I

There is something off about Jonathan Martell, Harvey decides as he and Mike follow the silent and sure-footed man through the labyrinth of Duke-Sanger. He attempts to place it, but comes up empty handed and realizes maybe it's not a something but more of a nothing. Harvey has always relied on his ability to gauge people: he can tell a nervous man by his half-hearted laugh, an aggressor by his large sweeping gestures, the liar by his exaggerated emphasis. You have to know the man to know his vulnerability and it is this talent, finding that vulnerability, which has made Harvey so successful. A small part of him begins to feel somewhat unprepared for this meeting, maybe even a little brash, but he swallows it down, reminding himself that he is at his best when he's bluffing.

The office of Jonathan Martell is about as eccentric as the man himself. At first glance, there is an elegance about the place: all dark woods and tarnished brassy trims. Georgian, one might coin the space, with a sort of rustic masculinity, but on further inspection it all feels…bizarre. Stuffed woodland creatures lurk about, poking out behind shelves, mounted obtrusively to the walls. Across the room, a sculpture with half a head faces Harvey; it's large, low hanging breasts two-thirds of the exhibit. The gender is unclear. Could be a man with tits, he can't be sure. Above an unlit granite fireplace, is painting of a man draped in a red sheet sitting on a green chair, half his head is blurred black. Harvey begins to see a trend.

Martell says, "Have a seat." His voice is flat and monotone, making Harvey unsure of whether this is an invitation or a command. He doesn't want to be seen to submit, but, of course, Mike sits down and Harvey feels he must oblige or else risk the two of them looking uncoordinated.

From his plush leather chair, Harvey watches Martell take his own seat behind the desk. He's not the wan, troubled intellect Harvey was expecting. Nothing about him speaks of an MIT grad or an innovative genius. He has that telltale military bearing, the way his eyes seem to sweep about the room, never resting for more than a few seconds. An officer, probably, by that automatic assumption of command and superiority.

Mike is the first to break the silence, asking Jonathan, "Soo...what's with all of the stuffed animals?"

"Taxidermy," Martell answers, his gray, almost milky, eyes shifting to Mike, sizing him up. "It's a hobby."

Taxidermy? Who the hell is this guy—Norman Bates? Harvey and Mike exchange looks and he swears for a moment he has telepathy because he can almost hear the kid quoting Hitchcock's Psycho: "We all go a little mad sometimes."

Mike's lips quiver, fighting off a grin. Harvey glares at the kid: get serious.

"This is one of my first," Martell says, pointing to a stuffed red fox crouching at the desk's edge. "I used to keep it in living room but my daughter painted his nails—you see? They're pink." Martell stares down at the stiff mammal's claws, his gaze as empty and unblinking as the fox's. "Kids'll do that. Ruin everything." Harvey expects him to add something light hearted to this statement: But you gotta love 'em! Or Keeps life interesting! But he doesn't and it just hangs there, eerie and definitive.

"Very beautiful," Harvey says dryly.

Martell nods, focusing his strange, unseeing stare on Harvey. "Thank you, Mr….?"

"Specter."

The man cocks his head, suddenly interested. "The same Specter that used to work for the DA?"

"The very one." Harvey doesn't like that the creep knows of him. It gives the guy an edge.

"I met with Cameron Dennis on occasion during a case," he explains. "He spoke fondly of you."

"Strange, he never mentioned you."

The corners of Martell's lips quirk up just enough for Harvey to grasp the notion of a smile. "I'm not someone who is often spoken fondly of."

"I can't imagine why."

Unamused by Harvey's sarcasm, Martell decides to bring forth the point: "All right, Mr. Specter, I'm intrigued. What has you bursting into my conference room, calling for my head?"

Unable to think of a delicate way to put it, Harvey jumps right in: "My secretary, Donna Paulsen, is being charged with conspiracy to defraud the United States. I wanna know why."

"Wouldn't it be easier to ask your secretary this?"

"She hasn't exactly been forthcoming."

Martell nods and folds his long fingers together on top of the desk. He has stubby nails, chewed down to the quick, a nervous habit that doesn't mesh with his severe composure. "And what leads you to believe I would know the answer to this question?"

Wethersfield, Connecticut. Harvey gets an unwanted image of those chewed-nailed fingers running down the curve of Donna's back. He says, "Before she was charged, she was subpoenaed to give a deposition regarding the Illegal Arms Scandal you're so infamously involved in. Somehow this ended with her pleading the fifth."

"I see. And her attorney—where was he during this deposition? Surely his job is to protect her from this kind of mishap."

Harvey sees that Martell is taking a jab here and stares him down without answering.

"Donna told us she didn't know anything," Mike replies.

"And you believed her." It is not a question and Martell does not wait for an answer. He says to Harvey, "Beneath all of this swagger you shroud yourself in, Mr. Specter, I'm willing to bet, deep down, you're a good man. You have kind eyes. They remind me of my golden retriever. Molly. It's been over a decade since my wife left and that dog still waits at the door for her. That's the cost of loyalty. It can turn clever man such as yourself blind to deception. And I'm sorry that it has to be me to tell you this, but the reason your secretary is being charged is because she's guilty."

And there it is: the sharp left hook. Harvey counters, "The only thing Donna is guilty of is getting herself involved with an asshole like you,"

"A swift kick and you come right back. What a good dog."

Harvey's composure slips. Rage packing him solid. He's going to knock this freak's teeth in.

"Look, whatever it is Donna did," Mike tells Martell, "she did it through some kind of involvement with you. If she's guilty, so are you."

Martell studies Mike squarely. "I think you misunderstand the situation."

Harvey says, "I'm sure we'd understand the situation a whole lot better if you cut the shit and start answering our goddamn questions."

Martell's jaw twitches, his eyes narrow almost imperceivably. "Everything I've done—this whole inconvenient mess—I did it because Donna asked me to."

They've touched a nerve. Harvey presses, "So, you're telling me Donna asked you to illegally fund a weapon's manufacturer in India? Because if that's the case I'm not buying it."

"Christ, no, that's criminal. Who would do such a thing?" Martell stretches back languidly in his chair, looking almost bored. "But if there was someone twisting arms in this, it wasn't me. I bent over backwards for Donna, gave her everything she asked for, and you know how she repaid me? She walked out. Left me for some arrogant, slick-talking corporate lawyer, I forget the bastards' name."

"Sounds like my kind of guy," Harvey says.

"Your guy is a fool. Too vapid to see he's being played. Charging in here on his high horse, a knight wrapped in tinfoil with no idea his damsel is a sham." Martell shakes his head, sighs and adds, "I do hope she throws the poor pup a bone—the least that ginger bitch can do is have the decency to spread her legs, eh?"

Harvey's time has come. An anger courses through him so pure he doesn't even register rising from his chair and moving across the room. He grabs Jonathan by his crisp white collar and pulls him out of his seat. "Listen, you son-of-a-bitch, I didn't come here fight with you, but I'm getting tired playing your games."

"I'm sorry—have I offended you?" Martell is unperturbed, making no effort to escape Harvey's grasp. "That wasn't my intention. I wasn't aware you would be so emotional—unless..." He searches Harvey's eyes; the vacancy Harvey sees in his cool gray stare reminds him of a reptile. "Do you love her?"

Wearily Harvey corrects him, "I care about her."

"Too proud to admit then? Shacking up with the secretary is beneath you, I understand. But you know what they say about pride, it's just glorified cowardice."

Harvey tightens his grip, and Mike is behind him, saying hastily, "Harvey, don't."

Martell's eyes are burning through him, daring him to sink the first punch and Harvey is keen to rise up to the challenge until it dawns on him: he's not daring him, he's begging for it. The mans arms are limp at his sides, his posture is unaggressive...it's as if he's telling Harvey go on, I deserve it. And it all makes sense now. Jonathan Martell's vulnerability is that he hates himself. He's a piece of shit and he knows it.

Somehow Harvey finds it in himself to let the man go and with nothing constructive left to say he makes for the door, but Martell is prattling at his back, "One moment, Harvey, before you go—it just occurred to me..."

Harvey turns, determined not let the man get a rise out of him, whatever he says.

"I never thanked you for watching my daughter."

Uncertain of what this means, Harvey raises a brow.

"Cameron had you keep an eye on Alice while we were in our meetings all those years ago." Martell shrugs. "Perhaps you don't remember, but all the same, you deserve a proper thank you." He's waving Harvey off now, as if their meeting was a small matter, yesterday's news, and begins glancing around his desk as if he lost something.

Mike mouths: What the fuck?

Harvey shakes his head, his expression puzzled, and walks out.

But truth is, he remembers.

II

When Mike gets back from Duke-Sanger, Rachel grabs him by the elbow and pulls him into her office.

"Where's Harvey?" She asks in a hushed tone.

"With Louis going over the Duke-Sanger cases. Why?"

She peers around Mike, craning her neck to get a glimpse out of the glass door at his back. Her dark eyes sweep the hallway, edgy almost. "Did you meet with Jonathan Martell?"

"Yeah—guy's a total psychopath." He cups his fiancée's face in both hands and waits for her eyes to meet his. "Rachel, is everything okay?"

"I did some more research while you guys were out," she says, her eyes flicking to the glass again. The coast must be clear because she looks back at Mike and whispers, "Donna wasn't just some secretary."

"We know." Mike smiles, trying to ease her out of her anxiety. It's no big deal. Harvey's fine. He only tried to kill the guy. "I mean, Jonathan didn't explicitly say it, but she worked for him personally. There's no doubt about that."

"No. Mike, you don't understand." She is breathless, panicked. Her eyes dart back to the hallway. What is she so scared of? "You have to promise me that you're not going to tell Harvey what I'm about to tell you—not until we talk to Donna."

"Rachel...you know I can't do that."

"Mike, please."

"I won't do it." He releases her and backs away. It already feels to him like he's conspiring against his friend and he doesn't want to be a part of it. "C'mon, think about what happened last time I kept one of Donna's secrets. It won't end well."

"This is different from last time."

"How? Because it seems to me that Donna's done something behind Harvey's back again and he's going practically unhinged trying to fix it. And I'm sorry Rachel—I know Harvey's anger can be intimating and a pain in the ass to work with—but trust me he's gonna be a whole lot angrier when he finds out that we knew something and kept it from him."

Rachel's eyes stare into Mike's pleadingly and he wants to give in. Wishes he could. But he knows she's wrong in this. So, they stand at odds: his loyalty to Harvey against her loyalty to Donna.

"Damn it, Mike," She says and he knows she's caved by the sigh she lets out, which is so heavy it seems to slump her shoulders. From the desk she picks up a folder and hands it to him. "Just...make sure you look at every page before you decide to take this to Harvey. Okay?"

Mike flips the folder open. Rachel lets out a small gasp and moves beside him as if to shield the documents from the empty hallway. He leafs through, not seeing what the fuss is about: a list of Duke-Sanger's most profitable ETFs, Donna's charges, the names and titles on Duke-Sanger's board of directors...he stops suddenly on a copy of an official government document, Donna's name staring out at him in bold.

Speechless, he shifts his stare up to Rachel.

"It gets worse," she says.