Jack and the beautiful psychologist merely exchanged a smile, offering no explanation to the two confused individuals beside them.
Anything related to things like smallpox virus terror plots was bound to be stamped with the highest level of secrecy and locked away in dusty archives never to see the light of day again—just like countless similar cases before it.
Jack didn't know whether his past life's world operated the same way, but in this one, he had clearly become part of the quiet few who understood the undercurrents beneath a seemingly calm surface.
He couldn't quite explain why a sense of duty to silently protect the world suddenly washed over him. Shaking it off, Jack downed the rest of his coffee in one go and got up to take his leave.
Alexis was clearly here to conduct a psychological evaluation on Sheriff Ronick, much like the one Maureen had done for him after his first shooting incident.
But Ronick's situation seemed far more serious. As Jack closed the office door behind him, he caught a snippet of conversation from inside.
"I've noticed you're not limping anymore, Sheriff. Are you still taking those painkillers?"
"Come on, Doctor. It's been so long. You must be sick of repeating this same conversation over and over again."
Jack's curiosity was piqued. He pulled out his phone and sent a message to Alice in New York.
"What are you doing—texting your girlfriend to check in?" asked the similarly named female officer walking downstairs with him, giving him a playful wink.
"Ah, no, just checking in with a colleague," Jack replied casually, then remembered the party that was supposedly happening.
"Is there a grocery store nearby? I figured I'd go buy some snacks and drinks. You were expecting three people, and now there are five—you probably need a little more."
Alice looked outside and nodded with some excitement. "Who knows, the blizzard might hit early. We should stock up. Maybe get some beer too? I know a market nearby that sells Stroh's."
The Stroh's beer she mentioned was famously featured in The Shawshank Redemption, the one Andy Dufresne secured for the prisoners as a reward for helping the guards with their taxes.
That rooftop scene, where the convicts savored cold beer under the sun and momentarily felt free, remained vivid in Jack's mind.
In Jack's previous life, Stroh's had long been discontinued, yet to hear it still existed in this world stirred his curiosity.
So off they went, Jack driving and Alice navigating, braving the thickening snowstorm.
"So you're a writer and an NCIS agent?" Alice asked on the way back, unable to suppress her curiosity any longer.
"FBI. I just worked with NCIS recently," Jack replied, keeping the Subaru SUV steady. The wipers groaned under the weight of accumulating snow, and the tires occasionally slipped.
It was still afternoon, but the sky was nearly pitch black. Even the headlights barely cut through the storm, illuminating only a dozen meters ahead.
"I think that's Dr. Sabian's car," Alice suddenly said, pointing toward a black Dodge Tahoe parked along the roadside.
"Stay in the car. I'll go check it out." Jack slowed down with gentle braking. Though they weren't going fast, the icy road still caused the car to slide a bit.
"You alright?" Jack hunched to shield his face from the icy wind as he knocked on the window.
"Thank God it's you!" Alexis quickly opened the door, wrapped her coat tighter, and stepped out shivering. "The engine's dead. I was just about to call for help."
Jack opened his coat to block the wind for her. "Looks like the blizzard's early. Forget the car for now. Come back to the station with us. Looks like we're all spending the night there."
Back in the car, even the brief exposure to the storm had left them covered in snow, which melted instantly in the warmth of the vehicle and soaked their hair.
"You'll catch a cold like that. Here—dry off." Seeing her golden-haired counterpart in such a mess, Alice quickly handed over a towel.
"Thank God I ran into you two. Damn this weather," Alexis muttered gratefully as she dried her hair and then handed the towel to Jack without hesitation. "Hope you don't mind."
"Not at all." Jack flipped the towel to the dry side and casually rubbed it over his buzzcut—honestly, he didn't even need it.
With the parking brake released, they continued crawling through the storm. Thankfully, the 13th Precinct wasn't far. In under 20 minutes, the faintly glowing two-story brownstone building came into view, standing alone in the dark.
—
Sizzle
Strips of pork belly crackled on the wire grill, releasing mouth-watering aroma. Jack poured a shot of "water of life" onto the grill, sending flames leaping up and releasing a wave of warm, citrusy liquor scent into the air.
"Woohoo!" Alice cheered and downed her beer in one gulp, eagerly grabbing a skewer.
John struggled to drag his and Jack's suitcases into the office and froze at the sight. "I knew going anywhere with you wouldn't be boring. You actually bought charcoal and a grill from the store?"
"Leave the door cracked, or this is going to turn into a murder mystery scene," Jack called back as he flipped the meat.
Dr. Alexis had already ditched her violet cashmere coat and her damp long jacket underneath, revealing a snug, low-cut cocktail dress. A short one, naturally—quite the contrast to Alice, yet equally captivating.
She sat across from Jack, resting her chin on her hand as she watched him cook with interest, completely unconcerned about how much skin her posture exposed.
Okay, she was undeniably stunning—less curvy than Alice, but elegant, with a refined silhouette and curves that suited her scholarly aura. One full cup size smaller, maybe, but it matched her personality.
"Missing the gala tonight sucked, but thank you for salvaging my mood with food," Alexis said, eyes lighting up after tasting her second skewer.
Jack's gaze flicked across her face but didn't dare linger on the lace teasing out from her neckline. He replied with a pointed look, "I doubt it's the gala that soured your mood. I'm guessing it was a certain stubborn patient."
Alexis sighed, her expression sinking. "I shouldn't talk about my patients like this... but that man is the most stubborn ostrich I've ever seen."
Jack chuckled and let the topic drop.
Alice in New York had just sent over Ronick's file. Though only 32, he'd already served ten years, half of which had been in deep cover.
About eight months ago, during a botched sting, his two undercover partners—Carol and Tony—were killed during a split pursuit. Ronick had taken a bullet to the leg and only returned to normal walking after three months of rehab.
The Detroit PD's internal review cleared him of responsibility, but Jack could guess what really haunted the man.
The plan had been solid: pretend to be suppliers, catch the dealers red-handed. But things went sideways. Ronick got shot and fell behind. Carol and Tony split up to chase the suspects after calling for backup, only to be killed.
Though technically blameless, Ronick had given the order to split up. That burden didn't sit easily.
"Some things you just have to work through yourself. No meds or therapy can fully solve it," Jack said aloud, raising his voice just enough for the descending Sheriff Ronick to hear.
"That smells amazing," Ronick said cheerfully, handing a thick file to Alexis.
"I think you left this on my desk, Dr. Sabian."
Alexis snatched the folder with a forced smile. The file, of course, was her psychological assessment of Ronick over the past few months—now thoroughly read by her patient.
"Oh really? I forgot it? Or did you slip it out of my bag after that rare gentlemanly farewell? Having fun playing thief, Sheriff?"
"No, I swear you left it. I'm one hundred percent sure," Ronick replied with mock sincerity.
"You're such a disappointment," Alexis snapped, her face flushed with anger, just as John decided to interrupt the drama.
"Why don't we all sit down and have a drink? It's New Year's Eve. Maybe tomorrow will bring a fresh start."
Jack joined in. "Look at the bright side. Your treatment is working—your patient's clearly engaged now."
"Oh, please. All that nonsense about burying his head in the sand and refusing to face responsibility..."
Before Ronick could argue, Alice stuffed a sausage into his mouth. "Try this, boss. I swear you've never had a better hot link."
"Alright, alright—ladies and gentlemen, raise your glasses," said old Jasper, the station's senior officer, stepping forward.
"Before this rat hole is leveled, let's toast it—and me. I think I'll miss this dump and the two of you."
He pointed at Alice and Ronick.
"What the hell are you talking about, old man?" Alice asked, confused by his tone like he was delivering a farewell speech.
"I've got news, boys and girls—this old man's retiring." Jasper grinned, lifting his glass. His snowy white mustache twitched with amusement.
"Congratulations! You should've told us earlier," Ronick exclaimed.
"Just got the official notice," Jasper beamed.
"Anyway, glasses up, everyone—even our surprise guests. Let's drink to this station, to me, and to my coming retirement."
"Cheers."
"Cheers!"
No one wanted to kill the mood. Everyone raised their glasses. Jack noticed that Ronick only sipped his drink—a sign that while he might joke around, he was self-aware and trying to heal.
As Alice dragged out an old cassette player, the deep, magnetic voice of jazz legend Frank Sinatra filled the office.
John, happily munching skewers and watching the two women dance, said, "Maybe getting out of L.A. once in a while isn't so bad. You see some pretty amazing sights."
"You'd better mean 'sights' and not 'ladies.' Don't forget to check in with Grace tonight," Jack shot back.
"She's totally relaxed once she heard I was with you. In all senses," John winked.
Jack rolled his eyes. "Now I know exactly who's responsible for ruining my reputation."
Just then, something on the office TV caught his attention—a towering man in handcuffs was being shown on the news.
"Hey, Alice, you know who Marino Bishop is?" Jack handed her a sausage as she finished a dance and returned eagerly to the grill.
"One of the city's biggest problems. Detroit's top gang leader," she answered, nose wrinkling. "Says here he just killed a cop named Ray Bortnaux? Yeah, he's toast."
She hissed a breath through her teeth—unclear if from heat or spice.
Jack, however, wasn't focused on the crime. What shocked him was Marino Bishop's face on TV.
With those sunglasses on... the guy looked just like Morpheus from The Matrix.
______
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