Sam was officially and legally dead. She had severed her ties with the world because, frankly, it had disappointed her. The only thing in the world that never ceased to amaze her, and never disappointed her was John Reese.

Since her 'death', Sam helped John and Harold Finch in their unusual line of work, which was saving lives. Not like a doctor, or a police officer saves lives. She remembered the day that Finch explained the machine to her. Finally, she was learning the truth about the source they used to predict murder. The machine tracks everything and everyone. It pulls up a social security number or numbers of the individuals who will be involved in a murder that is about to take place.

Sam had met John before her number came up. But when it did, that's when she came to know him and Harold. Her family had died, her life had done a complete one eighty, but those two were still there, steady and solid. Sam knew then that she never wanted her life to go back to the way it was. Somehow, she knew where she belonged.

The call from John was late in the morning the next day. Sam made her way back to HQ and saw the two of them already bent over the computer monitors when she arrived.

"Sam, we have a new number," Finch said. He always said it like he enjoyed it. Sam couldn't quite figure it out.

Sam went to the plastic sheet they used as a sort of pin up board and looked at the picture Finch had taped there earlier.

"Alan Michael Watson," Finch read.

Sam saw the picture and gave a short whistle. Alan Watson looked to be in his thirties, clean shaven, dark, satiny skin, high cheekbones, and large, light eyes.

"What?" John and Finch looked up in response to the whistle.

"Hm?" Sam blinked at them. "Oh, no, he's just – he's just very… pretty."

"It's too early in the game to crush on him, Sam," John teased in his obvious way.

"No, I wouldn't. I'm just making an observation. I'd never want to be with a man like that. He's beyond handsome, he's… well, he's pretty. Like model-pretty, you know?"

Finch stared at her as if waiting for further explanation, but she just shrugged and looked at the picture again.

"He has no record," John said. "He's not originally from here either."

"Yes," Finch tapped away on the keyboard as John stood up. He moved over to Sam and looked over her shoulder at the photograph again.

"I don't see it," he said.

"Alan Watson is originally from Centennial, Colorado. His family has a large estate there. It looks like they own a lot of the businesses in that city and the cities surrounding it."

"Rich and pretty," Sam said.

"Not exactly," Finch corrected. "Alan moved here almost four years ago. His bank account is rather pitiful. I don't believe his family is supporting him. He keeps a job at a place downtown called Chic."

Sam grinned as she made the connection in her head. "Oooooooh," she said. "Now it makes sense."

John and Finch again looked at her expectantly.

"Oh dear," Sam said when they didn't realize what that meant. "Um, Chic is a place Eva and I used to go to when we liked staying out all night and she was single. We even went a few times after she was married, now that I think about it."

"It's a club," John said simply.

"Well, we liked going there because we didn't get blatantly hit on like we would at, say… a sports bar. And the stage show was usually pretty spectacular."

John and Finch watched her, waiting for the punchline, completely missing her hints. Sam swallowed back her laughter. "Come on you guys! It's a transvestite bar! Alan's probably a tranny." Sam leaned in and looked at the picture again. "And he probably looks better in a dress than I do," she muttered.

John set down the coffee he was holding and grabbed his suit jacket.

"Where are you going?"

"Chic?" John said innocently.

Sam couldn't take it any longer. She exploded with laughter, nearly collapsing to the floor with the effort.

"Did we miss something?" Finch asked.

Sam took a couple of breaths and wiped her eyes. "Um, maybe I should go in alone, John. You can listen in on everything that goes on," Sam suggested without looking at him.

"Why?" John asked.

"Let me see, how can I put this delicately?" Sam looked thoughtful for a moment. "John, you are not ugly, okay?"

"Thank you." John looked confused.

"I'm not finished," Sam said, trying to choose the right words before they came out of her mouth. "Women tend to notice when a man is tall, like you are, and not ugly. But, we as women are a little more constructive in the way we would approach a tall man who is not ugly, if we decided to approach him at all."

Finch nodded. "Oh, I think I see now."

"Sam, I'm more comfortable with the direct approach," John said stiffly.

"Well you'd get it, that's for sure."

"Sam."

"John, they would hit on you like there's no tomorrow," Sam blurted helplessly. "If you went in there alone, it would be constant and distracting. Trust me, I've seen it. It's different on the street and in regular places, but in clubs like that, that's what happens."

"You don't think I can handle that?

"We took my brother into Chic once," Sam said. "He was pretty young at the time, just barely twenty or twenty-one, I think. He never got the chance to watch the stage show, and he made me swear on pain of death that I would never do that to him again."

"Perhaps Sam should go with you, Mr. Reese," Finch suggested mildly.

Sam and John argued in their quiet, sniping way all the way downtown. They finally decided that John would stay outside of the club and listen in. Sam would go in and ask about Alan.

Chic, being a night club, was open during the day, but mostly for rehearsals, maintenance, and cleaning. Sam opened the door and stepped in. She smiled broadly at what she saw.

A small stage was at the far end of the room. There were a few dancers on it now, preparing for a show that night, most likely. There were some other men working at the round dining tables next to the dance floor. Another man stood on a ladder, adjusting one of the lights in the ceiling. The bar was off to the side being attended by a tall woman in heels. And everywhere she looked were colors. Blues, pinks, purples and reds were in the lights, the floor tiles, even the elaborate, flashy murals on the walls.

Sam wandered in and sat down at the bar.

"Holy shikies!"

Sam looked up and saw the woman bar tender approach her. She blinked and adjusted her thoughts. It wasn't a woman. It was a man with a heavy jaw, broad shoulders, in full makeup and a wig. He wore a tight t-shirt and jeans. Sam immediately wanted to know what kind of eye shadow he used.

He reached across and lifted her hair away from her face, examining her thoroughly through heavily lined eyes. "Sweetie, you are stunning! Honestly, I never would have guessed that you weren't always this way!" He smiled with shockingly white teeth at her.

"Always what way?" Sam asked.

"Augh! And that voice. Do you sing?"

Sam's brain was frantically trying to figure out what he meant.

"He doesn't think you were originally a woman, Sam," John said helpfully.

She heard the smug smile in his voice and made a mental note to thwack him when she left the place.

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry," Sam smiled kindly. "No, I am a woman, born and raised. I'm Sam," she reached out her hand and shook the larger manicured one.

"Cal," he replied. Cal looked her over again and nodded. "That explains it. Those can't be fake." He pointed blatantly. "You're such a cute little package, aren't you?"

"Thanks," Sam blushed with embarrassment.

"What can I do for you, honey?"

"I'm actually looking for a friend of mine. I heard he works here," Sam pulled the picture out of her purse and slid it across the bar under Cal's eyes.

"Alan Watson?"

Cal smiled with his bright teeth. "Oh, Alina! Yes, I know her. She usually works nights when the club's open."

"Does he – I mean, she tend bar here?"

"Oh no," Cal shook his head, long red curls bounced around his face as he did so. "She's one of the entertainers. Lovely, lovely singing voice, that bitch."

Cal laughed and Sam laughed with him. "Well shouldn't she be rehearsing?" Sam pointed to the dancers working on stage.

"Nah, she comes out and sings a few numbers throughout the show each night. She rehearses on her own time, I think. Where do you know her from, anyway?"

"We went to school together back in Colorado," Sam said happily. "We were in a couple of the musicals together. I heard she was out here so I'm looking her up."

"Well, you're much nicer than those guys who came in here yesterday looking for her," Cal said offhandedly. "They were nasty."

"Who were they?" Sam asked curiously.

Cal looked to his right, then to his left, and leaned down on the bar, his face close to hers. He lowered his voice. "They said they were lawyers, but do lawyers carry guns?"

Sam held tightly onto her purse, which contained her gun.

Sam lowered her voice as well and leaned in closer to him. "Did you tell them that Alina works here?"

"I didn't get that far. We have a strict no gun policy even outside of business hours. Jackie kicked them out about a minute after they walked in." Cal smiled with satisfaction.

"Jackie?"

"He's one of our bouncers," Cal explained with a shrug.

"Do you know what those men wanted with Alan, or, sorry, Alina?"

"I didn't ask, but you're pretty curious yourself, aren't you?" Cal said, narrowing his eyes.

"I'm sorry. Alan and I were friends, I just – "

Cal's eyes left Sam's. They drifted, and were focused on something over her shoulder. His mouth dropped open slowly. "Hold everything, it must be my birthday," Cal said breathlessly.

John stepped in as Sam turned, and caught his eye. He smiled and walked purposefully towards her.

"Looks like he knows you," Cal said, grinning. "Does he?"

"Yes, he does," Sam glanced back at Cal. "Don't worry about it, Cal. He's straight."

"For now, he is." Cal said, lifting an eyebrow.

"You just couldn't resist, could you? You want to prove me wrong," she mumbled at John as he approached. He took the stool next to her and put his hand over hers on the bar.

"Cal, this is John," Sam introduced them. "John is my… fiancé."

Cal closed his mouth and blinked. "Hi there, Blue Eyes." Cal winked at him, and brushed his hair over his shoulder flirtatiously.

"I needed to talk to you, sweetheart," John said, tearing his eyes away from Cal and focusing on Sam. She sensed the urgency in his voice under the kind tone. "We can come back later to find Alan," John spoke kindly, but his grip on her hand tightened.

"We'll be open tonight," Cal said helpfully, his eyes still raking over John. "The show is really good."

Sam smiled at Cal. "Thank you for your help."

"Any time, sweetie," Cal said, looking at John, who didn't meet eyes with him.

Sam slid off the stool and put her arm around John's waist underneath his jacket. John opened the door for her, and they stepped out.

"Why did you do that? I was making headway," Sam snapped at him when they stepped onto the sidewalk and she pulled away.

"We need to get to Alan, not find out his life story – "

"And I've made some headway of my own," Finch said in their ears. "It seems there is some bad blood between Alan and his family."

"I'm not surprised. A lot of parents wouldn't approve of this kind of life for their son," Sam said as she walked with John to the car.

"I have also gotten video surveillance from inside the club yesterday afternoon. Sending it on," Finch said.

John pulled out his phone and Sam looked over his arm as he accessed the video. The feed was from a camera in the corner of the club, above the bar. Sam saw the top of Cal's head, or his wig to be more accurate, and two men. They were nicely dressed with neck ties and trench coats, even in this warm weather.

"They're professionals," John muttered.

Sam watched them closely. It was difficult to make out their faces, but they both had dark hair, but she couldn't decipher skin tone from the black and white feed. But they walked with long strides. They carried themselves and acted confidently, like John sometimes did when he entered a room.

"Professionals like you, you mean," Sam said.

"Mr. Reese is more of a special case," Finch corrected in her ear. "These men are trained, probably ex military of some sort, and they hire themselves out to the highest bidder as hit men."

"Alan's family could put in a decent bid, don't you think, Finch?" John asked as they reached the car. Sam got into the passenger side and John started the engine.

"That's awful. Why would they want to have their own son or brother or whatever murdered?"

"That's what we have to find out," John said as he pulled away from the curb.