Chapter Text
Matt walks into the living room, stepping around the deformed and burnt memories that are left. The whole scene is an absolute mess. What started as a small kitchen fire turned into a full-on blaze. The living room is filled with degraded rubble. The walls of this two-story home are darkened with ash. The ceiling insulation is burnt to a crisp, hanging down, occasionally raining down when someone moves.
Luckily the house is still structurally intact, but it doesn’t matter much in the long run. He knows that the city will have to tear what’s left down and rebuild for the new tenant.
The current tenant’s dead in the front yard. The older gentleman was dead when they arrived. He somehow made it out of the initial blaze just to suffer a fatal heart attack in the grass.
Foster and Andrews couldn’t do anything to save the man. His body had already turned cold and stiff around the joints by the time fifty-one arrived on scene. It’s odd that it took a passerby so long to notice the fire and victim. From what he can tell, the fire had been burning at least forty-minutes by the time they got there. It only took his company ten to arrive. A half hour is a long time not to see smoke although the man’s house is pretty secluded. The neighborhood he lived in had become pretty much vacant over the last couple years. Some big investor wants to transform the project into money making condos.
Boots crush against charred rubble behind him. “This is just so sad.”
He turns around. Kidd’s standing in the doorway with a small frown.
He agrees. “Yeah.”
She crosses her arms. “I don’t know what’s going on lately, but this is like the third time one of our victims has died in a fire in less than a month.”
She’s right. 51’s stats have not been ideal this last month. They’ve lost quite a few victims. It’s not unusual to experience death in his profession but there’s been a lot of it lately. Three fires turned funerals in three weeks.
He blames the June humidity for the surge. It has been hot as hell in Chicago. Muggy and stuffy at every turn. It’s like a dam pressure cooker in the city so when a spark occurs, it spreads.
He looks around the once vintage furnished living room. It looked like a happy home. A place filled with love and now it’s haunted by evaporated memories.
He can relate a little too well to the state of the house these days.
“Is it just me or does this call seem familiar?” Kidd asks.
They’ve put out hundreds of house fires in homes alone. Déjà vu comes with the job. Although, he does feel like he’s been in this position before.
“Oh, I know.” She steps closer, boots scuffing against metal. “Last month. Mrs. Baker. Remember you pulled her out of a similar kitchen fire after her baking got away from her?”
He does remember that. Luckily, he was able to get Mrs. Baker out in time and get her breathing. She brought him cookies as a thank you the next shift.
That call had a far better outcome than this one.
Something glistens below the charred rubble. “Yeah, right. Capp and Tony nearly got into a fist fight over her snickerdoodles.” Matt bends down and pulls something shiny out from under the mess.
He uses his glove to wipe soot off the surface. It’s a picture frame. The dead man outside is smiling next to another woman whom Matt presumes is his wife. The woman walking her dog who called in the fire told them about how the man recently lost his wife.
They look happy. Old, grey, wrinkly but happy. Now they’re both dead, and love sucks.
Marriage sucks. His marriage especially considering it’s no longer even one. Gabby left and sent him divorce papers two months ago. She didn’t even have an explanation, just damn papers.
He signed them.
“I think they’re waiting on us,” Kidd says. “Are you ready?”
Yeah. He is. He sets the frame on top of a broken table. There’s nothing more he or 51 can do. Arson’s been called in so they can investigate. Meanwhile, he needs to get back to work before they are called to the next fire.
He follows Kidd out the house. When he steps on the porch, he’s hit with a wall of thick humidity. Sweat prickles against the back of his neck. He swears that this heat feels hotter than the charred house.
He notices blue and red lights flashing in the driveway. Burgess and Ruzek arrive on the scene.
He has no clue why intelligence is suddenly interested in a tragic accident. It’s probably a pissing match with arson over jurisdiction. Matt does not want to be a part of that.
He nods as he passes them on the stairs. He walks past the sheet covered body, taking one last lingering look before climbing into his rig.
***
Sylvie swipes her ID against the gate sensor for the third time without any luck. She doesn’t get it. This stupid badge worked last time she was here. Kim texted her that it should still work but she’d have to argue that point.
She’s locked out. She jangles the metal cage. There’s laughter in the district lobby. When she looks over her shoulder, two cops in blue patrol uniforms are laughing at her by the desk.
It’s mildly irritating. They probably think she’s some clueless visitor but she’s not. She’s back in Chicago for a reason.
The reason is currently digitalized and stuffed in her leather bag. She assisted Intelligence with a similar string of deaths a few years ago. Someone higher up than Hank Voight stuck her on him. She’s surprised he’s the one requesting her expertise this time around.
She hears footsteps descend the stairs. Kim appears on the other side of the gate. She looks good. Happier. Her hair’s grown several inches, bouncing around her shoulders. Her social media pages just don’t do her justice.
Kim buzzes her inside and pulls the gate. “Hey, sorry about that. The district replaced the gate last week. New key card.”
Well that explains it. She follows Kim in, exchanging a quick hug on the bottom step.
“It’s great to see you again. You look great.”
Kim squeezes her shoulder. “Yeah right. I’m sweating like a pig running myself ragged.” She leads Sylvie up the stairs. “How are you liking the heat?”
Last time Sylvie visited Chicago, it was snowing with nearly negative windchills, and the sidewalks were icy. It was a magical winter wonderland but not this time. It’s stifling hot in the city. It’s humid and stagnant. Sylvie’s t-shirt is already damp and clinging to her skin from just the walk from her car into the district. The bottom layer of her hair is pasted to her neck.
The industrial fan inside intelligence is working overtime, whirling incessantly and rattling. It’s barely blowing cold air. Adam Ruzek is perched in front of it, fanning his chest with a folder. Kevin’s at the computer, typing away. Jay’s talking to Voight in the center of the room, arms crossed.
It’s tense.
“Found her,” Kim announces to the room.
Sylvie greets everyone with a wave but then transitions straight to business. She’s here for a reason.
Voight nods. “Brett, thanks for coming in.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” she replies.
“Wasn’t my suggestion. Burgess thought you’d be helpful.”
She figured but wow, he still has quite a way with words. If she’s being honest, she doesn’t love working alongside Voight. He’s toxic, chauvinistic, violent and all around unpleasant. She’s cordial with him at most but that’s it.
She’s not here for him anyway.
Sylvie pulls out the files Kim emailed her a few days ago. She spent the entire flight looking over the file's contents. It contains three mysteriously set fires. Three victim deaths outside the fire location. Kim believes they are connected, and Sylvie would agree. She understands why Arson hasn’t taken the suspicion seriously because of how backlogged they are but this also can’t be ignored.
She senses an escalation.
“Where can I set up so we can get to work?” She asks.
Kim gestures to the empty desk across from Jay’s. “It’s all yours.”
“Brett, you better have put those profiler skills to use,” Voight says.
She sits down, giving him a pointed look. “Let’s get to work.”
***
Crime scene photos, incident reports, eyewitness accounts and autopsy reports are scattered across Sylvie’s desk.
They’ve been going over every detail of these cases for at least an hour. Talking through the timeline.
There are three dead victims. The first was Mitchell Stevens. Twenty-five. Known drug addict. The responding officers believe he was cooking meth in the makeshift kitchen when it exploded. A Fire then spread throughout the building. Mitchell made it out, but his throat swelled up from the chemicals and he died in the back alley of the warehouse.
The second victim was Claire Reynolds. Forty-eight. The arson report indicates that a malfunctioning heater sparked in the clinic she worked at after hours. She died in the parking lot. The paramedics found antibiotics in her scrubs. They concluded she tried to preserve the medication and the smoke exposure and severe third degree burns ultimately killed her.
The last and most recent victim was Johnathon Spokes. Seventy-six. Lived alone. The fire started in the kitchen. He made it out just to suffer a fatal heart attack in the grass outside his family home.
“These incidents seem random,” Kevin says. “Location. Opportunity. It’s all different.”
Kim leans back in her chair, massaging the bridge of her nose. “All three were alone. No witnesses. Secluded areas.”
Sylvie slides Mitchell’s autopsy photo closer. She holds it against the dim lamp. He suffered several major burns. She notices an irregularity near his chest.
It sparks a theory, but she needs more proof.
“Kim,” Sylvie rotates in her chair. “Do you have Mr. Spokes autopsy photos yet?”
“I don’t know. Natalie was going to send them when she got them.” She opens her computer email. “Oh, it looks like I just got them.”
“Print them please,” she requests.
Kim does. Once the printer finishes, Adam brings the photos to Sylvie. She takes them. She selects the one of Mr. Spokes chest.
“Did the paramedics perform CPR on scene?” She doesn’t recall seeing that detail in the incident reports.
Kim shakes her head. “No. When they arrived, he was already cold and starting to stiffen from the heat. There was no point.”
Sylvie grabs the other two photos and compares. Below the burns and soot, there’s subtle purple bruising on their sternums. She recognizes the bruise pattern.
Sylvie stands and pins the newest autopsy photo against the white board.
“You got something?” Jay asks.
She does.
She points to the discoloration. “Do you see this?”
“Yeah, it’s bruising,” Kevin replies. “Probably from his fall off the porch.”
It’s a simple mistake to make but that’s not it.
“It’s evidence of CPR being administered. It’s on all three,” Sylvie replies.
Adam edges closer, squinting at the board. “The first two victims were given CPR by paramedics.”
She knows. The first responders arrived on call within fifteen minutes of the first two victim's deaths.
All of Intelligence watches her. Even Voight has wandered out of his office to witness her discovery. It’s both unnerving and exciting.
“Yes, they did but they aren’t the only ones,” she says. “I didn’t see it on the first two because the bruising blended together. However, this third victim has the same bruising but no reported CPR.”
Jay leans against the wall. “Maybe a civilian tried to revive him, failed, panicked and fled.”
“Three mysterious civilian heroes who fled each scene seems a little unbelievable,” Adam retorts.
He’s right. The odds aren’t strong. It brings up the question of why these people never called 9-1-1.
Wait.
“They are the ones giving them CPR,” she says.
Voight scoffs. “Who is they?”
“The person responsible for setting the fires. They’re giving the victims CPR.”
Kevin crinkles his brow. “So what? This guy sets fires, doesn’t realize someone is inside, tries to save them but they die?”
No. This guy can’t be that stupid. It’s intentional. It has to be.
This arsonist is saving his victims after the fire is set. She’s missing something.
These three cases aren’t connected by victimology. All three are completely different. Different gender. Different age. Different race. Different social class. Different personal lives.
The buildings are different too. One was an old warehouse turned halfway home. Another was a small clinic. This latest was a home. They were miles apart from one another. There’s not a pattern within the location.
They were all mysterious fires. All at night. All in semi secluded areas. All victims were given attempted CPR. All had opportunity.
It hits her.
“Oh my gosh.” Everyone draws their attention back onto her. “I know what this is about.”
***
He’s really goddam irritated. He doesn’t understand why Voight needs him for anything these days. Matt’s done enough for the bastard. He’s given up enough.
Boden found Matt after a call and handed him the buggy keys. He told him that he needed to get down to the 21st district as soon as possible. Voight requested him.
He didn’t want to go. He was on the job and he’s also not Hank Voight’s minion. He doesn’t have to blindly follow his orders yet here he is, inside the lobby waiting for Trudy Platt to buzz him in.
“Sometime today, Platt,” he comments.
Trudy glares. “Don’t take your pissy mood out on me Casey. I can have you arrested.”
She probably could. His bad mood has been heightened lately. He’s aware his temper is a bit shorter than normal. He’s more easily frustrated. He blames the divorce and this stupid heat wave.
She buzzes him up and Matt takes the stairs two at a time.
It’s goddamn stifling in the intelligence unit. He can hear the AC unit working overtime but it’s not doing much good. Sweat is already gathering along the collar of his relatively new white polo.
The bullpen’s empty but he hears hushed voices on the other side of Voight’s closed office door.
Matt doesn’t knock.
Voight spins around in his office chair. “About damn time.”
He is not in the damn mood for this. He just got off an apartment fire. He still smells the smoke on his skin, and he was really looking forward to a cold shower when he was rudely interrupted by the man in front of him.
“I was working,” he retorts. “Battling a fire so my apologies for taking a bit too long to get here.”
Voight smirks, folding his hands over his chest. He’s a smug asshole and always has been.
Voight’s office is a bit cooler in temperature than the rest of the floor. His window’s cracked which lets in a bit of a warm breeze. It gives the room some airflow but not much.
Matt crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall. “What the hell is this about anyway?”
“The three fires,” Voight says.
Yeah, that narrows it. “Which three?”
“These,” a second voice echos.
He looks over. A younger blonde woman is sitting in the chair across from Voight. It’s the first time he realizes there’s someone else in the room.
The woman slides him some photos.
“Casey, this is Sylvie Brett. She’s assisting on the case,” Voight says.
Brett stands, extending her hand. She has delicate features. Her hair is tied in a high ponytail. She’s in a low top tank top and dark jeans. She has a pair of black rimmed glasses on top of her head that look like they’d be too big for her face.
Nothing about her look screams cop.
He shakes her hand. “Matt Casey. Are you a cop or something?”
“Or something.” She retracts her hand. “I’m a profiler. I study behaviors, patterns and that kinda stuff.”
That makes more sense although the knowledge that she’s some type of shrink rubs him the wrong way. The last thing he needs is some stranger—albeit a pretty stranger—analyzing him.
He takes the photos. The images familiarize him with the fires in question. He remembers all three. The last one happened only three shifts ago. All involved suspicious fires, but the arson investigators didn’t seem too worried. They didn’t mention any connection between them.
“Are these connected?” He asks.
“We believe so,” Voight replies.
Even if they are connected, he’s not sure why intelligence is involved and now a profiler. He sure as hell has no idea what they have to do with him.
He sets the photos down, looking at Voight. “You want to tell me why I’m here right now?”
Brett sits on the corner of Voight’s desk. “I believe these fires were intentionally set by the same individual.”
“Arson didn’t make that connection,” he replies.
Voight scoffs. “Cause they are a bunch of lazy wanna be cops. They are incompetent.”
“They were reviewing the fire details,” Brett says. “Intelligence is investigating the murders.”
The three victim's deaths are sad, but it doesn’t necessarily mean murder. That seems like a leap.
“What do you mean murder?”
Brett slides closer, flashing the autopsy images. He can smell her perfume. It’s nice.
“Someone is setting these fires and then rushing in to save the victims. All three were given CPR by the arsonist. He’s trying to save them.”
That’s insane. Why would anyone do that? Plus, why would the arsonists try and save his victims after he’s killed them?
He must look as baffled as he feels because Brett continues. “These aren’t accidents. Each of these victims didn’t find their own way out of the fires. Someone pulled them out and attempted chest compressions.”
It’s plausible. He and their paramedics were quite surprised each victim was able to find their ways out considering the damage and smoke inhalation each suffered.
They were dead in the fire first.
“That’s disturbing,” Matt comments. “But I still don’t get why it involves me. Yeah, 51 responded to each call but that’s it.”
Brett and Voight exchange a look like they know something he doesn’t.
“Well?” He repeats.
“When you combine the well disguised set fires and the fact that this person runs in and acts out a rescue…it paints a picture,” Brett says.
He’s not seeing the picture and he’s frustrated with all the talking in code. They need to lay it out for him so he can leave.
“Please paint that picture for me then. I’m still on call.”
She sighs. “Think about it. This person has extensive fire knowledge, the ability to run into a burning building, CPR knowledge and a massive hero complex. Between the methodology and opportunity, Captain, I believe that a firefighter is our suspect.”
He stares. That’s idiotic. Why would a firefighter do the opposite of their jobs? They save people. They aren’t killers.
He puts together the case and his presence. His mild irritation sparks into intense levels of rage and indignation.
He glares at Voight, voice increasing in volume. “Did you seriously bring me in as a suspect?”
“Oh wait. Wait,” Brett interrupts but Matt ignores her.
He edges closer to the man he can’t stand. “You son-of-a-bitch!”
“Casey,” Voight says. “This temper of yours isn’t helping your case.”
“Voight come on,” Brett whispers angrily. “Captain if you would just…”
Voight leans in. “Calm down Casey. You simply might know who…”
Absolutely not. It’s one thing to accuse him but to insinuate anyone from his firehouse could do something like this is crossing a line.
Matt combs a hand over his head. “This is absolute bullshit, and you know it. Not a single firefighter from 51 or myself would ever do anything like this!”
“Defensive,” Voight retorts.
Of course he’s defensive. He had nothing to do with this but he’s even more insulted Voight would insinuate 51’s involvement.
“You’re looking for a scapegoat,” Matt says. “It won’t work Voight.”
Brett stomps her foot. “If we could all just take a breath…”
He’s not taking a breath. He won’t stand around and let Voight screw him over again. He’s been through that, and now he’s using Brett to do it.
“Save the psychology,” he snaps at Brett.
She clicks her mouth shut. Her jaw sets in a hard line, and he temporarily feels bad for taking his frustration out on her but she’s also probably the one who named him as the damn suspect. She saw his newly divorced status and thought he was capable of this.
His shortness is warranted.
“Go to hell Voight,” He turns to Brett. “And if you’re half as good at your job as you seem to be, you won’t do Voight’s bidding.”
With that said, he storms out the office, slamming the door shut behind him.
***
That did not go how she hoped. When she suggested to Voight that he bring Captain Casey in, she had no idea he’d use it as an opportunity to re-spark a very evident feud.
Captain Matt Casey is not a suspect. He’s never even been a potential subject nor has anyone at his firehouse. She tried to explain that, but he wouldn’t listen.
She didn’t want to meet with him to accuse him of murder. He doesn’t fit the profile. Casey’s incredibly well respected. He’s earned his way to several promotions. He’s the definition of the perfect firefighter and her suspect craves that but hasn’t found it professionally. Casey and everyone at 51 are simply too good.
Voight told her not to take it personally after Casey stormed out. He informed her that the fire captain is a dick, but Sylvie finds that hard to imagine. If anything, Voight instigated that whole mess. He wanted to piss Casey off which is an absolute waste of time.
They have a serial arsonist to catch.
Sylvie wants a do over; needs a do over.
Captain Casey’s shift should be ending in twenty minutes, so she decides to pay him a visit at the firehouse. It’ll give her a better opportunity to clear up her intentions without Voight making everything worse.
She climbs out her rental car and heads through the open garage doors of firehouse 51. It’s a spacious apparatus floor with three polished fire trucks and one ambulance. It reminds her of her old firehouse back in Indiana however this place is far larger. Her ambulance used to be red, and this one is white.
The place has a semi comforting atmosphere. It almost makes her miss her old life, her old career.
Almost.
“Can I help you?”
A man in a dark navy squad t-shirt greets her. He’s a bit older. His hair’s staring to grey. His shirt is soaked through with sweat.
“Hi. Yes. I was hoping to speak to Captain Casey. Is he here?”
He points to the swinging doors. “He’s in the locker room. In through the doors, down the hall, first room on your right.”
She nods. “Thanks.”
His directions aren’t very accurate, but her knowledge of fire stations leads her to the locker room. One of the locker doors is perched open. She reads Casey’s name on the piece of duct tape.
She lets out a gust of air in relief. Finding him was the first challenge to make amends. She can cross that off the list.
“Captain, can we talk?”
There’s a brief pause. The door shuts. Her eyes widen as she takes in her surroundings.
Casey’s shirtless with just a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s damp from the shower, his hair messier than before
Sylvie’s first impression of the infamous Captain Casey started relatively strong when he came into the district. She could pick up on his annoyance from the hard-set lines around his mouth, but she wasn’t judging. She knew he didn’t like her temporary boss. He had a very commanding presence, strong and sturdy with a quite kind demeanor to him. He seemed good.
His arms were quite nice too. They were big and muscular, and she might have stared a bit too hard and long at his biceps when he first came into the office. She can admit that.
The truth is, she found Captain Matt Casey quite attractive. Most women would. He’s finely sculpted and has an impressive job. All women with baby making hormones would experience butterflies upon meeting him.
Now standing in front of his half naked form, he’s far past just attractive. He’s hot. Sexy. Every other adjective imaginable but he did snap at her earlier and storm off like a petulant teenager. She needs to focus on that.
“Brett,” Casey says. “Are you here to cuff me for impeding an investigation?”
Bitter. She adds bitter to the list of adjectives to describe him. Bitter with surprisingly tight abs.
“No, I’m not.” She purposely turns her head away from his shirtless form. She’s having a hard time thinking straight. “Can you please…uh, put on a shirt?”
“I was finally taking a shower.” He replies. “I wanted to earlier but was called away.”
Stubborn.
“About that…”
He re opens his locker. “If you’re here to do damage control for Voight than you are wasting your time.”
He’s refusing to let her speak. It makes him less attractive but also pisses her off. He’s gotten the complete wrong idea.
“I’m not doing Voight’s damage control.” She huffs, looking at her black leather combat boots. “I just wanted to explain…”
The locker door rattles shut. “No. I’m not interested in any psycho babble explanation for why you think I do what I do.” He shrugs on a blue t-shirt. “Did Voight tell you about my divorce so you assumed that I must be emotionally unstable enough to kill people?”
She doesn’t think that. However, she’s pretty irritated over his condescending comments about her job description. She’s not a psychologist. She’s a profiler. She works to understand people, not fix them.
“Yes, I know about the divorce. I had to run a minor background check but that doesn’t mean anything, okay? I’m not judging you. I’m not analyzing you. I’m trying to explain things, but you keep cutting me off. I know that you and Voight…”
He cuts her off again. “Great. Me and Voight. I don’t understand how you wound up helping him.”
She crosses her arms. “It’s my job. I’m trying to catch a killer.”
“Yeah, well I thought you already did,” he retorts.
What is his problem with her? She didn’t do anything to him. She’s actually the one who wanted to reach out because she needs his help.
“I didn’t accuse you of anything,” she says.
He scoffs quietly. “Sure, you didn’t. I understand why Voight would drag me into this but not you. I don’t know, maybe you have some sort of vendetta against first responders or…”
That little insinuation does it. His words strike an already taunt nerve. He presses on a nasty bruise and all her patience dissipates. She matches his irritation.
“I don’t like Voight as much as the next, Captain. I don’t agree with him on much. At all.” Sylvie invades his space. “But I can say with full confidence that I agree with him on one thing. You are a jerk!”
She tried to reason with him, but he spent every second fighting her. She’s not the enemy no matter how much he wants her to be.
She’s actually on his side…or was before he decided to treat her like crap.
She rolls her eyes and leaves, refusing to look back. If Captain Casey wants to act all pissy, she won’t be a part of it.
She just won’t.
***
He feels like shit.
Not physically. Sure, his head’s throbbing the way it always does after two glasses of whiskey and he’s sore from carrying heavy gear up flights of stairs all shift but that discomfort is normal for him.
His behavior lately isn’t. He’s short with everyone these days. He lost his patience. Gabby took it with her during the divorce.
He was more than just a jerk to Brett this morning. He was a dick. He’s not typically that type of guy. He doesn’t want to be. She didn’t do anything wrong. She was sweet, nice, even cute and he took his entire bad mood and hatred for Voight out on her.
He’s at Molly’s this evening, drowning his sorrows in alcohol. It’s dead in here tonight. Most people don’t want to leave the comfort of their air-conditioned homes to brave the evening heat. It’s almost nine at night and still in the high seventies.
“Feeling less yelly this evening Casey?”
Stella Kidd slides a beer across the bar. Her tone conveys judgement all of which he deserves. He’s not proud of his actions either.
Severide twists in the bar stool beside him. He’s here for Stella and everyone knows it. Matt is pretty confident they are together, but his best friend hasn’t admitted it yet. Unfortunately, Severide’s probably hiding the good news since Matt’s love life is a god damn disaster.
If Severide is pitying him, then he clearly has a problem.
“You want to talk about what’s going on between you and this cute blonde?” Kidd asks.
Jesus. He’s not dating again. He’s only been divorced two maybe three months now.
“I’m not…no.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It was business. She’s helping intelligence on a case.”
“What case?” Severide asks.
Matt’s not sure he’s at liberty to release all the details. “The three fires we responded to where the victims were found outside the building.”
Kidd rests her elbows on the counter. “There is something odd about those.”
She’s right. Something is definitely off and if Brett is right…well something is really off.
“I wasn’t fair to her. At all,” he admits.
“Yeah, you were a dick,” Kidd replies.
He’s well aware but he’s still her superior officer. He’s a Captain.
She shrugs at the offended look on his face. “Everyone in the firehouse could hear you snap at her. You were mean.”
Matt groans. “I know. I know I was. Trust me Kidd. I’m already beating myself up, okay?”
Severide takes a swig from his beer. “How bad could you have been, Case?”
“Bad,” Kidd mutters.
She’s really not helping him here. He feels bad enough.
“I get it Kidd. I get it,” he retorts. “I shouldn’t have acted that way. I took out my own issues on her. I projected and I would make it right if I could.”
“Well then make it right,” she replies. “Find this girl and apologize.”
He’s definitely thought about it. He’s just not sure how to make up for it. She called him a jerk. She stormed away.
“You mean right now?” He asks.
“Why not?”
It’s late. He doesn’t know where she’s staying. He didn’t exactly get her number either.
“I don’t know anything about her. I don’t even know where she is.”
Kidd shrugs. “So?” A customer at the other side of the bar flags her over. “You’re a smart guy, Casey. Figure it out.”
She leaves.
That’s crazy. He can just wait until the morning. He’ll find her at the district.
Severide gives him a look. “She’s not wrong man. If you’re serious about wanting to find her tonight, you will.”
Showing up at some stranger's door seems intense. He’ll come off as a stalker although he’s not sure he’ll be able to relax until he makes this right.
He doesn’t want her to think Voight’s right about him.
He looks around the bar. Burgess and Ruzek are at one of the tables, laughing over beers.
They are his ticket. He groans, chugs his beer and then climbs off the stool.
He can’t believe he’s doing this.
***
The hotel Intelligence set her up in is quite nice. It’s located in the center of the city about a ten-minute commute to the station. The room is one of those penthouse style rooms. She has a marble kitchenette, black leather couch, queen sized bed with a looming arched headboard and a walk-in closet. Her room is on the twelfth floor with an amazing view of the city and the Chicago River.
She grabs a bottle of wine from the mini fridge and pours herself a glass. Luckily intelligence is footing her bill, otherwise she’d have to drink wine out of box.
It’s almost ten and she can’t sleep. She’s tried. She changed into her pajama shorts, her old Fowlerton t-shirt and climbed into the cozy bed but all she did was toss and turn. Every time she closed her eyes, memories flashed through her mind.
She blames the firehouse visit for the stirring of her scars.
She collapses onto the sofa and turns on whatever is on cable. It’s some sort of romcom she’s never seen before. It’ll work.
She doesn’t even get through the opening credits before she is interrupted by a knock on her door.
She didn’t order room service. She pauses the movie.
She stands, reaching for the gun in her nightstand. She told Voight she didn’t want to carry one. She’s licensed. She’s passed all the tests but it’s not something she wants attached to her hip. Voight didn’t care.
He made her carry one because he said he didn’t want to be responsible for sending her in unarmed so now she has a pistol in her hotel.
She looks into the peep hole. She stuffs the gun back into the drawer as she undoes the dead bolt.
Casey’s standing in the hotel hall holding a mysterious white cardboard box. He smiles for the first time since their tense introduction.
“Captain, hi,” she says.
“Hi,” he replies.
She looks around the empty hall. “Um how did you know where I’m staying?”
“Burgess,” he replies. “She gave me your hotel room number.”
She doesn’t know why he’s here. If he’s here to insult her more, she’ll probably slam the door in his face.
“I uh, know it’s late,” Casey says. “Sorry if I woke you up.”
Right. She’s in her pajamas.
“You didn’t. I couldn’t sleep.” She nods her head towards the box. “Did you bring props to help yell at me further?”
He cringes. “No. No. It’s uh…” He opens the lid. “Burgess mentioned that you’re a sweet tooth, so I picked up some sugar cookies from one of the best bakeries in the city.”
She’s a bit confused. “Cookies?”
“It’s an apology,” he replies. “I’m sorry about earlier. I was a jerk to you, and you didn’t deserve it. I’m really not that guy.”
Somehow, she knew that. Sure, he was a jerk, but she had a feeling that was a rare instance. This gesture supports that theory.
She steps out of the entranceway. “You want to come in?”
He follows her inside, shutting the door with his boot. “I’ve had a rough couple of months, but I shouldn’t have taken that out on you.”
“It’s fine.” She takes the cookies. “Thank you. This is sweet.”
“It’s not fine,” he argues. “I was a jerk.”
This is her first interaction with Casey where he’s not all wound up. He seems more laid back. More apologetic.
“We all have jerk moments,” she says. “Trust me.”
“Yes, but I called your job psycho babble so…”
That’s true. “Well, I apparently accused you of murder, so I think we’re even.”
He chuckles.
She laughs as well, shaking her head at the absurdity of all of it. She sets her wine glass down. “You know, you were not a suspect. You never were nor anyone at your firehouse. Voight just goaded you and made things completely worse like usual.”
Casey leans against the hotel island. “So, you weren’t accusing me?”
“No. I wasn’t. If you had let me speak, you would have realized that sooner.”
He nods. “Right.”
“I do believe this guy is a firefighter but he’s not a good one or he’s someone who tried to be one but failed. He’s setting these fires to fufill a fantasy…to become a hero. You’re well respected. You’re very achieved. You just became a Captain. You’re everything this guy wants to be. You or your firehouse do not match the profile.”
“Well then why did Voight call me in if I’m not a suspect?”
She sits on the island stool, combing her hair back. “I asked him to. I wanted your help. I’ve reviewed hundreds of firefighters throughout this city and yes, done background checks because it’s my job. There’s not one firefighter better than you. Not only are you the best but you also have connections. I wanted your input. That’s it.”
Casey shakes his head. “Jesus I definitely messed up then.”
He did. He misread all her signals but it’s not completely his fault. Voight didn’t help things.
He massages the back of his neck. “Voight and I have a history.”
“Oh, I know.”
“Right. Well, I’d appreciate a do-over,” Casey says. “Yes. I will happily help you catch this guy. Whatever you need.”
She’s hit with a deep sense of relief. It makes the prospect of catching this guy before he kills someone again less daunting.
“Good.” She grabs a cookie and takes a bite. Casey wasn’t kidding when he said they were the best. It’s damn good. “By the way, I do not resent first responders. I was a paramedic for three years.”
He raises his eyebrow. “You were a paramedic?”
“Yes, back when I lived in Indiana.”
He looks her up and down which sends a thrill up her spine. She tugs her t-shirt down self consciously.
“Why the job change?”
She looks at her pink painted toes. “That’s a very long story.”
Captain Casey doesn’t pry further which she appreciates. He simply nods, looking around her hotel.
She clears her throat. “You want a beer?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve had enough tonight but thank you. I should probably get going.”
Right. It’s late. She should probably go to bed although her anxiety has lessened since he’s been here. She kinda doesn’t want him to leave. He has a calming presence. Hell, he feels safer than the gun in her drawer.
“Yeah. Good call. I have an early morning tomorrow. If I need you for anything regarding the case…”
“You can call,” he replies. “I’m sure you have my number from someone in intelligence.”
She does.
“Alright, I might take you up on that.”
Casey paces to the door, gripping the handle. “You should.” He swings it open. “Have a good night.”
She smiles. “You to.”
He shuts the door behind him and silence blankets across the room. She needs to get some sleep.
A good night’s sleep will lock her past back up into a small box where it belongs.