"

In a rush I was across the room, hands on Welsh's desk, leaning in over him. I wasn't yelling, but it was the kind of almost-whisper that hurts your throat. "No fucking way. I did not sign for another long-term deep undercover just so I could investigate a cop!"

Welsh stood up to loom over me, bulky and solid. I had to step back to see his face. His voice was rock-steady. "No, you didn't. And you're not. Detective Vecchio and Constable Fraser have always been a credit to my unit. There is nothing to investigate."

It felt like when Mom tells you there's no monster in the closet. I was just over-reacting. Three years in ugly undercover jobs, and I was losing my edge.

"Now, Kowalski," Welsh said, careful as if he was talking me down off a ledge, "what's got you so spooked?"

I took a breath, ran a hand through my hair. "It's Fraser, Lieu. He's acting strange."

The Lieutenant blinked slowly.

"No, I mean, extra strange, even for him. He's being all secretive, keeping his case notes in code…" My words trickled to a stop as Welsh sank back down into his chair.

"Detective, you haven't been here very long. Let me fill you in. Every month or so, Constable Fraser will bring a completely ridiculous case to our attention and solve it in some utterly bizarre way. At which point I bet myself that this, this is the strangest thing I will ever see until the day they pry my rigor-mortised corpse out of this chair."

Now that is an image I did not need in my head right now.

Welsh reached for his mug of coffee, took a sip, and grimaced. "I'm starting to owe myself a lot of money. And what's more, every time the Constable has some perfectly logical explanation for it all. At least by his standards."

He shook his head and reached for his glasses. "Talk to your partner, detective," Welsh said, dismissing me.

I walked to the door and stopped, hand on the doorknob. "Hey, Lieutenant?" He glanced up. "Thanks. For everything."

Welsh grunted.

Vecchio, my brother in blue, undercover sucks. Whatever the Feds've got you working on, I hope you're keeping it together better than I am.