+18 - eps 6-11 - A unique city. A unique police team led by a unique woman. And an uptight fed set on a collision course.
On the second installment of the Blackbird Series, new cases push Brock and Gillian to work closer together, even in order t...
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Francine was on the phone when she saw Gillian marching out of the elevator with her crutches toward her father's office, lighting and bolts sparkling out of her death glare, fixed on King Gillian's closed door.
"Reg, can I...?"
No use. Gillian ignored her, and before the secretary could even stand up, she stormed into her father's office and pushed the door shut behind her.
King Gillian glanced up from his computer with a questioning frown at such a dramatic entrance. She crutched up to the wealthy oak desk, snorting.
"What's this bullshit about not working with federal agencies?" she asked, leaning forward.
King Gillian arched his eyebrows—oh, that—and pointed at a chair for her. She straightened up, scowling even deeper.
"You knew!?"
"Mind your tone, child."
Gillian clenched her fists, the heat of anger slapping her face.
"And you agreed!?"
King Gillian knew when to drop the attitude and negotiate with his daughter, so he tried the diplomatic way.
"Look, Reg, it's not a final prohibition. It's just that lately your unit ended up working most of your cases with the DEA and the FBI, and the brass is not happy about the feds getting credit for your hard work. They just want you to call them in only when it's strictly indispensable."
"Well, you should tell the brass to take a look at the cases they're talking about, because all of them fell outside our jurisdiction! So unless we get universal clearance, they will have to suck it up!"
"Don't let your temper blind you, Reg. Now you have state clearance, so you hardly need them."
"Great! Then pick your phone and explain to your grandson that his mom can't work on the induced suicide of his friend, because you and your golf pals don't like me working with the DEA!"
King Gillian scowled, taken aback. "What're you talking about? What's Connor got to do with this?"
Gillian gifted him with a tight smile, oozing bitterness. "I just had a row with Cock about handing over the case I'm working on to Templeton, because it's related to two more identical drug suicides in New York and New Haven—which happen to be outside Massachusetts like most of the universe, in case you didn't notice. And the local case was the roommate of Connor's best friend." She picked up the phone from the desk and handed it over to her father. "Well, then! Go ahead! Explain to my son why more of his friends may be about to kill themselves after consuming tampered PCP, while my team and I sit on our commended asses doing nothing about it."
"C'mon, Reg, put that down," he grunted, trying to sound annoyed.
"Fine, I'll tell'im! But don't expect hugs and kisses after!"
King Gillian sighed loudly, shaking his head. Gillian waited for some kind of answer from him, and when he offered none, she hopped away from the desk, narrowing her eyes, so her glare was laser-sharp on him.
"I don't give a shit about politics, Dad, and you know it damn well. But if politics keep coming in the way to doing my job, don't be surprised if I end up looking for a force that allows me to work as I'm actually supposed to."
King Gillian sat up in his comfortable armchair, his face darkening. "Are you threatening me?" he hissed.
She shrugged, knowing she'd pushed it too far, and not giving the last damn about it. "You always take things as they suit you best. So please, don't make this an exception."
Before he could even come up with an answer, she spun around and crutched out.
The team saw her face when she came back to the office and saved themselves any question. They were shocked at hearing the news. Shocked, but not quite surprised.
"You guys are still on leave, so we could stay on the case with the DEA and nobody can tell us a damn thing," said Kurt.
"Like they wouldn't find out," growled Hank, grimacing.
"Dammit! It's just so frustrating!" muttered Aldana.
"What d'you wanna do, Reg?" asked Fred.
She just snorted, looking away, and shook her head. She knew it had a lot to do with the case somehow involving Connor, but she felt really sick and tired of all those suited dinosaurs in their fancy offices, making decisions according only their own selfish interests. And for the first time in her life, her father was dangerously close to fall in the same sack with them. So she kept her mouth shut, because she was tempted to send everything straight to hell and walk out of there for good.
Well, maybe she should walk out, if not for good, at least for the day. Go home, wait for Connor, have lunch together, spend some time with him. More quality time like they'd been having outside her office, as Brock correctly assessed they needed. Talk to him, watch a movie, whatever. But get the hell out of the station and away from Cook, her father and all those sordid brassed asses, who didn't care about what was going on out on the streets, under their very noses.
The others traded a meaningful look when she stood up without a word, grabbed her bag and her crutches, and turned her back on them to hop to the door and leave.
