Reese arrived at the library with lunch for his partner. Thin-shaved turkey heaped between slices of thick sourdough bread, with lettuce and tomatoes, mayo for Finch and brown mustard for him. He looked toward the board while he unpacked. "Who's the new girl?"

Finch finished hanging the last picture and turned. "Helen Zane," he said, pointing to the photo of a teenager at the top. "Sixteen. She lives in a small town fifty miles outside Duluth, Minnesota. She and her family are spending the summer in New York." He pointed to each of the pictures in the next row. "Brothers Robert and Michael, 14 and 12, and sister Sarah, 10." And at the bottom, "Mother Elizabeth."

"Another Elizabeth."

"It does seem to be the name of the week."

"No father?" Reese unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite.

"Died nearly two years ago. Natural causes."

"Hmmm." John stepped closer to the board, finished chewing and swallowed. The children all shared distinctive facial features: slender faces, strong, narrow chins, high sharp cheekbones, heavy brows. The girls had gotten enough softening from their mother to be pretty. The boys looked just alike, and probably just like their father. "So how has Miss Zane managed to get into trouble?"

"I don't know yet," Finch answered. "She's attending a summer photography class – a day camp, if you will, six weeks of exploring the city with a camera. Theory, composition, even old-fashioned film developing."

"Film photography? That's quaint."

"I suppose it's akin to her generation's new fascination with vinyl record albums. Everything old is new again." He smirked. "This particular course is underwritten by a generous grant from Mr. Logan Pierce."

Reese's mouth tightened. "Please tell me he's not involved in this."

"As far as I've been able to determine, his only involvement is writing a check."

"Good." The last thing Reese wanted was to get tangled up with the arrogant, irresponsible, and much too smart billionaire.

"They meet Monday through Friday at the Manhattan Art Institute. Classroom work in the morning and field trips nearly every afternoon. So far she's been in attendance every day. There have been no incidents reported, either with her or with the group as a whole."

"We need to look at the instructors, counselors, whatever they are."

"Done," Finch announced. He pointed to a stack of reports on the table. "Everyone associated with the camp has been extensively and thoroughly vetted."

"That was quick."

Finch made a little face. "I can't take the credit, I'm afraid. Miss Zane's mother hired a highly reputable and very expensive security firm to perform the background checks before she enrolled her."

"Reputable and expensive?"

"Skydd," Finch confirmed.

"And since you own Skydd …"

"It was a simple matter to access their reports, yes."

"Sounds like Mom expected trouble," Reese mused.

"Perhaps. But I would say it's more a matter of her being hyper-vigilant. She requested similar reports on everyone associated with activities attended by all her children."

"They're campers, too?"

Finch consulted his notes. "Robert is attending a teen theatre workshop and will likely play an extra in a production of Hamlet in August. Michael is splitting his time between a robotics group and a space explorers camp. And young Sarah is participating in a camp called 'Arms of the Middle Ages', which features fencing, archery, obstacle courses, swimming, and horseback riding."

"She's my favorite," Reese decided.

"I thought she would be."

"What's Mom doing while the kids are at camp?"

"Driving them around, I imagine." Finch shook his head. "She's also retained Skydd's services to pick up and drop off several of the children every day. I imagine that's simply a matter of logistics. But I haven't found any record of her being enrolled in anything herself."

"There's plenty of money, obviously."

"The father was a currency trader. They're well-off, though not excessively so."

Reese studied the photo of the mother more closely. "Finch … this woman has a ten year-old child? How old is she?"

"Fifty-five."

"She looks older."

Finch nodded. "I noticed. It's not a particularly good photo, of course. I thought perhaps she'd been seriously ill. Cancer survivors, for example, frequently appear older than they really are. But there's no record of anything like that."

"Her husband died. She could still be in mourning."

"Perhaps."

"Fifty-five. And her oldest is sixteen. She got a late start."

"That may explain why she's overprotective," Finch offered.

"The family's from a small town, and now they're in the big city. She's probably feeling like a fish out of water. Weren't you anxious when you first came here, Finch?"

Harold smiled tightly. "Are you asking if I came from a small town, Mr. Reese?"

Reese grinned. "So no idea what the threat to Miss Zane is?"

"Not as yet."

"Where is she now?"

"The group took a trip to Time Square today. They should be headed back to the Institute shortly."

"I'm on my way, then." Reese wrapped the remaining half of his sandwich back up and took it with him.

"I'll see what else I can find out about our visitors."

"Eat your lunch," John called over his shoulder.

"Yes, dear."


Root look up when her cell door opened, then sat up quickly. A woman entered the cell, but it was not Control. This woman was small, dark-haired, olive-skinned. The same woman who had watched while her gunshot wound was treated after she was captured. "You," she said sweetly. "Hello there."

The woman stopped in the center of the cell. "Hello." She sounded vaguely annoyed.

"You're new." Root cocked her head. "And a lot prettier than Control."

"Thanks."

"Are you my new interrogator?"

The woman growled. "I'm you're playmate."

"Ooooh." Root pulled one foot up under her on her bunk. "That sounds very promising."

"You're biting your toenails," the woman explained without enthusiasm. "And pulling your hair out. They want to make sure you don't go completely bonkers before you tell them where the Machine is."

"So thoughtful, aren't they? What's your name?"

"Shaw."

"Shaw what?"

"Just Shaw."

"You're not very friendly."

Shaw rolled her eyes. "You play chess?"

"I do, but I hate it. What else have you got?"

"Chutes and Ladders or Candyland."

Root cocked her head. "Could you get Mystery Date?"

"Probably."

"What about Grand Theft Auto?"

"No way in hell we're letting you near a video game console."

"Can't blame a girl for trying."

Shaw sighed. "Look. I gotta be in here one hour a day, five days a week. I don't gotta like it. So pick a board game and I'll bring it and we'll play. But you might as well cut the crap right now. I'm not bringing you a computer or a phone or anything else you can try to hack your way out of here with. Strictly board games, got it?"

"Poker?" Root asked.

"Sure."

"Strip poker?"

"If I want to see you naked I'll watch the monitors while you shower."

Root stuck her bottom lip out. "Are you saying you don't? That's so disappointing."

"I'm not really into girls."

"What are you into?"

Shaw glared at her. "I'll bring cards tomorrow."

"And poker chips," Root added. "No point in playing if there's nothing to lose."

"Fine."

"See you tomorrow, sweetie."

As the woman left her cell, Root noticed that she had a slight limp. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"Nothing you need to worry about."

"I could rub it for you."

The cell door slammed behind her visitor.

Root smiled broadly and twisted her hair again. Their plan was obvious, of course. This Shaw woman would gain her trust while pretending not to. They would share confidences, little secrets. Control hoped she would tell Shaw the Machine's secret location.

But that game was a two-way street. Control probably thought that Root couldn't learn anything about her captors from Shaw. The smaller woman seemed very competent, and confident. Some kind of trained operative. She thought she was too clever to give anything away.

But Root was very good at finding out things.

This was going to be fun.

This was going to be so much fun.


Reese parked his car illegally next to the Institute's pick-up area. There were two minivans and five black livery sedans waiting to pick up the campers.

He tapped his earpiece. "I'm here, Finch. Looks like class isn't out yet."

"Good," Finch answered immediately.

"Anything new on the threat?"

"Nothing. Miss Zane's social life here in the city is sharply limited. The family has attended a number of Broadway shows and two concerts together, but she doesn't seem to have any outside friends. When you clone her phone, we may be able to learn more."

The students came out of the building. Reese picked up his own camera and peered through the viewfinder. "The younger instructor."

"Dylan Kozlow. What about him?"

"We need to take another look." Reese snapped a picture, then pressed the share button on the camera so that it was sent to Finch immediately.

Dylan Kozlow was standing very close to Helen Zane, whispering in the teenager's ear. They were both smiling.

"Oh, dear," Finch said.


"So," Dylan said, "you gonna come to the movie tonight?"

Helen grinned. He'd been talking about some outdoor movie all the way back to the Institute. "I can't. My mom would never let me."

"Tell her you're going with Hailey."

"She'll check."

"Then bring Hailey along. Come on, it will be fun. I'll bring lawn chairs. And beer."

"Beer. You really want to see Hailey with a couple beers in her?"

"She'll be fine. It's not like she'll be driving home."

Helen looked down the street, but she didn't see her driver yet.

"So you're gonna meet me there, right?" Dylan continued. "Ten o'clock."

"Dylan … I don't think so."

"Look, it's simple. Tell your mom you're going to Hailey's. Go to Hailey's. Then grab an Uber and come down and meet me. C'mon, how often do you get to see Caddy Shack on the big screen? It'll be fun, I promise."

Helen had a vision of her Uncle Mickey wading through the crowd of outdoor movie watchers, grabbing Dylan and punching him in the kidney with one hand while he dragged Helen away with the other. Mickey if Dylan was lucky. Because if her mom came instead … well, getting punched in the kidney would just be the beginning of his problems.

"Ten o'clock," Dylan said again. "I'll save you a place. Call me when you get there."

"Dylan …"

"Gotta go. See you later." He trotted off and got into a car with his brother.

Helen smiled after him, but she already knew she wasn't going to go.

It wasn't that she didn't like Dylan. She did, a lot. But he was just enough older that his attention was a little creepy. And he was just pushy enough to set off her alarms.

Also, if her mother found out, she'd leave him quietly drowning in his own blood.

The risk assessment analysis wasn't even close. There was no way it was worth it.

She shrugged her backpack higher on her shoulder. Most of the other students were gone. Another livery car turned into the driveway, at the back of the line, and she trotted confidently toward it.


"Mr. Reese?"

"Dylan's gone," Reese answered. "Helen's about to be picked up." He put the camera down on the seat beside him. "She didn't seem to be in any distress. Might have been a little innocent flirting."

"Between an underage student and an assistant instructor, I'm not sure there's any such thing."

"He's only nineteen." The town car stopped directly in front of the girl. A man got out of the passenger side of the front seat. He was a big guy, older, wearing khaki slacks and a navy polo shirt. Hardly standard driver attire, and certainly not Skydd uniform. He opened the back door for the girl.

"Something's wrong, Finch." He grabbed the camera and snapped a quick picture, then dropped it, put his car into gear and pulled into the driveway behind the sedan.

He wasn't the only one who was suspicious. Helen Zane stepped back and looked around quickly as she spoke to the man. He gave some answer, but she didn't like it. She took another step back.

The man grabbed her arm.

Reese swerved around the sedan, cut in front of it sideways, and put his car in park. He jumped out with his stolen badge.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch worried in his ear.

"Hold it," Reese ordered, rounding the car to the sidewalk.

The man curled his lip. "Who are you?"

"Stills. NYPD. Need to see your livery license."

"This man isn't my driver," Helen Zane said clearly.

"Let her go." Reese stepped closer and reached for his gun.

"Her mom sent me to pick her up." The man tightened his grip and tried to muscle her into the car. "Get in, we're late."

"She would never do that," the girl said. Her voice was high, tense, but still clear, and she spoke directly to Reese.

John heard the driver's side door open. He aimed his gun at the driver without looking. "Get back in the car and close the door," he said.

Helen turned and brought her knee up sharply into her would-be kidnapper's groin.

He shouted, released her arm, and doubled over. Reese grabbed the girl and pulled her against his chest.

The man fell into the car. The driver reversed quickly, before the door even closed, and sped away.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch said again, very quietly.

"You're okay," Reese told the girl, wrapping his arms around her.

He expected her to be upset, maybe hysterical. She was definitely agitated, but very much in control. She backed away and looked him up and down. "You're a cop?"

He handed her Stills' badge and let her examine it while he put his gun away. "Who were those men?"

"I don't know."

"A driver was supposed to come for you?"

"Yes. And he's always on time. Always."

"There's a major accident just north of your location, Mr. Reese," Finch provided.

"He may be stuck in traffic. There's a big pile-up just north of here," Reese repeated. He took the badge back. "I think I'd better drive you home."

"He'll be here."

"Those men just tried to kidnap you. You have any idea why?"

The teenager shook her head. "I don't …I don't know." She went pale. Reese thought she might be lying, but she might also just be scared. "I'm not even from here. I don't know anybody …"

John took her arm again. "Come on. I'll drive you home."

The girl looked around. She seemed to be appraising the situation, with surprising calm under the circumstances. There were only a few students and cars left. She looked back at Reese and nodded. "Okay. Detective …"

"Stills. What's your name?"

"Helen. Helen Zane."

"It's nice to meet you, Helen Zane."

He opened the car door for her.

"Mr. Reese," Finch worried, "are you sure it's wise to get so close to our subject?"

John didn't answer. He couldn't, of course, with the girl right beside him in the car. Instead, Reese said, "You should probably call your driver and let him know you're okay."

"Yeah." The young woman sounded thoughtful or dazed; Finch couldn't tell which. "I'll call my mom. She makes all the arrangements."

"That's a good idea."

"She's testing you," Finch provided in his partner's ear. "If you'd objected to her making the call …"

"Uh-huh," Reese replied absently. But the message was clear: I've done this before, Finch.

Finch sat back. Of course John understood the situation. He needed to stop verbally jostling his partner's elbow. Instead he pulled the photo in from John's digital camera.

"Which way am I going?" Reese asked Helen.

"North."

"Okay."

Harold frowned at the image on his screen. The man's image was blurry; Reese had not had time to focus the camera. The girl was only a little clearer. But the front end of the car was fairly sharp, and with it most of the license plate.

"Mom?" he heard the young lady say into her phone. "It's Helen. Listen, Mom … no, I know, he was late, this other guy showed up, these two guys, they tried to get me in their car … to pull me in … no, I'm fine. Mom, I'm okay, I'm fine, there was this cop here and he chased them off. And he's bringing me home."

There was a little pause. "Oh. Okay, I'll ask him." Then, to John, "Can you take me to my aunt's house? That's where my mom is."

"Sure. Where is it?"

"Brooklyn Heights."

Reese nodded and took the next right turn.

"Mom?" Helen continued. "He said okay … Detective Stiles …"

"Stills," Reese corrected quietly.

"Sorry, Stills ... yeah. No, Mom, I'm fine."

"Still testing you," Finch observed quietly. Reese made a quiet noise of agreement.

It was puzzling. This teenage girl had just escaped being kidnapped by two strange men. Yet she was not panicked. She was testing her rescuer. There was much more to this young woman than they'd uncovered.

But first things first. He listened as Helen continued her call, but his attention focused on the license plate in the photo.

"Livery tag," Finch mused aloud.

Over the com, Reese grunted. "Do you want me to talk to her?" he offered to the girl.

"Do you want to talk to him, Mom?" After a pause, she answered, "Only if you need to. Otherwise she says you can talk when we get there."

"That's fine."

Finch picked up his phone and dialed Detective Fusco. The man answered on the fifth ring. "What?" He sounded profoundly annoyed.

"Good afternoon, Detective."

"Look, Suits, I'm up to my ass in dead bodies and paperwork here. What do you want? And it better not be anything about cleaning up after your maniac partner."

"I merely needed to ask you to run a license plate for me, Detective."

"You're a computer supergenius. Why can't you find that out for yourself?"

Finch grimaced. "Because the DMV's computer system is a hopelessly outdated abomination of machines and programs kludged together with baling twine and duct tape, as far as I can determine, and it's a miracle it functions at all, much less enables access from outside parties."

"Huh. Well maybe somebody should write them a big check and help them fix it."

"I don't think even I have that much money, Detective, and certainly I don't have the patience to cut through the red tape such a donation would no doubt entail."

Fusco sighed. "Fine. What's the number?"

Finch read it off the screen. "It's a livery vehicle, a black town car."

"Yeah," Fusco answered, "Midtown Livery, and it was reported stolen twenty minutes ago."

"I don't suppose there's a police report available?"

The detective snorted. "In about a week, when we have the manpower free to go take one. If you're lucky."

"I see."

"In case you haven't noticed, there's a heat wave going on. Which means people are a little short-tempered. Which means all kinds of random crime is going on. We're running our asses off."

"I understand, Detective. I wish you luck."

"Yeah, well. Less wishes, more help."

"We are helping. As well as we're able."

"Uh-huh." There was a buzz on the call, and Fusco swore under his breath. "That's another one. I gotta go."

"Thank you for your help."

"Yep." The call went dead.

Finch turned his attention back to Mr. Reese's feed.

There was silence.

"Mr. Reese?" he said softly into the com. "John?"

No response. No static, no background noise. Nothing.

"John!" Harold called. "Are you alright? John?"

Only ominous silence came back to him.