LEGACY
follows "Inn/Spring Interlude"

                   ***March 25, 2022***

While they closely resembled any other tourists exploring the National Mall during the Cherry Blossom Festival, a dog lover might make the comparison that, because he was tall and broad-shouldered and she was a head shorter and slight, it was as if a sturdy Newfoundland walked side-by-side with an elegant whippet. He looked bulkier than usual because he easily shouldered two rented folding canvas chairs, and since the day had been a little cooler than the previous two, his jacket flapped open in the fickle March breeze. She walked with him as if she'd always been there, face shaded by a woven broad-brimmed sun hat in case the clouds broke (he'd opted for a purple baseball cap with the name of their favorite restaurant emblazoned on it), carrying a picnic basket that had been assembled that morning by the staff of the boutique hotel they'd chosen for their belated honeymoon trip. They kept pace easily, born of years of constant law-enforcement-connected on-the-job walking; even with him in his sixties and her in her late fifties, they both walked—and she jogged—daily. Groups of tourists, some of them already shifting on aching feet despite it being only lunch time, cast envious eyes at their effortless gait.

The crowds that Friday were slightly thinner due to the clouds, but only rain would have kept them away from this final activity before returning home; they were departing Union Station at six, arriving at home in the "wee smalls" of Saturday morning after a drive from New Haven.

They settled on a picnic spot along the Tidal Basin that was relatively empty, and he set the chairs down at a ninety-degree angle to each other under a rampantly pinkish-white cherry tree still in full blossom. The jaunty little red-and-white checked picnic basket was fitted with fold-out tripod legs, and she set it between the chairs and opened the lid, smiling in anticipation. Inside were two plump Italian hoagies, stuffed with salami and capicola, provolone cheese, shredded lettuce and juicy tomatoes, seasoned with a little olive oil. Next came a small stack of extra napkins, and then, for dessert, a checkered cardboard box with two "triple threat brownies," specialty of the house at Hotel Garibaldi. At the very bottom, there was a flask of Sangria and two reusable plastic cups.

He extracted the wine and the cups, and set the latter in the built-in cup holders of the canvas chairs, then solemnly poured the Sangria into both containers.

She said dreamily, "This is the perfect example of 'mixed feelings.'"

"As in?" he prompted, with a head tilt.

"I'll be glad to be home again," she answered, "but I could sit under this tree with you forever."

"Our food would run out," he observed in good humor, "the blossoms would drop, then it would get warm and the mosquitoes would come out—not to mention the tourists–"

"So you're being the sensible one today?" she said, grin flitting over her lips.

"Looks like it."

He lifted his cup and she followed suit.

"Salud!" he said affectionately, and tapped his cup against hers.

"Sláinte," she returned.

"Not bad," she said a moment later.

"But not as good as a good stiff bourbon?" he teased.

"Nope," she said decidedly.

They sipped their drinks for a few minutes, then she asked, "You have had a good time?"

"Enjoyed every minute," Robert Goren said, leaning back. "So much that you could start a tour service for finicky travelers. Like me." He looked contented. "Even the B&B out in the backwoods."

"As in the 'backwoods' within five miles of a Walmart? Besides, I think they enjoyed you more," Alexandra Eames Goren responded. For a prelude to their delayed honeymoon trip, she had chosen a bed and breakfast in the Blue Ridge Mountains run by two mystery aficionados. They called the B&B "Talboys" from Dorothy Sayers' Lord Peter Wimsey series, with the rooms of the restored Queen Anne home named and themed for crime novelists. Alex had booked the Agatha Christie mini-suite and Bobby had been delighted by the details of the chamber. Since business was slow in March, he was able to enjoy the decorating conventions of all five of the rooms and spent some hours the first evening with owners Ari and Kaye discussing thrifty additions they could make to the decor to enhance the theme of each. They'd also discovered Ari was a British expat and enjoyed some of Bobby's favorite television imports such as QI and Waking the Dead. "Didn't you exchange e-mails?"

"Ari's sending me a vintage copy of The Wimsey Papers."

"Oh, that explains it. I thought it was a flirtation," she teased.

"As if those two had eyes for anyone but each other," he scoffed. "It's not like women look at me anymore."

Alex looked indignant. "That's a fib! Two words: 'Maureen Leighton.' And even if it were true, Bobby, what does that say about me?"

"But you're the beautiful Princess Ozma," he said, giving her the "alias" under which she operated on trivia nights, "who, despite the bumps in their road, loves her creaky old Wizard for his soul."

"I don't know," she responded in a droll voice. "That was an odd-looking 'soul' I saw last night; long and firm and not creaky at all."

This prompted a flush that spread across his face to his ears, and she attempted to cover her own pinked cheeks by extracting the sandwiches and the napkins from the basket and distributing them. In companionable silence they savored the delicious hoagies while listening to the birds, the distant voices of fellow visitors, and the rustle of the trees in the breeze.

"All in all," she said a bit wryly, "today's lunch is quieter than yesterday's."

Bobby coughed. "Well, at least you got to meet the good as well as the bad–"

. . . . .

                   ***March 24, 2022***

"Must we?" he entreated as they began dressing on their next-to-last morning and she pulled out blazer, blouse, and skirt from the closet.

"Please?" she coaxed. "I want to meet them at their own level. I have my pride."

He tilted his head at her and her defiantly lifted chin, then smiled. "All right. We'll dress to impress."

He trimmed his beard when he shaved, and she added a simple single strand of pearls to her ensemble, so that, an hour later, when they were seated in the Hotel Garibaldi dining room, he in a charcoal grey suit, blue shirt, and grey and blue tie, her in a dark blue blazer and skirt, with blue blouse matching his shirt, they blended in with other guests in business attire preparing to attend meetings that morning. The server who had attended them all week, a short, middle-aged blond woman named Sheila, looked intrigued as she poured them coffee.

"You two are spiffed up today," she commented in a soft Virginia accent. "Obviously not going to the Zoo!"

"I'm getting the executive tour of the FBI this morning," Alex confided.

The server leaned over slightly to keep the conversation confidential, glancing at Bobby. "Were you part of the Bureau, sir?"

"Eight years," he answered.

"I would have never pegged you for an agent," Sheila responded in a low voice, then inclined her chin toward a table to their left, where two dour men and two serious women were eating their breakfast in silence. "Most of them act like those four, no sense of humor."

"Mr. Goren's always been unique," was Alex's playful response.

From the hotel they rode the Metro, then walked the remainder of the way to FBI headquarters. Alex sized up the concrete-and-glass structure and asked, "How many times have you actually been here?"

"Two or three times every couple of years: criminal law updates, refresher courses, changes in guidelines, new procedures, training classes, recerts. Not much difference from the NYPD. Stay to the left. Badged visitors have their own entrance. Oh–" He paused. "Almost every part of this building is monitored. Don't say anything inside you wouldn't want to get out."

"I'll try not to mention Saturday night at the B&B then," she responded archly.

There was a serpentine line to enter the building through badged entry, since the access point was being handled by a single security guard. Bobby withdrew an ID card and his driver's license from his wallet while Alex did the same with her license, then Bobby amused himself as the line inched forward by creating offbeat profiles for each of the people ahead of them. She was chuckling at his absurdities until he scanned the open atrium beyond the reinforced glass wall in front of them, freezing in mid-word.

"Talk about 'of all the gin joints in all the places in all the world,'" he scowled, face darkening.

She followed his gaze. Not twenty yards from them was a man she would have described in forthright shorthand as "a hippo in a dress suit." He was tall but fleshy, with deeply jowled cheeks and an ample paunch, strawberry blonde hair gone grey and retreating on his forehead, pale blue eyes, his bulk made impressive with a dark blue Armani suit, white silk shirt, red-white-and-blue silk tie, and highly-polished shoes, a Rolex clearly visible under his left sleeve, pudgy fingers spotted with signet rings. His retinue, several male and female agents of varying ages and expressions, were waiting with him; those behind him didn't look happy to be there, but their watchful faces appeared ready to change at a pivot of the man's body.

"Let me guess," she said, examining him with distaste. "The infamous Harry Cavanaugh."

"And his unfortunate team."

"Should we say hello when we're done?" she asked, tongue in cheek, as they inched nearer to the security desk.

"I'm probably beneath his notice any longer, which is a relief, since I'd rather not speak with him." Then his mercurial face changed from dark to light when he recognized the tall, older Black woman at the check-in desk, ramrod straight as she ran temporary badges, her dreads, tucked behind her head, swaying back and forth as she worked. "Now here's someone worth meeting."

When it was finally their turn, the woman looked up to smile broadly when Bobby spoke up. "Grace Chadwick, how are you?"

"Bob Goren, you duffer, where have you been? I haven't seen you in a dog's age."

"That's probably because I retired two years ago," he said, giving her a fist bump even though most of the safety protocols had been removed.

"Did you? Oh...wait...I remember," and she scowled briefly and looked over her shoulder where Cavanaugh and company were still holding court. "You got caught in the mess when they transferred Penny Saltonstall out west." When she saw Alex's look of surprise, she laughed. "That's okay, hon. She and I go way back, and we have a deal, I call her 'Penny,' and she gets to call me 'Gracie.'"

Bobby added, "Alex, this is Grace Chadwick, and don't ask the Director what's going on in this building; it's Grace that knows the score. Grace, this is my wife, Alexandra Eames, and we're on a belated honeymoon."

"Congratulations!" Chadwick said and gave Alex a strong handshake, then, eyeing the restless occupants of the line, began briskly processing their visitors' badges.

"Harry still campaigning for the Director's job?"

"Oh, yeah, but you know him, he doesn't just look like one, he's got the ego of a blue whale, too," Chadwick scoffed. "Not even the last President was stupid enough to give him that job."

"Well, well," she added a few seconds later. "You have passkeys on hold for the Executive Lunchroom. Who do you know?"

"We're having lunch with another retiree; he's the one with the connections. T. C. Fornell?"

"Oh, I know Tobias." She winked at Bobby. "Another devilishly handsome dude." She handed out the two visitors' badges and the passkeys. "You enjoy yourself, Ms. Alexandra, even if they have taken all the interesting sections out of the building."

They were buzzed through the security gate of the plexiglass barrier, and then, on the opposite side, stopped to affix their badges. As Alex returned her driver's license to her wallet and pinned on her badge, she could see something large approaching in her peripheral vision to her right, and Bobby stiffening at her left.

"Robert Goren," said a dry, almost insulting voice laced with a Tennessee drawl. "I didn't think I'd see you here ever again."

She saw Bobby go on alert, then put on his neutral face, the one he'd used so many times in Major Case to cover up the fact that he thought the perp was a sinister presence, or an annoying asshole, or simply a whiny jerk. "Good morning, Harry."

Cavanaugh positioned himself deliberately in their way, his retinue flanking him as if creating a shield. Several of them looked expectant, as if they knew he was spoiling for some sort of encounter, but one tall, dark-haired Latina stood as far back as she dared, wearing an apologetic face. "I heard about your little escapade in December, Goren. 'Mr. Brilliant' cracked the case our agents couldn't. I'm sure you're very proud of yourself right now."

Bobby's therapist, Alex thought grimly, would have been proud of him, as he simply responded levelly, "I can't take credit for the whole breakthrough, Harry. The trigger at my end was a fluke. But I put in six weeks of solid work on that case, which Marc Thuringer's team used to close down the trafficking ring."

Alex fixed a critical eye on Cavanaugh in such a way that he could no longer ignore her, and his lip curled, ever so slightly, making Bobby stiffen. "So what brings you here today?"

He responded in the flattest voice Alex had ever heard him use. "We're meeting an old friend for lunch while I show my wife some of the sights."

Cavanaugh gave Alex the once-over as if she were a hiring consideration for a janitorial position. "Mrs....Goren."

Alex saw the color rise in Bobby's cheeks and flicked a glance to him. He acknowledged her by relaxing his shoulders, but still responded stiffly, "That's former Captain Alexandra V. Eames, NYPD, Special Taskforce DHS," and Cavanaugh appeared surprised. "Show some respect, please."

"You're Eames, the one he was always talking about?" Cavanaugh snorted. "Thought you were a figment of his imagination. You worked together eleven years? Can't fathom how you managed to deal with this misanthrope for so long."

She would not give Dr. Chaudry something to say to her, she thought as her temper flared, then steadied. Instead she channeled her captain's training as she squared her shoulders and met his gaze. "Are you certain you know what that word means, Agent Cavanaugh? In six months I don't believe I've met all of Bobby's friends. In fact I just made the acquaintance of one five minutes ago, and I'll meet another at lunch. And he has such a broad spectrum of them, from classic-car restoration experts to small-business entrepreneurs to gastropub enthusiasts...to the boys he mentors at Big Brothers." She managed an indulgent chuckle. "Next month after our collie is certified as a therapy dog, he'll probably make at least a dozen more friends at the Veteran's Hospital. 'Misanthrope' seems...mis-applied, don't you think?" She flashed a smile so genuine that one of the agents behind Cavanaugh looked impressed. "But I'm sure you have similar volunteer experiences in which you represent the Bureau."

Now, casually, Alex glanced down at her wrist, tapped her Fitbit. "Sorry, my alarm went off. I think it's time to meet our lunch date." She nodded cordially at Cavanaugh and his retinue. "We wouldn't want to be late. That would be...rude."

A second earlier he had bitten his lip to keep from laughing. Now Bobby briefly flashed a feral smile at Cavanaugh, ignoring at least two of his retinue who were biting their own lips to avoid making any sound, and offered her his arm. "It would certainly be rude." He gave Cavanaugh one final, appraising look and lied through his teeth. "Nice seeing you again, Harry."

They skirted the group at a measured walk, and it was only when he steered her left toward a bank of elevators and out of sight that he smothered a snort and freed her arm. He murmured into her right ear, "Damn, Eames, how did you manage that? I saw that evil look in your eye! You kept your temper and still managed to insult him. The only thing Harry's ever volunteered for is a second cocktail."

Mindful of what he'd said to him about whole-building surveillance, she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, and hissed, "What an odious man!"

Bobby returned the kiss with a "Nice exit line, too," in a near whisper, then said in more natural tones. "We have a little more than an hour before we have to meet Fornell, so let me show you around this mausoleum. Grace is right, all the really interesting sections like Forensics are offsite now, but we can check out the Bureau's history gallery until it's time for lunch."

As they entered the elevator, she pulled out her phone and sent a text. A moment later his phone pinged.

::ANYPLACE we can talk?::

::gallery—open to public–no recording:: he tapped back.

They were standing in front of a display case showing the earliest relics from the Bureau's roots in 1908 when she said indignantly, "When you said Cavanaugh was an asshole, I thought you meant of the Moran variety. What a toxic and malignant waste of space! Who is he to belittle a former agent in public like that? If I'd spoken to any of my officers and detectives with that attitude, I would hope every single one of them reported me to a malfeasance committee who'd either fire me without a pension or demote me to permanent traffic duty on Staten Island! How in hell does he keep his job?"

"Harry Cavanaugh still has a job because he 'knows' certain people, which is coded language for 'he knows where too many bodies are buried.' I wish you could have told him to his face!" He bit back a smile. "We'd have had to peel Mike off the floor when he heard that line about Staten Island." He paused, then laughed, "Lewis, Shard and TJ, and the trivia competitors would get a kick out of the impressive adjectives you used about them."

"Well, there's an idea. Maybe we could sic Maureen Leighton on Harry," she answered, acerbic.

"I wouldn't risk it. She's still in her forties. They might breed," and only then did she smile.

"Bobby, you've never told me—what happened that made him so angry that you felt you had to resign?" And when she saw his face become a study of conflicting emotions, she added ruefully, "Besides the fact that you're 'an acquired taste.'"

They strolled from exhibit to exhibit as he explained, "Cavanaugh was transferred to Albany with the idea he could form his own team. Instead he was assigned Penelope Saltonstall's Nightmare Trio; we were too good at our jobs to let go, but considered such mavericks no one else really wanted us. Me you know about. Karin Hirohara is what you might call a child prodigy; graduated high school at fourteen, university at seventeen. Blazed through Quantico. Unabashedly gay. At the other end of the spectrum was Ben Siler—conservative Black man—no, no, not MAGA-conservative, old-school "cloth coat" Republican—also an ordained minister. Ironically, where other people had trouble with Karin, Ben didn't." He paused a beat. "We were...challenging.

"Penelope trusted us to do our jobs. We continued to do them, but Cavanaugh continually had to micromanage. He was even more 'hands on' than Ross. But unlike Ross, he was hands-on because when the case was closed he wanted the credit to boot him the next step up the promotion ladder.

"Without describing things I shouldn't, we had a tristate case with two prominent suspects. Suspect A had more evidence against him, but it was the type of evidence that Ron Carver wouldn't have accepted; he'd have demanded we get something better since what we had was chiefly circumstantial. We had minimal evidence against Suspect B, but it was solid and the prosecution could work with it. We were mindful that Suspect A was not blameless—he was guilty of crimes, just not the particular crimes we were investigating. But Cavanaugh had a history with Suspect A, wanted to nail him quickly, and at first wanted us to forward only the evidence against him. Ben, who was, of the three of us, the least objectionable to Harry, persuaded him into also forwarding the evidence on Suspect B, as an 'alternative.'"

"I think I see where this is going," Alex said dryly. "You swapped the priority of the files, didn't you?"

"Ben and Karin concurred, but I did the deed. I figured of the three of us, I had the least to lose—Cavanaugh already hated me. The file went forward, and Suspect B got was coming to him. But Harry found out about the swapped files and from then on my life was hell and my days were numbered. That's how I was written up for 'insubordination.'"

"Surely whomever you forwarded the material to could have made that decision on their own?" She spared him a look that was more squad captain than wife, and he shrugged.

"If I were certain it was someone like you receiving the file, or someone like Deakins or Ross or Hannah, I would have freely let it go 'as is.' But otherwise I couldn't take that risk. Was I supposed to sacrifice my integrity, my instincts, and my experience because Harry had a vendetta going?" He gave her the earnest look that usually made her soften. "Ironically, Subject A did get his...'just desserts,' about four months after I resigned."

"You always had to push the outside of the envelope, didn't you?" She shook her head, but managed a small smile. "I suppose I should be glad you did, or we wouldn't be here right now."

"Look at that—you managed to find something admirable about Harry." He took her hand and squeezed it affectionately, then they continued through the exhibits. As the minutes passed, Bobby's cell phone began to ping. It was only after about six or seven had come one after another that Alex asked, "Aren't you going to check those texts?"

"Don't need to. You don't understand the grapevine around here," he chuckled. "What you said to Cavanaugh, as innocuous as it sounded, is probably all over the building by now." In response his phone pinged twice more. Twenty minutes later, as they made their way back to the elevators, and his phone had pinged probably a dozen additional times, Bobby pulled it from his pocket and scrolled through messages as he walked, shielding the phone from view while he suppressed a grin. Finally he cast his eyes around, examining each wall of the elevator bank with appraising glances, and she followed his gaze, noting the location of each surveillance camera. He finally selected a spot between the elevators, stood with back to the wall and patted the space beside him. When they were side by side, he passed her his phone, open to his texts.

::Bob, heard about your wife and Cavanaugh—thumbs up from me! Jase.::

::Took him down without one expletive!::

::Good going, Mrs. Goren!::

::Bobby, can I borrow your wife to speak to my MIL? :-) T. Rosten::

::Come up to seven and we'll toast Ms. Eames! Carl::

::I knew I liked you, Alexandra. Grace C.::

The last one she glimpsed was from "WS":

::Goren, can't you keep your nose clean for once?::

He whispered to her, "Wendy Stahl."

"No comment," Alex said shortly, thinking of the FBI agent who had recruited Captain Ross for undercover ops, a move that had been followed by his murder.

"You can read the rest of your fan mail at lunch," he added with a twinkle in his eye.

The 'Executive Lunchroom' turned out to be a quiet, cozy cafeteria-style restaurant on the ground floor, painted in swirls of soothing greens and blues with muted piano music playing in the background, and no sooner had they emerged from the elevator than someone strolled past them and gave them two big "thumbs up." This happened twice more as they wound through the cafeteria line, which offered several entrees, including New York strip steak and barbecue chicken, and featured a large salad bar. Fortifying themselves with steak, baked potato, and salad, they exited the line to see a man seated in a booth nearby motioning to them.

"There's Tobias," Bobby confirmed, and as they joined him, Fornell said cheerfully, "Welcome to the celebrity of the hour!"

Alex said ruefully, "The celebrity of the hour now wishes she'd kept her mouth shut."

Fornell protested, "Are you kidding? There are people on the seventh floor who are ready to parade you around the building on their shoulders. Cavanaugh's that disliked. You managed to shoot him down while carrying on a civilized conversation. That takes finesse." He deepened his voice. "I'm all for finesse."

Bobby chuckled, "She's received two dozen congratulatory texts and Carl's already asked us to come upstairs. Alex, this is Tobias Fornell, who left these hallowed halls five years ago. He's private security ops now, but he used to work frequently with the NCIS group at Quantico. Tobias, this is Alexandra Eames."

Fornell laid down his fork and knife—he'd been dissecting his barbecue chicken—and gave her hand a firm shake. He was a slim, nearly bald man in his late 60s who still managed to maintain a slightly boyish demeanor even with his age and short-cropped full beard, with bright eyes and a contagious smile.

"What the hell," Bobby asked confidentially as he unwrapped his silverware, "got a burr under Cavanaugh's ass? He hasn't seen me in two years and probably threw a party when I left; why bother with me now?"

"Cristina Ruiz," Fornell returned with a cynical smile.

"What about Ruiz?" He explained to Alex, "She was the tall woman who was standing directly behind Cavanaugh and looked like she wanted to sink into the floor from embarrassment. She's a competent agent and one hell of a nice person, and doesn't deserve his attitude."

"Back in early December she unintentionally found a nice solid lead on your child trafficking case—Thuringer included her data when they rounded up that bunch of scumbags—and Cavanaugh was counting on her lead cracking the case first to get another feather in his cap. Instead–"

"Instead I snagged Scott Gibson, Penelope got the credit, and Marc's group closed the case." Bobby threw up his hands, exasperated.

Alex was listening with open mouth, forgetting her meal. "This jerk is that petty? Isn't the important part getting the perps off the street? Children were involved!"

Fornell said dourly, "No, no, Alex, the important part is Harry getting his ego boosted, followed by a fat promotion."

"A therapist could make a living on him for the rest of their life," Bobby said grimly. "Just seeing him gave me acid reflux. Can we talk about anything else?"

"You asked the question," Alex pointed out reasonably, returning to her steak.

"Because I thought I might get an answer that made sense," he grumbled, then tapped the table with a forefinger. "Tobias, did I understand correctly? L. J. Gibbs retired?"

Fornell nodded. "Sounds crazy, right? Yes, Jethro has left the building. Last time I heard from him, he was still in Alaska."

Bobby explained to Alex, "Gibbs was long-time head of the NCIS group at Quantico. Literally legendary." He flashed a knowing look at the man across from him. "He and Fornell share an ex-wife."

"Not at the same time," Fornell hastened to add. "So how's your trip going? Bobby said something about a B&B?"

Alex related her discovery of Talboys on a "Twenty B&Bs You Must Visit" website, and then, as they continued eating, they chatted about their visits to the African American Museum as well as the American Indian building, and the sobering odyssey that was the Holocaust Museum. But when Fornell asked them what they had liked best, they replied in unison, "International Spy Museum."

"Everyone says that," he chuckled.

Lunch concluded, they made their way to the seventh floor where Carl Weinberg kept his promise, although the toast was performed with apple juice. Alex took part in the gleeful celebration, feeling self-conscious, then retreated to the ladies' room. She entered at the same time as a tall redheaded woman about her age, who smiled and held the door for her, then introduced herself as Veronica Heller.

She said as the door closed, "We always wondered about the lady Bob was carrying a torch for."

Alex cocked her head at Heller. "Now, all the scuttlebutt tells me Bobby had an very active social life."

"Oh, he did," Veronica answered, shrugging. She had striking dark blue eyes and an attractive bow smile. "Various ladies dated him when he was in town, including me. He always showed us a good time, and...and we reciprocated. But we all knew it would never go further." She smiled indulgently. "There was always a line with Bob we couldn't cross."

"Did he take you dancing?" Alex asked curiously.

"Dancing dates were rare and special occasions, usually around the holidays. Little jazz pubs mostly, which I enjoyed. A few other ladies would have preferred clubbing, but that was never Bob's style. Most of the time it was films, or plays; the zoo, or somewhere historic. We went to Mount Vernon together—I've lived in the area most of my life and, like most locals, never went to any of the tourist attractions. Bob knew more than the tourguide!"

Alex laughed. "That's nothing new."

Heller added, "And one Saturday we saw Waiting for Godot at the Kennedy Center."

"At least it wasn't a three-hour experimental film in Esperanto," responded Alex with a whimsical smile.

Veronica laughed. "Oh, heavens, I hope he didn't save that for you."

"I saw Casablanca."

"No one here ever got Casablanca," and Alex detected a note of envy. "Of course then there were the one or two ladies who never gave up. In fact, there was a woman here looking for Bob just last week. Jed Bray—one of the guards downstairs—told me yesterday," Veronica chattered as she peered in a mirror to check her face. "Long dark hair—Jed was fairly certain it was a wig—big liquid eyes, beautiful complexion, and a British accent, of all things. Of course, it's not like that's rare; we do have trainees that come here from the UK. I remember an Irish girl who had a dead crush on Bob. She was so disappointed when she discovered he wasn't assigned here."

Alex felt uneasy as she entered one of the stalls, knowing the one person who matched the description of a woman with extraordinary eyes and a British accent who affected a dark wig, and when she rejoined Bobby she was so quiet that he gave her a curious look as he said farewell to the group on seven. She roused herself to be charming with another group on the fourth floor, and yet more people on three, but finally they departed the building with Fornell in their wake.

"What's next for you today?" he asked as they stood at the curb.

"Bobby said he wanted to check out the bookstore at the Museum of American History before they close for the day," Alex said, still distracted by Heller's revelation.

"Then I'll leave you here," Fornell grinned. "You can probably hit a couple of the exhibits while he loses himself in the stacks." He thrust out a hand to Bobby. "Good seeing you, buddy."

"We're about halfway between Hartford and New Haven," Bobby said, returning the handshake. "Come by sometime."

"Come on Saturday," Alex smiled, "and watch NewEngland.com's 'award-winning trivia master' run his game."

Bobby corrected, "Our game," and Fornell chuckled. "I don't wander north that often, but I'll take it under advisement. Nice meeting you, Alex."

Fornell then headed to the east while they proceeded in the opposite direction, and, as soon as they were out of earshot, she began, "Bobby, I was talking to..."

His phone pinged twice in succession, then again, and he joked "Fan mail from some flounder?" but the 1960s television reference went over her head. The texts wiped the smile from his face.

::Asshole just exited the building and coming your way. Grace C.::

::Just spotted Cavanaugh out the window. Check six. Carl.::

::Goren, watch out! WS.::

Bobby halted, staring at his phone in disbelief, then wheeled, Alex a second later. Harry Cavanaugh and a smaller portion of his retinue were striding in their wake at a deliberate pace, the former with a swagger that foretold no good. He glanced behind his group briefly to see that there was no other audience forthcoming, then a slow, malicious smile spread across his face as they grew closer.

"It's like he's trying to provoke you into doing something physical."

"He is." Bobby acknowledged.

"Why?"

"Alpha dog syndrome."

"Did he miss this year's rabies booster?" Alex asked sharply, and they remained watchful as Cavanaugh finally came abreast of them. The group of five behind him didn't look happy except for one weasel-faced man Bobby recognized as a Cavanaugh sycophant. Alex felt a stab of sympathy for Ruiz, the only woman remaining, hanging back as far as she could.

"Harry," Bobby said with a fixed smile that told Alex that he was furious and fed up, "it's as if you can't get enough of me today. I never realized you missed me so much."

Someone behind Cavanaugh tittered, and with an expression that would have shattered glass, the portly man ran eyes over the five agents behind him. Each face was now emotionless. He emitted a warning cough, then turned back.

"All those folks back there think you're such a nice guy, Goren," Cavanaugh said amiably. "But do they really know you? Know about you?"

The back-burner pilot light holding Alex's anger to a simmer flared to life. "What exactly is it you're trying to insinuate, Agent Cavanaugh? Why not come out and say what you mean?"

"I supposed he's told you everything," Cavanaugh responded, regarding her with slightly more respect than earlier. "Or has he? About his family?"

Alex considered him suspiciously. Did Cavanaugh know about Mark Ford Brady? That was information she assumed was privy only to Elizabeth Rodgers, the late Danny Ross, Bobby, and herself. Right now she'd assume not and watch for traps. "You mean, did I know his mother suffered terribly from schizophrenia, that his father played both the ponies and the ladies, and that his brother was a junkie? I do know, and I don't believe in crap about the sins of the father being visited upon the children. As for my knowing—it's not like it's private information, after all. None of it has ever been hidden. And as I'm certain you know because you had one of your flunkies research it, my family tree isn't exactly flawless. My dad chose to violate an NYPD regulation to make life a little better for my mother's final years, and he paid for it. My brother and sister and I managed to make it work out. That's what family does." She fastened her best disciplinary stare at Cavanaugh. "Bobby has plenty of family now, including family by choice. He doesn't need your approval."

"And you have nothing to say about this?" Cavanaugh was still challenging Bobby, now practically in his face.

"I do." Bobby said, filling the gap so they were eye-to-eye. "Even though she can very well take care of herself, stop harassing Alex." He was just slightly taller than his adversary. "It's beneath you."

"And if I don't?" Cavanaugh responded. His voice was glass-smooth, but aggression was in every inch of his stance.

Alex could see sparks of anger shift across Bobby's face. "Harry–" Then to Cavanaugh's surprise he shook his head. "I don't understand what you want from me. A challenge to a duel? Or an uppercut to the jaw? In either case–" and here he shook his head and threw hands up in surrender. "–I don't want your drama. Alex and I have a day and a half left of our week away, and I want to enjoy it. You can stand here and rant as long as you like. We're leaving." He paused a beat. "Oh, and Harry?—if you follow us, I'll call 911 and let the DC police handle this." He gave a half-hearted salute to Ruiz and the rest of the group. "Good luck."

Alex spared a final glare at Cavanaugh, who looked taken aback, then accepted the arm Bobby offered her and they walked on unmolested, only to have Cavanaugh call casually, "What about your other family, Robert Goren? The one you don't talk about?"

They didn't rise to the bait, and were finally at peace.

"That man is mentally ill," she said grimly after a few minutes. "'Other family'? He can't possibly mean everyone at the Dark Crystal. Is he talking about the boys?"

"It sounds more as if Harry's dug up another 'scoop' about me," Bobby said bitterly. "He came up with several during his tenure. I ignored them after the first few. When he first took over in Albany, he told everyone the reason I'd done so well was–"

"Let me guess...he said you were boinking the boss."

"You should be doing Cavanaugh's job."

"No one could ever miss the way Penelope seems to take care of you," Alex pointed out.

He considered that for a dozen steps, then asked unexpectedly. "So, do you think I slept with her?"

She stopped in mid-stride, locking eyes with him, thoughtful. "I think...if I didn't know you so well, or know what I do of Penelope...that I might believe it. But I remember what you said to Jack, too. How you wouldn't have carried on any type of relationship with me if I had been your captain. You said, 'It would have undermined her integrity and her authority, and I couldn't do that to her.' You have too much respect to do that to Penelope, and I certainly can't see her doing that to you."

"And that summary proves that you have a better grasp of personalities than Cavanaugh." He offered her his arm. "Now can we stop talking about him? I apologize—I thought you'd enjoy the tour–"

"I did, except for that stinker! Fornell's a great guy...I enjoyed meeting everyone else—I even talked to one of your old dates in the ladies' room. You took her to see Waiting for Godot." There was an impish look on her face. "Such a romantic night out!"

"That was Ronni Heller, and I remember it being a very nice evening. And she did tell me she enjoyed it."

She said loftily. "I preferred Casablanca."

He whispered, "That was always the intent."

. . . . .

                   ***March 25, 2022***

They had finished the hoagies and were nibbling on the brownies when Alex lifted her head and stared in amazement at something several yards away.

"Bobby, check it out," she said in surprise. "When was the last time you saw something like that?"

He followed her gaze and his eyebrows arched. "I think back when I was an altar boy on Sunday mornings."

"I had no idea parents dressed kids like that any longer!"

Moving along a sidewalk a little over fifteen yards from them was a dark-haired older woman in a sensible navy blue skirt and dark blue blouse, supplemented by an unbuttoned grey all-weather coat. Like Alex, she wore a wide-brimmed hat, this one dark with a white ribbon around it, her hair in a plait down her back, her outfit completed with low-heeled leather shoes and dark stockings. She seemed absorbed with her cell phone while still occasionally flicking an eye on what evidently her charge.

The little girl she accompanied, the one who'd attracted Alex's attention, had blond curls clustered like grapes on her shoulders. She was dressed in what they would have termed "Sunday clothes" in their childhoods, a pale violet dress with an A-line skirt, white lace jabot around the collar, and a darker purple sash. An old-fashioned brimmed straw hat with a small bunch of daisies pinned at one side, leotards to match the sash, and black patent leather strap shoes completed the outfit. Over the dress she wore a light coat, dark blue with white piping, also open.

"She reminds me of Madeleine," Alex continued, and he tilted his head at her, so that she further explained, "It's a series of children's picture books. My nieces read them when they were small. Madeleine lives in an orphanage—a nice one, compared to most orphanages in fiction—run by nuns. She's the youngest of the orphans and gets into all sorts of mischief."

Bobby's eyes followed the child as she scuffed along the sidewalk. She had a large hardback book under her right arm; when she came upon a cluster of flowers, she squatted before them, opened the book, and began to page through it with her left hand. "My best guess would be a diplomat's child. Many are still conservative in children's dress. The coat almost looks as if it belongs to a boarding school uniform, but they usually have a badge on the front left pocket. If there is one, it's not visible from here. She could be an American child with very traditional parents who attends a private school."

Just then the girl closed her book and stood up, noticed them watching her, then fixed a longer, more appraising stare in their direction. She tossed a swift glance over her shoulder at her adult companion still absorbed in her phone, and, lifting her chin in an almost familiar defiant gesture, walked directly toward them. When she was about two yards away, she halted, regarding them soberly.

"Good afternoon," she stated in a confident voice with a decided British accent.

Bobby arched his eyebrows, and Alex smiled. "Good afternoon, miss," he said, in equally formal tones, dipping his head in acknowledgment. He indicated her book. "What is it you're reading?"

"It's a manual for identifying flowers," she said, displaying The Mid-Atlantic Flower Identification Guide. "I'm on holiday from school and working on a project for nature class. I was looking up those yellow flowers. The text says they're forsythia." Having completed her once-over of them, she addressed Bobby. "My name's Mignon. And you don't look as I thought you would."

Bobby tilted his head at her, intrigued. "And how did you expect us to look?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't know your lady," the child said in a respectful voice more suited to an older teen, although now that she was so close they could tell she was no more than nine or ten. "I only know you. And I thought you would be dressed more elegantly. Like in the photograph."

Alex exchanged a puzzled look with him. "But we're on vacation," she explained gently.

"In the photo you are clean-shaven," Mignon continued earnestly. "And not as...large."

"I was clean-shaven when I was younger," Bobby said, attempting not to chuckle at the child's bluntness. "As well as thinner. But we all grow old, Mignon. What I don't understand is where you might have seen a photo of me. I don't recall ever having met you."

She briefly studied her shoes. "The photo's on our mantelpiece at home."

"A photograph...of me? At your home? Why would my photograph be on your mantelpiece?" Bobby asked, leaning forward uneasily.

"Because..." and she looked up with large limpid eyes that jolted Alex to her core and sent a shiver through her. "Because I'm certain you're my father."

Bobby stared at her, speechless, and it made the little girl so uncomfortable that she fastened eyes on her shoes again.

Finally, very gently, he continued, "I'm...flattered, Mignon. I must resemble your father quite closely for you to say that. But I don't have any children. I'm afraid I'm not your father."

The child looked startled. "But you must be! You look so much like the photo, and Maman has always told me it's my father. She mentions him often. He's very clever and reads all sorts of books. I love books, too, and Maman says that reminds her of him."

"It must be someone who resembles me. And I love books. But you did say I didn't look like you expected."

Mignon gave a discouraged sigh. "I was so certain it was you."

"I'm sorry I disappointed you. Are you looking for your father because you're not getting along with your mother?"

"Oh, no! Maman and I are best friends, and go on all sorts of adventures together: museums and parks and the zoological gardens. She buys me books and I have a jolly little dog, a bichon frise. Her name is Tipsy. We've always had wonderful times together. But not as much now that I'm away at school. That makes me sad."

Mignon checked over her shoulder to make certain her older caretaker had not noticed her defection, then chattered on, reminding Alex of Luciana Serrano, one of the children she and Bobby mentored at Big Brothers, Big Sisters. "I do love school! It's the Creatwood School in Cheshire. Normally someone my age is in Year 4, but I do so well I'm in Year 6 conditional. My favorite subjects are English and history, and I like natural science. Plus I play tennis and badminton, and I'm a member of the Laurel Club. That's an honor society. Maman and I read together, too. Right now our book is Mr. Melville's Moby-Dick."

Alex looked startled. "Isn't that a difficult book for your age? You're...how old? About nine?"

"I'll be nine in September. It is an abridged version, Maman says, for now, and when we read she explains any difficult terms to me. She's very bright, too."

"Yes," Bobby said, with a tense look in his eyes. "Yes, I believe she is. She sounds very special, Mignon. Is that your mother, there on her phone? I'm surprised she allows you to speak with strangers."

"No, that's not Maman," Mignon said regretfully. "I implored her to come with us today, but she had business to conduct this afternoon. It might have to do with Papa Marcel; she does help him sometimes. She likes it here in Washington, DC. It brings her happy memories. You see, this is where Maman says I was 'begun.'"

"'Begun'?" Alex repeated. "Do you mean–"

"The correct word is 'conceived,' but that sounds ...scientific and formal, don't you think?" Mignon wore a sentimental smile. "It's my favorite of Maman's stories. So romantic. You see, she was in love with a man who worked here in the United States. Sometimes he worked here in this city. He's something like a policeman. I think in England they call it MI.5, but it's not called that here. She arranged to meet him before Christmas, when he was here for a conference, and she described the lovely Christmas decorations in the city and at the hotel, and how he had a small Christmas tree in the hotel room waiting for her." And then she shrugged. "But it didn't work out between them. I know she still hopes my real father will come back to her someday." She smiled. "I don't really mind. My stepfather is quite nice. Well, he calls himself my stepfather, but he already has another family. But he pays for my schooling and we have a very nice flat and can use the summerhouse in Nice during July and the chalet in Chamonix during skiing season, and he seems to like me. He buys me all sorts of pretty things and gave Tipsy to me as a Christmas gift. But I would love to meet my real father."

She finally turned back to smile at the older woman. "That's Luisa, my nanny. She's very kind to me. She's probably playing Candy Crush." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "She's addicted. Maman says she's foolish, wasting money on games."

At that moment the dark-haired woman chose to look up. Even at that distance they could make out the alarmed expression on her face, and she immediately hurried toward them, only to momentarily react when she saw them close up—or was it simply the sight of Bobby's face, Alex wondered?–then touched the girl's arm. "Miss Mignon, you should not be bothering strangers. Please, sir, madam, I apologize for my charge."

Mignon said eagerly, "I saw it in your eyes! You noticed it, too, didn't you, Luisa? Doesn't he look like Papa's photo on the mantel? But he says he has no children."

The dark-haired woman, who had a faint accent which might have been Eastern European or perhaps Russian, said dubiously, "Miss Mignon, he does look like an older version of the man in the photo." She nodded politely at Alex, then continued to Bobby, "I'm sorry Miss Pepin has bothered you. You resemble very much her father's picture, sir."

Bobby reacted so subtly that Alex wondered if Mignon or Luisa caught it. He nodded almost automatically. "I've heard that everyone has a double...a doppelganger...somewhere in the world."

"I'm certain that must be it, sir."

"Is Miss...Pepin's mother nearby? Perhaps she could explain to Mignon–" he asked, but his voice was wary.

"No, I'm sorry, sir. She had business out of the city today."

"Is Miss Pepin's mother French?" Alex queried.

"She's British, madam. Miss Pepin, we should be getting back."

"Yes, we're having a late luncheon at Il Rigoletto. That's one of Maman's favorite places. We'll have to bring her a dessert." Mignon smiled at them. "It was nice to meet you, Mr.–" Suddenly she looked embarrassed. "I'm so sorry! I was in such a hurry to speak to you that I didn't ask your names. It was rude of me."

Bobby said swiftly, "William and Frances Brady. We're glad to have met you, Mignon. And I'm sorry again to have disappointed you."

"It was a mistake. Maman says we all make them. But I didn't mean to be rude. Bon soir." Finally Mignon accepted her nanny's hand and they walked away, the girl sparing a final glance over her shoulder.

Alex waited, staring, until they were well out of earshot. "Well, that was odd."

He was still following the child with his eyes. "Odd indeed, because I know who she is. That's Nicole Wallace's daughter."

"Daughter? But didn't Nicole say during one of your interrogations that she couldn't have any more childr...oh, wait, I'm putting credence in something Nicole said. How stupid can I be?"

"Nicole has a way of doing that to people."

"And she...what? Stuck your photo in a frame and for the past eight years has told Mignon that you're her father?"

He said woodenly, "I can tell you that the idea isn't as farfetched as you might believe."

Alex leaned back in her chair, feeling as if she'd been kicked in the stomach. "Bobby–" Then she looked at him, swallowed. "It's none of my business what you did or who you were with in those ten years we were separated. And I know you've been obsessed by this woman for years–"

He rubbed the left side of his neck fretfully. "I didn't mean it to come to that. She started out as a psychological and intellectual challenge. But we had things in common enough that I allowed it to become an emotional one. I should have never permitted it to go that far. Even then it was never deliberate. If there was an impulse, it was brief. Alex, I will swear to you that I have never considered making love to Nicole Wallace...nor have I ever made love to Nicole...that I remember."

"That you remember?"

Once Mignon was out of eyeshot, he sat down heavily.

"I told you back in December that I was here nine years ago."

She nodded. "Before Christmas. 2012?"

"Yes. It was a Criminal Law Update and Refresher Seminar. One of those mandatory training classes required of us whether we liked it or not, two long weeks of classes and quizzes right before Christmas. The final day of this particular class was the winter solstice. The whole group was here in DC: myself, Karin, Ben, even Fenendra and Stephen who worked in Surveillance down the hall. In fact, Fornell was in that class as well. It was set up that directly after the final exam, our group from Albany would depart for the airport for a 7 p.m. flight home. So the night before the final exam, about fifteen of us, including Fornell, decided to eat at a restaurant the concierge had been pushing on us for most of the two weeks. 'Il Rigoletto,' I believe the place was."

"Didn't Mignon–"

"Yes, she did, and that's why I gave her false names."

"I suspect the concierge was getting kickback recommending the place to you?" Alex observed.

"Extremely probable, since it was very expensive. Delicious food, tiny portions. We arrived early, to beat the dinner crowd and be able get back quickly to review for the exam next day. That's what I was doing about 8 p.m. when dinner wore off and I ordered a ham and cheese from room service. I wolfed it down, went back to review. An hour later, when I wasn't on the toilet I was vomiting into it. I'll spare you further details. After swallowing every Pepto Bismol I had in my toiletry bag I had the hotel send me anything they could find. The concierge showed up at my door with several anti-diarrheal meds, all of which I ingested—I was so sick I didn't give a damn about drug interactions. Things settled a little before midnight. It had been so bad that I took another shower to feel clean, pulled on shorts and a t-shirt, and crawled into bed. Didn't get half my reviewing done and I had to be up at seven.

"Next thing I knew it was 'morning,'" and here he made air quotes, "and someone was pounding on my door. I thought I'd barely lifted my head from the pillow—I had a splitting headache and was nauseated—when the hotel manager and the concierge let themselves into my room." Something in the tone of his voice made her sit up, heart pounding. "Alex, it was 4:30. PM. I had slept through the alarm, two phone calls from the instructor, two from Ben, three from Karin, three from Penelope, and two from the front desk. And I could hear the hotel manager whisper to the concierge in Spanish that he thought I'd 'been on a toot.'"

"It sounds as if you had bad case of food poisoning, and then overslept."

"They'd actually been hammering on the door for nearly five minutes before they let themselves in, and I was woozy for almost an hour after I was awakened. They did find a liquor bottle in my room. Jack Daniels. And another thing." Now his words were tumbling out. "When the manager and concierge found me, I was nude. And there were...crusty spots on the sheet."

Alex suppressed the lump in her throat. "Slow down, Bobby. Take your time," she bade; their eyes met and he took a cleansing breath followed by another, then began to relate the events as if it were a case he was investigating. "Of course this is before we knew Nicole had survived and was living in Paris, so I took it for what I thought it was: a shakedown. The Roosevelt's hosted Federal employees, including FBI, for years; they're very careful who they hire and do background checks, but occasionally the unscrupulous sneak through. We always have periodic reports of opportunists trying to blackmail agents. I contacted the appropriate people immediately, and they had a forensics team there within twenty minutes. CSU took blood, but there were no drugs left in my system, and I'd flushed the other...evidence. They found no fingerprints, except mine, on the liquor bottle, presumably placed there while I was unconscious. The...semen was mine. Oddly any vaginal fluids and fingerprints in the room couldn't be identified, except the fingerprints and other epithelials of the cleaning staff, the manager, the concierge, and myself. They confiscated my laptop for malware—it came up clean. My wallet was intact, but they tested that as well."

"What happened with your final class?"

He looked startled. "I stayed another night, in a different room. I had the test the next day. Alex, aren't you worried about this?"

"Did anyone try to shake you down?" she asked practically.

"I assumed they decided not to after seeing a dozen FBI CSU techs tramping through that room. When I left on Saturday it was still like a hornets' nest."

"So what you're thinking," she said, "after seeing this little girl, is that Nicole was the one who made you sick? Then she somehow drugged you so that you've forgotten the entire experience, but still were able to...perform...and somehow had sex with her without her leaving one bit of forensic evidence? Was she wrapped in plastic?"

He gave her a reproachful look for her practicality, then made a face. "I know—it sounds crazy, but- When I received the box that supposedly contained my nephew Donny's heart, how the hell was it ID'd as Nicole if it wasn't hers? She must have had some way to dick up the NYPD database years earlier, why not the FBI's? Nicole has managed to circumvent surveillance cameras, DNA evidence, the NYPD computer system, and any other number of things. Maybe I did become obsessed with her, but she was equally obsessed with me. Obsessed enough to kill my brother. And she seemingly has eyes and ears everywhere. Do you think that Mignon turned up today by accident? What are the odds?"

Alex's face was now troubled. "If she wasn't here by accident that means...what? I was the one who made all the arrangements for this trip. Is my laptop somehow compromised?" She looked at him, wide eyed. "It couldn't be yours, could it? I know you work through a VPN...but all that classified information- This is a hell lot more than a kid who says 'You're my daddy' if it's true."

"I was thinking that, too. We need to get back so I can call this in."

"So glad we packed this morning and everything is stowed in the hotel locker."