By seven the sun was just beginning to set.
They rode the subway for a few stops. Transferred at 96th.
Above ground, Reese trailed behind her, didn't bother keeping much of a distance. She stopped at a grocery store a few blocks from home.
Bought chicken. A half gallon of milk.
On line behind her, he bought a bottle of water and bluejacked her phone.
He began to hang back as they continued down the road, crossed over to the other side of the street as they neared the block she resided on.
By the time she was making her way up the steps to the brownstone, the exchange with the grocery checkout clerk had been her only social interaction.
Reese slipped into a building across the street and made his way up to a spot on the roof he had scoped out earlier.
It was a limited vantage point, but it would do. He leaned against the ledge, pulled out a small telescope.
Twenty minutes ticked by. She was making dinner. A little boy occasionally sprinted across the window's view.
Another half hour. Reese rubbed a hand down his face, across his eyes. She and the boy were doing some kind of silly dance now. He was giggling. Twirling.
What is the threat to you, Monica?
A gentle breeze fluttered against his suit jacket. He glanced at his phone, dialed a number and tapped his earpiece.
"Yeah."
"Evening, Lionel," he said, his voice a smooth contrast to the irritated gruffness of Fusco's.
"What do you want?"
Reese shifted his weight against the edge of the wall, kept his eyes trained across the street. "I'm fine, thank you. How's our research project?"
"You mean your research project? I have a day job, you know."
"Nothing then?" Reese brought the scope back up to his eye. "I'm disappointed, Lionel. Thought you were a detective."
There was something muttered on the other end of the line.
Reese straightened. A man was going up the front steps of the brownstone. He squinted slightly, snapped a photo through the lens. Around his height, average build. He had a key.
Mr. Lewis.
"Lionel?"
"What."
"You've got nothing?" He leaned against the wall again, kept the disappointment from his voice. Inside the home, he watched the husband come up behind the wife at the stove, kiss the side of her neck. She smiled at him, stirring a pot.
"I don't see your efforts getting you anywhere."
"I have a day job, you know."
A scoff. "You ever think about just, you know, talking to him?"
Talking to him. Yes, Finch was so keen on giving out personal information when asked. Or offering it at all, ever.
"Thanks for nothing, Lionel. I'll be in touch." Reese ended the call.
Inside the brownstone he watched as the family of three sat down to dinner. The view was slightly obstructed.
He studied them, the perfect little picture they created. Activated the mic over the bluejack to listen in.
Soccer practice, whose turn it was to do the dishes. A distant cousin's wedding invitation upstate. He pressed the ball of his foot against the low wall of the ledge, stretching his calf muscle. One leg and then the next, keeping his eyes trained across the street.
The little one was talking now, through a fit of giggles. About a fish named Lucy in his classroom at school.
Reese rubbed a hand down his face, feeling tired. Alone.
It could be a long night.
Washington Square Park, in the early evening, had its own sense of tranquility.
A young couple, hands twisted together under a lamp post in the quiet of the sunset. A lone bicycle whooshed as it sped by and then, the night was still.
The light in the fountain had just come on when Finch caught sight of her walking home. He stiffened on the park bench, hands tightening on the novel he wasn't really reading.
His breath always caught at the first glimpse.
She walked leisurely, not in any rush. It was the perfect night for that. The late summer temperatures, just the hint of a breeze. He watched as she tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear. Got her mail from the box at the door.
A copy of the magazine unfolded in her hands, the other envelopes it had been wrapped around tucked beneath. Grace paused, staring at the cover.
Seconds floated by and then she was tucking all the mail away, the magazine bearing her painting folded back around the envelopes as she fumbled for her key. Unlocked the door.
And she was out of sight.
When he watched her like this, from a distance, every moment seemed to lack dimension. He felt like a ghost.
He sat there awhile, staring across the expanse of the park.
A jogger passed. From behind him, a high pitched bark from the dog run.
It grew darker.
"Finch?"
The soft voice in his ear brought him back.
"Mr. Reese." Finch collected his things, shifting his weight forward on the bench. He got to his feet stiffly.
"Looks like the kid isn't the husband's. Monica just got a voicemail and a text from an ex." A rustling, the sound of something scraping. "Jeremy Collins. "
Finch made his way from the park, the awkwardness of his gait feeling more pronounced than usual.
"Jeremy wants to see his son... or else. I'll get an eye on him."
Finch headed uptown. Moving under the marble arch at the north end of the park.
"What do we know about Jeremy?"
"Was hoping you'd tell me." There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. Then, "Where are you?"
"I had to run an errand."
"What errand?"
"A personal one, Mr. Reese."
There was a longer pause.
"Could use you on the case, Finch." A hint of annoyance was woven into the words.
"I'll be be back momentarily." Finch flagged down a cab, abandoning his walk, the nice night. "Where are you now?"
There was no answer, but he could hear Reese's breathing. He was on the move.
"Mr. Reese?"
"Running a personal errand."
"John." It came out sharply. A yellow taxi pulled up, he stepped off the curb.
The com was silent to the admonishment.
"John."
"Lemme know when you're back."
The connection broke.
Finch slid into the backseat of the cab, gave a known restaurant's address. He'd be dropped just a block from the Library.
He closed his eyes as the vehicle pulled into traffic.
In a neighboring area of Brooklyn, Jeremy Collins wasn't home.
The locks were a joke; Reese popped them easily, glancing down the street before entering the apartment.
He kept the lights off in the main room, letting his eyes adjust.
A leather sectional, a large television. A laptop at the desk in the back corner of the room.
He slipped a thumb drive into the computer's open USB, pocketed it when the program completed.
There were work boots in the hall closet, multiple pairs. Construction, maybe.
He peeked in the bathroom. One toothbrush.
In the bedroom, some clothes on the floor. An unmade bed.
The nightstand held a small framed photo. He picked it up, examining it closer.
A man, presumably Jeremy, sitting next to Monica Lewis. A small dark haired toddler was balanced between their knees.
He set it back gently. Slipped open the nightstand drawer.
A bottle of pills. A small pistol.
He picked up the gun, pulled out the magazine and cocked the slide. Loaded. He reloaded it, set it back.
Why the gun, Jeremy?
He squatted down, peered under the bed. Clear.
Checked the bedroom closets, found nothing unusual.
He was about to close up shop when his phone buzzed. He tapped the com in his ear.
"Finch." Reese opened the refrigerator, the freezer.
"Jeremy Collins. Works at the shipyard… Had a minor issue with breaking and entering about three years back."
"Nice of you to join the case, Harold."
The comment was ignored. "Armed robbery conviction landed him some time… shortened for good behavior." A pause. The sound of typing. "He's been out on parole for six months."
"Having a loaded .45 in his nightstand is probably not in his best favor."
"I'd suspect not."
Reese opened the pantry. Cereal and spaghetti.
"It appears that Jeremy works a couple nights a week at a bar just a few blocks west of his apartment."
Reese perked up at the lead.
"I'll check it out."
Duff's was a busy little hole. A line of crowded dartboards, a single pool table manned by regulars in the back.
Reese scanned the dimly lit room, realizing quickly that his suit stood out in the crowd of jeans and collarless shirts.
Good start.
He signaled for a beer as he sat at one of the stools at the side of the bar. From there it was a clear view of the room, the back exit.
His phone buzzed.
Glancing at it, another text from Jeremy to Monica's phone: You'll be sorry.
He took a swallow of his drink, scanned the crowd.
In the back, carrying in a case of Budweiser with one arm. Jeremy from the photo. A phone in his other hand.
Reese took another drink, did a quick clone of his number.
A slow fifteen minutes ticked by. He nursed the beer. Absently picked at its label, pretended to watch the Knicks game highlights on the television above the bar.
Jeremy seemed to work hard. No more texts, no response from Monica. Gruff politeness with the other bartender, familiar with quite a few patrons.
"Hey, handsome."
Reese turned his head.
The blonde smiled as she slipped onto the stool next to him, looked him up and down. "Come here often?"
She couldn't have been more than eighteen.
He arched a brow over a sip of beer. "Isn't it a school night?"
She glared at him, but it was playful.
"Don't mind her." From behind the bar. Jeremy. Giving her a look. "Go home, Teeny. It is a school night."
She ignored him. "Tina," she introduced, smiling at Reese.
"Another?" Meant to interrupt. Jeremy motioned to the almost empty beer bottle at Reese's hand.
Reese nodded, gave a smile. "Thanks."
The pop of the beer cap, a fresh bottle slid toward him. He could hear the hissed words.
"Tee, go home. It's late."
"Relax, Jeremy."
"Tina."
She glared at him. Looked back at Reese. "Don't mind my brother. He's a buzz kill."
"He's got a point." Reese took a swig of the new beer. Nice and cold. He gave her an amused smile. "It is late."
Jeremy looked surprised- apparently the men on the end of his sister's charms were not so often on his side.
Tina was equally thrown off. And unimpressed. With a huff, she slid off the barstool. She headed to the back, along the wall of darts.
Reese lifted his gaze back to the television, feigning disinterest.
"Thanks, man."
He flicked his eyes back.
Jeremy gave him a nod. "For, uh, not engaging."
A twitch of a smile. "No worries."
The exchange was over, Jeremy on the other side of the bar. Shots for a couple of friends.
Two beers in. He was ready to call it. Took his phone above the bar top in the semblance of checking emails. Clicked a photo of Jeremy, another of Tina.
Sent them to Finch.
A text came from Monica over Jeremy's phone: I can't do this.
Jeremy: Let's meet.
No response.
Jeremy, again: Please.
Nothing.
There was a commotion, over by the darts. He slipped his phone back in a pocket, rose from his seat.
Approached slowly. The men's room was along the same well, he aimed in that direction.
Jeremy's sister, backed into the corner by some meathead. Three of his buddies circled around, laughing. Her face flushed, she was trying to get away.
"Your brother owes me," the guy was saying. His hair was short, shaved close to the scalp. He leaned in, she twisted her head away.
Reese knocked shoulders with one of them. Softly: "Hey, fellas, have any of you seen the-oh hey, Tina."
Her eyes flashed at him.
"Nice suit." The guy he'd bumped into gave him a push back. "Get lost."
Reese ignored him, stepping forward. Blocked by another.
"Easy, fellas." He held up his hands.
There was a nod from the beefy man detaining the girl and he found himself suddenly shoved against the wall, restrained by two equally beefed up sidekicks.
He sighed.
"What the hell's your problem?" The meathead had released Tina, he was focused on Reese now. Moving closer, in his face. The smell of whiskey.
Calmly. "No problem. I just don't think she's interested."
The man stared at him, radiating annoyance. Swung back a clenched fist.
Reese's head knocked back with the punch. It landed just above his jaw, the taste of copper in his mouth.
"Mind your own business." Turning away, done with him, the meathead's attention back to Tina.
"Stop." Her voice was strained.
Reese closed his eyes and then moved.
Seconds. The two holding him back found their heads cracked together, faces bloodied from the impact.
Reese straightened up. Unruffled. He wiped his mouth absently, hand coming away with a trace of blood.
The man was back on Tina, his hands on her upper arms, pressing her into the corner.
Reese stepped forward. The third friend elbowed him out, taking a swing. He ducked, slammed the flat of his palm under the guy's chin.
He went down.
A voice from behind.
"Mike, what the hell?"
Jeremy.
The meathead, Mike, released Tina. Gave a leer of a smile to Jeremy.
"Hey, Jeremy… since you can't pay your debts on time, I thought I'd charge some interest."
Tina shoved her hands against him, still blocked into the corner. He didn't budge.
Jeremy moved forward, livid now. His hands were clenched, in a second he was yanking Mike back by the collar, swinging him around.
Hissed: "I told you- I don't owe you anything."
Mike's back hit the wall between two dartboards.
Tina slipped away.
Jeremy hissed something else, shoving him again.
Mike chuckled, unfazed.
His three buddies had recovered and Reese moved forward, giving the one about to swing another punch a warning look.
Jeremy and Mike were suddenly slamming past. A shout from another patron as they knocked into a misplaced barstool, a table with empty pint glasses.
The sound of glass breaking. Thuds.
Blows exchanged and Reese watched, hesitated. The girl was unharmed.
This was… irrelevant?
Mike was reaching into his jacket.
Reese reacted. He moved between them, a blow glancing his side, slammed a elbow into Mike's stomach. The man doubled over, a groan.
Frisking the jacket. Pulling out the revolver.
Reese gave it an unimpressed look. "Old school, huh?" He tucked it into the small of his back, next to his own firearm.
Jeremy eyed him, eyes wild, adrenaline pumping. Mike, just straightening up, took an aggressive step forward.
Enough.
Reese pulled out a badge. "Detective Stills."
Both stared at him. What the hell kind of cop-
The other three had bolted.
"I suggest you follow your friends," Reese said, releasing his hold on Mike's jacket. Giving a shove.
Jeremy was breathing heavily, still wired up. Warily watching Reese, probably nervous about his parole.
No sign of Tina.
"Thanks?" Jeremy took a step back. The crowd at the pool table had lost interest, a few looked at Reese with disdain.
New faces, especially those of cops, were not a welcome sight.
So much for staying under the radar, Reese.
He slipped out the side exit, tapped his ear com.
"Looks like Jeremy's got a temper, Finch."
There was silence on the line.
"Finch?" Moving down the street, a quick glance over his shoulder.
In his ear: "Was that necessary, Mr. Reese?"
Reese paused. He felt a tiny flutter of disappointment at the unenthused tone of his employer.
He crossed the street, stepping off the curb. One more check on Monica, but surely Jeremy would be keeping his distance tonight.
He ignored the question. "Anything on your end?"
Another long pause. Then, "It's late, Mr. Reese."
He frowned. Glanced at his watch. Just past midnight.
Compared to many of their cases, it wasn't late.
"Sorry the numbers are such an inconvenience, Finch."
He didn't bother to hide the irritation in his tone. Ended the connection before he could hear Finch's response.