"I sent you a photo, Detective. I need some help collecting alias data on this person."
"OK. I'll see what I can dig up. And have you… " Click.
"Guess not…" he says to himself, putting down the phone. Obviously the Professor is still in no mood to talk about it - or anything, other than issues related to work. Rather like when he first met the man, a nondescript geek who happened to have a trigger finger on a two-legged weapon of destruction. And the little man not only hadn't trust him, but had considered him just another dirty cop.
Which of course he was…
He sighs heavily. Lately it seems his life has been going one step forward, two steps back. Not that he's complaining about his elevated status here since goose-stepping that slime Simmons through the precinct. Being the big dog in the division now is pretty nice, but… He tries not to look across his desk. He never does, letting his eyes slide either right or left if it's necessary to track someone in the bull pen.
Mostly though, he tries to not be at his desk at all.
Sure, Carter had already vacated that station for weeks, out pounding the beat after she'd been demoted. But no one had been reassigned to that space, and as long as it remained unused he could pretend that she'd get it back soon. At the time it was of course more than pretense, he'd been sure of it! Now he just wishes she'd trusted him more; let him in on her plans…let him help. Maybe some things would have turned out differently. Perhaps a lot of things would be different. The thought leaves him hanging between anger and sorrow.
He spends the next half hour running down information for Finch. Standard stuff: apartment leases, past addresses, car registrations, prior arrests. Easy peasy when you have the right software and contacts at your fingertips. As he finds the documents he texts them to the reclusive geek, not really expecting to get a reply since he's seldom gotten one before.
The Dynamic Duo is not big on dishing out "thank you's".
Getting back to his own cases he starts on the stack of reports, checking his phone every so often for a message. Hoping for a message. Jeez! He's got to stop doing this! Like some fan girl mooning over a film star, hoping to get a text or any kind of indication that the big guy is still out there. Still alive.
And talking to the Professor is proving useless. The geek either doesn't know anything about where Wonder Boy disappeared to or isn't sharing. In either case, he's pulled out every trick he's learned over his many years at NYPD trying to track down Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deranged, with no luck. The ex-op is pulling his invisible man routine. Not a trace to be found.
He nervously taps his favorite pen on the desk, remembering scenes from several months ago. His nemesis had been in a bad way for quite a while, hanging on by a thread. And who would have thought that the Goth bitch in black would be the one to save the Suit? Personally, she scared the hell out of him, but in this case he's had to hand it to her…she knows her doctor stuff!
Hmm. Perhaps she knows something more. In the beginning he'd purposely stayed as far as possible outside her circle of peril, treating her much like one would a rabid dog: lots of space and no eye contact. But after getting captured by Simmons, and with her saving his boy's life…? He doesn't care if the Goth queen shoots every perp who crosses her path. As far as he's concerned he owes the woman - big time!
And since she and Mr. Deadly are pretty much cut from the same cloth, both being bona fide members of Killers Anonymous, is there a chance she might even now be in contact with the psychopathic vigilante? He reaches for his cell, then stops. Yeah. He doesn't have a number for Ms. Trigger Happy! And there's not much use in asking the Professor.
Damn! He tosses the phone back on the desk, sending forms and letters scattering and earning a quizzical glance from the uni passing his desk. He scowls at the officer, daring a comment, then returns to the blizzard of papers on his work space. Whoever said computers were going to cut down on paper copy obviously hadn't been to this precinct! Now he gets to type stuff online and fill in hard copy forms.
Someone with some influence should really lean on the powers that be…
On the tail of that thought, he shovels his phone out from under the snow bank of papers and scrolls swiftly through his contact list. Ha! There it is! Ms. Z. Morgan, the hot chick he'd met only in passing on one of their cases, but who had impressed him - though mostly because of her gams. He'd taken time to do a little research on the woman, and now, if this is still a working number…
"Detective Fusco. How did you get this number?"
"Uh…hi. Uh, got it from a mutual friend," he lies. "The tall one?" He stumbles over the words, realizing belatedly that he hadn't really expected her to pick up. And certainly not on the first ring. Yeah. Should probably have thought this one through a bit more.
"Now I doubt that. But since you did call me, what can I do for you?" She has such a sultry voice. Fusco has this sudden vision of shapely legs and...
"I'm looking for John Reese. You don't happen to know where he is, do you?"
There's silence at the other end, and for a few seconds he wonders if perhaps she's decided to not take his call after all. But then, "Seems there are quite a few folks insistent on finding him. Harold being the most frantic. But no, I wish I did."
"Oh. Well, thanks anyway." He tries not to let the disappointment bleed too deeply into his tone. After all, it was a long shot. "If he does contact you, will you let me know? You have my number on the ID."
"That will be John's decision, but if he doesn't mind, I'll give you a call."
"Thanks. Uh…goodbye." A lame finish but he really doesn't know what else to say, and puts the phone back on the desk. Maybe he could call Finch again… No!
But sitting here is driving him bonkers!
There's got to be something else he can do, someone else he can shake down. He dials another number, tapping his pen on the desk as he hears it ringing. One ringy-ding, two ringy-ding, three, four, five… No answer. Given who he's calling there's no percentage in leaving a voice mail. After staring at the phone a few seconds, he lurches out of his chair, dropping the cell into his pocket along with the keys to his cruiser while surging to his feet.
His movements go on auto pilot as he clips on the badge, pockets the cuffs, and retrieves his gun from the desk drawer. Thinks briefly of getting his vest, but decides against it. Too uncomfortable. Besides, where he's going is relatively safe; it's not a war zone. Yet.
.
...
.
"Leon Tao? Detective Fusco."
Ringing the bell repeatedly had gotten no reaction, so he's resorted to the old fashioned Let-Me-In pounding method. The door finally opens - or at least as far as a security chain will allow – revealing a half-moon portion of Leon's face as it fills the narrow space at a tad below Fusco's eye level. He'd forgotten how short the little con man is.
"Uh...Detective. Uh, hi. Is there something I can do for you?"
"Well, for starters, you can unhook that chain and let me in. I need to talk to you."
"Uh. Yeah. Well, uh, you see, now's not a good time." And the little man turns his head to look back into the darken room. A noticeably suspicious move hard for a layman to miss, much less an NYPD detective.
"Really. And why is that, Mr. Tao? You hiding something?" Fusco straightens up and puts on his most professional intimidating expression. He thinks about ratcheting up the menace factor even more by reaching for his weapon, but decides that the little guy might possibly faint with fright. The Leon he remembers isn't exactly warrior material.
"No. No! Of course not. It's just that, uh …" Leon trails off, visibly nervous. "OK. We can talk. Out here."
"Fine with me", Fusco responds. Like he cares at this point if the guy is smoking dope or cranking out funny money! Though even Leon should be smarter than to start an illegal operation in his sleazy apartment…or maybe not. In any case he's got only one goal on his mind right now, and the con man may be able to help him reach it.
Leon closes the door briefly, unhooks the chain and then creating a space barely wide enough to allow him to slither through, moves into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
"Jesus, Leon!" Fusco exclaims. "What in the hell are you doing in there?"
"Nothing…nothing! Well, nothing illegal," responds the little man, drawing up to his full five foot seven.
"Yeah, well, I can only imagine, what with you standing out here in your boxers. And the picture I'm getting is burning my eyeballs from the inside out!"
Leon looks up and down the hallway, attempting to merge with the grimy wall next to his apartment door. Fusco decides to give the con artist some slack. After all, the last thing he wants is for Leon to get tongue tied with embarrassment…though he doubts the guy even knows the definition of the word.
"Look, listen up. I don't care what or who you have in there. Just answer me this: do you know where I can find Reese?"
Leon looks startled, enough so that he moves away from the wall. "Nooo…" He drags out the word. "Is he lost?"
"Yeah, you might say that."
Actually that was probably a good word for it. He'd visited Reese several times during the ex-op's recovery and each time was stonewalled. The man didn't want to talk. Not to him, not to Finch, not to the Goth bitch who probably saved his ass. The big guy had just lain there, bouncing around in his own mind, shutting himself in and everyone else out. Not even the pooch could get to him.
"If he contacts you, give me a call", and he shoves a card into Leon's hand. The con man looks at it and then at Fusco. "I hope you find him Detective. I need him around here when I get in trouble."
At first Fusco thinks the con is trying for an insult, perhaps a not-so-veiled shot directed at NYPD response time - which he knows sucks - but then looks at Leon's face. The little man is dead serious; Leon really does think of Reese as his personal protector.
"I'll find him," he responds, with more conviction than he feels. "I'll find him."
He turns away from the door and as Leon squeezes himself back through the entrance, the sound of several giggles seep into the hallway. Fusco rolls his eyes. He really doesn't what to know what's going on in there…
.
...
.
"Look, Professor, I know you like to keep things close to the vest, but we've got to find your boy."
"Why?"
The portly cop had struggled with himself, finally giving in and calling Glasses again. But now he's momentarily stumped. That was not the response he'd expected, and frankly a question he hadn't really thought much about. Why was he worried about Finch's gunslinger…and looking for him all these many weeks? He'd called Finch again after he'd promised himself he wouldn't. And why was that?
His mind churns, rooting for answers like a hog for truffles, only none seem to be anywhere near the surface for easy retrieval. There's got to be some logic attached to the answer, something like, "I need help to close a case", or "I need him to sieve some scum from the gene pool". All a piece of the answer, but none enough to make a whole.
The full answer has ties to his partner's death and the final ending to HR, though looking back he knows the turning point in his life came long before those particular events, when Wonder Boy showed up in the back of his cruiser. He needs to find the man, one he still refers to in his head as the Bane of his Existence, because the pain-in-the-ass gave him back his self-respect.
Shaw may have saved the son, but Reese saved the father. Not gently, not in one stroke, and not with any finesse, but through bullying, coercion, intimidation. Sometimes painful, always stressful, but it got the job done: he'd quit drinking, quit gofering for HR, and started acting like a cop again. Got back the pride he'd felt when he'd first joined the force. And that's why he now feels compelled to rescue his rescuer.
He fully understands the guy's motivation in tearing up large swaths of the city while going after Simmons. But he also understands that when you go out to seek revenge, you end up digging two graves. One for yourself. And he'd rather not see that happen.
"Because he needs us. And we need him."
There is silence at the other end. Fusco wonders if the geek has hung up on him, that having happened on more than one occasion. But finally he hears a sigh, and knows the older man is still with him.
"There's a military facility not far from Denver. Start there." Finch gives him further directions which he hastily scribbles on the desk pad. Not very precise, but enough. He's not a detective for nothing…he'll find Tall, Dark and Deadly given this starting point.
.
...
.
The flight to Denver was uneventful…as it should be. Something that every passenger, whether consciously or not, prays for. The Professor had offered to pay for a first class ticket, but the flight was packed and he'd had to fly cattle class in the only seat still available. But on the plus side he didn't have some screaming kid or a chatty grandma sitting next to him. The guys on either side, clearly business types, never said a word, just tapped away on their laptops.
The "snacks" of course were laughable and he'd quickly stuffed them into the seat pocket in front of him. At least he did have some choice in sodas. And the movie was one he hadn't seen before. So overall, a good trip.
Now he's cruising north of Denver, where Finch had indicated as the best area in which to run Mr. Happy to ground. So far he's hit every motel, restaurant, and bar along the major thoroughfare near the Army post with no success. Not that he expects anything more, since Reese will likely have hitched a ride out of the city. But the cop in him still has to be certain.
He turns into a small bar just off the highway, already deciding this as his last stop before finding himself a room somewhere for the night. Ominous clouds have been gathering all afternoon, promising a real toad floater soon and frankly, he doesn't relish driving around a strange area in a pouring rain, especially not in a rental.
Not after catching the tail end of the TV news at that last StopNShop - though it was hard to stay focused on a storm prediction and not on the voluptuous weather girl. With the long red hair. And low cut blouse. She looked great…but what he remembered of the forecast? It truly sucked.
Leaving the non-descript rental in the pot-holed parking lot next to several shiny hogs, he pushes into the Colorado version of the 'Last Chance Saloon'. The place is the typically dark and gloomy bar equivalent of "cosy", with traditional neon signs outlining names of well know beers lending an eerie glow to the atmosphere. The place is mostly deserted with only a couple of locals taking advantage of the pool table.
The only thing missing is a juke-box playing some She-Done-Me-Wrong song…though there did seem to be music coming from somewhere, pretty much drowned out by the clink of billiard balls, the muted sounds bouncing off walls covered with memorabilia.
Moving past the pool table he finds a seat at the bar and glances around the place while waiting for the bartender to notice him. Finally the old man looks up from an inventory list and moves toward his customer.
"What'll it be?"
"Soda…and some information," says Fusco, slipping into his most harmless demeanor. The best he can hope for - Wonder Boy having already cornered the market on "charm".
The barkeep gives him a reserved smile, one obviously designed to make customers feel welcome to spend their money, but also one that promises nothing for free. "Don't serve soft drinks here. Beer, mixed drinks, or straight liquor..."
"Fine. Then I'll take a bourbon and soda. Soda on the side."
The grizzled employee gives him a disgusted look and moves further down the aisle to fill the order while Fusco studies the area behind the bar, his attention drawn to the numerous items pinned to the wall. Most are photos of service men - he assumes from the nearby military base - though there are a couple of old clippings. One dated June 1942. Another, a more recent one sponsored by the VFW, declares 'Welcome Home Troops!'
The clippings are yellowed, the edges curling, testimony to having been there for some time. He studies them all, but what holds his interest is a series of photos framed in a manner his ex-wife would call a collage, hung in the area next to the grimy window. They're of one person, with the photo that really catches his eye being of an unsmiling soldier, front and center.
Faded as are they all, it still has enough clarity to define the features of the man caught on camera staring straight into the lens. A familiar face. Not an exact copy, but enough of the same bone structure that he can see a strong resemblance. Those prominent cheek bones, that straight nose, tight lips… John Reese.
"Bourbon, soda on the side." The bartender places the two glasses in front of him with a little more force than necessary, underscoring his opinion of the cop's order.
"Thanks." And Fusco pulls out several bills. "Keep the change."
The barman quickly calculates the amount of his tip, then decides the portly cop is not such a bad sort after all. His face relaxes and almost smiles again.
Fusco takes a sip, then using the glass as a pointer, indicates the larger photo on the wall.
"Who's that guy?"
The bar owner glances briefly at the frame indicated then turns back to Fusco. "Don't know. Bought this place about a year ago. All this stuff was here already." He shrugs lightly. "Didn't really see any need to change it what with all those Army folks who like to come in here. Makes them feel welcome."
"That guy, the one in the large photo…he looks familiar. Seen him come in here recently?"
This time the barkeep makes a full turn and studies the photo.
"Huh. Now that you mention it…"
.
...
.
Fusco sits at the table, his glass on the pitted top positioned between a lop-sided heart carved in the old wood and the name 'Andy' written in magic marker peeking out from under yesterday's paper. He'd left the bourbon on the bar where he has no doubt it will either end up back inside the bottle…or the bartender. Whatever. He'll stick to his expensive soda.
He knows he's anxious. Knows the feeling well and accepts it, that toxic blend of anger and sorrow which started with the knowledge that Simmons had his kid. It had been diluted with the sound of Shaw's voice over the phone, and more so with the satisfaction in the throttling his tormentor.
But with the death of his partner and the disappearance of Wonder Boy, it came back full strength. And hasn't let up; he's been carrying it around for months now, the corrosive combo eating a hole in his stomach.
Consciously keeping his knee from bouncing with anticipation, he pulls his hat a bit lower down on his brow. Takes a large swallow of soda and rearranges his feet under the table. And now his knee is bouncing…again. He needs a better cover than this! The paper. Yeah. That'll work. He opens the newspaper to the sports section; might as well catch up on the scores while he waits.
He's going to be lighting a fuse soon enough, at the end of which is the most lethal human he's ever had the bad luck to meet.
By now his adrenalin is spiking and with it comes a corresponding enhancement of the senses. Like Superman, he thinks. He can feel and hear and smell things that before he couldn't. Like the texture of the humidity infused paper beneath his fingers, and the slickness of the liquor stained floor beneath his feet. The sound of that mournful ballad playing on some radio in the place, overlaid with the clink of billiard balls and muted chit-chat around the pool table. The smell of stale cigarettes and beer and wet wood.
And out of his periphery Fusco senses more than sees a tall man exit the restrooms and head toward the bar. He stops bouncing his knee, grips the paper tightly. Without turning his head he knows exactly when that individual stops, does an about face and moves toward his table.
He stills as Reese comes to stand next to him. His hat is unceremoniously lifted from his head, and in a flat whispery voice devoid of all emotion, one that still has the power to invade his nightmares, he hears:
"Hello, Lionel. Finch send you?"