“Has this world been so kind to you that you should leave with regret? There are better things ahead than any we leave behind.” ~ C.S. Lewis
***
The young lovers waited outside the theater, just to the side of the main doors. The girl shivered, and the boy put his arm around her shoulders. “Pretty soon,” he whispered. “Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not scared,” she murmured back. “Just a little cold.”
“That’s my baby.” He nuzzled her face until she turned, then kissed her full on the lips. “I told you this would be great. I told you, baby.”
“Yeah,” she whispered. Then she shivered again.
One of the theater doors opened and an old woman came out. She was small, almost lost in her full-length fur coat; her hair was freshly done, her face very pale, her lipstick very red.
Beyond the door, applause still sounded at the end of the show. The woman was, just for an instant, alone on the sidewalk.
She turned back toward the door. “Damn it, Teeny,” she barked, “where the hell are you? Can’t you keep up?”
“Go, go, go,” the young man whispered. He put his hand on the girl’s back and pushed her, hard.
The girl staggered a little, but she went quickly toward the woman. “Excuse me, ma’am? Ma’am?”
The woman turned on her. “What the fuck do you want?” she snarled.
The girl recoiled, surprised by the woman’s venom. But the boy had the opening he needed. He ran to the far side of the woman, grabbed her purse, wrenched it out of her grip, and kept running. “Go, Lis!” he shouted.
The old woman snaked her arm out and grabbed the girl. “You aren’t going anywhere. Teeny!”
Other people were leaving the theater. The girl pulled hard, trying to escape. “Cash! Help me!”
The boy swore and turned back. He grabbed the old woman’s arm and shook her off the girl. “Let go of her, you skanky old bitch!”
A very, very big man in a good suit pushed through the crowd toward them. “Holly? Holly!”
The boy grabbed his girl’s hand and they ran around the corner and down the alley, until they disappeared into the darkness.
The big man wrapped the small woman in his arms. “It’s all right, Holly. I’m here. I’m here now. Are you hurt?”
She made a fist and hit him in the chest as hard as she could. It made him make a little ‘oooph’ noise. “Where the fuck were you, you big asshole? Jesus Christ and all the saints, you’re a worthless lump!”
People in the crowd looked at the big man with sympathy.
He patted the woman’s fur-clad shoulder. “It’s alright, Holly. You’re just scared. You’re alright now.”
“Asshole!” she snarled again. “Get my purse back and kill those little fuckers!”
***
Bear was happy to see him, but Finch barely nodded. “Good morning, Mr. Reese,” he said perfunctorily.
“Finch. New number?”
“Yes. And a highly elusive one.”
“You were due for a challenge.” Reese put the bakery box down on the desk. “Sour cream coffee cake,” he announced. “I thought we needed a change.”
Finch merely nodded again. “Edward Clay. Eighteen years old. Originally from Oak Ridge, Connecticut, just outside Trumbull. His last schooling was apparently his sophomore year of high school.” He gestured to a picture taped on the glass board. Clay had dark hair, long over one eye and greasy-looking, that only partly concealed his bad acne. He looked younger than eighteen. “Yes,” Finch confirmed, before Reese could ask, “that’s the most recent photo I can locate. But I’m working on a better one.”
Reese picked up a slice of the coffee cake “ he’d had the bakery slice it for him “ and carried it to the board. “Got an address?”
“No known address. No cell phone registered in his name. No social media. He had a free e-mail account when he was in Oak Ridge, but it’s been inactive for two years.” F inch shook his head, exasperated. “I called his parents’ home, posing as an Army recruiter, and spoke to his mother. She said he doesn’t live there anymore. Then she hung up on me.”
“He’s a runaway?”
“Apparently. I’ve only taken a cursory look so far, but the family seems to be quite ordinary.” He paused. “No missing person report was ever filed on Edward.”
“He could be anywhere.”
“No employment history, no bank account, no credit report.”
John took a bite of the coffee cake. It was very moist. He chewed, swallowed. “He’s got to be getting money somewhere. If he’s got no job history, he probably has a criminal one.”
“Possibly.” Finch stabbed at his speaker phone, then reached for a slice of the coffee cake.
The phone rang just once. “What?” Fusco asked sharply.
“Good morning, Detective,” Finch said.
“Yeah, it was, until you called me before I even had any coffee. What do you want?”
“Relax, Lionel,” Reese said. “You don’t need to put down your coffee. We just need you to run a name through your computer.”
The detective sighed and grumbled, but keys clicked in the background. “Okay, go.”
“Edward Clay.”
“Uh … I got five of them. Wanna be a little more specific?”
“He’s eighteen,” Finch supplied. “Caucasian.”
“Okay.” There was shuffling as Fusco shifted his phone to his other shoulder. “Got him. He was picked up last winter, suspicion of petty theft. No priors. They kicked him loose without charges.”
“Can you send me that report number, Detective?” Finch asked.
“Sure. That it?”
“That’s it,” John answered, “for now. Enjoy your coffee, Detective.”
Fusco grunted and the phone went dead.
Finch checked his phone, then put the police report number into the computer. John read it over his shoulder. There wasn’t much to read.
“Picking pockets on Time Square on New Year’s Eve,” Reese mused. “Well, that would be the place to do it.”
“If he’s supporting himself by picking pockets, this probably isn’t the only incident.”
“First time he got caught.”
“He may be a perpetrator, rather than a victim.”
“It’s a big jump from picking pockets to murder.” Reese studied the picture again, shook his head. “He’s just a kid, Finch.”
“He’s an adult in the eyes of the law. If he commits a capital crime, he will be treated accordingly.”
“Then we need to make sure he doesn’t commit one.”
“That may be easier said than done. We don’t even know where to look for him. But,” Finch added with some satisfaction, “this may give you a better idea what he looks like.” He sent another picture to the printer. It was the same as the high school photo, but with the hair out of the boy’s face and a bit of pixilated aging done. “Of course, he may have dyed his hair or acquired a nose ring in the interim.”
“Better than nothing.” Reese put the picture in his pocket. “He give an address when he was picked up?”
Finch nodded and returned to his computer. “The address is … was a homeless shelter. St. Herman’s. It burned down in March. Faulty wiring.”
Reese nodded. “Send me the address anyhow. Someone may know where he went.” He took another piece of the coffee cake and put it on a napkin, then closed the box and picked it up. “I’ll go see what I can find out.”
Finch looked at the bakery box longingly, but did not comment. “I’ll see if I can find out anything more about the family, though I doubt that will lead us anywhere.”
“You never know. Keep me posted.” He patted the dog quickly and strode out.
***
Al Rossi tugged his tie straight and tried not to look nervous. He didn’t have anything to be nervous about. He wasn’t some punk kid sneaking sips of wine off the grown-up table any more. He was the top lieutenant in a crime family now. He’d earned his position. He was his own man.
But his uncle’s visit late-night visit had unnerved him. The old man still towered above him, for one thing. He’d always been a mountain of a man. For another thing, Al hadn’t heard from him for years. When he was kid he used to get Christmas cards from him, stuffed with cash. ‘Buy yourself something fun, Aldo.’ But that had stopped when he graduated high school. Not that he’d needed his uncle’s money after that anyhow.
Rossi tugged his cuffs straight and turned to his men. They all looked tired. They weren’t used to early morning hours. But not one of them complained.
“We got to find a kid,” Rossi said without introduction. “Homeless kid, little piss-ant pickpocket, calls himself Cash Clay. Get your ears out and find him.”
“And then what?” Smithy muttered.
“And then bring him to me.”
“Alive?”
“If you can. If he’s dead, bring the body.”
Most of the men just muttered understanding. Torres, of course, had to bitch. “What’s so special about this kid?”
“I want him,” Rossi snarled. “That’s what so special about it. Find him. Bring him to me. That too complicated for you?”
“No, no. I got it.”
“Good.” Rossi straightened his tie again. “Get going.”
As they filed out, Rossi let himself take a long, deep breath. Always somebody had to stick their mouth in. Always somebody had something to say. And most of the time, it was Torres. He might need to go.
He shook his head. Uncle T had always made it seem so easy. Of course, when you were the size of Teeny Bellatore, maybe nobody ever talked back. But Aldo was only six foot three, so he’d had to do things the hard way.
***
Detective Joss Carter didn’t even make it through the front door of the precinct. She ran into Lionel Fusco “ or, rather, he nearly ran into her “ and he grabbed her arm and pulled her towards his car. “Good, you’re here. Let’s go.” He was breathless, clearly agitated, and to Carter’s eye a little pale.
“What’s up, Fusco?”
“Tell you on the way.”
“My car’s right here,” she said, pointing. “I’ll drive.”
Fusco shook his head, then changed direction toward her car. “Fine, good, whatever. Let’s go.”
Carter got behind the wheel. It took her partner three tries to buckle his seat belt. Carter blessed her intuition; she sure as hell didn’t want him driving. “Where to?”
“North.”
“Okay.” She pulled out of the parking spot. Fusco turned on the blue lights. “Want to be a little more specific?”
“Chaos Café.” He gave her an address.
Carter drove, threading through the traffic faster and better than Fusco would have. Chaos. She knew that name. Something about the owner. Something for John …
Before she could ask her next question, Fusco had his phone out. He clicked on the speaker, and she heard Reese’s gravelly voice. “Morning again, Lionel. You got more on Clay?”
“No. Our girl’s in trouble.”
There was half a second of hesitation. “Which girl?”
“Which girl. The one I give a shit about. Chrissy.”
“What kind of trouble?” Reese demanded.
“There’s a woman in the bar who says that she killed her husband.”
Without preamble, Finch entered the conversation. “The woman killed her husband, or Christine killed him?”
“I don’t know,” Fusco answered. “There’s a squad car at the scene, but the report’s for shit. We’re on our way now. Carter’s with me.”
“Have you spoken to Miss Fitzgerald, Detective?”
Fitzgerald. At the mention of the name, Carter remembered the details. The woman who hunted internet predators, wrapped them in tidy little computer files, and delivered them anonymously to the NYPD. The woman who’d dumped a massive kiddie porn ring on Agent Donnelly. John Reese’s little virtual vigilante.
“Been busy moving my feet,” Fusco complained.
“Call her now.”
Lionel growled. Carter nodded sympathetically. John could be a royal pain, but he had nothing on his partner for rubbing them the wrong way when he got bossy. Fusco shook his head, conferenced the call, and dialed another number. It took him several attempts to dial it. Carter was very glad she was doing the driving.
The number went directly to voice mail.
“Damn it.” Fusco hung up and tried another number. It rang ” and rang. No one answered. “Okay, Genius,” he called, “now what?”
“Just get there,” Reese snapped. “Keep us posted.”
“Yeah, fine.”
“And Detective?” Finch added.
“What?”
“Don’t call her Chrissy.”
Fusco swore, snapped his phone shut and jammed it in his pocket. He ran his hand over his face.
“Three minutes,” Carter promised. She flicked at the siren, ran a stop light. “There’s already a squad there, Lionel. Whatever’s going on, she’s okay.”
Fusco smirked, bobbed his head. “Thanks, Carter. Just a hell of a thing to start the day with. Haven’t even had any damn coffee yet.”
“Well, we’re going to the right place.”
He lapsed into silence. Carter glanced over; her partner had both hands clenched into fists in his lap. “This girl, Fitzgerald. She was one of John’s people a while back. Is that how you know her?”
Fusco looked over at her. His gaze was jerky, distracted. “They dragged you in on it, too?”
“Just background. That’s where the big kiddie porn ring bust came from, right?”
“Yeah. Yeah. She said she stumbled on it. I dunno. Didn’t really ask.” He pointed. “Turn there, go around the back way, you’ll miss the traffic.”
“Okay.” Carter ran another light and turned left illegally. “But you knew her before that?” she pressed.
“Yeah.” He seemed uncomfortable. “Known her since she was little. She’s a good kid, Carter. If she killed somebody … I’ll lay money he had it coming.”
Carter nodded to herself. Obviously, she was the only detective on this case who was going to be at all objective. “You think it’s likely? That she killed somebody?”
There was a long pause. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.”
***
Reese touched his earpiece. “Finch? I’m going to Chaos.”
“There are already police officers on the scene, Mr. Reese. Our friends are capable of handling the situation.”
“We don’t even know what the situation is,” Reese argued. He slung the quick little car around the corner, stopped, and backed out into traffic. Her car, he remembered. He’d been driving it for weeks. He’d meant to get it back to her. Except that it was inconspicuous and damn fun to drive. “If Christine killed someone, I need to be there.”
Finch was silent for a moment. The keys clattered.
“You up on the cameras?” Reese guessed.
“Yes. And I’m not seeing anything alarming.” Finch sighed, somewhat relieved. “There a single uniformed officer sitting at a table with Miss Fitzgerald, a priest, and an old woman.”
“What are they doing?”
“Drinking coffee.”
“It sounds like the beginning of a joke,” Reese said. “A priest, a cop, a hacker and an old woman are sitting in a coffee bar …”
“It would be a better joke if a man hadn’t been murdered,” Finch snapped.
Reese nodded to himself, appropriately chastised.
“Mr. Reese,” Finch went on, “I know you’re concerned, but you need to keep your distance. Agent Donnelly continues to show a special interest in Miss Fitzgerald. If he learns that she’s involved in a crime, even potentially, he’s likely to put in an appearance.”
“I’ll be careful, Finch.” He turned north at the next block. And then, though he already knew the answer, he asked, “Did you talk to her yet?”
There was a very long pause. “This isn’t the time, Mr. Reese.” His voice would have made a hot spring ice over.
Reese nodded to himself. It had been more than a month since he’d rescued his employer from Root, and the recluse still hadn’t spoken to his young hacker friend. John understood his reasons. He just didn’t agree with them. If it went another week, he decided, he might have to talk to Christine himself. The odds that Root would find her were just too high to let it go.
Finch wouldn’t like it. But maybe he didn’t need to know about it.
Still, Harold was right in this: Until the murder in the café was resolved, this wasn’t the time.
Finch was also right that Fitzgerald’s name on the police wire was likely to stir up Agent Donnelly’s interest. He needed to keep a safe distance. To let Carter and Fusco handle this, if possible.
That didn’t mean he had to like it. And he definitely didn’t.
It was turning into one of those days when nobody liked anything.
***
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