Reese strode up the library stairs two at a time. Bear waited to greet him at the top with his usual happy enthusiasm. Smoky sauntered over, and Reese picked up the cat and carried her to the workroom. He always felt like a Bond villain when he held the sleek gray cat in his arms.

Finch was already at work, and judging by the scowl on his face as he bent over the keyboard, it was not going well.

"New Number?" Reese asked. He rubbed the cat's ears and she purred very loudly.

Harold glanced up, scowled deeper. "Are all cats that loud?" he demanded.

"Only the happy ones."

The genius growled. "A new Number, yes. But not a person we are unfamiliar with." He stabbed at a button and the color printer behind him crackled to life. Reese dropped the cat into the cardboard box at Finch's elbow and went to retrieve the picture. "Teeny Bellatore," he said, surprised.

"Yes."

Bellatore had been a major mob boss in New York, but he'd retired two decades before. "Did he move back to the city?"

"Not that I can tell. But he's visiting again. He used his credit card to book a room at the Hilton Downtown for the weekend."

"With his loving wife, of course."

"Of course."

Christine Fitzgerald had known Bellatore when she was a child. She'd been in his bar – now her cyber café – when Holly Goode had shot him repeatedly at point-blank range with a gun he'd given her as a gift. He'd only survived because he was massive and the gun was tiny.

Holly had served nearly twenty years for attempted murder. Bellatore had waited for her. When she was released, he'd married her. Christine had predicted with absolute certainty that Holly was going to either get the retired gangster killed or kill him herself. They had no reason to doubt her prediction.

"I guess I'll head over to the Hilton, then," John said.

"He's not there," Finch sighed. "I called. I took the liberty of representing myself as a member of the New York Police Department. They said that he left alone late yesterday and has not returned."

John walked around the desk and stuck the picture on the board. "And Holly?"

"Still at the hotel. And being quite … demanding."

"No other activity on his credit card?"

"The last transaction was at the hotel bar. He bought three bottles of their finest Scotch."

"So he may be holed up somewhere drinking."

Finch scowled again. "Wherever he is, he hasn't used his credit card to check in. Of course, he probably carries a great deal of cash. And he has old connections all over the city."

"He could be anywhere."

"We can start from the premise that Holly Goode represents the greatest threat, but there are of course other possibilities."

"We need to find him," Reese said. "Did you call Christine?"

Finch looked at him.

"He owned the bar," Reese reminded him. "She and Zubec were both friends of his. He might have been in touch." He brought his phone out, put it on speaker, and called her.

"Morning, sweetie," Christine answered sleepily.

"Good morning. Finch is here with me. We're looking for Teeny Bellatore."

There was a long pause. "Uh-huh."

Reese frowned at Finch. "Do you know where he is?"

"Do you not know where he is?" she returned.

"We do not," Finch confirmed.

"Yeah, bullshit, you stalker freaks. Hang on." After another pause, she said, "Here's your visual."

Reese clicked the screen to the video app.

They heard the sound first. A slow, deep noise that grew louder and softer in a steady rhythm. Then the picture came up. It was shot from the doorway of Christine's bedroom – her old bedroom, at Chaos – and pointed toward the bed.

Teeny Bellatore was sprawled on his back, fully dressed except for his shoes, dead asleep and snoring heavily.

There was a bottle of Scotch on the nightstand beside him, a quarter full.

"Happy?" Christine asked over the snoring.

"What is he doing there?" Finch demanded.

"Sleeping off a bender," she answered simply.

"Can you keep him there?" Reese asked.

"I can keep him here until he wakes up. After that it's a crap shoot. Why?"

"His Number's come up," Finch told her. "His life is probably in danger."

"Or else," Reese amended, "he's planning to kill someone."

The video clicked off; only Christine's voice remained. "Holly's trying to kill him."

"Are you sure?"

"They had a big fight," she reported. "He got drunk and turned up here with another bottle in his fist. So we kept him. If he meant to kill her, he would have done it last night."

Reese glanced at Finch and nodded. That made sense. "Stall him as long as you can," he requested. "If he wakes up, make him breakfast, suggest he take a shower. Hide his shoes. Or make him take you to brunch. Whatever you can do."

"You got it."

"And let us know if he leaves," Finch added.

"Okay."

"Thank you." Reese put the phone away. "Well, that's something."

"I'm not sure I approve of Miss Fitzgerald becoming involved with Mr. Bellatore again," Finch groused.

"If I were you, Finch, I wouldn't mention that. You've pushed your interference far enough for a while."

"I have not interfered …" Reese grinned, and Harold stopped in mid-word. "Very well. I will keep my opinions to myself. For the moment."

"Wise choice." John looked at the board again. "What can you tell me about Holly?"

Holly Goode Bellatore was not a smart woman. She'd used her card at the ATM in the hotel lobby to take out five thousand dollars. She'd used her cell phone to call a name named Juan Torres. Torres had called a man he called his cousin to bring him a large-caliber weapon that would drop a "really really big man".

Finch called Carter. She was still working the computer theft, but she called in one of the other detectives on the Homicide Task Force, a man named Dickerson that Reese had seen around once or twice.

Dickerson was in the lobby of the hotel when Holly met with Torres and gave him the down payment on the hit. He listened while they arranged a place. Torres went to pick up his weapon. Holly called her husband's phone and left a message asking him to meet her in front of Macy's a noon.

Reese stayed close by to watch, but it was just a formality. He didn't need to get involved. Christine had pocketed Bellatore's phone, and the big man was still passed out in her bed.

Sometimes the Machine gave them complicated Numbers. Sometimes – more often than not – the cases were simple or stupid. Holly Goode Bellatore's plan to have her husband murdered was both simple and stupid.

Dickerson waited outside of Macy's until Holly called her husband again and he heard her say, "Where the hell are you, you asshole?" Then he arrested both her and Torres. The hit man was carrying a large, unregistered weapon.

Holly denied that she knew Torres. Torres started talking before they even got him in the squad car.

"Nothing to it," Reese reported over his headset. "We're done here."

"And not a single kneecap injured," Finch agreed. "I'll let the detectives know we've resolved the matter."

"Lunch?"

"I could eat."

"I'll pick you up."

No one had come to pick up the computers.

Eight FBI agents, plus Moss, kept watch from various points around the parking lot. Four NYPD detectives joined them.

Fifteen people, Fusco thought impatiently, watched a truck full of decoy equipment parked at the far end of a mostly-empty parking lot. His tax dollars at work. It was like watching grass grow, but slower. He and Carter were on the roof of a near-by building with Moss and some other guy. He'd enjoyed the peace and quiet for a while, but after the first few hours the coffee ran out and he was bored spitless.

He should have brought a lawn chair.

He didn't think much about it when Moss' phone rang; it had been ringing all day. But the agent turned to look at him, and then at Carter, as he spoke. He seemed concerned. He looked away, then back, and he kept talking.

"Carter," Fusco said quietly. "Something's up."

She moved closer. "Any guesses?"

"Nope." He shook his head. "Unless it's our friends somehow."

Carter growled. "It better not be."

Moss put his phone away and walked over to them. "Detective Carter. I understand that you got a tip on a planned homicide this morning?"

She bristled, but nodded. "I turned it over to one of the other detectives. He's already made arrests."

"The target was the former mob boss known as Teeny Bellatore?"

"His wife wanted him dead. No idea why. But apparently the tip panned out."

"So what's the problem?" Fusco asked uneasily.

"Bellatore's at the Eighth Predict," Moss answered, "with Christine Fitzgerald. I would really like to know why."

"They're friends," Fusco supplied. "He used to own Chaos. Back when it was a bar."

Moss rubbed his forehead. He hadn't slept much for several days and it showed. "The woman that some super-secret government agency has selected to defend the country in case of dire emergency is friends with a notorious mob boss? Is that what you're telling me, Detective?"

"Well, I don't know how close they are," he amended. "But I know they know each other."

"You want us to go back there and see what we can find out?" Carter offered.

"If you would," Moss answered wearily.

Outside the precinct, Maxine Angelis checked the photos on her phone. She picked the best one and sent it to Glen. Then she called him. "You get the pic?"

"Yeah," he answered. "That's more like it, Max. A real story."

"Who is he?"

"You don't know?"

"I know he looks familiar."

"That's Teeny Bellatore," Glen said. "Used to be a big-time mob boss."

"Used to be? Why'd he quit?"

"His girlfriend tried to murder him. She went to prison, and he disappeared. Went up-state, I heard, but nobody's really sure. He'd back in the city? Why?"

"I'll let you know," Maxine promised. She hung up the phone before he could ask any more questions.

She looked at the other pictures she'd taken. Teeny Bellatore was prominent in all of them, of course. The man was the size of the house. But in several, Scotty Fitzgerald was also clearly visible.

Will Ingram's mystery woman walks into a police station with a mob boss. There had to be a damned story there.

And if Glen didn't want it, Maxine Angelis knew other outlets who would.

"You got a tip on a murder and you didn't tell me?" Fusco complained mildly in the car.

"We were busy," Carter explained. "And Finch said it would be a simple one. Which is was, apparently. Besides, you don't need to pad your numbers. You're golden."

"True."

Both she and her partner had ridiculously high close and convict numbers since they'd started working with John and Harold. Of course, it helped when you had a source that was never wrong.

"You ever wonder where they get their information?" she asked.

Fusco looked at her. "Scary and the Brain?"

"Yeah."

"Nope."

"Never?"

"Nope. And if I ever do, I take that question by the neck, strangle the life out of it, drown it in the toilet and bury it in the basement. The way I see it, if I did know where they get their information, it would scare me to death. So no. I don't want to know."

"Hmmm."

"I know, you ain't like me, Carter. It chews on you, doesn't it? Wondering?"

She nodded. "I know you're probably right. I know if I knew …" She shook her head. "But I'd rather know."

"Well, do me a favor," Fusco said. "If you ever find out? Don't tell me."

Carter grinned. "I promise."

Christine Fitzgerald was sitting on a table outside the interview room, swinging her feet like a little kid. She smiled at Carter and Fusco. "Thought you were off playing with the Feds."

"Moss sent us to find out what you're up to," Carter said. "Where's Teeny?"

She gestured toward the room. "In there, with Holly. And an attorney. He's trying to bail her out."

Dickerson came over. "This is ridiculous. She already shot him once herself. She goes out and hires a hit man to kill him this time. And he still thinks she loves him."

"Love is blind," Carter said, "and sometimes dumb."

The attorney came out of the interview room. He was tall and slender and very expensively groomed. He was also the slickest defense attorney money could buy.

"He hired Sammy the Shark for her?" Fusco asked.

Sammy joined them around the table. "Detectives," he said. "Scotty."

"Hey, Sammy."

"You really think you're going to get her out on bail?" Dickerson asked. "You know she's guilty."

"I don't care if she's guilty," the attorney replied. "That's not what I get paid for."

"You're not going to get paid if you get her out and she caps his ass," Christine observed.

"I'm not going to get paid if I don't get her out and he caps my ass," he replied.

"True enough."

"Get your money up front," Fusco advised. "Cause one way or another, someone's gonna end up dead."

"Moss wants to know what you're doing here," Carter asked Fitzgerald.

She shook her head. "I guess they got in a big fight yesterday. Teeny showed up at Chaos, already drunk and with a bottle in his hand, so we threw him in my bed and let him sleep it off. And then …" she paused, and Carter could almost hear her editing out the parts about John and Harold, "this morning he got a call to come get her out of jail. I tried to talk him out of it, but he can be a little stubborn."

"That's for damn sure," Sammy agreed. "And she's in there telling him how it's all a big mistake, how she was just going shopping with the money, going to buy something nice for him. And he's buying it like it was half price."

"Wait a minute," Fusco said. "Teeny Bellatore spent last night at your place?"

"At Chaos, yeah. I left that apartment all set up. We couldn't move him."

"Well, good for you," Sammy said. "You can claim the old mob boss spent the last night of his life in your bed. Good for the street cred."

"Yeah," Christine said. "Because that's what I'm worried about, my street cred."

"Isn't Holly supposed to be crazy jealous?" Fusco pressed.

She nodded. "The first time she shot him, it was because he had a floozy on his lap."

He held his hand out. "Come with me. Carter, get the door."

"What door?" Carter asked. But she followed, because she knew Fusco had something good in mind.

He led Christine into the side hallway just outside the interview room. Through the window, Carter could see Teeny and Holly holding hands on the table. The woman's hands were in cuffs, but she wasn't secured to anything. She probably weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet; no one was worried about her doing any physical harm.

She pulled the door open. "Let's get moving," she said over her shoulder.

"All I'm saying," Fusco said loudly, to Christine, "is all these reporters are watching you, you can't be hooking up with some mob boss right there over the bar."

"He was drunk," Christine retorted. "I mean, yeah, he ended up in my bed, but it wasn't …"

"What?" Holly shrieked.

"Nothing happened," Teeny assured her. "I just fell asleep, that's all."

"That's why you didn't answer your phone? You were with that little Mick bastard?"

"Hey, wait a minute," Christine protested.

"You're sleeping with that little slut? You miserable bastard!"

"Nothing happened, I swear," Teeny protested meekly. "Holly, you gotta understand, you gotta believe me."

"Believe you? You stupid fucking bastard! I was waiting for you to come back and you were out fucking around with that little tramp! I should have fucking killed you the first time!"

She lunged across the table and got her hands on his neck. On his neck, Carter noted, not around it. She didn't know exactly how big around Teeny Bellatore's neck was, but she was sure his shirts had to be custom-made. No normal person was going to get their hands around his neck, and certainly not a woman as small as Holly.

Holly figured that out. She switched up to trying to choke him with the chain on her handcuffs.

The whole time she screamed obscenities at him, and the whole time Teeny murmured at her, trying to calm her down.

Carter moved in, with Fusco behind her, and they pulled the woman back off her husband, planted her in her chair, and held her there by her shoulders. "Stay there," she said, "and shut up."

"I will fucking kill you!" Holly screamed. "I fucking hate you and I will fucking kill you!"

Teeny stood up slowly. "You don't mean that."

"I mean it! I fucking hate you! I will fucking kill you!"

"Holly …"

"Die! Why won't you just fucking die and leave me alone!"

"But Holly …"

The woman started up again. Carter jerked her up out of her chair. "Out," she said. She propelled the small woman out the door. Dickerson took custody of her and ushered her back toward the holding cell.

Which left Teeny Bellatore towering over the table with an expression of grief and rage on his face.

Fusco was standing across for him, clearly struggling to find something to say.

Then Christine slipped past them and put her arms around the giant man – as far as she could reach, anyhow. "It's okay, Teeny. It's okay."

His arms folded around her. It looked like a big oak door swinging shut. Then he sank back into his chair. He shifted his grip so his arms were around Christine's waist. She cradled her head against her chest and began to rock, very gently.

Carter took Fusco's arm and drew him out of the room. Sammy the Shark looked at them. "Well?"

"I think you're done here," Carter told him, "but give it a while."

It took Christine half an hour to get the big man calmed down. Fusco called Moss and gave him an update while they waited. There hadn't been any action on the computers anyhow.

The hacker finally came out and gestured Sammy the Shark into the room. He spoke to Bellatore briefly, then came back out, waved to the detectives, and walked out of the precinct.

Shortly after, Christine and Bellatore came out. "I fire the Shark," Teeny said. "She can get her own damn lawyer. I'm gettin' a divorce."

"I think that's a good choice," Carter said.

"Can you drop us back at his hotel?" Christine asked.

"Sure."

Fusco opened the front door of the precinct. Carter went out first, and then Christine. Bellatore followed them – and the Fusco ran squarely into the big man's back when he stopped dead.

"Sorry," he said quickly.

Bellatore stepped to one side. "Who's that?" he demanded.

That was Maxine Angelis. She was standing in the middle of the front steps. She was almost nose-to-nose with Carter, but she was looking over the detective's shoulder at Christine.

"Shit," Fusco said. He moved forward, past the big mob boss, and reached for the reporter's arm.

"I spoke to Billy Jorgansen," Angelis said as he grabbed her.

"So what."

But she wasn't talking to him. She was staring at Christine. The hacker stared back. After a long moment, she held one hand up. "It's okay," she said quietly. "I'll talk to her."

"You sure?" Carter asked.

"Yeah."

"I don't know who that is," Bellatore said, "but I don't think you need to talk to her."

"It's okay," Christine said again. She never took her eyes off the reporter. Fusco recognized her behavior: She was very sternly not behaving like prey. "Could you take Mr. Bellatore back to his hotel, please?"

"Carter can take him," Fusco said. "I'll stay with you."

She shot him a quick look, saw that he wasn't backing down.

He could have kissed his partner for not arguing. "You need anything," Carter said, "give me a yell." She led Bellatore out to her car.

Christine gestured. "Let's go across the street." She walked the rest of the way down the steps and jaywalked through traffic to the little diner across the street.

Fusco watched Angelis follow her. He stayed back a few steps and pulled out his phone. He didn't bother to speak. He just pushed the number and put it back in his jacket pocket.

He was real sure Tall Dark and Brooding and his Mensa companion would want to listen in.