Harold Finch worked diligently on the Eric Geis case. But in the early afternoon a small alarm sounded on his computer. He opened a side window and turned up the audio. He had eyes and ears inside the Sutton Gallery.

There were four photographers featured in the show. Only one of them interested Harold. His name was Gregg Everett. He was 49 years old, a widower with a 9-year old daughter named Elizabeth. They lived in Cape Cod. He owned a small gallery and frame shop of his own, catering to the tourist trade, and made a respectable living. He volunteered to teach art classes at the local Y and at a nearby prison.

His photos were mostly seascapes. But he had a small collection of city scenes that fascinated Finch.

Harold watched him mingle with the small crowd at the opening. He had a glass in his hand, but while Finch watched, he had it refilled at the bar with plain ginger ale.

Grace Hendricks came in, accompanied by Melissa Keynes. They checked their coats, moved into the gallery together. Then Melissa, despite the early hour, headed predictably to the bar.

Grace greeted some of the other ladies from her club. The president of the club chatted with her. They moved among the photos.

Harold's fingers hovered over his cell phone. He had a text message all typed out, ready to send if necessary. It would be better if he didn't. But he wouldn't let this opportunity pass. If one more nudge was needed …

Grace reached the section of photos Harold had been enthralled with. As he'd hoped, she stopped and stared.

"Yes," he whispered to himself.

His finger twitched. He didn't touch the phone. Not yet. Not yet…

And then the owner of the gallery was at her elbow. "Have you met the artist?" she said brightly. "This is Gregg Everett. Gregg, this is …"

"Grace Hendricks," he said happily. He shifted his drink to his left hand, held out his right one, then pulled it back and wiped it on his shirt. "Sorry," he said. Finally he shook her hand, politely, and released it. "I'm a big fan."

Grace smiled and blushed. "Of me?"

Finch felt his breath catch. That smile. The modest, self-effacing, beautiful smile. She didn't know how talented she was. She never had. She painted because she enjoyed it; it always surprised her when someone else praised the results. She had no idea. And even on grainy surveillance feeds, even after all this time, her smile touched him.

"Of you," Everett said. He gestured to the framed photos behind him. "These are all … you. Well, not you, but …" He paused, shook his head, embarrassed. "I saw your 'Blue City' layout in American Artist and I … I had to see them for myself. The places you painted. So I did, and then I shot them. These are your places. The places you saw first."

Grace was still smiling, and blushing. "Well, I didn't see them first, really," she protested. "They were always there."

"You made them worth seeing." Everett stopped, looked at his shoes. "I'm sorry. I must sound like a big dumb … fanboy."

She giggled. "I don't think I ever met a fanboy before."

"Well, you have now. And if I seem like a big dumb dork and you just want to walk away I would totally understand that."

Grace laughed easily. "Are you always this straightforward?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'm afraid I am." He shrugged. "What you see is what you get."

"You'll never make it in New York, with thinking like that."

"No, I know. It's a wonderful city, but I could never live here."

"Where do you live?"

"Cape Cod."

"That must be beautiful."

"It is," Everett said warmly. He gestured to other photos. "We live right by the water. The one, that's the view from my back porch. The ocean is never the same one day to the next. Even one hour to the next."

Grace stared at the photo. "It's lovely," she said. "I would love to paint this."

"You could come and stay with us," he said swiftly. "Stay and paint as long as you like. Elizabeth would love to meet you."

"Elizabeth's your wife?" Grace asked.

"My daughter," Everett corrected. "My wife died five years ago. She had cancer."

"I'm so sorry."

"It's …" The photographer stopped, looked down at his shoes again. "I'm sorry, that invitation must have sounded really … I didn't mean … "

Grace smiled again, her bright, warm smile. "It's okay. I didn't take it that way."

"Can I … get you a drink?" Everett finally managed to ask.

"It's early for me, but I'd love a soda."

He gestured to his cup. "Ginger ale?"

"Yes, please."

Harold sat back from his monitors. After a moment, he made himself turn the sound down, though he continued to watch. Gregg Everett was inarticulate, awkward, clumsy. Guileless. But absolutely honest. He was intelligent, a gifted artist, an avid reader. A loving parent. A good neighbor. And, if Harold was honest, an attractive man.

Everett would be good for Grace.

Harold could watch them, he knew. Watch as their relationship progressed, if it did. Step in invisibly to help if it faltered. Support them, unseen, unheard. Guide them together. He thought about it as he watched them on the silent monitor. They continued to talk. Grace introduced him to some of the ladies from her group. Everett stayed close to her side, utterly unable to conceal his attraction to her.

And Grace, with her wonderfully unassuming nature, didn't pick up the cues. But she would, sooner or later.

Probably.

He could watch over them. Help them. Or he could shut off the monitor and leave them alone.

Either Grace Hendricks would hit it off with Gregg Everett, fall in love, marry him, move to Cape Cod and live happily ever after, as she deserved to do …

… or else she would stay in New York and Harold would continue to look after her, as he had done since he left her …

He shook his head. Of course, there might well be some middle ground between those two extremes. All of his plans didn't actually come to fruition, and certainly not all the way he'd intended. But that was his process, to set a goal, adjust to realities as needed, and come as close as possible to achieving it.

His goal was for Grace to be happy. His adjustment to reality was that he could never be there with her, making her happy in person. Gregg Evertt was the revised plan. And if not him, someone else. Harold would learn from the failure of this relationship, make further revisions, and find someone more suitable.

It had taken him time to embrace this goal. Watching her come home from family Christmas, alone, had convinced him to act. Because the only thing harder than letting Grace Hendricks go was continuing to watch her go on alone.


Maxine Angelis wasn't about to let go of her lead.

She wasn't one much for celebrity news, normally. She was more interested in political corruption, police misconduct, real stories with real meat to them. But this was Will Freakin' Ingram. His billionaire father had been killed in a terrorist attack – the worst on US soil since 9/11 – and conspiracy theory continued to whisper that it had actually been a government attack aimed at the computer genius. The son had hardly been seen since. Word was that he was overseas with Doctors Without Borders, which was almost too do-goody to be believed. But the video she'd seen from the night before, Ingram Jr. and his girlfriend diving under an overturned car to rescue a pregnant woman and her child – that was too beautiful to pass up.

And talking to him face to face, even briefly – he was even more wonderfully, stupidly wholesome in person. He really was too good to be true. It didn't hurt that he was easy on the eyes. In his scruffy way he was as handsome as his father had been.

Young Will Ingram was news sales gold.

And the young woman with him was equally attractive.

Maxine's next mission was finding out who she was, and how close the two of them were.

She parked outside the restaurant the couple had disappeared into and filed her first story. Then she called her source at the police department. He had nothing for her. But her source at the hospital did.

Maxine shook her head. There were probably hundreds of people named 'Carson' in New York City. The odds that the young woman was related to those Carsons was incredibly remote. Except, of course, that she was running around with Will Ingram, and he was a billionaire, and so the odds went up that his girlfriend came from money, too …

And if she was from that Carson family, this story was huge. Still sugary celebrity news, but triple-the-hits-on-the-site celebrity news. Whale-size news.

Maxine called her editor back. "I need some background quick," she said.

By the time she got it, her story had hit the web site and there were two other cars lurking outside the restaurant with her.


Fusco was finishing up lunch at his desk when his cell rang. He growled, expecting it to be from a blocked number. He growled again when the ID came up with a Toledo, Ohio number. "Detective Fusco," he said.

"I … um … hello?"

It was a woman, and a nervous one. "Hello?" he said warily.

"Hello. I, um … oh. I'm sorry, I … are you the detective who called about Red Geis? Um … Erci Geis? Detective Geis?"

"Yeah. Who's this?"

"My name is … I'm sorry. My name is Cindy Summers. I'm a dispatcher with the Toledo PD."

"Okay." Fusco sat back in his chair, still puzzled. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, the captain said that, um, that Red was there, asking for some information. And I just … I'm sorry, this is probably way out of line, but … his mother just died, earlier this week, and now this sudden trip, I'm … that is, we're all … just a little concerned about him."

Lionel felt a little grin tug at the corners of his mouth. She was worried about him, not we. "He seemed okay to me," he said easily. "He said he was looking for an uncle, wanted to know if we could steer him in the right direction. I just wanted to make sure he was legit before I helped him out. You know."

Carter stared at him. He shrugged.

"But he wasn't … um … "

"He seemed fine," Fusco repeated.

"I … oh. Well. Thank you, then."

"You don't mind my asking," the detective asked quickly, "how come you don't just call his cell?"

"I … um. I tried, but he didn't answer. So I thought I'd just … I know, this is really odd. But under the circumstances …"

"I think it's nice you got his back this way," Fusco said. "I bet he'd be glad to know about it."

The woman stopped talking for so long that he started to think she'd hung up on him. "Yeah. Maybe I'll tell him some time."

"You should."

"Well … thank you, Detective."

"Glad to help." He put his phone away.

"What was that?" Carter asked, bemused.

"Not sure," Fusco answered. "I think I just helped one of Mr. Grumpy's people make a love connection."

She made a face. "You better hope he doesn't end up dead before he can connect, then."

"Hey, I'm just Cupid here. Batman's gonna have to do his half on his own."

Carter grinned and went back to her report. "You as Cupid," she snorted. "There's a visual I didn't need."

And when she put it that way - Fusco had to laugh, too.


William Robinson was carry a tray piled with clean bowls from the kitchen. Reese could tell from across the room that the man was in pain. He hurried over and took the tray out of his hands. It was heavy. "Hello, William," he said.

The older man looked surprised, then grateful. "John. Good to see you again." He didn't argue about the tray. He simply gestured to the table where it went. When John set it down, he started unloading the bowls into stacks. John helped.

"How've you been?"

"Can't complain." The man put in hand on his lower back and leaned, trying to loosen it.

"You shouldn't load up the trays so much," Reese chided gently.

"Yes, yes. And you? You look well."

"I'm looking for someone. Again."

Robinson smiled gently, drew him back from the table. "Thought you might be.

John brought out his phone and showed him a photo of Eric Geis."Have you seen him?"

"Just this morning. He's a detective. Not from around here, though. Got kind of a Midwest sound to him."

"Toledo," Reese confirmed. "You're good."

"Had some time to listen to people."

"Was he looking for someone?"

"His uncle." Robinson frowned. "Starts with a D, I think. David … no, Daniel. Daniel Geis."

"Do you know him? The uncle?"

"I've seen him around. He's hard to miss. Got the red hair, like the detective. Lot less of it, though. Not that I can talk." He ran his hand over the top of his mostly-bald head.

Reese followed the man back to the kitchen. Robinson picked up another tray of freshly-washed bowls. John took it from him again, carried it out to the table. "He's been around, then?"

"I've seen him," the older man said. "But he wasn't using that name. Calls himself Danny Cane, Danny King. Couple different things. He drinks. Got a nasty temper. And he sometimes runs some ladies."

"Any idea why Geis was looking for him?"

"He said that his mother died," Robinson said. "Said this man was his only relative now. He wanted to find him, see if he could help him out." He considered for a long moment. "You know I try to walk with the Lord, John. I believe in forgiveness, redemption. But this man, Daniel? He is not ready to be redeemed."

"Did you tell the detective that?"

"I did. Funny thing, he almost seemed to agree with me. He wasn't surprised, anyhow. But he said he still needed to find him."

John nodded thoughtfully. "Do you have any idea where Daniel might be?"

"None at all, I'm afraid," Robinson answered.

"If you see either of them …"

"I still have your number."

"Thank you."


It took Maxine Angelis most of an hour to track down the number. A friend of a friend, then a friend of his, then a friend of hers. But she got it. She was into the story now; she'd have worn the numbers off her phone to get this scoop.

And then, through a combination of half-truths and outright lies, she dialed the number and a young male voice said, "Carson residence." He sounded incredibly nasal – congested, she realized.

"Hello," she said sweetly. "My name is Maxine Angelis. I'm working on a story about Julie Carson, and I wondered if someone there could comment on her relationship with Will Ingram."

The young person on the phone coughed wetly and then said, "Sorry, what?"

"Is Julie your aunt?" Maxine guessed.

"Yeah."

"Do you know if she's dating someone?"

"Yeah."

"Have you met him?"

There was a man's voice in the background. "Who is it?"

"Some lady," the kid answered. He coughed again.

"Give me that." There was a little shuffle, and then an older voice. "Who is this, please?"

"My name is Maxine Angelis. I'm a reporter with the New York Journal."

There was a brief pause. "What did you tell her?" the man asked, aside.

"She asked about Aunt Julie."

"What about her?"

"About that guy she's dating."

"Who, Ing—" The man turned his attention back to her. "I'm sorry, we don't have any comment on that subject."

"So she is dating him?" Maxine pressed.

The phone went dead. When she called back, no one answered.

Which was, Maxine mused, an answer in itself, but not one she could go to press with. She knew from the call that Julie Carson was back in the country, in the city, presumably, and that she was dating someone. But she still wasn't certain that the woman in the restaurant with Ingram was in fact the youngest Carson.

She sat back and considered her options. There weren't many.

And then, as sometimes happened when she thought she'd worked a story to the end, a little miracle happened. Her phone rang.

The number was blocked. She answered it anyhow. "Maxine Angelis."

"You asked about Julie Carson," a woman said. She sounded older, formal, and her voice was hushed.

"Yes."

"She is dating Will Ingram. She is living with him, in Manhattan. They plan to attend an event at the Carson family compound this weekend. Together."

Maxine smiled toward the restaurant. "So it's serious, then."

"It's very serious. We expect their engagement to be announced shortly."

"Really. And what's your name?"

"I think you have all you need, Miss Angelis," the woman said frostily.

The called went dead.

"I think," Angelis said to the dead air, "that you're probably right."


Tonaro came into the restaurant as they were finishing their coffee. He leaned close and spoke quietly. "Miss Carson, Dr. Ingram, we have a security issue."

"What kind of issue?" Julie asked.

"Paparrazi."

"What, another reporter?" Will shook his head. They'd been an issue briefly around his father's funeral, but other than that he'd never had to deal with them much. He didn't get it.

"Not one reporter," Tonaro said. "Many. Thomas is bringing the car around back."

Julie gestured for the check.

The guard stepped back against the wall, his hands clasped behind him.

"What do they want?" Will asked. "What are they all worked up about?"

"The car accident, I suppose," Julie answered.

Tonaro cleared his throat discretely.

"What?" Julie asked.

"They asked about you. Specifically. By name."

"Oh, hell," she muttered.

Will looked at her. "That didn't take long."

"I suspect my mother."

They paid the check quickly. Tonaro had them wait one more minute while he muttered into the wire on his wrist. Then they headed for the back exit. He stopped them again at the door. Then he said, "Please keep your heads down and go straight to the car."

"Are you kidding me?" Will asked.

Tonaro looked at him. He was in full I-do-not-kid-around mode. He pushed the door open and herded the two of them toward the waiting car.

There was a roar of whirrs, a sound that Ingram couldn't identify at first, just noise. A crowd of people. He almost stopped. Then he felt Julie's hand on the small of his back, pushing him. He reached back for her hand, got his head down and moved. The whirring, he realized, was cameras clicking. Ahead, Thomas was holding the car door open with one hand, reaching for him with the other. People pressed in, got in front of him. Julie pushed again, with her body this time, and Will barreled through them. Tonaro, he trusted, was behind Julie. Certainly there was some force back there propelling them both forward.

He'd been in crowds before. He'd been in the middle of festivals, of markets, of riots. They'd never bothered him. But this was personal. These were people who wanted a piece of him. And of Julie. They were focused on them, and they were out of control.

He shifted his grip so that he had Julie's wrist securely, and he dove for the car. He pulled her in on top of him. Thomas slammed the door.

A body hit the car, hard enough to rock it. And then several more. There were shouting faces, cameras, phones pressed against the glass. The car began to rock rhythmically as they pushed against it.

Tonaro opened the front passenger door and got in. Hands reached through the opening, grasping toward them like something out of a zombie movie. The bodyguard pushed them away, eased the door shut. The same process repeated on the other side as Thomas got in.

"What the hell?" Will said as the car finally inched forward.

The crowd still pressed against the windows. "Get your head down," Julie said. She pulled him toward her, and they both leaned together at the center of the seat. Tonaro slipped out of his overcoat and spread it over them. The photographers began to ease away.

"We're going to need some back-up," Thomas muttered.

"Anything you need," Julie said from under the coat. "Call 'em in."

"It will take a little time to get them on-site," Tonaro answered. He brought his phone out.

The car finally reached the main street. Will and Julie sat up cautiously.

Another car bumped them from behind. More cameras.

"Go," Julie said. "Just go."

Thomas drove. "They're still following us," he said after a few blocks.

"Back to the loft?" Will asked.

"Do a drive-by," Julie said. "They may already be there."

"What do they want?" he asked again. "What the hell is going on?"

Julie handed Tonaro's coat back over the seat to him, then sat back." "I don't know how to tell you, this, sweetie, but you're really rich. And so am I."

"That never made them interested in me before."

"You were never this handsome before."

"Maybe I just never had a beautiful girlfriend before."

In the front seat, Thomas made a small noise that started as a grunt and turned into a small cough.

Will grinned. "You knew we were sappy when you took the job, Thomas."

"Yes, sir."

"You guys were really good back there," Julie said. "Thank you."

They both smiled, just a little, embarrassed. "Just doin' our job, ma'am," Tonaro said.

She didn't bother to disguise her grunt.

"Hey," Thomas protested, "you knew we were sappy when you hired us."