2

John stood there stupidly, just for a second, and stared.

Taylor's horrified expression made it clear the boy recognized him, and John relaxed his grip. Taylor pulled away, almost slipping from John's fingers. "Let me go," he growled.

John did the opposite, clamping down.

Taylor screamed.

"Let me go!" He twisted sharply, shoving at John's arms, scrabbling at the hand immobilizing his shoulder. "Pervert, get off me! Let me - "

"Hey." A male voice, deep. Attached to a huge male, currently making his way across the room. "What's going on?"

John let Taylor go. Watched as he sprinted away, disappearing instantly through the door, melting into the stream of people heading for the front exit.

John pulled his gun and flashed his stolen NYPD badge. "Nothing is going on," he said. "But the cops are here, so the party's over. You're leaving."

The gigantic man froze, raised his hands. Backed away. The others who had been watching John, unsure if he was really police, did the same.

John dropped the badge into his pocket and grabbed the arm of the man still closest to him. The man Taylor had been with. "Not you."

The man struggled in his grip.

John lifted him off the ground and slammed him into the cement wall. "You don't move," he said.

He spoke to Finch, then. Ten minutes later the door that led out to Grant Street was forced open by Fusco, wielding a pair of bolt cutters.

x

Fusco drove and John sat in the back, next to the stranger he'd dragged from the warehouse. The man was sullen at first, silent. But as they drove and no one spoke, he began to be afraid.

You can smell fear, sometimes. John could smell it.

"Look, am I being charged with a crime?"

Fusco glanced back, uncertain.

John didn't turn his gaze from the window. "Shut up."

"Aren't you supposed to read me my rights?"

John raised his gun and pressed it to the man's throat. He didn't need a gun to kill. But sometimes guns were the most reliable way to shut people up.

"One more word," he said.

They headed to a motel nearby. It rented by the hour and would never dream of calling the police, no matter what happened on scene. No matter what went down in its rooms.

Fusco waited in the car.

John shoved the man into the room, pushed him into a rickety desk chair, and sat on the bed a few feet away.

The man was sweating now, breathing fast. He was young, but not nearly as young as Carter's son. Mid-twenties. Gelled hair, plain face. Stupid expensive tattoo on his forearm. Trendy clothes.

Too petrified to fight, or even look at John full on. He trembled very slightly, at the tips of his fingers.

John glanced through the wallet he'd taken from his pocket. Black Amex card. Over two thousand dollars in large and small bills. And a Pennsylvania driver's license, issued to Michael Willet.

"This is a lot of money, Michael. What did you come to the city to buy?"

The man's eyes darted to John's, to the gun at John's side. To the door. "Take it. Let me go and I won't report it, I swear."

"Answer the question, Michael."

Willet breathed deeply, trying to control his terror. "Just here for the weekend. To have fun." He hesitated, went on. "I can get more cash."

"How do you know the boy you were with?"

"What boy?"

John closed his eyes.

Was he playing stupid? Or was he actually stupid? Maybe there had just been a lot of boys.

He could beat it out of him. But that would take time. Not very long, judging from the look of him. Still though, time.

John didn't know where Taylor would go now, or what Taylor would do. But he was a teenager, unpredictable, and horrified - maybe even scared by what John had seen. Whatever the kid was going to do, John did know he probably didn't have a lot of time before Taylor did it.

"Black teenager, longish hair. Under the age of consent. Sucking you off when I first spoke to you. That boy."

The man moistened his lips. "I don't know him."

John picked up the gun sitting beside him.

"I met him at the warehouse," the man added hurriedly. "He offered, I accepted. That's it."

John leaned forward, placed the muzzle of the gun against the man's kneecap.

"I don't have a lot of time," he said.

"Eighty bucks for oral!" Willet blurted. He was almost crying already. "Those raves always - you know - there's guys there. I didn't know he was underage!" He looked at John desperately. "I was cruising. He offered, I accepted. I swear that's it."

"Have you seen him at any parties like that before?"

"No!"

John waited.

Willet thought about it then, visibly searching his memory. "Maybe," he said reluctantly. "Yes. But I never met him before tonight. I swear."

"Do you know anything else about him?" John pressed patiently. "His name? His school? Where he lives?"

The man shook his head quickly, regretfully. "I don't. I don't know. I swear."

John looked at him closely. Decided he believed him.

He pulled the trigger anyway.

Michael's howls carried all the way back to Fusco's car.

x

"I have him, Mr. Reese."

"Where?"

"Detective Carter had to work late last night. Taylor asked her for permission to stay at a friend's house on the Upper East Side, near his school. He takes some kind of class there on Saturday mornings. She allowed it."

John checked his watch. It was ten to six, the sky just graying with morning.

"And you're sure he's there?"

"His phone is there and security cameras have him and his friend entering the building just after three in the morning. There's no sign of him leaving since then. Now tell me what's going on. You're positive he's not in danger?"

John relaxed into the seat of the car. He wasn't positive about anything. But he hoped he'd caught Taylor in time.

"Yeah. I think I spotted him at the warehouse party last night. We're just going to . . . have a little chat. About personal safety."

"Oh," Harold said. And paused. "Good. There's no telling what kind of trouble a young person could get into in a crowd like that."

"No," John agreed. "No telling."

He ended the call and pointed the car uptown.