Chapter One

"How come you keep dragging me to bars?" Fusco grumbled.

"Bars are where people get into trouble, Lionel." Reese kept his attention on the dance floor. He avoided staring at anyone in particular, kept his glance moving, casual. But he mostly focused on a couple at the center of the floor. Adam Kramer and Kathy Gregs. They'd been dating three weeks. They seemed happy.

Neither of them danced very well, but they didn't seem to care.

They had a table at the side of the floor. Reese watched while the waiter dropped off a round of fresh drinks that Adam and Kathy hadn't ordered. "There," he said quietly. "Second table from the left."

Fusco turned his barstool and scanned the floor, credibly appearing to be checking for available women. "What about it?"

"Wait."

A woman stood up from the bar and walked slowly around the edge of the dance floor. She had red hair and big round sunglasses, though the club was dim. When she got to the empty table she paused and looked around. Then her hand came out of her pocket and hovered over the drinks.

Fusco glanced at Reese. "Poison?"

"Yes."

"Ex-girlfriend?"

"Yes."

The detective sighed, stood up, and waded through the dancers to detain the woman as she headed for the door.

Reese stayed where he was and watched. Fusco caught up to the woman just in front of the bouncer, and a quick badge flash enlisted the man's help. They got the woman in handcuffs, took off her sunglasses and her wig. They recovered the drinks as evidence, gathered Kramer and Gregs as witnesses. Fusco called for transport.

Attempted murder, plain and simple. Lots of evidence. No one hurt. Clean. Exactly the way their operations were supposed to work.

Reese tapped his earpiece as he slipped out the back door. "Finch?"

"Everything alright, Mr. Reese?"

"All taken care of. Anything new?"

"Not yet."

"Good. I'm going home. See you in the morning."

"Sleep well, Mr. Reese."

Reese tapped the earpiece again and strolled back to his car. A black-and-white pulled up in front of the club, running lights but not sirens. In a moment a second arrived.

Everything was taken care of. He hadn't had to draw his weapon. Hadn't even had to throw a punch. It was all good.

He felt twitchy. He'd been prepared to move, to fight. Built up a little adrenalin. It hadn't been needed, and it would take a while to wear off. A hot shower and a light snack would help. But whatever he did, he knew he wouldn't get to sleep for a while.

This is good, he told himself firmly. This is how it's supposed to be. He wasn't disappointed. That would be perverse.

The signs said the park across from his loft was closed after 11 p.m., but Reese changed his clothes and went down to shoot hoops for a while anyhow.

He'd never been one much for following the rules.

Avery Fornaris studied the new data with a practiced eye. He'd had his doubts, but as his eye scanned to the bottom of the screen, a grim smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He picked up his phone.

His source answered on the first ring. "Well?"

"It's good," Fornaris allowed. "It's quite good."

"Just what you needed. As promised."

"And you can get this sort of work steadily, reliably?"

"I told you. I've got live-in geniuses."

Fornaris nodded to himself. He reached his keyboard, brought up another screen. "I think, then, that we can do business together. I'm sending the retainer now." He pressed the button, transferred the money. "I'll be in touch."

"I'll look forward to it."

1974

Johnny reached up and slicked his hair down, unconsciously mimicking the gesture his mother made a dozen times a day. He made his way to the back of the classroom and sat at the desk with his name on it. All the desks had name signs on them, printed in big letters on colorful paper. His sign was red. He liked green better, but he hadn't said anything. It was the third day of first grade.

"Johnny?" the teacher called as the other children filed in. "Can I see you for a minute?"

The boy next to him made a quiet ooooooh noise. The you're in trouble now noise. Johnny stood up and made his way quickly to the front of the class. He tried to think of what he'd done that he might be in trouble for. He'd never gotten in trouble in school before. He'd tried really hard to follow the rules. The teacher's name was Mrs. McGill and she seemed nice enough so far, but the older kids said she was strict and sometimes mean. He didn't want to get on her bad side.

She glanced at him when he reached her desk. "Oh, good," she said, like she was surprised he was there. She took his arm and led him to the furthest corner, up by the window. "I need to talk to you about something."

Johnny nodded seriously. "Yes, ma'am?"

"I know that your mother calls you Johnny, and all the kids."

He frowned, confused. He wasn't in trouble because of his name, was he? "Yes, ma'am."

"We have a new student," Mrs. McGill continued. "And his name is also Johnny. I'm afraid with two of you it will be confusing. So I wanted to ask you if it would be alright if we called you John. It's probably just for this year."

"Um …" He looked at her. It seemed sort of unfair, since he was here first. But it really didn't matter to him, either. John sounded kind of grown up. "Sure. That'd be fine. Ma'am."

She gave him a real smile. "Thank you, Johnny. John. That's very nice of you. I'm sure the other boy will appreciate it. He's rather … special."

He must be, Johnny thought, if he gets to keep his name and I have to give it up. But he shrugged. "Um, ma'am? Do I need a new name tag for my desk?"

"I guess you will, won't you?"

He took a deep breath. "Would it be okay — could it be green?"

Mrs. McGill smiled again. "Of course it can, John. I'll make it right now. Go take your seat."

"Yes, ma'am."

Johnny —John, he corrected mentally — walked back to his desk happily. Tony, the boy beside him, made a little sneering face. "Get in trouble?" he asked.

"No."

"Teacher's pet."

John sat down. Tony had older brothers and a smart mouth. John's mom had told him to stay away from him.

The bell rang and the children settled into their desks. Mrs. McGill was leaning over her desk, writing. John knew it was his new name sign. Then the door opened and a tall thin man pushed a wheelchair into the room. A very small boy was strapped into the chair. He had to be strapped because if he hadn't been he would have fallen out. His whole body was bent and twisted, and he seemed to wiggle and jerk constantly.

The class went dead silent. Everyone stared.

The boy in the chair smiled and jerked.

Oh, John thought, that kind of special. He was glad he hadn't made a fuss about his name.

Mrs. McGill looked up and smiled at the boy and the man. "I have a desk there in the back," she said, pointing.

John looked to his right and noted for the first time that the empty desk beside him had no chair.

The man tried to maneuver the wheelchair between the desks, but they were a little too close together. The two girls in the front row scooted apart a little to let them through. But the boys in the next row didn't get it. Mrs. McGill was still temporarily distracted at her desk. John knew he wasn't supposed to get out of his seat without permission. He did anyhow. He moved to the front of the row and pushed the one boy's desk aside just enough to let the wheelchair pass. The third row kids moved on their own. He had to move the forth row a little, and then the boy's desk itself. When he turned around and dropped into his own chair, the teacher was watching him.

She nodded her approval.

"Teacher's pet," Tony whispered.

"Class," Mrs. McGill said, walking toward them, "this is our new student, Johnny. He will have an attendant with him between classes, but I expect you all to help him out whenever you can."

This was met with mostly snickers from the boys and murmured of agreement from the girls.

"And our first Johnny," the teacher went on, "we're going to call John for the rest of the year." She folded the green construction paper long-ways and set it on John's desk. Then she moved his red sign over to the new boy's. "If you have any questions, you can see me privately at recess."

Tony shot his hand in the air. "Hey, teacher, how come we have to …"

"Privately," she said sharply, "at recess." She walked back to her desk. "Now get out your math books."

"Gimp," Tony muttered.

John glared at him. He got out his math book. Then he looked at Johnny. The boy was looking around, smiling still. He seemed very happy to be at school, or maybe with other people. The man who'd brought him in was sitting in a chair in the back corner. He started to get up, but John reached into tote on the back of the wheelchair and got out Johnny's book for him. He opened it to the right page and put it on the desk in front of him.

Johnny looked at the book, then at him. "Could you …" he began, his hand waving wildly.

John frowned, then figured out what he wanted. He slid the book toward the front of the desk a few inches. The angle made it easier for the boy to see it. "There?"

"Yes." Johnny worked at the next word for a second. "Thanks."

"Sure. Just tell me what you need."

"Teacher's pet," Tony muttered from his other side. "Gimp lover."

"Shut up," John growled at him.

If Johnny'd heard him, he didn't seem to care. He just kept smiling.

2013

By the next day, the agitation had vanished and Reese could enjoy the peaceful outcome of the investigation. The library was quiet. Finch's keyboard tapped steadily. John cleaned his handguns, one after another, on newspapers spread on a side table. He didn't hurry. The rhythm of the morning was soothing. The smell of the oil, the worn softness of the rag. The satisfying snap of pieces clicking back into place. The old habits of his hands, quick, competent. Muscle memory. He glanced down. Three more weapons to go, and then perhaps he'd take go for a run before lunch.

Provided, of course, that the unpredictable Machine didn't decide to interrupt his plans.

The keyboard sounds paused. "Is that really necessary?" Finch complained.

Reese didn't bother to look up. "It's important to take care of your equipment, Finch," he answered mildly.

"What?"

"You run your back-ups and I clean my weapons."

"I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to this … beast."

Smokey, the cat they'd borrowed to rid the library of mice, was standing on Finch's desk between the genius and his keyboard. Finch waved her away. She stretched, arching her back elegantly. Then she lay down on the keys.

The monitor behind her jumped and scrolled with nonsensical input.

"Stop, stop!" Finch said. He slid his hands reluctantly under the cat and picked her up, letting her legs dangle. She meowed in his face, much more loudly than a cat her size should have been able to. Bear bounced to his feet and hurried over to see what was troubling her. "Aren't you supposed to be hunting?" Harold leaned awkwardly and put the cat on the floor.

Bear nosed her. Smokey sniffed at him indulgently, then moved away. The dog followed closely, still nudging her with his nose. She jumped up onto Reese's table to escape.

"Is she getting rid of the mice?" Reese asked. He stroked the cat's sleek gray fur. When he and Bear had found her, she'd been small enough to fit in his hand. Now she was nearly full grown.

"I don't know." Finch shook his head at the screen and set about undoing the cat's input. "Christine said she brought her the mouse heads at the café, but she hasn't brought me any." He glanced back at the cat. "I suppose I should count myself lucky."

"Hmmm." The cat started to push the gun parts aside, evidently intending to nap there instead. "I don't think so, Smokey," Reese said. He lifted her up, with one hand under her backside, and put her over his shoulder like a baby. She immediately began to purr, loudly. Her belly felt full and round. Christine had had her spayed months before, so he knew the cat wasn't pregnant. "I think you're overfeeding her."

Finch shook his head. "She barely touches her cat food."

"Well, she's eating something, then." He leaned back, still with the cat on his shoulder, and resumed his work. "I'm surprised we haven't seen more of Christine. I figured we'd have to drag her out of here feet-first."

Harold made a small annoyed noise at his computer. "She's been busy."

"You've talked to her?"

"Hmmm. Monday. I asked her to lunch, but she's tied up with things."

"Is she working on the apartment?"

"As far as I know."

Finch was clearly distracted, only half-listening. Reese let the conversation drop. He tried to think back to last time he'd seen Christine Fitzgerald. Christmas night? It couldn't have been that long. But he couldn't remember her being at the library since he'd gotten out of Rikers, anyhow. The bomb vest …

He shook it off impatiently.

Of course, she might have been there to see Finch while he was out.

Harold certainly didn't see concerned about her absence. But Reese was. It wasn't like Christine to stay away from Finch, his secrets, his computers, or his books. Or, he was pointedly reminded when Smokey dug her front claws casually into his shoulder, her cat. "Stop," he said mildly.

Smokey licked his neck. Then she tilted her head a little and began to bathe his ear in earnest. "Stop," Reese protested again, laughing.

"I'm sure that's a sign of affection," Finch said drily, without looking up.

"It tickles." John plucked the cat carefully off his shoulder — she still had her claws lightly into his skin – and put her on the floor. Bear immediately pounced toward her. She arched her back in a stretch, then strolled off. The dog followed, eager to play. Smokey stopped and hissed at him. He retreated, until she looked away, then eagerly moved closer again. The cat hissed again, then growled. Bear dropped to his belly, wagging his tail furiously.

"I don't think she wants to play right now, Bear," John advised.

The dog looked at him, then went after the cat a third time.

Smokey extended one elegant claw and swiped him across the nose. Bear yipped. The cat arched up her back to its fullest extent and growled warningly.

Reese watched closely, ready to intercede if necessary. Bear was certainly perfectly aware that he could bite the little cat in half, but since he was clearly unwilling to do so, he took the only step he could that would prevent her from hurting him further: He rolled over on his back, exposing his throat and his belly, placing himself at her mercy.

Smokey shook herself and sauntered off into the stacks. Bear rolled to his feet and looked after her, then sadly walked to John's side and sat down. Reese reached down and rubbed his ears, then checked his nose. There was a faint red scratch, but it wasn't actively bleeding. "Women, boy," John told him sympathetically. "No means no."

The dog sighed and sank to the floor.

"Does that happen often?" Reese asked.

Finch nodded. "About once a day."

"Poor boy."

"Check in an hour," Finch said, "they'll be curled up in bed together."

"That's a woman, all right." John finished reassembling the gun, then put the others aside. "C'mon, Bear, let's go for a walk."

The dog jumped up eagerly and went to fetch his leash.

"Call me if you need me," Reese said.

Finch muttered some vague answer, not much more than a grunt. John was pretty sure the genius didn't even know they were gone.

Dylan Roth saw his supervisor coming out of the corner of his eye. He kept his head down, concentrating on the conveyor belt in front of him. The work was mind-numbingly simple, but it paid okay and it was steady. He couldn't afford to lose this job.

He hoped Garrison would walk right past him. He didn't, of course. He stopped at Dylan's elbow. He had a timecard in his hand.

Dylan glanced up at him, then focused on the small pieces again. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Hart again?" Garrison asked quietly.

"His bus was late. I had to wait with him.

"Can't you get a neighbor to wait with him?"

Dylan shook his head. "I tried, but he kinda flipped out on her. Routine, you know. Bad enough that the bus was late, without changing anything else." And also, he thought, he couldn't afford it.

Garrison made a face, looked around. "I had to write you up last time, Dylan. You've got to be on time."

"I know." He shrugged. "I'm really sorry. Whatever you have to do, you know, I understand. You have your job to do, too." He looked up again, tried to keep the pleading look out of his eyes. He needed this job so badly.

Garrison sighed. "I fixed your punch," he said, very quietly. "You weren't late today."

Dylan blew out a breath. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Yeah, well. Be on time from now on. Or we'll both get canned."

"Thank you," Dylan said again.

The supervisor clapped his hand on the young man's shoulder. Then he moved off down the line.

Roth let himself sag with relief for one moment. And then he went back to mindless work that he was blessedly glad to still have.

Igor Zubec was behind the old bar, restacking coffee mugs after the morning rush. He grunted at Reese and the dog. "Coffee?"

"No, thanks. Is Christine around?"

"Nope."

"Know where she went?"

The barista shrugged. "She's been gone a couple days."

"That doesn't worry you?"

"Probably found herself some uniform to cuddle up with." The big man shrugged, nonchalant, but there was a sharpness in his eyes. "She's a grown woman. She does what she wants."

Reese nodded. He knew about Christine's habits and her preference for men in uniform. He tried to ignore the twinge in his chest, somewhere between concern and what might be jealousy. "When she shows up, have her give me a call, will you?"

Zubec studied him. They understood each other, he and John, in the way of old soldiers; they might not be friends, but they had a mutual respect and a common interest. "Sure."

He pulled out a business card, one of the assortment Harold had provided him. "If she doesn't show up in a day or so, let me know."

Zubec took the card. "Sure."

"Appreciate it."

Reese took the dog and went out. They'd already walked much further than he'd meant to, but it was sunny and unseasonably mild, and Bear had been largely stuck inside for weeks. His phone was silent, so there was no new Number. No reason to hurry back. He and Bear walked the remaining distance to the new building Finch had given to Christine just before the holidays.

There were new windows at every opening, and new high-quality steel doors at every entrance. Around the back, he found an empty dumpster parked on what would eventually be Christine Fitzgerald's lawn. The renovation was definitely underway.

But the building was closed up and there were no workers there. Reese glanced at his watch. It was late morning, but probably too early for lunch. The weather was decent, and the worksite was enclosed anyhow. There was no reason for work to be stopped.

It was New York City, Reese thought; building permits were notoriously hard to get, and even harder to get in a timely manner. That might explain the delay.

On the other hand, Christine's computer skills were exceptional; he doubted that she'd have any trouble creating her own permits as needed.

But there was definitely nothing happening on the site.

"Well," John said aloud.

Bear looked up at him expectantly.

"She's not here."

The dog sat down and waited.

"I don't think she's coming back today, boy." Reese pulled his phone out, then hesitated. He could call Christine — and say what? Call Finch? And again, say what? He didn't have any indication that she was in any kind of trouble. Zubec was probably right; she'd likely found some man in uniform with a three-day pass. He didn't particularly like that. But again, Zubec was right: She was a grown woman. And she was a damn good judge of character. She was probably okay.

He stood very still, closed his eyes, and let himself feel the situation. He didn't like that she was gone, or that construction on her new apartment had stopped. Or that she was probably rolling around the sheets with a relative stranger. But there was nothing that told him she was in trouble. Not even his instinct was saying that.

Nothing actionable.

He put the phone away.

Still idly curious, he wandered across the street. There were a handful of small shops and office there. He ordered Bear to sit next to a lamp post and made the token gesture of looping the end of the leash around it. Then he walked into the office of a heating and cooling business. There was a grey-haired woman at a small desk, playing solitaire with a faded deck of cards.

She smiled up at him. "Help you?"

Reese smiled back. "Maybe. I hope so. I'm with Universal Heritage Insurance."

Her smiled turned from warm to coolly polite. "We don't need any more …"

"No, no, I'm not selling anything," he explained quickly. "We wrote the liability policy for City Builders. They're working across the street?"

"Oh, yes. I've seen the trucks." Her wariness vanished.

"Í was supposed to do a walk-through. You know, a surprise inspection, unannounced? But there doesn't seem to be anybody working over there today."

The woman shook her head. "Oh, no. They haven't been there all week. Or let me think … Frank! Were the construction guys over across the street last week?"

There was no answer from the back room.

"Part of the week," the woman said, nodding, satisfied. "I think Wednesday was the last day they worked."

Reese nodded. "Any idea why they stopped?"

She shrugged. "Permits, probably. They're a bitch to get in this town. Pardon my French. But it's true. We run into it all the time. Unless you're bossom buddies with the mayor or something, they're just impossible."

"I know," Reese said sympathetically. "We run into that a lot, too, with our policy holders. Every job runs long."

"Exactly. Anyhow, that's probably where they are."

"Well, I'll call the office and check. Thanks for your help."

She smiled at him again, the full bright smile. "Any time."

Reese went out and collected Bear. His phone rang. Reese glanced at it, taped his earwig. "New number, Finch?" he asked.

"They never stop, Mr. Reese."

"On my way." He put the phone away, walked Bear out to the nearest main street, and whistled for a cab.