"It's been like twenty minutes since your last call, so you better get your dirty hands off Fred."
At Gillian's right, Taylor heard Banks' loud laughter from her phone. She scoffed at something he said and disconnected.
"It's kinda weird, you know?" said Taylor then, in the most casual way. "Seeing Banks with you."
Gillian glanced at him, inviting him to elaborate. Taylor shrugged as they both looked out and up at the apartment, like they'd been doing for the last two hours.
"I mean, he's always this serious, tough guy—one of the best cops I've ever met, though. We all like working under him. But he's always too busy to... mingle, you know what I mean?" He smiled. "But when he's with you, it's like he drops his Sergeant badge and ten years. He makes jokes, and laughs and... The way you guys role-played at the crime scene the other day, and how you both know what the other is thinking..." He nodded. "Now I get why they always talk about you two, and why you were the best team Homicide had in decades."
She smiled too. "We were partners for eight years. That's a very long time to work with somebody on this job. We've saved each other's ass more times than I can remember, and had our ups and downs. Like any marriage." They chuckled softly. "I was assigned as Bob's partner when mine left the force to join the FBI. I was a frigging green shot back then, all knees and elbows. But he was patient and understanding, and gave me room and time to find my own way around things. That's why he always knows what I'm about to say: he was there when I learned to think the way I do."
Taylor listened, nodding now and then. "He doesn't only respect you a lot: he really cares about you," he said.
Gillian replied with an affectionate smile, "Just like I love his big fat..." She trailed off and sat up. "There!"
Taylor pointed his binoculars up and spotted a nimble shadow, coming down the fire escape from the roof of the building. Gillian opened her door noiselessly.
"Take the front door and wait for my sign," she whispered, sneaking out of the car to crouch behind a container, just a step away.
As soon as the shadow turned his back to the car to keep climbing down, Gillian ran to the fire escape, Taylor not a step behind. At the next flight of stairs, the man turned his back to the street and Taylor ran to the sidewalk and the building door. Gillian pulled down the ladder and climbed to the second floor, the noises she couldn't help masked in the shadow's own noises.
Above her, the killer pushed Young's window up and sneaked in. Gillian hurried up the first flight of stairs, drawing her gun, as she heard the voices coming from Young's apartment. The dealer sounded surprised, yet for some reason he wasn't afraid, but glad. Did he know the killer? If the man was doing it for Garcia, it'd figure that he knew the dealers on his hit-list. Yet Gillian couldn't tell why, but Young didn't quite sound like he was greeting a buddy. The tone of his voice wasn't the one of a guy talking to another guy.
"Holly crap!" she muttered, realization hitting her as she took the last flight of stairs to Young's window. Good thing she'd told Taylor to wait for her sign to come in.
She reached the window and stuck to the wall by it, then risked a quick glance into the apartment. Enough to see she was right.
"Tell me when," whispered Taylor on the radio.
Whenever you want, dear. "Make yourself at home, it may take a while," she replied, her breath steaming in the freezing night.