Chapter 4

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- two hours later -

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Everything had indeed been quiet so far. But it was just past 10:00 p.m. and the night could still be considered fairly young. There was still great potential for things to go sideways, which - as Reese had to admit - tended to happen a lot. That was the price you paid for going into these missions with precious little information and prep-time - just like with this case.

All they had to go on was the social security number of an 82-year old with an apparently secret bank account. As leads went, this one - though peculiar - was far from a smoking gun. And as unlikely as it seemed, they just couldn't rule out Louis Candrall as a perpetrator as well. After all, in John's experience people with money rarely liked to part with it in a peaceful manner - if that indeed was what this case was about. This investigating-on-the-fly was part of the fun of the work he and Harold did, but it was sometimes also extremely frustrating.

Reese had spent the last two hours alternating between checking on the surveillance feed, staring holes at a studying Max Kovacs's head, and stretching his legs, aka 'snooping around'. He really hoped that something - anything - relating to the case was going to come up soon. Preferably before a patient requested their assistance for a trip to the restroom.

"Mr. Reese?" The tone of Harold's voice promised that something was up. Finally.

John excused himself under the pretence of needing to use the bathroom, quickly walked down the dark hallway and stopped around the corner - far enough away to be out of earshot but still with the entire hallway in sight.

"Yeah, Harold. What's up?"

"Detective Fusco just got back to me about his background check into Mr. Candrall."

"Did he find anything interesting?" John asked.

"You could say that," said Harold slowly, piquing Reese's curiosity. "He found a death certificate for a Louis Candrall."

With slightly raised eyebrows John leaned back against the wall. "That's certainly interesting." He paused, letting the information sink in. "So, we actually don't have any idea who we're keeping an eye on."

"No, we don't. Maybe the detectives will be able to match a fingerprint. Until then all I can tell you is that Louis Candrall died five years ago."

Reese could hear in Harold's voice that the man felt as much frustration as he did. It seemed like the more info they got, the more they were stabbing in the dark.

"Well, maybe someone should tell Louis about his death," John said, his voice dropping even more in volume. He had heard something that sounded suspiciously like the creaking of a door and carefully peered around the corner. Even though the hallway was dark, the little light that spilled out from the nurse's desk area was enough to illuminate the silhouette of a man - slightly bent over by age - slipping out of one of the rooms. Out of Louis's room. "He's on the move."

John flattened himself back against the wall as Candrall turned in his direction and started to shuffle down the hallway. Looking around for a place to hide, Reese silently slipped into the staff restroom, keeping the door slightly ajar.

"Mr. Reese, what's happening?" Harold's voice sounded unnaturally loud in his ear, but John knew that there was no way anyone could actually hear Finch besides him. "John?"

Reese waited until the shadowy figure crept past his hiding place, counted to five and took a look outside in time to see Candrall disappearing through the door that lead to the basement. John had been down there hours earlier, depositing the dirty linens until their pick up the next morning.

"Candrall is heading down to the basement, but I have a feeling that he isn't planning on getting a head-start on the laundry," whispered John. He carefully slipped back out into the hallway, and silently followed their Number's steps. "Let's see what the old man is up to."

"Be careful, Mr. Reese."

"I think I can handle an 82-year old, Finch," said John in a low and raspy voice, all teasing forgotten. He took one last look around before slowly opening the basement door and peering through the crack to make sure the coast was clear.

Finch sighed in his ear, sounding a little exasperated. "I'm sure you can. And when you do handle Mr. Candrall, or whoever he is, try not to give him a heart attack, please."

John's eyebrows wrinkled in slight annoyance, but he chose to ignore Harold for the time being as he made his way down the stairs. He stopped at the landing and listened for sounds that would clue him in on the proximity of his target, but didn't hear anything. The hallway was empty. The elevator doors to the left were closed and the lights that would indicate movement of its car were off. A propped open fire door at the end of the short corridor was the only other exit, which didn't leave that many options as to where Louis might have gone.

From earlier that day he remembered that the fire door led to another corridor with two medium-sized storage rooms on each side, and a fairly large room at the opposite end. The large room housed the heating, power and water system, and Max and he had pushed the trolleys with the dirty laundry in there as well.

Approaching the threshold of the fire door he kept on listening for sounds of activity, but the basement remained quiet. Louis had to be in one of the five rooms. Why and what he was doing there Reese did not know, but he was sure that he'd find that out soon enough.

Trying each door handle of the four storage rooms lining the corridor John found them all locked. He crept forward towards the door to the utility room, and noticed that it was ajar. With his back against the door John carefully pushed it inward. His eyes first fell on the water tanks and boilers to the left of the room's entrance, then followed the piping along the wall towards the electronic control units of the heating system opposite the door, and finally fell onto the trolleys of laundry he himself had parked at the right-hand wall.

There was no sign of the man pretending to be Louis Candrall. Frowning John stared into the empty room for a brief moment. Where the hell ...

Suddenly he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He spun around just in time to see that a metal bedpan was in mid-air and fast approaching on a collision course with the side of his head. Although the ex-soldier's reflexes were still very fast, they were not fast enough. The improvised weapon connected with his temple, delivering a surprisingly stunning blow.

On the other side of the open com connection Finch had been intently listening in, and recoiled slightly as he heard a metal clonk, followed by a thud that he had stored in his mind's memory as the sound a body made when hitting the floor.

"Mr. Reese?" he asked and waited for the younger man to reply. As the seconds ticked on without a response worry started to creep into Finch's voice. "Mr. Reese, can you hear me?"

"Now, who the hell are you, you son of a bitch?"

Harold's heart skipped a beat, and his breath caught in his throat. That was definitely not John Reese's voice.

"Oh no."

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To be continued...