The phone vibrated on the table; Finch snagged it before the first cycle had ended. "Christine. Good morning."
"Morning." She sounded sleepy. "Busy?"
Finch looked toward the screen. Mr. Cutter was loading a different game. "Not at all. How are you?"
"I spent my first waking moments speaking to Very Special Agent Brian Moss. He is definitely not getting his blanket back."
"What did he want?"
"He was very interested in the bank where I answered the rally call yesterday. Why I picked that particular location, whether I'd ever been there before. But he wouldn't tell me what his damage was. It's obviously related to your project, somehow. I thought you should know."
"I appreciate that," Finch answered. "But I was already aware of the issue."
"Are you planning to share?"
"Agent Moss also had an interview with Detective Fusco this morning, with questions along the same lines. Apparently the bank branch was robbed last night."
"Robbed."
"They took the computers and the cameras."
"Yobanaya hooynya."
He did not ask for a translation. He could guess close enough.
"Can they find it?" Christine asked.
"No," he answered simply.
There was a pause. "Are they following me?"
"Possibly," Finch allowed. "But more likely they were watching for a major disruptive event, like the bomb scare evacuation of an entire building."
Christine didn't answer. He could picture her looking around the café – he could hear the background noise that indicated she was there – wondering which of her patrons might be stalking her.
"Christine," he said firmly, "you are extraordinarily cautious. More so since you've been aware of our project. And we have been, at certain intervals, watching as well. Believe me. You are not being followed."
"By anyone but you."
"And John, of course."
She growled softly. She didn't much like that answer, either. But she changed the subject. "Are you up on the engagement plan?"
"The … oh, Will and Julie. No."
"A week from Friday the elder Carsons will descend upon us to celebrate Senior's birthday."
"At the Coronet Hotel," Finch said. "I was aware of that."
"Will and Julie are going to announce their engagement Friday night. They will give the press all weekend to catch them liplocking all over the city, and then Monday morning they're leaving for African again."
Finch nodded. "That sounds like a reasonable plan. Has Miss Morgan been advised?"
"I think she's the one who advising it, but yes, she's onboard."
"And Skydd. Additional security will undoubtedly be necessary."
"Hmmm, probably, but I'll double-check."
"All right."
"In the meantime," she continued, "they're spending their days with Sam Campanella. He's teaching them how to run a company."
"Oh, that is an excellent choice," Finch said warmly. Christine had a long professional relationship with Campanella. The man had a sterling reputation for humane and ethical business practices. His employees loved him. He could not have picked a better advisor for Ingram's new venture.
"You were his first choice," she said, "but we both agreed that you were likely too busy. Sam's already announced that he's retiring next year and he's winding down his business involvement. Also, this gives them a chance to get to know each other, with an eye toward inviting him to sit on the board."
Harold nodded. It would have been problematic, having Will and Julie at the Universal Heritage offices with him for two weeks. It would have been impossible. But Christine had smoothly, effectively diverted them. Anticipated the problem and implemented a solution pre-emptively. "Thank you," he said with deep sincerity.
"They will still want you on the board, of course."
"That won't be a problem."
"I didn't think so."
"Christine, I …"
She cut him off. "Do you need help with anything?"
He looked at the screen again. Nothing had changed. "No. We have everything under control, for the moment. But thank you."
"I'm going back to bed."
Finch put the phone down thoughtfully. Compiling, he thought again. He had very much wanted for Christine and Will Ingram to be close, for a variety of reasons. That relationship hadn't needed nearly as much nurturing as the Reese/Fitzgerald initiative, but it was proving wildly advantageous. Mostly to himself, he had to admit, but also to both of them. Given Will and Julie's new-minted determination to provide renewable energy throughout the Third World, this program might have results advantageous to the whole world.
He looked again at the monitor. Christine and Will were starting to fix the world. He was helping to protect a young man whose only goal in life seemed to be making the world worse.
As a rule of thumb, Finch liked to rely on the rule of law or the karmic power of the universe to correct the transgressions of people like Jason Cutter. But sometimes, just sometimes, law was ineffective and karma was inefficient. Sometimes, justice needed a little push.
He had freed the internet on the world, after all. And from his creation of social media had sprung the idea of forums. So technically, he supposed, Cutter and his misdeeds were his responsibility.
Harold Finch had always been a very responsible person.
Reese could have gotten by on two hours of sleep. He'd set his internal clock for three. When he woke, everything was quiet. Finch was intently focused on whatever he was typing. Cutter was intensely focused on his first-person shooter game. Reese went back to sleep.
Three more hours passed before he woke again. He wasn't fully rested, but he was recharged enough to go another day or two, or perhaps three, before he needed to sleep again. He climbed out of bed and stretched slowly, thoroughly. Then he walked to the big room.
Finch was sitting back in the only cushioned chair in the living room. He had his eyes closed and his breathing was slow and even. The laptop sat beside him on the side table, and he had ear buds attached. He was asleep, but the slightest noise from Cutter's apartment would wake him.
Reese moved silently around to look at the screen. The camera view was in the young man's bedroom; Cutter was sprawled face-down on his bed, snoring softly.
He considered, then spoke quietly. "Finch."
Harold woke, pushed at his glasses. He looked immediately to the monitor. "Mr. Reese?"
"Go get some real sleep," Reese said. "I'll watch him."
Finch looked like he might argue. Then he stood, more stiffly than usual. "I brought some groceries," he said, with a gesture toward the refrigerator. He went into the bedroom. If he objected to the still-warm sheets, he didn't say so.
John carried the laptop to the tiny kitchen. There was a box on the counter with Finch's tea gear in it; he'd also brought an espresso pot and grounds. He set it to brewing, then made himself steak and eggs for mid-afternoon breakfast.
Two more hours passed. Cutter rolled onto his side and the pitch of his snoring changed. Reese cleaned up the kitchen, made a second pot of espresso, and took up Finch's position in the chair. He got the second laptop and scrolled through Cutter's e-mail history. It was depressing.
Deeply depressing.
He heard a noise and glanced toward the screen. Cutter was still asleep, unmoving. John reached out and switched camera views back to the other room.
Teddy Edwins was moving very quietly into the living room. He carried a cardboard box under his arm, about eighteen by twelve by eight. The former cop looked around, then went to the shelves. He took down the neatly-stacked towels, put the box behind them, and replaced them. He stepped back to examine his work.
He looked around again. He paused, picked up the bag with the sandwich that Cutter had tossed away. He examined the logo on it, then dropped it where he'd found it.
He didn't look happy when he left the apartment.
Reese switched back to check on their client again. Cutter went right on sleeping.
"Finch," he called.
He heard the bed creak. Harold joined him in the living room. His hair was rumpled, his tie loose. But his eyes were bright and alert. "What is it?"
"Edwins just planted something in Cutter's apartment."
"A bomb?" Finch worried immediately.
"That's my guess." Reese pulled out his lock-pick set. "Be right back."
"Mr. Reese. Please be careful."
John grinned grimly and went across the hall.
Reese entered the apartment, then stood very still. Cutter was still snoring. He glanced over his shoulder at the hidden camera, then moved to the shelves and moved the towel. He brought the box down carefully and set it on the couch.
It was plain cardboard, not very heavy. The contents shifted when he turned it. The bottom was taped shut, but the top was folded, each flap tucked under the one next to it. He pried the center gap open a bit and looked inside. Relaxed, he pulled it all the way open.
Inside were three I-Pads, still in their boxes, still wrapped with blue presentation ribbons. There were also several stacks of small bills, held together with paper clips. Some small electronics, thumb drives and an MP3 played, some earbuds, and a laptop speaker, one of the expensive ones.
He knew the contents of the box would exactly match the list of items stolen from the Marshall Building offices.
He closed the box and replaced it. He concealed it with the towels, just as Edwins had. Then he went back across the hall.
"Mr. Edwins is
framing Mr. Cutter," Finch said.
"Can't really say I blame him."
"No," Finch agreed. He gestured toward the computer with a trace of chagrin. "I – had something of a similar nature underway. On a somewhat larger scale."
"Finch. I'm proud of you."
"I'm not sure it's anything to be proud of," Harold retorted grimly.
"We've framed people before."
"We've never framed an innocent man."
Reese frowned. "Cutter is not innocent."
"He's not a criminal, either. Not technically."
"Finch. I've read his e-mails. What he did to those people. Good people. Caring people. He took advantage of their kindness. He has to be stopped."
"I agree." Finch shook his head. "But ultimately, I'm the one who provided him with the tools he used to perpetuate his cruelties. If anyone deserves to be punished, perhaps it's me and not him."
"For creating social media? I won't argue with you on that." Reese shook his head. "But Cutter made the choice about what he was going to do with it."
"I'm just not sure that we have the right to play judge and jury with this young man's life."
"We could expose his real crimes instead," Reese suggested. "Publish all his secret e-mails, let the world see what a monster he is." He nodded. "Of course, that would also expose all the people who tried to help him as suckers and fools …"
"No," Finch said. "No. That would only cause more harm. Some of them don't even know yet that they were scammed, I'm sure." He nodded, decisive again. "We'll wait, until Mr. Edwins plays his hand, and then we'll add to it."
"What did you cook up?"
"Wire transfers," Finch admitted. "Account numbers stolen from various offices in the building, wiring money into Mr. Cutter's personal account. It's quite crude, easily traced."
"Cutter's not very smart. It will fit."
"Yes." He still didn't sound happy about it, but he was resigned. Decided. "He would be that careless, if he were smart enough to come up with the idea." He frowned. "Of course, if Edwins is trying to frame him, it's unlikely that he's also planning to murder him."
"Maybe Cutter will try to murder him when he finds out," Reese offered.
"We should be so lucky."
"If he does something actually criminal, I'll let you know. Maybe we can get around framing him after all."
"That would be … preferable. However, I am committed to doing whatever's necessary to stop him."
"There's no bomb," Reese said. "You could go back to sleep for a while."
Finch shook his head. "No, I think I'm quite alright, thank you."
"Dinner?" Reese moved into the tiny kitchen.
"That would be lovely."
While he cooked, Finch re-set his computers on the small table.
"I need to be in that building tonight."
Finch nodded. "Already taken care of. You'll be substituting for Mr. Vincent tonight."
"He's not sick, I hope?"
"His wife won tickets for dinner and a concert. Very last-minute, but fortunately you were available to cover his shift."
"Good."
"I haven't heard back yet on the analysis of the coffee. The woman who brought it is Monica Bently. No criminal record. She's worked at that deli for nine years."
Reese got a plate from the cupboard and checked it for cleanliness. That was an issue, int his apartment.
"And Mr. Edwins visited Cutter at the hospital yesterday."
"Did he, now?"
"I reviewed the tape. It was a brief and cordial visit."
John loaded the place and slid it over to Finch. "You heard from Christine?"
"She's fine."
"You're sure?"
Finch nodded. He reported on the conversation he'd had with Christine, and also with Detective Fusco. "Also," he continued, "Special Agent Moss has been placed in charge of a new federal task force."
"After me?" Reese asked wearily.
"No." He explained about the break-in at the bank, the theft of the computers and the cameras.
"Th terrorists are after the Machine."
"Yes."
"Can they find it?"
"No."
"You're sure?"
"Why does everyone ask me that?" Finch asked lightly. "Yes. I am quite sure that the hardware these people have stolen will not get them any closer to the Machine, either physically or virtually. But locating the thieves may lead the authorities to the people who launched the missiles. Perhaps."
"You don't sound convinced."
"I'm not, particularly. This attack was exquisitely planned beforehand. I very much doubt that it was sloppy in its aftermath."
"Decima?"
"Perhaps. Or Mr. Wesley. Or Root. Or some other party that we are not yet aware of."
"Or the Office of Special Counsel," Reese suggested.
Finch shook his head. "Agent Moss has had the good sense to invite our detectives to joined the task force."
"Fusco too?"
"I believe he hopes to capitalize on his friendship with Christine."
Reese nodded. "He's not a bad investigator, either, really."
"True."
"In any case, their involvement will allow us to keep apprised of the investigation." Finch considered. "Whoever planned this attack was extremely clever. But – a great many very talented and highly motivated men and women are now pursing them." He nodded. "If we see an opportunity to provide assistance, of course we will. But until then, they are not our primary focus. We will leave it in the hands of the authorities."
John looked at him for a long moment. "I need a shower," he finally said, and went.
Teddy Edwins paced in front of the deli. He dialed his phone, listened while it went to voice mail. He hung up and tried again. Again there was no answer.
He put his phone away and went inside. The place was quiet, just one guy behind the counter, cleaning up. They didn't do much evening business. "Hey," Edwins said, "you haven't seen Monica, have you?"
The man looked up. "Monica? She works mornings."
"She here this morning?"
"Yeah, of course. But she left early. Said she had a stomach ache."
"Thanks." Edwins went back outside and dialed the phone again. This time he left a voice mail. "Monica, listen, it's Teddy. If you're there, I need you to pick up. Come on, Monica, pick up."
There was no answer.
"Listen, Monica. I know you're pissed off. You got every right to be. But you've got to trust me. I've got this handled. I will take care of it. I promise you. I'll stop him. But you have got to stop. I know you were at his apartment today. I don't know what you're think you're doing. But you have to stop. You hear me, Monica? Let me handle it.' He paused, out of words. "Call me back," he finally finished.
He went back inside and bought a sandwich for later.
Reese put on his uniform pants and a t-shirt, but left the dress shirt off until he was ready to leave. He devoutly hated the way the fabric felt.
Finch had finished his dinner and was back on his computer. Cutter was up, moving around his apartment, getting ready for work.
Reese wandered around the room absently. He sat down and turned on the television, scanned through a hundred channels without finding a single thing to watch, and shut it off. He paced the room. There were no books. There was a stack of car magazines. He flipped through one, put it back down. Paced some more.
"There are books on your tablet," Finch reminded him quietly.
"I know." John went to look out the window.
"What's bothering you, Mr. Reese?"
"Someone tried to blow up the city to get to the Machine. And we're spending our time saving this little waste-of-skin punk."
"Yes. But what's really bothering you?"
There wasn't any point in putting it off any longer. Reese dragged a chair around and sat down facing his partner across the tiny table. He wanted to be able to see his face, his expressions, his body language. "Christine."
"I assure you, she's quite safe." Finch looked up from the computer. "And the Cascade is …"
"It's not that. Although I am not happy about it."
"It is, as she said, necessary."
Reese accepted the necessity. He didn't like the cause. Weaponized drones … he was letting himself be distracted. Wishing he could be distracted. "I was thinking … after we get Cutter settled … that I'd ask her out to dinner."
Harold's eyes never wavered. "She's fond of steak," he answered immediately, "and pasta. Not particularly big on seafood unless it's deep-fried." He shuddered in gentle disapproval. "And chocolate desserts are a must."
"I wasn't exactly asking for that kind of advice. But thanks."
He frowned in confusion. "Then what are you asking, Mr. Reese?"
John sat back, aware that his own face wasn't exactly unreadable at the moment. "I guess I need to know if it's okay. With you."
"If you take Miss Fitzgerald to dinner?"
"If I take her on a date."
"Well, yes, I understood that part of the formulation." Finch pushed up his glasses. "You're concerned I that would object to a potential romantic relationship between you and Miss Fitzgerald?"
Reese still couldn't see anything in his partner's face, no reaction beyond a very gentle bemusement. No hurt, no reluctance. But it seemed like Harold was hiding some deeper reaction. The shift to bigger words was a tell. Maybe. "Christine is your friend. You don't let many people get as close as she is. I just need to be sure that it's not going to screw things up. Between you and her."
"Or between you and me?"
"Yes."
Finch nodded. His expression grew less concerned, more amused. Still hiding something. "I appreciate your consideration, Mr. Reese. But I don't see why it should have any effect at all."
"Even if it ends badly?"
"Miss Fitzgerald is not the vengeful type." Harold considered, then amended his statement. "That's not entirely true. She can be quite … creatively vengeful, when sufficiently provoked. As our friend Miss Angelis can attest. Nonetheless, I don't see the potential for that kind of havoc being created in this particular scenario. Her romantic relationships seem to end in a consistently civilized manner."
Whereas mine, Reese thought bleakly, end up with someone dead. He shook his head. "I'm kind of hoping that 'ending' doesn't become an issue. That it becomes something long-term. I think."
"You think?" Finch asked. For the first time his expression was unguarded. He looked frankly startled.
John looked away. He hadn't meant to say that. "I care for her, Finch. I think I'm in love with her. But it's … different. Than it was with Jessica."
There was understanding on his friend's face, and also his own pain. Harold had lost a love, too. "I imagine it must be," he answered slowly. "No man steps in the same river twice, as it were. You are very different from the man you were then. And Christine is certainly …" He stopped. "And of course there are other considerations. Other dynamics."
"The job," John agreed, gesturing toward the computer. "The whole possibility – probability – of sudden death."
"That," Finch agreed. "But I was thinking more of Miss Fitzgerald's resistance to enter into anything more than the most temporary of relationships." He hesitated again. "I think you'd do well to remember that she is accustomed to … men who leave after three days."
Reese's expression hardened. It was the same thing Zoe had suggested. "I'm not like that, Finch."
"I know you're not," Harold said quickly. "And I'm sure that she knows you're not. Intellectually. But emotional habits can be difficult to break." He paused again. "Expectations can become so ingrained that they become self-fulfilling prophecies. And emotional defenses can very easily turn into … prisons."
Reese studied him. It was clear that Finch was talking about himself, as much as about Christine, and that it was difficult for him. He wouldn't make eye contact. He reached out to his keyboard, then pulled his hand back and looked up. "What her mind knows, Mr. Reese, it may yet take time for her heart to learn." He spread his hands, wiggled his fingers as if he was reaching for words. "You may need to be more … patient … that you expect."
John nodded. "Thank you."
"For pointing out the obvious?"
"At this point, I'll take any advice I can get."
"I can scarcely be considered an expert on matters of the heart."
"But you are an expert on Christine."
"Perhaps." He thought about it, smiled just a little. "As much of one as exists, I suppose. She is still a woman, nonetheless, and therefore difficult to quantify or predict with any degree of accuracy."
The big words again. "If you think this is a bad idea, Finch …" Out of nowhere, Reese became aware that he was half-hoping his partner would tell him it was.
Harold didn't. "I think that it might be a difficult relationship in the early stages. But that with some effort and persistence, you might ultimately be very good for each other."
"And you're sure you're okay with that?"
"I've already told you that I am." He frowned. "It's not like you to be uncertain, Mr. Reese."
John shifted in his chair. "I know. I just … I think I just needed to hear it from you, out loud."
Finch shook his head. "Miss Fitzgerald is not mine to claim, nor to give. And though she frequently accedes to my wishes, I would be highly reluctant to test the true limits of my influence over her. I can assure you that no romantic relationship between you and her would in any way impede my friendships with either of you, even if it were to end badly. Beyond that – I have only preferences, and I think those are best kept to myself at the moment."
"Preferences?"
"They are of no importance."
"About me and Christine?"
"Insignificant wishes, Mr. Reese."
John leaned forward. "I'd like to hear them, anyhow."
"It is really not my place …"
"Finch."
"They are merely my personal … hopes, I suppose you would call them. The best possible outcome I could foresee for the two of you."
"Finch."
Harold hesitated, his mouth very small. Then he shrugged. "What I would prefer in regards to your relationship to Miss Fitzgerald is this: If you're certain that you wish to pursue her, than by all means do so. Woo her, win her, wed her, bed her, and father a dozen brilliant blue-eyed children on her. It would do you both a world of good, and nothing could make me happier."
Reese stared at him, stunned. He didn't know what he'd expected, but that certainly wasn't it. He managed to stammer, "I was really thinking more like dinner and maybe a show."
"Well, yes, of course, for a start." Finch sounded exasperated, but amused. "But you take my meaning."
"This line of work. Not really conducive to raising dozens of children."
"Not dozens. One dozen."
"Still."
"I could fire you. Find someone else."
Reese studied him. The genius was teasing – mostly. But he was also cracking the door, just a little, to the more conventional life Reese had once mused about. Telling him that if it worked out with Christine and he wanted to move on, it could be arranged – no matter how impossible that seemed. John didn't actually see that happening, ever. But it was a generous offer, genuinely made, and it was one he deeply appreciated. "Let's just try one date first."
"As you wish." Finch spread his hands in resignation, but he smiled a little, too.
"Thank you, Harold." John sat back, still stunned. He had wanted Finch's blessing, though he hadn't thought of it in quite those terms. He'd gotten in. Resoundingly. There was absolutely nothing now that should stand between him and Christine. No outside influence, anyhow. Nothing but his own past, and hers.
And those obstacles, he realized, were going to be the biggest obstacles of all.
Finch glanced at his screen. "Mr. Cutter is getting ready to go," he announced.
Reese exhaled slowly. "Then I should do the same." He put the hated shirt on, then his shoes. He strapped a gun to his ankle, pulled his pant leg down over it. He glanced up at Finch, but the genius did not comment.
When he was ready to head out the door, he paused one last time. "Harold. Thank you."
Finch inclined his head. "Good luck, Mr. Reese. With all of your endeavors."