A thin growl escaped Nick Sperry's throat. What the hell was the director of the National Institutes of Health doing at an orphanage? He tracked the man's movement until the guy turned the street corner, vanishing out of sight.

Pulling his ubiquitous pad and pen out of his chest pocket, he wrote, Connection between Warner and Sunshine Children's Home, D.C.? He closed the pad and secured it in his pocket.

His girlfriend exited the building fifteen minutes after Warner. Her mouth was tight, the sparkle in her pale blue eyes flat-lined. As she approached the car, Nick went around to the passenger side to open her door. She dropped into the seat without making eye contact. She buckled up and looked down, a cascade of dark hair shielding her face from view.

Nick got back into the car and placed a hand on her leg, asking, "Baby, what happened?"

"They had no record of him," she said, so quiet Nick had to lean in to hear her.

"What?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Melissa, please."

"Nick . . ." She turned to face him, her features disconcertingly blank. "I can't. I'm sorry."

Knowing her well, Nick responded with a nod and started the engine to head for home.

No record of a friggin' child? What the hell had they done with Sidney? It was a difficult thing to ignore, especially when Warner might be involved. But Nick didn't push. Getting Melissa to talk when she didn't want to was like trying to get your fingers out of Chinese handcuffs. The more you tugged, the worse things went.

                                                                                            ~~~

"Damn it!" Nick swore. "Jesus, that was hot!" He slammed the mug down on the black granite counter then watched as the droplets of coffee flung outward, narrowly missing the cuff of his white button-down. The shower of liquid and its near miss were a warning. The sprays of errant coffee hadn't caught him, but Melissa might. He let out a loud sigh. He was only doing what he thought was best for her, what he knew she wouldn't be able to do for herself.

Nick sponged away the reminder of his dishonesty. Then, with the precision of a slap shot, he flung the sponge into the sink. It hit the side and fell dead. He leaned one hand against the dark granite, snatched his phone out of his pocket, and tapped a contact number.

"Hi, is this Ms. Malcolm?"

"This is she. Mr. Sperry? That's you, right?" She didn't wait for his response. She sounded excited, like a puppy with a new toy. "I'm so glad you called. Can you come over today? I need to show you something. It might be a clue. And I have some more thoughts about the potential culprit. And—"

"Ms. Malcolm, I won't be able to take your case."

She continued, undeterred. "I was also thinking that—"

Nick stifled a sigh. "Ms. Malcolm, I won't be able to help you."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Something's come up."

Ms. Malcolm's voice went from alto to soprano. "But . . . the retainer I gave you?"

"Will be returned to you today."

"But . . ." The word sounded brittle.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Malcolm."

He heard an exaggerated "humph" and the sound of Ms. Malcolm slamming down her phone.

Good riddance. He and Melissa didn't need the income from his PI work because Melissa's real estate career was lucrative. Still, Nick wasn't going to become some kind of kept man. He had balls between his legs. Not like some of those metro whatevers. He blew out a long breath. The investigation for Sidney was important. He would forgo a couple of jobs while he searched for him.

Nick peered down into his cup and saw trace semicircles of coffee etched into the bottom, signaling his memory lapse. He couldn't remember drinking the rest. Not acceptable.

His pounding steps echoed down the hall and into the bedroom. Arms crossed over his chest, Nick surveyed the line of suits in his closet. Then reached for one an employee with a low-paying government job would wear–visual collateral that he was from the Department of Children and Families or DCF. It wouldn't be hard to fool them. Nick was an expert in deceit, although he didn't take any pride in it.

He drove his S6 to Sunshine Children's Home and found the same parking spot, almost right in front. He frowned. It was a strange coincidence. And, he didn't believe in coincidences. He halfway expected to find Sebastian Warner walking out of Sunshine. His expression steeled, if that asshole appeared again he would chase him down. Extract some answers.

Jumping out of the car and into the street, a horn blared and tires skidded as the driver of a silver BMW braked hard, swerving to avoid him. "Watch where you're going!" Nick yelled at the rear of the car. He slammed his car door shut, taking one large step over the curb. Rolling his shoulders backward a couple times, he worked the irritation out of his body to get into character.

There were those ridiculous yellow walls, and large, freshly washed windows blaring like a beacon. Instinctively, he rehearsed how he'd tell Mel he lied to her if there wasn't any good news to soften the blow. The scenario wasn't promising. Screw it! He'd made his decision. Second-guessing was death.

"Sir?"

Nick blinked and looked over at the woman who spoke. She was about five feet tall, her graying hair held in a tight bun, and she wore an inexpensive trench coat. Based on these data points, and, given her proximity to the building, Nick presumed she worked at the children's home.

The woman flicked her chin in the direction of Sunshine. "Going inside?"

Nick followed her gaze. "As a matter of fact, I am."

Nick could almost see the string of questions hidden in the lines of her brow.

"I could see you standing here from blocks away. You didn't move for minutes."

Nick stared at her, declining to answer.

She tilted her head sideways, pursing her lips as she gave him a head-to-toe assessment. "Are you looking to adopt or foster?"

Nick changed his cover story on the spot. "Well . . ." He drew in a deep breath as he contemplated the pavement. "I just found out a woman I dated eight years ago left my son here. She didn't tell me about him until a few weeks ago. We broke up before I knew she was pregnant. Anyway . . ." He leveled his eyes with hers. "I want to know what happened to him."

The woman regarded Nick but he couldn't read her expression, which was rare. She held out a hand. "I'm Dorothy Williams, program coordinator here at Sunshine." They shook. "Come inside. We'll see what I can find out for you."

Nick followed her plain black boots up the cement steps. At the door, he reached for the handle. "Allow me." She looked surprised by the gesture. Nick pulled the door open and waved her in before him.

"Thank you," Williams said as she entered. "Hi, Janet," she greeted a younger woman sitting behind a desk located in the front foyer. Ms. Williams turned and said, "Follow me."

The decor in the fifteen by fifteen-foot office matched Sunshine's exterior–a little too pretty, almost saccharine-sweet, like an old aunt's living room. Williams motioned to one of three puffy, rose-colored chairs arranged in a triangle. "Sit down."

Nick unbuttoned his suit jacket and sank down into the plush chair. He felt like he was being sucked into a giant marshmallow. Shifting his position, he moved to the edge of the cushion. That was a little better.

Williams hung her coat on a rack and retrieved a pen and pad from the desk. Eyeing Nick, she sat across from him in one of the oversized armchairs. Positioning her pen above the paper, she asked, "What child are you looking for?"

Nick wrung his hands while he studied a coffee-colored stain on the ivory carpet, trying to imagine what a real father would feel like in his position. "Sidney Ryder."

He watched from beneath his eyelids as the pen fell from William's grip, its point piercing the page like a dart. Her face tightened then relaxed a second later. Nick suspected she was more intelligent, and her job more important, than she wanted him to guess.

In a cool, measured tone, she replied, "A woman came by here a few days ago asking about that child. I told her there was no record of him. I was quite clear about it, though she refused to believe me." She brought her chin down sharply to indicate that as far as she was concerned, the matter was closed.

Nick glanced down at her boots. As he noticed before, they were worn down on the outside edge, indicating a distinct turnout. Maybe she had been a ballerina in her younger years. That might explain her bun, too–could be another remnant of her past. Nick released a breath–his observations were likely irrelevant. He brought his eyes up. "She didn't tell me that."

Williams placed the pad on a small table beside her chair and laid the pen on top with strained exactness, as though the placement of a writing utensil could decide the fate of the world. She clasped her hands, bringing them to rest on her lap, then leaned toward Nick. "Have you considered that she, um, might have forgotten where she took her baby?" She smiled with no sympathy in her eyes. "Many mothers are not in their right minds when they come here . . .drugs, alcohol . . ." She let the words dangle between them.

It was his natural instinct to defend Melissa and in a single instant, Nick had to harness every bit of his professional training. He barely succeeded. "No, ma'am," he replied. He made sure he pronounced ma'am so that it sounded like an insult. "I hadn't thought of that."

Williams persisted with her false grin. "Well, as I told your girlfriend—"

Nick interjected, "Ex-girlfriend."

She brought a fist up to her mouth to cover a fake cough. "Yes, as I told your ex-girlfriend, that child never came to Sunshine. I'll leave it up to you to fill in the blanks." She moved her lips in a way that approximated a smile but wasn't. It was clearly either an accusation or a warning.

Nick rose from his seat so his broad-shouldered, six foot six frame would tower over her. "Thank you for the information." The smile he offered was just like hers, a social exchange of insincerity.

Striding past the girl at the desk, he exited Sunshine. As soon as he got in his car, he made a call.

"What's up, Nick?" came the reply through the Audi's speakers.

"Hey, Sam. I need a favor."

Sam Prezziato snickered. "Isn't that the only reason you ever call me? Or did you want to meet for some tea and crumpets? We can talk about the queen if you like. What do we think about her new violet-colored hat?" He paused dramatically to allow time for his wit to be admired, then added, in a more jovial tone, "What the hell do you want, Mr. CIA?"

Nick pulled into the street and turned the corner, frowning as he encountered heavy traffic. "I need to hire Mr. H to access some files. They'll probably be encrypted." As he spoke he took a hard right down a side street, confident he could drive around the jam. A small pulse of satisfaction made him relax his grip on the wheel, as he saw the clear road ahead.

Nick could almost hear the smirk as Sam replied, "Oh, you want Mr. H, huh? He's a busy man. I don't have to tell you he ain't cheap."

Mr. H was the best hacker in Sam's network, meriting the extra expense. "I know what you charge for him. I'm willing to pay."

Sam let silence loiter around for several seconds. "Did you know that the fee recently went up for his illustrious services? He's in very high demand. Is it a rush job, or can you afford to wait?"

Nick sucked air through his teeth. Obviously, Sam was in the mood to play games. His temper got the better of him. "Jesus, Sam! I've been working with you for years. What the hell?"

The other end of the line went deathly silent.

Nick got his anger under control. "How about you grandfather me in at the old price?" He tried to sound lighthearted.

"Can't do that. I'm just a man trying to make an honest living. Can't be giving out freebies—slippery slope and all that." Sam actually believed that shit, and he didn't take very kindly to being contradicted. "Tell you what, Nick. I'll cut you a break because I like you so much."

Sam quoted a price that was still outrageous. Unfortunately, no one could change Sam Prezziato's mind once it was made up, so Nick agreed. He sped up unconsciously, thinking at least he didn't have to deal with traffic and Sam's bullshit at the same time.

"Okay, so now that we've gotten the unpleasantries out of the way . . ." Sam chuckled.

Nick wasn't quite ready to let go of his annoyance. "Really, Sam?"

Sam laughed heartily. "Hey, come on, it was a good joke. You gotta give it to me."

Nick relented. "Fine. It was a good joke." He ended with a half-laugh to show that things were fine between them which, actually, they were. Sam could be an ass, but he wasn't mean-spirited. In fact, Nick liked him, at least, he did most of the time. He was a difficult person, but he had a good heart. Nick had seen the evidence of it on a few memorable occasions.

"What do you need Mr. H to get for you?"

Nick gave Sam the specifics.

"A flash drive with the downloaded files will take a day or two," Sam explained. "It will be done by Wednesday, for sure. We could meet for lunch, my treat."

Nick smiled. Only Sam could demonstrate his cheapness and his generosity in the course of a conversation lasting a few minutes. "Okay. How about we meet at two on Wednesday?"

"Sure, two, at Café Dupont. And Nick . . ."

"Yeah, Sam?"

"You're welcome."

"Asshole," Nick said in a stage whisper and hung up.