Adrift by Homeric

Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.

"Good morning Mr Reese." Harold doesn't look up from his computer when John enters what has been dubbed "The Office" in the library, and John has long since given up on trying to sneak up on him. The aroma of his coffee probably alerts the older man to his presence anyway, and he takes a sip of it while placing Finch's Sencha tea on his desk. "Very nice work last night. Mr Banks is awaiting extradition, but unfortunately someone has hacked into his bank accounts leaving them all but empty. It seems that he'll have to let go of that high priced lawyer he had on retainer."

"A pity." John smiles and swallows another hit of caffeine. "And if you could hazard a guess, where do you think that money went?"

"I couldn't possibly begin to speculate, but if a couple of drug re-rehabilitation centres had experienced unexpected windfalls it would perhaps be an act of karma don't you think?"

Or a reclusive billionaire with genius hacking skills, John thinks. He doesn't say it out loud though â€“ in a strange sort of way he acknowledges that Harold considers it vulgar to discuss money, especially the money he donates to various charities. Anyway, what does he know about karma? Maybe it does actually come in a dapper, bespectacled package.

"I'd say good luck to them," he says smoothly. "Do we have another number yet?"

"As a matter of fact we do." Finch 's brow furrows as he clicks on the screen and brings up a grainy ID photograph. "In fact your timing is impeccable; I was going to call you as soon as I had a little more information on the case. The number only came up twenty minutes ago."

The image on the screen is of a woman who looks to be in her early twenties, but John guesses her real age at perhaps seventeen or eighteen. The thick make-up is ageing, but it's the look in her eyes that truly makes her appear older. Her eyes are dead. Blank. It could be due to narcotics but he doesn't think so â€“ her pupils appear normal and there are none of the tell-tale signs of Meth or cocaine addiction. He feels a prickle of unease.

"Who is she?"

"Jacey Brundett." Harold pulls up another tab, this one a copy of a driver's licence. "Sixteen years old, born in Alabama. Moved to Albany when she was nine. Average grades in school until she dropped out six months ago. The missing person's report was filed by a school friend but it doesn't look as though anything was done about it by the local police. Presumably she was classed as being a runaway."

"Parents?"

Harold exhales tiredly. "Father is unknown, mother has four other children aged eight to thirteen in different foster homes. She's currently serving eighteen months for aggravated assault." At Reese's raised eyebrow he elaborates. "She got into an affray with another woman at a bar and hit her over the head with a bottle. The woman lost an eye."

"Mommy Dearest," John murmurers. "I can see why the girl would want to get away. Why is she now on the radar?"

"I'm not sure." Harold's fingers tap quickly over the keyboard. "I have footage of her using a cellphone but it's a prepaid burner â€“ essentially untraceable."

"Not the usual choice for a teenager."

"Not at all Mr Reese." He brings up another picture, obviously from a security camera. The quality of the photograph is poor, but the young woman getting into the big car is unmistakably Jacey. "And most runaway teens don't usually get picked up outside hotels by chauffeur driven Bentleys."

"Prostitution." John controls his temper but it's difficult. A little voice inside his head tells him that had his life gone down a different path he himself could have had a teenage daughter. It's a stupid, pointless thought and he tamps it down swiftly. "Can you find the car?"

"I'm doing it was we speak. It may take a few minutes." Harold lets his software do its thing and swivels his chair towards his partner. "There's an excellent cookery book on the shelf by the stairs if you'd like to borrow it." When John merely gives him a confused look, he sighs and elaborates. "Since you are going to be spending Thanksgiving at Detective Carter's home it would be polite to bring an offering to the table. Pumpkin Pie for example. Or a salad."

John's face manages to go through confused, annoyed and worried in a second before settling on mildly irritated. Harold speaks before he can give a sarcastic retort, however.

"I don't make a habit of intruding on your private conversations Mr Reese, but when you are in the company of criminals, be they apprehended or not, it is my job to make sure that you are safe, even if it does mean that I hear things not meant for my ears. Detective Carter strikes me as being somewhat of a traditionalist and so it is only fair for me to advise you of a potentially awkward situation."

If John wasn't so blind-sided by the conversation he might have laughed. There are two pink spots of colour on Finch's cheekbones and he senses that his employer and, almost, perhaps, friend feels as awkward about the whole situation as he does.

And what did he think about the situation he had willingly put himself in? All he could remember was Joss, her dark eyes bright in the chilly autumn night and the way her tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip before she asked him to come to dinner. He'd have said yes to anything she'd offered at that moment whether it was taking out her garbage for a month or any one of the many, many things he thought about when he was beneath his cold bedsheets, hot and hard and with only his hand to ease the pressure.

"I thought that I'd just take her some flowers," he says eventually.

Harold's expression tells him exactly what he thinks of that idea before he utters a word.

"You do realise that her son is going to be there? Flowers are for first dates, not sharing a family meal. If you want to make a good impression then you'll have to expend at least a little effort."

"Says the man who lives on take-out," Reese retorts. "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

"Happily ignoring it," Harold says blithely. " I see no reason to celebrate the decimation of the Native American people with gluttony, and for your information take-out from restaurants with at least one Michelin star comes under the umbrella of eating-out-but-in."

John peers out of the window at the city below before he slumps back into his favourite chair, almost dislodging a pile of ancient detective novels. "You celebrate the fourth of July and the War of Independence had a pretty high body-count," he points out. "And you've made up eating-out-but-in."

"Indeed,"Finch says without rancour, "but Independence Day has the best fireworks, and if you're a reclusive billionaire then one of the perks is making up your own lexicon."

The computer beeps, Harold turning to it before Reese can think of a snarky reply. Instead he gets up and watches as his employer pulls up a file. The unremarkable face of a middle aged white man fills the screen. It takes only a second for him to recognise him; after all he had been all over the papers defending the mayor in a recent sex scandal. Known as the Hawk in legal circles for his utter ruthlessness in tearing apart the reputations and validity of those who testified against his clients there nonetheless had never been a breath of scandal attached to Grayson Kent's name. Never married, never in the tabloid press. Used to the worst that power brought out in men John had vaguely wondered if the man was asexual and got his kicks from the courtroom not the bedroom.

The blurry photo of Jacey getting into his car suggested not.

"Where is he?" Harold gives him a don't-dismember-him-because-we-might-need-him-later look but brings up the address of Kent's townhouse.

"Be careful Mr Reese," Harold says as he snatches up the car keys to the latest anonymous looking vehicle purchased for the week and tosses them to his partner.

"I always am, Harold." John jogs down the hallway checking his ammo and the guns at his back and side even though he knows that they are safely secured and in perfect working order. He pauses briefly at the top of the stairs.

"101 Thanksgiving Recipes." The cover of the slim volume is obnoxiously orange and out of place, especially in contrast to the leather bound books in various states of genteel decay that surround it. John grabs it, tucks it under his arm so that he doesn't have to look at the dementedly grinning picture of the woman wielding a spatula on the back cover and heads towards the door.