This is the thirty-first 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 follows "Moving Day"
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- - PART 1 - -
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***August 23, 2024***
"Liv in her natural environment," Alexandra Eames Goren quipped fondly, peering in the window of the captain's office for the Special Victims Unit at the 16th Precinct to see Olivia Benson paging through paperwork and occasionally initialing documents. In her dark-rimmed glasses, she looked more like a university instructor than a police detective.
"She's missing her pendant," Robert Goren observed instantly from behind her. "She wore it for months, but I haven't seen it lately."
"She loaned it to a friend who needed some of the comfort it gave Liv. She must still have it."
"Just like her," Bobby said with a little smile. "Did...the giver mind?"
Alex shook her head, knowing they were dancing around the gift-giver's name. "I don't think it was a problem. They know Liv."
Their adopted daughter stood on tiptoe, peering into the office. "The compass was so pretty, though."
"Don't ask about it, Min. You could knock for us, though."
Olivia Goren never did things by halves. She gave several sharp raps on the door, then opened it before Benson could respond. "Hullo, Captain Benson!
Benson put down her pen and smiled broadly. "Hello yourself, Olivia Two." When she opened her right arm in greeting, the blond child in her lavender shirt and blue slacks with rainbow-stained sneakers ran to hug her. "How's Noah?"
"Noah is fine. He's at ballet today. How's your summer been?"
"Too hot and too many storms! Sunday was dreadful. But the rest has been brill! We stayed at Lake George a fortnight ago-did you see it on my blog? We had an excursion boat ride and drove up to Fort Ticonderoga, where the British and Americans fought the French in the Seven Years' War." She made a face. "The French lost."
"Well, that time they did. But they came back to help the colonists win the Revolutionary War," Benson responded, amused. "And we read that blog entry. Noah wants to visit, too."
"You must! You'd both love it," Olivia promised. "May I go back out to the bullpen and look around?"
"Go ahead, but remember not to touch anything. I'll be right after you. No, no, don't come in." The last was addressed to Alex and Bobby, both dressed for warm weather in a short-sleeved blue blouse and black denim slacks, and an open-necked mint-green polo shirt and light tan khaki cotton trousers, respectively. Instead, she rose from her chair, tucking a manila file folder under her arm as she did so. "I'm taking a break."
"A break!" Alex teased. "You know what those are?"
Benson chuckled, but when she joined them in the doorway, she asked soberly, "You guys make out okay on Sunday? I saw the news reports about the floods."
"Tree limbs down everywhere and we lost power for about seven hours," Alex answered gravely. "We spent Tuesday cleaning up both yards. Abbi's vegetable garden was ruined. Both lawns will need reseeding. But I won't complain-two dozen homes north of Main Street had roof damage, and Oxford and Southbury were hit so hard. It's a good thing school hadn't begun."
"We got off easy." Bobby nodded, looking rueful. "On Wednesday at Big Brothers, all the kids were outside to help clean up the storm debris. We had a window broken at the facility, nothing worse."
"I'm glad," Benson said sincerely, then asked a bit more lightly, "And what brings you into the city today?"
"Reassuring Liz and Jack that we're fine, along with a regular visit." Alex was puzzled by Benson's diversional chit-chat; she'd called them after all, to ask if they'd drop by, so what was she circumventing? "We stayed overnight this time, at my brother's. We just finished lunch with Lizzie and Steve and, before that, fed the insatiable book appetite of my two bibliomaniacs-"
"You sound more like them every day," Benson responded.
"One learns the vocabulary of the usual suspects," bantered Alex in return.
"We spent a half-hour in Macy's, too," Bobby interjected. "Min's going through a growth spurt. They had winter coats on sale."
"Please don't mention growth spurts! Noah's already showing hints of the infamous 'teen appetite' I've heard so much about. I had a call from Elliot yesterday, and I mentioned it to him. He tells me it just gets worse."
Alex nodded. "I remember my brother: Jack ate like a horse and stayed the size of a greyhound. Half a chocolate chip cookie, and the scale thumbed its nose at me."
Bobby had apparently become restive about when the other shoe would drop. "So what was it you called about, Liv?"
"Well-" They were surprised when she still hesitated, for Benson was noted for taking matters head-on. "I was hoping," she admitted, "that you could help me."
She paused as they watched Olivia explore the Special Victims Unit squad room, her hands clasped behind her so she wouldn't be tempted by anything on the desks.
"Your workspace always amazes me. My old office was like a rabbit warren in comparison," Alex said approvingly, to break the silence.
"The old squad room was friendlier, though," Benson said with nostalgia, looking around the bright, open area that served the Special Victims Unit.
Alex teased gently, "Maybe you just miss the company?"
When Benson flashed her a pointed look, Alex added, "I mean, John Munch was always good for livening up your day."
"Yes, he was. I miss him," Benson admitted wistfully, then stepped aside as two uniformed officers departed, the older man bidding her farewell by name. The spacious area was sparsely occupied: three people were at their desks, one tapping away at his laptop, the other two women comparing notes from case files. The remainder of the detectives were out in the field.
Bobby's attention was drawn to a far corner where notes concerning a series of attacks were being posted on a magnetic whiteboard by a uniformed young woman. His eyes flicked from magnet-tacked photos to notes in dry-erase marker: "bandana mask over eyes and nose" and a terse "grunts, no speech." He cocked his head to the side when he saw the police sketch artist's drawing of the square face of the suspected perpetrator, based on the reports of the three victims whose photos lined the top edge of the whiteboard. The violence and humiliation the women had endured made his expression darken as he scanned the evidence. Each victim had reported briefly spying a strange round mark on the lower portion of the man's right cheek, but none had seen the details. Wispy marks on the right cheek of the sketched face suggested this, as per the note in black below.
"It's a tattoo, surely-" he murmured aloud.
"Yes," Benson said, smiling at Bobby's inability to remain uninvolved in law enforcement puzzles. "That's what we're thinking."
"But what if it's a brand?" he continued thoughtfully.
"A brand?"
He stepped forward to examine the photos more closely. "There's a specific rage here. A thirst for retribution. Look at the coarseness and thinness," and he thrust his left forefinger at an image of a prickly length of cording, "of the rope used to bind the victims. Their attacker wanted them to feel pain. This shot shows that he hogties his victims in a style used by old-school cattle ranchers," Bobby said, tapping the photo of lacerated skin on arms and ankles, "indicated in each case by the angle of the rope burns. Could he have been branded at one time, either by choice or force? If by choice he may have a fetish involving brands or branding, perhaps extended to a connection with cattle ranching."
The young officer, a sharp-eyed Latina fresh from the police academy, with an oval face and hair scraped back into a businesslike bun, was gazing at him with sudden excitement. "As if he were raised out West or worked on a ranch? I thought about that; my great-grandfather was a vaquero...and CSU did log a torn square of leather marked with the Greek letter 'psi' using pyrography. There's also the mask, a clear tie-in with old-time bandits. And so far his victims have all been of the same body type-dark-haired, warm-complexioned, buxom, and fairly tall. If he were branded by force, could this be his revenge on a particular woman who did this to him?"
"A mother, stepmother, or another type of custodial figure would be my first supposition. Possibly a controlling former girlfriend or spouse." Bobby nodded. "You may have hit on something, Officer-"
"Lozano, sir." She glanced at Benson, her face animated. "Captain, perhaps I could search the database for crimes committed with similar M.O.s in states west of the Mississippi?"
Bobby cautioned, "You might widen that search parameter since cattle ranches exist elsewhere. Both Florida and Georgia have-"
"Bobby," Alex said fondly, "I think Liv can manage her own investigation."
"No, no," Benson said with a pensive expression. "I appreciate the input. And Officer Lozano, those are excellent insights. Note those observations on the board, please, and once you finish, conduct research in that area. And thank you."
"Yes, Captain," the officer said, printing in red marker, "Are ligature marks related to hogtying/ranching? Brand mark? Possible Western/ranching connection? Abuse victim?"
Alex reminded her, "I'd rather Min not see any more crime scene photos, please," although the child seemed more absorbed in the FBI wanted posters.
"I'd forgotten Lozano was finishing up," Benson apologized, then called out, "Olivia Two, come on! What I want to show you is this way."
Olivia scampered in their wake as they navigated a newly painted passageway. Benson's badge permitted them access through double doors, then they made a sharp turn. Lining the uniformly grey corridor were numbered single doors that led to interrogation rooms; she directed them into the first observation room instead.
"Oh, no," Alex said impulsively upon looking through the observation window. "Please tell me he's not a victim. Or even worse, one of your suspects."
"No," was the relieved response, "although he is a victim, but not of violence." Her shrewd eyes were on Bobby, who was drawn to the window like the proverbial moth to the flame. Olivia also peered through the window; her eyes grew wide, and her hand stole into her father's.
On the opposite side of the glass, a small boy sat in one of the metal chairs next to the interrogation table. His unruly, almost black hair obscured his face as he bent over what looked like a paperback book. His round, wire-framed eyeglasses were perched at the edge of the table beside him. When Benson sharply rapped the glass with her knuckles, the child's head shot up, and he shoved the glasses on as if they could help him peer through the two-way mirror that, on his side, reflected a thin, light olive-skinned face, a sharp nose, and a pair of arresting hazel eyes. He wore a stained plaid button-down shirt, and under the table, they could see dirt-streaked jeans and begrimed classic Chucks sneakers as his feet bounced up and down.
"That footwork looks familiar," Alex said fondly, and she saw Bobby flash a smile, his eyes never leaving the boy. "So-"
"Hang on," Benson explained, "it's a long story. He's Randall Shaw, from Wilton, Connecticut. His father, Sterling Shaw, has been a guest of the State of New York for the past twenty months and will be for the foreseeable future. He's a dealer of oxycodone and any number of other opioids. One of his products was cut with such a strong percentage of fentanyl that in 2021 it killed a college student and his fourteen-year-old sister. The fourteen-year-old's parents attended Shaw's trial every day and told the newspapers that their son was an adult and had made his own decision, but that Shaw deserved the death penalty for their daughter. A few of his buddies gave him up in exchange for a plea deal.
"Carisi has an entire dossier on Shaw. Age thirty-five, sweet talker, good at deception, career con man. He convinced his wife and later his son that he worked at a New York brokerage firm, leaving every morning and arriving home every evening in a suit, carrying a briefcase. His real 'office' was an old warehouse near the piers. Let's say Mrs. Shaw was stunned when he was arrested. She was even more stunned when he was convicted because he'd assured her before the trial that it was 'mistaken identity.'"
Benson extracted the file folder from under her arm and paged through it, stopping at an 8x10 photo of a woman. She had a heart-shaped, almost childlike visage, with large dark eyes, a thin nose like Randall's, and pouting lips, the combination topped with short, dark hair in what Alex remembered being called a "Dorothy Hamill cut."
"Rosalind Shaw, age thirty," Benson introduced in a kindly voice. "Until a little less than a year ago, she'd coped with her husband's incarceration-until a cutback at Wells Fargo, where she was a bank employee, left her unemployed. She was desperate for rent money, so she let one of her husband's friends-his 'best friend' Hank-talk her into selling," and her slender fingers described an inch of space between thumb and forefinger, "'just a little pot,' in Manhattan, 'where the money was.' He found her a regular spot, a list of existing customers, and she was in business.
"Fin's had dealings with Hank Sorelto. Calls him a 'slick SOB who could sell ice to Siberians.' Rosalind was no match for him. Hank told her there was nothing to worry about; no one would get hurt-that 'pot was legal' now. Her sales earned her the bare minimum, so she and Randall weren't quite making ends meet. When Hank got wind of it-and since now she trusted him-"
"He set her on the path to hell?" was Alex's bitter retort.
Benson nodded in agreement. "Persuaded her into adding a few 'party drugs' to her inventory. The stuff he told her 'spoiled rich kids got into.' She would be causing little harm. 'Just like alcohol.'"
"She was that naïve? Was she brought up in a convent?" Alex asked, aghast.
"Pretty close. Small Pennsylvania town with rigorous religious parents. Homeschooled. She met Shaw at seventeen. By the time she was eighteen, she was married to him and pregnant. The outside world was a revelation to her, and she never quite got wise to its ways. Her husband used that naivety to his advantage.
"Her tenure as a dealer didn't last long. Two uniforms found her in an alley on May 16, presumably having overdosed while sampling her product-or that's what it was intended to look like. They think Hank-or his buddies-got to her because the post-mortem indicated a strong possibility that the dose wasn't self-administered. While it was a poor attempt to divert the police, someone did a good enough job that there are no firm suspects. In the meantime, she's been at St. Vincent's for the past three months, in a coma."
"What was their motive?" Bobby asked from the window.
"Rosalind had apparently been indiscreet with who she talked to. Word on the street was she was feeling guilty and was going to flip on Hank. But that's all we have-hearsay."
"What's Mrs. Shaw's prognosis?" Alex asked.
Benson eyed Olivia. "Guarded."
"And who cared for Randall while she pushed on the street?"
"That's a trick question. Randall did. No one here knew she had a young son living unsupervised until the New York State Police forwarded a report about a middle-schooler hitchhiking on I-95 in June. We have only bits and pieces from various sources. The Wilton police were told by the neighbors that Randall was accustomed to caring for himself since his father went to prison because his mother started working longer hours-and because Shaw's arrest had made her more emotionally fragile. After she was laid off, the neighbors hardly saw her. They presumed she was working nights.
"Instead, Rosalind used Randall's love for school to persuade him to stay at home alone. I think he was doing so well with his teacher this year that she felt it was feasible. She decided to save money by not commuting during the week and sleep on a friend's sofa in Washington Heights instead. The Wilton folks remember how proud she was that Randall was such a responsible kid for his age-she would brag that if you gave him written instructions, he would follow them to the letter. When the Wilton police searched the apartment, they found his mother's written schedules Scotch-taped to the kitchen cabinet doors. Randall warmed up his meals out of cans, did his own laundry, and, amazingly, got himself to school daily."
Alex bristled. "She left that child on his own, five days a week."
Benson nodded, her expression equally troubled. "But he never missed a day of school. The teachers saw no neglect-he was always bathed, in clean clothes, and had his lunch with him. When Rosalind stopped coming home, he managed alone until the end of the school year-June 7-when the grocery money ran out. Only after he exhausted all his options did he look for her-he had the address of her friend's apartment for emergencies." Benson shook her head. "Noah does so much for himself already, but I kept thinking of him in the same situation and couldn't help but admire Randall's resourcefulness. Carisi heard about his case, asked if I could help, and brought him here."
"Couldn't they place him in a foster home?" Alex asked. She expected Bobby to be asking more questions, but he was still watching Randall, hardly blinking, squeezing Olivia's hand. In turn, their daughter looked from her father to the little boy to her mother, chewing her lower lip, her eyes troubled.
"He's had four so far. He spent thirteen days in two different foster homes; sixteen in another. He was happy in the second one, with an older couple, the Carstairs, until Mr. Carstairs fractured his leg in three places and was placed in traction. Mrs. Carstairs couldn't be with her husband in the hospital and care for Randall, too, so she requested that DCF retrieve him. I was told she cried when she called."
Bobby pivoted abruptly to face them. "Behavioral problems?"
"No reports on that front at all, unless you think a child with his head stuck in a book is a problem." Benson smiled briefly, knowing she'd named more than one person of that description nearby.
"I've been making calls since eight this morning; I've spoken with his school, a few neighbors, a bodega owner that he 'borrowed'-the owner's words; he seemed fond of Randall-a can of soup from the night before he left home, and the proprietor of a little indie bookstore near the Shaw apartment. They all told me the same story: nice kid, shy, a 'little odd,' a lot restless, loves to read, likes school, quiet unless he's telling you about something that interests him.
"His teacher, Willa Deenie, gave us the most useful information. She says he's not the best at social interactions with his peers but isn't aloof, either. He relates more to adults than children. Well-behaved, even eager in the classroom, a good student-fidgety and awkward on the playground. No violence or gross misbehavior on record. The three short-term fosters commented that he was so quiet that they 'couldn't reach him.' I think he simply didn't care to be reached.
"The one thing almost everyone mentioned was Randall's fascination with mystery stories and law enforcement. He told me that his mom was a big crime series/mystery movie fan-they've watched mystery series and films together since he was seven years old and dissected the plots together."
Alex was stunned. "And she still didn't realize-"
"She had faith in Sterling. After all, Sterling was her husband, the man her parents told her she must 'cleave to.' Her helpmate. He loved her. He shared marriage vows with her. He would guide her properly, as any dutiful husband would. And, by extension, so would his friend." Benson's voice was laced with cynicism and regret. "Those were the words Sonia-the 'friend' whose sofa Rosalind was sleeping on-used in describing her. My impression is that she was a 'friend' just for free weed."
Alex muttered imprecations under her breath.
"As for why Randall is sitting in the interrogation room, he asked permission. He wanted to sit there for 'just a little while' so he could see what it was like." She looked wry. "I can't say I approve of his reading material. I wouldn't recommend it for Noah. Any guesses about the nature of the book?"
"Judging by your reaction," Bobby returned, glancing back at her, having witnessed how reluctantly-but curiously-Randall sampled the volume. "I'll venture a not-so-wild guess at...true crime."
"Mindhunter, to be specific," answered Benson. "He hasn't read much of it, but he's fascinated by the concept. He found it in a little free library outside Norwalk during his hitchhiking trip."
"Not exactly reading material for his age." Alex glanced again at the boy, who was gazing around the interrogation room as if he were memorizing it.
"Eames," Bobby said softly, turning back to the window, "what do you see?"
She and Benson moved to his left side. "On first glance? Don't laugh, but I thought of Harry Potter. The description in the opening chapters of the first book. I read itto my nephew Eddie when he was about eight," she added for Benson's benefit. "The untidy dark hair. The glasses. The distinctive eyes, although they aren't green. Neglect and abuse by his guardians. I always had it in for his aunt and uncle."
Bobby asked, "He's...how old, Liv? Min's age?"
"Small for his age. He was eleven in January," Benson supplied.
"I see me," Bobby said, bowing his head. "The kid with his head in a book, the hungry one with wrinkled clothes because who knew when his mother had last taken care of him. Soon he learned to use the laundry room so the kids at school wouldn't tease him, and to make sandwiches and cook dinner."
Benson explained quietly, "His clothes are dirty because he escaped custody before Carisi brought him to me early this morning. Someone tried to steal his backpack. Two uniforms heard him screaming as he fought back to protect the books inside. He has six, and he guards them with his life."
Absorbed in their conversation, the adults had not noticed Olivia sidle out the door of the observation room; now they were startled when the door to the interrogation room opened and then closed and Olivia's honey-blond head appeared. She halted about a foot from the metal table, her hands clasped behind her back.
"Hullo," she said in a bright voice. "What are you reading?"
The youngster had looked up furtively when she entered. Now he glanced up once more, not meeting her eyes. "You wouldn't be interested."
Olivia, impatient with his assumption, whipped out her favorite weapon, vocabulary. "That's being presumptuous, isn't it? You automatically thought I wouldn't be interested, although I offered an interrogative statement to elicit information."
Randall looked up again, and now he tried meeting her eyes-she had her head tilted slightly to one side, the ploy she'd picked up from Bobby-with his intense ones. It was difficult for him. "It's...n-not a book a girl would like."
There was a straight-backed metal chair opposite him, and Olivia flopped down in it. "Presumption number two." She crossed her arms in front of her, frowning. "Are you misogynistic?"
He stared now, blinking. "How old are you?"
"Ten," she admitted. "I'll be eleven in a month and entering eighth grade."
"You skipped?"
"'Year acceleration' is what it was called at my boarding school, but yes. Twice. Now, what are you reading?"
Randall held up the tattered book. "It's about an FBI profiler, but you probably don't know what that is."
Her observers expected an indignant complaint about presumption number three, but Olivia only said with a shrug, "Oh, I know that book. My papa has it. He owns several of the author's books." She paused, and both Alex and Bobby realized it was for theatrical effect. "Of course, my papa has met the author in the course of his work."
The boy put the book down, eyeing her sideways. "Your father," he repeated deliberately, "knows the man who wrote this book."
"Yes, of course," Olivia responded mildly, as if every little girl's father knew a former profiler from the BAU unit. "Papa's Robert Goren. He works for the FBI."
Randall went very still. "You're serious?" he finally asked weakly.
"Why would I lie to you?" she asked curiously. "We haven't even been properly introduced." She extended her right hand, and Randall shook it awkwardly, making the name bracelet on her wrist dance. "I'm Olivia Goren, and my papa is Robert Goren, who used to be partners with my mama, Alexandra Eames, in the Major Case Squad here in New York. After that, Papa joined the FBI, and Mama transferred to the NYPD's Homeland Security joint taskforce. That's how she met Captain Benson. Mama works on an NYPD advisory board now, and Papa lectures, and we live in Milbury, Connecticut. That's not too far from Wilton; we've passed through it on the way to Norwalk to see the aquarium and the history museum."
"Then how come you sound British?"
"Maman was Australian, and I was at a British boarding school for two years-although I was born and lived in Paris until over a year ago. Maman and my father were killed in an automobile accident. She made a will, asking Mama and Papa to be my guardians. So now I'm here." She indicated his book. "Is that what you like to read, true crime?"
He jerked his head aside, looking upset. "No, this is my first. I only read a little bit; it's kinda...rough. I like mystery books and TV, and police stuff."
Olivia leaned forward as if sharing a secret. "I didn't say reading that book was bad, Randall. I just asked. At my old school, my friend Renata has read all of Agatha Christie. Mama likes Tony Hillerman and Craig Johnson."
He hugged himself, and his agitation diminished as he talked about his favorite subject. "My favorite books are all mysteries. I like The Three Investigators and the Hardy Boys. I even like old mystery books where they still have cars with running boards, whatever those are, and telephone operators. I like Leaphorn and Chee. That's Tony Hillerman. My mother and I watched a TV series called Dark Winds, based on his books. It was on AMC, and there were two different stories. The books take place on a Navajo reservation, where Joe Leaphorn is a Navajo Tribal Police officer and Jim Chee-"
"Um, Randall," she said kindly, "I know."
Randall ducked his head. "I do that."
"Don't worry. Papa does it, too." Olivia settled back in the chair."Mama calls it his 'annotations.' I know about Leaphorn and Chee because I love books, and so does Papa. Mama likes books, too, just not as much as we do. We just moved house-it's a long story-and it's got a true library, an entire room lined with bookshelves." She motioned with her hands to indicate space.
Randall's eyes lit up at the idea before he lowered them again, and she continued with more confidence, "Papa works in the library, preparing his lectures. You see, he's a criminal profiler, too, just like Mr. Douglas-only Papa was mentored by a man named Declan Gage. Oh! I didn't mention that there are four bookcases in the parlors, too, as room dividers, and those are full of fiction books. I have bookshelves in my room with my favorite books, and there are cookbooks in the kitchen. Mama says we look like a branch of the public library."
In the observation room, Benson gave a low chuckle. "Perfect."
Randall peeked up at her. "You're lucky. My mom sold most of our books at a secondhand store right after Christmas so we could eat." He looked down at his hands, wiggled in his seat, then met her eyes obliquely, his throat bobbing. "Can...can...can you introduce me to your dad? So I can ask about profiling?"
"You've already asked. He and Mama are right behind that mirror with Captain Benson."
Randall's eyes opened wide. "Why? Why did Captain Benson bring your parents here?"
"I...don't know," the little girl said, shrugging, although she'd worked it out when Bobby began asking about him. "Captain Benson thought you were...interesting, though. Maybe that's why-"
She stole a look at the mirror, as if for direction or protests, but no input had yet come. "She thought you were resourceful in taking care of yourself after your mum disappeared. She used that very word, 'resourceful.' That you did a good job until your money ran out. Captain Benson has a son about your age, Noah. He has dark hair like yours, but it's curly. He does well at school, like you. Maybe you remind her of him, and- You see,you can't keep-" Olivia floundered, then said truthfully, "Well, you're just a kid like me; you need someone to look after you, even though you did such a good job feeding yourself and going to school."
"It...wasn't hard," he said, head bowed again, eyes fixed on his hands. "I went by my mom's schedule. It's easy when it's written down. During the school year, I get up at 7 a.m. I wash my face, comb my hair, and dress for school. Then I have oatmeal with maple sugar, a glass of milk, and a fruit cup. When I finish eating, I walk to the school bus, which comes at eight. I make my lunch the night before: a bologna or ham sandwich, fruit, celery sticks with crunchy peanut butter, and a small bag of chips. At night I open a can of soup and microwave it and eat it with crackers and bread and butter, then wash the dish and spoon. I watch TV and take a bath and go to bed at nine and set my alarm for seven. Simple. I had to keep to the schedule because Mommy-" He stopped, blushing, embarrassed at having used the childish word, sputtered, then continued, "My mother said that if I didn't, everyone would know she was leaving me alone, and if someone knew she was gone, they would take me away from my school and Mrs. Deenie, and Mrs. Deenie knows me, and I wanted to go to school. I love school-at least with Mrs. Deenie, I did. I have to go to college, especially if I want to be a profiler like in the book."
Olivia, to comfort him, confided, "I like school, too. My favorite teacher last year was Brother Ambrose for history. But it's dreadful being alone, don't you think? After Maman died, I thought I'd be alone, too." Olivia chewed her lip for a moment. "Randall, didn't anyone notice you were alone on weekends?"
"I rode my bike to the library and stayed all day on Saturday. That's what I usually did on Saturday afternoons anyway, because Momm- my mother would see her friends Stella and Marjolin on Saturday at the nail salon. The librarians would bring doughnuts or muffins that day, and then they started bringing sandwiches, so I didn't have to worry about food on weekends."
Bobby murmured, "I don't suppose the Wilton police talked to anyone at the library? It sounds as if someone there caught on."
"Then I would borrow a book to read on Sunday and watch mysteries on TV." He looked mournful. "We had DVDs of good shows like Columbo and Monk, but we had to sell them, too. I miss them."
Olivia finally hazarded, "You know you'll have to stay with someone, right?"
His eyes flashed up. "I was in foster homes. Nobody likes me."
"Did you try to like them?" she asked simply.
Surprised by her question, he paused only a second or two, and then words flooded from him. "No, because it was almost all horrible. Mr. Heggen and his wife were sports-crazy, and they thought a boy wanted to play sports. They had a son, Stanley, and he nagged me. I hate sports. I can't hit a baseball, and I don't want a concussion from football! I saw that on the news. Concussions make you stupid, and I don't want to be stupid.
"Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs were nice. I would have stayed with them, but he broke his leg and had to go to the hospital. Mrs. Carstairs said she was sorry to DCF because she liked me.
"Ms. Phillips kept saying, 'You need to come out of your shell, Randy,' and dragged me to an awful concert. It was so loud. I hate loud places. They make my brain fizzle." He momentarily clapped his hands over his ears and made a face. "And I hate being called 'Randy.' It's a dumb nickname. The other couple, the Stantons, smelled bad. They smoked pot and smelled like skunks. I called them 'the Skunktons.' Besides," he added resentfully, "people don't like me. I'm weird. The Heggens said so. So did my dad."
"Your dad?"
Randall squirmed in his seat. "He said I wasn't a real boy. That real boys play sports, not read books."
"That's not true!" Olivia answered indignantly. "Papa reads all the time, even though he plays catch and basketball with the boys at Big Brothers. He said people always thought he was weird. Once, someone he worked with called him a 'whack job.' Even Mama said he was an acquired taste.
"Some kids at school think I'm odd because I read so much. And I like museums and history, instead of mooning over designer clothes or Taylor Swift or who won on American Idol." Her nose wrinkled. "Taylor Swift is a nice lady who donates to charity, so she's okay, but I don't know why it's called American Idol. If you have an idol, it should be someone smart, like Katherine Johnson." She bit her lip, then added fondly. "Sometimes Mama doesn't know what to make of Papa and me. But she loves us anyway. So maybe she's a little weird, too."
In the observation room, Alex chuckled but also blinked hard. "Oh, Min-"
Bobby said soberly, "He'd be a completely different personality from her."
Alex glanced at Benson, nodded, and agreed, "With a different set of problems to deal with-" She gazed thoughtfully at the boy's bowed head, thinking of the nephew she had carried for her sister. "Still, if anyone can understand him, Bobby, it would be you."
"Can you deal with another me?" he asked bluntly.
Benson activated the intercom. "Olivia Two, please report back to me."
It was Olivia's turn to look sheepish as Randall stared at her. "Captain Benson calls me that because she's an 'Olivia,' too. Back in a tick."
She wore an owlish look when she returned to the observation room, then swiftly glanced at Randall, who had closed the book and was now leaning back in the metal chair, looking lost. "Am I guessing wrong? You want us to take him home, Captain Benson, don't you? Because there won't be sports people or people who smell, but Papa, who would understand him?"
Benson's eyes twinkled, and Bobby shook his head. "Min, you can always cut it down to the bone, can't you?"
"When Carisi told me about him, you were the first people I thought of," Benson confessed.
"That had occurred to me," Bobby said dryly.
"But you're right, sweetie," Alex added. She beckoned with her hand, then led them out of the observation room and down to the double doors. "It's a big undertaking, though, so we need to talk. It's not as simple as just taking Randall home. He's not a puppy."
Bobby rubbed his neck as he did when he was perturbed. "Because maybe it's fun to speak to Randall now and surprise him about the things you know and the people I know. But once we take him home, he's still a boy who's been abandoned. His trauma may run very deep. There may be times he acts out, makes you angry, or makes you cry. To do our best for him, we may have to re-channel that behavior into something more appropriate, which he may resent."
"He'll need extra attention, too," reminded Alex, smoothing Olivia's hair, "and that means when you run in all excited about a tennis game, or a joke Jacob told you, or when Todd in the upper school has Sister Mark Anthony up in arms again, we might not be able to deal right away with it."
Olivia chewed her lower lip. She knew all too well that she was the apple of both their eyes and loved the attention. "It will bother me. And maybe I'll regret it. And maybe I'll even be a brat about it, like with Leo. But...Randall didn't have Maman to look out for him, and I did." She looked pensive, and Alex and Bobby flashed back on the child who had held herself together during her parents' funeral. "Mr. Volpe talked once about passing it forward. He did that for us, didn't he? He left us the house, so now we have room for Randall. Maybe it's our turn?"
Benson said gently, "Olivia Two, you're going to make me cry."
Olivia took a deep breath, then answered, "I'll probably regret it tomorrow, Captain Benson. But I vote for Randall."
Bobby looked sideways at Alex. "You'll have to cope with three odd ones instead of two, Captain Eames."
Alex teased, "I remember you at Major Case, Agent Goren. Sometimes you were practically an odd couple." She cocked her head at Benson. "Liv, I believe we're unanimous."
"It's like the Star Trek song," Olivia added.
"The...what?"
"Donna Hastings hooked her on Star Trek last summer," Bobby explained, "during the tour. We watched the original series, the animated series, and some of The Next Generation. Since then, we've had all the other treks, including the new one, Exploring New Worlds-"
"Strange New Worlds, Papa!" Olivia corrected him with a sigh. "You remember everything else! They did a musical episode, Captain Benson. Everyone sang their true feelings aloud, and there was a verse-" And here she sang in an unselfconscious treble,
"We work better
All together; we overcome
Our obstacles as one."
"That's what we do," she told Benson simply as she looked at her parents. "The three of us."
"Well, now we see what Randall thinks of the plan," Benson said with a smile.
"All Papa needs to hook him," the little girl said confidently, holding up her left forefinger, "is one profiling story."
It would eventually take two, along with Olivia asking innocently, "Do you like Star Trek?" and not being surprised when Randall brightened and launched into an explanation of why his favorite character was Spock. But before Randall was approached with the idea, Bobby asked Benson, "And our next move?"
"You get his things and take him back to Milbury. There isn't much-what's in his backpack is all he has. He even needs underwear and socks. I contacted Connecticut DCF-I did a little negotiating and I'm pretty certain your friend Ruth Dunbar will be assigned this case-and you have a cash advance. I can send it to Alex through Venmo. I was reminded several times to tell you to make sure you keep the receipts-the bursar was very firm!"
Bobby looked amused. "How long before we got here did you contact DCF?"
Benson smiled. "When he arrived first thing this morning. Do I look that guilty?"
"Yes," Alex responded decidedly. "Bobby saw himself, I saw my nephew with no one to love him, Min saw another kid who was once in the position she was."
"You can say no," Olivia Benson reminded them.
"Just Bobby," Alex said, quoting him, "'rescuer of helpless birds, abandoned dogs, and small children.'" And then she added, "And that goes for me, too."
Bobby met her eyes fondly, then flashed a smile at Benson before strolling toward her office, where Olivia had commandeered Benson's chair, swinging her legs back and forth, and Randall stretched out in one of the guest chairs beside a bulging, begrimed backpack that, to Alex's eyes, looked half his size.
He had barely cracked the door open when Randall bounced from his chair like a rabbit. "Are you Olivia's father? The profiler? Please-"
"Randall...this is my father, Robert Goren," Olivia interrupted calmly, which seemed to remind the boy to take a breath.
Bobby extended his right hand and, abashed, Randall shook it hastily, looking intimidated by his six-foot-four bulk. "Please, Olivia said you were a profiler, like in my book. Like on that FBI show and Grace in Waking the Dead. Can you tell me about it? How do you do it?"
Bobby answered truthfully, "Well, first you go to a university. You take psychology courses, and sociology is helpful as well. Classes in criminal justice, of course. Next, you apprentice with people who...um...follow the discipline. I was in the Army, in CID." Bobby took a few steps into the room, with Randall following like a puppy. "That's the criminal investigation division. The bulk of the process lies in observing and interviewing people. You have to speak with them, look them in the eye," and even Alex and Benson could see Randall flinch slightly, "and interpret what their demeanor tells you. How they move. How...certain gestures give them away-tells, they're called. Not only what they say, but how they say it. Sometimes it's what they don't say. Then there's 'affect.' What attitude-"
He closed the door.
"I can keep looking," Benson said, low, "for someone with experience with neurodivergence-that is, if you want me to. Do you think Olivia's therapist might take him on? You could ask Ms. Dunbar if DCF will help with the fees."
"We'll see. Does he truly need underwear and socks? He has that little?"
Benson nodded. "I inventoried his backpack. It's sad. There are four pairs of underpants and socks in poor shape, another pair of pants, four t-shirts, one belt, and his school shoes. A windbreaker. He sleeps in his mother's old t-shirt and a pair of her shorts. Five juvenile mystery books and a Sherlock Holmes novel. A kids' wallet with a few singles and a printout of a photo of him with his parents. He looks like he's about six in the picture. They all look happy. Maybe it was before Shaw started bullying his son."
"It sounds like everything I've ever read about homeless kids."
"He is homeless. The landlord tossed most of what was left in Rosalind's apartment but took photos beforehand. There wasn't much left except for clothes and a bare minimum of furniture. Rosalind had pawned everything of value, including her engagement and wedding rings. There are a couple of small items left for him."
Alex expelled her breath. "Do you think he's on the spectrum? We'd need to have that professionally diagnosed to find the best way to help him."
"Knowing Bobby, he has references in his library you can consult." Benson smiled. "I'm no psychologist, but I can tell you what I've witnessed: an anxious boy who's never lived up to his father's expectations, but conversely, someone whose mother depended on him heavily for emotional support."
Alex said wryly, "Sounds like someone else I know."
Benson's face softened. "I've talked with him on and off for the last six hours, and he's been sweet-tempered in general but occasionally opinionated, as you noticed when he spoke with Olivia. I think he'll be honest if you ask him what triggers him. He gave me a long explanation of how loud music makes him feel because he and Carisi passed a man playing blaring music on the street on the way here. Noise-dampening earbuds might help. I've been told they're good for children and adults sensitive to loud noises."
They returned their attention to Benson's office, where Bobby now occupied a third chair, his hands in motion as he told Randall a story. Randall listened rapt while his knees bobbed up and down, and Olivia watched them both with an indulgent expression.
"Do you think she'll keep this level of enthusiasm?" Benson asked.
"We've warned her about bumps in the road. But she says 'we overcome' together. I hope she's right."
The cash advance was transferred, and then Benson requested a patrolman to escort them to Jack and Patty Eames' apartment to pick up their luggage. The officer then transported them to the parking garage where Alex's Honda CR-V was parked. As the Gorens said goodbye to Patty and her younger daughter Sophia, Randall shyly tucked himself in a corner. Advised earlier by text, the two smiled and cheerfully greeted the youngster, but put no additional pressure on him.
Their footsteps echoing on the concrete floor of the parking garage, Alex was in the lead, with Bobby trailing the two children with Randall's backpack slung easily over his shoulder when Olivia announced, "I can solve a mystery for you right now, Randall."
"Which one?" he challenged.
Olivia pointed to the reflective chrome step mounted low on the side of the oversized Ford pickup truck they were passing. "That's a running board."
"So it's easier to get into the car," Randall guessed.
"Especially vintage cars," Bobby said conversationally behind them. "The running board helped women when the fashion for wearing...um...tight skirts came into vogue. Cars had higher ground clearance in the past. They were a holdover from horse-drawn carriages, which also had mounting blocks, since they were so far off the ground."
Olivia winked impishly at Randall. "See? Annotations."
Once on the road, she pleaded with Alex not to take the route east through I-95 but to go north instead. "Please, Mama, it's so much prettier. Let's show Randall everything I saw!" She turned to the now-reserved boy with bright eyes, hugging her cherished stuffed fox happily. "This was the way we drove home when I arrived in the United States. Lt. McConnell-he was our driver; an Army officer working for the State Department-took us home from Newark. Have you traveled out of Connecticut much?"
"Only when I hitchhiked," he said, appearing embarrassed.
Olivia nodded. "Of course. Your mother was too busy trying to earn money for rent, so you weren't able to travel. We like to go different places. If you want, once you're settled at our house, we can visit Mystic Seaport, Newport, or Boston, and then maybe when your mother is well and she has a good job again, you both could go back to the place you liked best and you can show it to her. Boston was my favorite-it's brill, full of museums, and you must see the Harvard bookstore!"
She saw Randall eyeing her fox, and she displayed the small smiling stuffed animal proudly. "Papa got him for me in Paris. This is Captain," she offered. "After the fox in The Secret Garden. That's one of my favorite books. Have you read it?"
"It's a girls' book," he said offhand. "My dad said boys don't read girls' books."
Olivia eyed him critically. "It's a book for everybody, even adults. Two of the main characters are boys: one's confined to his bed, and the other can tame wild animals. Mary's the main character, but nobody likes her. There's a spooky uncle and a gruff old gardener, too. And wuthering on the moor just like in Sherlock Holmes!"
Undaunted by his rejection of her pet novel, Olivia kept up a running travelogue as they followed Route 9, then crossed the Tappan Zee at Nyack, boasting, as Lawrence McConnell had, of "one of the most beautiful views in the state of New York." As they reached the other side of the bridge, she asked, as McConnell had, if he'd read Washington Irving's two most famous short stories, and Randall said he had, in school.
"I'd never heard of them before I moved here. Papa read them to me at Hallowe' is where they took place-Tarrytown, Sleepy Hollow. Mama, can we drive through Ridgefield to show him the memorial?"
Alex demurred, saying they would go to Ridgefield one Sunday instead. She stopped at the Walmart in Waterbury, where Bobby, having inspected the clothing in Randall's battered backpack, loped inside to buy a dozen boys' briefs and socks in the same style as the worn ones, plus a few t-shirts and shorts. He also brought two inexpensive suitcases for Randall's possessions, wedging them in the already overloaded vehicle.
"Eames," he said quietly when he returned to the car, "I didn't get anything else. Let's stop at the Southbury Goodwill. DonJohn works there on Fridays. If he has nothing, we'll hit that Walmart."
It was only then that he realized the CR-V was quiet. Randall had fallen asleep in the back seat, the straps of his backpack clutched in his fists, and Olivia was reading.
"Tired him out talking, Min?" he teased her softly, and she grinned sheepishly in return.
They woke him just outside of town, and he squinted at it. "Goodwill? My dad said that's a dump."
Olivia already disliked Randall's judgmental father. "No, it isn't. We've bought nice things here! Last month, I found a brand new copy of Misty of Chincoteague. And Papa found a nice wok. Besides, Papa knows someone who works here. He used to be at Big Brothers with Ana and Carlos. We came to visit him, but he wasn't working that day." And Olivia explained about her parents' work at Big Brothers/Big Sisters and the Serrano siblings.
As they entered the store, a tall, thin Black teen with a chiseled face, hanging up shirts in the men's area, smiled with surprise and hurried to greet them. "Mr. G! Ms. Alex! How are you?"
DonJohn Stanford had grown a foot taller since the adults had seen him last; after he'd aged out of Bobby and Russ Jenkins' 12-15 age group, he'd taken on Goodwill as an after-school job. Alex laughed when he said, surprised, "You're so little now, Ms. Alex. When I first met you, you seemed ten feet tall.'
"Don't make her angry," Bobby advised, amused, "or she'll be ten feet tall again," and DonJohn snorted as he hugged his mentor.
Olivia grabbed Randall by the hand. "Hullo! I'm pleased to meet you, DonJohn! The books are on this aisle, Randall," and, at Bobby's confirming nod, led him off.
"That's your new little one? The girl?" DonJohn asked with a grin.
"And we are her willing followers," Alex said briskly, then explained about Randall. When she mentioned Sterling Shaw, DonJohn winced.
"Been there, done that. Kid doesn't need that grief. I'll bet you and Mr. G are just what the little dude needs. I got just the stuff for him, too-just finished sorting it and about to put it on the racks, so you get first shot. It comes with a sad story, though."
"Olivia! Randall! Par ici!" Bobby called, and in a second, the pair hurried down the aisle, nearly jostling an elderly man who was carrying a small basket with various kitchen tools. Olivia skidded to a stop, turned, and said contritely, "Excuse me, sir," while holding fast to Randall's arm. "I hope we didn't bump you."
"You need to say you're sorry," she hissed to Randall.
"I don't," he said, ducking his head.
"Yes, you do," she returned obstinately; with averted eyes, Randall mumbled an apology.
"That's better," Olivia said after the older man had smiled and continued down the aisle. "You don't want people to think Mama and Papa are raising two hooligans, do you?"
Randall cocked his head at the word "raising," but they finished approaching Bobby, Alex, and DonJohn at a sedate walk. Alex smothered a laugh at Olivia's prim face.
"What's the story with the clothes?" she asked in a low voice as DonJohn led them to the receiving area. In this concrete-walled, warehouse-like space, boys' clothing and even footwear lay stacked on battered tables. They encouraged the children to go ahead with the rattletrap metal grocery cart DonJohn had procured for them, and Olivia was soon holding up shirts and pants to show Randall.
"We have a regular contributor," DonJohn told them confidentially as they slowed, then stopped. "Mrs. Lillian Jameson. Nice white lady, husband's a bigshot at one of the Hartford television stations, two...two sons, a high school senior, and...a ten-year-old. He and Randall were about the same size, and there are things he can grow into, too."
They caught the past tense at once. "What happened?" asked Bobby, watching the children.
"A few months ago, Mrs. Jameson had a work meeting at the same time she usually picked up the little dude at school. Asked the older son to pick him up instead." DonJohn bowed his head, then almost whispered. "Some road-rage mothe...sorry, Ms. Alex, road rage jerk blew down the road doing fifty in a twenty-five zone and T-boned 'em. The kid died. The older one's been in the hospital all summer and just got sprung a week ago. He came with her, still in a wheelchair, to donate all of Joey's clothing."
Alex bit her lip, and Bobby brushed her shoulder with his fingers. "The boy's name...was 'Joe'?
"Yes'm." DonJohn looked puzzled. "Anyway, I think Mrs. Jameson would be pretty happy if a foster kid got her son's clothes. She always gives me big ones for Big Brothers/Big Sisters when you and the ladies do your fund drives, Ms. Alex, and she talks about donating to Shriners and St. Jude."
He added, "This is fine stuff, too. None of your Walmart or Target merch."
Olivia was already placing a few shirts that Randall had shown interest in into the shopping cart. Alex and Bobby could see there was everything he might need: button-down shirts and dark pants suitable for dress, more jeans, long-sleeved flannel shirts for winter, new Nikes, black dress shoes, a navy blue boys' suit, two ties, sweatsuits, shorts, tank tops, t-shirts, a package of dress socks, a pair of boys' sandals, and even slippers and traditional pajamas. Taken aback by the number of selections, Randall commented loudly, "This is a lot of clothes. A bunch still have price tags. Didn't the boy who owned them like them?"
"His mother liked to buy him lots of things," DonJohn returned truthfully. "He...um...grew out of them before he got to wear them."
Alex saw Olivia cock her head at DonJohn, but she said nothing.
"How many...can I pick?" Randall hazarded.
"You may pick what you like, and we'll curate it before we leave," Bobby replied, then looked at DonJohn warningly. "And no special discounts just because we know you."
DonJohn grinned. "I wouldn't do that, Mr. G. Besides, you already have one. It's Senior Citizen Discount Day."
"Gee, thanks," said Alex with a smile.
. . . . .
Finally, Alex pulled into the driveway at 2 Courant Drive. If they sometimes absently still called it "Bruno's house," it was because it wasn't so long ago that their elderly neighbor had bequeathed it to them "so Alex won't have to worry any longer about where to put all the books." Next door, their old home, the small Cape Cod that Nicole Wallace had facetiously called "the Dovecote," only to have the nickname stick, looked pleasant in the late afternoon sunshine. Someone, probably Carlos Serrano, Abbi's grandson, had cleared the wreckage of her little garden, and the torn vegetation was in a sad pile.
Randall, heavy-eyed, dragged his feet emerging from the car as Olivia briefly explained the history of the houses and Bruno Volpe, their elderly Korean War veteran neighbor who had passed away in April. She also pointed at a windowed shed in the backyard of 2 Courant and explained how it had been swapped out with Bruno's shed by Franco Taglione, Carmella's paisan, and a builder's forklift "because of the bench...I know it sounds odd; I'll show you tomorrow why."
"I told you in the car that Mrs. Diaz and my best friends Ana and Carlos rent our old house from us," Olivia continued. "Mrs. Diaz also helps us with the house-like a trade agreement. Sometimes she makes dinner. Do you like empanadillas? Or pollo guisado?"
"Never had those. My mom's mother-my grandma, she's dead-was from El Salvador and used to make the best pupusas, but we ate only American food at home."
"We eat all sorts of things here. So you haven't any aunts or uncles?"
"My father was an only child. Momm- My mother had a brother, but he died in a car accident just after I was born. I never knew Dad's parents. Just Grandma Antona."
"I have a half-brother," Olivia confided. "If you stay awhile, you might meet him. His name's Laurent, and he and his wife Noémie live in Canada, in Quebec. He'll like you."
"If you say so," Randall answered, unconvinced.
When they trooped into the house via the sun porch at the rear-Olivia pointed out the photo of Bruno that Bobby had mounted on the outer wall between the kitchen door and the window-Randall, used to a tiny two-bedroom apartment, was surprised by the spacious kitchen. He took in everything: the cinnamon-colored wainscoting, the 50s-era wallpaper with its green/gold/caramel brown colonial motif of stagecoach and covered bridge with willow trees, the long kitchen table and six chairs to the right, the appliances and counters/cupboards to the left, and the Welsh dresser filled with Elizabeth Cochran Eames' autumn-themed wedding china. ("I've never used it except at Thanksgiving," Lizzie Hogan had said gruffly on presenting it to Alex on moving day, since the latter had lost all her mementos of her mother in a house fire. "Someone should get some use from it.")
Alex, noting his flagging energy, requested that Olivia take him to the guest bedroom while she and Bobby unloaded the CR-V. As the children approached the windowed, swinging door that led into the hall, held open with a doorstop so the attic fan could circulate air through the house, Sam, the oversized tricolor collie Bobby had adopted when first moving to Milbury, trotted up to meet them. Randall froze instantly as the dog's tail began to flag back and forth.
"Sam, sit," Bobby said firmly as he came through the door with their overnight luggage and the Walmart items, and the willing collie dropped to his haunches, raising his right paw in greeting. His nose twitched wildly at a potential new friend.
"You don't need to worry, Randall-Sam's a therapy dog," Alex explained, coming to his side and setting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. Olivia talked about our dog and bird back in Captain Benson's office, but we should have mentioned Sam again before we came inside. He's very gentle. We take him to the Veteran's Hospital to see the patients. He loves everyone. Are you okay with dogs?"
"I...only know little dogs." Randall swallowed, looking into Sam's steadfast brown eyes, then hesitantly shook the big dog's paw. Sam followed the boy's cues and approached him gently, first just sniffing at him by outstretching his neck, then stepping forward to touch his nose to Randall's, and finally pressing the top of his stocky head against Randall's chest. A tiny, tentative light blossomed in Randall's eyes as he petted behind Sam's ears.
"That's what he did when I first came here," Olivia said. "Stayed close by, so I felt safe. Come on, I'll take you to your room. Papa-"
She whispered something in Bobby's ear, then escorted Randall from the kitchen, carrying two of the paper shopping bags from Goodwill. She waved fingers at the dining room, then gave him ample time to gape at the library before escorting him through the two parlors to permit him to feast his eyes on the bookcase room dividers and Bobby's collection of vintage Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew books. Next, she introduced him to Bandit the budgie, who resided in the back parlor. Randall watched warily as the white-and-grey parakeet circled the room before landing on Olivia's head, then she cupped him in one hand-"He's lame, you see, so he can't hold on to my shoulder when I walk," she explained-and they finished the trip up the stairs with her pointing out the remainder of the rooms.
"We'll show you the 'Rogue's Gallery' later," she said briskly, referring to the law enforcement memorabilia that lined the stairwell. "Here's Mama's office, where she works on police projects, sometimes with Captain Benson. There's a door inside the room that goes to the attic. Mr. Taglione fixed that for us so it's a room. This is the bath, and this," and here she flourished a hand at the guest room, "this is yours. My room is right across the hall, and Mama and Papa's room is next to mine."
"This" was a cozy room painted blue-grey with Alex and Bobby's old bookcase headboard bed, covered with a navy blue waffle-weave bedspread, centering the interior wall. Next to the bed was a spool-legged nightstand with a reading lamp; there were two dressers, one from IKEA and a taller vintage one rescued from the attic. The closet, with bifold doors, was tucked between the interior wall and a window, and the windowed corner contained an inviting brown suede beanbag chair with a slim-stemmed floor lamp and a round footstool/table next to it.
"See!" Olivia said happily. "It's perfect for you. You can store your special books on the headboard and any more new books you buy. We'll go to the Book Barn soon-they have used books-and there's the library sale next month, too, and you can take all the books home when your mother's well again. You could buy a book for her, too. Do you like the reading nook? Isn't the chair brill? There's one in my room, too."
"All mine?" Randall asked, slightly overwhelmed.
"While you stay here," Bobby assured him from the doorway, holding more shopping bags from Goodwill, which he set on the bed. "Min, please help him put these away."
"Yes, Papa," she said, and he vanished. "Here, Bandit," and she pulled a tissue from the Kleenex box next to the reading lamp and perched the budgie on it. "Shred away."
Bandit's button-black eyes gleamed. He announced, "Hi! Good boy!" and attacked the paper, shredding it so methodically that Randall's tired eyes brightened again.
"Why did...why did your dad call you 'Min'?" he asked as Olivia joined him at the closet to pull out hangers for the jeans, other pants, and button-down shirts.
"My first name is Mignon," she said matter-of-factly. "My friend Renata from school called me 'Min.' I told Papa and Mama they could call me that, but I wanted to be known by my middle name, Olivia."
"Why?" Randall asked bluntly as he clipped a pair of jeans to a hanger.
"Because-" Olivia chewed on her lower lip for a minute. "Because my Maman and Papa Marcel called me that, and- And I was afraid if I heard the name they used to call me, I would hear their voices and miss them too much. That it would hurt. Besides, 'Olivia' was a better name for the United States. I thought at school they might make fun of me like they did my first year at boarding school." She smiled. "I know now they wouldn't have, but I'm used to Olivia. It's like Papa's middle name, Oliver, and like Captain Benson. If I ever wanted to be a police officer, I'd want to be like Mama or Captain Benson."
"Don't you want to be a detective like your dad or mom?" Randall asked with surprise, and Olivia gave an emphatic shake of her head. "Then what do you want to do when you grow up?"
"Be a professor of literature," Olivia said loftily as she folded T-shirts and put them into a drawer.
Randall hung up several pairs of pants and button-down shirts in silence. Olivia followed his lead, and when Alex came into the room with more clothing, she looked from child to child curiously due to the quiet. She asked Randall if he needed anything, and, receiving a negative response, headed downstairs again. Randall walked to the door, peered into the hall, then returned to the closet to sidle next to Olivia and whisper, "No one's listening. Be honest. What are they really like?"
Olivia blinked at him. "You mean Mama and Papa?"
He looked at the floor, and she bit her lip again. "You don't need to be frightened, Randall."
He retorted, "Who said I was scared?"
Olivia amended, "Maybe not scared. They're exactly as they seem. Promise." She smiled. "Papa's like you sometimes. He thinks- Mama told me once that sometimes he has a little voice inside him that tells him he's not good enough. But it isn't true; he's smart and loves puzzles and magic tricks, is funny sometimes and sad other times, and he wants to make everything right. Mama's the same, just in a different way. Papa knows things, but he's the heart of the house. Mama keeps things ticking, but she loves us with all her heart." She sighed. "I'm not very good at explaining it, but they're like this." She clasped her hands together as if she were praying. "They didn't have to take me home with them. I had a place to stay. But they brought me here, and I'm glad. You'll be safe, like me."
Bobby smiled covertly as he hovered outside the room with the Walmart purchases. Then Olivia added, slightly pompously, "Of course, you have to obey the rules. They're extremely important." He peeked in the doorway in time to see Randall squirm uncomfortably; Bobby was almost certain Olivia had seen him approach because she paraphrased his words to her on her first morning in Milbury: "'Please' and 'thank you' are always good words to use-and you're allowed to correct Mama and Papa if they don't use them. The first house rule is 'be kind.' Next is 'be truthful'-because both Mama and Papa have learnt through hard experience that most of their problems have come from not being honest with one another. Then there's 'Be respectful.' 'Don't be judgmental.' 'Treat others the way you wish to be treated.'"
Randall said skeptically, "That's it?"
Olivia chanted, "All outside doors must be closed before you open Bandit's cage. Only fruit snacks before supper-that goes for Mama, too. No Skittles for her! Don't lie on the bed with your shoes on. Oh, and the most important-aim properly and then put the toilet seat down!"
Bobby stifled a laugh before entering, setting the Walmart bags on the bed and trundling the two carry-on-size suitcases into a corner of the closet. Randall bounced to his side. "Can you tell me more about your cases? Or about Declan Gage?"
Bobby arched his eyebrows at Olivia. "I think you forgot to tell him the most important rule, Min."
She sighed. "'First we do the chores, then we get to do the things.'"
"Why don't you take Bandit downstairs before he destroys Randall's Kleenex box, then change your clothes?" Bobby suggested. "I'll finish up in here."
"Okay," she agreed. "Bandit, leave that cardboard alone!"
The moment Olivia departed with the bird, he saw Randall withdraw slightly; Bobby picked up and put away several shirts and the rest of the pants before he remarked easily, "You asked about profiling. Well, I can tell what you're thinking right now: 'What have I done?'"
Randall swallowed and nodded, pulling underpants and socks from their plastic packaging.
"We hope you'll consider this a safe place until your mother's well again. I don't know all the reasons the other places didn't work for you, but would you please give us a chance? As Min told you, we have rules, but generally we're a very informal household." He smiled. "My mother would have been horrified to see Bandit eating at the table with us."
"He does?"
"And he likes chicken," Bobby added. "Is there anything we can do to make you feel more at home? Besides no sports, loud noises, or weed?"
"I dunno. But I'll think about it, sir."
"I know Olivia told you about Big Brothers. The kids there call me 'Mr. G,' and my wife is 'Ms. Alex.' Would that work out for you?"
Randall nodded.
"And," Bobby took a deep breath and spoke confidentially, "I didn't want to embarrass you in front of Min, but before dinner, you should take a shower and change clothes."
Randall lowered his head and audibly sniffed; Bobby saw him make a face. "I thought it was just me."
Bobby masked a smile, then continued, low, "It's what comes from living rough. Why'd you run for it the other night?"
Randall sighed. "Because...I didn't want another foster home. I wanted to go back to Wilton." Then his mouth quirked. "Frank Hardy or Columbo would have done better, I guess. There's no food at home, and I won't have Mrs. Deenie next year at school."
Bobby smiled at him. "Well, all of us can't be Columbo. And hitchhiking is dangerous, especially for someone your age." Then he sobered. "But your home...is gone, Randall." The disconcerting hazel eyes fixed on him. "The landlord didn't think you were coming back."
Randall's head and shoulders dropped. Bobby laid a brief, gentle caress on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, buddy."
The boy shrugged and was quiet. Finally, Bobby pointed to a lightweight t-shirt, a pair of board shorts, underwear, and socks he had left out at the foot of the bed as they put things away. "This will be enough for dinner and the rest of the night, or you could pick something else."
"Those are okay." It was only then that Randall looked around, suddenly astounded, for as they'd talked, Bobby had deftly put everything away. "How'd you do that?"
"Learned in the Army," was his amused response. "At the time, it was the structure I needed in my life." He swooped up the fresh clothes and led Randall into the bathroom. "Do you have any allergies? Soap? Laundry detergent? Foods? We don't want you to spend your first night here at urgent care."
"I don't think so. Momm- My mother always bought dollar store stuff."
Six hooks hung at three height levels on the wall next to the bathtub, with a lone purple towel on a lower hook. "Olivia uses purple towels. We have brown and blue in our bathroom." He opened the narrow storage cupboard on an opposite wall to reveal several shelves, two neatly stocked with beige washcloths and hand towels. A fourth and fifth shelf held trios of different-color bath towels. "Take your pick; you can swap later if you want."
Randall shyly asked for red.
"R for red and Randall. Easy to remember." Bobby hung the towel on a lower hook, then pushed the basic blue vinyl shower curtain back. "We had that extension handle put on the showerhead so Min could adjust it herself. You'll probably find it handy, too. Soap in the soap dish." He stepped back to the closet and pulled out a washcloth. "This goes in the hamper afterward. We launder towels weekly, so wash thoroughly." He added meaningfully, "Everywhere, if you get my drift."
"Yes, si...Mr. G," and then Randall looked up. "You're not going to stay and make sure I do, like the PE teacher?"
"Nope," Bobby said quickly, filing away that information to make a phone call later. "Don't forget your hair. The shampoo is on the corner shelf. No need to use conditioner if you don't want to. Please keep the shower curtain in the tub, or you'll have a puddle to mop up. Come down to the kitchen when you're finished, and we'll have supper. I hope you like chicken because it's what I asked Abbi to defrost for us."
"Should I wear slippers? Mrs. Carstairs said I had to wear slippers or shoes in the house."
"Whatever is comfortable for you," Bobby said mildly, and Randall blinked as if he were surprised the answer had been so easy.
. . . . .
Hair toweled out but still damp, in the green shirt and grey shorts and in stocking feet, Randall halted in astonishment when he came into the kitchen to find Bobby stationed at the stove preparing chicken cutlets. Olivia, in a knee-length flowered shift and sandals, was emerging from the basement with two cans of chicken.
"Thanks, sweetie," Alex told her gratefully. Because they had another mouth to feed and it was too late to thaw another cutlet, she had pulled orzi from the closet and set it on the back burner to boil while Bobby sautéed the cutlets in olive oil, a little salt, and granulated onion. The six-burner 1950s stove was wide enough so they could stand side-by-side, and Randall watched as Alex slipped a small foot from her flip-flop and patted the top of Bobby's sandal-clad foot. Bobby arched an eyebrow at her and flashed a smile in return, after which Alex retrieved her footwear and continued her food prep.
In the meantime, on tiptoe, Olivia removed two cans of carrots from a cupboard near the stove, opened them, and drained them thoroughly. Then she transferred them into a bowl and seasoned them with butter and a drizzle of maple syrup. Finally, she placed the bowl in the microwave. As she worked, she asked, "Randall, I'm busy. Please, could you set the table?"
Bobby's glance at Alex said clearly, "Remember last year?"
When Olivia did look up, she noted his surprise and indicated the drawers lined above the lower storage area of the Welsh dresser. "Tableware is there, in the drawer under the napkin holder. Knife, fork, and soup spoon, and a napkin. That was the first chore I ever did." He obtained the items, and she added, "Remember that Papa and I are left-handed. He sits at the end of the table, closest to the stove. Mama and I sit on either side of him. If you like, you can sit beside me on the side of the table nearest the door."
When he finished, she grinned. "Mahsi-choo! That's 'thank you' from Molly of Denali. It's on PBS. There's a character named Randall on the show. He's Molly's cousin. Do you watch it?"
When he shook his head, Bobby chuckled from the stove. "You will."
Randall still looked puzzled. "Do you always cook? Mothers are supposed to cook."
Alex flicked her eyes at her husband. Another declaration of not-so-Sterling Shaw?
"I can cook," she answered aloud. "I'll have you know I make a mean scrambled egg."
"But she doesn't enjoy cooking, and I do," Bobby said, adding some teriyaki sauce to the chicken. "Besides, Randall, how would single fathers manage if they couldn't cook?"
Randall, perplexed, didn't answer but watched as Alex drained the orzi and then added it to hot vegetable broth with chopped and drained canned chicken, and Bobby transferred the cutlets to a plate and diced them into four servings. In a few minutes, the soup, teriyaki chicken, and carrots made a simple supper.
Randall balked. "The chicken sauce is touching the carrots."
Bobby said mildly, "You can skip the carrots that touch."
"And we'll remember it next time," Alex said without argument.
Randall ventured looking up at both of them, and, for the first time since they had left the city, they saw him smile.
"Mrs. Diaz left us dulce de leche for dessert!" added Olivia with a grin.
Much later, when Randall was ready for bed, Bobby rapped on his door. He found the youngster sitting cross-legged in bed, wearing red sleep shorts and a Star Trek: Lower Decks t-shirt that Bobby had spied at Walmart, reading one of Bobby's old Hardy Boys books. Randall's eyes lifted quickly, then lowered once more, and he clutched at the book.
Bobby perched at the foot of the bed. "I meant what I said, Randall, about it being okay for you to read those. I'm not here to repossess The Tower Treasure."
"Yes," Randall agreed, eyes on the book, then jerked his head up. "Yes, sir...I mean, Mr. G, thank you. But-"
Bobby waited, then prompted, "But-"
"I never got my other book back," Randall gulped.
"Yeah, about that." Bobby surprised Randall by frowning and staring at his hands. "When I was your age, I hated when adults-my mother, the librarian, or some other adult-told me I couldn't read a certain book because it wasn't appropriate for me. A-And now I find myself in the same position because, as a foster parent, I have to think about...um...what your mother would want me to do, not just what I think is okay.
"Mindhunter would have intrigued me at your age, too. And I know you and your mother used to watch all sorts of crime shows together, but...none of the programs were as explicit as that book. Not that killings and murders, even fictional ones on TV, are anything to take lightly. But Mindhunter talks about the true darkness in human minds. It's disturbing enough that most adults won't read it. I think your mother would prefer that you not read it, either."
"I knew you'd take it away," Randall sighed.
Bobby produced the book and a pen from behind him. "It's still your book. I want you to write your name in it."
Randall looked at him curiously, then carefully printed "Randall E. Shaw" on the first page.
"What's the E stand for?"
"Epifanio," was the resigned response, "because I was born on Three Kings Day."
"I like it. It's distinctive." Then Bobby tucked the book under his arm. "I'm going to keep this in my library," he said, "and, when your mother is well and you can go home, I'll give her the book, and it will be her decision whether you can read it. Do you think that's fair?"
He saw Randall's mouth twitch disappointedly. "And Randall, I have two books about psychology and crime that are much less...triggering but might give you the s-same insight. I can let you read those."
"I guess...but-" There was a tiny challenge in Randall's voice. "I bet you'd let Olivia read it."
"No, I wouldn't. She's seven months younger than you and already has nightmares when she's emotionally distressed." Bobby tilted his head and caught the boy's eye. "Why would you think I would? Because she has an advanced vocabulary? Or because...because you think my decision is based on your being 'just a foster kid'?"
Randall clutched the Hardy Boys against his chest as if alarmed at being caught out. "Um..."
"It's a reasonable question. I know foster kids don't always get a fair shake." He laid slim fingers on Randall's hand. "It's my responsibility as a father to protect my children, and as of today, you're my child, Randall. I don't take that responsibility lightly. Now, if you get under the covers, I'll tuck you in."
"That's baby," Randall objected, but he put the book on his nightstand and did as requested.
Bobby countered, "No, it isn't. It means people care about you. I learned...to cherish the nights my mother tucked me in because they were rare." With deft hands, he put the sheet and light blanket to rights. "Can I get you anything else?"
"No, thank you," Randall said sleepily.
Bobby turned out the light. "Good night, buddy. See you in the morning."
Alex wasn't certain what awakened her over an hour later; she'd expected to be exhausted after their very full day, and they'd turned in not long after the children's lights out. But she found herself restive. Usually, it was Bobby who was the night wanderer, but he was on his left side, breathing deeply. In shorts and a tank top, she padded into the hallway; by habit, she checked Olivia by the light of the girl's tiny nightlight, which kept her from being disoriented when waking up after nightmares. Olivia was curled up with her stuffed fox in her arms, snuggled under blanket and sheet, sleeping as soundly as her father. Then, almost hesitantly, Alex crossed the hall and peeked into the guest room. In the faint glow of a second tiny nightlight, she could see Randall tossing and turning, moaning softly in his sleep.
"I see me," Bobby said hours ago. "The kid with his head in a book..."
Would she, Alexandra Victoria Eames, the ambitious young detective promoted from Vice, still smarting from Joseph Dutton's death and stunned and fueled by the 9/11 tragedies, have recognized back then the lost and aching boy that inhabited the soul of her oddball new partner? He was tall, smartly dressed, impossibly knowledgeable, restless, gregarious, baffling, and aggravating-yet who, behind the facąde, made her smile and store away memories (even if some were ones she'd rather not acknowledge). She had found the lost boy in the almost broken man who surfaced later while overwhelmed by personal tragedy, and the deeper feelings she had locked away after Joe's death had only been freed by the man she knew now, the one who made coins appear on trivia nights and personalities emerge in criminal lectures with equal alacrity. The one who traded sly looks with a mischievous daughter at bookstores as easily as he wrote a scholarly profile of a serial killer. The man who had wrapped his arms around her and made her feel warm...safe...home.
Randall, she vowed, should not have to become a broken man to reach a happier future.
She sank down near the head of the bed, and Randall murmured in his sleep, "Mommy?"
Alexandra Eames told the truth. "No, sweetie. But I'm here for you."
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- to be concluded -
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NOTES ON THIS CHAPTER:
* I named this kid "Randall" on December 10, 2023, before Elliot Stabler's brother appeared. My Randall had the name first! :-) Actually, he is named after Randall in Molly of Denali.
* "We Are One," from "Subspace Rhapsody," Season 2, Strange New Worlds.
* Dedicated with love to Oliver. Love you, baby bird.
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