Robert McCall had dropped Yvette off on the airport, the blood pounding in his veins. From his demeanor, Yvette knew it hadn't gone well with Control, but she didn't want to push the issue with either McCall or her godfather until they had cooled off. "Give me a few days," McCall had given her a warm hug before she'd gotten on the airplane. "I just need a few more days to sort things out. I'll call you." Yvette didn't want to leave, but she knew that whatever had erupted between the two men, she did not want to be caught in the middle.

McCall returned home, lost in thought, and fell into an uneasy slumber. In the morning, he awoke to find Elena in a crumpled ball, wrought with sadness. Putting an arm around her, he had helped her to the couch, his own troubles forgotten for the moment. "Elena, what's happened?" he said, concerned for this woman who was completely beside herself. "My little Vadim," she gasped between sobs. "My little Vadim died last night."

"My god," Robert held her close, reminded of the night he had lost little Kathy of cardiomyopathy, a condition similar to little Vadim's problems. He knew he couldn't stop the flood of her grief, but he did his best to console her.

She turned to him, her face pleading. "Robert," she cried, "Yuriy is all I have left now. Please, oh please, don't let them take my other child too."

McCall was deeply moved by the tears of this mother, crying for her dead child, robbed of his last moments by the trafficking ring's actions in stealing her other child, and he was also moved by her dedication, her tenacity to find her other son.

"Elena," he took her hand, "we think we are very close. If you want to return to Ukraine for Vadim's funeral . . . ."

"No," she cut him off, "Only God can help Vadim now. Yuriy is still with the living, and he will need his mother. I will stay here, until you find him, and take him home - even," she choked back an anxious gulp, "even if I must take him home in a casket to lie beside his brother."

McCall took her by the shoulders, trying to soothe her distress. "I promise," he looked into her eyes with earnest, "you will take your son home, alive."

"Thank you," she said, allowing McCall's persuasive words to give her hope again. "Please," she wiped her eyes, "I-I just need some time, alone."

"All right," he reluctantly agreed, reminded of the depths of his own sorrow when his child had been taken from him, and the frustrating despair it had brought. Nevertheless, he knew he couldn't suffocate her as she grappled with her emotions; she needed some time to process Vadim's death alone. "I'll be back in a little while." She nodded, sadness in her eyes.

McCall grabbed his heavy coat for the cool March air and walked out onto the street outside his apartment. He walked past the Jag into a stiff breeze, preferring the bracing, open air. He needed time to think, to sort out these competing problems. Vadim was a reminder of the promise of a young life, snuffed out by the fickleness of the human body. But to have that grief compounded by Yuriy's situation - it was almost too much.

He felt dragged in two directions - his concern for his client and his own personal strife concerning Manon. Both problems were complicated, but he knew his mind wouldn't rest until it had been put at ease concerning Manon. He had the name and address of the Hunts Point facility in the Bronx. At least it was a starting place - Manon had recently been transferred from that institution, so they would be intimately familiar with her case, her needs, and her problems. They might even be able to shed some valuable light on the last 11 years and whether her condition since then had improved or worsened. The more information he was armed with before he encountered her at Kings Oaks, the better. Finally, settled on a course of action, he headed home to console Elena, contact Mickey, and then drive to Hunts Point.


Control awoke, his jaw aching. He noticed a folded note on a table near the penthouse's picture windows, left in the night by Adelaide. He opened it, although he already knew what it was. She had given him countless photocopies of the doctor's orders at least once a day, if not twice. They were her way of silently chastising him when she wasn't actually scolding him in person. He noted that the she had made an addition in this one at the end of the list of prohibited activities. In bold letters, underlined, circled, highlighted, and with several exclamation marks, it read simply: "No brawls!" He refolded the note. Maybe she had a sense of humor after all.


"What can I do for you, exactly?" The Ukrainian businessman greeted Kostmayer with an air of detachment. In contrast to Mickey's disheveled hair and blue jeans, the businessman was dressed in a William Fioravanti suit and Forzieri leather shoes. He wasn't impressed by the Mickey's appearance, but when Mickey let his jacket drift back, revealing his hidden SIG-Sauer P245 under his jacket, the man listened a little closer.

"My boss has a little beef with one of your competitors."

"Oh really?" He looked over Mickey's shoulder for his next appointment. "What's that got to do with us?"

"Nothing," Mickey disarmed him with his frankness, "unless you guys are into losing your Johns to some nickel and dime operation."

"Which competitors?"

"Guraya." Mickey could tell the man recognized the name, even if he wasn't saying much. "Look," Mickey leaned in close, conspiring with him, "let me be honest with you. These guys screwed my boss on a business venture in Europe, and he's out for blood - it's almost to the point of irrationality. I can't reason with him. He doesn't do this kind of business on his home turf - so you don't have to worry about him, but he's a multi-millionaire, and if you need some quick capital or you want to expand into other markets, you want to be on the right side of this guy. He's pissed that Guraya is moving into the States. Now, we heard you guys were the kingpins around here, and if anybody knew what a bunch of blood-sucking bags of shit they were, it would be you. You guys don't renege on a deal - you're men of your word, and these dirtballs are moving onto your turf. He just wants to thin the crowd of some of the less-desirable players. You can have the turf and whatever assets are left over after they are shut down."

Mickey had peaked the businessman's interest. "What do you want?"

Mickey shrugged, "Easy, just a referral and a meeting."

"We can't help you unless you close the whole thing. No loose ends."

"Sure," Mickey smiled, "and if you got any info you can give us that would be helpful, you might get a bonus."

"We don't want our name anywhere near this."

Mickey's smile turned into a broad grin. "Don't worry, they won't know what hit them. His operation is very professional. He normally deals in dead bodies, not living ones, you know what I mean?"

The Ukrainian nodded. "He'll need to go in with cash."

"Sure, no problem."

"You got any special requests?"

"Yeah," Mickey gave them a broad description that would match Yuriy. "Something like that."

"O.K." the businessman took Mickey's number. "We'll call you with the place and time."

Kostmayer nodded. Too easy, he thought.


McCall arrived at the Hunts Point institution. The outer door swung in to reveal a musty waiting room, last refurbished, it appeared, in the nineteen seventies. The linoleum was brittle, and the windows hardly let much light in. McCall had already noted that Dr. Healy had been Manon's primary physician, and he had called ahead to make an appointment with him.

A few minutes late, Healy met McCall in the waiting room and led him back to his office. "I understand you are from Kings Oaks. What can I do for you?"

McCall smiled. "Actually, I'm not with Kings Oaks, I am with an firm hired by them to audit performance and financials for third party reports."

"Oh, I see," Healy nodded.

"I'm looking into the patient you had here who was just transferred to Kings Oaks."

"Yeah, that was sure lucky."

McCall smiled, "What do you mean, 'lucky?'"

"Well, lucky for us, we got a bed opened up and lucky for her that that a private donor was funding some transfers of long-term state patients to private facilities. Hell, that place is nice enough to retire to," Healy grinned.

"What can you tell me about her stay here?"

"I'm sorry, patient information is confidential; there's really not much I can talk with you about with respect to her stay."

McCall had hoped this wouldn't be a dead end. "Yes, I realize that, Dr. Healy, but here is the difficulty. The private donor that sponsored her move to King's Oaks is an NGO with strict compliance guidelines, and we want to be sure we aren't running afoul of those guidelines. If other private donors have already offered to take the bill for this patient, then you see, that NGO would be in non-compliance."

"O.K.," Healy nodded, trying to follow. The language of performance and financial audits weren't his normal territory.

"First, we need to verify that she wasn't committed by a private individual or by her own request."

"Oh no," Healy shook his head, "She was committed by the State of New York. Involuntary. And no private individual had anything to do with it - it's was all state run and financed. She, uh, she wasn't a potential welfare leach, if that's what you are asking."

McCall took out the transfer papers. "Did she have any other visitors except him?" McCall tapped on Control's signature line.

Dr. Healy gave him a blank expression. "She didn't have any visitors, the whole time she was here. There was just the one right before she was transferred over to King's Oaks. That's it. We thought she'd never be identified. She was a Jane Doe."

McCall's looked at Healy, trying to discern what had happened. "So these records," McCall pointed to the visitor's log with his glasses, "are inaccurate?"

Dr. Healy flipped through them. "These aren't right," he murmured, a look of confusion on his face. "Come on," he waved McCall toward the office where he pulled Manon's official file. The official file was missing Control's request line and the log of visitations – all but the last one, just before she was transferred.

"You say that man only visited once, the other week, just before she was transferred?" McCall asked Healy, referring to Control.

"That's right," Healy stared at the logged visits page from McCall's file, a confused expression on his face.

So Control had not had her committed, after all. McCall snapped the paper out of his hands and called out a thank you over his shoulder.

"Hey wait," Dr. Healy called after him, but McCall was already gone.