This is the twenty-seventh entry in my "Milbury" series featuring post-series
Law & Order: Criminal Intent Alexandra Eames and Robert Goren.
The stories all build on one another and should be read in order.

This story runs concurrently with "Served," "Family," "Destined," and "Eve,"
and, after the first part, follows "Lecture"


.

***September 2023***

Upon arriving home from their book tour, Robert Goren and Alexandra Eames found their nine-year-old ward's possessions finally delivered from France, and it appeared as if the stock of a girls' boutique had appeared from both Olivia's closet at Maison Duplantier and her mother Madeleine Haynes' flat. Despite all they'd seen during their partnership as detectives of the New York City police department, the sheer volume awed them.

It was the latest in a string of surprises begun in October 2021 when Alex Eames, nine months retired from the NYPD, emotionally withdrawn after the loss of the home she'd shared with her late husband, took refuge in a small town in Connecticut, then discovered her former partner Bobby Goren, ten years after they'd parted ways, renting a tiny house a few miles south in the village of Milbury, still working for the FBI but also hosting a pub quiz at a restaurant co-owned by the son of their former ADA Ron Carver. Two days after their reunion, Alex had moved in with him; they wed a month later, and since then, they'd embarked on a series of small adventures (besides the larger one of being married to one another), including rescuing a kidnapped boy, locating Bobby's long-missing nephew, being abducted and left to survive in the woods, re-encountering their longtime nemesis Nicole Wallace (under the alias Madeleine Haynes), and each of them having a book published.

But the most significant surprise had come five months earlier when they were summoned to Paris after the death of Wallace and her married lover in a car crash, to discover that Nicole had requested their guardianship of their daughter Mignon. Her lover's wife, an influential French business executive, had brokered a deal with the State Department of the United States to swap her husband's bastard child for trade secrets. A stunned Alex and Bobby had returned home with the girl, who'd asked to be called by her middle name, where adoption proceedings were progressing. The book tour proved an opportunity to bond, and they loved her dearly, but often she remained bewildering: a child with a nature like quicksilver, gregarious, lovable, active, intellectually curious, two grades ahead of her peers.

Faced with a seemingly Denali-sized tower of clothes, many resembling the elaborate outfit that had given the pair pause when they met her eighteen months earlier, Olivia appeared embarrassed rather than delighted, especially after having spent most of the summer in tank tops, shorts, and sandals.

"Maybe Maman never had dolls when she was a little girl," she ventured, "and dressed me up instead? What shall I do with all of this?"

Practical Alex had thoroughly weeded out her wardrobe when she retired, keeping basics along with well-chosen dress items, like the winter-blue wedding gown that she considered her dancing dress, but said simply, "If it were me, I would just keep my favorites, maybe a few that were special memories of your maman, then perhaps anything she bought you to grow into. But these are your clothes. We could make room for clothes storage in the basement."

Olivia's purge was more extensive than expected, so it took a full day, even with Bobby's help at the end packaging so many dresses, blouses, slacks, and other items for donation to Big Brothers/Big Sisters, leaving Olivia with a solid wardrobe of favorite outfits for all weathers. Some larger-size clothing was set aside for the future, including a classic silk dress with a full skirt suitable for a teen. "I think Maman picked that for my commencement," Olivia said, gently stroking the rich blue folds of fabric.

St. Gregory's guidelines stated that students could wear appropriate dress clothing for the first and last day of school, plus other days to be specified. Otherwise, the uniform was de rigueur: navy blue skirt or slacks, black or navy blue walking shoes, white blouse/shirt in both long and short sleeves with academy patch on the left pocket, and the school blazer with the patch on the pocket for cold weather. For Alex, blazers were like a second skin, and she ensured that Olivia's fit properly.

Since the weather was still warm, for her first day, Olivia chose a ruffled pale purple blouse over a violet-and-blue tartan skirt, lilac ankle socks, and comfortable school shoes nothing like the stiff Oxfords required in the past. Bobby packed leftover chicken cacciatore in a crusty bun, fruit, and favorite snacks for her lunch, milk to be purchased at school, and they'd tucked her into bed, hoping she'd fall asleep quickly.

Privately, they had wagered she probably wouldn't.

Accordingly, Bobby's internal radar detected movement in the living room around midnight; he found Olivia sitting on the stairs as she had done when she first came home. Sam, their big laid-back tricolor collie, was beside her, his head resting on her lap.

"Tough being the new kid on the first day of school," he said quietly.

She looked over her shoulder at him. "Papa, you don't need to get up every time I can't sleep. I just wanted to think," she said in a low voice to keep from waking Bandit the budgie. She stroked Sam's head. "Sam helps me think."

Bobby leaned against the newel post, using the same muted voice. "I know. It's just anxious new-parent syndrome. But it strikes me that Alex and I were selfish, wanting to keep you here with us. We never considered sending you back to Creatwood."

"It would have been nice," Olivia confessed wistfully, "since I know the teachers, and Renata would be there..." but then she tilted her head upward. "But...I like it here. And if I went away, I'd only see you and Mama at Christmas and next summer hols. I'd miss you. And Ana and Carlos..."

"And Noah?" Bobby added with amusement, and she stifled a giggle. "You know I do that to tease you, don't you, Papa?"

"I know. Standard ten-year-old behavior, saying things to make the adults wig out."

"I'm not ten until Wednesday," she objected.

"Close enough," observed Alex as she slipped into the living room to lean against Bobby, smiling when Olivia rolled her eyes.

"And I'd miss how you look at each other," Olivia added with a wistful smile. "I suppose I'd miss everyone. Mr. Volpe is like my grandfather now, and Mrs. Perrino is like a grandmother. And there's Aunt Lizzie, Uncle Jack, and the rest-Shard and TJ and everyone at the Crystal-of course Mr. Jenkins and the kids.

"Especially Donna...she's like a big sister," she finished, yawning. She patted Sam, sent him back to his bed, then rose, hugging them in turn. "I can manage being 'the new kid' if it means staying here. I never wanted to go to Creatwood anyway, but Papa Marcel insisted all well-educated children went to boarding school, and then Maman insisted it had to be a British school because they were academically superior."

You learn something every day, his look said to Alex, as slow revelations since her homecoming had shown that Olivia had not led the fairy-tale life it seemed initially.

Alex tucked her in again, and by habit, she gathered up Captain, the stuffed fox Bobby had bought for her at Aéroport Charles de Gaulle in April.

"See you later, alligator," Bobby teased, and she responded, as Donna had taught her, "In a while, crocodile."

. . . . .

"Now I know how my mother felt when I went to kindergarten!" Alex breathed in exasperation.

Monday had commonly been her "chill-out day"; after a weekend of occasional Friday rail trips into New York City, trivia on Saturday, and various amusements on Sunday, it had been a catch-up time: laundry, obedience work with Sam, for those months before her book's publication work on her manuscript, while Bobby devoted most of the day to his consulting work. On that first day of school, he'd adhered to the latter doggedly all morning, and Alex had washed this and tidied that, caught up on e-mail, plus taken an extra run after lunch between rain showers, and the hours had crawled by. At noon, Bobby had come downstairs to eat and betrayed his wandering thoughts when he asked her how long she thought it would take them to drive to St. Gregory's, although they had driven Olivia to school less than five hours earlier.

He finally surrendered, locked away his work around 2:15 p.m., then popped into the bedroom after overhearing Alex's comment about her mother to find her already changing clothes. Five minutes later, he wore a polo shirt, jeans, and the inevitable Doc Martens. Sam was waiting at the back door, dancing, but when Bobby let him outside, he wasn't interested in anointing the grass but instead headed directly to the gate to the driveway, pawing at the chain link fence.

"Why not?" was Alex's cryptic suggestion, to which Bobby offered, "My car?" so they joined the school pickup queue, along with the ecstatic collie, in the Camaro. Knowing the line would remain stationary until the bell rang at three, other parents emerged from their SUVs to chat about the vintage car, and Sam greeted them with happy woofs. One parent had squinted at their St. Gregory's hangtag and asked if they were the grandparents of a child, to which Alex suppressed a sigh-this had already happened several times on the book tour-and they politely explained.

The bell shrilled at three, at which the last man still talking quipped, "Gentlemen, start your engines!" then bade them farewell and loped for his vehicle. Sam now stuck his head out the passenger side window beside Alex, his nose twitching, his nearsighted eyes peering toward the stone structure as a noisy parade of children burst out the big front double wooden doors, some hurrying toward the buses, some heading for the pickup line. Sister Mark Anthony, tall, square-shouldered, and commanding in dark blue, intermittently blew a police whistle to keep them in line. Then Sam barked, his tail beating a wild tattoo against the rear seat.

"I'm coming, Sam, I'm coming!" and Olivia appeared from behind "Sister Marksy" as they would discover the kids called her, an overstuffed backpack anchoring her right arm, and a sheaf of papers clutched in her left hand, navigating the rain-damp sidewalk with an older girl at her side, her backpack riding comfortably between her shoulder blades. "Mama, Papa! This is Cerise, my 'homeroom buddy'!"

Bobby arched an eyebrow at Alex as they said hello to Cerise, who was slender and angular, with a self-possessed expression that would have been at home on an Egyptian frieze, and Alex shot him a glance-we needn't have worried. Cerise helped Olivia get her things in the back seat while Bobby held Sam's collar so he wouldn't lick her face while she was trying to fasten her seat belt.

"See you tomorrow!" Cerise called as they drove away.

Olivia talked nonstop on the way home: there were two new children in seventh grade besides herself, and each had a homeroom buddy (a volunteer, she stressed, not because Sister Bridget appointed one): a girl from California named Bronwen ("She's standoffish," Olivia said, "but maybe it's not because she's snooty.") and "a dreadfully cute boy named Jacob, who used to live in the city" (they were amused that she had picked up their habit of saying "the city" as if The Big Apple was the only one that counted). Once home, she showed them her class schedule and schoolbooks-she had no homework but had brought the books home to read.

A routine soon developed: Alex took her to school, and Bobby picked her up (both came on Wednesdays); by the second week, she had after-school activities on Monday and Wednesday. She mourned not seeing Ana at Big Brothers any longer (unlike the public school, St. Gregory's had no early release day); but Mrs. Perrino would bring Ana with her after school on Thursdays or Fridays when she ran errands for Bruno Volpe next door, and on those days the girls did their homework at the kitchen table as they talked. Tuesday and Saturday nights were still trivia nights, although on Tuesday Olivia more often did her homework in a corner while TJ spoiled her with appetizers. Saturday mornings and early afternoons were reserved for chores or fun; Sunday was a happy family day driving anywhere from "Papa's favorite bookstore" to museum attendance to visiting attractions within the state or next-door Rhode Island and Massachusetts. Alas, while Bronwen did turn out to be "snooty," Cerise and Jacob began to turn up regularly in conversation.

Additionally, Olivia had weekly therapy sessions, regular visits from DCF representative Ruth Dunbar, and the occasional unscheduled event, like Hannah Love's inspection in October, yet she happily thrived throughout. Bobby and Alex recalled Dr. Chaudry's tale of her parents' remark that her birth late in their lives had kept them young; often both felt like they'd been transported backward in time. Still, they cherished any downtime during the week.

A week after the Veterans Day holiday, Olivia slid into the car next to Alex, who was chauffeur du jour because Bobby was closing out a case, and blurted out before saying hello, "Where's Papa Marcel's watch?"

Alex had nearly forgotten the gift Madame Pepin had dropped into Olivia's hands before they departed Paris, accompanied by a supposedly sincere apology: a vintage, substantial silver pocket watch, dark with tarnish, with a platinum chain made with thick flat links, fastened to a worn leather fob. Engraved on the front of the watch case within a scrolled design were the initials "M. T. P," Marcel Pepin's grandfather, Marcel Thibault Pepin, who had carried the timepiece during the First World War. "Bobby put it in the safe, I'm sure. If not, it's in the safe deposit box. Why?"

"It's for school!" Olivia said, then veered into a different story about tennis practice.

Bobby confirmed that it was indeed in the safe; he left the beef stew simmering and mounted the stairs two at a time to return with the timepiece cupped in his left hand, spilling it beside her on the kitchen table as Olivia opened her math book and scowled at her homework. "Thank you, Papa," she murmured, then set the watch aside to get her hated algebra problems out of the way. Life bustled around her: Alex disappeared into the living room to text Viola Perrino about the upcoming fundraiser for Big Brothers/Big Sisters, Bobby tended the stew while perusing a catalog of criminology books, and Sam wandered in and out, toenails clicking sharply on linoleum, seeking attention. She took a break only when Bandit flew into the kitchen, perching on her head. She brought the mostly white bird with his striped black "mask" down to table level and scratched under his chin when he fluffed up for her.

Algebra out of the way, she went on to a reading assignment (7th grade AP Language Arts current book was Watership Down) and finished with her history homework. Her face tensed as she completed the quiz at the end of the chapter. Having kept subconscious track of her American history progress, Bobby asked sympathetically, "Andrew Jackson? Indian Removal Act?"

"Yes," she said shortly.

He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You'll find history like that all over the world, Min," using the nickname her old schoolmate Renata had given her. "One civilization overruns another and declares moral superiority. It's a sad fact of life. We can't change past offenses, but we can keep them from happening again."

"Keep what from happening again?" Alex asked, emerging from the living room.

"Trail of Tears," Olivia responded.

"Nineteenth-century racist bullshit," her mother said firmly. "And too many people are resurrecting it. When will they learn?

"I will," the little girl said stoutly, prompting Alex to kiss her. Finished, Olivia cleared the table and set it for dinner. As they sat down to beef stew with a side salad of cucumber and tomato, Bobby asked casually, "So what's the deal with the watch?"

"Oh," Olivia said, "Tommy Connally started it...as always." She enjoyed a forkful of beef and potato, then performed her now-familiar eye-roll. "He was whinging in history class; said he didn't know why we had to learn about dead people. Brother Ambrose told Tommy we're all history; just that only a few people ever get written up in books. He asked if anyone in the class had things at home that might be historically interesting. Of course I thought of Papa Marcel's watch. Jacob said he was wearing his, and Brother Ambrose asked if he would tell us about it."

"What was he wearing?" Alex asked, curious.

"His yarmulke!" Olivia said animatedly. "It originally belonged to his great-grandfather, who survived a concentration camp. Jacob was named after him and met him before he died, when he was five. Brother Ambrose hopes we'll bring in things that illustrate our family history. He says they don't have to be from an important event, just everyday life. Sonia has a dress her grandmother wore in the 1930s, made from...a grain bag, if you can believe that! She was a farm girl. I thought about the middy dress I wear as Trot, but that's Mrs. Perrino's, not mine."

"I don't think Viola would object to you talking about her mother's old dress so long as Brother Ambrose doesn't mind you talking about someone else's family. Why not ask tomorrow? It sounds to me as if Brother Ambrose wants to do a history class version of Show and Tell," observed Alex.

"What's that?"

"I don't know if schools still do it, but when Bobby and I were kids it was popular in the lower grades. You brought something from home to show to the class and talked about it: a favorite toy or a souvenir of a trip, or maybe a gift you received. It was supposed to put you at ease with talking to your classmates, and tell them about your interests."

Bobby's eyes were distant as she explained the concept, and Alex realized his mind was elsewhere. Olivia glanced at her mother questioningly.

"Bobby-" Alex touched his shoulder and only that gesture brought him back to earth.

"Sorry," he responded self-consciously, "it reminded me of something from when I was a kid." Instead of explaining further, he picked up the watch case and cradled it in his hand. "Look at the craftsmanship in those days. Are you taking it in tomorrow?"

"No history class again until Monday," she reminded him, confirming his preoccupation since he knew her schedule by heart.

Only later, in the privacy of the bedroom, Alex asked him what had happened.

"Do you remember," he said slowly, "that day after we were reinstated at work when I blew up about the gifts from 'Uncle Mark'?"

She could hardly forget the event because it had followed one of his mandatory therapy sessions with Dr. Gyson, the final year they had worked Major Case together.

He'd returned to the office huffing angrily and spent the rest of the afternoon doing paperwork in forbidding silence. When Alex asked him out for a drink at day's end, he'd surprisingly obliged, only to start with a double bourbon, followed by a second.

He wasn't drunk when he unburdened himself, and she sharply cut him off from yet a third serving, but he had growled that Gyson had asked him about his father that day.

"Today of all days," he'd said sullenly, and she understood because that morning, she had listened to him negotiate in agitation on the phone with a creditor. She didn't dare, as she had when they were both unemployed, offer to loan him money. He'd turned crimson with embarrassment, which she'd only made worse by joking that he was the one person she trusted to lend money to. Months later, only after he'd left Major Case, she discovered that he'd sold his beloved Mustang to pay those bills.

"Good old Dad," he'd told her bitterly, "even bled me out of what I could have used to get me out of this mess."

And he'd repeated the story about the incident before his mother died when he had shown his brother Frank a photo of "Uncle Mark," a character he had forgotten from childhood but who Frank remembered vividly.

"He used to bring you things," Frank had told him, astonished that Bobby had no recall of that fascinating visitor. "Autographed baseballs, hockey pucks-"

She'd known by then that "Uncle Mark" was not a family member but Mark Ford Brady, the once-imprisoned serial killer who had "kept company" with Frances Goren while her husband vanished on extended "sales trips,' and who was Bobby's "sperm donor," as Bobby had come to scornfully refer to him after his pathetic attempts to use his son's expertise to get him a stay of execution.

"I saw my dad selling that stuff when I was older," Bobby had finished with resentment. "A puck from a 60s Boston Bruins game with Bobby Orr's autograph and another one from a Blackhawks game with Phil Esposito's. A baseball with Yogi Berra's autograph, and another with Mickey Mantle's. I never realized they were mine. My damned bloodstained biological patrimony could have at least paid off my debts. Instead, my dad sold them to pay off his own and fund his whores."

"Her talking about this history class thing," he sighed, "reminded me I was aware of at least one of Brady's gifts way back. I took it to school for Show and Tell in second grade. The baseball with Yogi Berra's autograph. Frank told me if I lost it he would brain me. I walked home for lunch that day just to put it back in a box under my bed to keep Frank from hassling me. I guess after my mom got sick, little things like that...just slipped my mind."

"For a little boy you had a lot on your plate," Alex said quietly, resting her forehead against his.

On Friday morning, Bobby apologized to Olivia for zoning out on her, but she was already used to his introspective disappearances and merely said, "It's fine, Papa." When he asked if he could look at the watch later that day, she'd nodded acceptance solemnly, but he swiftly added, "It's yours, and I think parents should ask permission to touch things that are special to their children." Alex quirked her mouth while thinking of the previous night, a gesture Olivia interpreted as something she might ask her mother about later.

They had no chance to check the timepiece on Friday because Bobby became so absorbed in his work that afternoon that they'd eaten a late supper; it slipped everyone's mind completely after Tony Fessiden appeared on their doorstep with welcome news of the adoption court date.

So they were in an exuberant mood Saturday morning after breakfast when he asked after the watch again; Olivia fished the item from her night table where Alex had transferred it for safekeeping, then waited as he turned it over in his supple fingers. "This looks as if it were a special gift. Perhaps your great-grandfather gave it to your grandfather just before he left for the trenches. Have you ever opened it?"

Olivia shook her head. "I wasn't allowed. Papa Marcel always took it out so I could hold it."

Alex took a seat next to him. "It's like a treasure hunt."

He pressed the tiny button that opened the watch case so that it spread apart like concave butterfly wings; inside was nestled the timepiece itself, its face yellowed with time, the hands frozen at 11:51. The numerals were in cursive from one to twelve, then numbered in red inside the circle of black numbers from thirteen to zero for use as a 24-hour clock. There was a long sweep second hand in black, with the watch hands themselves pewter-colored. Bobby cupped it in his right hand while gently twisting the stem forward and back. When the second hand remained immobile, he made a further attempt to wind it with no success.

"The mainspring may be broken," he said regretfully, "but we could find a watch repair shop somewhere in the city and get it into shape again: a new crystal and a good cleaning might be all it needs."

Alex tapped the interior of the case. "Check out the back panel, Bobby-here, that tiny curve at the bottom. Does it have a false back?"

He exchanged the watch for the case, examining it with a smile. "Looks like it, Eames. Can you pry a fingernail underneath?-my mitts are too big."

She smiled in anticipation and gently wedged her thumbnail into the tiny indented crescent and tugged gently, and the curved, thin metal shell parted from the back of the watch case. "How about that? Maybe Grandpa Marcel had a photo of his sweethear-"

"What's that?" Olivia interrupted, leaning over her shoulder to stare into the watch case, adding automatically, "Excuse me, Mama," then noticed that both adults seemed dumbfounded. Bobby stirred first. "Min, go to the bathroom and get the tweezers, please."

"What-"

"Just go," he repeated, and she hopped from her seat.

"Can that be what I think it is?" Alex squinted at the miniature paper-thin square brown wafer with two pinpoint whitish discolorations at one edge stored in the hidden compartment of the watch case.

"I've only seen one in a museum-"

"The spy museum in D.C.," she finished.

Olivia handed him the tweezers and a tissue. "Good thinking. Thank you," he said with a grin, laid the tissue down, moved to extract the wafer, and then paused as his instincts kicked in. "Alex, grab one of our phones first. Take a shot of how we found this." Then he grinned because he noticed she already had her cell phone waiting.

She replaced the false back, then snapped several photographs from different angles with the compartment cover on and off. Next, Bobby carefully plied the tweezer to remove the square wafer from the watch case and laid it gingerly on the tissue. Olivia sat back down, staring at it. "Someone say something!"

"I am pretty certain this is a piece of microfilm," Bobby declared.

"What's that?"

"You know cameras weren't always digital, right?" Alex asked. "Before digital cameras, a camera had film in it."

Bobby added, "Negative images were saved on the film, which you brought to a photo center or a drugstore to have developed as prints unless you knew how to do it yourself. Professional photographers took pride in developing their own film because they could manipulate the resulting print."

Olivia nodded. "I read about camera film in one of my books, but I didn't know it looked like that."

"Camera film was a long reel," and Bobby made a stretching motion with his hands. "This is...where's your ruler?"

Olivia produced one from her desk and found that the wafer measured 17 millimeters square.

"Look, we'll find a book..." Bobby continued, "...or a YouTube video...a camera museum maybe. This is just a single frame. It looks like microfilm. Have you ever seen any spy movies?"

"Like James Bond?" Olivia asked, confused. "I watched a couple with Maman last year. She said they were dreadfully sexist, but that Sean Connery was nice to look at."

Alex chuckled briefly. "They were sexist, but he was. Did you understand what the spies were doing?"

"One country...wanted something secret from another country," Olivia said after several seconds, "and so they sent a man...the spy...into the other country to get it."

Bobby still had eyes on the item but flashed a grin. "In a nutshell. The photos would be reduced to microfilm to be hidden. This piece, for instance, would easily fit into a U.S. quarter or an equivalent-size foreign coin that had been hollowed out."

"But why would it be in Papa Marcel's grandfather's watch?"

"That's what we have to find out." Bobby unfolded himself from the kitchen chair and disappeared into the bedroom.

"The game's afoot," Alex said mischievously, having seen his eyes brighten.

He emerged already on his cell phone. "-Agent Goren and I need to speak with Marcus Thuringer."

"Oh, Bobby, give Marc a break. It's Saturday morning."

"Are you kidding? Marc gets off on things like this." And he set the phone down and turned on the speaker.

To his surprise, the director of the Hartford field office answered the phone with a slight growl. "Who is this?"

"Marc? Are you okay?"

"It's the middle...well, all right, it's nine-thirty, but Jesus, Bob-" Thuringer paused. "Are you okay?"

"Not trapped in the woods this time, no. Late night?"

"Rachel's youngest brother got engaged. We were partying kind of late."

"Damn. Sorry." Bobby did his best to sound contrite. "It's just that we came upon something odd...does your office by any chance still have anything that will enlarge microfilm?"

There was silence at the end of the line, then Thuringer returned in a slightly dazed voice, "Microfilm? Did I suddenly wander into an Ian Fleming novel?"

Bobby chuckled. "We were just talking about James Bond. Yes, a nice little square of it, hidden in a watch case."

"Watch…case?" Thuringer seemed to perk slightly.

"Vintage World War I pocket watch. From Marcel Pepin's family."

Olivia's face was alight now because Bobby looked about twelve years old, his face animated. When she glanced at her mother, Alex grinned and said, "Spy nerds."

"I heard that!" Thuringer protested.

"All Bobby needs right now," she said tartly, "is his secret decoder ring." But she was almost absurdly happy to see him smiling after Evangeline Pepin's subtle threats earlier in the month to waylay Olivia's adoption.

"Not us, but Boston does."

"We need to call Matt Hogarth," said Bobby instantly, then added, "Hey-got so wrapped up in this...we got our court date yesterday."

"Outstanding!" Thuringer responded. "When?"

"December 22 at ten sharp."

"What a great Christmas gift! Congratulations!"

"Thanks, Marc," said Alex.

Now came a sleepy woman's voice asking, "Marc, why are you shouting? And who is that at this hour?"

"Rache, it's almost ten o'clock."

"And we got in at four-"

"Hold on, hon-Bobby, I'll contact Matt and get back to you-" Thuringer hurriedly hung up, presumably to mollify his partner.

Bobby enfolded the microfilm wafer in the tissue, and Alex tucked the morsel under her mother's pearls in her jewelry box. After walking Sam in combination with Alex's morning run, they made a quick trip to the Nutmeg Hill Farmer's Market and had just put away their purchases when Bobby's cell rang. They knew it was Thuringer by the ringtone: Johnny Horton's "Secret Agent Man."

"You busy tomorrow?" Thuringer asked.

"We hadn't anything planned, but-"

"Put me on speaker." And then he queried so all three could hear, "Olivia, have you ever flown in a small plane?"

"We went on a helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon," Olivia responded. "It was fun!"

"So you wouldn't be afraid?"

"I don't believe so."

"How'd you like to fly to Boston in a Cessna?"

A look of sheer joy crossed the girl's face. "Like Molly's mother's plane?"

"I don't know who Molly is, but it's a Cessna 180 4-seater."

Alex explained merrily, "Molly as in of Denali. It's an animated show on PBS. Molly's mother is a bush pilot."

"I can't claim to be a bush pilot, but I've got a flight plan booked through to Hanscom Field and a car reserved to get to Brookline."

"We can just drive-" Alex pointed out, to which Olivia almost wailed a protest until Thuringer wheedled, "I haven't taken the plane up in months, and Olivia will enjoy it."

The youngster mouthed, please! to them, and Bobby began, "So we-"

"Drive to the office. I'll get a tag to park your car, and we'll take mine to Windsor Locks. How early can you be here?"

More silent eye conversation, Olivia noticed. "We can do ten."

"Perfect. See you then."

. . . . .

Alex pulled the CRV to the curb of the Hartford FBI field office just at ten; Thuringer was already waiting on the sidewalk bundled in a jacket, holding a hang tag, and accompanied by a trainee who looked all of sixteen to the two adults. Olivia, her stuffed fox under her arm ("just in case," she'd said), burst from the car instantly, disappointed in the nondescript building.

The trainee smiled, nodded a businesslike acknowledgment, politely took the keys, and drove away with Alex's car as Bobby commented wryly, "Tell me my seminar subjects in January will be older."

"Yours will be more seasoned, I promise," Thuringer grinned. He was a short, muscled man whom Mike Logan had once described as looking like a squat bullet, with dark curly hair, deep brown eyes, and an olive complexion. "Navir's twenty-two and a whiz with languages-invaluable in-house, but I wouldn't put them out in the field." His car, a dark hybrid sedan, was parked at the curb; once they were inside, he said, "May I see it?"

Alex teased, "You two are like a couple of kids."

"How often do I get to see something out of John Le Carré?" protested Thuringer.

Bobby briefly revealed the precious wafer now sandwiched between two sheets of parchment paper; Thuringer cupped it in his palm with an almost greedy expression before Bobby tucked it away again. Soon after the Gorens recounted the watch's origins and discovery of the microfilm inside, they had arrived at Windsor Locks. A soft but chill breeze kept Alex busy brushing her hair away from her eyes, but both Bobby and Olivia were wired, and she had to work to keep up with them as they strode toward a sleek white four-seater aircraft with its single wing on top. A red and a blue stripe ran the length of the aircraft body, then combined into an interlocked dental pattern on the tail; the passenger side door was open with a rolling stair set up beside it.

"So this is what you flew to Scranton in to rescue us?" Alex asked with a grin.

"Yes. This is my other lady," Thuringer said proudly, then excused himself to speak to the ground staff employee approaching them. "Go on, hop in. Sorry, Bobby has to sit up front because he won't fit anywhere else."

Thuringer had plotted his flight plan to parallel the Massachusetts Turnpike for much of the journey, and they kept him busy pointing out landmarks below. In the air, he seemed to be an entirely different person, quick-moving rather than deliberate, voice chipper in tower communications, in his element in the sky. The November landscape was nearly leafless, so details popped from the ground below, keeping Olivia enthralled. Once Bobby alerted her to what looked like a quaint centuries-past community. "Check that out, Min."

"Cows!" Olivia said, astonished. "And a flock of sheep, and dirt lanes!"

"It's Old Sturbridge Village," Alex told her. "It recreates a town in the early 1800s."

"We should go in the spring," Bobby said reflectively, "when the lambs and calves are born."

All too soon, they were circling, then landing at Hanscom Field, which shared runways with Hanscom Air Force Base; Thuringer pointed out the different jets between his communication with the tower. A driver met them to hand over a black sedan with government plates, and once on the road, Olivia saw the signposts for Lexington and Concord. She said wide-eyed, "Lexington! Is that where Rab was shot?"

Startled, Thuringer blurted out, "Who was shot?"

"Rab! In Johnny Tremain."

"Yes, that's the way to Lexington Green," Bobby replied.

"Can't we go see?" she begged.

"Not in a government car, sweetie," Alex said. "It's against the rules. Marc would get in trouble. We'll come back. Louisa May Alcott's house is nearby, too, where she wrote Little Women."

Olivia had been less impressed by Little Women than by Johnny Tremain, but she nodded and watched wistfully backward as they drove south. However, as they approached Matthew Hogarth's two-story Dutch Colonial house, her inquisitive demeanor returned.

The clapboard house, with its cap-like gambrel roofline, had recently been painted royal blue with white trim. Marc navigated the Toyota Camry parallel to the left side of the dwelling, up a slight slope on the narrow, old-fashioned driveway consisting of two strips of concrete placed at tire width within now-dormant grass. At the rear, a separate two-story building about the size of a three-car garage was separated from the house by a screened-in breezeway; Bobby and Alex surmised this was "the granny flat" where Hogarth's son Charles Saltonstall lived. Beyond the granny flat was a shingled garage with barn-door type openings instead of roll-up doors; within the half-lit expanse, they could see Hogarth's car, a CRV like Alex's but green, and shadowy outlines of old tools.

"What a beautiful house!" Alex exclaimed as they emerged from the car.

"Built 1910, and the addition postwar 1940s, due to the housing shortage," Hogarth called from the breezeway, holding open the vintage wood-framed screen door with its scrollwork; he was bundled in a thick-knit green sweater, a tall, slender Black man, with soft silver-and-snow white hair and flecked eyebrows in contrast to his russet-toned skin and dark eyes. He served as the director of the Boston field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; Olivia knew him best as the father of her tutor on the book tour, Donna Hogarth, and Bobby and Alex as the former husband of Bobby's FBI supervisor Penelope Saltonstall. He grinned. "And trust me, it was a lot cheaper when Penny and I bought it forty years ago. Come on in."

"I'll bet." Bobby checked out the surrounding oaks and maples, locusts and elms, which in summer would blanket the house with shade, then the neighboring homes, before entering the warm kitchen with its faint scent of fresh paint. "Any problems with the neighbors?"

"Loan company mostly saw Penny," Hogarth said blandly, understanding Bobby's implication. "I created a stir when we first moved in-some people thought I was the chauffeur who lived in the backhouse. Luckily there were other mixed families, like the Fourniers, in the neighborhood, so there wasn't too much of a fuss. Only two families moved away."

Olivia, standing amid a kitchen partially draped with drop cloths, was confused. "Why would they move away?"

"Because he was Black, sweetie," Alex sighed.

Olivia grimaced but asked, "May I see what the rest looks like?"

"Sure, hon, go ahead," and the little girl scampered past Thuringer toward the front of the house.

"She's studied the Trail of Tears in school and couldn't understand that, either," Bobby said wryly.

"God knows why any of them should have to cope with the shit we did," Hogarth returned bitterly, "yet we still have the racial purity brigades coming out of the woodwork." Then he smiled and gestured. "What do you think?"

Hogarth had already painted two kitchen walls a pale mint green instead of the worn yellow of the previous job. "Once I get done, I'm going to rub down the cabinets with Murphy's Oil Soap till the grain comes out on them again."

Alex brushed the surface of the warm walnut-finished natural wood cabinets. "They'll be beautiful."

"Prepping for your bride?" Bobby teased, only to have the older man look abashed. Hogarth was retiring at the end of December, as was Saltonstall, and Bobby knew she had agreed to come back to her old home to live. Then Hogarth laid sympathetic eyes on Thuringer, who was pacing the front hall lined with family photos. "Why don't we put Marc out of his misery? Sit while I grab some tools."

When Olivia padded downstairs fifteen minutes later, she found them surrounding the vintage Formica-topped "boomerang" design chrome-legged table with matching mint-green vinyl-upholstered chairs, viewing the square of microfilm through a lightbox with a magnifying tool mounted on an adjustable stand; Thuringer was currently manipulating the magnifier up and down. The child moved between her parents and whispered, "I found Donna's old room!"

"That obvious, is it?" Bobby responded, amused.

"A poster of watermelon stones, lots of pink and green, and stuffed unicorns," Olivia told them.

Hogarth interjected, "I'm not touching anything else until Penny gets here, just redoing the kitchen. We had both liked it this way already, even though we bought the 50s stuff originally because it was all we could afford. Hell, the table was from Goodwill! It was cheap back then; no one wanted it-now I've been told we have collectors' items, especially that Glenwood range." He tapped the Formica. "We had the top restored, but that was about it. After the first of the year, we'll discuss what else we want to update, especially the children's old rooms."

"Did you find anything?" Olivia asked, edging closer to Thuringer to peer at the microfilm.

"No," Hogarth admitted. "It will need to be enlarged professionally at my office. All we can make out is that there appear to be ten documents, not counting the two white spots."

"May I see?"

Thuringer slid his chair over. "Feel free."

Olivia took a turn squinting and adjusting the magnifier. Finally, she said, "Hou la, I didn't know they could do things like this in the olden days."

"Shall I smack her with my cane?" Hogarth chuckled, and when Olivia looked surprised, he apologized. "I'm sorry, Olivia. That was my attempt at a joke. I meant you made me feel old."

"I didn't mean it."

"I know. It was a terrible joke." He took her hands. "You remind me so much of my 'unicorn.'"

"Thank you," and Olivia's eyes glowed, knowing he referred to his daughter Donna.

Hogarth continued, "Thing is, Bob, I'm not sure when we'll have the time for this. Marc and I have already started the turnover process so he can hit the ground running on January 1. I've got several things outstanding and may have to put the microfilm in my safe until the end of the year."

"Need any help?" asked Bobby with arched eyebrows.

"Can't pay you."

"I know. Keep the microfilm-it will be safer with you. We're heading to Michigan this week anyway, and then there's the Christkindlmarkt fundraiser for Big Brothers," Bobby said, then cocked his head at Olivia. "Of course, it was in your watch-I should ask you."

"I want to know what's on it, too," Olivia said. "You can keep it, Mr. Hogarth."

"I promise if Matt can't get to it next month, I will in January," Thuringer told her. "I'm eager to investigate it further."

"What about your turnover, Bob?" Hogarth asked. "You already in progress?"

Alex glanced at her husband because Bobby had suddenly flushed, but he answered quietly, "I'm cleaning up my docket gradually. I have a few more things to get to Penelope in December."

His host said quietly, "She was sorry she had to do it."

Bobby shrugged. "Not her fault."

Alex's hand reached out to squeeze his knee under the table, but Olivia said serenely, "Papa's already preparing his lecture materials. Ana said he's...'going to blow 'em out of the water.'"

"Tell Ana thanks for the vote of confidence."

"You can tell her yourself, Papa. We have Thanksgiving tomorrow at the Crystal, remember?"

. . . . .

What remained of November passed swiftly. St. Gregory's dismissed for Thanksgiving week. Shard's second annual "Friendsgiving" took place on Monday, then on Tuesday, the five of them, Bandit happily chirping during most of the two-day trip in Alex's CRV with a Tetris-puzzle trunkful of luggage, traveled to Bobby's aunt's farm near Lansing, Michigan, for Thanksgiving and the day following. They were home late Sunday afternoon to prep for another week of school.

Christmas items on store shelves in September had astonished Olivia; once Halloween passed, she was awed by the holiday juggernaut. While she'd seen American Christmas films and specials in France while reveling in Parisian festivities-from skating on the Eiffel Tower amid twinkling "fairy lights," as she called them, to le réveillon on Christmas Eve, to shopping among rainbow glitter and sparkle at Bon Marché and Galeries Lafayette-unlike an American child who from babyhood was well acquainted with Christmas uproar, Olivia was thrust in headfirst.

Her peers initiated her into raucous films like Elf and Christmas Vacation in tandem with small-screen classics involving Rudolph, Charlie Brown, and their animated ilk. Shopping soundscapes became an endless stream of Christmas tunes from Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra to Taylor Swift and K-pop. She flitted happily among vast choices of Yuletide crafts and traditional foods from all nations. But she was a thoughtful child by nature and also came to appreciate gentler traditions her parents loved: soft jazz Christmas carols, whimsical films like Bobby's favorite The Bishop's Wife or Alex's vintage choices, warm gingerbread and cocoa in place of overdone desserts, candlelight and evergreen wreaths.

Die Hard as a Christmas film she wasn't quite sure about.

The Christmas Market fundraiser swallowed the first weekend of December. Then came holiday parties at Big Brothers and the Dark Crystal. On the ninth, Abril Diaz, Ana, and Carlos rode with Viola Perrino to the farmer's market for a Christmas tree, while Bruno Volpe came with the Gorens. Olivia and Ana escorted the geriatric man carefully among the stalls filled with savory farm foods and holiday treats as well as homemade gifts; the shelves dripped with miniature lights and multicolor tinsel garland, and the air was redolent with cedar and fir, mulling spices, apple, and peppermint. The girls even persuaded Bruno to buy a tree: a three-foot fir in a festive red pot. They volunteered to help him decorate it, but he demurred; later that night, the little tree stood proudly in the left front window of Bruno's venerable Colonial home, brightly lit and trimmed with a few ornaments.

Mid-month, Matthew Hogarth phoned at lunchtime. They were immediately captivated by his words. "Say, Bobby, I have a microfilm expert who wants to look into that piece you brought me. I showed it to him today and he was mighty intrigued. He asked if he could take it to his forensics lab."

"Another agent?" Bobby asked warily.

"Former Bureau, now with Homeland Security. He's worked with the British and French police as a microfilm expert, too."

Now Bobby was curious. "What's the name?"

"Adan Ciervo."

Bobby straightened in his seat. "'One Shot' Ciervo?"

"Ah, his reputation proceeds him, I see."

"Everyone in Albany knew Ciervo. He's a Rensselaer native. Sharpshooter, among other things-sniper training-which is where he got his nickname. Matt, was there anything he could tell you now?"

"He thinks, except for the two little white spots, that the film itself is post-war vintage."

"World War II?" Bobby was astounded.

"Yes. He's thinking 1946-1948. Something to do with the type of film."

"So, sorry, no Cold War secrets?" Alex teased, but even she felt slightly disappointed.

"Not the stuff I remember. Not the Cuban Missile Crisis, duck and cover drills, or threats of nuclear annihilation."

"I suppose I was lucky," Alex said dryly. "All I remember are convention riots on television, Nixon getting elected, and Watergate." She and Bobby exchanged glances, then the latter spoke. "Go ahead, let him take it."

"I'll call back when I hear more," Hogarth promised, but Christmas would pass before their discovery saw the light of day again.

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- - to be continued - -

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NOTES ON THIS STORY:

* The sports gifts from Mark Ford Brady were mentioned in "Endgame." I wondered what happened to them; it was possible they were very valuable.

* The International Spy Museum in Washington, DC, is a must see.

* They'll probably end up at the George Eastman Museum, but the only camera museum I could find was in McDonough, GA.

* Windsor Locks is also the home of the New England Air Museum.
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