Peterson waited until late in the afternoon, when Andreani and Clay were both asleep in front of some dumb movie with a lot of car chases and explosions. Then he tapped Nekl on the arm and gestured him out into the hallway.

"What?" Nekl asked.

"Not here." He kept walking, out the side door to the little alley. There were piles of cigarette butts there, and he wished he still smoked. "That kid, Clay. You notice he's always running off?"

"Yeah, so? I ain't his boyfriend."

"I think he's a snitch."

"Clay? He's not that smart."

"You don't have to be smart to be a snitch. You just have to remember what you hear."

Nekl sighed. "If he was a snitch they would have picked us up by now."

"Nah, man. They're waiting to get the big guy at the pay-off."

"You're imagining things. We didn't even crack the vault. And the buyer blacked out all the cameras, remember? They won't catch us."

Peterson looked down the alley. In the park across the street there was a surveillance camera. It had a red light on it, flashing; it was active. There were cameras everywhere in this damn city now. He took Nekl's arm and pulled him out of sight of the camera. "I'm not gonna risk doing time for some punk kid we picked up on the corner."

"So talk to Andreani."

"I did. He won't listen."

"So what do you want me to do about it? He won't listen to me, either."

"I think we need to take care of this for ourselves."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning … a kid like that goes walking the streets, he might run into a little trouble, you know?"

Nekl shook his head. "I don't know, man."

"You know robbing a bank is a federal beef, right?"

The other man considered. "Alright. Keep talking."


"Anything?" Elias asked on the phone.

Marconi shook his head. "Nothing, Boss. These guys are laying low."

"Keep looking."

"I will."


When she'd been properly measured and the dress was pinned and promised for Friday, Christine put her own clothes back on and Finch walked her out of the store. "Dinner?" he offered.

"Actually I think I've socialized enough for one day. Or whatever that was."

"Of course." He tucked her hand through the bend of his elbow. "We could get take-out, if you like."

She looked at him for a long moment. "Really."

"I'm sorry. If you'd rather I just took you home …"

"What are you seeing?"

"Hmmm?"

Christine stopped and pulled him to the curb, out of the way of other pedestrians. "You and John both, you don't want to leave me alone. So what am I doing that has you both on edge? Because I'm not seeing it."

"I … it's not like that," he stammered.

"Is it the Angelis thing? I'm handling that okay. At least I think I am. But when you two start hovering, I start to doubt my self-monitoring skills. So tell me what's going on."

He turned his head and looked out over the traffic. It was just traffic, ubiquitous and eternal. The bloodstream of the city, in motion day and night. It was easier then looking into her eyes. Christine's eyes saw too much. "It's nothing," he said.

"Random. Please."

When he didn't answer, she started to pull her hand away. He grabbed it, finally looked at her again. "You're not doing anything that alarms us," he said firmly. "John's hovering because … I suppose because he anticipates that all the changes may be upsetting to you. Not because you've actually acted unduly distressed, but because he thinks you may be. And because he's settling into his new … role … in your life. He's hovering mostly because that's what John Reese does."

"And you?"

Harold looked away again, this time toward the building. "I just … perhaps my reasons are the same as his. In the absence of any clients, I'm simply …"

"Random." She squeezed his hand.

"It's nothing," he assured her. "Come on, I'll drop you off at home."

He turned toward the sidewalk again. She tugged his hand to stop him. "It's not me, is it?"

"Pardon?"

"You're not hovering because of me. There's something else going on. You don't want to be alone."

This time Harold looked at her shoes. They were leather loafers, good quality but old, a bit scuffed. Will had a pair very much like them; it was no wonder they got along so well. Christine wore size seven, sometimes seven and a half, depending on the fit. She'd never learned to walk on heels and avoided them at all costs. She liked to be able to run away if she needed to, he supposed.

He could all but feel her eyes on his face. Blue and bright and looking right through him, seeing the outlines of the secrets, the things he tried to keep hidden. "Yes," he admitted softly.

Christine moved closer, crowding against him. "Something different," she said, just as quietly.

He glanced up. "What?"

"I feel like something different tonight. Pho, maybe."

"Vietnamese?" he asked dubiously. She didn't ask his reasons. It was understood that if he could bear to tell her he would. Or if he needed to tell her. She trusted that, at least. She did not ask.

Of course she did not ask. She never asked.

"Or something like that. Something a little lighter."

Finch nodded, grateful. "It will be difficult to find a place like that that also features chocolate desserts."

"Then we'll have to go somewhere else for dessert," she answered logically. "It's early."

"Of course." He gestured for the car. "Thank you."

She bumped against him again. "Thank you for buying me dresses."

"That was actually rather enjoyable. You're a much more amenable shopper than Mr. Reese."

"We'll get dessert to go, and then I'll download 'Pretty Woman' for you."

Finch groaned. "I was hoping you'd forget about that."

"I won't."

"Of course not."

He opened the car door and Christine got in. As was her practical, if unladylike, custom, she scooted across to make room for him. "You can't do that in a dress, you know."

"Yes, dear."

He consulted with the driver, then sat back. "It's a little unnerving, you know."

"The movie? Ehh. It's a cultural referent, you need to see it once. You might even like it."

"The way you read me."

"Oh, yes. It only took me all afternoon to figure out what was going on. I'm a damn psychic, don'tcha know?" She shook her head. "Maybe next time you could just tell me, yeah?"

Harold looked out the window as the car eased into the traffic. They became part of the bloodstream of the city. "I didn't want to seem needy," he admitted.

"Right about now," Christine answered simply, "I could use to feel needed."

He thought about this. Dinner and chocolate and a bad rom-com in Christine's new apartment. Or else he could drop her off and go loiter in the park across from Grace's townhouse, feeling sorry for himself. It was an easy choice. Mostly.

"I could," he suggested carefully, "take you out to a movie. Something first-run. If you'd prefer."

Christine just laughed.


And then, blessedly, after they had ordered but before their food had arrived, his cell phone chirped, just once.

Christine cocked her head. "Is that her?"

Her. He had never assigned gender in his thoughts about the Machine, but he supposed it was logical for someone who treated her computers as boon companions to do so. "Yes." He looked around. There was an old pay phone booth at the back of the restaurant, near the restrooms. "Will you excuse me?"

"I'll get our order to go."

"Thank you."

The moment he closed the door of the booth, the phone rang. He picked it up and listened to the electronic voice give him the code words. Then he frowned fiercely. He'd heard those books, in that order, before. Repeat customer. It was not, for a change, Leon Tao. And thankfully, not Detective Carter. He couldn't remember exactly who it was. But it would come.

He paid for their dinner, and in very short order they were on their way with carry-out bags. "I am sorry I'll have to miss the movie," he said insincerely.

"No, you're not. And I won't forget, you know."

"You can come with me, if you like."

Christine considered. "Do you really want the company, or are you just being polite?"

"I'm being polite. But the offer stands."

She shook her head. "I think I'll go home and make more lists of things to do."

"Very well." He waved down a cab for her. "I think this one is yours," he said, holding out on of the bags.

"Take it to John," she answered. "I suspect he'll need it more than I do."

He opened the cab door. "Thank you," he said. "For …" Distracting me. Keeping me company. Indulging me. Comforting me. Not making me explain. He didn't know which to say.

Christine leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. "Call me if you need me."

She got in the cab and closed the door.

Finch watched until the cab rounded the corner. Then he hailed another for himself. He juggled the carry-out bags into one hand, brought his cell phone out with the other. "Mr. Reese? We have a new number. I'll meet you at the library. I'll bring dinner."


Reese looked at the picture on the board and shook his head. "This kid just can't stay out of trouble, can he?"

It was the same photo of Edward 'Cash' Clay that had hung on the board the last time, the one taken when he was in high school. Finch had been unable to locate a more recent photo. "Apparently not."

They'd sent Clay and his teenage girlfriend home to their small town with her parents. Elisa Hammond was back in school and apparently doing well; she'd send Christine a picture of her and her new boyfriend at the winter formal. But Eddie was a little older and his relationship with his parents had been badly strained. Apparently his homecoming had not gone as well.

"Still no job history," Finch reported from behind his keyboard. "No record of any further schooling. No place of residence."

"He's on the streets again," Reese said. "In the wind."

"So again, we have no way to locate him and no idea where the threat is coming from."

"No, we're in better shape this time. We know his habits. And we know he's not particularly bright. If he's in the city and homeless, he'll go back to the places he knows." Reese took a big bite of Christine's dinner. "You check on Lis?"

"Safely at home still, according to her Facebook postings."

"Good." He grabbed his overcoat, took his carry-out container with him. "I'll be in touch."


Moss called just as Joss Carter was about to settle down with ice cream and an old movie. "What's up?" she asked.

"Still quiet at the recycling plant," he reported. "We know they planned to pick up the computers tomorrow. I'd like you and Fusco to be on hand."

"No problem."

"The plant opens at eight. I don't imagine they'll be there much before then."

"So fifteen minutes prior to fifteen minutes prior?" Carter asked, falling back on old military jargon.

"Exactly. We're still covering around the clock. If they show earlier I'll give you a call."

"Sounds like a plan. You get anything off the bank computers?"

"Not a damn thing so far," Moss admitted. "Aviles doesn't think we'll ever find anything. He says there's nothing to find."

Which was exactly what Finch had told her, Carter thought. She felt the muscles in her shoulders relax; she hadn't been aware that she'd been tense about that.

And she wondered again how he'd known. How he always knew.

"Your girl LaBlanca isn't convinced yet, so they're still looking. Either way, the equipment's in our custody."

"Right. I'll see you at the plant in the morning. You gonna want more back-up?"

"I'll bring my people," Moss said.

"Suit yourself."

Carter hung up the phone, shook her head. Moss was bringing FBI agents, of course, because there were still HR remnants lurking throughout the NYPD and he knew it. They'd cleaned out a lot of the corruption, but they hadn't gotten the head. Maybe they never would. She didn't blame Moss for not trusting them. She didn't trust them herself.

She wondered if Harold the All-Knowing might know who was really at the head of HR.

If he did, she wondered if he'd tell her.


Reese had broken into this apartment once; the lock was old and cheap. This time he knocked gently. "Just a minute," the man called. There was movement inside, and then the door opened.

Will Robinson hadn't bothered to check who was outside. John smiled reassuringly. "Hello."

"John! Good to see you again." He took Reese's hand on both of his own and shook it warmly. "Come in, come in. Can I get you something? I could make coffee …"

"No, thank you," Reese said. He stopped just inside the door. "I don't mean to bother you. I just needed to ask a quick question."

"You're looking for Cash Clay, aren't you?"

"You've seen him, then."

Robinson nodded. "He's been at the soup kitchen several times this weekend. I tried to talk to him, but he's not ready."

"How does he seem?" Reese asked. "Is he nervous, like somebody's after him?"

"Not really. He just seems sort of sad. Defeated, you know? He comes in, he works – I told him, he's not required to work for his meals, but he seems to need to feel useful."

"Do you know where he's staying?"

"He wouldn't say. But he seems clean enough and not suffering from the cold, so I'd guess he's got someplace to rest his head, at least." Robinson frowned. "Should I ask? Is he in trouble again?"

"He is," Reese said. "I'm not sure who from or why, but he's in trouble."

"He seems to have a good heart. He just needs a place to start over."

John nodded. "You think he'll be by in the morning?"

"He's been the last two days. Likely he'll come again."

"Good. I'll stop by and see him then."

He started out. Robinson touched his arm. "How you been, John? You seem a little more … peaceful."

Reese smiled again. "I suppose I am."

"Good to hear. Good to hear."

"Talk to you soon."

In the hallway, Reese called Finch. "I've got a line on Clay," he reported.

"That was fast."

"Like I said, he goes where he's comfortable. I should be able to pick him up in the morning. Any luck identifying the threat?"

"No." Finch sounded annoyed. "As before, his lack of an electronic footprint makes it difficult to identify the people in his life, and therefore the danger that they might represent."

"Of course, he may be the perpetrator this time," Reese reminded him. "But that doesn't seem likely."

"I'll keep looking."

"Keep me posted."