At Risk

At Risk: Individuals who are mentally and/or physically impaired; and due to these impairments, are unable to manage their own resources, carry out the activities of daily living, or protect themselves from abuse, neglect, exploitation or other hazardous situations without assistance from others; and have no one available who is willing and able to assist them responsibly.

At risk:

phrase of risk

1. exposed to harm or danger.

Fusco sounded annoyed. As usual. "That you, Professor?"

Finch ignored the tone and the nickname. "Yes, Detective. I was wondering if you had that information I'd requested."

"Yeah, but I'm not sure why you had to get me involved."

"Meaning…?"

"Meaning that I didn't find out anything you probably didn't already know."

"Detective, all we know about those deaths is what we found in the newspapers. That a man by the name of Mark Green found the bodies of two different elderly men in the space of eight months."

"And as far as I tell, that's all there is to know."

Finch picked up one of the newspaper articles sitting on the computer table. "The paper reported that Green was a friend of Fielding's."

"Yeah. He was a friend of both men. That's how he had a key to their apartments."

"So, there was nothing out of the ordinary with either of the deaths."

"Nothing. Both of these guys died of natural causes, which isn't a big surprise seeing as they were over 75."

Finch sat back in his chair and took a sip of his tea as he considered this information. "Not even the more recent one, Mr. Fielding?"

"Nope. Heart attack. The coroner said he had a bad ticker. Enlarged, she said. But, since Fielding didn't have any prescriptions, it's likely he didn't even know about it. In fact, neither he or the other guy, what's-his-name …" Fusco paused and Finch could hear papers being shuffled, "…Peterson, had been to a doctor in years."

Finch straightened up. "Thanks, Detective. We'll contact you if we need anything else." Finch ended the call, cutting off Fusco's terse remark mid-word, and looked down at the two photos on the table next to the monitor. They had been culled from the obituaries for the men whose deaths he'd had Fusco look into. The summaries of both men's lives were brief and held few similarities. Peterson had some Military Service, Fielding didn't. One had grown up in New York, the other was from Ohio. The two things that they had in common, apparently, were that neither man had any living relatives and they both had known Mark Green.

Finch looked up at the photo of their current POI taped to the cracked glass divider. Green, a retired actuarial, was white, thin and had brown eyes. His thick white hair had just enough color in it to appear blonde, giving him a youthful look belying his sixty-nine years. His smile was pleasant and friendly. Overall, he had the appearance of a benevolent Grandfather, the lack of offspring notwithstanding.

Finch turned back to the monitor that displayed Reese's location and realized that his partner was almost at his first stop in their investigation. Finch lifted the two obituaries in order to clear a place to set his cup of tea and in so doing uncovered the bookmark that Sarah had given him.

Green and the two dead men forgotten for the moment, Finch set his cup down and picked up the tooled leather strip. He ran a finger lightly over the pattern, admiring once again the craftsmanship and the detail. The woman who made it told Sarah that the design was a talisman against unseen dangers. And so, of course, Sarah had bought it. Finch smiled, remembering the night that she had given it to him*. The smile faded as he remembered, also, more recent visits that had ended less pleasantly.

"We're here, Finch." Reese's voice said from the phone's speaker. "Ready?"

Finch's attention quickly turned back to the monitor. "Yes, Reese," he said as he set the bookmark aside. "I'm ready."

"Now, are you sure I can't get you two something to drink? Or some cookies? They're fresh baked."

Reese smiled politely. "That's very tempting, Mrs. Martin. And they do smell good. But…?" He turned to the woman sitting next to him on the sofa and laid his hand on hers.

Zoë smiled warmly at him then turned her smile on the apartment manager. "No, thank you. You're very kind, but I think we need to get going," she said, picking up her purse for emphasis.

"Oh." The elderly woman blinked, slightly disappointed. "Well, if you must." Then her expression brightened. "But, maybe I'll be seeing you again soon. That is, if you decide to rent that apartment."

They all stood, Mrs. Martin taking a little longer to leverage herself up from her overstuffed armchair. She blinked up at them through her glasses, her dark brown face crinkled by her broad smile. Standing there in her cozy, if dated, living room, Reese knew he and Zoë had all the appearance of a mature, stable, well off couple and Mrs. Martin was obviously pleased at the thought that she might land them as the new renters of the soon to be vacated apartment across the hall. She escorted them through her door, down the hall and out the front door of the building, the whole time telling them things she thought they should know about the apartment and the neighborhood. "Remember," she said as they paused at the top of the short flight of steps outside the building's front door, "Mark will be moving out by the end of the month, so you'll want to get back to me soon."

Once they were back in the car, Reese put his phone on speaker and checked in with Finch. "Did you hear all that, Finch?"

"Yes, Reese. Whether I wanted to or not." Finch's tone was dry. "Mrs. Martin was rather verbose."

Zoë smiled. "I thought she was sweet," she said as she turned in the passenger seat to look at Reese. "She seemed rather taken with you, John. If we did move in, we'd probably get preferential treatment."

Reese smirked. "Maybe she'd bake us cookies."

"From what I could tell, Ms. Morgan, you were the one who was free to look around Green's apartment while Reese kept Mrs. Martin occupied," Finch interjected, his tone all business. Zoe looked at Reese, an eyebrow raised questioningly. Reese gave a little shrug and a quick shake of his head as Finch continued. "I heard Reese try to find out from Mrs. Martin why Green was moving and where, to no avail. Were you able to discover anything from your investigations?"

"Well, yes." Zoë said glancing at Reese with amusement. "Green lives a rather Spartan existence. Just a few pieces of furniture in each room so it didn't take long to check everything. There are hardly any photos or knick-knacks."

"I've checked the account number you found on his bank statement. Any other letters or correspondence?"

"A few bills, all up to date. No photos. Nothing hidden in the kitchen or bedroom. No weapons. If he has anything valuable he must keep it in a safe deposit box."

"According to his bank records, he isn't renting one."

"Well, there certainly wasn't anything like a safe in the apartment."

Reese asked, "Did Fusco have anything new to tell us?"

"No. According to the coroner's reports, both men died of natural causes." Finch's voice betrayed some frustration. After a pause, he said, "We have two dead men, both elderly, both living alone."

"And both of them had been befriended by Mark Green," Reese finished.

"It could be a coincidence," Zoë offered. "They were both pretty old, after all."

Before Reese could fashion a vague enough answer, Finch responded. "It's possible, Ms. Morgan, but Green's name came to our attention for a reason. And this seems to be a pretty big coincidence. We can't afford to ignore it."

Zoë looked at Reese, her expression unreadable. She didn't know about the Machine of course, so she had to wonder how he and Finch got their 'information'. So far, she hadn't pushed to find out.

"Well, gentlemen, if you don't need me any more, I have my own business to tend to."

"Of course, Ms. Morgan. As Reese has to take over the tail on Green from Carter, I've taken the liberty of calling a cab for you. It should be there by now."

Reese looked in the rear view mirror and saw that a taxi was indeed just pulling up behind the sedan. They both got out of the car and Reese met Zoë at the cab's passenger door, opening it for her.

"So," she said, her mouth quirking a little in amusement. "See you later?" She ran one of her manicured nails lightly over the back of the hand he had resting on top of the open cab door.

Reese returned her amused smile with one of his own. "Depends. Will there be cookies?"

Her smile shifted a little so that it bordered on the erotic and then she got into the cab. Reese watched the taxi ease in to traffic, his thoughts were on what the "later" could bring. He mentally shook himself.

"Where now, Finch?"

"Where" turned out to be a coffee shop not far from where Reese was standing. Carter had tailed him there from his apartment that morning and was now sitting at a small corner table, strategically positioned to keep an eye on her quarry. After Reese got a cup of coffee and joined her at the table, she passed him the phone she had used to force pair Green's as she filled him in on what she'd observed.

"Green stopped to pick up a newspaper on the way here. The kaffeeklatsch he's with appears to be made up of regulars who all know him. He seems to be friendly with all of them."

"Has he been paying attention to anyone in particular?"

"No, but a couple of the women seem to be interested in him," Carter gave a small nod of her head in Green's direction. "The one with the crochet needles has been monopolizing him for the last 10 minutes."

Reese watched Green and his interactions with the crocheter and any others with whom he spoke, looking for any body language that might tell him something.

"I gotta tell you, John, this guy seems the least likely suspect you've had so far," Carter commented. "Do you and Finch really think he's responsible for two deaths?" she asked softly, watching Green over the rim of her cup as she took a sip.

Reese glanced in Green's direction as he, too, sipped his drink. "Serial killers don't always advertise their hobby, Carter. You know that."

Carter gave a little snort of laughter. "Maybe." She took a last swallow of her coffee and pushed her chair back. "Well, the afternoon shift starts in forty minutes." She stood up and put on her jacket. She stopped behind him and bent down slightly to speak softly in his ear. "But, I defy you to come to a different opinion than mine after you watch him for a while."

Reese set the cell phone on the table in front of him, glancing at it from time to time - all the camouflage he needed in that place. The group of people Green was with, eleven by Reese's count, were quite obviously a regular gathering: a number of small tables and their attendant chairs pulled close together in an approximation of a circle, everyone mixing and changing places to converse with this person or that, laughing and joking. The baristas seemed accustomed to the jovial chaos, even occasionally stopping to speak with some of the elders as they went past to tend to various tasks.

As Reese watched them, a question came to mind. "Finch, if Green killed Peterson and Fielding, why didn't the Machine give us his number earlier?"

"I've been wondering the same thing," the other man replied. "I can only surmise that the previous murders were spontaneous or required so little planning that there was nothing for the machine to detect."

Reese sipped his drink, watching Green as he got up and went to the counter for a refill. "So, the fact that we have his number now…"

"Means that his next victim is requiring more preparation." Finch paused. "I wonder if the other men used to frequent this same coffee shop. Both of them lived in different neighborhoods, but both were within a few blocks of your location."

"You're thinking that this was where Green picks his victims." Reese murmured. "And you're probably right. Most of the people in this group must be in their 70's or older."

"I'd gathered that from listening to their conversations, Mr. Reese," Finch responded. "The topics of discussions have primarily been grandchildren, Medicare and physical ailments." Finch sounded a little snappish. "I hope Green changes his conversation partner soon. I don't really want to hear the details of her gall bladder surgery."

Reese watched Green extricate himself from the conversation and make his way to the back of the coffee shop where the restrooms were located. "I think Green has the same feeling." Reese downed his coffee and stood as well. "Maybe I can find out if Fielding and Peterson used to come here."

Green's little group was situated near enough to the sales counter that most people had to pass it on their way up to place their orders. The group was a mix of men and women, all casually dressed in jeans and t-shirts, though a couple of them sported polo shirts. While all of them were, by Reese's estimation, well into their 70s and 80s, some were frailer than others.

The woman that Green had been talking with, the crocheter wasn't the only one who had brought the bits and pieces of a hobby. There was another woman who was embroidering, her various unused hoops and different colored threads in a worn cloth bag on the floor next to her chair. The man she had been speaking with got involved in a conversation with someone else, moving his chair a little closer to them, leaving her somewhat isolated. She had her back to the corner in which Reese had been sitting, so he felt certain that she hadn't seen him with Carter. After he got his cup refilled, he stopped to admire her work.

"Hello, young man," the woman said, pausing in her stitching to look up at Reese, peering at him through thick glasses. "I don't think I've seen you here before."

Reese smiled. "No, you haven't." He gestured to the needlework in her hand. "That's a rather complicated pattern." While he was talking he saw Green return to his chair next to the crocheter.

The embroiderer returned his smile and looked back down at her work. "I like the challenge. Keeps me sharp." She looked back up at him. "So, you here to met someone? You know," she said, not waiting for his response and putting a hand to the back of her neck, "you could do an old woman a favor and pull up a chair."

Reese grinned and did just that, sitting so that he could keep an eye on Green and the front door.

"That's better," she said, offering her hand. "My name's Jean," she said.

"John," he said as they shook.

"So, John, you were going to tell me who you're here to meet."

"I was?" he asked, acting innocent and smiling a little. He liked this woman's directness.

The old woman silently looked at him over the top of her glasses, the gaze of her clear blue eyes as sharp as her wit.

Reese smile widened and he leaned forward a little. "You're right. I was looking for a man I met last year at a function for Veterans. Someone told me he came here regularly. His name's Peterson."

"Pete Peterson?" Her grey eyebrows rose. "He used to come here." She paused, frowning a little. "Pete passed away some eight months back."

Reese paused for a moment. Then, "I'm sorry to hear that. Was it sudden?"

"Yes. Heart attack, or so we heard."

"I'm a little surprised. Pete didn't seem to be in bad health. Of course, I didn't really know him."

"Yes, well, we were all caught off guard. But," she said, setting her hoop in her lap and pushing her glasses up, "he did seem to be moving a little more slowly the last couple of months. Mark there," she gestured towards Green who had turned to speak to another man, "said that Pete had been complaining of being out of breath quite often and that he was getting forgetful." She paused. "Mark's the one who found him."

Reese glanced at Green. "Were Mark and Pete friends?"

The old woman shrugged. "Sort of." Jean went back to her needle point. "Mark seemed to be looking after Pete. Started out as just a couple times a week, then every day. They went to the museum, restaurants, and the movies occasionally. And here, of course."

Reese watched the old woman closely. There was something she was holding back. "Sounds like Mark is a good guy." When she didn't respond, he pushed a little. "No?"

Jean raised her head to look at him, her lips pressed together.

Reese waited.

Jean sighed, setting her hoop down again. "It's not that Mark wasn't doing a good thing," she said softly, her tone betraying her doubts. "It's just …I wondered if he wasn't taking advantage of the situation a little."

"Do you think he was stealing from Pete?" Reese kept his voice low as well.

"Oh no," she said, "Nothing like that. Besides," she said, the corner of her mouth crooking upward briefly in a little smile, "Pete didn't have anything to steal. No, it's just that he always seemed to pay for everything. The cabs, the meals." She glanced over at Green, watching him for a moment. "We all of us here are getting to the age where we know we don't have much time left." She turned back to Reese. "And those of us who are alone - you know, no spouse or significant other - find it harder, I think." She paused. "The single ones seem to fade away, shrink down into themselves. So, yeah," she said a little more firmly, "it was a good thing Mark was doing. And if Pete wanted to show his appreciation by paying Mark's way, well, then I guess that's okay."

Reese looked at her, his curiosity briefly overriding his attention to his task. "So, do you have a spouse or significant other, Jean?"

The old woman looked up at him over the top of her glasses. "Why, young man?" she asked, grinning. "You thinking I need some looking after?"

Reese shook his head. "No Ma'am," he replied in mock seriousness. "I wasn't thinking that at all."

"Well good. I do, in fact, have a spouse. She's at home because she says she doesn't like to spend her time listening to a bunch of crotchety old folk going on about what's wrong with everything."

Just then another man walked in to the shop. One part of Reese's awareness had been noting all of the people coming and going, so as with the others, he watched this new arrival as he stopped briefly just inside the double glass doors. The late afternoon light that came through the front windows of the coffee shop showed him to be elderly, Reese putting his age at about 80. He leaned on a brass headed cane as he ran one hand through his short grey hair and looked at the gathering of seniors. Then he walked stiffly toward them, making his way directly to where Mark Green was sitting.

"Now, there's a strange pairing," Jean commented.

Reese looked at her. "Why?"

"That's Jon Anders and if you had told me last week that he and Mark would be friends, I wouldn't have believed it."

"And now they are? So, what changed?"

Jean looked at him, amused. But, that he'd gone beyond being just politely interested in the goings-on of her little group and now seemed actively interested didn't seem to bother or concern her. "Well, that's a good question. I've been trying to figure it out."

"Well, maybe I can help. I'm pretty good at this type of thing."

Jean raised an eyebrow, still amused. "Are you? Well then." She shifted her chair a little closer. "There was another member of our group that Anders was friends with. Well, friend-ly. Anders isn't really friends with anyone."

"Is that why you refer to him by his last name?"

"Did I? I guess I didn't notice. Anyway, this man, Joe Fielding his name was, passed away about nine weeks ago. Before that, he started to show some of the same signs that Pete did at the end: walking slow, forgetful. So, Mark started to look after him." Jean paused.

"The same way he did for Pete?"

Jean nodded.

"And Joe also paid Mark's way?"

"Anders didn't like it. He never said anything, but you could tell. When Joe died Anders took it pretty hard. He stayed away from the group for almost a month and when he did come back, he pointedly avoided Mark. Wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't respond to Mark's 'hellos'. Wouldn't even look at him."

Green stood up as Anders approached and pulled an empty chair, setting it next to his. Anders sat down stiffly, smiling briefly at Green and nodding to the others nearby, propping his cane against his leg. Reese ignored the conversations he was hearing through Green's phone, leaving it to Finch to keep track of them as he turned his attention back to his informant.

"When did they become friends?"

"Not sure, exactly, but a few days ago, the two of them came in here together, walked up to the counter and Anders bought Mark's coffee." Jean shook her head. "Could have knocked me over with a feather. They've been tight ever since." She shrugged. "I guess you never know."

As Jean went back to her needlepoint, still shaking her head, Reese watched Green and Anders as they talked with their neighbors and each other. Taking advantage of the lull in the conversation between Reese and Jean, the man she had been talking to earlier turned back to her and asked a question about an upcoming event at the local senior center. Pretending to answer his phone, Reese pulled it from his pocket and turned away slightly.

"Have you heard anything of interest, Finch?"

"Not yet. But, I found Jean's story informative. What can you tell me about Anders?"

"Me? Can't you find anything on him?"

"Not much. The only photos I can find are from his years as a construction foreman, so those are a good 20 years out of date. We're apparently dealing with people whose existence is only noted when they die." Finch's tone was dry. "I do know he's 78, never married, no living relatives."

"So, he's alone. Like Peterson and Fielding." Reese glanced back at Anders. "He seems healthy enough, but I'm no doctor." Reese noticed Jean looking at him. "I'll get back to you Finch."

"John, I have to get going," Jean said as she put her embroidery hoop and threads she'd been using into the bag. She stood, using the back of the chair for leverage. Reese also stood then bent over to pick her bag up and set it on the chair where she could easily reach it. Her smile of thanks made her seem years younger. "While I don't share my wife's view on our little group, I have to admit that there's really only so much idle chit-chat I can take." She looked over the assemblage of seniors, her gaze pausing briefly on Anders and Green. Turning back to Reese, she smiled up and him and extended her hand. "It was nice meeting you, though I'm sorry I had to be the bearer of sad news." Still holding his hand, she stepped closer, dropping her voice. "And if you figure out our little mystery, you be sure to let me know."

Reese smiled. "I'll do that, Jean."

"I'm here most afternoons about this time." More loudly she continued, "Well, I'm off." She grabbed the bag's handles. "I've got to stop by the butcher shop and pick up something special to fix for dinner tonight. It's our anniversary."

Reese raised his eyebrows. "Your wife's a lucky woman, Jean."

The old woman paused in the act of lifting the bag off the chair. "She is, isn't she?" Jean winked at him and left, calling out her goodbyes to the group.

Reese found another table in a quiet corner and spent the next half hour listening to the conversations between Green and the people sitting closest to him. He watched their interactions, noting body language and facial expressions. As he did so, he tried to figure out the 'little' mystery of Green and Anders.

"Finch, I'm wondering if we're looking at this the wrong way."

"What do you mean?"

Reese paused, waiting for the barista who stopped to clean a table to leave. "The machine only gives us numbers if there is an imminent threat."

"Yes."

"If Green is responsible for the deaths of Peterson and Fielding, he took his time killing them, sponging off them for weeks before they died." Reese sipped his coffee. "If Anders is his next victim, that would mean he's already put some plan in motion."

There was a pause. "I see your point Reese."

"And while we're at it, why would Green kill his meal tickets?"

"Well, as to that, it's possible that he's appointed himself some sort of Angel of Death, helping those who are alone and ill into what he believes to be a better place." Finch's voice was tinged with revulsion. "After he fleeces them, of course."

"Didn't Fusco say there was nothing in the Coroner's report to indicate that they died from anything but natural causes?"

"I admit, Mr. Reese, we seem to be lacking information," Finch replied.

Reese was about to ask another question when Anders turned to Green, leaning toward him as he spoke.

"Well Mark, you all set? Moving day will be here soon." The tone of Anders' voice was gruff, contrasting with the affability of his words, as if he wasn't used to being friendly.

Green, however, seemed unbothered by his new friend's manner. "Just about. I don't have much to pack, so moving won't be difficult. Do you need me to come over before hand to help clear out that spare room?"

"No, no. That's all taken care of. All you need to do is get your stuff packed. I'll hire someone to pick it up."

"You don't have to do that Jon. I can…"

"No. I insist." Anders talked over Green. "I want to get this friendship off to a good start."

Green shifted a little in his chair. "Speaking of good starts, how about you meet me at Rooney's tonight to go over the rental agreement. We can have a drink and toast our new arraignment."

Anders nodded. "Sounds like a good idea. What time?"

Green looked at his watch. "How about in half an hour?"

"Finch," Reese said as Green and Anders finalized their plans, "Looks like I'll be going out for drinks tonight."

Rooney's was a few blocks from the coffee shop. Anders had told Green that he had an errand to run before meeting at the bar, saying he'd meet him in an hour. Reese followed Anders to keep an eye on him because, as he told Finch, "We know the 'who' and possibly the 'where', but not the 'how'. Best I keep eyes on Anders to make sure he doesn't meet with an 'accident' on his way to meet Green."

Anders' errand consisted of stopping by a drug store to pick up a prescription. Finch greeted this information with relief for it finally gave him something with which to work.

"Not having much luck finding anything on Green or Anders, Finch?" Reese commented as he maneuvered through the pedestrian traffic. Between his height and Anders' slow pace, he easily kept track of the older man.

"No. None of these people seem to have much of an electronic foot print. No social network or email accounts, no credit cards." Finch was sounding frustrated again.

At this Reese nodded. "Anders paid cash for his prescription," he said. "It was Glyceryl Trinitrate."

"Nitroglycerine? Then it appears that, like the other two men, he seems to have a heart condition."

"I think he's also showing signs of forgetfulness. He told the pharmacy clerk that he had lost the prescription he'd picked up last month. Thinks he might have left it in a public restroom."

"Green seems to be sticking to his MO, then. Preying on ailing elderly men."

"Except that he only just started to prey on this one. Why kill him now?"

Reese heard Finch sigh. "I'll keep looking."

Rooney's was quiet at that hour, the after work crowd not yet having shown up. The few customers that were there, seated at the bar and a couple of the tables, were retirees and the otherwise unemployed. Anders, a good fifteen minutes early for his meeting with Green, stopped inside the door for a minute. Reese, slipping in behind him, saw him peer toward the dimly lit far corner of the room then walk over to talk to the bartender. Reese worked his way around the side of the room to that corner and sat down at one of the small tables. When the old man finally made his way over to the same corner, Reese was giving an order for beer to the server. Anders glared at him and then took another table slightly closer to the room's center, sitting so that he faced the bar's entrance. When the server stopped by Anders' table to get his drink order he shook his head and said he was waiting for someone.

Finch had been unable to find any more information on Green or Anders. The lack of information didn't bother Reese at this point. He reasoned that 1) the machine rarely gave them more than a day's notice about a pending murder and it had given them Green's number earlier that day. 2) Green had a penchant for taking advantage of men older and frailer than he and who had no one close to look out for them. 3) Anders, who fit the same profile, appeared to be his new victim. Why Green was going to kill Anders this early in the game didn't matter. They could always find that out after Reese stopped him. It would have been easier had they known how Green killed his victims; that way he could be confronted before the attempt was made. But, not knowing just meant that Reese would have to be especially vigilant and patient.

The server brought Reese his beer. He paid her, then settled back in his chair to watch Anders. Since his attention had been focused on Green earlier, he hadn't really paid much attention to the elderly man who now sat just feet from him. Anders' posture showed only a little of the stoop that most men of his age tended to have, though the stiffness with which he moved spoke to the wear and tear his bones and joints had accumulated over the years. He sat quietly, expressionless; the rhythmic tap of one gnarled hand on the small wooden table top the only indication of impatience.

When Green finally walked through the front doors, Anders stood and called to him to get his attention. Reese watched the two men as both sat, Green facing Reese's direction. Now that Green and his cell phone were closer, Reese was able to listen in on the conversation with out any trouble. This was good, because the bar had started to fill up and the noise level was increasing.

"Before we get down to business, let me get our drinks," Anders said as Green settled in to his chair.

"No, Jon, I said I would…"

"I insist, Mark." Anders said as he stood again. "I'll be right back."

Reese watched Green intently, waiting for him to do …something. But, he just sat there, a contented look on his face. After a few minutes, he turned slightly in his chair towards Anders who was still standing at the end of the bar. "Need help, Jon?"

Reese's gaze turned toward the other man as well. Anders seemed to be having some difficulty picking up the glasses. "No," the old man said, his gruff manner making the word sound like a bark. "I got it." Anders put a few small napkins from the counter in his coat pocket then, securely gripping a tumbler in each hand, returned to the table, carefully setting the glasses down. As he sat again in his chair, he said, "I had Ken pour us twelve year old Scotch, Mark. Special for the occasion."

"So," Green said, smiling at Anders. "Did you bring the lease agreement?" There was an eagerness in Green's manner that caused Reese's jaw to clench.

"No, Mark, I didn't," Anders replied, a little off-handedly.

Green blinked once and his smile faltered. "Something wrong, Jon?"

"No. The manager hasn't given me the agreement yet. He said he's still waiting for the owner's approval." Anders shrugged. "You know how it is."

Green seemed a little agitated. "Dammit, Jon, I've already given notice on my place. The manager has been showing it to people. I can't wait too much longer."

"I'm sure it'll be okay, Mark." Anders replied. "We've still got a couple of days." He leaned forward and slapped the other man roughly on the upper arm. "It'll work out." Anders lifted his glass. When Green failed to follow suit, Anders pushed the man's drink closer. "C'mon Mark. Twelve year old scotch. Don't make me drink by myself."

Green's expression brightened, his smile returning. "Thanks, Jon," he said as he picked up his glass. "To new beginnings."

As the two glasses clinked together Reese could hear Anders say, "To those who have gone before." And then he downed half the tumbler's contents.

Then a couple things happened pretty much simultaneously. Anders pulled a napkin from his coat pocket to wipe his mouth. But, as the napkin cleared the pocket, something fell, landing near Anders' foot. At the same time, Green lifted his glass and took a big swallow, though not as big as his drinking companion's. Meanwhile, Reese's eyes focused on the object now rolling slowly across the floor: it was the small glass vial he'd seen Anders handling earlier. Only now it had no lid and was obviously empty. Reese's eyes snapped back up and he saw Anders leaning forward slightly, an intensely expectant look on his face as he stared at Green.

Reese launched himself from his chair directly at Green who was looking appreciatively at his glass and saying, "You know Jon, I could get used to this…"

The next several moments were a confusion of sound and fury with much significance: Green's surprised expression as Reese hit his raised tumbler, now just centimeters from his lips, sending the glass and it's contents across the room and exploding against another table; Anders rising out of his chair and yelling with heat and venom at Reese and Green in turn; the bartender and various patrons loudly adding their two cents to the whole matter. Reese turned in time to stop the cane that was arcing down toward his head. Anders, red faced and wild-eyed, continued to yell even after Reese had disarmed him and pushed him firmly back into his chair. By then the bartender had appeared at Reese's elbow, grabbing his sleeve and demanding to know what the hell Reese was doing.

"I'm stopping a murder." Reese bent down and picked up the small glass vial that had miraculously escaped being stepped on. Straightening up to full height, he showed the vial to the bartender. "This man here," he gestured to Anders, "just put this whole bottle of nitroglycerine in to his drink." Reese indicated Green. Reese watched the man's eyes widened as understanding hit.

The bartender looked from Anders, who was still muttering maledictions, to Green, who was starting to look decidedly ill. "Hey, Ken," Reese said sharply. "Don't you think you should call an ambulance?"

Ken stared at Reese for another brief moment, then shouted at the server to call 911.

The paramedics were there in less than 5 minutes as well as the police and fire department. Ken-the-bartender had stayed at the table asking Anders questions. At first, Anders just sat there glaring at Green, who was still sitting in the chair opposite him. Then when Ken had touched Anders shoulder to get his attention, Anders took a swing at Ken, swearing and telling him to mind his own business. Ken failed to get out of the way and staggered back from the blow. Then Anders came out of his chair and tried to reach Green, but, Ken and several of the other patrons intervened, forcing Anders back into his chair and holding them there. By then the sound of the sirens could be heard and a small group of people crowded out the front door to help direct the paramedics into the bar. Reese took advantage of the confusion and moved to a spot near the door, sitting to be less conspicuous. The bar soon filled with paramedics and police and the confusion and noise increased. Reese quietly stood and slipped out the door.

"It appears, Reese, that Green survived Anders' attempt to poison him," Finch said as he monitored the paramedic's radio transmission. "They're taking him to the hospital for observation, but they don't think that he ingested enough nitro to be fatal." Finch paused for a moment, listening. "Apparently Anders didn't stir the drink after he dumped all twenty-five pills into it. If he had, things would have been grim."

"Any idea yet why Anders wanted Green dead?"

"Yes, actually." Finch sat back in his chair and looked at the monitor that tracked Reese's location. Reese had decided that, since there was nothing else he could do for Green, it was best he didn't hang around. He didn't want to take the chance that someone would point him out to the police. "I was able to hear some of Anders' confession to the police before they took Green and his phone away."

"He admitted it?"

"He said that he and Fielding had been getting, as he put it, close. They'd had dinner a couple of times and it seemed as though a romance was budding. Anders was having trouble with his feelings, so he told Fielding he needed some time to think about the relationship."

"Then Green stepped in."

"Anders wasn't sure how close the two men were, but he resented it all the same. And when Fielding died, with no apparent warning, Anders blamed Green."

There was silence between the two men for some minutes. Finch was watching Reese's progress on the monitor, but he wasn't really seeing it, his thoughts elsewhere. Finally it registered on some level that Reese was heading back to the library. "Reese? Why are you coming here? I thought you had a date with Ms. Morgan."

"I do a little later. I thought I'd come by and take Bear for his walk. Let you have the evening off."

Finch hesitated. "That won't be necessary, Mr. Reese."

"It's okay, Finch. I don't mind. It's my turn anyway. You go ahead…"

Finch closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "John. I appreciate what you're offering, but we no longer need to take turns walking Bear. I will be spending my evenings here." Finch braced himself for questions he would really rather not answer.

After what felt like a lengthy pause, Reese said, "I'm sorry, Harold."

Finch opened his eyes and stared at the monitor as if it would show him the man on the other end of the phone. Once again, his partner's discretion concerning subjects Finch tried to keep private surprised him. Now, an appropriate response eluded him. After a brief moment he nodded once and replied. "Thanks, John."

Finch ended the call and turned off the monitor that had the map showing Reese's location. He stood and, as was his habit, set about collecting the various articles and photos associated with the now closed case. He turned to put them on the bookshelf behind the computer table – the place he usually put such things awaiting later disposal – stopping when he saw the bookmark he'd set aside earlier. Bemused, he set the papers down and once again picked up the tooled leather strip. After a moment, he looked around, trying to find a more appropriate place for it. From where he stood, he could just see the stack of books that featured Grace's latest commissioned artwork in their place of honor in the little alcove off the main library room. He briefly considered putting the bookmark there as well, but decided that Sarah's memento needed its own place. Inspiration struck and he smiled a little as he walked to the collection of books that covered popular culture. The book he pulled down was a collection of reviews of Science Fiction movies. From their first night together, science fiction had been one of the staples of their conversations.

Finch placed the bookmark inside the front cover and returned it to its place. He stood staring at the spine of the book, thinking about how he and Sarah had decided to end their relationship and the events that led to that decision. A sound brought him out of his reverie and he looked down toward the source. He found Bear standing there looking at him expectantly. The dog's intelligent expression moved Finch to voice his thoughts.

"It's just as well. As careful as I was, I always worried that just being with her would put her in danger." He paused as another thought occurred to him. "I would never be sure I could be there if she needed me," he said quietly to his attentive audience. "The way Sarah needs to be with Chuy and his family now that Maria's gone.**"

As man and dog looked at each other, Finch became aware of the quiet of the room. He'd forgotten how peaceful it could be; insulated from the world, among the stacks of books, with Bear his only companion. If only it could stay that way.

Finch took a deep breath, chastising himself for the foolish turn his thoughts had taken. He walked back to the main room, the clicking of the dog's toe nails on the floor telling him that the hound followed. Collecting the leash from its place on one of the smaller tables, he attached it to Bear's collar. Straightening up, he once again spotted Grace's books. The stab of pain he felt every time he thought of her seemed to always catch him off guard. He no longer had the involuntary quick intake of breath, but the pain was there just the same. He glanced down at Bear and, giving him the command to heel, headed down the hall toward the exit.

As they passed the alcove, he murmured, "Just as well."

* Memorable

** Convergence