"Mr. Mustache," Finch declared solemnly, "is a mother."

He and Reese stared at the newest photo from their absent friend. The black and white cat with the mustache-marked face was lying on her side. An impressive assortment of tiny kittens nursed at her belly.

"Mrs. Mustache," Reese amended gravely. "Guess she wasn't really fat, either." He gave a tip of his pretend hat toward the screen. "Sorry, Ma'am."

"I just hope Christine doesn't try to bring them all home," Finch said grimly.

They lost the next Number as well. Adam Wyck had been jailed several times for domestic abuse and aggravating menacing. But when he learned that the woman he'd been stalking had become so frightened that she'd paid her cousin to kill him, and when he'd been told by Reese in no uncertain terms that his life would end if he went near her again, he'd fallen into deep remorse and taken his own life.

At least, the note he'd left on the bridge said it was remorse.

Carter's eyes flashed with anger as she handed Reese the note in an evidence bag. "Son of a bitch blamed her. He said she just misunderstood his devotion. That if she'd just given him a chance, they could have been happy."

John's mouth tightened into a thin line as he read the note. "He wants whoever finds the note to make sure she gets his final message."

The detective took the baggie back. "That's not going to happen."

"Good." He spun and strode away past the morgue workers who were removing the body. "Finch?"

"We gave him a second chance," Finch said immediately. "The fact that he decided to throw it away – that's not our problem."

"We gave her a second chance," Reese countered. The victim was dead, but the perpetrator hadn't killed him. The relatively innocent young woman he'd been stalking didn't have a murder on her conscience. "That's what matters."

"I agree," Finch pronounced. "Get some rest."

"Owwwww, shit!" Hailey said loudly. She clapped her hand onto her forehead.

Helen laughed. "Rub your tongue against the roof of your mouth."

"Dotsh shat work for brain freesshhz?"

"No, it just makes you talk funny."

"Bitch!"

"Ladies," Dylan said warmly, "is there a problem?"

Hailey waived her half-empty cup of blue slush. "Brain freeze!"

"A tragic first-world problem," he intoned solemnly. "Try biting the tip of your tongue."

Hailey did, then squealed again. "Ow, shit!"

"I didn't tell you to bite hard." He sat down next to her.

"Bitch!"

"She calls everybody that," Helen told him. "It's a term of endearment."

"I see." Dylan gestured to her cup of pink ground ice. "You don't get brain freeze?"

"No. I'm immune."

"She's from Canada," Hailey said. "They're used to frozen things."

"Are you really? I didn't realize. I thought everybody was from here in town."

"We're staying at my aunt's house for the summer," Helen explained. She realized she was talking too fast and made herself slow down. "We do every year. Signing up for this," she gesture to her camera, "was way better than sitting around the pool with my brothers all summer."

"You have a pool?" Hailey asked eagerly. "Can I come over?"

"Sure," Helen agreed. She made herself smile. Right after my mom runs a level-one background check on you and everyone in your household.

"Can I come over?" Dylan teased.

Helen smiled uneasily. "Sure." Mom won't bother with the background check on you. She'll just have my uncle drown you.

"Cool. I'll pack my Speedo."

Both girls groaned.

"Hey, hey," he protested, laughed. "I happen to fill a Speedo very nicely, thank you."

"Do you, like, manscape?" Hailey teased back. "Cause I just cannot deal with man-hair hanging out all over the place."

"Well, you might have to help me shave my back then."

Hailey squealed.

"I'll see if I can lay in some Nair," Helen promised.

"Better get a case. I'm kind of like a werewolf. Seriously shaggy."

"Oooooh, gross!" Hailey said.

"But I'm sure the three of us together can …"

"Dylan!" his brother called. "Do you have all the cameras checked in?"

The younger man scowled. "He doesn't like me to talk about our werewolf daddy," he told the girls quietly. "Coming, Matt!" He stood up and collected their cameras. "Ladies."

"Wolfman," Helen returned. He moved on to collect the other cameras.

When he was out of earshot, Hailey leaned in close. "I don't care how hairy he is. That boy is hot!"

"He may be hot," Helen returned, "but you're a felony."

"Me? You're the one he's crushing on."

"No, he's not."

"He totally is."

"He's after you."

"Maybe he's after both of us, like he said."

"Maybe he'll take whatever he can get."

Hailey nodded seriously. "The two of us together aren't underage, right?"

"I'm pretty sure it doesn't work that way."

"Too bad." Hailey took a long pull on her straw, sucking in blue slush. Then she screamed and grabbed her forehead again.

"There's a man on the corner in a dark blue jacket," Finch said in his ear.

Reese nodded to himself. "I see him. What's his story?"

"He works for Skydd Security Services. He'll be watching Mr. Mages for the rest of the night."

John's eyes narrowed. "We get another Number, Finch?"

"Not yet, but we will. We know that Mr. Mages is unlikely to leave his house again tonight. You've been awake for thirty-six hours, Mr. Reese. Go home and get some sleep."

"I'm fine, Finch."

"John."

Reese considered for a long moment. He wanted to argue more. But his partner was right on both counts: a Skydd employee should be more than adequate for the task of watching Mages sleep, and he was exhausted. "There's a hotel down the block," he finally compromised. "I'll get a room."

"As you wish."

"You should get some sleep, too, Finch."

"Of course. I just have a few …"

"Harold."

There was a pause while Finch argued internally, too. "I've bluejacked our contractor's phone. I'll alert you if there's any difficulty."

"Then turn up the volume and get some sleep."

"I will."

John sighed. The big leather couch in the library was comfortable enough for naps, but he hoped Finch would use the actual bed in the breakroom. It was better for his injuries to sleep in a real bed with real pillows. Still, there wasn't much point in pushing his stubborn partner. It was enough that he'd agreed to sleep.

He watched the Skydd operative for a minute. The man was settled, comfortable. Alert but not tense. On watch without exhausting himself. He was clearly ex-military. Reese could tell by his posture.

He would be thoroughly vetted, of course, and highly skilled.

John undeniably needed to sleep. And Mages was in for the night.

Reese watched a moment more, then headed to the hotel.

Finch hired Skydd operatives on four more cases. In each instance he asked the hired help to keep watch overnight. On the last one, the man noted suspicious activity around the house at four in the morning and called the police. Reese was nearby and arrived just ahead of the first squad car, but did not need to intervene: the police arrested the perpetrators as they attempted to break into the victim's house.

Mira Dobrica had dinner at her desk and then stayed late, looking over the stack of resumes. They'd advertised for two housekeepers and a night desk clerk, andreceived over two hundred applications. She wanted to hire the best people for the Coronet, of course, but she couldn't help reading between the lines of so many of the forms: people were desperate for work, any work. Most of them were probably good, honest people who just needed a chance. Mira had been there herself once …

She hardened her heart as well as she could and focused on experience and qualifications.

When she had reduced the stack to the best possibilities – twelve housekeepers, five desk clerks – she finally stood up and turned her desk light out. She would set up interviews in the morning.

Mira was exhausted, but she never went up to her suite without checking the hotel first. She took a quick glance at the upcoming event schedule. Some large meetings, two wedding receptions, one bar mitzvah. She would check with catering the next day, but everything looked to be in order. She left her office and went to the kitchen. None of the guests currently had any orders in; the night chef and one server were baking pastries for morning. The laundry attendants were working on sheets and towels, steadily but unhurried. The bar was half-full; the two bartenders were keeping up nicely and had everything they needed. The front desk was quiet. In the small office behind the desk, the night auditor reported no problems. A few guests passed through the lobby, coming in from the theatre. All was in good order.

Mira was almost to the elevators before she noticed the woman.

She was an older woman with a rather unbecoming haircut, dressed in tailored slacks and a loose blouse, flat shoes and a very small bag with a cross-body strap. Mira was very good at sizing people up, but she could not tell if this was a wealthy woman out for a casual stroll or a tourist or something else entirely.

The woman wasn't doing anything remarkable. She simply moved through the lobby, looking up at the architecture. There was something about her gaze, something intent and alert, but the woman didn't seem precisely anxious. She settled onto one of the couches, as if she was waiting.

Mira walked quietly to the front desk. "How long has she been here?" she asked, her head down over random papers.

"Ten minutes," the clerk answered. "I asked if I could help her with something, but she said she was just looking around."

"Hmmm."

The woman glanced around again. Then she stood up.

Mira walked over to her. "Hello," she said warmly.

The woman's eyes ran up and down over her swiftly, and her posture shifted. Mira knew suddenly what the woman reminded her of: Every military officer she'd ever met. The woman had decided, just that fast, that she was not dangerous. Unexpectedly, Mira felt relief.

Around her neck, under her casual clothes, the woman wore an emerald pendant the size of her thumbnail. Mira didn't know much about jewels, but this one looked very expensive.

She wore a wedding ring, too, Mira noted, a platinum band set with emeralds, too. It wasn't shiny; it looked well-worn.

"Hello," the woman said.

"I'm Mira Dobrica." She offered her hand. "I'm the general manager."

The woman shook her hand lightly. "Elizabeth Zane. I'm sorry, I don't mean to make everyone anxious."

"You're not," Mira assured her. "We're just very service-oriented. Is there anything at all I can do for you?"

"No. Thank you." She hesitated. "My husband and I spent a weekend here together. A long time ago. I just wanted to see it again, I suppose."

"We're under new ownership," Mira said. "But we've kept everything pretty much the same. I could show you around, if you like."

The woman shook her head. "Thank you, but I'm fine. I hardly even remember the lobby. We spent most of our time in the penthouse."

Mira felt her cheeks get warm. "It is a lovely penthouse."

"We brought snowcones," the woman said wistfully. She caught herself, smiled. "Sorry. TMI, as my kids would say."

"I'm very glad you enjoyed your stay," Mira chuckled.

The woman studied her. "You're Albanian, aren't you?"

The general manager stared at her, startled. "I … yes. My accent, yes."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"No, it's not a problem, it's just … most people hear me and guess German or something, Central Europe somewhere. You're very specific. You've spent time there?"

The woman's eyes were dark with grief. "Too much time. Did you get out before the war?"

Mira blinked. Americans, in her experience, barely knew about the war in the former Yugoslavia, much less understood the waves of people who had fled from it. And why. "No," she admitted. "Just after."

"I'm so sorry."

Oh, she knows. Mira could see it. This woman, this stranger, somehow knew everything about what had happened in her homeland. Every hardship, every horror. This woman knows. She reached out and touched her arm, surprising both of them. But the woman didn't pull back; she covered her hand with her own. "It was a long time ago," Mira managed to say.

The woman looked around again. "You're the general manager."

"Yes."

"You're doing well, then."

"Very well."

"Are you happy here?"

"Yes. Oh, yes."

The woman looked into her eyes, patted her hand. "I'm glad." Then she pulled away from her touch.

"Are you … the, um … the penthouse is unoccupied at the moment, if you'd like to see it …"

The woman smiled tightly. Her hand wrapped around the emerald pendant she wore. "No. Thank you."

Mira understood that, too, suddenly. "How long ago did you lose him?"

"Two years, in September."

"I am so sorry."

The woman's eyes filled with tears. Her mouth tightened into a thin line. Then she inhaled sharply and seemed to shake it off. "I'm glad you've found a new life here. Thank you."

She turned and walked out the front door as if she owned the place.

Mira walked back to the desk. The night auditor had come out of the back office. He was staring toward the door. "Is there a problem, Peter?"

He started, then held out a clipboard. "I just thought I'd get your signature on this, since you're still here."

"Of course." She examined the form, a straightforward tax exemption waiver, then signed it. She gestured. "Do you know her?"

"That woman? No." He shook his head emphatically. "She's not a guest, is she?"

"Just a visitor." Mira smiled gently. "She and her late husband had a …" she paused, blushing, "a get-away weekend here once, many years ago."

"Oh. I see."

"Is everything okay, Pjer?" Mira asked softly.

He smiled briefly, uncomfortably, as he always did when she used his real name. Mira understood. Many immigrants – refugees – from her home country preferred to embrace their new home entirely, Anglicizing their names and re-learning their accents as fast as they could. It was easier to look forward than back. Pjer Prifti was older than her. He'd been the CFO of a major corporation before the war. Now he was a night auditor. But he did not complain. He did his job accurately and reliably, and if he didn't socialize with his co-workers much, well, that wasn't a requirement of the job. Mira respected his desire to just be left alone.

"Fine." He glanced at his watch. "You should have been gone hours ago."

"I know. I'm going. Nothing else you need?"

"No," he assured her. "Everything's fine. Just fine."

There was an odd little hitch in his voice, but the man moved back to his little office without further comment. She would follow up tomorrow, Mira decided. But she doubted the man would want to talk. He never did.