March 13, 1939

Nick drank down a third cup of coffee like he was a dying man in the desert at an oasis of water. He felt a little like that, actually. His head was so full of information and so foggy from lack of sleep that he hardly knew which way was up. He and Miss Mapplethorpe had been put up in a small hotel a block away from the FBI building to memorize everything in their files and get ready to become the Claybournes.

Miss Mapplethorpe was much better at all this than Nick was, he quickly discovered. She could read a page of information and practically recite it from memory. The little details stuck in her mind where they got lost for Nick. But he was not at much disadvantage overall. The operational side of things, the logistics and the planning and the big picture of it all was not too dissimilar from what he was used to with the NYPD. Miss Mapplethorpe had no experience like that. She might know the story of how the Claybournes met and got married, but Nick knew how to get information recorded as admissible evidence while undercover.

It was the blending of their two differing skillsets that would make them a good team. Nick had never partnered with a woman before, but he was not bothered by such a thing the way others might have been. He could only imagine how Matt would deal with this situation, getting tongue-tied and flustered over a broad with a great set of gams. Nick might have been momentarily distracted by how beautiful his new partner was, but he was able to push those thoughts aside and focus on the work.

Besides, she was smart and tough and didn't take any malarkey from anyone; Nick found that out when O'Toole had shown them the gun that would be kept behind the register in the Claybournes' shop in case of emergency and assured Miss Mapplethorpe that Nick would know how to use and she didn't have to be nervous about it. To that, Miss Mapplethorpe narrowed her eyes and coolly explained that she had been carrying a gun in her purse every day for the last three years and she was very adept at using it. She then proceeded to take the gun from O'Toole, disassemble it and reassemble it in about two minutes flat. Nick had to smile at that. They'd get along just fine.

After their intensive three-day masterclass of memorizing and learning and becoming two entirely new people, it was time to go to their new place. The shop that they'd run as the Claybournes was a little general store of sorts. Basic household supplies like brooms and mops, hammer and nails and screwdrivers, picture frames and pillows, towels and bed linens, dry ingredients like flour and rice and sugar, kitchen pots and pans, anything that a person might need outside of a specialty store. There was a cash register by the front, and there was a door in the back leading to a storeroom where the Claybournes would be harboring criminal activity for the FBI to record. The shop had an apartment above it where Nick and Miss Mapplethorpe would be living. Smith and Walker would be staying in the apartment building across the road in case anything should happen, and O'Toole would be a regular supplier to drop off inventory and pass along messages to and from Supomo. Jones had already wired the whole store and the back room and most of the apartment to record everything that happened. Everything was all ready.

Nick was given clothes to wear as Wesley Claybourne. The rest of the things he'd need were already at the apartment in Brooklyn. He shed his usual suit for a set of clothes he'd never imagined wearing. The trousers were light gray, which wasn't a color Nick ever really considered useful. And the shirt he'd been given was plain white but there was a sweater he was supposed to wear with a plaid pattern that practically gave Nick a headache. But he wasn't Nick anymore. He was Wesley Claybourne. And Wesley Claybourne ran a general store and consorted with criminals. Wesley Claybourne wore terrible sweaters and light gray trousers.

When he departed the hotel room for the last time, he was met by Miss Mapplethorpe who had similarly changed into clothes fit for her new identity. Everything Nick had seen her wear thus far had been very proper and tailored, like that suit she'd had on the first day in the FBI conference room. When they were working on learning their information together, she would take off a jacket, leaving her in a blouse of a dark, plain color and a skirt in brown or black or blue. But now, she was wearing a dress of a very bright blue with a pattern of little white flowers and white trim on the skirt and sleeves and collar. She also had on a hat that was larger and more ostentatious than anything he'd seen her wear. He could still see her beauty through all of that, but it was a little much altogether. The subtlety that Nick had learned of Miss Mapplethopre over the last three days, the easiness of her beauty and intelligence and the way she could fade into the background thanks to her experience as a private detective, all that was gone. The woman in front of him was one who wanted to be noticed. Apparently Trish Claybourne wanted to be noticed.

"You look different," Nick said, realizing he had been standing there staring at her.

A small smile played on her face. "I look ridiculous. And so do you," she quipped.

Her bluntness surprised him, and it made him laugh lightly. He was a little loopy from lack of sleep and too much coffee, but it felt good to have a little laugh. "The only good thing about me wearing this sweater is that I don't have to look at it," he said.

She gave a little laugh to match his. "Well, lucky me, I get to stare at it all day."

"Alright kids, off we go," Supomo announced, coming down the hall to collect them.

They were put in the backseat of a black car to be driven to the Claybourne shop in Brooklyn to begin their new life for the next six months. Nick and Miss Mapplethorpe were quiet on the drive, each looking out the window. It wasn't often that Nick traveled as a passenger in a car. He drove his own police-issue car when he was on the job, and he preferred the subway and walking rather than taking cabs when he was on his own.

When they reached the Brooklyn Bridge, Nick felt a strange sort of emotion pass over him. He'd not been back over the Brooklyn Bridge in a long time. He avoided it when he could. Brooklyn held complicated memories, ones he didn't usually have the time or energy to pick through. Best to just stick to Manhattan. But now he didn't have a choice. He'd be living in Bushwick for the next six months. Maybe if Supomo had told him that, he might have declined the FBI offer. But maybe Nick's connection with Brooklyn was what got him noticed for this operation to begin with. He had no idea what the FBI knew about him, but his past probably wasn't a mystery to them. Either way, he was headed back to Brooklyn now, whether he liked it or not.

He glanced over to Miss Mapplethorpe. She seemed lost in thought as well. He wondered what she was thinking about. He wondered if he'd get the chance over the next six months to find out.

Jennifer was thinking about Brooklyn. She'd never been there before. Strange, being born in New York and never having seen so much of it. She'd lived nearly all her life on the other side of Manhattan in Hell's Kitchen until she'd been able to get herself out and head uptown to Harlem. In New York, forty blocks was an entire world away.

She'd heard plenty about Brooklyn, of course. Jews and Italians was the reputation. Jennifer didn't mind any of that, of course. It was just different, and she wasn't sure how she'd cope there. How were she and Detective Buchanan—or rather, Trish and Wesley Claybourne—supposed to fit into a neighborhood like that? Obviously they would or the FBI wouldn't have recruited them and placed them in this particular area. Getting to know the lay of the land and the neighbors would surely have to be Jennifer's first priority once they got settled.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Detective Buchanan to turn and look at her as they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Jennifer had never been on a bridge before. For some reason she couldn't explain, she did not want to look at him while they were on the bridge. She hardly wanted to look out the window of the car, but she couldn't look at him.

He was a strange sort of man, she'd found. She recognized him as a Homicide Detective with the NYPD before Supomo told her. He'd been in charge of a couple crime scenes she'd been at over the years. But he was nothing like she might have expected from a man in that job. He was quiet and thoughtful, and he only spoke when there was something to say. Most cops that Jennifer had come across were brash and loud and arrogant. She had been prepared to prove herself and be tough and take him down a peg or two if she needed to. But she hadn't needed to. He was surprisingly polite to her, and when they started getting down to the work of learning about the operation and the people they would be impersonating for six months, he had not taken her intelligence and quick memory as an insult like most men would have. She had impressed him, she could tell. And he had impressed her as well. In only three days, she learned enough about Detective Buchanan to know that she could trust him as a partner for this operation. That was all she needed.

Jennifer had also noticed that Detective Buchanan was also a very good-looking man. He wasn't handsome and charming in an obvious way like Cary Grant or Henry Fonda, nor was he dashing and distinguished like Errol Flynn or Clark Gable. But there was something about him in his quiet ways and his gentle manners that Jennifer found very attractive. Which, really, would be quite a help in pretending to be husband and wife. Jennifer had never wanted a husband, since she had no interest in giving up her career to be a wife, but now she would get to play at being a wife with a nice, handsome man as her husband while they both advanced their careers. Not a bad deal.

The city dwindled into a more residential area as they drove through Brooklyn. It didn't look much different to Jennifer than Manhattan, except maybe more trees lining the streets. It looked nice. Ordinary, to her mind.

She noticed that Detective Buchanan seemed to tense up beside her as they made their way through Brooklyn to some neighborhood called Bushwick. That was interesting.

"I'm gonna drop you in the alley behind the building," the driver said, slowing to turn down a small street. "There's stairs back there that go right up to the apartment so you can take your bags and get moved in. Just remember that the recording equipment is everywhere, so wherever you are in the building, the FBI's listening."

That was an ominous warning, to say the least. Jennifer didn't like it at all. Why did the apartment need to be wired? Wasn't the crime going to stick to the back room? Surely they didn't expect the Claybournes to entertain criminals in their apartment? Well, better safe than sorry, she supposed, but she still didn't like it.

The car parked, and Jennifer and Detective Buchanan got out. She got her purse and a small carryall with some of the last of her things that she was allowed to take from the hotel. Detective Buchanan led the way to the stairs on the side of the building, leading up the second-floor apartment. She followed him up. He had the key that Supomo had given them and unlocked the door. And then he hesitated, looking at her questioningly.

"Everything alright?" she asked.

"A husband is supposed to carry his wife over the threshold of their new home," he said. "But I don't think that really applies to us."

"No, I don't think that's necessary," Jen answered dryly. "We're married as far as the rest of the world is concerned, but we don't need to put on a show when it's just the two of us." She then added, "But I think it'll take a little work to remember to wear this." She lifted up her left hand where the gold wedding band had been placed. She'd put it on along with this dress and ridiculous hat in order to become Trish Claybourne.

Detective Buchanan nodded. "Fair enough. Then I guess I'll just say ladies first." He opened the door and moved aside to let Jennifer go through first.

She entered the apartment in a dark hallway. She flicked the light switch to her right. There were two doors on the right and one on the left, and the hallway opened at the end to what she assumed was the living room. She went to the first door on the right and found the bedroom with two single beds side by side. The next door on the right was the bathroom. The door on the left was a small second bedroom that would be used as an office of sorts. Desk and typewriter and some file cabinets. The living room was furnished in a cheap and boring yet comfortable manner. A Victrola and a wireless were off on one side with the sofa and a couple chairs. There was a dining area and the kitchen beyond it. All in all, it was a very basic sort of apartment. It wasn't actually all that different from Jennifer's place in Harlem.

"Do we dare take stock of the wardrobes?" Detective Buchanan said behind her.

She turned and gave a small smile. "No time like the present, I guess." She followed him back down the hall to the bedroom.

"Which bed do you want?" he asked.

"Doesn't matter to me," she said. In truth, she was pleased to see the single beds rather than a double for them to share. Jennifer wasn't about to share a bed with a stranger if she could help it. Never mind that Detective Buchanan was supposed to be her husband now, she didn't know the man. This whole thing was going to be strange enough without having to worry about some man being so close to her while she tried to sleep.

Detective Buchanan put his bag down on the bed closer to the window. He took off his hat and tossed it down beside. Jennifer put her bag on the other bed.

"Now I can finally take off this awful hat," she announced, turning to look in the mirror beside what would now be her bed. She removed the pins and put them with the hat itself on the nightstand before turning back to Detective Buchanan. "I guess we should have a look around?"

"Guess so," he answered with a nod. And so it began.