They—B.A. mostly, but they were a team—found him. Found the little boy Charissa Sosa couldn't have in her life, the little boy that Face hadn't been permitted to say he didn't want either.

He lived with his parents, an employment lawyer mother and a special-ed teacher father, in a mid-sized city. The street they lived on was steep. The houses were close together, and each had a tiny yard. The father walked the dog twice a day, every day. The mother drove a hybrid car.

"You gonna go ring the bell?" B.A. asked, after they'd sat on the place for a week.

"No . . ."

Face's drawn out response was made into a lie as the front door of the house opened and the little boy popped out onto the front porch. Face involuntarily reached for the handle to open his door, his body tensed to exit, but he lost his moment to act when mom and dad followed the boy out.

Mom held the dog by leash in one hand, while taking the boy's in her other. Dad locked the door behind them and they all headed to their car. Both the dog and the boy were whirling dervishes of excitement.

Once everybody was buckled and secured, the family drove off.

"Follow them," Face ordered.

B.A. glanced at Hannibal. The ex-Colonel gave a slight, resigned nod before the black man put the car into gear and eased from their parked position to follow the sedan.

Murdock chewed his thumbnail and acted like he wanted to say something, but held his tongue.

They ended up at the park.

It was a Saturday, a warmish day in fall that made people realize winter was nipping at its heels, and the children's playground was packed.

B.A. had to drive around several times to find a parking space. In the interim, they lost visual contact with the family.

The ignition of the car was turned off, and the four of them sat silently a moment.

"I don't like this," B.A. finally announced. "Four guys, sitting in a car outside a playground? Someone's gonna remember us."

Face ignored his concern. "It'll be fine."

"What are you going to do, Lieutenant?"

The same question was echoed in Murdock's eyes.

"I don't know. I want . . . I want to see him, to . . . talk to him . . ."

"This isn't the best place to do that."

Face ignored this statement as well.

"You don't even know for sure if he is your son," Hannibal reminded him gently.

For the third time, Face disregarded the concern. His head was filling with cotton; the noises outside were becoming muffled as his heart rate increased and grew louder and louder in his own ears. It was hard to breathe in here, with the walls closing in, and in a flurry of movement, Face was out of the car and slamming the door shut behind him.

Outside wasn't much better. Shrieks of joy from the kids on the playground pierced him, but he still felt logy and disconnected.

With feet made stumbly with adrenaline, he walked towards the sounds of the kids.

This was wrong, this was wrong, there was so much wrong about this, Hannibal was right, B.A. was right—someone was going to remember a single guy skulking around a kids' play area—what was he doing, how could he rationalize this—

A small boy darted passed him—was it Devon?—and Face started truly scanning the area.

Allowing the conman's grace of fitting in anywhere, anytime, take over him, he sat on a bench at the periphery of the area and watched. Catagorize and dismiss. Not many people brought their dogs to the playground. A brindle dog is easy to find. There! Jumping and tugging with its desire to play with the multitude of children, Face was easily able to locate the bench the father sat on, holding the dog back.

Mother wasn't with him, which meant she was somewhere on the jungle gym. That would make sense, most parents would be concerned about their five year old when so many older kids were making use of the facility too . . .

She was returning to the bench. No boy in tow. Face watched the couple exchange words and a kiss, and then dad took the dog away for its walk.

Still no boy. He was out there, playing, running, laughing, climbing . . .

Face would find him too.

It took a while. Even though he knew exactly what Devon was wearing, it was hard to pick out a red sweatshirt when every color under the rainbow adorned the kids ran with less purpose than ants around the area.

Eventually, though, he spied him.

The boy was a natural climber, his short legs belying the determination he had to make it to the top of the wooden structure. Now that he had him marked, Face could hear his screams of happiness as he went feet first down the twisty slide.

He repeated the climb and sliding board descent several times.

Then he grew distracted by the red and gold leaves blowing across the ground and went after them.

With single-minded determination, Devon now chased after the leaves, carefully collecting the brightly colored discards and holding their stems tightly in a chubby fist. His path took him around the other children, passed the swings—Face was almost on his feet as Devon naively ignored the danger of feet near his head, but God protects drunks and children—and along the edges of the play area, before the mulch gave way to grass.

He had a handful of leaves when his route brought him closer to Face.

The punch of adrenaline was back. Face's heart hammered in his chest, his mouth was suddenly parched, he felt his hands trembling. Inside was a war:

—you don't know he's your son!

—Charissa wouldn't lie, why would she lie—

—what's the point of this, Temp?

—heartache and pain—

—the kid has a family—

—kids need to know their daddy—

—you don't know he's your son!

The little boy stooped down for a particularly calico leaf of red and gold, and Face said,

"Hi."