"Entering someone's house without a warrant is quite illegal, detective," Finch said casually as he leaned back in an armchair.

Joss Carter leaped into the air, removing her gun from its holster instinctively. She had been studying a photo resting on a wooden desk in the room, so immersed she didn't even realize he was behind her.

"You? John said you went AWOL," she said as she lowered her gun.

"Last time I checked, I was free to go about my business as I pleased," he paused, "without Mr. Reese's permission."

"So," she lifted up the picture on the desk, "your business is sitting in your girlfriend's abandoned house while John tries to protect her?"

"John got her shot!" he refuted quickly, glaring at her.

"Well, is she alright?"

"Yes," Harold said slowly, "to the best of my knowledge."

"And, would she be dead without John?"

He hesitated before continuing with, "I suppose so."

"Then how about you two stop arguing like a married couple and we actually find out why someone's trying to kill your girl?" Carter gave him an intimidating stare, accompanied by a slew of hand motions.

"She isn't my girl," Finch clarified, "she was my fiancé – and she thinks I died two years ago."

He rose to his feet then, clearing his throat and limping to the desk where Carter stood. Picking up the framed photograph, he swiftly removed the cardboard backing. Withdrawing the glossy moment frozen in time, he folded it up and tucked it inside his beige suit jacket. There was no sense leaving it in Grace's house for prying eyes.

"Do you have any information about who might be after her?" Harold asked, "I'm assuming that's why Mr. Reese sent you here."

"For now, only that a Russian mobster was found dead after a hotel shooting," she shrugged.

"A Russian mobster?" he asked in a bewildered tone.

"That's about what John said," she smirked a little, "I guess Batman and Robin are in the dark as much as I am this time."

"Maybe," Harold said thoughtfully, running a hand over his mouth.

"You have an idea?" she asked curiously, noticing the deep look on his face.

"Maybe," he said again, hobbling back to the arm chair and taking a seat.

"Ok then, Mr. Cryptic," she mumbled as she began to search more, filing through cabinets and drawers as she moved from room to room.

"Erm…Harold," she said slowly after a minute.

"What is it?" he rose to his feet curiously.

She walked back into the room holding a plastic bag half filled with a powdery white substance.

"Is your girl a dealer in disguise or what?" she bantered, raising an eyebrow as she hung the bag at eye level.

"I should think not," Harold responded, "but I'll admit that I'm as baffled as you are. I think some simple observation should be enough to solve some of the mystery if you return that bag to where you found it. And detective," he said before turning away, "I believe I told you not to call her my girl."

It was some time later, long past nightfall, when Finch found himself in an undercover police car with detective Carter. Well, technically, it was just him at that point. After she found the drugs in Grace's abode he had hit the detective with the idea of a stakeout, even though that was usually Mr. Reese's forte. His stakeout idea had actually come to him long before the discovery of the illegal substance; he had noticed an assortment of items out of place in the house. Whoever put the drugs in there seemed to have no problem coming and going.

"Anything new?" Cater said as she reentered the car, two steaming cups in her hand.

Finch had rigged some bugs inside the house, as well as a security camera that could be checked later on. He was listening in with headphones connected to his laptop, but was only hearing silence.

"Nothing," he said, taking a cup from her, "what's this?"

"Coffee," she said as she took a sip of her own, "it's nearly one am - I figured you could use some caffeine."

"Thank you," he said politely, deciding to take a sip. Grace had switched to tea for him. As the coffee touched his tongue he tried not to cringe.

Maybe he would just stick to tea.

Suddenly hearing a bang through his headphones, he hastily placed his coffee in a cup holder and began recording audio through his laptop.

"These Russian bastards are too stupid to get rid of," one deep male voice said.

"I know," a man with a thick Italian accent answered, "you would think when we tell them to murder, or be murdered themselves, they would listen."

"Doesn't matter now, Elias made us kill the survivor anyway," the first said.

Finch held back a gasp when he heard the name Elias. Things still weren't adding up, but he and Mr. Reese did have a certain history with the delusional man in the city lockup. Delusional may not have been the correct word, though. Elias was a brilliant man – he was simply misled by his need for revenge and power.

"Why'd he do that anyway? I thought they were supposed to murder the woman?" the Italian questioned.

"They were – for all we know the survivor was lying and she is dead. It doesn't really matter, because the whole point is to get everyone to trust Elias and get our asses out of trouble. If the Russian mob is murdering women for hire, well, that's against the new rules Elias is making. If rumors about some illegal merchandise a certain government official was transporting disappear at a convenient time, well, that would be nice. He's organizing crime, see?"

"I see, I'm not stupid," the Italian man said with a bit of disgruntlement in his voice, "but what if this woman comes back? Aren't we using her as a patsy for these drugs?"

"She isn't coming back, if she isn't dead already she will be by tomorrow with our boys after her. Look here," the deep voice said with a menacing chuckle.

"Ah, that's clever!" the Italian laughed, "now let's hide this somewhere and hit the road. It's past my bedtime."

The two laughed and finished their grossly lighthearted conversation, as well as the process of hiding more drugs as Finch presumed they were. He took the headphones from his ears with frustration, and looked to Carter to answer her unspoken question.

"It has something to do with Elias, but nothing with John and I. She's a random target," he rubbed his thumb and fingers over his eyes, "they're using her as a patsy, a woman with virtually no family or connections, for drugs. They were going to frame the Russians for her death. Two birds with one stone."

"You mean to tell me this is all some sort of horrible coincidence?" Carter said with disbelief.

"It appears so," he said sadly, "but that doesn't mean Grace is out of danger. They're still after her."

"We should go in and check things out before we leave," Carter said as she checked her gun was in her holster, "try and get ahold of John to make sure she's still safe."

Finch nodded and began to dial John's phone. There was no answer, but it didn't concern him too much at the moment. He was so busy staying behind Carter he barely would have had time to talk anyway.

They made their way through the front door much more quietly than Elias' men had, and Carter flicked on some lights. Before either could move far into the house, their eyes were drawn to a typed note tacked to a wall directly in front of them.

Anyone who cares –

I can't take this anymore. My life was worthless, my art was without meaning. Remember me for the good I did, but fail not to fault me for the flaws I couldn't live with. At noon on Wednesday, I drove off the pier near South Street and to my death. If anyone was left to mourn, I would urge them not to; my death isn't worth your troubles. Search for the cause here, it shouldn't be hard to find.

"Well this is problematic," Carter blurted, not sure what else to say, "any luck with John?"

"No," Harold said as he dialed his phone more frantically, "but it just became Wednesday," he gestured to the time on his display.

"So they're going to kill her, and pass it off as a suicide," she shook her head, "what kind of monsters are these people? All of this just to hide some drugs?"

"Who cares what they're hiding?" Harold said angrily, "the main issue here is they're going to kill her!"

"Should I take the note in with me? Maybe I can-"

"No!" Harold cried out as she tried to take it, stopping her hand.

"What do you mean?" she asked, shocked.

"They aren't going to kill her," he said grimly, "but we need the note. I'm afraid we're going to have to kill her."