Human Interactions
"It has come to my attention that you and Detective Carter are spending increasing amounts of time together, Mr. Reese."
Finch paused to gauge his partner's response to this opening salvo.
The dust motes that filled the pale shafts of light flickered and darted through the library's main room. Finch always enjoyed these early morning moments before the hectic day commenced, especially when he could share them with Reese.
When the other man continued sipping his coffee and said nothing, Finch did not know whether to take the silence as a sign to continue or a warning to halt at once.
"I raise this question not as an attempt to interfere with your private life. What you do with your leisure time is certainly your own business…"
"Well, that's good to know, Finch."
"…but as an effort to inquire into how the changed nature of your relationship with the detective might alter our working arrangements. I am sure you share with me the unassailable certainty that our mission is paramount."
"I'm sure I do." Reese tipped the paper cup back to drain the last drop of coffee and tossed the container in the wire waste basket.
It infuriated Finch that in all the months they had been working together Reese had never once missed that shot. In contrast, the crumpled yellow and white evidence of Finch's ambiguous athletic talents lay scattered all around the basket.
"Harold, do you have a new number for me or not?" Evidently, Reese was not entirely convinced of the necessity of having this conversation at this exact moment.
"You can avoid this discussion for the present, Mr. Reese. But rest assured, we will return to it at a later point.
"And yes, we do have a new number."
Sorting out the details of the new case occupied the two men for the rest of the morning. After a few lashes at his keyboard, Finch produced a grainy surveillance photo, an impressive trail of credit receipts, several dubious academic transcripts, and five phone recordings of sinister suggestiveness.
Their new client was either a master thief whose exploits involved art heists on four continents or the unwitting dupe of a criminal confederacy whose sole aim was the recovery of a singular example of Bakongo statuary.
Either way, his life was in danger.
It was Reese's job to track the little fellow and find out which side of the ethical ledger he occupied.
The client, a naturalized citizen of Egyptian origin, had the countenance of a startled marmoset, all sleek hair, golden skin, and enormous eyes. Reese had little difficulty establishing the man's daily routine: quick commutes between his apartment and his office at a distinguished art auction house; evenings devoted to solitary pursuits on the Internet or monopolizing a corner table in the small bistro a block from his front door.
The most interesting thing about the little man was the gardenia cologne he wore. Carter told Reese it was a classic Chanel fragrance from the 1920s; he just thought it was excessive.
As he perched on a rooftop observing their client's uneventful Tuesday afternoon in the airy offices of the auction house, Reese received a call from Finch.
"I believe we need to check criminal and probate records on the past legal dealings of our client's employer. The man has a credit history that only extends four years into the past, which arouses my suspicions that he is not who he says he is."
Finch paused to let that information sink in, hoping that Reese would volunteer his services. But when no offer was forthcoming, Finch made his request clear.
"Would you please contact Detective Carter to ask her to look into the particulars of our case, Mr. Reese?"
"Now, why would I do that, Harold?" With his low insinuating tone the man was both maddening and subversive. Finch could not decide which was more disturbing.
In addition to that, Reese could be alarmingly blunt when he chose.
"Just because I sleep with her does not make me your go-between. If you need something from Carter, ask her yourself."
He was perfectly capable of contacting the detective on his own, of course, but Finch supposed that Reese would have preferred the privilege of, or excuse for, speaking with her himself.
Not so, it appeared.
So Finch did call the detective and painted the outline of the case for her in minimal brush strokes.
Over the next three days, the information Carter unearthed for them proved vital in charting a new investigative direction concerning their hapless number.
The mysterious art historian who was their client's superior was a broker of international renown. The man's vast interest in nineteenth century African art was exceeded only by his prodigious consumption of food and drink. A gourmand and an esthete, the broker had become wealthy through the generous provisions of the wills of several prominent art investors he had privately advised toward the ends of their long, rich lives.
The lawyer who drafted the revisions of these wills was a beguiling lady whose exploits had attracted the attention of Carter's police colleagues in several states and at least six nations overseas. The witnesses to those conveniently crafted wills included a gallery of questionable types: a ship's captain, a junior gunman for the Mafia, and a former investigator for the San Francisco police department.
By week's end, the case was successfully concluded: after only a minor application of Reese's violent skills, their client was safe from harm. The Bakongo statue, a compact bird festooned across its black surface with a fierce array of rusted nails, was carefully boxed and winging its way home to the Angolan national museum in Luanda.
The only irritation for Finch in an otherwise flawlessly executed operation was the unsettling knowledge that the well-padded art historian and his motley collection of associates had fled the country, their destination unknown.
Friday afternoon's slanting sun caught Finch on the steps of the courthouse, lurching upwards toward a shaded spot between the graceful white pillars. Moments like these made his damaged physique hurt more than usual; the ironic contrast between his ungainly movements and the classically beautiful architecture underscored in his mind the abiding cruelty of his situation.
Waiting for Carter to emerge from the courthouse, he thought about what he knew of her evolving relationship with his colleague.
He had realized only a few weeks after recruiting Reese to his mission that the younger man was indirectly communicating with the police officer.
At first the communication was one-sided, to be sure: Leaving his suit jacket with that runaway girl and depositing her in Carter's care like a baby abandoned on the steps of the parish church; collecting information about the detective's movements from that urban bumpkin, Fusco.
Then Reese started following Carter to crime scenes, intercepting her phone and email exchanges, staking out her apartment for all night vigils. Finch knew things had progressed beyond the tipping point when Reese began apprehending violent offenders and gift wrapping them for her like tribute from a devoted vassal.
Finch wasn't exactly certain when the admiration had become mutual, or intimate. Perhaps getting someone shot was a sign of affection in this modern age.
Finch did not doubt for an instant that Carter returned Reese's high regard. Her absolute willingness to entrust him with her career, her life, and the life of her son was proof enough.
That bold phrase from the Declaration looped through his mind: We mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor.
Was that the suicidal pact he, Reese, Carter, and Fusco had bound themselves to in undertaking this mission?
Lugubrious thoughts such as these often came over him at the conclusion of a case when the exhilaration of the investigation invariably gave way to a sizeable let down. Even a relatively simple case such as the one just concluded provoked in him dour glimpses into mortality.
At that moment Carter appeared from the shadows in front of him, looking not the least bit surprised to see him there.
Indeed, it was Finch who felt flustered in her presence. He realized he was still panting slightly from his climb. In contrast, she looked poised and vital; her features were composed, her caramel skin so flawless he imagined it must feel cool to the touch like the marble pillars that surrounded them.
With an effort he set aside the morbid thoughts that had assailed him earlier to say what he had come to say.
"Thank you for your assistance with this latest case, Detective. Your help was invaluable."
"You're welcome, Harold." The bite in her tone seemed to betray a brittle concern that further incited his own anxiety.
She peered at him with such a critical gaze that he felt himself cringing. Her next words threw him.
"So did I pass?"
"I don't know what you mean, Detective."
"Sure you do. Did I pass your test?"
No use in further evasion, he concluded.
"Yes, you did."
"Are you ever gonna stop testing me?"
He felt the truth was his best tactic in the face of her candor.
"I will cease testing you only if you fail, Detective. Only if you fail."
The jewel box confines of the study off of the library's main room exuded a special sensual pleasure for Finch. He could retire here at the end of an eventful week, surrounded by his musty book bindings and his cracked leather chairs and the barely perceptible droning of his devices.
Of all the spaces in the library, he was happiest here.
Finch poured out an evening brandy and soda for himself and retrieved a beer from the refrigerator for Reese. The warm yellow light from three reading lamps pooled on tables beside the high backed wing chairs where the two men sat. A tray of sandwiches lay on a low table between them.
Finch turned slightly in his chair, making the old leather cushion creak faintly under his weight.
"That case certainly had its peculiarities, Mr. Reese. But happily, nothing beyond our capabilities.
"Thank you for your timely intervention yesterday. Without it, I might have needed to call upon our old friend Dr. Tillman for her medical expertise."
"You're welcome, Finch."
Reese was even more taciturn than usual. But Finch forged ahead, determined to unlock his friend's reluctant heart.
"I do hope that Detective Carter's willingness to provide us with so much official information did not get her in any trouble with her supervisors."
"She's O.K. with it by now. I think she figured out how to square that a long time ago."
Reese picked up a long rusty nail from the side table next to his arm chair. The nail, three inches of crusted iron and three centuries of royal history, had fallen from the prized Bakongo statue during the previous day's struggle.
"All those people, all that effort, for something like this. I don't get it, Finch." The younger man turned the nail in his elegant fingers and then rolled it across his palm.
Finch waited patiently for his colleague to arrive at the thought he was struggling to express.
"I guess I don't get a lot of things, when you come right down to it. I don't know how this thing with Carter is going to work. Or where it's going."
"We do not get advance knowledge of the outcome of our choices, John. We just have to play it out until the end."
Reese looked at Finch finally, his gaze direct and open.
"I like her. I like her a lot. More than I've liked any woman in a long time."
He studied the ancient nail again, as if it were the stuff that dreams are made of.
"I'm not the man she deserves, Harold. Not by a long shot. But she seems to want me anyway."
Finch was prepared to risk sounding pretentious; surely the heavy tax of age and infirmity had bought him the right to a little pomposity from time to time.
"Human interactions are messy, John. They are imprecise, dangerous and so utterly puzzling it's a wonder we even make the effort.
"But we do. We do try."
Reese appeared to want to draw the conversation to a close.
"Harold, I don't have a clue where we are headed with all this. But I hope you are along with us for the ride."
"Always."
After several minutes of silence, Finch left the room to collect a second bottle of beer for his friend.
When he returned, he found Reese slumped in his chair, asleep. His long legs sprawled out in front of him, the ankles disappearing into the shadows beyond the pool of yellow lamp light.
Laboriously, Finch bent to retrieve the old nail which lay on the carpet where it had fallen from his exhausted colleague's hand.
Taking a battered Romeo Y Julieta cigar box from behind the glass doors of a curio cabinet, Finch placed the token among his cherished souvenirs of cases concluded and lives abandoned.
He switched off the three lamps and, propping the study door open to allow a thin blade of light, he made his way to his own quarters.