Andrei - Are we kids?

For the second time today, we are in the captain's office. It feels like we have been called into the principal's office to be reprimanded for fighting. Captain Baker wears a scowl of disapproval and disappointment as he looks at James. When his eyes rest on the woman sitting beside me, his eyes soften and fill with concern. 

"What was that?" he asks, swinging his angry gaze back on James. 

"She punched me," he says, his words slightly muffled by the ice pack pressed to his face. 

Baker looks back to Sanchez. "Jocelynn?"

Wait. He addresses her by her first name? That is strange. 

"He wanted to know if I punch like a girl," she says, shaking her head. 

"Did you need to demonstrate?"

"Yes,"

From the look they exchange, it is clear that the two of them are familiars. They know each other outside of this building. What kind of relationship they could have is beyond me, though. He slants his head at her, and she rolls her eyes, both of them pissed off and defeated. 

"I remember saying something about respect," Baker says to James. 

"Yeah, but we were just messing around. None of us were serious," he defends. 

Baker turns to me. "Andrei?"

"He deserved it," I say simply. "He was being disrespectful,"

"Are you serious?" James shouts at me. "You're taking her side after she punched me for making a joke?"

I let out a sigh before turning in my seat and facing him. "We are not in high school. You have shown her nothing but blatant disrespect all day, and you expect her to just let it go? You are grown, James, way too old to be making jokes as arrogant as that one,"

"This is stupid," he mutters. 

"No, what is stupid is you thinking you can speak to her that way and get away with it. What is stupid is you thinking I would defend you disrespecting and undermining her like that. She would not be here if she were not capable of doing the job, and it has been proven over and over that she is more than able. You are incredibly stupid to think she would not be able to punch you,"

"Whatever," he mutters, like a child placed in the naughty corner. 

Great. I feel like I have just reprimanded one of my nieces. They're nearly sixteen and have more common sense than James does. 

I turn back in my seat to apologize to the captain for my outburst, but he smiles at me before turning to Sanchez. 

"What do you want to do about this?"

"Nothing," she says without hesitation. 

"I can't have you going around punching your colleagues,"

"I told you this wouldn't work,"

"You're not making it easy,"

She meets his eyes, giving him a 'are you serious?' look. He sighs again and drops his head in his hands. We sit in silence, waiting to be dismissed, for at least five minutes before he speaks. 

"Fine," he finally says, releasing a breath. "This is what we're going to do. Sanchez, Smirnov and Sorenson will work together. Since Anderson can't seem to play nice with others, he'll work with Deluca. The three of you are going to focus on this morning's case, and you two will continue with what you were doing,"

He finishes with a dismissive nod, letting us know to get the hell out of his office. I push out of my chair and wait for Sanchez to stand from hers. James exits the room first and we follow. Sanchez holds her right hand in her left, rubbing at her knuckles. They have already started to redden and swell. 

I stay behind her as she walks through the door, through the room and toward the entrance of the building. I received a text message from Forensics while we were with Baker, a positive ID on our victim's fingerprints. That along with an address and the name of his next of kin is enough to get us started. 

When I open the door to the passenger side of my car, Sanchez stops short, looking between the door and my outstretched arm for what feels like an eternity. When she finally gets in, I breathe a sigh of relief and shut the door. I pray that James's behavior toward her does not reflect poorly on me.

Ten minutes later, we are parked in the street of our victim's brother's house. Notifications are most probably the hardest part of the job. Having to look someone in the eyes and tell them that their loved one has passed is a different kind of torment. I cannot imagine getting a death notification myself. 

"How do you want to do this?" I ask the woman in my passenger seat. 

Her head turns. "What?" 

"You have never had to work with a partner, and this is all new for you, so we will go with however you want to do this,"

Her expression remains blank as she stares at me. "You'll do what needs to be done. I'll observe for now,"

"Is that what you want to do?" I ask, because there is no way in hell Jocelynn Sanchez is okay with simply observing while a man does all the work. 

Despite what we both know, she nods. "Sure,"

Okay, then. 

We get out of the car and make our way up the driveway, walking past a blue hatchback. The house is a simple townhouse, well kept, and the yard is relatively clean, save for a few beer cans on the lawn. When we make it to the door, I knock. She stands behind me with her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets. 

One thing I have noticed about Jocelynn Sanchez is she does not wear coats. She wears big, puffy jackets that cut off at her waist. She also rarely wears sneakers. Instead, she wears heeled boots that could not be comfortable. 

"Who is it?" a voice behind the door calls. 

"NYPD. Do you mind opening the door, Mister Russo?" I ask, adapting an American accent. 

A moment later, the door is pulled open and a man stands in front of us. He looks between us with a confused expression, which is understandable. My heart races as I brace myself for the news I am about to deliver. 

His head tilts. "What is this about?"

"Is your brother Laurent Russo?" I ask. 

"Yes. What is this about?" he asks, looking back at Sanchez. 

I shake my head. "I'm sorry, Mister Russo, but your brother's body was found this morning," I say, trying my best to remain professional. 

"What?" he exclaims. "That's not possible,"

"I'm afraid it's true, sir,"

He starts shaking his head. He takes a deep breath before his eyes start to get glassy. I stay rooted in place as he tries to breathe, placing his hand over his chest. His attempt is in vein; he starts hyperventilating. Before I can move to assist, Sanchez breezes past me and steps into the house. 

She takes the man's arm and pulls him deeper into the house. All I can do is follow, wondering what she is doing. I watch her walk him to the kitchen, one hand holding his arm and another on his back. She opens the fridge and sticks his head inside it. Luckily, there is not much in it, so his head fits.

Ducking beneath him, she opens the door to the freezer and sifts through it until she finds an ice tray. She cracks the tray and takes a few blocks, dropping them onto his neck and down his shirt. He does not flinch, or yell, or tell her to stop. He simply stands at the fridge with his hands on either side, catching his breath. 

Five minutes later, Sanchez and I are seated in Mister Russo's living room. He sits across from us, his shirt drenched and his expression a mix of emotions. I cannot tell what he is feeling, and I am sure he cannot either. 

He clears his throat. "Thank you for that," he says to Sanchez. 

"Sure," she says curtly. 

With a nod, he asks, "Can you tell me what happened to my brother?"

There is a beat of silence as I wait for Sanchez to answer, but when I realize she is not going to, I do. 

"He was shot. Six times," I say. "He was also tied up and strangled. We've gathered that your brother's murder was personal. Do you have any idea who could've held a grudge against your brother?"

He nods, his eyes immediately going glassy again. "Uh, no. My brother didn't have any enemies. At least not as far as I know. I haven't seen him in a few months, though," he tells us. 

"What happened the last time you saw him?"

"He was a little strung out. I don't know what he was on, but it was something serious. He could barely form coherent sentences. He said he was trying to get his act together and figure out his life," he says, shaking his head. "He needed to borrow money, and I gave it to him. He promised he'd use it responsibly,"

"We didn't find any drugs in his system,"

He laughs, a hollow sound. "Oh, that's good," he says with a sniffle. "I can't think of anyone who could've hated him that much to do all of that to him,"

"Was your brother in a romantic relationship that you knew of?"

"The last relationship he was in was with his dealer's sister," he says. "Lo told me they broke up, though,"

"This dealer...did he have ties to any gangs?"

"I have no idea, man," he says, running a hand across his face. 

I nod. "Do you know what your brother could have been doing at Inwood Hill Park or close to it?"

Brows drown together, he shakes his head. "He lived in Queens,"

"Did he know anyone in that part of the city?"

"I don't know." He runs a hand through his hair. "He could've met new people in those six months,"

"Right,"

He looks to Sanchez. "Hey, are you okay? Can I get you an ice pack for your hand?"

She looks up, pushing her hands into her pockets. "I'm fine, thank you," 

"I bet you get all kinds of bruises as a cop," he says with a wet laugh, a sad attempt at lightening the mood. 

"Unfortunately, this specific one didn't come from being a detective," she says. 

"Who'd you deck?"

"One of the misogynistic pricks I work with,"

With a small smile and a nod, he gestures to me. "He one of them?"

"I don't know yet," she says after a moment's hesitation.