The empty lot where the Chaos Café had once stood was more than half-way through its transition into a park. There was a concrete footer poured for the walkways, and the walls were roughed in for the small building that would house public bathrooms and a storage room. The storage room concealed a secret entrance to the stairs down to the abandoned underground speakeasy. John had done a lot of that work himself, in the dark. He was pleased with the results. Any of the two dozen veterans with a key and knowledge of the tunnel could access it easily.

There was a concave pit at the front of the building that would eventually be a walk-in fountain. The bases were in for the playground equipment, and the uprights for the picnic table shelter stood at attention on the other side of the lot.

A tall chain-link fence surrounded the construction site, but the gate stood open. At the center of the lot, six workmen were gathered around a large crate.

Reese left his jacket in the car and rolled up his sleeves as he walked from his car. It did exactly nothing to ease the oppressive heat. His shirt plastered itself to his back by the time he entered the gate.

The workers were all unapologetically sweaty. And one of them, completely indistinguishable from the others, was a billionaire.

Will Ingram separated himself from the group and met him with an outstretched hand. "John. How are you?" He paused, pulled his hand back and wiped it on his jeans. "Sorry. You probably don't want to do that." He looked at the grease that remained on his hand, then dropped it to his side. "How've you been?"

"Good," Reese answered. He genuinely liked Harold's nephew, and finding him here in torn jeans and a grimy white t-shirt just confirmed everything he knew about him: Despite the massive fortune he'd inherited from Nathan Ingram, Will still thought of himself as a working man. "You?"

"Good. Real good." The young man might have flushed a little, though it was hard to tell in the heat. "Did you hear, we're having a baby?"

"I heard. Congratulations."

"Thanks."

"How's Julie doing?"

"Better now. She was pretty sick for a while." He waved up the block. "She's down at the office. I told her I'd drive her up later to have a look."

"Glad you persuaded her to stay in out of this heat."

"Yeah. She really didn't take much persuading." Will squinted up at the sun. "You know, I spent a lot of time in Africa, I'm used to the heat, but this …"

"The humidity," John agreed before he finished. "I know."

"It just wrings it out of you, doesn't it?"

"This is really coming along." Reese gestured to the park.

"Yeah, they've been getting things done. I get the feeling Uncle Harold's kind of steamrolling the city inspectors' office. Want to see today's project?"

"Sure."

They walked over to the crate just as the foreman finished prying the lid off. Inside was a stack of blue-green panels, shiny, three feet square.

"Solar panels?" John guessed.

"Solar sidewalks." Will gestured to the concrete footer. "Gonna put them where the walkways go, and then all around the building."

Reese touched the smooth surface. It was very warm. Of course, it would be in this heat. "I saw an article about roadways that were solar."

"Same technology," Ingram confirmed. "The road surface is still being tested, refined. But it's more than sturdy enough for sidewalks now." He backed up as the men moved in to lift the first panel out. "It stores energy all day and glows at night. In the winter it stays warm enough that it usually doesn't need shoveling. And they ran wiring," he gestured to the footer again, "to a storage battery in the back there. It'll help power lights inside the bathrooms. We're putting solar panels on the roof, too. And a passive hot water tank under the roof line."

"So the park is basically self-powering."

"Should be, pretty much." Will nodded happily. "But more importantly, Scotty says it gives people a chance to get used to it. So in five years, when someone says, 'We want to re-pave Madison Avenue with solar cells', they can think, "oh, yeah, like those sidewalks in that park'."

Reese nodded thoughtfully.

"We might try out some wind trees, too," Ingram continued. "They're really pretty, and almost silent. The thing is, we have to find a way to keep them from being vandalized."

John watched while the men laid the first panel down. It was half an inch too wide for the footer. They hoisted it back out and removed the wooden forms, then put it down again. As they began to fill in the dirt around the edges, and just before he spoke up to remind them, the foreman remembered that they had to connect the panel to the grid. That done, they set the panel in place for hopefully the last time.

In the midst of a lot of dry-packed dirt and some scrubby weeds, the panel looked like a cool koi pond, shimmering blue-green and inviting.

They paused to look, and he could tell that, hot and sweaty as they were, they all appreciated the sudden beauty.

The men went back for a second panel.

"So," Reese said with forced calm, "you talked to Scotty?"

Ingram shook his head. "She e-mails us. Couple times a day, lately. Mostly about business stuff. Although she did send a whole long list of baby links. We tried to get her on a conference call or to Skype us, but …" He shrugged. "You?"

"She e-mails," John answered honestly. He fought down a wave of unexpectedly sharp jealousy.

"Julie says she can communicate at her own pace, on e-mail," Will offered. "In her own time."

"I suppose."

Will squinted up at the sun again. For the first time his easy manner gave way to a more guarded posture. "Is there an … issue?"

"Issue?" Reese repeated, more harshly then he intended.

The young doctor did not back down. "Scotty and Harold. She never says anything, but … well, the fact that she never says anything says a lot. They were tight, before she left. And now there's this – silence. From him, too."

John took a deep breath. "I don't know."

"If it's something I can help with," Ingram offered. "Act as a go-between or whatever." He still looked uncomfortable. "I know Uncle Harold would never ask me for help. That kind of help. He still thinks I'm a kid. And I'm not asking you to, you know, betray any confidences. But if you see an opening, somewhere I could do some good, or where Julie could, let us know?"

I really like this man, Reese thought, not for the first time. Ingram had an openness and kindness about him that was sometimes unnerving. He wore his heart on his sleeve. The world should have crushed him long ago. The places he'd been as a doctor, and the things he'd seen in the harshest corners of the world, should have made him hard and cynical. Instead he remained hopeful and helpful.

"I appreciate the offer," John said, "and I'll keep it in mind. But I'm not sure there is a problem. It may just be introverts doing what they do."

"Retreating when wounded," Ingram nodded. "Could be. But if you hear anything …"

"I'll let you know," John promised. The second solar panel went in a little easier. He nodded to himself. "If you hear anything, in her e-mails, that looks like she could use some hands-on attention, let me know."

"I will," Ingram promised.

The sidewalk was starting to look like a cool stream. John liked it, very much. "Tell Julie I said hello," he said.

"I will. Stop by some time. The office looks great."

"I will." John skirted the newly-installed panels and walked back to his car. The A/C blasted a wave of muggy air at him for a moment, then settled into cooling again. It was too late; his shirt was soaked from his brief time outside.

He looked back at the park-to-be. Will Ingram was helping to carry one of the panels. John tried to imagine Logan Pierce getting his hands dirty that way. He grinned and shook his head. No, aside from age and good hair, there was no comparison between the young billionaires.

He was more than a little jealous that Christine would e-mail Will when all he and Harold got was kitten pictures. But he understood that, too. Will and Julie had a very different relationship with her. She could keep them at a more comfortable distance.

He wondered if Ingram might be right, if there might be some greater rift between Christine and Harold than he was aware of. But Finch seemed to be sharing every communication he received. If there was any rift at all, it was more likely between him and Christine. John was the one who had forced her to relive her early childhood experiences with her drug-addled father – on the same night she'd had to kill a man in the same place where her father had died.

He didn't know what had happened between his friends while he'd been out of his mind. From what he remembered, they'd been united to care for him. He couldn't recall any tension between them. But then, he couldn't recall a lot.

Except that when Harold had come into Christine's bedroom the first time, he's been wearing a t-shirt instead of his usual shirt, vest and jacket. That John had been struck at how undressed he looked, though he was still fully covered.

But that tidbit had been overshadowed drastically by the fact that Finch had a massive bruise on his face, the precise size and shape of John Reese's fist.

He had hit Harold nearly hard enough to snap his neck, and if Christine hadn't been there …

… but she had been there, she'd seen it, and though she'd never been afraid of John before, maybe she was now, because if he could turn on Harold when he was out of his mind, he could certainly turn on her as well …

… but she'd stayed with him anyhow, all through the night, all through his madness. She could easily have escaped, left him to fight off his memories on his own, but she hadn't. Not even when he was calmer, safe, she'd stayed beside him. She wasn't afraid.

Reese closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the steering wheel. It was over. Finch forgave him. Christine would, or more likely already had. Root was locked away and would never threaten any of them again. He needed to let go. He needed to let go.

The air cooled around him. John took a deep breath and sat up. Will Ingram was still hauling solar panels in the heat. He didn't need to be sitting here feeling sorry for himself.

He put the car in gear and drove past Oasis – Harold's preferred name for the building which housed the offices of the Carson-Ingram Renewable Energy Initiative as well as Christine's apartment and the Ingrams'. He thought about stopping in, checking in on Julie. Then he saw the tall black man by the front window, and he kept driving.

He had not precisely forgotten that Taylor Carter was working with Will and Julie. But he hadn't processed that he would probably need to re-introduce himself to the boy – the young man. And that he probably ought to talk to Joss about it first.

It sounded like she was having a busy day. She'd be in no mood for chit-chat.

She would, however, be in the mood for lunch on the fly.

He checked his mirror, then made a u-turn and headed for her favorite deli.

"Has anyone seen my phone?" Hailey called.

Helen gathered up the wrappers from her lunch and tossed them in the trash can. Then she calmly dialed her friend's number on her own phone. "Picnic table," she called, pointing.

"You're the best, Hell!"

Dylan dropped into the bench next to the Helen. "That's the second time today, isn't it?"

"Third."

"You're very patient with her."

Helen shrugged. "It's no big deal."

"I had to go half-way across town to get her camera yesterday."

"See, you're patient, too."

"Not me. I just do what my brother tells me to do." He opened a pack of Oreos. "Want one?"

"Sure." Helen took one of the mini cookies. "Thanks."

"So I was thinking. Maybe we could go out some time."

"What?"

"Do you have a boyfriend already?"

"No. I mean, I did, but …" Helen stared at him. "My mom would flip shit."

Dylan grinned. "Why? You're going to be dating guys my age when you get to college next year anyhow."

She started to laugh, but he was serious. "I'm not going to college next year."

"You taking a pass year?"

"I'll be a junior."

"What?"

"A junior. In high school."

Dylan stared. "You're … how old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"You're sixteen? Are you kidding? I thought you were way older than that."

"Uh, thanks," Helen said, "I think."

"I don't mean like that." He offered another Oreo as an apology. "I just meant … I mean, I know Hailey's sixteen and she acts way younger than you. I figured you were at least eighteen. And mature for your age."

Helen suddenly felt an odd flutter in her chest. It was a feeling her parents had taught her to trust; her instinct that something was wrong. At least, that's what it had always meant before. This time she wasn't so sure. "I'm the oldest. I guess that makes me be more responsible. Being a big sister, you know?"

"Sure, but …I just never would have thought you were sixteen. Man. Now I feel like an old perv."

He was apologizing and flirting at the same time. Helen decided she liked it, and her internal warning system said she shouldn't.

"You're the same age as Hailey?" Dylan said again. "Really? She can't even keep track of her stuff – and you keep track of her."

"It's no big deal," she said, and then realized she'd already said that.

"Well, I think it's pretty cool." He put his hand on her forearm, just for a second. "Just don't get so stuck taking care of her that you don't have any time to have fun yourself."

Helen smiled at him. The flutter was still there, stronger than ever. "How old are you?"

"Old," Dylan admitted. He took his hand away. "I'm almost twenty."

"Oh, God, you're ancient."

"I know, right?"

Hailey came back, with her cell phone. "Oooh, can I have a cookie?"

Dylan laughed. "Of course you can, little girl."

"I'm done, Carter," Fusco said firmly. "They can all kill each other for all I care. I am not looking at one more dead body until I get some damn lunch."

"Hangry much?" his partner teased half-heartedly.

"Hangry," he snorted. "You been hangin' out with my kid now?"

Carter opened her car door, then stopped short. "Fusco, wait."

"What?" Fusco asked.

"Lunch," his partner said, "I hope."

Fusco opened his own door and looked. Between the seats, on top of the on-board computer, there was a small white Styrofoam cooler.

"Could be lunch," Carter continued. "Could be a bomb."

Fusco looked across the car at her. She looked worried. More worried than usual. "Any reason to think it's a bomb?"

"Just the usual."

"Uh-huh." He stepped back from the car and pulled out his phone. Reese answered on the first ring. "Hey, wiseguy, you bring us lunch?"

"Didn't you enjoy it?" Reese answered.

"How come you packed it in a cooler?"

"Because it's over a hundred degrees out and I don't want to poison you. Today."

"Today. Thanks a lot."

"Plans change, of course," the former spy said. "But no, not at the moment."

"Thanks." Fusco snapped his phone off. "It's okay," he told his partner. "It's from your boyfriend."

Carter scowled. "He wishes." She got in the car and opened the cooler. There were sandwiches and chips and bottled ice tea and water.

"What, no cookies?" Fusco complained.

"In the bottom." Joss pointed. She started the car and cranked up the air conditioner.

"You sure you're not worried about something?" he asked, half-way through his sandwich. "You been a little jumpy lately."

"We're surrounded by corrupt cops and working with a vigilante who's wanted by four or five federal agencies. What would I be worried about?"

"None of that's new, Carter."

She shook her head. "Maybe I just really need that vacation after all."

"Maybe so. I told you, you shoulda' taken it while things were quiet."

"Yeah. You're right. When you're right, Fusco, you're right."

Before they were done with lunch, they had another call.

It was stupidly hot again the next day. The class was supposed to spend the afternoon on Time Square, but Jeff Kozlow made the command decision that they would spend it inside Madame Toussad's wax museum, where the temperature was bearable.

Helen sent her mother a quick text about the change of plan, and a selfie of her and Hailey with the King.

"You mom really worries about you, huh?" Hailey asked as they wandered.

"She just likes to know where I am."

"I don't think mine know where I am half the time."

"That must be nice."

"No, it sucks."

"But you can get away with stuff."

Hailey shrugged. "It's not really getting away with it if they don't care."

Helen thought about it. At home, she had about the same amount of freedom as other kids in her class. It was only here, in New York, that her mother had become so over-protective. She understood why, of course. The dangers had been drilled into her head for six months, since she'd first suggested this trip. And she knew that the minute something went wrong, her mom was going to cut the trip short, throw them all in the van, and take them home. So sending a quick text with Elvis was the simplest way to keep the peace.

She supposed she was lucky, even if it didn't always seem that way.

She expected Dylan Koslow to hang out with them in the museum, but it looked like his brother was keeping him close. On a short leash of his own. That was probably for the best.

Helen and Hailey went down to the World Leaders section and took a bunch of digital pics. Some of the likenesses were really good. Some weren't. Helen was surprised that her friend knew all of them by name. "Wouldn't have guessed you were a history buff."

Hailey shrugged. "There was this contest in like, third grade. Whoever could remember the most got a ribbon."

"You still have it, don't you?" Helen teased. "The ribbon?"

Another tourist, a small, dark man, looked directly at her, then turned his head and moved away.

"On my mirror," Hailey admitted. "I know, I'm a giant dork."

"I think that's a nerd thing, but whatever."

"There was a boy," the blonde admitted. "James Kelly. He was hot. I mean, for a third grader. He still is, actually. But he was really into presidents. So I wanted to win the ribbon to impress him."

The dark man wasn't just checking her out, Helen noted. He was looking over everyone in the room. He wore a cheap black suit, and he kept one hand in his pocket. It was – unusual. Half by instinct, she slipped her arm through Hailey's. If they needed to move fast – if the sneaky man brought out a gun – she had a head start. Her alarm was at about twenty percent. He was probably just a tourist. "Did it? Impress him?"

"No. He was pissed off that he got beat by a girl."

"Figures."

"Yeah."

The little man looked around the room again. Then he brought his hand out. There was no gun. He was holding something, though. Something small.

Rather than decreasing, Helen's alarm level surged to about fifty percent. She nearly ran into John Adams.

"Carefully," Hailey said.

"Sorry." Helen drew her friend into a corner.

"What are you looking at?"

"Shhhh." She gestured with her head, just barely. "That guy over there. Check him out."

"Ewwww. He's old."

"Yeah, but watch him." The man made a half-circle of the room again and paused next to a trash can.

"He looks like a rat," Hailey complained.

"I know." Helen pulled her arm so that her friend was facing her and she could watch over her shoulder without being too obvious. "And he's sneaking around like one."

The man's dark eyes scanned the room again. He backed up to the trash can and slipped his hand behind him. Helen caught a glimpse of what he was holding. Putty-colored, a tube of some kind, small enough to hide in his palm.

He groped at can behind his back. Then suddenly he straightened up and clasped his empty hands in front of him. He looked around the room again, then hurried out.

"That was a fucking dead drop," Helen murmured, both surprised and a little delighted.

"What?"

"A dead drop. It's an old spy thing."

"Maybe he's an old spy."

"Maybe." Helen didn't think that was very likely. A real spy would have been a lot less obvious making a drop. Hell, her little sister would have been a lot less obvious. She watched until the man was beyond the next room, then kept Hailey's arm and strolled casually to the trash can.

"What are you doing?"

"Seeing what he dropped."

"What if it's like drugs or something?"

Helen shook her head. "That guy's like sixty years old. It's not drugs." It might be explosives, her intuition countered, but it was small enough to conceal in the palm of his hand, so it probably wouldn't pack much punch. Unless it was some kind of high-grade explosive, which again seemed unlikely. The cheap suit said he was a C-4 kind of guy.

Her father had told her something about cheap suits once. Sometimes, rarely, they were a disguise, meant to assure people that the wearer was harmless. But most often, they were just cheap suits.

"It's a love note or something," she assured her friend.

"What if we get caught?"

"I'll put it right back," Helen promised. "I just want to see what it is." She put her purse down on top of the can and reached into it for a little tin of mints. She opened them, offered one to Hailey – and snaked her free hand into the can. There, on a little ledge at the bottom of the lid, was a plastic film canister. She snapped the mint tin shut and dropped both items into her purse. "I need to hit the ladies' room," she announced.

"Okay." Hailey leaned closer. "Did you get it?"

Helen grinned and led her out of the room.

They crowded into the handicapped stall together. Helen opened the canister. Inside was a roll of film. Twelve exposures, 100 speed. Duane Reade brand. The cheapest possible option. There was no tail; the film was exposed.

"What do you think's on it?" Hailey asked eagerly.

"I have no idea."

"We have to develop it."

Helen turned the little cartridge over in her hand. "We should put it back."

"Are you crazy?" Hailey challenged. "What if it's like, super-secret nuclear plans?"

"Then somebody's intelligence agency is tits up," Helen breathed. She put the film back in the canister. "We should put it back."

"You're no fun."

"What if it's dirty pictures of his grandmother?"

"Then we'd be doing the world a favor," Hailey pronounced with disgust.

Helen dropped the tube back into her purse. "Let's go."

They walked out of the ladies' room. "There you are," Dylan Kozlow said. "Been looking for you. Time to go."

"Uhhh," Helen said, "I just need to stop by the Presidents real quick."

"Nope. Jeff's getting the van. Let's go."

"It's a sign," Hailey said, taking Helen's arm. "Now we have to see Saggy Naked Grannies."

"Ugh." But Helen was intrigued, too. She let her friend lead her out of the museum.

Mr. Black, as his new associates called him, watched as the Institute's van drove away, then glanced at his cell phone. "That's how it's done," he announced smugly, to himself.

Two trampy women in short skirts looked at him oddly and then hurried on their way.