It was a whole week after our visit to Rochester when the pieces of the day care murder puzzle finally fell into place: Eleanor Reynolds had been set up by her daughter-in-law. I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach as we raced to the Reynolds' home, and then to Carnegie Hill preschool. The situation was nearly as bad as I feared, and only Bobby's persuasive skills kept it from turning out even worse.

It felt like hours later that the school room was finally empty except for Bobby and me. The CSU techs were the last to leave, carrying off Marla's gun and her other belongings. There'd been a commotion in the hall made by the children being sent home, but it was finally quiet.

Bobby looked drained. He huffed out his breath in a shaky sigh and sank down onto one of the tiny kiddy chairs. He rested his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands.

I felt pretty shaken, too. I dragged over another mini chair and sat down facing him. I thought I should say something, but no words came to mind. It felt comforting just sitting there with him, so I waited and looked around the classroom. It was sunny and pretty. The only sign that a catastrophe had nearly happened here was the disarray of the little chairs.

His hand landed lightly on my knee, and I turned back to him.

"It was good you got those kids out," he said. "With her waving that gun around…"

"I know. I was afraid it'd go off while she had it pointed at you."

"She, umm…" He rubbed his forehead. "After she gave up pretending her son had been accepted, she seemed desperate enough that she might have killed herself."

"Although I noticed she recovered enough self esteem to try and throw blame on you for arresting her."

He didn't reply, and it came to mind that he might have taken Marla's selfish words seriously. He wasn't looking me in the eye.

A lot of things about my job make me mad – and my partner is sometimes at the top of the list. But right then what stuck in my craw was the tendency of so many guilty people like Marla to strike out at Bobby simply because he was able to draw confessions out of them with decency and sympathy.

Over the years, Bobby's opened pieces of his heart to many of the perps and victims we've encountered. Only a few have had the presence of mind or humility to appreciate the courtesy he shows them. I've often felt protective of him, though I try not to make a big deal of it.

At that moment, sitting on the uncomfortable little chair, I decided I couldn't let Marla's insult slide.

"Hey," I said. He was staring at the floor, and didn't look at me when I spoke, so I tapped his knee until he did. "Bobby. You're not riding along on Marla's guilt trip, are you?"

There was a long pause before he answered. "I was thinking," he said slowly, "how people can choose to do all sorts of cruel things, even criminal acts, and still think they're good parents – good people."

I hadn't guessed right about what he was thinking, but this sounded almost as depressing. "I've noticed people can rationalize nearly anything in their own behavior," I said.

"There's rationalizing, and there's… this…" His fingers fluttered in the air. "…pathological behavior."

"You realize, of course, the job brings us into contact with a lot more bad parents than good. They're not all Marla Reynolds or Paul Whitlock. Sometimes you get a Leanne Colson."

"True," he said.

"And on top of that," I said, leaning forward to make sure he looked me in the eye, "there are good detectives like us, who stop the bad parents from doing something even worse."

"Whenever we can," he said, and gave me his lopsided almost-grin.

Finally! He'd simply acknowledged my compliment without trying to shuffle it off. I knew neither of us needed constant congratulation, but after the tension we'd gone through, a little appreciation couldn't hurt. In fact, it felt very good.

"So let's clear this case," I said, "and then see what we can do to help Adam and Mrs. Colson get back on track."

I stood up - and groaned in surprise at the stiffness that had set into my legs and back from sitting in the kiddy chair. I held out a hand to Bobby. "Brace yourself for a painful reminder of middle age."

-*- -*- -*-

Our friend Sergeant Brower sent us the security tape that showed Paul Whitlock verbally assaulting Mrs. Colson in the parking lot of the convenience store. It was bad. Paul hadn't touched her, but the video quality was good enough to show her cowering back from him as he waved a fist around.

We made another call to her; she told us Paul hadn't showed up again, but he'd phoned when Adam was at school with more threats of law suits. She was trying to hide it from Adam, but the poor woman was a nervous wreck.

When we showed the new video to the ADA's office they went straight to the Family Court judge who'd decided the custody case four years ago. That same afternoon Bobby and I were called into Judge Leonard Thomas's chambers and questioned.

The result was an Order of Protection against Paul Whitlock. It rescinded his visitation rights and ordered him to stay away from the area surrounding Adam's school and home, and to stop all communication with Mrs. Colson and Adam.

On the following Monday morning we were on our way to Philadelphia to deliver the injunction. This time neither of us got to drive – we rode with the ADA assigned to the case. Michael Wollasky looked grumpy, but he turned out to have a decent sense of humor.

Wollasky intended to head for Paul's engineering firm in Center City, but Bobby suggested we stop first at Paul's house in the northern part of the city. "There's no way he's still at home now," Wollasky said, pointing to the digital clock on the dashboard, which showed 9:40. "Why waste our time?"

"It might not be a waste of time," Bobby replied. He leaned way forward from the back seat, hung his arm around my seat, and talked almost directly into Wollasky's ear. "Allison Whitlock is probably home. You never know, we could learn some interesting things from her."

"What do you mean?" Wollasky didn't turn to look at Bobby, but I could see his eyes darting over. He wasn't used to Bobby's up-close-and-personal style.

I replied, "She made some of those secret trips to Rochester, you know, but she might not be quite as eager as her husband to get Adam into their home."

"I get it," said Wollasky with a gravelly chuckle, "and you're hoping she'll be a little less careful about making incriminating statements. Okay – you have the directions?"

As soon as we got into Philly, Bobby asked Wollasky to pull over to a sidewalk pretzel vendor. Wollasky fished a dollar out of his pocket, handed it to Bobby, and said, "Get me a bag, too. Those things are probably junk, but I love 'em. Just never try to eat them on the second day."

"They get stale that fast?" I asked.

"Like a solid rock. You could break a tooth."

"Sounds like a great selling point," I muttered.

Bobby had his window open and was waving the money at the vendor, who hurried over with an armful of little paper bags. In another few seconds the transaction was done, and we were moving along with traffic.

Bobby pushed one of the bags at me. "Try it, Eames," he said, "they're fresh." Both men were tearing into their pretzels as though they hadn't eaten in days.

I tasted it, just to humor him. It was okay – probably better than the ones they sell from food carts in New York – but it was still just a pretzel. We never had to test out Wollasky's prediction about turning to stone, because he and Bobby divided the rest of my bag between them.

The Whitlock's house was in a nice suburban area – most of the houses were brick or fieldstone and had small, well-kept lawns, with mums and pumpkins decorating the front steps.

Allison Whitlock looked very young: her Motor Vehicle records said she was thirty, but she could have passed for a college student. She invited us into the house, explaining that Paul had left for his office two hours earlier.

"Mrs. Whitlock," Bobby began, "we're here about Paul's son, Adam. You've met him, haven't you?"

"Once or twice, with Paul," she said. "He's a nice boy. Did he – is he in trouble?"

"I'm afraid so," Bobby said. He gestured to the living room. "May we…?"

"Oh… yes, of course. Please… sit down."

Wollasky's eyebrows went up, and he nodded slyly in approval at Bobby. Allison didn't seem to realize she'd just admitted that she'd helped her husband violate the custody settlement.

As we sat down, Allison looked around at us apprehensively. "What kind of trouble is he in? Paul and I have been worried about him."

Bobby unbuttoned his suit jacket, laid his leather binder on his knee, and gazed sadly at her for a few moments before answering. "Do you also know Mrs. Colson, Adam's grandmother?"

"It's her, isn't it?" she said, suddenly animated. "Paul says she has no control over Adam. She doesn't supervise him properly, she allows him to eat any kind of junk food, lets him go off with children who have a bad influence on him. That's why we want…" She hesitated, uncertain about telling us more.

Bobby picked up her sentence. "That's why you want to help Adam, to bring him here with you, to a good environment. Is that right?"

"Well, yes. Paul is his father, after all – he knows what's best for Adam." She looked at us boldly, as though daring us to contradict her. Paul had done a good job brainwashing her. She continued, "A little time away will be good for us all. Adam and I need to get to know each other better."

Time away? So Paul had kidnapping in mind after all! Bobby and I didn't react to that bombshell, but Wollasky flinched.

I leaned forward and smiled. "Oh," I said, "are you planning a vacation with Adam? Something warm and sunny?"

Allison bit her lip before replying. Her confidence evaporated quickly. "Paul can tell you about it – he's actually the one making the plans." She stood abruptly. "I really need to get going with my morning errands, so if you'll excuse me…"

When we were back in the car, Wollasky shook his head. "She's probably calling him right now – is he likely to run?"

I said, "Paul's gone to a lot of trouble trying to get Adam away from his grandmother – apparently including kidnapping. If he bolts now it's all wasted effort."

"Eames is right," Bobby said. "He'll be there. He's convinced himself the custody decision is wrong, and that he's not doing anything illegal. We're the bad guys."

"Okay, next stop is his office," Wollasky said with a grin. "I watched that convenience store video. Your guy's got a temper on him, so after we hand him the paper I'm ready to duck."

Paul Whitlock worked in a tower in Center City. The office space was arranged as a big open bullpen in the center, with low-rise cubicle walls between desks, and offices or meeting rooms around the perimeter. Wollasky spoke to the receptionist and asked to be directed to Paul's office.

Before the girl could answer, we saw Paul striding toward us through the bullpen. He spoke loudly across the area. "How dare you come here?" Every head turned to look.

We waited until Paul reached us, and then Wollasky said quietly, "Mr. Whitlock, I'm from the New York City District Attorney's office. We need to talk to you privately. Is there an office we can use?"

Paul barely acknowledged him before glaring at Bobby and me. His voice dropped, and came out like a hiss. "I'm not speaking to any of you – get out and talk to my lawyer."

Wollasky looked around the office. Every eye in the place was still focused on us. "We can do this right here," he said, "or we can do this privately. It's up to you."

I heard Paul's teeth grinding as he shoved past me into the hallway. I jerked out of the way and backed solidly into Bobby; he steadied me with a hand on my back. I looked up at him for a second, and I knew he was as ticked off as I was – but we had to shrug it off. We followed Paul past the elevators into another office area, and then into an empty conference room.

As soon as the door closed Paul swung around fiercely, but before he could speak, Wollasky held the paper toward him.

"Mr. Whitlock," he said, "this is an Order of Protection, signed by Judge Leonard Thomas. It restrains you from any contact with your son, Adam Whitlock, or with his grandmother, Leanne Colson. You are prohibited from calling or communicating with them in any way, and from entering the area of their home and school."

Paul sneered. "You're out of your jurisdiction. You have no right to interfere in my family."

I snatched the paper from Wollasky and slapped it onto Paul's chest. "No, see," I said, "You're the one with no rights. Judge Thomas gave full parental custody to Leanne Colson, and that applies no matter where they or you live."

Bobby spoke up. His voice was quiet at first, but the intensity built as he went on. "We know you've been sneaking up to Rochester to see Adam secretly, trying to turn him against his grandmother – but it won't work." He inched closer. "You failed your family when Doreen and your sons needed your support. You ignored Adam for two years after the custody decision." Bobby leaned down and tilted his head to get into Paul's face. "Do you really think a lousy tee-shirt's going to make up for all that?"

Paul exploded. "Get out!" he screamed, and lunged forward.

Bobby had anticipated him, and was already opening the door for me and Wollasky. We left Paul to cool his temper, or punch a hole in the wall, or whatever he wanted.

Once we were inside the elevator, with the doors safely closed, Wollasky let out a huge breath. "That was exciting," he said. "Well worth the trip – even if you don't count the pretzels."

I was riding an adrenaline rush, and had to resist an urge to hug Bobby within an inch of his life for his perfect delivery of a dig at Paul. I settled for a big smile; he returned a quick grin and a wink.

"I'm sure this heady feeling will keep you going through the mountain of research you just volunteered for," Wollasky said. "Whitlock's personnel files, phone calls, court records, finances – it's all yours, my friends."