January, 1997
Chicago
It's mortifying, being dragged into this ridiculous support group. All he'd done was boost a car or two – no harm done. The cars were found a few hours after they'd been stolen, with no more damage than a few extra miles on the odometer. Of course, the second car was found with him and Will still in it. Bit of a mess, that.
He's underage, still seventeen years old (and not even a licensed driver, but who's counting?), so the judge has been lenient on him. Probation for a year and mandatory attendance at a support group for addicts.
He doesn't think he's an addict, but his juvenile record might suggest otherwise. Shoplifting candy bars at age 7, comic books at age 10, and books at age 13. All slaps on the wrist, but when he was pulled from the Corvette, he thought his luck had finally run out. Fortunately, he still has his charm, and the innocent, wide blue eyes and dimples that have won many a lady over to his cause. If the judge had been a man, he'd have been screwed. Luck was on his side, though, so probation it is, and a support group for a bogus diagnosis of kleptomania in a dingy YMCA basement that reeks of stale coffee and old sweat.
Kleptomania. Like he enjoys stealing.
Well, that's a bit of a lie. He does enjoy it. He enjoys feeling that he's getting one up on the people that have more than he does. Raised in foster homes, scrabbling for paper and pencils when his classmates have electronics, he gets a charge out of evening the score. Will and John always tell him to be more careful, but they benefit from what he can steal, so they don't try too hard to change his mind. And together, the three of them are doing all right, keeping each other safe and fed and clothed, making their way through school and keeping out of trouble in the foster system. Right up until the point where he and Will got the iron bracelets slapped on their wrists.
So he'd thrown himself under the bus, counting on his charm and his dimples to save the day. Will was an innocent, he'd said, with no knowledge of any sort of criminal activity. It was his choice to boost the car, and he was very, very sorry. Yet another in a series of bad choices he'd made, but he's sure he can change. The judge – a stern redhead who doesn't crack even the hint of a smile at his charm – hopes that he can change and proposes that a year of probation and group therapy will help him on his way.
So he's here, fidgeting on an uncomfortable folding chair, mentally watching the clock until the hour is up and he can meet Will and John for a burger and a smoke.
"Regina?" the counselor asks, "Would you like to share today?' The girl seated on Robin's left straightens in her seat. She shakes her head, long dark waves shimmering under the fluorescent lights.
"You need to share," the counselor says. Archie, Robin reminds himself. His name is Archie. "It's part of the experience, sharing your story. We can't help you heal if we don't know your problem, Regina."
Her chin jerks up. Her face is still hidden by her hair, but he can see a hint of her profile – a patrician nose, olive skin and the hint of a scar on her upper lip. "What do you want me to say?" she asks, in a deep, silky voice that sounds far too adult for a tiny slip of a girl.
"Tell us why you're here," the counselor prompts.
She sighs and pushes her hair back from her face, revealing strong cheekbones and deep brown eyes. She looks straight ahead, not making eye contact with anyone in the circle. "I'm here because if I don't come, they'll throw me out of school," she says finally. Archie furrows his brow, clearly annoyed that Regina isn't playing along with the touchy-feely sharing vibe in the basement room.
"And why did they want to throw you out of school?" he asks. Robin leans forward in his chair, finding himself more than a little curious to hear the answer.
"I got caught with my mother's painkillers," she admits. She fiddles with a ring on her finger – a small circle of gold with a green stone. Robin eyes it appraisingly – fake gold, possibly a real gemstone, but not worth the hassle of trying to charm it off her fingers. He laughs to himself. Perhaps he does suffer from kleptomania, after all, if he's sizing her up for valuable goods. He can tell by her posture and by the set of her jaw that she's a stubborn sort. Too much hassle to charm it off her, regardless of its value. Still, he can't look away.
"And why did you have them?" Archie encourages.
She lets loose with a brittle laugh. "Have you ever been to a boarding school?" she asks bitterly. "Trust me, you'd need painkillers to deal with it."
"There are more productive ways to deal with your emotions, Regina. Maybe we can help you find them."
Robin doesn't miss her rolling eyes; neither, it seems, does the counselor. He takes a moment to weigh his options, trying to decide whether to continue pushing Regina or press on with one of the other poor unfortunate souls sitting in a circle in front of him. He makes a decision, and turns his steady gaze on Robin.
Oh shit, he thinks.
"Robin," Archie starts. "You're new to our group. Would you like to share what brings you here?'
Robin gives his most charming smile. "I stole a car," he says. "Among other things."
"And why did you do that?" Archie asks. The very picture of concern and understanding. Robin debates telling him the truth, that the car was there, unlocked and ripe for the plucking, and that he had nothing else to do with his evening, but if that gets back to the judge, he'll likely wind up in the slammer. So he tells him what he wants to hear.
"I did it for the thrill," he says. "Being able to do something like that, and get away with it…well, it's like a drug. Hard to stop once you've started."
She looks over at him at that, studying him with interest. He doesn't meet her eyes, but he's well aware of her steady gaze. He sits a little straighter in his own chair, puffs out his chest, preens a bit under her steady eyes. He's seventeen, after all, and a pretty girl checking him out…well, that is like a drug. And he'll take a dose wherever he can get it.
"And you know how dangerous that can be?" Archie asks. "The thrill…it always comes with a consequences."
Robin is well aware of consequences. He's been thrown out of more foster homes than he cares to remember, and has felt the blistering heat of a leather belt against his backside more than once. The older he gets, the more he knows that his reckless behavior is going to come with consequences. It's the main reason he's here – he wants to make it to his eighteenth birthday without winding up in jail. Besides, he has Will and Little John to look after. They've been together for five years now, and as the oldest of the lot, Robin can't help but take responsibility for the lads. So he hangs his head, the very picture of remorse. "I do," he says. "And I don't want any more consequences than I've already faced."
Archie nods, pleased with Robin's responses. He switches his focus to another boy, a skinny fifteen-year-old that launches into a tale of sneaking and watering down his father's whiskey. Robin makes a show of listening intently to the pimply-faced kid, all the while well aware that Regina's focus hasn't shifted from his face. When Archie thanks them all for their time and participation, he stands and turns toward her. She studies his face, eyebrows furrowed. Before he can say anything to her, she turns on her heel and walks away.
She doesn't come back next week, or the week after.
New York, 2015
It's starting off to be a banner day, sure enough. Robin cradles his coffee cup in one hand while he jiggles the office keys in his other. Not much concern of spilling his breakfast on himself at this point, since he's already wearing the majority of it, thanks to a clumsy bike messenger. He works the door open just as his phone begins to ring.
Kathryn Nolan, his caller ID reads. Well, that's something at least. He may reek of Italian roast, but at least he has the promise of money coming in.
She doesn't even bother with pleasantries, just launches into the purpose of her call. Robin appreciates her bluntness. Get in, get the job done, get out – it's a work ethic he can admire. The attorney makes up the bulk of his private investigation business, tracking down missing fathers and bail jumpers. He never thought he'd find much satisfaction in the job, but dragging in deadbeat dads who refuse to pay child support appeals to his sense of justice. If only someone had done the same for him, he might not have wound up in foster care.
Ironic, of course, that his main source of income is his wife's divorce lawyer. Still, he can't complain – he and Marian settled amicably enough, he has plenty of time with his small son, and Kathryn has a private investigator's dream for a docket. Wealthy clients throughout the city who will stop at nothing to make their husbands pay for their mistakes. Robin is only too happy to lend a hand.
"I know this isn't your usual case," Kathryn starts, "but it could be a pretty paycheck at the end of the day. A…let's just say a friend of a friend seems to have lost his wife."
Robin laughs at that. "Not your usual case either," he says. "Aren't lost wives typically your thing?"
She snorts at the other end of the line. "Typically, yes, but this one's probably not so much lost as…trying not to be found. I know the guy. He's a boring, pompous ass, but I don't think he means her any harm. And he's my ex-husband's father-in-law, so I should probably give him the benefit of the doubt."
Even more ironic that Kathryn should be so indebted to her ex's family. They have money, though – he's well aware of that – and he has bills to pay and a son to support. "Fine," he sighs. "I'll meet with him. Send him over."
She doesn't even bother with goodbye. Just a click, and the line goes dead. His lips curve into a smirk as he drops the phone on his desk. Kathryn may be a pain in the ass, but she has her charms, and he's been single since Marian walked out on him. Maybe some night he'll convince her to meet him for drinks.
He imagines his receptionist's reaction to that. Ashley would surely eviscerate him for trying to put the moves on their most steady source of income. Perhaps he won't convince her, after all.
Ashley pings him on their inter-office instant messenger a few minutes before ten AM.
Your client's here. He looks rich. BEHAVE.
Send him in,he replies, and straightens his collar. Not much to be done about the coffee stains on his pants. The client comes in, an older man – Robin guesses mid-sixties – wearing a suit that clearly cost thousands.
"Mr. Locksley," he says. "I'm Leopold Blanchard." He extends a hand, and Robin shakes it firmly.
He's known about Kathryn's family connections for a few years now, ever since they met at one of her infamous divorce trials. Kathryn doesn't lose, as a general rule, but this time Robin was able to prove that the husband in question hadn't been cheating on his wife. Unfortunately for Kathryn, the husband was her own. Leopold had been bankrolling him then, eager to keep his darling daughter's reputation intact in spite of the evidence Kathryn had collected that Miss Blanchard was fucking David Nolan. He'd never met the man; only dealt with intermediaries and attorneys. Still, he's surprised that after all that, Leopold has gone through Kathryn to meet with him. He gestures to a beat-up armchair across from his desk. "Make yourself comfortable," he says. "Why don't you tell me what you need?"
Leo settles himself in the chair, looking decidedly uncomfortable at his surroundings. Hardly the Plaza, after all, Robin thinks with a smile. The man is one of the richest real estate developers in New York City, and here he is, slinking up to the northern end of Harlem to hire a PI. If nothing else, this case will at least be interesting.
Leo shoves a photo face-down across Robin's desk. "It's my wife," he says. "She's gone missing."
Robin already knows that, but he lifts his brow in mock surprise. "Missing? An affair? Or something darker?"
The older man shakes his head. "No, neither. She's had…some troubles in the past. Been to rehab. I thought she was doing well, but I think she might have relapsed." He leans forward, his elbows resting against Robin's desk. "I don't want anything to happen to her. It would be devastating to my daughter."
Interesting, that it would only be devastating to his daughter. He studies Leo Blanchard, looking for some hint of concern for his wife's wellbeing, but finding nothing more than a slight…irritation that he's having to take time out of his day to discuss the matter. Still Robin, is in no position to judge family ties, so he nods. Back to the subject at hand. "Rehab for what?" he asks.
"Painkillers, mostly. Alcohol. I'm not sure, but I think our family doctor can give you the highlights." Leo sits straighter in the second-hand chair. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you, but I'm an important man in this town." Right. "I want her found as quickly and as quietly as possible."
"Very well," Robin says. "I'll get started immediately. My retainer is $2,000, and I charge $100 per hour." Technically, his fees are not quite so high, but Leo looks like he can well afford it. More to the point, there's something about the man that Robin doesn't like. He's smug. Well-fed and over-educated, and probably never had to work for anything a day in his life. Robin can't help but think that the price he's offering is more than fair, considering.
Leo writes a check for the retainer and drops a business card on Robin's desk. "I'll have Dr. Whale send over the files," he says. "In the meantime, call my office if you need anything else." With that, he's gone, leaving Robin staring at the face-down photo on his desk. Very well, he thinks. Let's see what we have here. Another rich bitch with paid-for boobs and no brains, he's sure. He flips over the picture, and the first thing he notices is the trace of a scar on the upper lip.
Regina.
Some things about her have changed. The hair, which fell to her lower back, is now cropped to her shoulders. Gone is the schoolgirl uniform and nondescript black wool coat; in its place is a plunging burgundy velvet dress that leaves little to the imagination. Not suitable for a meeting in a YMCA basement, but suitable for a ballet, or an opera, or any sort of pompous fundraiser where the majority of money raised will go to the bar tab rather than the charity.
The eyes are the same, though. Dark, haunting, captivating. Robin stares at her eyes in the picture and recognizes the girl he met so many years ago in Chicago. There's a guardedness about her that hasn't changed. The photographer may have picked up the highlights in her hair, or the beading on her dress, but he couldn't quite capture her. Her husband can't either, he surmises. If he could, she wouldn't look so miserable in the photo.
He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the memory of the teenaged girl surveying him all those years ago. His job is not to judge her marriage, or her state of mind; his job is to find her, and quickly. Ordinarily, he'd start with a simple Google search (the easiest methods are always the best, he's found), but this time, he has some built-in intel.
He dials Kathryn's number and waits impatiently, fingers thrumming against the desktop, while her assistant tracks her down.
"What," she snaps.
"Your ex's father-in-law. Quite a charming man."
"He's dull as a bag of rocks," Kathryn says. "But his money's good."
"Of that I have no doubt. Not much in the way of information, though. What can you tell me about David's stepmother-in-law?"
Kathryn pauses for a second. "Not much," she admits. "David and I were already on the skids when she and Leo got married. He's an old friend of my father's, so we went to the wedding, but at the time I really didn't give a shit about anyone else's marriage but my own. I know her family's from old money in Maine, and her mother is a social climber like none I've ever seen before. But I don't think I've ever had an actual conversation with her."
Robin scribbles notes on his yellow legal pad as she talks. Maine. Chicago boarding school. Mother. "What was her maiden name?" he asks. Kathryn hums as she tries to recall.
"Mills," she answers after a beat. "Her name was Regina Mills."
"One more thing," Robin says. "This picture that Leo gave me – there's another woman in it. Tall, blonde, kind of bitchy looking."
"If you're going to ask if it's me-" Kathryn interjects, and he laughs.
"No, not at all. She looks far more friendly than you. I'm going to send you a copy. Let me know if you know who it is. It's as good a place as any to start." He hangs up and snaps a photo with his phone, then texts it to Kathryn. Within a minute, he has a reply.
Mal Fincher. Very rich. Quite a bitch. I handled her last divorce – will shoot you over a contact #.
Then, a few seconds later: Be careful.
Robin Locksley is always careful. He flips open his laptop and begins to research one Regina Mills Blanchard.
He's pleasantly surprised that Mal Fincher agrees to meet with him. In his experience, women such as that only interact with him when they want something, and Robin certainly doesn't have much to offer. He dropped Kathryn's name, though, and that was enough to grant him an audience in her post Upper West Side apartment. As he waits for the doorman to buzz him up, he surveys the Art Deco touches in the lobby. It's a far cry from his two-bedroom flat in Hoboken, that's for sure. He's pretty sure the doorman makes more than his annual income, to say nothing of the people coming and going in the lobby. It's three o'clock on a weekday – normal people are working, not taking their purse dogs for a stroll in the park. Robin's grateful for the change of clothes he keeps in his office; if he'd shown up wearing his coffee on his trousers, he'd likely have gotten himself arrested for being a vagrant.
The doorman replaces the receiver in the cradle and gestures Robin to an elaborate brass elevator bay. He punches the button for the penthouse. Of course, Robin thinks. He has a feeling that this interview isn't going to go well.
The elevator doors open into an open hallway, flooded with natural light and lined with Brazilian cherry hardwood floors. On the lower levels, there would be three or four doors; on this one, only one. He rings the buzzer, half expecting a tuxedoed manservant to answer. Much to his surprise, the blonde in the photograph is on the other side of the door.
"Mr. Locksley," she purrs. She gives him a rather uncomfortable once-over, then steps aside to gesture him in.
She's tall, for a woman. Robin stands at 5'10", and in her bare feet, she's at eye level with him as she leads him down the hallway. She moves with an almost reptilian grace, feet following hips, following shoulders. She gestures him toward the sofa, then sprawls on a chaise lounge and eyes him speculatively. No wonder Kathryn told him to be careful.
"So," she says as her red-lacquered nails brush a stray lock of hair away from her eyes, "you want to ask me about Regina."
Nodding, he settles back into the sofa, trying not to display any outward emotion. Interviews such as this always go better when he doesn't give anything away at the outset. "I understand you and she are friends," he says.
She snorts. "I suppose you could say that," she says. "We know each other well. Her mother and mine go way back." He nods. In this town, all the rich people know each other. Intimately. It's incestuous at best, and deadly to his business at worst.
"How did you meet her?" he asks. It's not strictly part of his investigation, but curiosity gets the better of him. If their mothers were friends, perhaps Mal knew the Regina from so long ago. He wouldn't mind knowing what happened to her after than one afternoon in Chicago.
"Her mother brought her to New York when she was a teenager. Seems she'd gotten kicked out of school in Chicago, and Cora didn't want her languishing away in Maine, not when New York had so many better opportunities." Mal flicks an imaginary speck of lint off the arm of the chaise, then settles her steely gaze on Robin. "It was my job to babysit her. Keep her out of trouble."
"Did you?" Robin asks.
"Have you ever met Regina?" Mal shoots back, and Robin shakes his head. A little white lie never hurt anybody. "Well, if you had, you'd know that nobody ever keeps her from doing anything she doesn't want to do." She shrugs. "I kept her from getting caught, though, so…close enough." She bares her teeth, and it takes Robin a second to realize that she's smiling at him.
"Are you and she still close?" he asks, and she laughs.
"Oh, yes. Not like we used to be," and the raised eyebrow and smirk are more than enough to convey her meaning, "but we're still close. She's my only friend."
There's a statement Robin has no trouble believing. "Then you know she's gone missing," he says.
Mal rolls her eyes. "That depends on who you ask. Leo says she's missing. I say she knows exactly where she is, and she wants to stay there."
"Where is that?" he asks. She leans forward; one long nail tips his chin up to meet her eyes.
"Dark places, my sweet boy. Dark places."
Dark places. Robin knows more than his fair share of dark places. No parents, no money, no help from the system once he was booted out at age 18. Scrabbling for jobs and cash wherever he could get them, bailing Will out of jail and keeping John out of fights. Going hungry more often than not as they tried to pay the rent on a series of rodent-infested apartments from Chicago to Pittsburgh to New York. Now here he is, settled at his desk in his office in Harlem, wondering how someone born to wealth and privilege like Regina Mills ever had a chance to taste the darkness.
He can see that she has, though, just by the one photograph. He recognizes the haunted eyes, and he remembers something that a social worker said to him once. "I know a lost soul when I see one." If ever there were a lost soul, it was Regina Mills Blanchard. He studies the picture a little more closely, tracing the curve of her shoulder, the smooth line of her dress. Then he sees it – on her third finger, a small ring of gold with a bright green stone.
Whatever dark places she's gone to, she's taken her childhood with her.
Mal was extremely unhelpful, except for filling in a few blanks about Regina's childhood. Robin still has a job to do, though, so he turns back to his lengthy notes. Chicago. Mother. Maine. Stepdaughter. For all that Leo Blanchard wants his wife found, the only useful information he provided was that his daughter cares about her stepmother's whereabouts. It's as good a place as any to start for the day.
Mary Margaret Blanchard Nolan teaches at a posh private school in Manhattan. She's not hard to find – a quick Internet search yields far more stories about Leo's daughter than about his wife. Storybrooke School is easy to find, and when he arrives at 2:30 pm, children are streaming out of the building. Waiting, no doubt, to be picked up by chauffeurs rather than school buses. Robin pushes aside the hard knot of resentment forming in his chest. It's not their fault that they've gotten dealt a fairer hand than he, and after all, isn't he paying for his own son to go to such a school?
Perhaps not this posh, he thinks, as he sees the logos on the backpacks. Coach, Louis Vuitton, and more that he doesn't recognize. Of course Leo Blanchard's daughter would teach at a place like this. He asks a sullen-looking preteen where he can find Mrs. Nolan, and the kid directs him to the second hallway – third grade. He finds her quickly. Her door is festooned with construction paper bluebirds, tissue flowers and an enormous drawing of a fairy-tale castle. Quaint. Silly. Not what he expects at all.
He ducks into the classroom and finds her standing behind her desk, sorting through papers. She looks up at the interruption and smiles at him, all wide green eyes and perfect white teeth. "Can I help you?" she asks.
"Actually, I'm trying to help you," he replies, returning her smile with one of his own. She's disarmed by his dimples, exactly what he'd hoped. "I spoke with your father yesterday, and he's quite concerned about your stepmother. He's asked me to help find her."
Her face falls at that, and she drops ungracefully into her desk chair. "He told me he would look into it," she whispers. "I just- she's never been gone this long."
"So she's disappeared before?" he asks gently. She shakes her head at the question, brows furrowed.
"No, not disappeared. Not exactly. Just, sometimes, she needs a break and she's gone for a few days." She's covering for Regina. He can tell by how she studies her hands rather than meeting his eyes. Whatever her stepmother is in to, Mary Margaret doesn't want to betray her secrets.
"I'm here to help," he says. "But in order to help, I need you to tell me what you know. When she disappears, where does she go?"
She bites her bottom lip. Clearly, she doesn't want to say, but Robin has nothing but time. He'll wait out her answer. Eventually, she takes a breath.
"Jefferson," she says. "She goes to Jefferson Haber."
He's heard of Jefferson Haber, much as he wishes he hadn't. One of those men who has the ambiguous title of "promoter," Jefferson is always in the society pages with the elite, the famous, the rich and stupid. Jefferson has called on his services a time or two to clean up his messes; the money is good, but Robin refuses to take him up on the work. Some lines can't be crossed, and he won't sacrifice his business for a sleazy nightclub promoter, no matter how many times Will argues that they could use the paycheck.
Will has no sense, anyway; it's why his job is to do stakeouts and report back, not to talk to people. Still, Will knows more than his fair share of seedy nightspots, so Robin calls him in. When Will arrives, he gestures to the chair in front of his desk, and his friend drops into the seat, one leg flung over the armrest.
"Haber," Robin says. "Where is he?"
Will laughs. "What, so now you want his business?"
"I don't want his business. I want information. Can you find out where he is tonight?"
Will averts his eyes, and Robin realizes that he knows full well where Haber is. And probably knows where he's been for the last several months. Dammit. All the trouble he's gone to, keeping Will on the straight and narrow, and the jackass is going to blow it all by getting involved with that snake.
"Will," he snaps. "I asked you a question."
"I heard you, mate. He's probably at his new club. Emerson something-or-other. It's a speakeasy in Tribeca. Need a password to get in."
"Something tells me you have the password," Robin hisses through clenched teeth, and Will has the decency to look embarrassed. He shifts in his seat, sits a bit straighter, puts both feet on the floor.
"I might," he says. "Changes nightly, but I bet I could get us in."
"I bet you could," Robin says. "Get your jacket. We're going out tonight."
Club Emerson is exactly the kind of place Robin hates – twenty-somethings waiting in line to get in, a bar that no doubt charges $15 for a pint, and house music blaring so loud that he has a headache before he even gets to the door. Will leads him away from the line at the door and greets the bouncer by name. "Got a VIP tonight," Will says, "Haber's been wanting to meet him for a while." The bouncer doesn't even bother to check IDs, leaving Robin to wonder just how often Will's been here. He most likely doesn't want to know the answer to that particular question. They saunter past a heavily tattooed girl with bright crimson hair – no need to stamp wrists tonight, she says, giving Will a wink and Robin a quick once-over. Robin follows Will past the bar, past the dance floor, past the velvet ropes that cordon off the VIP section. Another hallway, and they're in a quieter section of the club. Older men and women barely out of their teens, barely dressed. He's appalled by the spectacle in front of him, but he schools his features into a mask of indifference.
"Over there," Will says. "Against the wall."
He recognizes Jefferson easily enough. The man is leaning over the table, blocking the woman seated next to him as he waits for his dinner guests to light his cigarette. He takes a drag and settles back into the booth, and Robin sees her. Regina Mills Blanchard. He nudges Will with his shoulder, and the two wind their way through the narrow hallway to the back of the hidden club.
"Jefferson, mate," Will says as he drops into the booth next to the promoter, "I brought you a gift. My boss, Robin Locksley."
Haber looks up at Robin, a wry smile on his face. "So," he says, "you've finally condescended to accept my business." Robin waves away the smoke Haber's wafted in his face. The guy's a dick, no doubt about it.
"I've condescended to meet with you, at least. That will have to do for now." A skinny waitress sidles up to the table, and Robin orders a pint of Newcastle for himself and Will. He doesn't look around the table. No need to show his hand just yet.
"We've had a bit of a slow month," Will says, his lines sounding completely natural. "Anything you have for us, we'd appreciate."
Jefferson taps the ashes from his cigarette into a crystal ashtray. Nothing but the best, Robin assumes. He hates the man even more in person than he did before. "I might need your help," Jefferson says. "But I'll need your discretion."
"Discretion is a service we charge for," Robin says, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He gestures to the room , richly appointed in walnut paneling and rich velvet upholstery. "I'm guessing you can afford it."
Jefferson smiles at that, the kind of smile that Robin used to happily punch off the punks that got in his way as a kid. "I can afford a lot of things," he says. "I can't afford disloyalty."
"Then we're in agreement," Robin answers grimly. "Tell me what you need."
"A problem taken care of," Jefferson says. He nods to Regina. "My lovely lady here will be happy to give you the details."
He finally looks at her. Same brown eyes, same silky hair, same unreadable expression. Even more beautiful now than when she was a girl of sixteen or so. Robin holds out a hand to her. "Milady?" he asks. "Would you like to go somewhere more private where we can discuss your problem?"
She takes his hand, and he's instantly struck by the warmth of her fingers laced in his own. Jefferson slides out of the booth to let her go free, and Will pushes him down a dark hallway, crossing his arms and blocking the entrance. Good lad. He pulls Regina behind him, not willing to let go of her delicate fingers.
They're pressed up against the exit door to the alley before she looks up and meets his eyes.
"Robin," she says finally. "So, stealing cars wasn't enough for you, after all."
She remembers him. His job is to deliver her safely to her husband, but one small sentence from her, and he's ready to completely disregard his job and fall at her feet, just as he wanted to all those years ago in Chicago.
"Not quite," he says finally. "But I've wondered, all these years…what is it that's enough for you, Regina?"
She laughs at that, a deep throaty chuckle. "The circles I run in," she says, "there's no such thing as enough."
Of that he has no doubt. If there's one thing Robin has learned over the years, it's that the more you have, the less you'll ever be satisfied. From outward appearances, Regina has it all. That must be why she's in need of his services. All the wealth in the world, and she needs more. More of what, though, he's burning to discover.
"I understand you have a problem," he starts. "Care to fill me in?"
She hesitates, and he can see the indecision flickering across her face. Whatever it is she wants, it clearly weighs on her. Not something as simple as catching her husband cheating, then. Wives who feel they've been wronged are very rarely loath to share their opinions on the subject. "I need someone found," she says finally. She looks away from him and studies the cheap artwork on the wall. "My son."
Son? His cursory research on Regina hadn't brought up any family connections other than parents in Maine. Granted, there wasn't much on her from the years before she'd married Leopold, but their relationship had made enough of a splash in the New York society pages that he's certain that a son would have come up.
She looks back at him before he can school his features. "I've surprised you," she says with a hint of smugness in her voice.
"A bit," he admits. "But I'm intrigued. Tell me more."
She leans up against the wall and smoothes imaginary wrinkles from her impossibly tight pencil skirt. "He's 17 now," she says. "I gave him up when he was born. Closed adoption. But…something has come up, and I need him found right away."
He does the mental math. 17 now. By his guess, the boy was on the way when he met Regina that day in Chicago. "I'm guessing you already know that a closed adoption means no contact until the child is of age and can seek it out, yes?" he asks, and her answering eyeroll indicates that she's well aware of what she's up against. "And If I pursue this, I'll likely be breaking more than a few laws."
"And I know how wretched a thought that is for you," she snaps. He laughs at her quick wit, but can't bear the thought that she still thinks of him as the shifty kid who boosted cars. "Believe it or not, Regina, I'm a changed man. I've broken nary a law since the last time we met." He reconsiders. "Well, no laws that didn't have just cause to be broken."
"This is a just cause," she says. "It's not for me. It's for his father."
Not Leopold then, obviously. He can't imagine a man as devoted to his daughter would willingly give up a son, especially not a son that would be primed to take over the family fortune. "Who's his father, then?" he asks gently. He doesn't miss the way her thumb immediately goes to fiddle with the gold ring on her finger.
"Someone from my past," she says. She doesn't seem to want to talk about it, but he can hardly help her without details. He cocks an eyebrow at her and waits for her to continue. "You remember Chicago?" she asks. Of course he remembers Chicago. He wouldn't be here if he didn't. He'd have placed a call to Leo's office and told him exactly where to find his errant wife. Instead, he's standing in a hallway that reeks of piss and stale pints, waiting to find out what exactly has driven Regina out of her posh digs in Manhattan.
"Well, I wasn't thrown out of the school for poaching my mother's painkillers," she admits. "My mother yanked me out of school because I was pregnant." Ah, so he was right. The story spills forth, about an illicit romance between a privileged girl and the son of a staff member. They'd met because he worked for his father in the school's stables. He took care of her horse, took her riding and swept her off her feet. "The painkillers part is true," she says with a laugh, "but it wasn't until my mother caught me throwing up in the morning that she hauled my ass back to Maine. She homeschooled me for a year, long enough to have my son. Long enough to have her take him from me and put him up for adoption. Then she carted me to New York to finish school, and told me that if I ever breathed a word of it, she'd cut me off without a cent."
Robin does some quick mental arithmetic. The boy would be nearly 18 years old, too young by a few months to legally enter his details into any of the adoption registries. Still, after 17 years, he can't imagine why she can't wait another few months for him to come of age. There must be more to the story.
"Why now?" he asks.
She fiddles with the ring again. "Daniel's sick," she says. "Leukemia. He needs a bone marrow transplant, and he doesn't have any close family members who are a match. His parents are both dead, and he didn't have much family outside of them. So, if he doesn't find a match, he's not going to survive the year."
"And you know this how?" he asks. He can't imagine a man like Leopold Blanchard would be too keen on his wife keeping in touch with her high school sweetheart, even if he didn't know about the baby.
She barks a sharp laugh. "Alumni newsletter," she says. "Can you imagine? They wanted to kick me out of school, but they still hit me up for money every chance they get. There was a feature on him." She looks away again. "I can't just let him die."
"Why all the secrecy?" he asks. "Your husband is, if nothing else, a devoted father. Surely he wouldn't begrudge you this."
She glares at him. "You have no idea what he would or wouldn't do. And he's not your concern. Are you going to help me, or not?"
He weighs his options. It's not in his nature to abandon a damsel in distress, even one who's glaring at him with such steely resolve, but getting embroiled in this fiasco could cost him his license at the very least. He decides to be straight with her. "It is my concern," he says, "since I was hired to find you and bring you home."
She balks at that and backs away. "You're on Leo's bankroll?" she asks. The tension radiates off her in waves.
"He hired me to do a job, and I've done that. I've found his wife. What happens next is up to you." He takes a step closer to her, willing her not to shut him out, not when he's just now starting to understand the story.
She shrinks away from him. "Are you going to tell him where I am?" she asks.
"Hopefully, it won't come to that. You'll leave here and return to him, a blessing for my fine skills on your lips, and he'll pay me for services rendered. And then we'll deal with your problem."
She studies him again, and he's once again unnerved by her steady gaze. The way she surveys his face – she's looking right into the core of him, and he's powerless to block her. "And if I go back, you'll help me?"
He answers before he can stop himself. "I'll help you either way, Regina. But this way would certainly be the easiest."
She nods. "Fine, then. I'll go home tomorrow, as long as you agree to work on my case." She pauses for a second. "I can't pay you. Leo has access to all my money and credit cards. It'll have to come from Jefferson."
So that's why she's in bed with the snake. "He'll want something in return," he warns her. "Probably something you're not willing to give."
She shakes her head. "Don't worry about Jefferson. I can handle him."
Robin grabs her arm. She tries to shake him loose, but he doesn't let go. He wants her full attention and waits until she meets his eyes. "Regina," he says. "Men like Jefferson Haber don't like to be 'handled,' as you say."
Her brows knit together, then relax. A small grin crosses her lips. "Come now, Mr. Locksley. All men like to be handled."
He has no doubt that Regina Mills Blanchard can deal with most of what's thrown at her, but a man like Jefferson…the payment he wants is likely more than she can afford. He makes a decision – whatever she gets into, he'll get her out of it. It's not just her beauty, or her intelligence that strikes him; it's the memory of a sixteen-year-old girl, angry and all alone, but refusing to back down.
"We're in agreement," he says, and holds out his hand to her. She shakes it firmly in her own.
He places a hand on the small of her back to escort her back to the table they'd left a scant twenty minutes earlier. They've not taken ten steps when she turns to look at him over her shoulder.
"Thank you," she whispers. He doesn't know if it's the words, or the tone of her voice, or the way she leans into him, but he knows that he's lost. He'll follow her into Hell and back if she asks.
He's thinking a bit more clearly once he gets back to his office and away from her big brown eyes. Sure, she's a beautiful woman, but he's worked for (and with) beautiful women before. More to the point, she's a beautiful woman whose husband can drive him out of business without blinking an eye. Ashley's motto runs through his head – Don't shit where you eat.
More to the point, he doesn't know her. He has a memory of a teenaged girl, but a lot has happened in the 18 years since last he's seen her. Not the least of which, she's gotten close to a man that's rumored to be heavily involved in drug trafficking. He shouldn't be surprised, given her history; then again, would a man like Leo Blanchard have married her if she had that much to hide? Probably not. He has his doubts that Leo doesn't know about the baby – after all, he's probably not the only PI Leo has on retainer. Still, that secret has been buried for 17 years, and he's not eager to dig it up. Not without good reason.
Robin studies the photo on his desk of his own son. What would his life have been like without Roland to ground him? What wouldn't he give to spend every possible second with the boy? Doesn't Daniel deserve the same? Robin's never met the man, but still…he can't help but feel a certain kinship with him. Fatherhood is the greatest gift he's ever been given. Even without the medical necessity of finding the boy, Robin hates the thought that this man has a child out there that he's never met. A child that he shares with a woman that disappeared from his life nearly twenty years ago, he's guessing without a proper good-bye. So very Shakespearean of them.
So who is Regina Mills Blanchard? He decides to start at the beginning to find out if her story is true. It should be easy enough to research – a few taps on the keyboard and he has the alumni newsletter from Shepton Academy on his laptop. Sure enough, last year the school held a fundraiser to raise money to find a bone marrow donor for their beloved stablemaster, a '98 grad of Shepton Academy. Daniel Trotter posed for the article arm-in-arm with his wife, a petite, feisty-looking blonde named Shannon. Cute, he thinks. Not his type, but they look happy enough. Further pictures in the article show a small blonde boy and a dark-headed girl. He wonders how Regina felt about seeing that article, knowing she'd given up her own son with him. Does he even know about the child? Probably not, he surmises.
Back to Regina. What happened to her after she left that group meeting all those years ago? From his earlier cursory search, she didn't exist from 1998 to roughly 2004, when she showed up in press photos of Leo Blanchard breaking ground on new office space in Tribeca. How did she meet Blanchard? How did she meet Haber? And how in the hell is he tangled up with her now?
A ding alerts him to a new email message. It's from Whale, Victor – he clicks on it to find a quick synopsis of Regina's medical history. He's pleased to see that the man didn't include her records, but a bit uneasy at reading the message. Ordinarily, he'd have no shame at taking whatever information was offered, but he draws the line at breaking the law. He wasn't joking when he told Regina that he'd gone over to the straight and narrow. Aside from the ethical concerns of violating HIPAA, he's well aware that he's delving into an area of her life where he has no call to be. After all, he found her – the job Leo hired him to do is done. He has no reason to dig into her history of addiction, other than a morbid curiosity and a niggling suspicion that it will lead him back to Haber.
Ultimately, he decides that forewarned is forearmed. He scans the list of drugs in her history. Oxycontin, ketamine, Ecstacy, hydrocodone. No meth or heroin, thank God. Still, a recipe for disaster. Whale's email indicates that she hasn't been in rehab since 2010. The last lines of the email capture his attention.
While I worry about her, I don't think Regina has relapsed. She's tested clean since 2011. Still, addiction is a troubling disease. If she's relapsed, I want her brought back to me immediately.
He thinks back to the woman who stared him down in the club's hallway. Uneasy, to be sure, but completely in possession of her faculties. Bright eyes, alert, and sharp as a tack. He'll stake his reputation that she hasn't relapsed. In a way, that scares him more – what on earth would drive her to make a deal with a devil like Jefferson Haber if drugs weren't involved? Whatever it is, it can't be good. He closes the laptop and leans back into his chair. Six years of diligent efforts to protect his reputation, and he's about to put it on the line for a woman he met once when he was a teenager. The way his fingers brushed the skin of her forearms, sending an electrical charge through his body, convinces him. He'll take the case, whatever it costs.
First, though, he needs a plan. He sketches out a few avenues of research on his yellow legal pad. He'll need Will and John both on this, so he texts them to let them know that he expects to see them in the office at 9am sharp.
She beats them all to the punch. He arrives at the building at 8:56, keys in hand to unlock the door, and finds her in the hallway, arms crossed over her chest and one heel tapping impatiently against the cheap linoleum.
"I thought you were supposed to go back to your husband?" he asks, irritation raising an eyebrow and curving his lips into a frown.
"I didn't say when," she replies with a grin. Once again, he gets the feeling that he's met his match in this woman. "I just want to make sure that you're not going to go back on your word."
His pride is wounded at that – Robin has made lots of mistakes, but he's never broken a vow, no matter how poorly made. "I gave you my word," he says. "As long as you're honest with me, I'll keep it."
She nods at that, but doesn't meet his eyes. He's been in the business long enough to know what that means – she'll be as honest as she can, but she won't promise him the whole truth. Good enough for now.
He escorts her into the office, and she settles into the same beat-up armchair that held her husband the day before. "I assume you have some questions," she asks.
He's done his homework, though, so questions aren't what he needs.
"I've verified your story. What I'm looking for are answers."
She raises her eyebrows at that. It's probably the first time in many years that someone like him has been this direct with her. Being married to a man like Leo Blanchard offers a certain type of buffer, to be sure, from the coarse and dingy world of the middle classes. He doubts her privileged ass has ever touched anything as cheap as the vinyl on his chairs.
"First," he says. "What happened to you after that day in Chicago?"
She laughs at that. "Of all the things you want to know," she says, "it's about how I slipped out of your grubby kleptomaniac hands."
"It's a start," he agrees, disregarding the insult.
"I told you, my mother figured out out I was pregnant. So she took me home, cut me off from the world, and stood watch over my bedside until I had the baby. Then she sold it."
"Sold it?" Robin asked, aghast. "You know that's illegal, right?" Marian's pregnancy had been an unplanned – and somewhat unwelcome – surprise, but he can't imagine giving up his son. Then again, he'd been 30 years old when Roland was born, not 17. He couldn't imagine what that must have been like, to be alone, kept prisoner in his father's house, waiting for a child to be born that he'd have to give up. Of course he can't imagine it. He still has no idea who is father is.
Regina laughs at his indignation, a hollow sound that echoes in the empty office. "Only illegal if you don't do it right. She had my signature; she had Daniel's, even though he never knew I was pregnant. My mother doesn't let a little thing like laws stand in her way."
Her mother sounds like a right bitch. He scribbles a note on his legal pad – Cora Mills. What did she do to her daughter to create this tense, closed-off creature? And how did her father allow it?
He remembers his first foster father, a man who believed that spare the rod and spoil the child was the gospel truth. Perhaps her father was such a man. Perhaps her father was absent. Better to ask than assume, he thinks. "Did your father sign off on that?" he asks.
Her face softens, and for a second, she disappears somewhere he can't follow. He waits for her to come back to him. "My father…" she starts, then pauses. She looks around the office, at the floor, anywhere but at him. Her defenses are strong, he'll give her that. "My father was a good man, but he let my mother boss him around their entire marriage. He loved me, but he wasn't strong enough to stand up to her. She convinced him that she was doing the right thing, so he caved." She pauses for a second and offers him a wry smile. "He did the best he could."
Hollow praise, that. He fervently hopes Roland won't be saying the same about him to a therapist in about thirty years. "And then?" he prompts.
"And then…Mother dragged me down to New York so I could go to NYU and start rubbing shoulders with the right people. She got me a job with a high-end event planner after graduation and told me that I'd better not screw up this opportunity."
"That all seems pretty tame," he says. "How on earth did you wind up with a man like Haber?"
She snorts at that. "Tame?" she asks. "You must not know very many wealthy people. Let me tell you something about rich people – they have too much money and not enough sense. They want what they want immediately, and a man like Jefferson gets it for them. And they reward him by introducing him to their friends."
"So you met him while you were working for this," he shuffles his notes, "event planner?"
She nods. "He came to a fundraiser he did for a ballet company. We started talking, and it didn't take me too long to figure out who he was and what he was into. And I was 23 years old and still looking for a rush, so we became…friends."
He can't help himself. "Are you having an affair with him?"
Regina throws back her head, letting loose with a full-body laugh. The sound echoes through his office and reverberates through his ears. She has a beautiful laugh, deep and throaty. It's the first time he's seen her relaxed; well, as relaxed as she can be.
"Am I having an affair with Jefferson?" she asks finally, once her laughter subsides to giggles. "No. I'm not."
He cocks an eyebrow at her, not sure he believes her. The humor drains from her face, and she meets his gaze with a fierce look of determination. "I haven't cheated on my husband. If I do, I get nothing. The prenup is pretty specific in that regard."
Of course she has a prenup. Women in her position always have a prenup. "So, that's kept you faithful, then?" he asks.
She smirks at him. "Believe it or not, Mr. Locksley, no. What's kept me faithful is that I gave my word to Leo. I might not be the best person, but I'm true to my word. I believe that's something you respect?"
He does respect it. Maybe not quite believes it, but he respects the sentiment.
Will ducks his head into the office – fifteen minutes late, Robin can't help but notice. He waves Will in and gestures to the chair next to Regina. "I'm putting Will on finding your son," he says. He rips off the top sheet of the legal pad and shoves it, along with a pen, across the desk to Regina. "I need you to make a list of everything you remember about when your son was born. Dates, names, locations. Anything that can help us find him." She nods and picks up the pen. "When she's done," he says to Will, "take it to Heller."
Regina stops writing. "Who's Heller?" she asks. "I hired you, not someone else."
"Technically, you didn't hire me, since you're not paying the bills. And I told you, I don't break the law anymore. Fortunately for you, I know plenty of people who do." He nods at her, then eases out of the office.
John is sitting in his office, tapping away at his laptop. Robin drops into the chair across from his desk. "I need you to go to Chicago," he says.
John leans back in his chair and studies Robin. "Can't say that I ever wanted to go back there, mate," he says evenly. Robin can't blame him. An abusive mother who abandoned her son for days on end to turn tricks and score crack turned John into a defensive thug who regularly beat the shit out of new arrivals in the group home. Dark places, Robin thinks. John's seen more than his share, more even than Robin has. Still, he needs someone he can trust on this case, and there's nobody he trusts more than John. Not enough to keep an eye on Regina, though; he's keeping that particular assignment to himself.
"Me neither," Robin agrees, "which is why I'm sending you instead of going myself. I need you to look into a man named Daniel Trotter. He works at Shepton Academy. Anything you can find. Shouldn't take you too long."
John nods and snaps his laptop closed. "I'll go today."
Bless John for being a good friend.
Will comes out of Robin's office ten minutes later. He waves a folded sheet of yellow paper at Robin and says he'll be back later this afternoon. Hopefully Heller will be able to help. Robin can't stand the man and doesn't trust him farther than he can throw him, but he does cough up good intel as long as the price is right. And if Haber is paying the bills, Robin is certain the price will be right. He waves Will out the door and goes back to his guest in the office.
She's tapping the pen impatiently on his desk as he enters. Once again, she's closed herself off to him. A coiled snake, but he knows she won't strike. She's been taught to keep her guard up. What will it take to get through to her, he wonders. More to the point, can he afford to find out?
"Are you planning to go back to your husband?" he asks. "You know, I won't get paid if you don't."
"Heaven forbid," she smirks. "I already texted him that I'll be home in an hour."
He thanks her, and she nods. "I do have one more question, though," he asks. "Does your husband know you're involved with Haber?"
"Of course he does," she answers drily. "He knows everything I'm involved in."
"And how is that possible?" he asks. "How is he all right with you being connected with someone like that?"
Regina laughs. "Oh, Robin," she says. "Just because I'm not using anymore, doesn't mean that Leo isn't."
Well, that's unexpected. It shouldn't be; after ten years in this business, Robin is pretty sure he's heard it all. A wealthy, self-satisfied real estate developer with a trophy wife and a drug problem hardly scratches the surface of disturbing, as far as he's concerned. Still, he can't quite wrap his mind around the fact that the man who was so concerned that his wife might have relapsed is keeping his own habits under wraps. His confusion obviously registers on his face, if Regina's snicker is any indication.
"Oh, don't look so surprised," she says with a smirk. "Surely you didn't think he was a saint? I thought you'd be smarter than that." She shifts in her seat, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs. A little bit of theatrics that he recognizes all too well. She's trying to gain the upper hand against him. Good thing for him that she doesn't already realize that she's had it from the moment she walked back into his life.
His ego prickles at her insult. "I'm just a little confused. If Haber is his supplier, then why didn't your husband just go find him and drag you back home? If his daughter knew where to find you, then surely he must have as well."
Regina shrugged, her eyes shifting away from his to study an old framed cover of the New Yorker on his office wall. "He could have found me easily enough, I suppose. But I'm not sure he knows Jefferson's name. Leo knows I have a…connection, but as long as he doesn't know who it is, he thinks he's in the clear. So he," and she waves her hands in the air, "looks the other way. I bring home what he wants, and he doesn't bother me when I need my space."
"Except this time," Robin says, and she gives a sharp nod.
"Except this time."
"Want to tell my why that is?" he asks, trying to keep his voice neutral, but she doesn't fall for it. She crosses her arms over her chest and pulls herself even tighter into his secondhand armchair. She looks as though she's ready to dodge a punch from a bully on the playground.
"No, not really," she says. "That's between him and me."
"If you want me to help you, you have to tell me the truth," he warns.
She fixes him with a rigid glare, one that he's sure has melted many a weaker man. He's not intimidated; he's impressed that this small woman is trying to gain the upper hand. She's a formidable foe. Client. Two sides of the same coin, he thinks.
"I hired you to find my son, not to dig into my marriage," she says haughtily. "If I wanted that, I'd be talking to a shrink."
A little psychoanalysis might do her some good. For a man who was raised in the foster system with completely useless weekly visits to a social worker, that's saying something. Of course, as a man who was raised in the foster system, he has a good fifteen years of experience in figuring out when to push and when to fall back. She's about ten seconds from bolting out the door and disappearing forever from his life, so he makes a snap decision to fall back. He leans back in his chair and smiles at her.
"Fine," he says. "You don't want to talk about it, we won't talk about it. John's on his way to Chicago to do some research, and Will's going to talk to Heller about finding some information on adoption records in Maine."
"Why aren't you doing that?" she asks, brows furrowed. "I thought I was paying you to find my son, not someone else."
"I told you," he says. "My outlaw days are over. Breaking into sealed records is illegal, and I can't afford to lose my license. I have a son of my own to support."
It's her turn to be surprised. "You do?" Her eyes flicker to his left hand, searching for a ring. Regina is many things, but subtle is not one of them.
"I do," he says. "He's five, and his mother worked out quite a decent child support settlement, courtesy of your husband's friend Kathryn Nolan, so I'm not going to lose my livelihood over this case."
"Fair enough," she says. She pushes herself out of the armchair and strolls across his office to the door. "You do this your way."
"How do I reach you to report what we find?" he asks. "Something tells me ringing up your home phone isn't what you're looking for here."
She looks back at him over her shoulder. "Don't worry about that," she says with a sly wink. "I'll find you."
With that, she's gone again. He fires up his laptop and preps himself to dig deeper into the mystery of Regina Mills Blanchard.
He knocks on Marian's door a few minutes before 7:00. She called him late in the afternoon, apologizing profusely that she had to ask him to babysit on such short notice, but she had a date and the sitter had cancelled. He hates the idea that he's babysitting his son, that he's not present in his life every day anymore, but he's grateful that Marian feels comfortable enough to call him like this. Even if the idea of sending her off on a date with another man is a little more than uncomfortable. He's met the man before (Keith? Kevin? Something like that), and the guy seems all right. Roland likes him, and that's enough to earn him a little bit of credit with Robin. Not much, but a little.
Marian opens the door, toothbrush in hand. So, it's that kind of date. She waves him in and calls out, "Roland! Daddy is here!"
"Ice cream, Mommy!" he calls back from the kitchen, and Robin and Marian both laugh. Greetings will have to wait.
"Thanks for doing this on short notice," she says. "Can you believe that Ruby cares more about her own social life than mine?"
"You don't have to thank me for taking care of my son," he snaps, and she takes a wary step back. "I'm sorry," he says. She doesn't deserve his ire. "It's fine. I'm glad to have the extra time with him. And I bet Ruby is glad to have the extra time with…well, with whoever she's seeing these days."
She fiddles with her toothbrush, and he can hear the wheels turning in her head, trying to find the right thing to say. He decides to give her a break. "Go," he says. "Finish getting ready. I'll go mop up after Roland in the kitchen."
She takes a few steps down the hallway, then turns back to him. "You have a new case," she says. "You have that look."
"I do have a new case," he says. He hates that she can still read him so well. Ten years together will do that. "Could be interesting. Could be a disaster."
"Be careful," she warns him. At his cocked eyebrow, they both laugh. It's a warning he's heard time and time again.
"I am careful," he says. He pictures Regina, curled into the chair in his office, arms crossed and face set. Careful is good. Careful is necessary. Careful will keep him out of trouble.
"Uh huh," Marian says drily. She shakes her head at him and heads down toward the master bedroom. She really does know him far too well.
After five games of Candyland and three bedtime stories, Roland is finally asleep. Robin settles himself on Marian's microsuede couch (not as comfortable as the worn leather couch that now takes up far too much room in his small apartment, but it will do) and clicks the button on the remote. He's happy to spend some quality time with the flat-screen TV that he lost in the divorce settlement. An old black-and-white movie is on, one that he knows he's seen a time or two before. He twists the top off a beer, silently thanking Marian for keeping a six-pack in the fridge for him. He's just getting interested in Norma Desmond's dramatics when his phone vibrates on the coffee table. An email from John. Robin hasn't heard from his partner since he left for Chicago the day before; not unexpected, since John prefers not to waste his time if he doesn't have anything to report. He taps in his lock code and pulls up his email.
Daniel Trotter. Seems pretty straightforward, bud. Graduated from Storybrooke, went to Univ of Illinois. Got a master's in mathematics and came back to teach at the school. Runs the stables too, and coaches soccer. His dad retired a few years ago. Married Shannon Farr, English teacher at the school. Has two stepkids, Dean and Avery. Guess that explains why the kids aren't a match. Diagnosed with leukemia last year. Fundraisers and community support to find a marrow donor. All very white-bread, brother.
Far as I can tell, his life doesn't go far beyond the school and the PTA. Nobody around here knows anything about Regina Blanchard. I think she's on the up-and-up, at least about this. Want me to stick around, dig up some more? Let me know.
He taps in a quick response. Sounds good. Come on back. Thx for checking it out.
How did a guy like Daniel Trotter go from someone like Regina to family life and the PTA? Robin certainly never forgot about her, and he only saw her the one time when he was seventeen years old. What's it going to mean to this man to bring Regina and a son that he never knew about into his life?
What a mess. Right now, there's a fifty-fifty chance that this is going to blow up in all of their faces. Still, he made a deal with Regina, and he's going to see it through. It might mean the difference between life and death for Trotter, and by all accounts, the guy deserves a break. He tries to convince himself that it's altruism that's driving him in this case, not silky hair, red lips and an icy stare.
He pushes the thought of her sitting in his office out of his mind. He's doing this for the paycheck, for his son, not for the girl whose brown eyes bore right through him in a community center in Chicago all those years ago.
The key turns in the lock, and he hears a soft giggle from the front door as Marian leads her date inside. He recognizes the sound, even though it's been years since it's been directed at him. His chest tightens a bit, torn between being relieved that Marian is happy and jealous that Keith gets to wake up in the morning and have breakfast with his son. Regardless of his bruised feelings, three is definitely a crowd in this scenario. He finishes his beer, takes it into the kitchen and tosses it into the recycling, and wipes his hands on his jeans. Marian leads Keith into the kitchen and stops short when she sees him. She looks shocked to find him in the kitchen where he'd spent so much time over the years, despite the fact that she's the one who called him. Suddenly, he can't get out of there fast enough.
He holds up his hands. "I'm on my way," he says with a smile. "Marian, Keith. Have a good night." He slips around them, stopping to shake Keith's hand, and he's on his way.
His phone vibrates again as he clicks the unlock button on his keys. He fishes the phone out of his pocket. A text alert from an unknown number –Tomorrow. 9am,it says. No need to guess who it's from.
He's a little unsettled by how pleased he is at the prospect of seeing her again.
Robin gets to the office by 8:45, but once again, she's waiting for him. Dressed in sleek black, makeup perfectly done, and a pair of heels that he's certain are doing permanent damage to her feet, she makes him feel every inch the awkward, shabbily dressed teenage boy she met all those years ago in Chicago. He unlocks the door and holds it open for her, gesturing her in with a smile and a wave of his hand.
"You're early," he says. Charming opening line, you arse.
"My mother always said that if you're on time, you're late."
"No offense, Regina, but your mother sounds like a piece of work." She laughs at that and nods in agreement. "Would you like some coffee?" He walks over to flip the switch on the ancient coffeemaker that Ashley insists on keeping. No Keurig cups for their office; Ashley thinks they poison the environment. And given that he's not inclined to spend the money on those ridiculous little plastic cups, Robin isn't going to press the point.
"I'm fine," she says, "but don't let me stop you." She settles into one of the chairs in the waiting room. The sight of her, expensive black wool perched on cheap orange plastic, is enough to change his mind. Caffeine can wait. The chairs in his office might be crap, but at least they're upholstered.
"Shall we go into my office?" he asks, and she rises gracefully and follows him into the inner sanctum.
"I came to check on your progress," she says as soon as he closes the door behind them. He smirks at her impatience before he can stop himself. It's only been a couple of days. He's good, but he's not that good.
"I'm afraid I don't have much to report yet," he says ruefully. "Just a lot of background information right now." She rolls her eyes at that, which he finds more than a little insulting, given that he's pretty much dropped everything to focus on her. "Were you expecting miracles?" he snaps.
"Well, you found me in a matter of hours," she retorts, fire snapping in her dark brown eyes.
"You weren't exactly covering your tracks. And besides, you weren't shielded behind disclosure laws for a closed adoption."
She opens her mouth to reply, but thinks better of it. After a beat, she says softly, "Point taken." She eases back into her chair and eyes him expectantly. The point may have been taken, but she clearly still wants a full report on his progress thus far. Since she's paying the bills (or rather, Haber is, but no difference to him, as long as the check is signed), he complies.
"Now then," he says, deliberately gentling his tone so as not to rile her further, "I sent John to do a little background work on your Mr. Trotter. Will is still working on our associate Heller, but I'm sure he'll report back today on what it will cost to engage his services."
She waves dismissively. "Whatever it costs, I'll pay it."
Of that, he has no doubt. "I can't promise how quickly we'll find anything. Depending on how well your mother covered her tracks, it could take some time." Something tells him her mother did a more than passable job of covering her tracks.
She leans forward in her chair, and he doesn't miss the desperation that flits across her face. "I don't have time," she says. "More specifically, Daniel doesn't have time."
"I'm well aware of the circumstances. Regina, I'm doing everything I can. You'll have to trust me on this." It's a lot to ask, that she trust him with the life and death of someone she so obviously cares about, but he finds he wants – no, needs – for her to trust him on this.
She studies his face, looking for some reassurance that he'll deliver on his promise. Whatever it is she's searching for, she must find it, because she slumps back in the chair. "I know you are. Thank you." She doesn't meet his eyes; rather, she worries the ring on her finger, twiddling it back and forth with her thumb.
It's none of his business, he knows it's none of his business, but he has to ask. "When we find him," he says, putting emphasis on the word when, "what exactly do you plan to do then? Swoop in and tell Daniel that he has a son, that this teenager is going to save his life? You know you're going to upend a lot of lives here, Regina."
She shrugs a little. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do. But whatever happens, it's worth it, don't you think?"
Robin remembers the pictures in the alumni magazine of Daniel's wife and small stepkids. "You'll blow his family apart."
She bites her lip at that, and he instantly regrets the words. It's not her fault that she's in this situation. Not Daniel's fault, or his family's fault either. She's trying to do the right thing, and here he is, raining judgment down on her for it. Before he can apologize, she cuts him off.
"Do you think letting him die would be a better option?"
No. No, he doesn't. He weighs his words carefully. "I think you're doing the right thing here, but I just think you need to be careful. Think before you go charging in. Not everyone wants a savior, you know."
"I'm hardly a savior," she mutters. "I'm just…an old friend."
Right. And he's the King of England. "Well," he says, "we probably have some time to plan your strategy. As I said, it'll take a little bit of time to find your son. Perhaps you should use that time to figure out what you're going to say to him. And to his father." The father that doesn't even know the lad exists.
Her fingers finally stop twisting the ring on her finger. "I'll take that under advisement," she says coolly. She rises from her chair and slaps a check face-down on his desk. "Your retainer."
His eyes flicker over the piece of paper. $2,000, the same amount he quoted her husband. He'd have done it for her for far cheaper, but since Haber is paying the bills, he'll take it. "Are you absolutely certain you want Jefferson paying for this?" He can't resist asking her again, nor can he stop the concern from leaking into his voice.
"I told you, I'll be fine." She crosses her arms and looks around the office. "I've been meaning to ask you, have you heard from my husband?"
"Not since you returned home. He messengered over his final payment."
Her eyes meet his again, locking onto his face. "You will," she says. "He's going to hire you to find out if I've been cheating on him. And he's going to want you to find evidence of it, regardless of whether it exists."
"And why is that?" he asks. "You've already told me you haven't been unfaithful." He still has his doubts on that score, but he hates himself for even thinking it.
There she goes, chewing that bottom lip again. "I haven't," she says. "But I've been stupid."
Well now, this is getting interesting. More than it should be. He can't help but wonder if Regina is the only person in the room who might be getting in over her head. "How so?"
"I told you about the pre-nup. If I cheat, I get nothing. If I don't, I get a million dollars for every year we've been together. That's ten million dollars as of this past April, and Leo will do anything to keep his money where he thinks it belongs, in his bank account."
Given what she's told him about her promise to her husband, Robin can't quite follow her logic on this one. "If you're not cheating, what does it matter?"
She laughs. "Because, you idiot, he knows I want to leave him."