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RELATIONS
Alexandra Eames was slipping her dress over her head when the telephone rang. She glanced over her shoulder, where her cell sat buzzing on the dresser next to her wedding photo, and she involuntarily looked at herself, now clad in black, in the mirror. Memories of Joe's funeral came flooding back, although this was a different black dress than ten years earlier, with three-quarter sleeves and a square collar. The phone was still tweedling the Dragnet theme. She sighed and answered. "Hello, Captain." Keep your temper, Allie, she told herself. "Good morning, Detective Eames," Danny Ross said formally, but she caught the nuance of self-consciousness in his voice. "I'm in a little bit of a hurry, Captain," she told him firmly, pressing the button to transfer the call to speakerphone and setting the cell down. Then she continued to dress as they conversed, adjusting her necklace so that the tiny cross was centered in the hollow of her throat. She then switched on an additional light so she could apply mascara and a subdued lipstick to her face, with just the tiniest hints of blush. "Yes, I know you're probably getting ready," Ross responded awkwardly. "I was just hoping you would pass on my condolences..." Her lips were set in a straight line. "You won't be attending, Captain?" Ross had the grace to sound abashed. "No...after the last few months, I think I'd be the last person Detective Goren would want to see at his brother's funeral." "I would think he would appreciate support from all of his associates," she countered in a frosty voice. When she finished with her makeup, she inserted her simplest pair of gold studs in her earlobes, then stepped back from the dresser to check herself out. She had simply swept up both sides of her hair with silver bobby pins and decided she was respectful enough for the ceremony. "Well.." And again, Ross faltered. "Just in case, I don't want to add any more stress to what's already going to be a hard day for him." Oh, now you want to take it easy on him, Alex thought bitterly. Now, after you distrusted him from the start, pulled him away from his mother when she needed him—not to mention implying I couldn't do a good job when he was absent!—wouldn't give any leeway to his nephew when it was evident that he was in danger but made us tiptoe around your "old friend" Kathy...oh, all the things I could say! "That's very considerate of you, Captain," she said in a neutral voice. If Ross heard the subtle slap that accompanied those words, he did not let on. "You're heading for the church?" "I'm picking him up and will be driving him there," she corrected. "Considering that Goren is still paying off his mother's hospital bills, this is a low-budget funeral. I'm grateful the Police Benevolent Fund spared him enough money so Frank wouldn't have to go into a pauper's grave. Just a hearse for transport and the plainest coffin Goren could find since Frank's being cremated. "Now, I'm just about to step out the door, Captain," she said briskly, picking up the small black clutch purse she reserved for funerals and occasions requiring a "little black dress." "I need to let you go. I'll pass on your condolences to Detective Goren." And with that, she hung up on him and tucked the phone in her purse. Let him say one word to me, she added under her breath. . . . . . Bobby's buddy Lewis had initially offered to pick him up. She still didn't know quite how long he and the car-crazy mechanic had known one another, but their friendship was deep and natural; Bobby was always relaxed in Lewis' presence. Had Frank's death been from natural causes or simply a result of his drug use, Alex would have let Lewis do the honors. But the moment the medical examiner's findings had revealed succinylcholine in Frank's system, combined with a blond strand of hair found on Frank's bed, it had brought up the specter of Nicole Wallace, and Alex had intervened, wanting to keep an eye on her partner. "If you could handle things at the church," she had requested Lewis, "it would help so much. You know so many of Bobby's other friends, and you could–" She left the rest unsaid, and the wiry man had nodded vigorously. "Sure, Detective Alex," he'd said obligingly, his usual joking manner subdued, and Alex found that she missed the usual playful "pass" Bobby's friend would lob at her each time they met. It was a joke between them now, an unspoken bond between them and their common link, Robert Goren. She found a parking spot several car lengths down from Goren's place, and her heels tapped down the sidewalk briskly, then she mounted the concrete steps and rang the bell. It was a few seconds before Bobby buzzed her in, and she stood at the top of the stoop looking one way down the street and then the other, watching as everyone else in the neighborhood went about their lives: a young woman in a hoodie and pajama bottoms walking a Yorkie, an elderly man throwing out his trash, a middle-aged couple arguing in Spanish on a stoop some doors away as the woman pawed frantically in her purse (presumably for her keys). She recalled once when she was small and her father had been wounded by a berserk youth on LSD brandishing a knife; she had wondered why the whole world had not stopped because her daddy was hurt. Her mother had comforted her, saying it was the way of the world; our sorrows are not everyone else's sorrow. She realized that, without actual intention, Bobby's sorrows had become hers. He'd never pushed, though, never complained or wailed over his troubles as she knew some other detectives did with their partners. She'd known of his mother's mental illness for some time, but he'd not revealed Frances' cancer diagnosis until he'd mentioned it to Officer Wiznesky, hoping to gain the man's trust. And while Bobby had casually referred to his brother a dozen or so times over in the six years she'd known him—he'd owned one of those Johnny Seven toy rifles Bobby had goofed off with at the collectors' shop, she recalled—she hadn't seen the reality of Frank Goren until they had bumped into him, inadequately clad in a church soup kitchen line, one chilly day the previous year. Bobby had literally given him the coat off his back and money, made arrangements for them to visit his mother on her birthday, and then had suffered in silence when Frank failed to appear at Frances Goren's bedside. She'd read between the lines when Bobby told her about the debacle: after Frank's no-show, his mother had taken no interest in the pretty embroidered bed jacket he'd bought her because the chemo so frequently made her cold. And she'd been there when the corpse wearing Bobby's coat had been delivered to the police morgue, only for him to discover with relief that his brother had not been the one wearing it. "He probably...um...sold it, needing the money for a r-room for the night," Bobby had excused Frank. "Or maybe a good m-meal, treating his lady friend." Probably snorted it up his nose, Alex parried in her mind. Too many years in Vice had left her jaded about such things. While Alex had always thought that "women's intuition" was a load of bullshit, Frank's death did leave her uneasy. The past months had been like crashing dominoes for Bobby, and she had a bad feeling that the possible involvement of Wallace would not only topple but undermine Bobby's life all the more. The door buzzed and clicked, so she entered, knocking on an apartment door that opened all too quickly, revealing Bobby standing there ready to leave, dressed stiffly and awkwardly in a suit and tie, an ensemble he previously had worn as comfortably as jeans and a polo shirt, jingling his keys in his left hand. He hadn't even shaved for the occasion, although it looked as if he'd hit the barbershop in a half-hearted effort to make himself look neat. His hair had been evened out, the wild bushiness removed from his beard, and his black suit was pressed and presentable, but his eyes still had a fathomless look of pain, and the dark circles showing bluish under them spoke plainly of his lack of sleep. Alex recalled the trim, handsome partner she'd been coupled with on her first day in Major Case, bright-eyed with anticipation of a new challenge. Women, even suspects they questioned, gravitated to—and often flirted with—him automatically. Alex had met some of his old girlfriends, always tall, beautiful professional women with killer figures and verbally adept. Hell, even a serial killer like Nicole Wallace had toyed with him before he realized what she was. Now he was older, tired, and stressed by eighteen months of personal shocks, his dark curly hair silvering more each year; while he could still project the charm, the feminine offers had dwindled. In addition, over the years Bobby had struggled with his weight, but always had passed the yearly physical; over the past two years, in which his waistline had thickened along with his troubles, he had just squeaked by. Alex knew that there were cautionary notes in his jacket about his health, and she had personally glared down a half-dozen jokers who'd currently referred to her partner as "tubby" or a kinder "portly," plus the one well-read wit who'd referred to Bobby as "our personal Holmes—but more Mycroft than Sherlock." The physical changes didn't bother her—inside he was still "Bobby"—except that she was also concerned about his health, although the psychological changes were what gnawed at her most. Right now, the collar of his navy blue shirt gapped a bit under his pewter tie; he hadn't worn a full suit and tie in some time, and she correctly deduced he hadn't bought any new shirts with larger collars lately. "Let me straighten your tie," she said without preamble, and with deft fingers she pretended to square the knot, while in actuality she was strategically positioning the knot to cover the gap. "There," she said finally in satisfaction, as if she were sending a son out to the school prom. Bobby met her eyes with the tiniest of grins, telling her she hadn't fooled him, but he was grateful. She let the merest of smiles respond. "Do you have everything you need?" she asked finally. "Yah," he responded in a hoarse voice that intimated that he'd been crying. She nodded; acknowledging it would only embarrass him. "Let's go then." Even with the front passenger seat of her Honda pushed fully back and slightly reclined, he looked awkward wedged in her car, knees very visible as he tapped long, restless fingers on them. As she drove to St. Anselm's, she made no small talk, and he bleakly stared ahead through the windshield. Only when they reached the church did she finally remark conversationally, "Oh, look, there's Logan." About a half dozen people, all but one familiar to Alex, milled in front of the stone-cornered, brick-faced church, but waiting at the curb were Lewis, his usually comical face solemn and stiff, looking unnatural in an ill-fitting navy suit, and Mike Logan, who had put in his retirement papers barely a week ago. When he cleaned out his desk, he'd been blunt: "I'm sick of this place; no matter what I do, it doesn't seem to make a difference. I need to leave before I either kill someone or eat my gun." Then his eyes became pensive. "Look, I'm sorry that it was partially my fault Deakins got called up on the carpet..." "No," Bobby had interjected firmly. "Not your fault. It was all on Adair." Logan had returned a negative gesture. "But it was me who instigated the avalanche." He had shaken both of their hands gravely. "You guys take care of yourselves. I don't want to see your name in the paper again, man," said to Bobby, referring to the Ledger's story about his rescue from Tate's and their editorializing about the abuses revealed. "Eames will make me toe the line," Bobby had joked awkwardly. "I have a lot of sins to answer for." And now Alex stood there, face schooled to serenity, but her brain rioting—"There was a curtain...where he kept me...he wanted me to scream, so I didn't."..."Well, then, let's go. I told her I wasn't getting any better by myself."..."What the hell was that, Bobby? You want to throw it all away?"..."This isn't another one of your puzzles!"...the shock of suddenly finding her service weapon pointed at Bobby Goren's face..."I get it. You're the genius; I just carry your water. Right?"..."You're exactly right. No, I'm just saying, you're right."—as Logan gave Bobby one of those clumsy male hugs and said "I'm sorry, man. Your mom last year, and now this..." "Thanks," Bobby rasped in almost a whisper, then went on to greet Lewis and pay his regards to his dad's old buddy Ferdie, who'd helped them solve a case several years back, and greet his escort, a grizzled man of a similar age who was pushing the failing Ferdie in a wheelchair. In the meantime, Logan had stepped back to whisper to Alex, "So this is a homicide, huh? Who's working the case?" "Detectives Fontanella and Rivera, but Ross and I have been overseeing the investigation." "Ross!" Logan chuckled. "He trying to make up for the shit he put Bobby through when his mom was sick?" Alex sighed. Even though she'd had a good night's sleep she realized she was exhausted, not just from the latest incident, but from almost two years' worth of bone-wearying emotional events: Jo Gage and her wild-eyed crazy daddy issues; Frances Goren's illness and death; serial killer Mark Ford Brady's revelations, including a troublesome implication neither she nor Danny Ross had missed; Kevin Quinn's murder leading to a new investigation into her husband's death; Bobby's unauthorized undercover assignment followed by suspension; endless weeks of perfectly normal but unsatisfying temporary partnerships; discovery of Bobby's clandestine undercover assignment at the end of the barrel of her Glock (inwardly she still protested "he could have found a way to tell me" even as she recalled Chief of D's Kenny Moran's distaste for Bobby and Bobby's addiction to his work); and the recent frosty weeks of his re-instatement in which he resembled a cowed dog—he wore that same face now, so that she understood how soul-shattering her simmering rage in the observation room had been. And now that they seemed to be back on an even footing, that he could make her laugh again, and she could see the light coming back to his eyes—this. Logan took it all in with one searching look at her face and said softly, "Sorry about that, Eames. I know this has to be hard on you, too. Sometimes Goren can be like the storm surge from a hurricane. It's gotta bleed off on you." She only smiled wryly, and when Bobby, having finished exchanging condolences with one of his FBI contacts and with a tall, attractive, dark-haired woman Alex remembered from their investigation of an investment firm, turned automatically back to her to see if she was following, she murmured to Logan, "Talk to you after the service." She caught up with her partner and they were escorted to the front of the church, next to Frank's coffin, by one of the ushers. Evelyn Carlson was seated on the opposite side of the nave, dressed in widow's weeds. Bobby blanched when he saw her, but Alex gave her one ferocious glare, and she kept her head bowed through most of the service. Alex was still fuming from their recent interview with Evelyn, mother of Bobby's missing nephew Donny, in connection with Frank's death, in which she'd accused Bobby of "never taking much interest in his nephew." In deference to Bobby, she dampened thoughts of getting in Evelyn's face and shouting, "How could he take an interest in someone he didn't know existed until half a year ago?" Or "Oh, he 'didn't take an interest' all right—he just nearly died for your son!" Bobby glanced at her quizzically when she turned her head away from the woman in black, her teeth visibly gritted. You okay? was written all over his face. "Remembering my mom's funeral," she fibbed, sotto voce. Instead, she was flashbacking on his vacant eyes and cracked, dry lips when he'd been rescued from Tate's, how she scrambled into the ambulance at the last minute and watched the paramedics infuse her insensible partner with saline and D5W to counteract dehydration, and then sat at his bedside to the disapproval of the doctors and Danny Ross until he opened his eyes and rasped, "Alex...you came." Soft music played as people filed into the pews, and now an instrumental version of "How Great Thou Art" underscored the scene as Alex surveyed the church—an older structure with the traditional Catholic murals and trappings, including banks of candles on either side of the altar—and attendees. She recognized most of the latter, as they had been at his mother's funeral less than a year ago—at least a dozen people from Major Case—she could see Jeffries and Simmons behind them; some of Bobby's old co-workers from Narcotics—Fin Tutuola was always recognizable; several of his eccentric friends she'd encountered over the past few years, like Penzarella the forger who'd helped them on one of their first cases together; older men she assumed were friends of Bobby's father; a couple of familiar faces: retired James Deakins and his wife Angie, and former ADA Ron Carver; and of course Lewis and Logan, Megan Wheeler, and a surprise attendee, Nola Falacci. Alex, though, was most intrigued by the woman seated almost directly behind her, short, pleasant-faced, with a silver cap of short hair and introspective brown eyes behind wire-framed glasses, perhaps in her 60s, accompanied by a tall, long-faced man who appeared to be about Bobby's age, with brown hair and blue eyes. She would have asked Bobby about the pair, but his eyes were fixed on his lap and he hadn't noticed. Just as the organ cued for the start of the service, Alex saw movement out of the corner of her left eye. Danny Ross had slipped in a side door and had taken the end of a pew closest to it. About time! The service was a simple, short Requiem Mass with routine hymns, and the smell of incense and hot candlewax made her heavy-eyed; Bobby had been too emotionally exhausted to arrange anything further, not to mention, as she'd told Ross, a paucity of funds on his part. There had been no viewing for Frank, just a quick trip from a freezer in the morgue to the funeral home for transfer into a plain casket, then refrigeration again until the service and burial. She nodded at Bobby encouragingly when he rose to say a few words about Frank. He stumbled a few times, but only one line touched on his brother's 30-year struggle with addictions; the rest were sentimental tales of how Frank had taken care of him as a big brother, making him sandwiches and following him when he was an altar boy to assure the older boys left his little brother alone. How as a kid Frank had big dreams that never came to fruition due to what Bobby referred to as "family money troubles." How much his mother had loved him and was proud of him. How much Frank had loved his son and wished he'd been able to see him again. Evelyn had a different expression on her face when Bobby returned to his seat, almost one of puzzlement. Alex ignored her. Finally, the recessional was played. The coffin would be transported to the crematory. The Police Benevolent Fund had arranged for a small reception—the mousy, balding verger whose huge shirt collar made him look like a modern Bob Cratchit quaintly called it a "collation"—downstairs in the church basement, punch and cookies, and a sheet cake with white roses in one corner. Bobby shook hands numbly with everyone, most who provided earnest but stock platitudes. Danny Ross made a good overture with a strong handshake and a sincere "I'm sorry," but vanished thereafter. No one approached Evelyn Carlson, and she left early. Now that the crowd had thinned, a restless Bobby had begun talking with Alex about another case they were working on when the silver-haired older woman with the middle-aged companion approached them tentatively. "Bobby?" He tilted his head at her in curiosity. 'Yes, ma'am?" "You probably won't remember me," the woman said gently, in a voice that sounded more youthful than her appearance suggested. "I haven't seen you in person since the terrible car accident your mother had when you were four years old." "Were you a friend of Frances Goren?" Alex asked, knowing that the "accident" was a cover-up for Frances' beating at the hands of a man she'd trusted. Bobby's face held no answers, but his eyes showed that his curiosity had been successfully piqued. The woman smiled, and her face and eyes warmed with the motion. "I hope so. There were times she certainly needed a friend." She reached out a work-roughened yet dimpled hand to Bobby. "You see, I'm your aunt, dearest. Agnes Fry, your father's younger sister." If the floor had suddenly dropped from under either Alexandra Eames or Robert Goren, neither of them would have looked as startled as they did when Agnes spoke those words. "Of course you won't remember me," the woman continued, "because you were only four." She dropped her eyes. "Your father and I...had some longstanding disagreements about his...lifestyle. About the lies he told your mother. We did keep in touch with her, you see, my husband Gardner and I." Alex saw Bobby's face thaw, the misery slowly melting away to be replaced by dawning interest. "Uncle...Gard. Wait...the n-name and the w-word confused me. I thought he was a guard, didn't I?" Agnes Fry laughed. "You do remember some! Yes, you asked why he wasn't in a uniform and were so confused when Gard said he was a farmer. Then you wanted to know where his tractor was and if he had a cow. By the way, we do—have cows, that is. Our farm is in Michigan, in Lebanon, just north of DeWitt. Oh, wait–" She rummaged in her purse. "I told Sandy I didn't expect a police detective of all people to believe I was who I said I was without some proof! This was taken at our farm the year before we saw you for the last time." What she withdrew was a white-bordered Kodacolor print of herself—much younger and slimmer, with brown hair done in a pageboy style and a mischievous glint in her eye—seating in a mid-century modern chrome-and-scarlet vinyl kitchen chair at left, and of Frances Goren, age 30, her large, expressive eyes shining out of a glowing face, seated in the same type of chair at right. Both wore fashionable dresses with full skirts, Agnes in a bottle-green Ship'n Shore cotton with a Peter Pan collar and three-quarter sleeves that suited her complexion, and Frances in a slightly dressier frock with a V-neck, elbow-length sleeves, and buttons down the front in a rich burgundy linen that flattered her dark eyes and hair. Between them, standing on a wooden milking stool, was a boy of about three, looking solemnly out of wide eyes at the camera from under a thick mop of dark wavy hair. He wore a boy's suit, a dark blue jacket over a white shirt with no tie, and matching short pants, with pale blue knee-length stockings and black Oxfords. Alex found herself grinning. "Bobby, at that age you could have given my nephew a run for the money in cuteness." Her voice and the mention of Eddie Hogan brought Bobby back to earth as he flushed. "I forgot!" he apologized. "Aunt Agnes, this is my partner...my partner at work, Alexandra Eames," he was careful to stress after Frank's mistaken identification the previous year. Alex extended her hand to shake, and Agnes Fry did so firmly. "Well, I'm just as guilty of neglect—here's poor Sandy standing behind me like a sentinel and not even being acknowledged!" "Don't worry," the man behind her said with a grin, "I'm used to Mom doing all the talking." He held out his hand. "Alexander Fry, cousin Bobby, Ms. Eames. Family and friends call me 'Sandy.'" "I'm pleased to meet you," Alex said. "Is your father with you, or is he home tending the farm?" Sandy bit his lip, and Agnes spoke up softly. "Gard died just after Billy—Bobby's dad—did, about two months later. He was eaten up with colon cancer. It's why we didn't make Bill's funeral—Gard was so ill–" "No, no," and Bobby held out his hands to his aunt, her smaller ones swallowed by his. "You had to care for your husband first. I understand." Agnes sighed. "We had happy years together, and he was with us long enough to see his grandson and his grandniece. We never knew we had a grandnephew as well. Frances never mentioned that Frank had a son." Neither did Frank until it suited him, Alex thought resentfully. Floored by one word, Bobby asked tentatively, "So, Sandy...you have a son." His cousin responded with a proud smile. "Yes, Paul. He's the one at home taking care of the stock—we have a dairy—with the help of our stockman, Cliff." "And you," Bobby said so intensely to his aunt that Alex's' mouth formed a small "o," "you have a grandniece. But Frank only had one son that I knew of," Bobby said, confused. "Donny. He's...it's a long story. And I-I have...um...no children, Aunt Agnes." Sandy turned to his mother, troubled. "I was afraid of this. He really doesn't know, Mother. You were right—Uncle Bill never told him." Agnes Fry bit her lip, her eyes filled with regret. "Look, we need to talk, but, please, could we do it elsewhere, maybe where we could get a bite to eat?" Alex noticed for the first time that everyone else had left. The wispy-haired verger and a couple of brisk middle-aged church ladies were cleaning up the remains of the collation. "Bobby, what about Brennan's? They have those little booths at the back. I can drop the three of you there and then head out so you can talk to your family. You can catch a taxi home." Agnes had turned away with Sandy bent over her, chatting quietly, and Bobby laid a warm hand on her shoulder. "Eames...Alex...don't leave. Please." Uncomfortable, he began to fidget, hand scrubbing at the side of his neck. "This is- I have some...uh...vague memories now: Aunt Agnes singing me a funny song, maybe r-reading to me before bed. But I'm still a stranger here. Back me up." His eyes were entreating. "Please." Alex searched his face. "Bobby, they might want to discuss personal things–" He said simply, "I trust you, Eames. With everything." She was flattered, despite the inner voice that still needled her: Everything except that damn undercover job, right? Her more rational voice overrode it: Jesus, Allie, get over it! She took a deep breath. "All right, if your aunt and cousin don't mind, I'll come along. I could use one of Brennan's corned beef sandwich plates right now." Agnes and Sandy Fry indeed did not mind and welcomed her; they also graciously accepted her offer of a ride, as they had taken a taxi to the church. Brennan's was only a few miles away, a pub serving informal meals in the Irish fashion, with plenty of polished wood and brass, a faux stone floor, a long bar along the back wall with classic faux ivory-topped taps, and a mirror behind the bar with its border acid-etched with shamrocks. In the main area, round wooden tables were set up for groups of four. A dart board stood at the rear corner, its surface thickly pockmarked. To the left of the entrance was a second room containing booths for four occupants, each separated by six inches of wood paneling. Inside each booth, benches bracketed either side of a wooden trestle table. Several tables and a booth were already occupied, and the air was redolent with fried potatoes, corned beef, and the distinct scent of hops. Alex and Agnes found themselves smiling at each other across the table, seated beside the rear wall of the booth, which was decorated with a chair rail at table level with varnished brown paneling below and mint-green painted walls above. The walls were hung with old prints of Ireland from magazines, horse brasses, and vintage Guinness and other Irish ales ads. The clear plastic sheathed menus were scattered with illustrations of golden horseshoes, rainbows ending in tiny cauldrons of gold, and shamrocks, and a wizened leprechaun with a gloved hand extended introduced the beer offerings. Bobby and Sandy occupied the other end of the benches, where Sandy could direct his long legs outward and Bobby could discreetly adjust his body so he wasn't wedged tight between table and wall. "They do things up very Irish here," Agnes observed with amusement. "My dad loves this place. He had a chance to go to Ireland before he met my mother, and he says this place does a fair job replicating a classic Irish pub," Alex answered. "Besides, the food is excellent." "So your father's forebears were from Ireland?" Agnes asked brightly. "And your mother as well?" "Oh, yes," Alex chuckled, recognizing the visitors' need for small talk as a prelude to more serious matters. "My mom was a Cochran. She said that between her and my dad, we were so Irish we should bleed green." "The Frys are English, Scots, or Irish, depending on who you ask," Sandy contributed pleasantly. "Dad had heraldry done once, said the name meant 'free.'" The server, Carney, a bony young man with a mop of blond hair and the last traces of teen acne on his face, arrived at that moment to take drink orders. Bobby asked for a plate of potato skins as an appetizer. "Now we Gorens, I read, go back to Russian Jews," Agnes added after Carney had left, "so how our branch of the family ended up as Catholic I'll never know." Bobby finally commented, "The most probable cause...umm...was conversion to Catholicism to escape persecution. It was a heavy b-burden to carry for some people. Often they converted publicly and then continued to practice Judaism in secret." Agnes was delighted at his scholarly response. "My goodness, you sound so much like Frannie! Yes, Billy was old enough to listen to local GIs talk about the concentration camps they liberated." She gave a wry smile. "I didn't learn about those things until later; I was both a war baby and a change-of-life baby for my mama. Papa said they were tempted to name me 'Surprise'! But the farm folks around us were shocked by the stories and photos. Some thought concentration camps were Roosevelt propaganda. And even I remember the television news about Stalin's postwar purges and the Soviet Union pogroms. I wonder now if we had distant relatives who died there." Alex knew that Bobby's mother had been a history aficionado, a trait passed on to her son, and her job as a librarian would have fed her thirst for knowledge. How she must have enjoyed her chats with this sister-in-law, who seemed completely unlike the bon vivant, gregarious, and insouciant William Goren as described by Bobby! What on earth has drawn intelligent, curious Frances to a manipulator like Bill Goren anyway? As if reading Alex's mind, Agnes said with a sigh, "I never did understand what Frances saw in Bill. As a girl, I adored my brother, but as he got older, he developed a wild streak a mile wide. He and some buddies hitchhiked to Chicago when I was about seven, so he was seventeen—there was a brother between us, Horace, but he died of polio when he was ten—and when he came home he'd changed. He stayed with us until he was 21—Papa insisted—and then he said he was fed up with the sticks, packed up, and vanished. We thought he'd gone to Chicago until about a year later when we got a postcard—a postcard, mind you!—saying that he'd found a wholesale position with Butler & Sons—a famous women's shoe manufacturer back then; leave it to Billy to find a sales job that would keep him in contact with the most women!—in New York City, and that he was keeping company with a girl named Sarah. We'd get postcards monthly, and each time he named another girl, so you could have knocked us over with a feather when he sent us a Thanksgiving card in 1957 announcing he had just married a nice Catholic girl named Frances! Papa was about beside himself, but Bill always did as he pleased." The cynical face that Bobby assumed told Alex that "Bill" continued to do as he pleased during his childhood, but she was already aware of his father's infidelities (with Frances having found companionship of her own, as her son had found out so painfully the previous year). One dark winter evening after a particularly grueling case involving a weeping state employee who'd been driven to homicide, stabbing her philandering husband, Bobby confessed that he not only knew about his dad's lovers but had met some of them and had been persuaded to "keep it between us." Despite Bobby's faithfulness to his promise, Bill Goren had little time for his younger son and showed scant sympathy after Frances' schizophrenia began to manifest and eventually abandoned his family. Another server, an older woman whose face was creased with impatience, returned with their drinks and the appetizer, took their orders, and retreated. Agnes must have been observing Bobby's face during the interval, because she said more gently, "Your mother brought you and Frank out to the farm for a few days when you were three. Bill refused to come. We visited New York a few times as well: Thanksgiving weekend 1957, then when Frank was born in '58, and in '61 after you were born. Gard went back home that time while I stayed a few weeks with Fran; she was so strung out after your birth, I'm not sure why. By the time I left, she had calmed down, and it felt safe." I think I know why, Alex thought bitterly. "The last time we actually saw you boys was 1965, after Frances' horrible car accident. Bill's reaction was...so odd. She'd been driving with a girlfriend whose car spun out on a bad curve. Fran was black and blue from the wreck, distraught. But it was as if Bill blamed her for the accident. "I picked a fight with him. I loved Frances and loved you boys, and I had to defend her. He shouted at us, threw us out of the house right there in front of Fran. She started to cry, and even that didn't move him. I couldn't..." Agnes' face twisted. "This was my big brother Billy, the one who defended me from bullies when I was six and used to stammer! I didn't know the man anymore. So...we left. I heard that afterward, Frances stayed with her mother awhile. "I did keep in touch with Frances through her library. She healed physically from the accident but never seemed to recover emotionally. I don't know if it were the way Bill treated her after the accident or if he was still being unfaithful–" Bobby said softly, "He was." Agnes emitted a disgusted snort. "Well, as I said, I kept in touch through the library she worked at. Then, after three years had passed, I noticed she started...rotating between branches frequently, and, knowing Billy was away so much, took the chance of calling her at home one day. Frank answered the phone. He was rude...but I think it was due to his being so unhappy. I'm not sure where you were...in any case, when I asked after your mother, he snapped at me. 'Mom's at the shrink,' he said. 'She's been talking to the wall and making Bobby cry. Dad says he thinks she's a schizo.' I told him to try to be patient and supportive of his mother, and he said, 'What about me? All the guys at school already ride me about my crazy mom, who came by school in her nightgown and slippers, asking me to save her from the eyes in the walls.'" Bobby bowed his head, his hands clasped tightly, mouth set, and Sandy sympathetically touched his wrist. Alex knew the situation from Bobby's fragmented tales, doled out here and there as prompted by a case. But it was another thing to hear about it through Frank's eyes, fear taking cover under embarrassment and anger. She steadied her breathing, casting her eyes left at Bobby, signaling her support, and after a moment she saw him relax slightly, his nervous fingers slipping apart to drum on the table. Their original server Carney returned with the sandwich platters all four had ordered. There was a flurry of activity as the table was cleared, drinks shifted, and platters set down, bits of small talk, and then they were alone again. "I regret bringing back such memories, especially today," Agnes apologized as she eyed her bulging turkey club sandwich, "but I wanted to explain. After the divorce, Frances stopped answering my calls. Maybe she thought I was angry at her. Frank contacted me a couple of times, first when you joined the Army, then to tell me you'd joined the NYPD. He might have been fishing for money and then lost his nerve, because when I asked after him, he laughed and said, 'Oh, you know me, Aunty. I manage.' But after hearing your eulogy, and reading the obituary..." She patted his arm. "...he really didn't, did he?" "No," said Bobby with a sigh, picking bits of corned beef out of his sandwich with a fork while telling his aunt and cousin a highly abbreviated version of Frank's slow slide downward. Alex ate her sandwich in silence, digesting some stories she'd never heard along with the corned beef. At one point Bobby shifted his legs, and his right leg, warm and firm, was flat against hers. She waited for him to move it—he was doubly wary now, after the undercover debacle, of intruding into her personal space—but it remained there, solid and oddly comforting. "Aunt Agnes," he finally asked hesitantly after eating a pickle spear and several seasoned French fries, "what about...your...g-grandniece?" "Oh, dear," Agnes sighed. "Well, there's no way to make this painless. Bill 'kept company' with Freida Dumire for over a year, and Papa and Mama were both relieved, hoping Billy would finally settle down. Then...whooooosh! It was as if someone poured gasoline on a fire. Bill and Freida had an argument in downtown Lebanon that one of Bill's friends swore probably could have been heard down in DeWitt. Freida's father stormed into our house after that, collected anything of hers at our home, and told Papa if Billy stepped a foot near his daughter again, he'd take a shotgun to him. A month later Bill was gone, and another month later we heard Freida was 'sent away to live with an aunt.' Well, of course, every woman in the neighborhood knew what that meant." Alex nodded sagely in response, and Bobby tilted his head at her curiously. Don't know everything, do you, Bobby? "I was teased at school until the school principal told my classmates that if they said one more word about it, they'd be expelled. Of course, I heard all the whispers: 'Bill Goren knocked her up.' Or the occasional 'Some guy knocked her up and Bill wouldn't stand for it.'" Bobby, Alex noticed, now comprehended the "aunt" reference. "And then tongues wagged again when Freida returned home with the baby! Back then, they were ordinarily given up to an adoption agency before you returned home from your 'aunt's house.' Papa and Mama were speechless, and he did forbid me to visit them, but once Mama was over the shock, she stared down the neighbors and visited Freida and brought gifts for the child, a sweet girl named Helena. I was old enough that she told me what had happened—that this little girl was my niece, Billy's daughter." "So I have a half-sister," Bobby said in a kind of wonder. "Did my mother know?" Sandy eyed his mother, but Agnes continued, "Unless someone from the area— or Bill!— spilled the beans, how would she? Bill, all fresh and swagger, told Frances he was from Chicago, so she wouldn't think he was 'a hick'—and that he was 'available' as they say. He certainly wasn't going to let on that he had a bastard child! Oh, I do understand how he reeled Frannie in—my brother could sell ice to Eskimos—oh, wait, I think that word is considered rude now. 'People of the Arctic,' I mean. "The Dumires raised Helena as their child. After a few years, everyone but the town gossips forgot the scandal, and she was left alone. Mama and I...and Papa, who relented—occasionally, anyway—would visit her. Helena did know I was her aunt." Agnes' stare was faraway for a moment as she dipped a French fry in mayonnaise. "She resembled her mother more than Bill. She was a good person, a smart girl—got through grammar and high school successfully, went to business college—became an accountant. But since there were better jobs in Chicago, in the mid-70s she moved there. "After Abiah and Jonathan Dumire died, I heard about her from Freida, or, occasionally, from Freida's younger brother Wayne. She was living 'happily single,' Wayne would say—enviously, I think, since he was married and had six young'uns!—and doing well, like Mary Richards on The Mary Tyler Moore Show." Alex's cell phone let out a muffled chirp as Agnes finished, and she glanced at it discreetly. When she returned her attention to the table, her face gave nothing away. Sandy had contributed only minor commentary, concentrating more on his open-faced roast beef platter, but now he glanced at his watch and reluctantly tapped his mother's shoulder. "Mother, you need to finish up. We have to think about finding a ride to the airport. Our flight is in three hours, and I've heard about New York TSA lines." He smiled at Bobby and Alex. "We flew in early this morning, just for the funeral, and have a flight home at six." "I'll take you to the airport," Alex found herself volunteering, "and I'll keep checking the traffic while we finish eating, to make sure we leave in time for you to get there and get through TSA without rushing." "Oh, no, we couldn't..." "You're so kind, but..." "Eames, you don't need to..." "It's fine," Alex insisted. Anything, anything, to keep that alert, questioning look on Bobby's face, not the mask of despair he had worn since he found Frank's body sprawled on the walkway outside his apartment. Tomorrow they would be working on Frank's case again—Ross was back in his office, according to the text alert she'd just received, had just read the coroner's report and their notes about the blond hair and the poison (Bobby assuredly had the same text waiting) and wanted a briefing on Nicole Wallace ASAP next morning, probably having been filled in by the squad room rumor mill—and she desperately wanted these few more hours of normality with family for him. "I'd like to contact Helena," Bobby requested. "Does she know about Frank and me?" Alex realized immediately from both faces across the table that this part of the story didn't have the happy ending Bobby hoped for. "I wish I could tell you that, dearest," and Agnes reached forward to clasp his suddenly motionless hands. "You see, about ten years ago, Helena turned up at the farm. Freida had passed by then, and Wayne and the family moved to Des Moines. She was quite the liberated woman, as we said back in the 70s, and she always took precautions in her relationships, but this one time she hadn't, and she was pregnant. At her age, she thought she was past having to worry; she was 44 that year. Oh, it didn't matter to Gard and I, but...you see, she should have been on chemo when she came to us, but she had refused it, because of the baby. She spent the last few months of her pregnancy with us, and we were there when Molly—her daughter, Billy's granddaughter—was born. The doctors put her on chemo immediately afterward, but the damage was done, her cancer—breast cancer—had spread, and it was too late. She lived long enough to hear Molly call her 'Mama' and Gard 'Pop Pop.'" "My wife—my late wife, Andrea—and I raised Molly as our own, along with Paul," Sandy concluded. "She knows about her mother, but we've always been her parents." "Now that we've talked," Agnes said, her eyes bright with tears, squeezing Bobby's hands, "you must come visit sometime. Meet your niece—she's such a cunning thing, all brown curls and smiles, looks like her mother, good-natured like her grandfather, but with none of Billy's vices." Bobby swallowed. "I could–" "I know you have obligations to your job," his aunt coaxed, "but surely you could spare some time for us in the future." "I- I..." Bobby's eyes shot to Alex. "We have to put this t-thing with Frank to rest..." "Of course!" Agnes exclaimed, almost a bit indignantly. "Fran told me, the last time I talked to her...goodness, that was six years ago, when Frank called me out of the blue—well, to be entirely truthful, he called asking for money; said he was too embarrassed to ask you—and told me she was living someplace called Carmel Ridge, so I took a chance calling her. She was very alert that day and told me all about your promotion to Major Case. She was so proud of you! She bragged about how many drug dealers you took off the street!" She seemed puzzled. "Did she never tell you I called?" Bobby sighed. "After my promotion, she went through a bad patch, almost a week where she did nothing but talk to the voices. The doctors switched her medication after that, and...she must have forgotten." But Frank knew, Alex seethed, and said nothing. Carney was coming back in their direction with drinks for another table. Her face placid despite stormy thoughts, Alex calmly requested the check as the server passed. "Which airport?" she then asked, dipping the last of her fries into some catsup. "LaGuardia," Sandy answered. "Oh, good, much easier than JFK," Alex said with a smile. A lie, of course, but a kind one. Once they had finished their meals, Agnes said delicately, "I think before such a long ride—I'm sure there will be traffic, Ms. Eames; are you certain you want to do this–" Alex leveled eyes at her. "I do." "You're very kind," Agnes said gratefully. "But I think a trip to the little girls' room is in order before the ride." "Definitely," Alex agreed. She was glad of the diversion; something still bothered her, and it appeared Agnes had something to say as well. Sure enough, once the door closed on the empty ladies' room, Agnes turned to her and reached out her hands. "My dear," she said compassionately, "I realize you're only Bobby's work partner, but I want to thank you. I know he's alone now, and it seems that you're a very good friend to him as well. I talked to Frances enough when she was lucid to understand that Bobby was...well, always slightly offbeat, 'followed a different drummer,' as Thoreau might have said. She worried about him." Alex's brain grumbled, Really? You never would have known it the way she fawned over Frank. "So I'm grateful that you support him. It looks as if he's had great trouble in the last few years, what with Frances having cancer. We didn't know she had passed until we read Frank's obituary—and I heard a passing mention at the funeral about Frank's son having some trouble with the law and Bobby helping him?" Ah, the good old Major Case gossip mill. Someone must have been blabbing at the collation. Evidently they didn't go into my behavior after Bobby's undercover assignment, or else she'd be kicking my ass out the door. Alex responded steadily, "Yes. Donny, Frank's son, was jailed on a trumped-up charge. Bobby was...able to help him get out of prison." That wasn't a lie, at least. "Well, that's a relief," Agnes said, heading into one of the stalls. Alex, taking the next stall, sighed to herself. If you only knew! "Mrs. Fry–" she began tentatively. "My dear!" came Agnes' plaintive voice. "Agnes, please!" "Agnes...I'm curious. Since you'd lost touch with Frances, how did you find out Frank had passed away?" Agnes chuckled, her voice echoing against the restroom walls. "It was the oddest thing, actually. A phone call. Paul took it. A man was at the other end, not someone we knew—Paul said the man acknowledged that. Paul said this man...said something like 'Is this Mr. Fry?' and before Paul could answer, just rambled on, 'Well, Mr. Fry, you don't know me from Adam, but I'm the bearer of sad tidings. Your nephew Frank Goren has passed away. I thought you might want to know in order to pay your respects. If you log on to the New York Times website, you'll have all the particulars.' And he did say 'sad tidings' and 'particulars' because Paul commented on it! How quaint and old-fashioned! And then he said, 'I'm sure your nephew Bobby would be happy to see you. He has no one now with Frank "out of the way."' Those exact words, too! I was shocked. Paul said the man then just hung up. He joked about the call, saying the man on the phone reminded him of one of the lecturers at his college. 'A pompous ass,' Paul calls that one." The toilet flushed, and Alex heard the door creak open. She finished her own business and emerged to find Agnes done washing her hands and now smoothing her hair back in the mirror. "So," the older woman continued, "we registered for a Times account and there was Frank's obituary, and that's when we both saw 'the late Frances Goren,' and I said, "'Sandy, call Minnie'—she's his old classmate who lives in DeWitt, a travel agent—'and have her get us a flight the morning of the funeral.' So here we are." Alex was now thoroughly puzzled, but made small talk back to the table and then back out to her car. Once the doors were unlocked, Bobby started to help his aunt into the back seat, but Sandy had already moved forward to do it himself. Alex tugged him aside. "You get the text from Ross?" "Yes, and we ought to–" "I'm going to drop all three of you at La Guardia and go back to 1PP; start compiling the files for Ross' briefing. You know how to judge the TSA line. You can keep talking with them until they have to go through, then take a taxi back to your place. And then get some rest, for God's sake." "Eames–" "No, this is your chance." She fixed earnest eyes on his face. "Don't lose this, Bobby. This is important to you. Keep in contact with them. Do it now." He regarded her gratefully. "You're right." His eyes crinkled as he smiled. "You're exactly right. Thank you, Alex." She blinked hard, and, just so he wouldn't think she'd turned into sentimental mush, she lifted her chin and said with feigned sternness, "Come prepared tomorrow to work your ass off, Goren." Then her face softened. "However this comes out, Bobby, it's not going to be pretty." . . . . . "...it's not going to be pretty." What an understatement that had been! Nicole's bouquet, a flight to Phoenix, Declan Gage rearing his ugly head again. Excised hearts! Proof of Bobby's paternity! And now...this? Standing behind the observation window next to an incredulous Danny Ross, Alexandra Eames watched with equal disbelief as Declan Gage, his eyes bright and round like a demented sparrow, said earnestly to Robert Goren, "You're free now. Bobby...you're free." "That fucking son of a bitch," she exploded. Behind her, she heard Detective Jeffries cough and one of the two uniformed officers grunt. Ross merely stared at her in surprise, then said irritably, "Jeffries, go in there and read the son of a bitch his rights and cuff him, and Melman and Forrest, take him to Holding. I'll call–" It appeared he was a loss for words. For once! Alex fumed. "Yessir," Jeffries said, casting one more wide-eyed look at Alex before the three departed. A few seconds later, Jeffries and the uniforms walked into the interrogation room, and Gage, with all the aplomb of an impresario, rose from his chair with a smile and gave a little bow. "Ah, my escort appears to have arrived, sent by the estimable Captain Ross, I'm sure. Gentlemen–" And he turned his back to the trio, standing stolidly as Jeffries Mirandized him and handcuffed his wrists behind him. Bobby rose now, turning as Melman and Forrest led the self-satisfied man out of the room, and Alex could see the pain and surprise combined on his stunned face. She wheeled and stalked out of the observation room, shoving the door open so hard that it slammed the wall, stepping forward so that she blocked Gage's path. "You did it, didn't you?" she demanded, pushing her face toward Gage's until they were almost nose-to-nose. "You called Bobby's family in Michigan to tell them Frank died. 'A pompous ass,' Bobby's cousin called you. And was he right! Funny you didn't bother telling Bobby about them!" Gage blinked at her with his maddening smile. "Did I, Eames? Good detective work." Ross was behind her, pulling her back as Gage was escorted away. "Let him go, Alex." It was the first time he'd ever used her given name. "He's not worth your time. If you like, you can escort Goren home. You take a day, and I'm putting him on compassionate leave." He paused and made a face. "Tie him down if you must. And...give him my apologies." "You do that, Captain," Alex answered grimly. "I wasn't the one who jumped to conclusions." Ross sighed, his cheeks puffed up with the effort. Then, aware that everyone in the hallway was staring at him, he looked self-conscious before stepping into the interrogation room. Bobby Goren was still standing, hands now shoved in his pockets, facing the doorway that framed Ross. There was silence, and then Ross said, loud enough for Alex Eames to hear, "Detective, I owe you an apology. A big one." He sounded wry. "I'm a cop. I go where the evidence leads me, and, in this case, it was directly to you, so I spoke my mind." He quirked his head slightly. "And I guess you now know why I'm divorced." He swallowed, then added, "That lunatic Gage might be crazy, but he's crazy like a fox. Led us all in circles, even me, who should know better." He extended his right hand. "Maybe we could...do a reset? I...promise I'll...try to listen more. As you might have guessed...it's difficult for me." Bobby's smile suddenly flickered to life. "Yeah. Me, too." And the two men solemnly shook hands. Ross turned his head, aware that now he had an audience of about twenty, with Alex at center stage. "Anyway, you're on leave. Go home. Rest, for God's sake. Recharge. And take Eames with you; I gave her the day. God knows you both need a medal for putting up with Gage." He abruptly wheeled and stalked back to his office, aware of every eye upon him. One of the detectives, a woman on loan from Robbery, gave Alex a grinning thumbs-up. "What do you think, Bobby?" Alex asked casually. "Want to grab lunch? A good lunch, not a stakeout one." "Suits me," he said with a sigh. They swung by their desks to pick up their things—heaven forbid Bobby abandon his faithful leather binder!—and then walked out, side by side, his stride matching hers. By the time they had taken the elevator and were walking back out into the sunshine, Bobby was ruminative again. "What is it with me?" he mused, loud enough for her to hear. "No matter what father, or father figure, they turn out to be–" He trailed off, and she inserted, "Inadequate?" "Yeah," he finished. "Is it me?" Alex huffed. Oh, he was "an acquired taste," all right. Stubborn, infuriating, overly confident, contrary...a whole laundry list. "No," she said firmly. William Goren, the philanderer and charmer. Mark Ford Brady, manipulative and deadly. And Declan Gage...dear God. Crazy on a stick, but ironically the most supportive of the three. "It's on them, not on you. It's never been on you." They ate at a moderately-priced steakhouse. She had a New York strip with a baked potato; he had a porterhouse with steak fries. Balsamic on her salad, honey mustard on his. And unexpectedly Alex said, "Let's order dessert," and they shared a thick slice of chocolate cheesecake. She talked about her nephew and her brother's young daughters, who were down with whatever was going around their school. He talked about a book he had read about new methods of determining blood spatter angles—it was Bobby, after all—and Malcolm Gladwell's recently released Outliers. When she dropped him off at his apartment, she said simply, "Take it easy, Bobby. I'll see you when your leave is over." "You might decide Daniels is a more stable partner by then," he answered soberly. "Fat chance, buster," she said with a smile. "You're not getting rid of me that easily." "I'll keep you in the loop," he promised as he closed the car door. For him, it was a peaceful evening. He put Fritz Lang's classic M with Peter Lorre on his DVD player, watching it while munching a bologna sandwich and tossing back a beer. (He considered the bottle of bourbon he had stashed, then thought of Frank and put it away.) Then he settled on the sofa with another Gladwell book, but, only a few pages into it, he set it down and prowled to the bedroom, fishing on the closet shelf for his mother's photo albums. As he paged through them, he came upon a photo of himself he'd seen before but never paid much attention to, a three-year-old boy reaching out a tentative hand to a big Holstein cow. For years he thought it had been taken at a petting zoo. He knew better now. . . . . . "No." Danny Ross said firmly when he saw Robert Goren in the doorway of his office. "I don't care if you're bored. Turn around and leave." Bobby smiled at him, and Ross quirked an eyebrow back. "I'm actually on my way to the Met to see a new Lucien Freud exhibit. But I wanted to drop a note on Eames' desk. She doesn't pick up or answer my messages. She get assigned something good?" "Not in the way you think," Ross said ruefully. "She's not here. The day off I gave her--she got a call later that night. Her father had a fall." Bobby made a sudden motion to speak, and Ross emphasized swiftly, "He's fine! No broken bones, just bruises. But Eames' sister and nephew have some kind of summer cold and her husband's nursing both of them; her brother was on a long shift at the firehouse, and her sister-in-law was coping with two small kids with..." He made a face. "I think she said something about projectile vomiting going around at daycare. So Eames is with her dad for a few days. Did you want me to get a message to her?" "No, it's okay," Bobby said softly. "I'll just leave the note on her desk." Ross was curious enough that he thought about checking Eames' desk—until his desk phone shrilled along with his cell, both instruments communicating word from separate offices "higher up" about a bank heist—a cool million in cut sapphires and emeralds stolen from a safe deposit box—and he had to scramble to send someone with Wheeler. Logan's replacement still hadn't been assigned yet, but luckily he still had Daniels left for a few more days of temporary assignment and told Jeffries to go as well. And then he decided he wanted to see for himself what kind of moron kept a million dollars worth of cut stones in an ordinary safe deposit box, for God's sake... . . . . . It was a beautiful day for a ferry ride, if slightly breezy with an unexpected drop in temperature unusual for July, and Alex was taking advantage of it, standing near the rail with the sun on her face. Her mind was slack, not yet primed for this morning's workload, and she felt as if she were floating on salt air. Yet she wasn't surprised when her cell phone rang. Ross, of course. "Eames, how far out are you? I need you to get to a crime scene immediately." "I'm just coming into the city, Captain," she said over the low moans of tugboat and ferry horns. "Where's the crime scene?" He gave her the address, and she bobbed her head involuntarily, although they were not face-to-face. "Yeah. Have a car meet me." She thought she heard Ross chuckle when she hung up, but chalked it up to an overactive imagination. When she emerged from Whitehall Terminal, she involuntarily smiled at the face that greeted her, but still commented, "You were supposed to be away another week." Robert Goren was scuffing his feet like a boy caught truant, already impatient, but confessed, "Yeah, I got back last night. I went and saw family." She nodded and smiled because she already knew. "You look good." And he did, as if he'd slept well, eaten nourishing meals, and been in good company. "Thanks," he said, abashed. "Well, we should get going." After a few steps, he asked almost anxiously, "You got my note?" It had been a pink Post-It, positioned carefully in the middle of her blotter where she couldn't miss it, the words carefully printed. WENT TO MICHIGAN She'd stared at it for a long time and then put it in her bottom desk drawer, stuck on the front of a book of photos of her family. "Yes," she said with emphasis, meeting his eyes steadily. "Thank you. It's all I needed." When he handed off the car keys, she knew things were back in place, exactly where they should be.
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