A/N: Warning. There is extensive material about the difficulties of adoption.


Chapter 7: What Do We Got?

Lisbon-Jane Home, Sacramento, Thursday

Lisbon bent down and kissed her husband's stubbly cheek, careful to avoid the bruises.

"Mmm." Jane turned his head and pulled her closer.

"Hey!" she squawked, bracing herself to keep from tumbling onto him.

He blinked sleepily and noticed she was dressed and made-up. "Oh. Sure you don't want me along?"

Patting his arm, "Uh-uh. Looking beat up won't help sell our services." Make-up hid the bruises on her face. "Cops around here know you well enough already." She leaned over and kissed his lips this time. "Let those bruises heal, Calamity Jane."

He huffed and pinched her butt when she turned to leave. She yelped and skipped a step. Her smile undermined the glare she threw him. The front door closed softly a minute later.

Jane rolled onto his back and stretched languorously, wincing at the pull on severely bruised ribs. After 13 grueling years his current reality staggered him. Free. Hell, alive! Married to the woman he loved. A joyful home (bittersweet, again), instead of a murder scene. Even their make-shift SCU family was nearby. Regret for his family's death, for contributing to their deaths, was permanent. However the crushing guilt was all but gone. I choose life.

Now to somehow resolve the one problem shadowing their future.

Lisbon, Sacramento

Lisbon was off to meet with local law enforcement contacts. She mused about the case as she drove.

Jane behaved, proving he could toe the line when he chose. Should be p.o.'d about years of extra paperwork. She shrugged. Context was everything. Maybe that was the only way he could cope. She shuddered at how reckless he'd been when he first joined the CBI. Thankfully those days were behind them. Jane wasn't the problem now.

She had hoped having their own agency would sidestep bureaucratic hassles. It might for private cases, but most of her contacts were in government. Far from escaping red tape, the snarl was greater. She had no standing, no favors to call in to cut through it. Of course random bosses would question their unorthodox methods. Yeah, she had a good reputation. But bureaucrats remembered like elephants when something might threaten their little fiefdoms. The harmless-looking, three-piece wearing, curly blond CBI consultant had wreaked havoc in law-enforcement for years, even discounting rumors about Red John's demise. Every case would mean persuading anew that they would solve the crime without making anyone look bad.

And resources! The last case was sobering. Evan Donaldson worked cases hands on, and knew and liked her. He would have approved the search of property records she and Jane needed. Only ... he'd been busy. She and Jane could have searched public databases, but those were slow and limited. It took calling Van Pelt and then Wylie to get the data needed. Leaning on their friends for favors would get old fast. And she refused to ask them to do illegal searches for private cases.

It was sheer luck Donaldson's admin finagled cops to accompany them. She and Jane had no right to break down a door and invade Seward's cabin. The officers let them sidestep legal trouble and even that was a stretch. Only imminent danger to the child justified their actions. As a PI she was allowed to investigate crimes, persons, and the location of property, and, to secure evidence. She could use her weapon only to protect a person incidental to an investigation – they weren't body guards. (She chortled at the fleeting notion of Jane as bodyguard.) Adhering to the legal constraints of a PI would go against every instinct and twenty years' experience as a cop.

She unconsciously fingered her bruised cheek. It was just the two of them. Jane had kept her from being kicked and stomped and was shoved down the hill for his efforts. Hiring muscle for back-up would be a far cry from the built-in, trained support of a law-enforcement team. They couldn't hope to find people even a fraction as talented and committed as Cho, Rigsby or Van Pelt.

Lisbon shook off her reflections when she arrived at her first appointment. As with making rabbit stew, first you get the rabbit – the work. They'd address the rest later.

Jane, Sacramento

Jane luxuriated in taking it easy. He couldn't remember a time when he wasn't driven – first by his father's greed, then by the need to support his family and later by his own ambition, and finally by vengeance. It was singularly pleasant to follow his whims absent internal or external pressures. He'd enjoy the lull while his bruises faded.

His first task: Making appointments. Jane called Sacramento reproductive clinics until he found one with a last-minute cancellation that afternoon. Fortified by tea, he used Teresa's computer to read up on reproductive options and adoption. He disliked computer work but was capable enough when necessary. He also arranged meetings with the county child protective services agency and a few private adoption agencies the next day. It was a troubling two hours.

His cell chimed just as he was finishing up. Business calls were automatically routed to Lisbon, then his cell, and last the receptionist if neither answered. Lisbon must have turned hers off while meeting with potential clients. He put it on speaker.

"Patrick Jane."

"'Morning, Jane. You called but didn't leave a message. I was at a conference."

"Hey, Grace. Needed a tech favor. Wylie helped."

"Oh, good. –I have an invitation for you and Teresa. And a favor to ask."

"Ben's birthday?"

"How'd you–" When will I learn? "Yeah. Party is Saturday afternoon and we'd love for you to come. A bunch of Ben's friends are invited and I wonder if you'd be willing to show them some tricks?"

"Ben'll be seven?"

"Uh-huh."

"Happy to. Send gift ideas. Can't come empty-handed."

"Entertaining them is your gift. We'll have time to visit since they're old enough to occupy themselves. Wayne rented a trampoline and there are games and stuff."

"Sarah Harridan coming?" Sarah who's held a grudge ever since I had Rigsby fake his death?

"Sara Cartwright." Understanding perfectly, "She and Jacob will stop by but they won't stay. Just us four."

"Cho?"

"Can't come. Work."

"We'll be there. –Before you go, refresh my memory. Computer searches can be cleared by clicking 'History' on the top toolbar and then 'Clear History' on the pull-down menu?"

"Yeah, just mark the types of searches you want cleared. Do I want to know?"

"See you Saturday."

Warmth flooded him at how normal it was, how much he'd missed everyday life since– He blinked and abandoned that thought. I think Teresa will be okay going– Another call interrupted him. He glanced at the display thinking Grace had forgotten something, but didn't recognize the number. "Patrick Jane."

"This is Sergeant Thornbush, LAPD." Brusquely, "Lieutenant Zednikova had me call to ask your help on a case. Said there's no charge if you solve it by reading the file."

"Only expenses." Jane frowned at his tone and nickel-and-dime attitude. Still... He glanced at the clock to see if he'd have time before his appointment. "Fax or e-mail the file and I'll look it over. No point traveling to LA unless necessary."

Pleased, "Yeah, sure. Thanks."

After providing fax and e-mail details Jane terminated the call with a grimace, hoping they could avoid working with him.

Ninety minutes later Jane tossed the sheaf of printouts on the desk and sighed. He had a good idea who did it from information in the file. The only remotely interesting question was whether LAPD detectives were really that dim or whether Thornbush was just lazy. Lisbon called at lunchtime from San Francisco. He briefed her on LAPD's request and said he'd call Thornbush to get it off their desks. At her suggestion, Jane would e-mail his insights instead and send a copy to the lieutenant to get credit. He promised to fill her in on the case that night.

Jane little cared he couldn't bill for solving the case. He enjoyed solving puzzles. That didn't extend to being a patsy for the lazy. He cheered himself with the thought that they could change the policy once their agency was getting steady work. Before leaving the office he prepared and mailed an invoice for their Santa Barbara case – $5,000 for their fee plus expenses. He wouldn't shove the administrivia off on Teresa now that it was their agency (when she was a creature of the CBI, paperwork came with the job). Maybe the receptionist can be persuaded in the future. He had just enough time for lunch before the clinic appointment.

A few hours later Jane left the clinic with more information but no answers. Once he'd gotten past the clinic's SOP – 'We always work with couples together as this is very much a shared problem,' etc., etc. – he managed to work toward the information he needed: Whether their problem with conception might lie with him. The doctor largely confirmed what he'd gathered from the Internet. A year of unprotected sex without conception was good reason to seek medical help. Men generate sperm throughout their lives. Glitches in male fertility are incomparably easier to diagnose and treat than those of women. There are also possible incompatibilities between mates, but doctors first focus on each partner's fertility individually. The doctor stressed that the help he could offer was severely limited by working with Jane alone. The last step was a sperm sample for analysis. The dog-eared Playboy and Penthouse magazines provided in the small room were more ridiculous than arousing. He ignored those in favor of moments stored in his memory palace between him and Teresa. He'd learn the results in a follow-up appointment on Monday.

It was late afternoon. Lisbon shed boots and jacket and stowed her sidearm in the gun safe. She ambled into the living room and ruffled his hair.

"Whatcha watching?" When he looked back over his shoulder she stole a kiss.

"Nothing as good as that." He clicked off the TV. "National politics have gotten worse. Bigger circus than ever." He followed her into the kitchen.

"What are we doing for dinner?" She pulled a beer from the refrigerator.

"All ready to go," he said, turning on the oven. "Done in an hour." He got a soda for himself.

They returned to the living room and shared the details of the day. Jane omitted any mention of reproduction. Lisbon was pleasantly surprised that he'd sent the invoice and commiserated with him about Thornbush. She mentioned her PI agency concerns but didn't belabor them.

"Time consuming having to stop by all the PD's and FBI offices," she grumbled.

Jane shrugged, snuggling closer on the couch. "Getting work hinges on personal connections. 'Least till word-of-mouth kicks in."

"Good thing I'm not in marketing."

He didn't have the heart to disagree when she was tired and grumpy from a long day of doing just that. He'd devoted many evenings to marketing psychic services a lifetime ago. Ironically, the TV show was supposed to be his big break.

"Grace returned my call."

"Huh?"

"When we needed that search of property records. She was out of town."

"So?"

"We're invited to Ben's birthday party Saturday. I accepted. That okay with you?"

She took a breath then a swig of her beer. Flatly, "Fine."

"I'm entertaining the kids, but you could get out of it," he said while idly stroking her arm.

"They're friends. I'm Ben's godmother for heaven's sake. Can't believe I forgot his birthday."

"Your choice. Grace sent Ben's wish list. Want me to pick up a gift tomorrow?"

"If you don't mind." She rose and set the table. They made an early evening of it.

Jane, Sacramento, Friday

Jane left his last appointment and stopped at a coffee shop for tea and a sandwich. The glib 'Of course there's always adoption' misrepresented reality beyond recognition. Though why should adopting a child be fast or easy? World might be better if everyone had to prove they'd be decent parents before having kids. A humorless smile accompanied his follow-on thought, Alex would never have qualified...

He glumly went over the information as he ate, barely tasting his food. There were four major paths to adoption. Child protective services. Adopting domestically through a private adoption agency. Adopting internationally through a private agency. And working directly with a pregnant woman. None was easy.

Child protective services placed children in foster care to remove them from bad situations. CPS social workers were required to work with the child's parent or relatives to try to reunite the family, so it was typically at least a year before a child was available to be adopted. The children usually came from horrendous situations – addicted parents, abuse, extreme neglect. They weren't placed for adoption straight off, so they were typically 'older.' That was inexpressibly sad because 'older' was as young as three – past the baby stage. Children with severe disabilities sometimes ended up as wards of CPS. And sibling groups. (If placing one child with a rough background was hard, placing a group was often impossible.) He stared outside unseeingly. Was it terrible that he strongly, strongly wanted a healthy child? (Physical health might be the least of it.) What about Teresa? And how would that work with the rest of their lives? However brutal the truth, the best for a child requires unqualified love and acceptance and the ability to meet all practical, physical, emotional and psychological needs. Despite believing every child deserves a permanent, loving home, working with CPS wouldn't be his first choice.

Private adoptions presented different opportunities. And problems. Adopting a healthy infant could take years and tens of thousands of dollars, especially for the highly prized "healthy white infant." If only out of respect for Sam and Cho and Madeline and dozens of others he knew, he found the emphasis on race disgusting. Upon reflection, he could see there was, perhaps, some justification in that desire. Adoption was rarely a couple's first choice for starting a family. And most children old enough to understand would prefer being raised by their 'real' parents. Adopting a child who looked biologically related could help the family move beyond their losses to bond as a family. It certainly helped the child not to have his very personal history obvious for the world to question and judge. Still, anything beyond wishing for a healthy child struck him as frivolous and unprincipled. The lack of control would be hard to bear.

International adoptions presented different but no less daunting problems. Much of the world was materially worse off than the US. Poverty, war, and discrimination – children of mixed race or born to unwed mothers were social outcasts in some countries – created situations in which children needed a family and home. He dreaded the prospect of two government bureaucracies to satisfy. Depending on the nation, their age, his lack of education, the murder of his first family, and his time in a mental institution could disqualify them from adopting. Years of waiting, required travel, long stays overseas, unpredictable international politics, and cultural differences mattered. Ugly rumors routinely circulated to explain why 'rich foreigners' wanted to adopt their children – even the lurid and repulsive notion of using adopted children for body parts for ill American children. The most egregious abuses had been eliminated by uniform adoption legislation enacted in many nations concerning international adoptions. There were still instances of thinly disguised baby selling by the unscrupulous, usually exploiting impoverished parents unable to support their children. Even legitimate orphanages charged high fees for adopting infants to fund the care of older children who wouldn't be adopted. Nothing about it sounded simple or straightforward. The lack of predictability and control sounded worse than for domestic adoption.

The fourth option was independent adoption arranged directly between a pregnant woman and the prospective adoptive parents, usually with an attorney facilitator. The birth mother could only be reimbursed for pregnancy-related expenses (buying a child was outlawed with slavery). However, the direct personal connection promised to be harrowing and cringe-worthy. They would be competing against others to convince a pregnant woman of their worthiness to parent her child. A birth mother could change her mind any time until the legally mandated waiting period expired a month after birth. Heaven help them if the birth father had not truly relinquished his parental rights and later contested the adoption.

His past ominously hung over everything. Yesterday he had googled 'Patrick Jane.' His bloody, sketchy past came up instantly. He could pass a criminal background check and had never been convicted of anything. But any sane person responsible for placing a child ought to run screaming from his past. Who'd believe he would be a fit parent after he so horrifically failed Charlotte? His time in a mental institution was no longer secret. And even discounting McAllister, he had killed Hardy and Carter. Shooting Hardy was justified by saving Teresa and he'd been ruled not guilty for killing Carter. Still, what social worker would be okay with a man who had twice killed?

Teresa's chances of adopting would be better without him. As for conceiving, the biology wasn't working for at least one of them. He darkly concluded it would be best if he were at fault. Then Teresa could get pregnant with donor sperm and sidestep the adoption nightmare entirely.

A call provided a welcome interruption.

"Jane." He took a sip and made a face at the stone cold tea. The diner was deserted with lunch long over. Jane put his cell on speaker so he could finish his sandwich.

"Hi, it's Wylie. If you're not too busy I'd like to ask a favor."

"I owe you for that search." He motioned the waitress for fresh tea.

"I have an undercover assignment coming up. I, um, could use some pointers on how to pull it off. Lying I mean."

Jane grinned and said, "I assume that's a compliment," just to enjoy Wylie's fluster.

Smoothly, "Natch. You're the best."

Jane's smile widened at the cheeky come-back. Coming into his own. "I can drop by if you're available."

"That'd be great."

Thirty minutes later Jane was sitting opposite Wylie in the SacFBI break room.

"Fill me in."

"The team's gone through the active cases on the west coast, our area. We flag groups and individuals that seem poised to commit terrorist acts. The goal is preventing attacks whenever possible. If the locals agree, we'll mount a sting operation–"

"–The undercover assignment."

"Yeah." Wylie looked troubled. "There's a white supremacist multi-state network that looks like it's on the verge. Rabidly anti-black and now anti-Muslim. Cho wants me to strike up an acquaintance with the leader. Try to record him bragging about their plans, to get a warrant. The warrant would let us get the information to justify busting up the groups. If that doesn't work, set up a confrontation using Ojara and maybe Hassan. Plea bargain any charges for information." He looked up with a worried expression. "How do I fit in with a group like that?"

Jane sipped his tea. "How long do you expect this to take? A day? Week? Longer?"

"We're hoping it'll only take a couple of days. But what do I know about acting like a skinhead thug? I mean..." He stopped and sighed.

"Forget 'acting.' Be yourself with a twist."

"What do you mean?"

"Unless you've secretly won an Oscar, pretending won't work. The key is staying as close to the truth as possible. Use your experiences, changing a few details to work with your assignment."

They paused when Ojara and Hassan came in for coffee. Ojara looked curiously at Jane, nodded and left with his drink.

Wylie picked up where they left off. He spread his hands. "How?"

Jane gave Wylie a once over. "Ever been turned down by a girl – in high school, maybe? – for a guy who didn't deserve her?"

Wylie flushed. "Yeah, Carrin. Smart. Pretty. She went for a football player who was as dumb as a rock."

"Use that. Let's say you run into your marks in a bar. It's okay you're a computer nerd. After you start talking, find a pretext to tell them your story about the black guy who got the girl. Maybe embellish it a little about how bad the guy was, maybe with a bunch of his friends. Tell them you got into computers because it's mostly white guys. Only now there are guys from India, China, Pakistan, the Middle East who steal jobs from Americans by working cheaper."

"Why would that work?"

"Anger from the actual event will come across as genuine. The jobs angle echoes current news. And you allow them to feel superior. A smart guy, good job and still you need them, their willingness to break heads to avenge injustices by black guys and foreigners. Think of other instances where you felt wronged and change the details to fit the narrative."

Wylie brightened and heaved a sigh of relief. "Gives me a starting point."

Jane finished his tea. "And check out relevant web sites. Try to absorb their world view, how they frame their ideas. That'll help, too."

"Thanks."

Cho spoke from behind Wylie, startling him. "Good advice."

"Boss." Wylie nodded to Jane and left.

Jane started to get up but stopped when Cho asked, "Got a minute?" Both men sat.

"What's up?"

"Appreciate your helping Wylie."

"But?"

"The data search you asked for. The FBI got caught playing politics in D.C. Accused of illegal electronic surveillance of citizens. The whole bureau is under pressure to follow the letter of the law, especially regarding investigating citizens."

"Which means?"

"I can only help with open criminal investigations. And have the PD call next time."

"Lisbon said as much. Okay." Jane finished his tea and pushed the cup away.

Cho eyed the bruises. "Lisbon get you out of a scrape?"

"Maybe I got her out of one." Jane got up, smiled. "See you around, Cho."

Jane-Lisbon Home, Sacramento

Jane closed the door and dropped his packages on the foyer table. Lisbon appeared from the bedroom hall, twisting damp hair into a sloppy bun.

"Hey." She gave him a kiss. "What's all this?"

"Things I need for the party tomorrow. And Ben's gift," he added as she unearthed a beautifully wrapped box.

She hefted it and rotated it in her hands. "What is it? I should know what we're giving him." She had little doubt a store clerk had wrapped it for her husband. Free.

"Computer programming software and a video game that works with it. And, some super-high bouncing balls."

She raised her eyebrows. "Balls?"

"They're fun. He is a boy."

They had take-out delivered for dinner. Lisbon looked up from setting the table as Jane paid for the food with cash. "You really think that's necessary?"

He answered when the door was closed. "Don't want any connection between our identities and the location of our home. You coppers can trace anyone through credit cards, property records, mailing addresses."

She sighed at the inconvenience. Would that really have kept Red John from finding your home? But if you're set on it... "We shouldn't have cell phones then," emphasizing the absurd lengths needed to truly stay incognito.

He set down her coffee and his tea as he joined her at the table. "Was thinking about that. I would like to get burners–"

Well that backfired. "–What's the point? Once a burner is associated with us it can locate us."

"I know. I'd like to replace them every week." He hurriedly countered the obvious objections. "I'd update our friends and arrange forwarding calls for business every week."

She sighed. Resigned, "If you do that I'm fine. You realize we're approaching tin-foil hat territory, right?"

"Are we? Cho was right when he suspected the FBI – his employer – of monitoring him. Ardilles's cell phone got him killed."

Quietly, "Red John's dead. Blake's history."

"Unless we missed a few. And there are all the perps we put away for the CBI. Teresa, please."

She scratched an eyebrow. "Okay." She looked harder at him, past Jane's normal level of odd and the cell phone issue. This is anxiety, a reaction to something. What?

They settled in the living room to watch the news. The latest was a leaked presidential order reauthorizing 'black' interrogation sites, deemed illegal by some (even when located in foreign countries) and questionable by many. The new administration belligerently defended its decision to capture and question terrorist leaders. It argued that the previous administration's policy of killing them with drone strikes cost them vital intelligence. The airwaves were again filled with sound and fury about whether the US would be engaging in torture.

Lisbon was torn. Torture was revolting. But was it worse than killing someone outright? She was certain torture should never be a regular tool of US armed forces or intelligence agencies. But should someone – the president? the president with others and if so, who? – be able to legally authorize torture under extreme circumstances? What about a terrorist with information that could stop an imminent attack? She wondered if the people adamantly against torture would change their minds if their families stood to die in an attack that could be thwarted. And what about water-boarding? Years ago Cho told her he'd been water-boarded as part of his military training to resist interrogation if captured. He made no bones about how awful it was. But with careful monitoring and medics standing by, it apparently did no permanent damage... Hell, I ended up agreeing McAllister should be killed! All shades of gray.

The news was over. She was about to ask Jane his opinion only to realize he was wholly distracted. She clicked off the TV.

Quietly, "Hey." Again, "Patrick." He looked her way. "You seem sad. What's goin' on?" She touched his arm gently. He blinked and looked at her wistfully.

He shook his head slightly, "Nothing. Just – just we're still settling into our new life." The excuse was transparent.

"Anything I can do?"

His forehead creased but he only said, "No. Everything's fine."

Although she was certain there was more to it, her partner was as stubborn as she was. She would let him tell her in his own time ... so long as it didn't drag on too long.

Rigsby Home, Sacramento, Saturday

Van Pelt welcomed Lisbon and Jane, looking gorgeous if harried in shorts, tee and sandals. She led the way to a back yard overflowing with energy and noise as eight young boys played tag. Lisbon snorted. Tag and touch football and all around roughhousing. Van Pelt grabbed up Taylor as the two-year old ran toward the boys.

"Uh-uh, Tiger. Too rough for you." Jane took her from Van Pelt when the toddler started fussing. "Thanks," Van Pelt said and hurried away to welcome another guest.

Jane sat on a lawn chair and distracted the little girl by making funny faces. Lisbon put Ben's gift on a table with the others then was drawn to the profusion of flowering plants and bushes along the fence. Rigsby lugged out a tub filled with sodas and ice. Taylor caught sight of him and squirmed to get free.

Rigsby plucked his daughter from Jane's lap. "Daddy's girl, huh?" Rigsby murmured and kissed the tip of her nose. She giggled and hugged his neck. He grinned. "Hey, glad you could come," throwing a welcoming look to both. "Madhouse every time Ben's friends come over–"

"Hey, Rigs," Lisbon called across the patio.

Jane returned the smile, "–A good one. Think you've got a success on your hands."

"Yeah, barring trips to the emergency room," he said eyeing the trampoline he'd rented.

Jane twisted around to look at it. "Should be okay with the netting."

"Counting on it." A slight, young Asian woman appeared and set down paper plates, napkins, plastic-ware, and a platter of quartered sandwiches. "Let me introduce you. Min-Ji, this is Patrick Jane and Teresa Lisbon," Rigsby said glancing to each in turn. "Jane, Boss, this is Min-Ji, Cho's–"

"–Cousin," Jane finished, connecting person with earlier information. "A pleasure."

"Hi." Min nodded to each, slightly frowning at Jane's three-piece suit and bruised face. She quickly left to go back inside. Jane spread his hands in silent query.

Rigsby shrugged. "Takes a while to warm up. 'Specially to men."

Chaos subsided as the boys descended upon the sandwiches. Van Pelt thought it wise to get real food into them before the sugary sodas, cake and ice cream. Having run off some energy and gotten fed, the boys were calm enough to enjoy Jane's magic show. He held their attention for a solid hour, and passed out cool trinkets at the end. Lisbon watched quietly with an unreadable expression. Rigsby and Van Pelt took the opportunity to rest during the lull. Min watched all a short distance away.

Sarah and Jacob Cartwright came just before it was time to sing 'happy birthday' and cut the cake. Her constant cheer dimmed at sight of Jane but that was all. Hugely pregnant, she and Jacob left soon after Ben finished opening his gifts, with the excuse that the heat was getting to her. Any hard feelings from the past between the Rigsby's and Cartwright's were secondary to their shared interest in Ben's welfare. Next week Ben would start a vacation with his mother and step father, their best opportunity for extended time with him before life would be complicated by a newborn.

Re-energized, the boys were ready to try the trampoline. Min rode herd. She made sure no more than two boys jumped at the same time and stopped anything dangerous. Eventually the boys tired out. Ben begged Min to jump. Grinning widely, she surprised them by doing flips and tricky maneuvers, for the first time acting like the 18-year old girl she was.

Lisbon was quiet on their drive home.

"How're you doing?" Jane asked after a bit.

"Good party. Ben is growing up fast."

"He is. –And?"

"Never thought I'd miss the pandemonium after raising my brothers."

"But you do."

She sighed. "Some." After a moment, "We need to have them and Cho over some time. ... We're really not set up for a toddler."

"Maybe we'll make it just adults."

She frowned. "Isn't that unreasonable? Taylor's a terrific little girl..."

And all the kids just made you feel worse. Plus Sarah's pregnancy. "It'll be their idea."

"Jane!" Her objection was half-hearted.

Showers, dinner, and a movie finished the day. Jane amused himself by counting the instances when the actors' tells egregiously conflicted with events in the movie.

He needed the distraction from their problems with starting a family. Aside from Teresa's sadness, aside from his own disappointment and empathy for his wife, the situation threatened to confirm his father's relentless lesson: 'Either you play the losers, or you are a loser.' To his father, marks inevitably paid for a kind act, a good deed. It was the way the world worked.

Angela had been the best thing that happened to him ... and paid with her life. After standing by him for years, it increasingly seemed Teresa's reward for selfless devotion would be bitter loss.

He couldn't stand thinking his father was right all along.

Cho, Sacramento FBI, Sunday

Cho spent an intense morning. He reviewed the white supremacist op plan and found nothing to tweak. He then turned to sifting through open case files on potential terrorists. There were hundreds for west coast states alone. Identifying the few most likely to act in the near future was finding a needle in a pile of needles. Washington, a grab bag of experts, and the regional task forces had developed a standardized approach. Cho considered that a starting point. A decade with Jane demonstrated over and over the value of a telling detail, a different take. The 9-11 attack might have been foiled had some agents' suspicions been heeded about the odd phenomenon of students taking private flying lessons who had no interest in landing planes. There would be no penalty for missing something so long as they followed the standard approach. Except there would be unnecessary deaths among the people they'd sworn to protect.

His concentration was interrupted by a call.

"Cho."

"This is Security. We have a Ms. Chay here to see you."

He sat back with a frown. "Send her up." He finished his now-tepid coffee and wondered why now. Nothing had changed unless Elise had changed her mind. He doubted that. Unwittingly lost in thought he straightened abruptly at a noise nearby.

"Hey, Ranger."

Cho's eyes widened. "Alyssa. The guard said 'Chay' and–"

"–You thought it was Elise." She shook her head dismissively. "She's no doubt slaving away over paperwork too."

"What are you doing here?"

Instead of answering she walked all the way around his desk, scrutinizing several empty cups from coffee, the piles of folders and the patiently waiting computer. She sat. "You're looking way too much at home at that desk," she said with a grin. "Came to rescue you."

"I have work–"

"These jobs there's always more work. Even your mom hasn't seen you in weeks. How about a break that gets you out of that chair, out of the building for a few hours?"

He relaxed and let himself appreciate her lithe figure clothed in closely fitted pants and a tee.

She flashed a smile, teeth brilliant against golden skin. The pixie cut framed her face to perfection. "Air force buddies are doing parachute drops this afternoon. Said I could come along. With a friend." Cho glanced at his computer screen. Sensing he was weakening she gave it a final push, "Security says you got here at six. Isn't it time for a break?"

"Yes." He rose and tossed his empty cup. "Hell yes! –You always were a brat." She grinned and led the way out.

Jane-Lisbon Home, Sacramento, Monday

Lisbon pulled up to their home and gave a sigh of relief that the day was over. She'd made their pitch to another several PD's, but trucking around alone was boring. Her husband's bruises were fading so maybe they could go together the rest of the week. With no sign of the Citroen she took the opportunity for a shower. She emerged and checked. Even though it was after five, there was no note, no text, no message on the answering machine. She called and his cell instantly went to voice mail. She decided to stop by the post office to get their mail – another concession to excessive caution – and stopped by the business park on the way back.

The Citroen innocently sat gleaming in the setting sun in a reserved parking space. When she checked, their offices were empty and undisturbed. She frowned and decided to check the Citroen for a note. A glint of silver caught her eye before she inserted her key. Throat suddenly dry she bent down and dragged Jane's key ring from just under the car.

"Oh, crap." She tamped down her anxiety and looked through the Citroen. No clues, but at least there was no sign of a struggle. She drove home to be sure. When Jane wasn't there she started calling, first close friends and then less likely possibilities such as Hightower, Sam and Pete, Mancini and even Minelli, again without result. A half hour later she called Van Pelt back and asked if she had software at home that could locate Jane's cell. Van Pelt found nothing to track. Either the phone had been destroyed. Or its chip had been removed to prevent tracking.

She made one more call. "Cho, I need your help."