A pretty girl brings you a cup of tea and you immediately become suspicious. What’s wrong with you, Harold? Nathan Ingram, as remembered by Finch
“It’s a cruel and random world, but the chaos is all so beautiful.” Hiromu Arakawa
September 1998
Lionel Fusco was sweating his ass off. It was late September, supposed to be fall, but NYC hadn’t gotten the message. It was hot as hell. People were going crazy in the heat. Fist fights, robberies, stolen cars. Murders, of course. And now this nutjob in the bar with a shotgun. The traffic helicopter had set him off. He thought it was going to dust him with Agent Orange.
From what Fusco heard about this guy, he’d come back from Vietnam with a bad case of crazy and been trouble ever since. Petty theft, fights, drunk and disorderly, vagrancy, trespassing. Check kiting. And drugs, of course. Lots of drugs. Typical street loser. But this time he had hostages. So they were standing around in the glaring sun, with bullhorns and SWAT guys, trying to talk some sense into a lunatic.
Whoever had named this bar The Happy Hours hadn’t figured on days like this.
And whoever had decided cops should wear black uniforms, Fusco thought, deserved to burn in hell.
“Hey, Fusco,” the lieutenant called. “Take a squad, run up to St. Mary’s.”
“What?”
“They’ll meet you out front. Bring the girl back. Hurry up.”
“Wait … what?”
“Move it, Fusco!”
“Okay, okay.” Still muttering, Fusco got in the car and started it up. The a/c didn’t work, but at least some air came in the windows while he was rolling. He turned east, wondered if he should run lights. But St. Mary’s was only twelve blocks away. He just drove fast. “I hate nuns,” he muttered. They scared the hell out of him. Then he grinned to himself. That was sort of the point of nuns, wasn’t it?
There was only one nun waiting outside for him. Beside her was a Catholic schoolgirl. White blouse, plaid skirt, knee socks, saddle shoes. Blue eyes, glasses. Short brown hair, tucked back in one of those fabric hair bands. Maybe twelve years old. Her plain blue backpack was almost bigger than she was.
Fusco stopped the squad car and reached to open his door. The nun didn’t wait. She opened the passenger-side door and the girl got in, settled the book bag on her lap. The nun slammed the door. Fusco shut his own door. “Hey there.”
“Hey,” the girl muttered.
“I’m, uh, I’m Fusco. What’s your name?”
“Chrissy.”
“Chrissy. That’s pretty.”
She looked at him like he was an idiot or possibly a pervert. Fusco put the car into gear and drove.
The girl pulled what looked like a brand-new laptop computer out of her bag and opened it. At the stoplight, Fusco looked over. “They teachin’ computers in school now?”
She gave him the same look. “No.”
“Oh.” He nodded. “So, um, you ever been in a squad car before? You can run the lights if you want.”
She shook her head, not looking up from the computer. “I need to be back by 9th period. I have a chemistry test.”
Fusco frowned. “You know your dad’s in trouble, right?”
“I know.”
“You don’t mind my sayin’, you’re awful calm about it.”
She sighed. “Not my first rodeo, Officer.”
“Huh.” He looked at the girl again. Maybe fourteen? Her dad must have been crazy way before she was even born. She was skinny, all arms and legs, just barely starting to develop. But she had a look to her. Might turn into one of those girls that would drive all the Catholic boys crazy in a few years. Heartbreaker, when she filled out. Right now she was a skinny little snot. “I’m guessin’ they sent somebody else to get your mom.”
“Won’t do any good. She’s drunk.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s always drunk.”
Fusco shrugged. So maybe the little snot had some cause for the attitude. He stopped the car in front of Happy Hours. She put her computer away and got out, put the backpack down next to the squad, walked through the police line and over to the lieutenant like she did it every day.
“Hey, Chrissy,” he said.
“Hey. What’d he do now?”
“He’s got hostages.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ.”
“Hey,” Fusco said, out of reflex, “watch your mouth.”
She gave him that look again. For a kid, she had the womanly ‘don’t be a dumbass’ look down cold. It was the exact same look his wife gave him. “And a gun, I suppose.”
“Took a sawed-off from under the bar.”
“Freakin’ fabulous.” The girl turned to the bar, put one hand on her practically non-existent hip. “Dad, what the hell are you doing?” she shouted.
There was a moment of silence, and then the man with the gun called, “Chrissy? That you?”
“Who the hell else would it be? What are you doing?”
“There were choppers, Chrissy. They were coming for us. They were going to dust us.”
“Traffic copter,” the lieutenant told her. “He thinks they were spraying Agent Orange.”
“Christ.” She shook her head. “Give me the damn bullhorn.”
He reached for it, paused. “Don’t be swearing on the horn, Chrissy. People got their windows open.”
“Whatever.” She took the bullhorn with both hands. “Dad, you got to let those people go.”
Fusco pulled the lieutenant back a step. “You’re kidding, right? You’re gonna let a kid negotiate with a guy that’s holding a bar full of hostages?”
“There’s only four hostages.”
“Four, yeah. Well, okay. That makes it better.”
“Look, Fusco, we’ve done this before. He’ll listen to her. She can get him out.”
From inside the bar, the gunman called, “Chrissy, get out of there. It’s not safe. The dust will get you. Get inside. Get inside!”
“Dad. Mr. Zubeck never did anything to you. Let him go.”
There was another pause. “What?”
“Zubeck. He’s been good to you, Dad. Let him go.”
“What?”
“Let him go.”
“Oh.” There was another pause, and then the front door opened and a large man with a big mustache came out. He blinked in the bright light. One of the uniforms grabbed him and pulled him out of the line of fire.
“And the rest of them,” Chrissy called. She dropped the bullhorn down to her side; it was too heavy for her skinny arms to hold up any longer.
In a minute, the other three hostages came out.
“Good job, Chrissy,” the lieutenant said. “Now get him to put the gun down.”
She started to lift the horn, then just put in on the ground and walked around the shelter of the squad car closer to the bar. “Hey, hey,” Fusco called. “Get back here.” He followed her, though it put him out in the open.
The lieutenant moved up with him. “It’s okay. He won’t shoot her.”
“Will he shoot us?”
“Dad,” the girl called out, “put the gun down. Come on out.”
“Chrissy?”
“I’m here, Dad. We’re going to get you some help, okay?”
“There were choppers, Chrissy.”
“I know.”
“I thought … I thought it was back then. You know.”
“Dad, put the gun down.”
He came to the open doorway of the bar. He still had the shotgun in his hand, but it was down at his side.
“Put the gun down,” the lieutenant called. “Come on, Tommy. Put it down.”
“Chrissy?” The man sounded tired, scared.
“I’m right here, Dad. Put the gun down. I gotta get back to school.”
“I know, Chrissy. You do good in school. I’m proud of you. Always been proud of you.”
He took a step into the sunlight.
Something changed. Fusco saw it in the girl first. She’d been calm, cocky, almost bored. Suddenly she was standing up straight, like someone had run a lightning bolt through her spine. She looked scared. “Dad.”
Fusco drew his weapon but kept it low. The lieutenant did the same.
“It’s no good, Chrissy. You should be in school.”
“Then put the damn gun down so I can get back there.” Her voice shook for the first time.
He took another step out. Fusco felt the sweat run down his back. The guy was only fifteen feet from them now, fifteen feet from two cops and a young girl, all out in the open, and he still had the shotgun. “Put the gun down,” he called.
“No good. It’s no good.” He took another step. “You do so good in school, and you gotta spend all your time takin’ care of me. I tried, Chrissy. I tried. But it’s just no good. It’s no good. How you ever gonna learn anything this way? It’s no good.”
“It’s okay, Dad.” Her voice cracked; she stopped to clear her throat. Went on talking like she wasn’t scared out of her mind. “You took hostages this time. They’re going to put you away, they’re going to get you some help. Real help this time, Dad. I promise. Just put the gun down.”
“That’s right, Tommy,” the lieutenant agreed. “We’ll send you away somewhere to get some help. I know you don’t want to hurt anybody. Just put the gun down.”
“Just stop right there,” Fusco said.
“Dad. Dad.”
Tommy looked up at them. He seemed sane now, seemed to know where he was. “Ah, Chrissy,” he said sadly. “I love you, baby. My beautiful Chrissy.”
Fusco raised his gun. Time slowed to a dead crawl. He was freezing cold.
“Shit,” Chrissy whispered. “Stop him.”
“Close your eyes, Chrissy.”
“Dad, don’t.”
“I love you, Chrissy. Close your eyes.”
As abruptly as time had slowed, it suddenly flashed forward. The barrel of the shotgun started to come up. Fusco grabbed the girl with one hand, aimed his gun with the other. Squeezed the trigger and shouted, “Chrissy, close your eyes!”
It was very loud and bright and fast, and then it was slow and hot and Tommy Fitzgerald fell down.
When Fusco’s head cleared “ it only took a second “ he was looking away from the bar, staring at the girl. He had one hand wrapped around her upper arm, and he’d spun her so he was between her and the shotgun. He started to let go, and then he didn’t. She was looking past him. She hadn’t closed her eyes.
She stared at her father’s body for a long time. He’d fallen forward, so the bullet wounds weren’t easy to see. Fusco glanced around at the other cops and guessed the guy had six, eight holes in him. Somehow he was sure when they sorted it out, it would be his bullet that had killed the man. He hadn’t even been looking when he fired. But Christ, he hadn’t had any choice. Had he?
He waited for the girl to start screaming or crying, or maybe to faint. But she didn’t do any of that. She was pale, and her skin was cold under his hand. She stared at the body. She swayed a little. And then she did the grown woman thing again. She straightened up, pulled out of Fusco’s grip. Looked him square in the eye. And said, “Please take me back to school.”
“I … what?”
Confused, he looked past her to the lieutenant. He didn’t seem to know what to do, either. “Chrissy …”
“I have a chemistry test.”
“Don’t you want to go …” Fusco started. He stopped himself. Go where? See the body up close? Go to the morgue with him? There sure as hell wasn’t any point in hauling him to a hospital. “…home?” he finally finished.
She tilted her head a little. “Why?”
The lieutenant moved. “Fusco, take her back to school.”
“What?”
“Just take her. I’ll call ahead, let them know what happened. Maybe the nuns can … whatever. We’ll get a statement later. Just get her out of here. And then get your ass back here. There’s gonna be a ton of paperwork.”
“Sure. Sure. Whatever.” The girl had to be in shock, Fusco decided. Hell, he was in shock. And her mother was drunk. So yeah, maybe the nuns were the best choice. He took her skinny little arm again and guided her back to the squad car. Opened the door for her. Put her book bag in her lap. Closed the door.
He was sweaty and shaky and didn’t really think he should drive. But it was only twelve blocks. At least they’d have the body covered by the time he got back.
And she’d make it for her damn chemistry test.
Jesus Christ.
He drove a couple blocks, stopped at a light. The girl was staring straight ahead. “You sure you don’t want to go home?” Fusco asked.
“I’m sure,” she answered quietly.
At the light before the school, he said, “I’m really sorry, Chrissy. I wish it could’ve ended better. I’m sorry.”
She looked over at him. Behind her glasses, her blue eyes were calm, dead. A thousand years old. “It was always going to end this way. There’s nothing you could have done.” She shook her head. “I just needed a little more time. Just a few more weeks …”
“For what?”
She went back to staring out the front window and did not answer.
There was a whole gaggle of nuns waiting for her in front of the school. Some of them were crying. “Christ,” she breathed. “Fusco, right?”
“What? Yeah, Fusco. Lionel Fusco.”
“This is not your fault.”
“What?”
She got out of the car. One of the nuns took her backpack; the others folded around her like a cloak of black and white. The girl didn’t seem to notice, or care. She walked toward the school, trailing the adults behind her.
“Jesus Christ,” Fusco said. And then, though it had been years since he’d been to church, he crossed himself and turned it into a prayer. “Look after her.”
2012
Harold Finch walked as fast as he could, in the certain knowledge that it wasn’t going to be fast enough. “This was inevitable,” he grumbled.
“I need information, Finch,” Reese snapped back over his earwig. His voice was tight and a little breathless; their quarry had unexpectedly decided to move. Quickly.
With his ex-wife as a hostage.
“I’m twenty minutes from the library,” Finch answered. Even if he called for the car, it wouldn’t save much time. “At least.”
“We don’t have that kind of time.”
Harold stopped and looked around. It was Manhattan; even at midnight on a Saturday there had to be a way to get to a computer. He could break into an office, perhaps. Or bribe a guard at a security console in one of the buildings. Or…
The neon sign glowed like a beacon of hope at the end of
the block, with the four letters most precious to him at the moment: WiFi. He hurried toward it.
The cybercafé was called Chaos. The sign on the door, printed in ironic Comic Sans, read:
No Drugs
No Alcohol
No Skateboards
No IE
ABSOLUTELY NO GLITTER
Finch shook his head and went inside. The place was grungy and crowded. It smelled of overcooked coffee and unwashed humans. Rock music blasted out of ancient speakers, and the patrons talked loudly to be heard over it. There was a bar to one side, now used for coffee and pastries. A very large man with a mustache leaned on the bar; a smaller companion washed mugs. There were battered tables, stools, chairs. A long counter in front of the windows held six ancient desktop computer towers with fairly new flatscreen monitors. There were pillows on the floor, sagging chairs in front of an empty fireplace, and one highly disreputable couch. There were people, mostly twenty-somethings, sprawled everywhere. It was, in short, a madhouse. But nearly every person had a computer, and he desperately needed one.
Tucked into the front corner was a young woman. She caught Finch’s eye because she was reading a tattered paperback book; she seemed completely oblivious to the bedlam around her. She glanced up at him briefly when the door closed, smiled, then went back to reading.
“I’ve found an option, Mr. Reese.” He scanned the room for the biggest laptop he could find, walked up behind its owner, and held out a hundred dollar bill folded between his fingertips. “I need to use your computer for fifteen minutes,” he said.
The young man looked up through greasy dark hair. “Huh?”
“Fifteen minutes,” Finch repeated, over the music.
“Oh.” The kid hesitated one moment more, then stood up, took the money and his empty cup, and went to the coffee counter.
Finch sat down, hesitated. The keyboard gleamed with grease and he could see crumbs between every row of keys. The girl next to him looked at him curiously, then at his screen. He turned it just a little to obstruct her view. Then he grudgingly touched the keyboard and reached out to his network.
And waited. The café’s WiFi was clearly badly overloaded, and the laptop was junk.
At the center of the room, a large group of young men were playing some kind of on-line game around a big table. There was a great deal of shouting and swearing, and also of keyboard pounding.
Finch closed his eyes tightly for a moment.
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world,” a woman said clearly, “he walks into mine.”
Finch looked up. The young woman with the book stood across the table from him. She was cleaner than most of the café’s patrons, and a little older. Dark blue jeans and a bright white shirt. Very long light brown hair, pulled back in a simple ponytail. Blue eyes, bright with interest. And also with recognition.
She held a copy of Brave New World in her hand.
He knew her from somewhere. Or he knew someone like her. For an instant he was severely irritated that he couldn’t place her. “Pardon?”
“You look like a man in desperate need of a proxy server in a quiet room.”
“Do you have that?” Finch asked with careful hope.
“Give the boy his toy back and come with me.”
Finch’s inborn paranoia flared. He never trusted the kindness of strangers. He glanced at the screen. It still hadn’t succeeded in connecting with his system. There was a terrified woman somewhere in the city and Reese had no way to find her without him. He power-cycled the laptop, stood up, and followed the young woman.
At the back of the bar was a steel door. The woman produced a key and opened it. Finch hesitated, but she went in ahead of him. Reluctantly, calculating his exits even as he moved, he followed her.
The room beyond was a largely empty office. There was an ancient wooden desk against one wall. On it was a flat-screen monitor and a big tower computer. Across the room were two big bookcases and an overstuffed love seat. There was a window, with bars on the outside, and a second doorway, open.
“Give me one minute to clear this,” the woman said. She sat down at the keyboard.
Just like that, Finch thought. No questions asked. His hypervigilance went into overdrive. He fought to seem unconcerned.
He looked around the room. In contrast to the café, the office was neatly organized. One of the bookshelves was full of paperbacks; in most cases there were multiple copies of the same book. On the other shelf were stacks of spiral notebooks, printer paper, and assorted totes of other office supplies, all neatly labeled. Finch frowned; this coffee shop couldn’t use that many supplies in a decade. He looked closer. One entire box was full of pencils; another of basic calculators. The books, he realized, were all titles commonly taught in high school lit classes. They weren’t office supplies; they were school supplies.
He moved back and glanced through the second doorway. The store room beyond was entirely lined with heavy steel shelving. They were completely “ and very neatly “ full of computer equipment. There was everything from monitors to towers, half a dozen laptops, and totes full of spare parts, all labeled. Motherboards, power supplies, DVD drives, CD drives, ports, cables, mice, keyboards, cameras, speakers, power strips.
The young woman glanced at him. “If you need more hardware, help yourself.”
“You don’t have a Xerox Alto back there, do you?”
She raised one eyebrow. “No. But there’s a punch card reader in the corner.”
Finch looked at her. The eyes. Something about the eyes; he should remember her, but the eyes were wrong. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Do I know you?”
She smiled gently. “You used to. In another life.” She stood up, gestured to the chair. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“Green tea?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“One sugar. Please.”
“I’ll be right back.” She went out, leaving the door open behind him.
Finch sat down and did a quick inventory of the computer system. It was much, much more powerful than the laptop he’d been trying to use, and the internet connection went through immediately. He took a deep breath. He could work with this.
He took a look at the system activity. The woman had just disabled the keylogging and other tracking features that the box apparently defaulted to. She’d also masked the IP address. As far as he could tell in a hurry, he was alone on the computer.
Who was she?
Save the victim first.
He reached out to his own network. The connection was almost immediate. Carefully he logged into his periphery. He wasn’t about to give his hostess, or anyone else, a free shot into the whole network. Just what he needed, the bare minimum. What he needed first was cell phone tracking.
The woman returned, set a steaming mug down at his elbow. She also put his hundred dollar bill down. “He could keep that …” he began.
“No,” she said firmly. “Trust me, he’d only get into trouble. I gave him a free coffee and a scone. Just call it even.”
Behind her, a man yelled, “Scottie, we’re rebooting the house server in five.”
“Do it,” she called back. “You’re not on the house server,” she assured Finch. “Stay as long as you like. I’ll shut the door; you can lock it if you want. Call me if you need me.”
“Thank you,” Finch said. He watched her out, then stood and locked the door behind her. It had a standard deadbolt; she had a key and could open it from the outside, but she probably couldn’t trap him in here. That, at least, was comforting.
He didn’t have time to be this cautious. He sat down again and keyed the tracker with one hand, dialed his phone with the other. “Mr. Reese?”
“Tell me you have something, Finch.”
“I have a computer. That’s a start.” His hands flew over the keyboard. “And I have … there. Mrs. Frollich’s cell phone tracked. Sending it now.”
He hit send and sat back. Maybe it would be that easy. Probably not. They’d had very little time on this one; when John had located Maria Frollich, her ex-husband was screaming at her. John had confronted him and he’d fled. Reese had called for Finch to get the woman to safety while he pursued him. But before they could put that plan in motion, Rob Frollich had doubled back and taken her.
He watched for a moment. The signal from the phone was moving north. Reese was closing on it. It should be all that he needed.
Finch glanced at the tea. It was steaming, served in a real mug. He probably shouldn’t drink it. Candy from strangers. But if she meant to harm him, she’s already had ample opportunities. He sniffed the tea carefully. It smelled fine.
So had the drink the woman who was not Jordan Hester had given him.
He put the mug down.
He could almost hear Nathan Ingram’s voice. A pretty girl brings you a cup of tea and you immediately become suspicious. What’s wrong with you, Harold?
What about the woman had reminded him of Nathan?
Another life.
The part of him that remembered her, the part he couldn’t access consciously yet, told him that the tea was fine. He considered for a very long moment. There were very few things that he trusted in the world, but his own instinct was one of them. He picked up the tea and drank.
It was hot and strong and very good.
***
Reese moved through the night silently. He held his phone in his hand; the tracking signal said that Mrs. Frollich’s cellphone was just ahead, to the right.
He didn’t like being surprised. He’d been surprised when Rob Frollich had doubled back and snatched his ex-wife, and he’d been more surprised how fast they’d been able to move on foot. If the woman had put up any resistance at all she could have slowed him down. But maybe Frollich had a weapon and she was frightened enough to run with him.
In any case, Reese meant to resolve the situation. Soon.
He stopped at the mouth of the alley and listened. It was silent. He looked at the tracking map; the target phone was no longer moving. He put his phone away and drew his weapon. Very quietly, he stepped into the alley.
There was no gunfire. Reese stood still, feeling the air. In five seconds he knew. He was alone.
There were two access doors from the buildings, but neither of them looked like they’d been forced. He glanced up, but there was no one on the fire escapes or the roofs. Mr. and Mrs. Frollich were gone.
He moved further into the alley. Near the far end, on the left wall, he could see evidence of a scuffle in the dirt. Maria Frollich’s phone was on the ground.
Reese crouched and examined the disturbed spot. Definitely two people. No blood. The phone was an older model, large and heavy; it might have fallen out of her pocket while they struggled. It was in plain sight, three feet from the wall. If Frollich had ditched it on purpose he would have thrown it in a dumpster or out of sight.
But without her phone, he couldn’t continue to track Maria.
Reese stood up and touched his ear piece. “Finch? Find me somewhere else to look.”
***
Finch wished he’d brought out more screens and keyboards when the woman had offered them. His view was cramped on the single screen. But at least he wasn’t trying to do this on a greasy laptop. “Until two weeks ago Mr. Frollich worked on a construction site three blocks north of your current location. He may have taken her there.”
“Worth a try,” Reese answered.
“I’ll look for other options.” He continued to scan through the man’s background. There wasn’t much; until his ex-wife’s number had come up, Rob Frollich had been a perfectly normal citizen. Slightly behind on his child support and his credit card payments, but making an honest effort. Irregular work record, to be expected in the construction industry. Lived in a very small apartment since his divorce. Seemed to be honest on his taxes.
“I’m at the construction site,” Reese said. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Frollich doesn’t have any family in the city,” Finch said. “He’s not signed up on any social networks, so locating friends will be difficult.” They already knew he had a very cheap cell phone with no GPS tracking. “I’ll see what I can get from surveillance cameras.”
“Let me know.”
***
While Reese searched the construction site, Finch hacked into various cameras. It crossed his mind, briefly, that he was committing a crime on someone else’s computer. But it couldn’t be helped. He found a security camera on a building just down the street from the alley, wound the view back. He found the couple. They were leaving the alley, headed north. Holding hands and running. Finch couldn’t see a weapon in the man’s hand, but the woman didn’t seem to be resisting. Maybe he’d it put away. Maybe he’d threatened her.
He swapped to another camera, an ATM two blocks north. He couldn’t find the couple. Finch checked twice, then looked for a camera in between. He found the couple. “Mr. Reese? They’re not at the construction site. They went into the subway.”
“Is she alright?”
“She doesn’t appear to be injured.”
“Find me a direction.”
“Working on it.”
Without thinking, Finch picked up his mug and drank deeply again.
***
Reese followed them, camera by camera. It was agonizingly slow, and every minute he was aware that Maria Frollich’s life was in danger. He snapped at Finch, who snapped back. He still didn’t know where his genius had found a computer to work on; he didn’t ask and Finch didn’t volunteer to tell. They were probably both happier that way.
At nearly three in the morning, he found himself standing in front of a large, ugly apartment building. Frollich and his ex had entered the building forty-two minutes before. The woman was probably dead already. But he had to find out.
“How many units, Finch?” he asked wearily.
“Ninety,” Finch answered. His voice was just as grim. “If there ever were interior cameras, they aren’t functioning now.”
“Should I start knocking on doors?”
“Give me a minute.” There was the inevitable clicking of a keyboard in the background. Reese forced the security door and let himself into the lobby. Finally, Finch said, “Try four-ten. Mr. Frollich had a co-worker at his last job named Paul Noles. It’s his apartment.”
He pressed the call button and an elevator opened immediately. “Worth a shot.”
On the fourth floor, Reese looked down the hall both directions before he moved into the open.
“Mr. Reese …” Finch said slowly. “This may not be what we think it is.”
“Liittle late for that, Finch.”
“Maria Frollich’s employer just offered a new insurance package, including life insurance.”
Behind him, the elevator dinged again. Reese stepped down a side hallway and pressed himself against the wall. A man strode past him without noticing and continued down the hall. “And Rob found out he’s the beneficiary?”
“No. The children are. But Maria took out an auxiliary policy on his life. To the tune of a quarter million dollars.”
Reese stepped back into the main hallway and trotted after the man who’d just gone past him. “And when did this policy go into effect, Finch?”
“At midnight.”
As he’d expected, the man stopped at the door to 410 and used his own key to open the door. Reese let him get through the door, then caught him from behind and slammed his head into the doorframe. The man slumped, and the gun fell out of his hand to the ground. John kicked it aside as he entered the apartment.
Maria Frollich was on the couch, on top of her ex-husband. She looked up and screamed, “Help me, Paul, he’s …” Then she stopped, glared at Reese, and pulled her blouse closed. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded coldly.
“Insurance inspector,” he answered. “We just cancelled the policy you took out on your ex-husband.” He moved closer to the couch and looked down at Rob Frollich. “Get dressed, Rob. She doesn’t love you anymore.”
The man looked up at him. “Huh?”
Click here to visit the official POI website 'CBS:POI'.
Click here to register and post POI fics 'Register'.
Click here to read the latest POI fics 'Recently Added'.
|