INFLUENCER
follows "Expectations"

               ***April 14, 2025***

Robert Goren was faced with nothing to do.

His wife Alexandra Eames knew this rare event did not sit well with him.

The morning's events had been as always. He and Alex had risen at the usual time, done routine morning ablutions, and hustled the children out of bed (because as much as Olivia loved school, she liked reading in bed more, and that day had been absorbed in Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, asking him all sorts of questions about mortgages and why Aunt Miranda was so bitter—and he wondered how to explain that it was jealousy of the sister who'd married the ne'er-do-well).

He'd cooked breakfast, and he and Alex had to keep Randall's mind focused on eating because now that the weather made stargazing more comfortable, their foster son talked so much about Astronomy Club that his egg crepe and toast were getting cold. Alex then ferried the children—including Ana and Carlos Serrano next door—to school. At the same time, he did kitchen cleanup and other housekeeping chores, ensuring he didn't touch the bathrooms because Abbi Diaz, the Serrano children's custodial grandmother, still came weekly to clean house. The last time she'd found him cleaning a toilet to make it easier on her, she'd chased him out of the bathroom with the toilet brush, warning him to remember the stipulations that accompanied the rental of their old house.

Alex had watched them and laughed.

Since Alex was at her most appealing when she laughed, he had to kiss her, and Abbi had retired victorious.

When Alex returned from chauffeur duty, they'd taken their morning exercise. He still walked; even slimmed down, he felt too ponderous when he tried to jog. But she ran, hair bound in a ponytail bouncing, his eyes following her sturdy arms swinging and slender legs pumping as Sam the tricolor collie loped next to her until they vanished from sight. The day promised to be beautiful: sunny and in the high 60s.

Next, she'd gone upstairs to take a quick shower, and, had it been some weeks earlier, he might have joined her, but Keyla Masando had contacted her recently, emerging from the electoral mess to tentatively revive the work of the Mayor's Task Force for Better Law Enforcement. She'd warned Alex that it would only be half as many hours as previously, but Alex threw herself into those hours with determination.

He'd retreated to the library, but both desks were empty; Tobias Fornell had no work for him this month, and Bruno Volpe's book was finished. He glanced regretfully at the wooden desk on which it had been spread out for so long. The galleys were corrected and at the printers being readied for a premiere at the Algonquin Hotel in New York City on June 5. A pasteboard reproduction of the cover stood on an easel at one corner of the desktop: a photo of Bruno as a slim, slight, dark-haired medic standing next to a jeep with a stretcher across the rear seat. The title They Called Me "Conchie" bannered the top in Stencil typeface, and below was the name "Bruno V. Volpe" and, in small type, "edited and annotated by Robert O. Goren."

Having nothing to do in years past would have troubled him; these days, he usually grabbed a book and settled on the loveseat in the front parlor with some jazz playing in the background—he favored Charlie Parker currently—but the spring weather made him restless. He paused to visit Bandit the white-and-grey budgie, whose domain was the back parlor, but the small bird was busy munching on a long sprig of millet Alex had put in his cage that morning, and merely tilted a black eye at him questioningly before happily settling back in.

Mondays were always long. Both children had extracurricular activities on Mondays and Wednesdays: Olivia with tennis practice and History Hunters club, Randall at ASL lessons with Brother Michael and Mrs. Schilling, and, just recently, the Astronomy Club. But on Wednesdays, he and Alex went to Big Brothers in the afternoon to work with the 12-15 after-school crowd; it kept that afternoon full, not so on Mondays.

Maybe he could do some research for her?

Taking two steps at a time, he went upstairs to her guest room-come-office only to find her laptop on screensaver and the room empty. He checked both bathrooms and the kids' rooms, but no Alex.

Had she gone...downstairs? Or outside?

When he returned to the kitchen, the basement door was ajar.

He padded down the wooden steps into the dressed stone-walled basement. At the center of the room was a gas furnace; just a few feet from the stairs was their workout area with his weight bench and speed bag, and Alex's exercise bike and their treadmill. In the corner, a shelved closet with a recently repainted vintage door served as a pantry, and cattycorner were steel shelves that held storage boxes, some for newer things like tax files.

The most important shelved boxes were the oldest, containing their memorabilia from their years at the NYPD, and Bobby's boxes from the FBI. They were easily told apart; his were brown, a bit crumpled but relatively unscathed, while Alex's were off-white and still discolored and stained after being rescued from her house fire in 2020. They'd discussed new boxes, but the circumstances surrounding the originals made them reluctant to part with the old.

Next to the shelving was a battered square table, where Alex stood thumbing through an open box, hair partially curtaining her face, deep in thought. One of his boxes. One specific box that made him stop and take a deep breath—it had a deep crease in the side, dating from the day they'd argued over it, the day he could have lost her after finally finding her again.

Alex looked up, smiled in greeting, then saw his expression. Her eyes flickered to the box as well.

"I was talking to Phil Rawson about cases where people were driven to criminal activity," she explained. "I remembered you had notes on Doreen Whitlock's case somewhere." She saw his breath hitch. "I just started with the top box." She set down the papers in her hands. "Should I have asked?"

"My boxes are always open to you, especially for research. It's just that box–"

For a split second, she relived that October morning: storing her boxes in the basement of their former home, this box of his lying open, and not-so-accidentally finding documents that proved a lie...

Automatically, she slipped into the refuge of his arms, head resting in the hollow of his shoulder. April was already a difficult month in the household—not only had Olivia's mother, an old foe from Major Case, died in April, but so had Frances Goren, after a long struggle with cancer and an even longer battle with schizophrenia. And here she was, totally unintentionally, picking at the scab of October 2021. She would have been happy to drop it, but Bobby mused, "After you found that box, I was so afraid...you'd just pack up and leave. I still wonder sometimes why you didn't. I was a horse's ass."

"I let you get away once," Alex said quietly. "I wasn't going to make that mistake again. It was something we had to work out—and we did."

"But it took a fight to straighten it out completely."

Nicole Wallace's wedding card. The one addressed solely to him. Bobby had angrily flung it against a wall once they'd let themselves into the house. Nothing, nothing was going to ruin their wedding night, especially Nicole. It had taken them hours to settle, then finally hot tea for Alex, sugared amply, coffee for him, and a long, silent embrace brought them minimally close to the glow with which they'd left the Dark Crystal.

He'd retrieved the card before the evening ended, intending to mail it immediately to his ex-supervisor, hoping the FBI could glean information from it. But in post-matrimonial glow and preparations for a Thanksgiving road trip, it skipped his mind...until she spied it on his desk and misinterpreted its retention. He'd tried to explain, but she had been prickly that day, and he remembered only later with remorse that it had been the anniversary of her father's death ten years earlier. He'd apologized and tried to keep silent when she accused him of keeping a trophy, but he'd finally snapped back.

It had been a difficult evening, and Alex slept in the spare bedroom. Bobby gave her the space she needed, but during breakfast when her responses were still perfunctory, he abandoned his meal in mid-forkful, put the offending card in an envelope, and drove to the Southbury post office to send it as registered mail. When he returned to make amends, he found her in his office upstairs, unburdening herself to Dr. Chaudry, and retreated to the living room to fidget.

After fifteen minutes, he'd begun to stew as well. When Alex had asked, he should have suggested she see a different therapist. He'd be selfish about this one thing; he wasn't about to give up Dr. Chaudry. She called him out, kept him straight, and made him think. But Alex seemed pleased with her, and Alex had always had the same attitude about therapists as he had in the past, a necessary evil after the worst Major Case threw at them. He couldn't have denied her even that.

There was a frisson of fear when Alex testily called from upstairs, saying that Dr. Chaudry wanted to speak to them together. He knew the therapist would ask hard questions, the ones she'd posed to him a decade ago. Nevertheless, he stamped upstairs and growled as soon as he entered, "Christ, Eames, on the happiest day of my life, do you truly think I wanted...um...Hallmark platitudes from Nicole? When I saw the damn thing, I could have happily drowned her on Stradbroke Island and left her body to float away to where they found her daughter's bones."

Alex flinched, even though her face remained stony. But his outburst had deflated him—what good would anger do? Alex had already seen him in all his rages, from righteous to blind hatred. She was inured. Instead, he breathed deeply, willing himself calm.

"I'm not a marriage counselor," Dr. Chaudry stated gravely, "but I know that you worked best together if there was total honesty between you. I sense you've entered into this relationship with certain things left unresolved. Am I correct?"

He'd bowed his head, and his answer was muffled. "I guess so."

"'Guess'!" Alex was scornful, but she looked more grieved than angry.

"Then will you explain to me," Dr. Chaudry asked, "why you kept the card?"

He repeated his story, as precisely as possible, hoping that this time Alex would understand. That he'd just forgotten the card because Nicole fucking Wallace didn't matter. If he never saw her name again, he would be happy. But when he finished, Alex looked unconvinced.

Then Chaudry asked, "Robert, were you in love with Alexandra when you left New York City?"

Oh, no, no, no. He couldn't answer; Alex would realize he'd lied again. He could still hear the fury in her voice a month earlier when she'd barked, "And what? So you threw yourself on your fucking sword for me? And what now, I'm supposed to be grateful for the favor?" Lied when he said he didn't "fall on his sword," because leaving for Albany had cut him to the bone, because he'd relapsed at first, not on the job but on his own, and Dr. Chaudry had found him in nearly the same intense straits as Dr. Gyson had.

"You worked best together if there was total honesty between you..."

This, then, was where he would have to rely on faith, although faith had served him badly in the past. But this was Alex, and it wasn't work any longer—it was their marriage, and the very last thing he wanted to be was like his glib, insincere father. So he answered truthfully, "I-I don't...I'm not sure. I repressed feelings for so long- Once things began going downhill, I didn't know if I could ever be loved...if I should start any relationship...because I believed all I would do was make the other person unhappy. But I wouldn't h-have left if I h-hadn't...felt...more than just partnership and more than just friendship."

There. It was out in the open. Alex looked at him in surprise. "All Alex ever did was give, and I'd held her b-back. I had to...um...make it right. Not like the other times." He ticked them off in his head: Abusing her offer of help on the Amanda Dockerty murder. His actions following Kevin Quinn's death. Leaving her to take the flak from Ross when he went after his nephew. "And–"

"Was that your excuse after you went undercover, too?"

Bobby knew she'd bring it up. That she'd never forgotten. That her icy, contemptuous visage had masked her fury—and pain—at being left out of the loop.

He kept his voice level. "You knew my pr-primary objective was getting my job back. You were always right about that. The thought of losing it made me feel hollow. Unfinished. Useless. But you were looking...um...to advance yourself. I worried that if the brass s-s-saw you with me, a s-suspended pariah, Moran's whipping boy...they would have equated you with me. Worse yet, w-with John Testarossa and the rest of his 'boys.' If they had thought you were the least bit dirty like I was supposed to be, you would have been up before Internal Affairs and delayed–"

"Dammit, Bobby," she'd hissed back, "you were more into pushing me up the promotion ladder than I was climbing it. Did you want to be rid of me? Was that it?"

He exploded, "No!" and circled the tiny upstairs space crammed with bookcases that had been his office, frantic. "Christ, no! But–" and his eyes were pleading. "I thought...it was what you w-wanted. You said...you told me that as a girl–"

Alex had gone silent. Had that been her dream alone? Or had she absorbed a portion at her father's knee, a father slew-foot proud of his daughter the police officer—the detective!—"the next Eames at the NYPD"? It was one of the reasons she'd kept her maiden name after she'd married Joe Dutton. She'd told Bobby several times the story about practicing the signature "Captain Alexandra Eames" on her brown grocery bag book covers in high school, that detective had always been her goal, but maybe it would stretch to Chief of D's one day. How was Bobby to fathom what she truly wanted? Didn't she keep things as close to her vest as he did?

"You could have let me know," but she sounded less convinced, "somehow. Maybe your talking to me that day outside the diner would have been a bad move, but you could have phoned–"

He was breathing hard, his lips twitching. "Moran didn't care how many cases I closed. He wanted me to be normal. Like you. To him, you were the good cop, the one who followed the rules and was 'going places.' I was the mutt dragging you down."

Her face flickered, but she couldn't let it go despite her waning irritation. "That was all in your head, Bobby. They liked the way we closed our cases–"

"No," he answered, "Deakins liked the way we closed our cases. Maybe Carver most of the time, except for those end runs we made around him. And even then, he had grudging respect. Ross eventually. But Moran...told me to my face what Leslie LeZard said in spite. That I was holding you back. With Ross there." Bobby swallowed. "I tried to think...maybe there was some way I could have–" He closed his eyes. "Moran ordered that no one could know that I was undercover, no one but the three of us–"

He paused, she opened her mouth to rebut, and he rushed in before his courage failed. "He was determined to drive us apart...knew I'd try to get a m-message to you. He t-told me that so long as I was undercover, I would be un-under surveillance, every hour, every day. I knew that was true because I made the guy watching me that day at the diner. Ross confirmed that Moran...had my phone tapped and put a trace on my e-mails. And Moran warned me that if I contacted anyone in Major Case—you, Logan, anyone—someone as minor as a secretary or the cleaning crew, that his deal with me was off; that I'd be blackballed, not...um...just at the NYPD but anywhere. And that w-whomever I spoke to, as well as Ross, would receive an official reprimand in his jacket...and sus-suspension from promotion opportunities for the next five years."

"What?" Alex stared at him as if she couldn't comprehend the depth of Kenny Moran's animosity. "He- He couldn't–"

"He said he could, and I wouldn't risk it."

"That son of a bitch." She sank into his office chair, swiveling to look at Dr. Chaudry.

"Is there a reason you never told her this, Robert?"

Alex flushed. "That was my fault. Every time he tried to explain, I'd get angry. I finally told him to drop it or else. I wanted it buried, things back to normal. After a while...it just passed."

"But it still festered. And what about you?" Dr. Chaudry questioned. "What was left unresolved?"

"That I hoped he'd stay, but never said anything?" Alex responded in bitter recollection. "I told him it was because it was his dream job." She made a fist of her right hand and held it against her lips until she was in control again. "That wasn't a lie. I could imagine him surrounded by stacks of his 'puzzles.' Maybe it would finally make him happy." She halted, sighed, then finished, "I resented that he left for a long time afterward—complained about it to Liv once. But it...was because I was afraid. I'd given Joe my whole heart, and it had been busted wide open, and it still hurt all those years later. Maybe fucking Nicole thought I was an ice maiden, but I wasn't...I could feel myself opening up again, and it scared hell out of me, more than anything we ran into on the streets."

Bobby watched her, his heart in his eyes. "I was afraid, too, Eames, that I dared to want to burden you with awkward, crazy me. I was never good enough for you."

Alex's head snapped up. "That's a lie."

His eyes softened. "Is there anything else? Because I want to make this a clean slate. Only the truth going forward. Everything I promised on our wedding day."

She wet her lips, anger spent, voice weary when she spoke. "There was one thing recently...you mentioned it...after you argued with Jack. You were cooling off in the hall, remember, and you said the first year in Albany was the hardest. You said you came into the city monthly to check with your rental agent, then would eat lunch with Lewis. Once a month...and you never asked me to join you. Why?"

He'd scrubbed his palm against his neck, abashed. "Because...for all this to work, I had to stay put...let go of you—and my d-dependence on your fixing up my messes. L-let you accomplish your goals. With the e-mails and the phone calls, it was...um...just as if one of us was on detail, and I'd convinced myself we'd be working together again someday. B-But if I had seen you...shaken your hand...smelled your hair...your scent...seen you in front of me...given you a hug...I wouldn't have been able to go back."

Maybe they had both moved in unison, giving no thought to Dr. Chaudry, now watching them with an indulgent smile from the laptop screen. It didn't matter who moved first; they were suddenly tangled together, his nose in her hair, her face pressed against his shirt.

"I'll talk to you next week," Dr. Chaudry concluded that November day, but neither heard. It was only many minutes later that either noticed that the screen had timed out.

Alex swiped at her eyes as if bothered by pollen and sighed. "I think it's about time we let that undercover job rest, Bobby. It's been too many years to hold so much influence over us."

Bobby still stared at the storage box, recalling the memories that tumbled out upon its appearance. "It's like the monster in the closet when you're a kid...um...ready to pounce when you're most vulnerable. My fault."

"No, my fault. I clung to it. And Moran's still in a closet somewhere in your mind, just like Tate's and Mike Stoat. I think you dreamed about him the night we got back from Springfield," she told him, and when he threw her a skeptical look, she finished, "No, see...I'm pretty sure he was in there somewhere. You were muttering, 'C'mon, sir, we can't let him cut and run. He killed our captain-'"

"Our run-in with the Copelands must have triggered Major Case vibrations." Bobby refashioned his face into a smile. "I want n-neither Copeland nor Moran cluttering up my day. I was considering a trip to the VA with Sam. Marco Spinelli has dialysis on Monday mornings and can probably use a diversion. I can check on Santiago, too."

Alex smiled, familiar with Bobby's propensity for befriending odd characters. She'd met Spinelli earlier in the month, and he certainly fit the bill.

"Come with?" he proposed.

"I'd love to, but I need to finish up," she confessed, "since we're taking next week off for spring break." It would be a frugal week, given that they were spending late June in Quebec: Randall's wish was to return to Newport where they'd scattered his mother's ashes, Olivia voted for walking the entire Freedom Trail again, and finally, they would stay with Donna and Zes Hastings a few days and sightsee in Maine while belatedly celebrating little Penny's first birthday.

"All right. I'll go to the VA and then swing by and pick up the kids. Need anything at the supermarket?" he asked as they climbed the stairs to the kitchen.

"The ad says it's 'Italian week' and there's a BOGO on pasta and basic jarred organic sauce. You can make a meat sauce with the BOGO ground beef from last week if you take it out of the freezer on your way out. You know Randall and spaghetti!" Then she grinned at him. "Randall's not the only fan of your spaghetti."

"Will do," he said, plucking his keys from the holder on the wall. He smiled at her. "I still have those, you know. All those e-mails from back then."

"Those long e-mails," she reminded, her arms crossed, but her eyes alight. "The moment I started saying more than 'How are you? Be careful,' your messages got longer and longer. It used to take me half a day to answer them."

"It worked, didn't it?" he said with arched eyebrows. "You always answered paragraph for paragraph. The more I wrote, the more–"

"You fraud," Alex said as she kissed him, and she was still smiling as he drove off with the big collie excited to be in his therapy dog vest, riding in the blue Mustang that had been Enzo Volpe's pride and joy. She recalled Nicole Wallace chaffing her three years earlier...

"Whatever do you two talk about? Because I never did think you had anything in common."

Alex simply laughed. "What do all married couples talk about? "What shall we have for dinner?' 'Do we need anything at the grocery store?' 'We need to stop for gas.' 'Have you fed the dog?'"

"Oh, so many things, Nicole," she whispered. "Ordinary things that make all the difference."

Bobby hummed the most well-known passages of Mozart's "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik" along with the podcast on his phone as he pulled into the parking garage at the Veterans Administration hospital, pocketing the ticket to be validated when he left. Sam, wearing his bright blue vest, pushed against the car's driver's seat, waiting for Bobby to tilt it forward so he could leap out, his tail thumping against the passenger seat.

But Bobby waited until the music ended and the podcast finished, and Sam whined plaintively. "All right, Sam, I get it."

There was still "the martinet," as Bobby called her, to clear. Amalie Harris ruled the Information Desk like a fiefdom, and Bobby had learned to curtail his enthusiasm at check-in. At the door, when he instructed the ebullient dog, "Work now," Sam immediately assumed a quieter stance. His interaction with Harris was usually crisp and without frills as he signed the check-in book and cleared his brown leather "man bag" through security.

This time she surprised him, a flicker of emotion disturbing her usually stoic, bronzed face. "Mr. Goren, we had a new patient transfer late on Friday, Staff Sergeant Elayna Grace. She was injured in a Humvee accident two weeks ago in Iraq. The driver was being a cowboy and took a turn too quickly. He just received cuts and bruises and one broken arm, but she's in bad spirits as well as in serious condition. They moved her here to be closer to family, and I wondered if you would visit her first. She has two big dogs in civilian life. They stay with her mother in New Britain."

"Of course," Bobby agreed and made his way to the sergeant's room. She had one leg in traction and the other leg in a cast; her right arm was also in a cast, and her right cheek was pitted with road rash. She had been gloomily staring at a dark television screen when he entered, but as soon as she saw Sam, her expression changed.

"Oh–" she whispered hoarsely, and a half hour later she had petted a contented Sam and confided her fears about her future career to Bobby. He and Sam made two other visits, one to a young male soldier, the second to the greying Desert Storm vet Santiago Ortiz, who was being discharged the next day. Finally, Bobby strode with Sam at heel to Room 501.

He was nearing the doorway when he heard the exasperated, petite technician complain, "I'm sorry, Mr. Spinelli, but those are all the channels we get on our cable service. If you can't find that cop show you like so much, it's not my fault."

"The cheapskates could get better cable," objected the room's elderly occupant.

The tech, Bernadina, smiled in relief when she saw Bobby and Sam. She patted the dog and confided to Bobby, "I hope you can cheer up Marco. He's been a bear and a half so far today." In a low voice, she added, "Not only dialysis, but his wound care was pretty rough this morning."

Bobby nodded. Spinelli, a veteran of the Vietnam War in his eighties, had an infection that had stemmed from a fungal problem but had morphed into necrosis of the flesh. The wound was debrided once a week, which left the nerve endings raw. Since he had reactions to several standard pain medications, it limited what the nurses could do to help him. He had been transferred to the VA hospital just after the Gorens had returned from Springfield, and something about him reminded Bobby of Bruno, although physically they were opposites: Spinelli was tall, thin, almost cadaverous-looking, with an unruly shock of yellowed white hair and coffee-colored eyes. "Stringbean" (or "Bean") had been his nickname in the infantry.

"Bob! How the fuck are you?" Spinelli disgustedly tossed the television remote to the foot of his bed. "You brought my boy to see me! C'mere, Sam!"

His vocabulary was also much saltier than Bruno's had been.

Spinelli patted the bedclothes, and Sam trotted up to put his forepaws on the bed. Spinelli's long, dry fingers reached behind the dog's tulip ears and scratched him thoroughly.

"Never seen ya on a Monday, Bob."

"I missed hearing your voice, Bean," Bobby joked.

Spinelli gave a raspy laugh. "And where's your lovely lady today?"

"In her office, finishing her work."

The elderly man smirked. "Kids at school, empty house. I'd be trying to talk her out of that office."

"I might try that campaign tomorrow," and Bobby wagged his eyebrows suggestively. "Whaddya done to the room?" Spinelli had been brought up in Bensonhurst, and Bobby often lapsed into Brooklynese with him.

"Like it?" Spinelli glanced around the battered walls of the small chamber. As in most veterans' hospitals, the room decor was as aged and infirm as most of its patients. "Connie was here this weekend with her stogots. Since my effin' doctors say I gotta be be here and not closer at the hospital in Stamford, she wanted to make it homey for me and comfortable when she visits."

Constanza was Spinelli's daughter who lived in Greenwich with her spouse; an old color photo of her from high school graduation held pride of place on the opposite wall, painted the regulation institutional green, on a Command hook next to a hand-colored studio portrait of Spinelli and his late wife Carlotta, a "National Geographic"–like photo of the Bay of Naples where Spinelli's family originated, and a professional black-and-white portrait of Spinelli in his uniform before he left for Vietnam. It showed a gangly boy of nineteen, all arms and legs, standing at attention next to an American flag. She'd also draped a multicolored crocheted "granny square" afghan over the well-worn reclining chair in the corner and a cheap brown seat cushion in the extra bucket chair.

On Spinelli's chipped metal side table was a little bouquet of artificial tulips and daffodils in a dollar-store vase, a small photograph of his late son (car accident, Spinelli had told Bobby shortly, with the resigned implication that the young man had done something foolish), and a copy of Fields of Fire, a novel set during the Vietnam War. Bobby noticed, with a wry grin, that there were no photos of Connie's husband, a former police officer. Spinelli never referred to him by name, only as "the stogots" (he pronounced it "stugootz"), which Bobby knew from childhood Brooklyn friends, was the Italian equivalent of "dick."

"I gotta tell ya," Spinelli admitted the first time they'd talked about it, back in March, "he loves Connie and don't smack her around like my buddy Walt's son-of-a-bitch-in-law did to his Beverly. He treats Connie good, like a princess, and respects her. But why she couldn't marry a nice Italian boy was beyond me, and he's still a stogots in the personality department."

Bobby tapped on the book's cover as Spinelli continued to pet Sam's ears. The collie had lain his head on the hospital bed where Spinelli's hand could reach him, sitting in perfect contentment. "Hey, I've heard this is a good one. Want I should read some to you?"

"Sure," Spinelli whispered, closing his eyes. He was pale, and Bobby knew the nurse's assessment had been correct. So he dragged the bucket chair to Spinelli's bedside, opened Fields of Fire at the bookmark, and began to read.

"Who's that parked out front, Papa?" Olivia asked as the Mustang turned the corner at 2 Courant Drive.

"Looks like a rental car," Bobby pointed out. "See the agency tag in the rear window?"

When they pulled into the driveway, Olivia saw a familiar figure waiting, leaning on Alex's Honda Pilot. "Papa, it's Leo...Mr. Volpe must be here! Please let me out!"

Good-naturedly, Bobby put the car into park and hopped out, pulling the seat forward. Like a little cat, blonde-haired Olivia grabbed her book bag and squirmed through the narrow gap, shouting, "Hullo, Leo!"

Randall often scrambled after her without waiting for Bobby to open the passenger-side door, but today he remained in his seat, backpack handle tight in his fists. Bobby bent down and saw his anxious eyes before Randall ducked his head to present a shock of dark, untidy hair. "It's okay, Rand. Leo's a friendly beast now; you know that. You've spoken on Zoom."

He couldn't blame Randall; even though St. Gregory's had a strict policy against bullying and Sister Mark Anthony, in charge of the drop-off line, buses, and school detention, was a stringent enforcer, word around school was that Randall was a bit "beige flag" (the current term for "oddball," Bobby had learned), and their offhand remarks had made their way to him.

Randall lifted his head and smiled. "'Livia'll get him if he's not nice."

Bobby grinned. "She will!" and Randall nimbly made his way out with the backpack, leaving Bobby to free Sam from the passenger side while scooping up the reusable shopping bag from the footwell. At thirteen, Leo Volpe, he observed, was already going through a growth spurt and was a head taller than Olivia.

Randall approached his foster sister and their guest diffidently, watching for some warning sign that the older boy wouldn't be friendly, but Leo greeted him cheerfully with "Hi, Rand!" as he approached, and then addressed them both. "Dad's inside. We just got here. Dad had business in Hartford this morning, so he took me with him. We were coming here after lunch, but your mom said you weren't on spring break yet."

"St. Greg's winter and spring breaks never line up with the public school," Olivia explained. "Ana and I can never plan to do anything together except after school. Did you go somewhere else?"

"Dad took me to the Mark Twain house," Leo replied with a little swagger, recalling Olivia's fondness for museums and that the location would please her. He was a handsome boy, with thick cinnamon-colored hair and roguish brown eyes set off by tanned skin.

"Isn't that jolly?" she said happily. "Especially the start of the tour, with the lights down. I don't understand how people read by gaslight!"

"I liked the 'step out' porch on his upstairs game room," Randall chimed in, "that he would use so he wouldn't fib when he didn't want to talk to somebody. His wife could tell the person he had 'stepped out.' I told Dad he should have a porch for when his editor called."

Olivia giggled.

"So–" Leo began.

"So," Olivia echoed. "What?"

Leo was a pragmatist and declared simply, "Mom and Dad are getting a divorce."

Olivia blinked at him. "Oh...no. But, Leo, last year–"

"It's okay." Leo shrugged. "They're not mad at each other or fighting like some of the kids I go to school with. My friend Howie says his parents are always playing mind games with him. He said they're the kids and he has to be the grown-up. They're assholes."

Randall's eyes widened, and Leo retorted, "Well, it's true. They keep trying to make each other out to be the Big Bad. Howie really wants to go live with his grandmother, but the divorce lawyer his mom has is slick. He figures she'll get custody." He tossed his head a little. "We're selling the house, and Mom and Gia are moving to Sacramento, near the flagship Hearthstone Bank my great-grandfather founded. Dad and I will find a smaller place in Sunset Vines, with an extra bedroom so Gia can come visit, and Mom will have a room for me when I visit." He grinned. "Your dad was right—he told my dad someday Gia might get interested in something besides The Real Housewives. Gia's majoring in accounting now so she can take over the bank."

"Don't you want to do that?" Randall asked inquisitively.

"Hell, no," Leo answered bluntly, making a face. "I hate numbers."

"Me, too!" Olivia agreed.

"Whatever I do, it won't be with numbers," Leo assured, "or insurance, either." He brightened. "I asked Dad, and he says we can have a dog. Mom never wanted a dog. Dirty or something, she said. But I always wanted one. It was the first thing I asked, and I talked him into it!"

"Sam isn't dirty," Olivia defended.

"Sounds like you know how to get things from your dad!" Randall said in admiration. "My dad—my bio dad—used to say people who could 'work' someone else were smart. He was really good at it."

Leo swaggered again at the compliment.

"Dad bought chocolate loaf cake at the IGA," Randall announced, to break the silence that followed. "Maybe we should go inside and see if we can have some."

"Papa bought that for dessert," was Olivia's protest.

"Then you ask Dad," Randall advised. "Just look at him like you do. He'll say yes."

Leo grinned. "Sounds like Olivia can 'work' people, too."

"Jack, I'm so sorry."

Julian Volpe shrugged, but his eyes were melancholy when he smiled tentatively at Alex for calling him by his childhood nickname. "I think it's for the best. It's not like we haven't tried. We've been to counseling, had weekends away—just the two of us—done a few short vacations. I finally called my attorney a few weeks ago after the kids were at an HOA barbecue, and Nita sat me down for a talk. Said she didn't like the person I'd become since Dad died, that she missed her button-down husband, and she was bored during our vacations with nothing to do but look at nature or sun ourselves on a beach. When I pointed out to her there were other things we could have done that she'd turned down—tours, casinos, museums—she admitted that all she found interesting was her bank work and perhaps shopping for clothes. She wasn't angry with me or annoyed. She just didn't care.

"Five years ago, I wouldn't have cared either. It was the way I preferred to live. But after Dad died and I watched you with your friends, it shook me up. I don't think Anitra or I have friends who would come running even if we suffered a catastrophic loss. More likely, they'd drop us one by one instead. And I like the way Leo has perked up. He seemed to have nothing in his life but video games, sports at school, and a propensity for gaining attention with insults. He and his sister were so...bloodless. I thought of Enzo and me, wondering if kids today were just different. But it's like Olivia lit a fire under him. He's got a couple of friends he brings home now, plays in video tournaments with kids I make it my business to get to know, and invites Anitra and me to his intramural games. I end up going alone, but Nita does congratulate him when he wins. She still has his best interests at heart." He nodded. "Things will work out."

The children trooped through the sun porch as Bobby proposed, "You'll stay for supper, I hope."

Alex shot a look toward the sink, where a pound of ground beef was thawing, then at Bobby. We don't have enough meat.

He flicked a smile at her. Things will work out.

The children were in bed and Alex in the back parlor watching a classic crime film, Bandit scrambling all over her "hang around" shirt, gnawing at her collar. Bobby, peeking around a bookshelf, was certain she was more interested in the bird's antics than Double Indemnity. He had tiptoed into the front parlor unseen to retrieve an old favorite, Sayers' Murder Must Advertise, simply to check a quotation, but instead had settled into the loveseat, once more entranced by Lord Peter Wimsey working under an assumed name at an advertising agency.

As "Mr. Bredon" took instruction in advert lingo from Mr. Ingleby, Bobby thought back to supper, pleased with himself. In the refrigerator, he found leftover hamburger—Randall's "eyes had been bigger than his stomach" on Sunday, and he'd turned down a third one. Bobby soaked a double handful of soya granules in beef broth, roughly chopped carrots and onions, added the burger, and fed all four items into the food processor. The resulting mixture, combined with the fresh ground beef and sautéed in olive oil, was then simmered in sugar-free spaghetti sauce—"If you must use spaghetti sauce in jars, Robert Goren, never use one with sugar in it!" Viola Perrino had chastised him once—and a minor amount of pureed butternut squash, making a bountiful meal to share with Julian and Leo (not to mention getting more vegetables into an always-resistant Randall), accompanied by a cucumber salad in balsamic vinaigrette dressing and freshly made garlic bread.

While he cooked dinner, the kids kicked a soccer ball around the backyard and played fetch with Sam, and Alex, later both of them, talked with Julian about a proposed vegetable garden.

"At our age," was Julian's frank assessment, "just go for raised beds. Or just plant in big plastic buckets. Your backs will thank you. That's what my mom and dad did."

A child's sniffle roused Bobby from his book, and he looked over his shoulder. There stood Olivia, in her nightgown and scuffs, between the half-closed pocket-panel doors, clutching her stuffed fox to her chest.

"Past your bedtime, Min," he stated softly, thinking about how she'd grown, like Leo, and wondering how much longer she'd be carrying "Captain" to bed. She'd already passed, in March, a milestone separating her girlhood from maturity (Alex smiled but agreed when Bobby used the event to make sure Randall didn't "believe bullshit about women's bodies"). Recalling how his niece Molly's photos had changed yearly, he knew that probably next would come clothes and makeup. The final horror—to him, at least—would be her dating, watching callow boys—like he'd been—break her heart.

Alex told him once that her mother, commiserating after her son-in-law's death, had said sorrowfully that the most difficult part of having adult children was watching them make mistakes and endure grief and realizing there was nothing they could do about it.

"Papa?" She broke him out of his train of thought. "I'm sorry about the cake."

"Cake?" he replied, with the endearing tilt of his head that Alex had come to love. "Oh, no, Min. We had guests, so it was a nice gesture to offer them cake."

Olivia looked solemn. "But I didn't ask because they were guests. I asked because Rand and I wanted cake, and Randall and Leo said I should be the one to ask, because–"

He opened his left arm, and she came to sit beside him and explained what had happened outside. "Randall said I 'worked' you like Mr. Shaw did with his 'marks.'"

Bobby returned dryly, "I'll let Randall know—very gently, of course—that that isn't necessarily an admirable skill to cultivate, especially with friends and family. He can't help it, though; it's what he was shown growing up. And I'm glad you thought about how manipulating people isn't always right."

Then he smiled. "But mothers and fathers understand that their children have little tricks to get things they want—because we did the same when we were small. In fact–"

His eyes wandered to the divider bookshelves that separated the two rooms; those on the front parlor side were glass-fronted, while the ones on the opposite side were open. "You know what's up there, right? At the top?"

Olivia's eyes followed his left forefinger, indicating the bookcase to the left. "On the top shelf? Your books from when you were a boy. The ones with the yellow paper."

She was permitted to touch them, but gently, because the non-acid-free paper was fragile and the clear laminate was peeling off the colorfully printed cardboard covers. They were Whitman TV tie-in books and had been sold for less than a dollar. "Oh!" Olivia uttered when Bobby explained they were original stories based on television shows. "Like fanfiction but in real books!"

"There's one called The Priceless Particle. It was based on a TV series I loved, Mission: Impossible, about a team of spies who infiltrated evil organizations. And here was a book about it. I wanted it desperately, but I'd used up my allowance." He paused. "Sometimes my mom would be very mellow, like she used to be before she got sick. Eight-year-old me realized that, and...um...I'm not proud of it, but I worked my wiles and she bought me the book. Of course, she had to buy Frank something, just to be fair. So she went over budget that week, and she and my dad quarreled, and...well, she h-had a meltdown." Olivia bit her lip. "I thought about returning the book, but the damage had been done. I was careful what I asked for after that."

He smiled at Olivia's solemn face. "But remember that coveting a piece of cake because you're a little girl who wants a treat isn't the same as one of Mr. Shaw's scams, okay?"

She snuggled close to him for a few minutes, then he kissed her and sent her off to bed, only realizing after Olivia scampered off that Alex was leaning in the shadow of one of the bookcases, minus a budgie clinging to her shoulder.

"Nicely handled, Agent Goren," she said, using the nickname for the first time since his retirement.

"Thank you, Captain Eames."

               ***May 1, 2025***

Spring break had gone well. They'd enjoyed the children's personally-chosen sojourns, and then had spent five days in Maine sightseeing with Donna Hastings and her best friend Irené Fournier, plus, over the weekend, her publisher husband Quentin Hastings and parents Penelope and Matthew Hogarth. They all took turns chasing baby Penny, who was already walking and always into mischief. Sam's herding instincts proved invaluable, leaving Penny to bestow infant pouts on him and say "No!" as she bopped him with a tiny fist. Sam merely licked her cheeks to make her giggle.

Bobby, turning to his former supervisor with a puckish grin, commented, "Headstrong like her grandmother, I see." Penelope Hogarth had laughed.

Now it was back to school, back to sporadic work for Alex, back to a profiling consultation from Marc Thuringer at the FBI’s Boston field office, who ignored new policies in favor of doing his job.

Thursday afternoon, Alex prepped Bandit's carry cage, and the two of them, plus pets, headed for the VA. By accident, Alex had discovered that while some patients were wary of a large, affectionate dog, interaction with a small, friendly bird was welcome. Like Sam, Bandit was a "people person" and was always "on" while interacting with humans. Desk security laughed each time they brought him along because either Bandit gave his classic "Hi!" while waiting for Alex and Bobby to sign in and get badges, or popped up with something random. Today it was "Hou la, Papa!" in Olivia's voice.

Amalie Harris asked, "Say, Mr. Goren, would you mind stopping by Sergeant Grace's room first? She has a fever, and she's been muttering about you and Sam."

Bobby arched his eyebrow at Alex. They'd planned to see Spinelli first because they had brought him some Italian pastries by way of their occasional handyman Franco Taglione, who had dropped off industrial-sized plastic buckets that morning—"They were givin' 'em away," Taglione said in wonder, "because the logo was the wrong color!"—and then make rounds.

"I'll take these to Marco," Alex said, knowing Bobby wouldn't turn down the request, "and tell him you'll be there presently. Do you want one for Sergeant Grace?" She shifted her eyes to Harris. "Can she eat pastries?"

Harris consulted a chart, then smiled. "It would be a nice treat, Ms. Eames, but it isn't permitted on her diet."

Bobby shrugged and headed off with Sam, only to have Alex say impulsively, "Here, take Bandit, too."

He cradled the budgie's carrier in one arm, giving her a small, confiding smile.

As Alex approached Spinelli's room, she realized he already had a visitor. The door to his room was open, and a casual, yet booming voice was heard. "...said to tell you she's okay, but she's comin' down with a cold and doesn't want to expose you. She said you've been through enough already. So she asked me to come instead and bring you a new book."

Spinelli's reply was indistinct.

Who is that? Alex thought, the voice flagging a memory.

When she was abreast of the door, she knew. Even from the rear, she recognized the bald, square-shouldered, bullet-shaped hulk of a man.

All her life, Alex's anger had been an icy fury that moved at glacier speed. Bobby's impulsive explosions were alien to her: his were like fire erupting from a match and gasoline, gunpowder struck by a hammer, a lightning strike from nowhere. They consumed swiftly, leaving ashes and regret. Alex's built slowly, like northland icicles, one wrongdoing layered atop another. When her reserve finally shattered, her resentment manifested as frozen lancets of words with lethal edges.

At that instant, she understood Bobby's flashpoint reactions. Her cheeks flamed, and she burned to rush forward, to pummel, to push, to strike, to punish the figure standing between Marco Spinelli's bed and the doorway where she had halted, the cardboard pastry box tied up in an old-fashioned manner with baker's twine dangling limply from her left hand.

The figure turned, confirming her guess on both shape and sound. Her heart was pounding so loudly she could barely make out his first words.

"Eames? Alexandra Eames? How are you?"

Marco Spinelli's stugots son-in-law was former New York City Chief of Detectives Kenny Moran, who grinned from ear to ear at her, thrusting out his hand to shake.

For a moment, her brain refused to accept the visual input, then it rebelled. How dare he greet me as a friend!

But Captain Eames was always her default public persona. "Chief–" No. Retired. "Mr. Moran." She shook his hand, plastered on a smile, and set the pastry box down gently on Spinelli's bedside table in an automatic move. Spinelli looked at her strangely, and she was aware her cheeks and lips must be as stiff as the puppet drama her brother Jack used to love on television. It was Thunderbirds...they did rescues...I need one now.

"'Mister'?" Moran chuckled. "What's with the formality? This is me."

Over the roaring in her ears, she heard Spinelli ask, "You know Alex?"

"Damn right I do," and Kenny Moran beamed as if he was a proud uncle. "This great lady was one of my finest detectives, and later a kick-ass lieutenant and then captain. Started in Vice, worked her way to Major Case, then joined the Joint Terrorism Task Force. The NYPD cleaned out several hornets' nests of terrorists with her in command. I'm proud I had a role in her rise to the top."

Like you were responsible for my success! almost burst from her. Her sensible side countered, You can do this, Allie. What's the poem Bobby quoted in Paris about preparing a face to meet the faces that you meet? Just keep this face. So long as he doesn't-

Moran boasted, "I knew she was headed for great things once she dumped that whack-job partner of hers. She wrote a book, Dad, did you know? The NYPD gave her an award for it at their women's conference last year. I haven't read it, but I've had several excellent reports." He chuckled. "Except for Judge Carver. You remember Ron Carter, Alexandra...he gave me a funny look and said he 'wasn't sure it would be my cup of tea.' Still intend to read it, though. It's in softcover now, isn't it?"

Didn't know you were literate, you cheap-ass son of a bitch. When did I say you could call me Alexandra?

"That's right, sir," she blurted automatically.

"Please call me 'Kenny,'" Moran cheerfully responded. "We're blue brothers, aren't we?"

If you were my brother, I would set my family tree on fire.

"What are you doing these days, Alex?"

Now it's 'Alex', eh? She took a deep breath. A face to meet the faces that you meet. Her face had the prescribed smile, the one you showed to the mayor when he was being a horse's ass, to reporters like Faith Yancy and those who shoved microphones under victims' noses when they'd just lost a family member, to the frenzied fanatics of all stripes who snarled that it was okay to shoot/bomb/poison/sterilize/harass Christians/Muslims/Jews/fags/abortionists/"libtards."

"Well," she explained, carefully choosing her words, "I retired in 2020 and wanted a quieter life." A spark of mischief flared within her. "I met a wonderful guy in the local area. He's retired now, too, but is a former detective and later worked for the FBI for thirteen years."

"No kidding!" Moran looked delighted. "Never had any use for the Feds, but for you to be involved with him, he must be a keeper. So—you married this guy?"

Alex extended her left hand and showed him her chased gold wedding band with its four brilliant sapphire chips. "Yes, back in 2021. He's an author as well."

Spinelli still looked puzzled, but he gamely played along. "He wrote a great book, Kenny. A short memoir about his childhood in Brooklyn, near where I grew up. It was on the bestseller list for nine weeks two years ago."

Moran didn't look as if he thought anything in the line of a "memoir" would be "great," but he nodded in agreement.

"And we've adopted two children," Alex chatted on. "Well, only one is officially adopted: our daughter, Olivia. She's eleven. A...mutual friend passed away, along with the father of her child. She asked that we be her daughter's guardians. Our son is a foster child right now, but we've started the adoption process. His name is Randall and he's twelve. They're both great kids."

"Can't get over thinking of you with a family, one of my toughest detectives," Moran replied with a proud smile, shaking his head. Alex obliged him by pulling out her phone and showing him photos of the children from spring break, carefully avoiding any that contained Bobby.

Spinelli chimed in, "Her husband is the guy I tell Connie about, Ken."

"Wait, you mean you married that 'Bob' guy that Connie's always yammering about?" Moran stated in surprise. "The one with the dog?"

"Yes, that's our dog, Sam," and Alex's smile was genuine. "We trained him together and discovered he was the perfect therapy dog."

"So you got yourself hooked up with another Robert, huh?" was Moran's joking response. "Sounds like you chose a sensible one this time. Connie passes on stories about Bob every time she visits, how he helps shift Dad in bed and reads to him, brags about his gorgeous wife—hey, got good taste, huh?—and kids, tells stories about his time in the Army—he worked in CID, Dad said. Once a cop, always a cop!"

Alex heard a jingle behind her that could only be a dog's collar tags.

"And he's editing a new book," Spinelli added proudly, "a Korean War diary written by a front-line medic."

"Yeah! That's the kinda guy you deserved, Alexandra. Dad, have I ever told you about her crazy former partner? Oh, he was smart, all right, and closed out dozens of cases, but the guy was a real screwball. A ding-a-ling. The cops tell me he used to smell things at crime scenes, can you beat that? And he'd get these off-the-wall hunches outta nowhere. He even reopened the case of Alex's husband without a by-your-leave from any of the higher-ups. Sure, turned out we arrested the wrong guy, but the mutt in jail was a criminal anyway."

He used the brain God gave to him and not to you. Those hunches were never "out of nowhere," she seethed to herself, but only protested diplomatically, "Still, Chief–"

"Kenny," the former Chief of Detectives insisted, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "So I take it Mr. Paragon is here today? Can I meet him?"

"I think we've already met," Bobby commented dryly from the doorway.

Alex wasn't certain what she expected, but Robert Goren standing there at parade rest in a pressed sea-green sport shirt, khaki pants, and his Dr. Martens, a perfectly composed tricolor collie sitting at heel at his left side, a fluffed budgie in a pale blue carry box nestled in his left arm, was evidently not what Kenneth Moran had envisioned. He froze, eyes wide, scanning Bobby top to toe. Now the eyes skipped to Alex, stunned.

Alex read Bobby's eyes easily enough. Take your hand off my wife. And as if Moran heard him, he withdrew his left arm and took two awkward steps backward for good measure.

"So, how are you keeping yourself, Kenny?" It was Bobby's neutral voice, the one he'd used to open interrogations. No implications, no accusations. While his face was slightly flushed, he was eyeing his former superior with faint amusement at Moran's discomfort.

Moran swallowed and wordlessly thrust out his hand. Bobby gave him the firmest handshake he could manage. Alex suppressed a cough when the beefy man flinched.

"I hear you have a side hustle now that you're retired?" Bobby prodded complacently when the silence dragged on too long.

"Uh...yeah." Moran straightened, trying to cover his embarrassment. "You...uh...remember Arnold Foster from IAB, right? We just bought a half interest in a pub, the Tipsy Leprechaun."

What is it about ex-cops and barrooms?

"Planning on NYPD drop-ins?" was Bobby's conversational response, and Moran nodded automatically. "Well, good luck. Next time we're in New York, I hope we'll have time to stop by and see the place."

Moran's face pinked, and he looked suddenly as if his shirt collar was too small. "Yeah, Arnie and I are counting on drawing in a lot of the old crowd. Thinking of how to best get the word out. And, sure...uh...sure, drop in anytime. Say, Dad mentioned...you working on a book?"

Bobby offered, "Our neighbor, Bruno Volpe, was a medic during the Korean War. He left me his journal and notes about his service when he passed. Our publisher, Hastings House, showed an interest in it, and I've worked on edits and annotations for the past nine months. It's being released on the 75th anniversary of the start of the Korean War." Moran looked blank, and Bobby supplied, "June 5, between noon and six. At the Algonquin. Feel free to come. Bring Connie. You both can meet our children."

Was Moran about to have a stroke? Alex noticed his high color, and he was developing the hunted look of a suspect in the interrogation room.

"Um...yeah, I'll do that." He suddenly glanced at his wrist, although no watch was visible. "Well, glad to see you, Gor- Um...Bob. Dad, I have to go, but...I'll leave you in capable hands. I'll come back. With Connie. Maybe on–" He flashed an uncomfortable look at Bobby and Alex. "We'll call."

And he was gone.

The silence was profound, then Spinelli burst out, "I didn't realize...you guys...had met Kenny."

Bobby smiled wryly and explained, "Your father-in-law was chief of detectives when Alex and I worked Major Case. We had a few run-ins with him. Sometimes- But, um...work stuff." He shrugged. "A long t-time ago. Old news."

Bandit chose that moment, to Alex's relief, to burst into a volley of chirps.

"I've told you about the little guy, so we've brought him to visit," Bobby said, happily changing the subject. "Here, meet Bandit the loquacious."

They stayed for half an hour. Alex closed the door and set Bandit free. After flying two orbits around the room, the budgie landed on her head, then permitted Spinelli to talk to him as he perched on the man's wasted forefinger. Finally, Bobby settled in the big recliner to read When I Turned Nineteen, the book Moran had just dropped off, and Alex leaned back in the bucket chair set to block the door, ostensibly checking things on her phone, but mostly watching with indulgence as Bandit clambered up Bobby's shoulder to gnaw the hair at the nape of his neck. Once Spinelli, rapt in the narrative, was diverted by Alex clearing her throat and looked toward her, smiled, then continued stroking Sam's head where it rested at the side of his bed.

They had no sooner stepped out the door, Sam back at heel at Bobby's side, Alex cradling a sleepy budgie in his carry box, when she ventured softly, "You were so good in there, Bobby," and he understood that she didn't mean with Spinelli.

"You wouldn't have thought so if you'd seen me in the hallway," he told her ruefully. "I was right behind you, not a couple of yards away, when you went inside. I heard Moran's voice, and, for a minute, I thought my head would explode. My first impulse was to drag him out of the room by his shirt collar and tell him what I thought of him trying to take credit for what you worked so hard to achieve. Maybe slap his big, ugly face."

They halted in front of the elevator, her steady caramel-colored eyes watching his expression of loathing be replaced by one of pain. "And then I remembered all those times you raced after Ross, making excuses for my bad behavior. And the day we moved, confessing that to Jack Volpe—told him that now I had Olivia to think of, too—that anger is a reaction, never a solution."

The elevator door opened, and to Alex's relief, it was empty. Bobby made certain Sam's tail was clear of the door before pressing the first-floor button. "Not to mention what I told Randall: revenge is a dish best never served at all." Then he smiled at her. "And what we talked about in the basement two weeks ago, relinquishing the sway of that undercover job. So I did."

The elevator opened on the first floor, and Bobby began to exit, then stopped between the doors. "You remember way back when Dec said I was free? Of course, he was wrong. I still had a few years to go before I had things worked out." He offered his right hand to escort her from the elevator. "Today, I looked Kenny Moran in the eye and didn't kill him. Now I am free."

He was rewarded with Alex's most brilliant smile, even if her eyes were slightly moist. Since Alex was at her most appealing when she smiled, he had to kiss her, right there in the lobby of the Veterans Hospital, while Sam's tail thumped wildly as he happily crowded against their legs, and Bandit murmured, "Good bird!"

They could hear Amalie Harris chuckling from the front desk as they left.

"You mean that," Alex asked skeptically as they walked to the car, "about visiting Moran's pub? I remember Arnie Foster; he was no great shakes in the personality department either. Made Ed Tucker look like a piker."

"Why not?" Bobby answered carelessly, opening the hatchback for Sam and then closing it after harnessing the big collie safely inside. "He'll need the business, after all. Maybe the recruits will stop by, but I don't see any of the old guard, or those trained by them for that matter, patronizing the place. Neither Moran nor Foster did their homework. Moran's used to taking things at face value. No research. He's not only a stogots, he's a stunad, as Spinelli might say."

They were buckling seatbelts with Alex still looking puzzled. "That's Italian for 'stupid,' I know. But why?"

"The old guard thinks it has a hoodoo on it."

"Still confused," Alex answered tartly as she started the SUV.

Bobby settled back comfortably as she pulled out, hands securing Bandit's carry box on his knees. "You ever hear of a bar called Paddy O'Rourke's?"

Alex blinked as she stopped to feed the validated parking ticket into the machine that operated the parking lot gate. "Isn't that the place where some cokehead carried out a vendetta shoot on a bunch of cops? Bernie Landreth was the perp's name. But that was years ago."

"Right before either of us hit the police academy, I think. My discharge papers were only a couple of months old. It made the front page of every newspaper in the five boroughs."

"I remember now," Alex responded, her face thoughtful. "Landreth had a beef against the cops at the fifteenth. Three uniforms, two detectives, and a forensics tech shot before someone took him down. Four of them died. It was all over the station houses next day, and my dad called me with the awful news."

Bobby recalled somberly, "And you know cops. We all have ways of getting through the fear that the next victim might be you. Lucky socks, a certain tie clip, rabbits' feet, blessed St. Michael's medals, that special handkerchief you only use on duty, the penny with your birth year on it in the proper pants pocket—never the other! Paddy O'Rourke's got a rep for bad luck. The owners changed the name to the Tipsy Leprechaun, redecorated, and completely revamped their business plan. I think it's a lost cause—the NYPD has still avoided that place for years."

Alex was silent as she turned the car toward St. Gregory's, then remarked, "You know, we still have thirty minutes till pick-up time. Why don't we stop by Office Max for new storage boxes? Clear the soot and the dents away for good."

"I would like that very much, Captain Eames."

Alex thought of the stained boxes, of that time in her life when she'd reached her lowest ebb and sequestered herself from the world, of the memories left smudged on her fingers each time she opened one.

"Then we'll both be free," she said.