Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

***July 27, 2026***

"May I join you?" asked a familiar voice at breakfast, over the din of dozens of voices at the buffet.

Alex had found a table almost around the corner into the service hallway, half-hidden by several big potted palms--the breakfast room sported a tropical theme, painted in soft blues, tans, and pale yellows--and they looked up in surprise to see Mason Wagner standing half-hidden under the palm fronds with a tray. A purple baseball cap with a Pittsburgh Pirates logo was jammed on his head, and he wore monster sunglasses, a worn Pirates t-shirt, and faded jeans with dirty sneakers.

"Sure!" and Randall pulled out the extra chair for him.

"Aren't you afraid you'll be recognized?" Olivia whispered.

"This is Red Sox country," Wagner chuckled. "No one's going to bother an old man rooting for the wrong side."

"Sports fandom's weird," Randall counseled her. "Real fandom is better."

"Not into baseball, Rand?" Wagner guessed when Randall curled his lip. "Understood."

Breakfast then continued for several minutes before Wagner said casually, "I had a call from Mac's wife last night. She apologized to me for his behavior. Sheila was...very embarrassed. She sounded shaken at his behavior." He paused. "Is your arm okay, Olivia?"

She paused in dipping her toast in egg to examine under her arm. "I've had worse bruises from tennis balls," she replied a bit loftily and returned to her "soldiers."

"Mac a troubled kid?" Bobby asked shrewdly.

Wagner offered wryly. "Well, show biz kid brought up under a big shadow. MacKenzie Saunders Senior--'Ken' to his intimates--was up there with the big ones--Irwin Allen, Quinn Martin, Ivan Tors, Jack Webb--television royalty for a long time: Trail Rider, Chisholm Trail, Nautilus II, Marsport, The Borough. He also wasn't Mr. Warm and Fuzzy, and MacKenzie Junior definitely wasn't Jim Anderson or John Walton. In fact, Mac spent a lot of his early childhood on our set. He and Walt were great buddies. Maybe it accounts for his intensity about the props."

Randall looked at him curiously, then announced that he was going back for more oatmeal and a chocolate muffin. "Mom, you want something?"

Alex, about to refuse, cast a weather eye on their guest. "Yes, sweetie, a cup of hot water and a blackberry teabag. Don't forget the sugar! Oh, a bran muffin for later. Thank you."

Randall sighed, reluctant to complain in front of Wagner about being called "sweetie" in public. "Sure, Mom."

He'd no sooner vanished than Wagner sighed, then asked, "Miss Olivia, would you mind doing an old man a favor? I wanted a Danish and one of those bananas, and completely forgot them. I should have asked Randall-"

"I'll get it!" was her unsuspecting response. "And a chocolate muffin, too!"

With both of them gone, and the line very long at the buffet, Bobby asked, "What happened last night?"

"Someone made a bad attempt at the door locks. Fred--the security guard Lynn put on--heard someone scraping at the door. They're amateurs," Wagner snorted. "Even with the minor training I had in police work for MAPD, I could see the mess they made of the locks. I need to make sure the SpaceFest people don't get blamed for the damage, so they can come back to this hotel."

"Any new insights about the cat remark?" Alex asked, finishing her eggs and pouring milk over her cereal.

"There was never anything valuable hidden in the cat," Wagner sighed in an almost irritated voice. "I've had the damn thing since the late 1980s; I'd know."

Bobby rubbed his hand against his neck, thinking. "Hmmmn." In a few more minutes he rose, taking the remainder of his own bran muffin and said thoughtfully, "I'll be back."

Wagner tossed a puzzled look at Alex, and she laughed. "I think the game is definitely afoot."

The children returned together, Randall carefully balancing Alex's hot water plus his food on a small tray.

"Where's Papa?" Olivia asked immediately. "I got him a chocolate muffin, too."

"Men's room," Alex answered evasively, and, indeed, when Bobby wandered back a few minutes later, he told them it was "unavoidable delay," which both children remembered from his bedtime reading of Cheaper by the Dozen.

It was he who tapped at his watch as well. "Better get a move on if you want to make a 10 o'clock panel."

"Ooooh, it's the 'Subspace Rhapsody' sing-along," Olivia said, checking her phone. "We mustn't miss that! What's yours, Papa?"

"'How to Get the Most Out of Research,'" Bobby quoted from the paper schedule he had tucked in his jeans' pocket.

As they rose from the table with their trays, ready to dispose of their trash, Alex whispered to him slyly, "You sure you're not hosting that panel, Agent Goren?"

"Too early," he said cryptically, leading the way to the doors.

The panel began at ten, at which time he sent a text he'd composed earlier, then muted his phone. The panel members made a few small additions to his already copious cache of sources, but when his phone vibrated at 10:40, he left the room willingly after checking the caller's name, tucking himself near a service door outside the panel room.

"You didn't need to make me a priority, Rocket Lady," he joked as he answered.

Karin Hirahara's jaunty voice from the opposite end of the country made him smile. "C'mon, Bob, you know I'm a morning person, and it drives Jennie bats. I've been up since six. I got your text. What's cooking?"

Bobby could see his youthful former FBI partner in her tidy office now, fussing with her pet bamboo plant, and drinking Irish breakfast tea to start her day. She and Ben Siler had never been to him what Alex had, but they had been good, solid partners when he needed them.

"How busy are you?"

"Normal, right now. Ongoing stuff. As always, waiting for evidence on a money-laundering case. I have six currently. Spill."

"Just what I asked in the text: does the name MacKenzie Saunders III mean anything to you?"

He could hear Karin's quick mind tick even over the phone. "More than you think. He's been in the local news a few times this year. Investigation into 'financial difficulties,' whispers of 'personal problems.' I can put some feelers out."

"Thanks, Karin."

"Got a postcard from Ben yesterday. He's up in the Great White North, at Lake Louise."

"He said he wanted to travel once he retired. Hope the weather's cooler than it's been here."

"And you guys surviving without A/C! How are the terrible twosome?"

"Terrifyingly smarter every day."

"Is Randall coming along?"

"Better every day--I think he's going to do fine in the Upper School. Oh, and we found out yesterday the two of them smuggled copies of our books in Alex's car. They've already given a set away."

Karin tittered. "Publicists'R'Us, huh? And your lady?"

"Still making me the luckiest guy in the tri-state area."

"Mmmn." He heard Karin sniff and sigh. "Maybe Cavanaugh turning out to be an SOB was the best thing for you. You gave the FBI all of your head, but never your heart. I saw it, you know, all the time, especially when you looked at that faded old Polaroid on your desk--that red thread connecting you both."

"Red thread?"

"Need to brush up on your Eastern folklore, Goren," she chuckled. "Look up Unmei no Akai Ito. In the meantime, I dig into Saunders, check. Call ya later."

It did sound familiar; when he consulted a search engine, it brought back something Alex had told him, a confidence to her from Mike Logan almost five years ago. "You do know Deakins always said the only ones...who didn't know about you and Goren were...you and Goren, right?"

He consulted his phone. Olivia had obediently reported that she and Randall were going to the dealer's room until a noon panel, and if they finished early, they would go to the Berkshire Room. She guessed his rationale for visiting the dealers by promising she wouldn't buy anything until she'd consulted with him.

There was an upcoming panel debating the use and limits of violence in young adult novels, so he drifted to the writers' track room, but talking with Karin had given him the urge to find Alex, and he was increasingly distracted until the panel ended.

He froze in his tracks after an unsmiling Officer Dannin and a new con volunteer dressed as Barnabas Collins permitted him into the Berkshire's anteroom: a stiffly-posed woman sat at their "luncheon table," her ash-blond hair pulled back into a severe bun, clad in a navy blue power suit and snow-white blouse, an open Brunello Cucinelli briefcase set before her. Facing her were a scowling Lynn Bishop, a weary-looking Mason Wagner, and Alex, her face dark as a thundercloud.

"...and, as you see in this signed piece of correspondence from the junior Mr. Saunders," the visitor was saying in a throaty, imperious voice, "it was clearly MacKenzie Saunders' intent to leave the props to his grandson."

"'Intent' doesn't equal a legal bequest, Ms. Facile," Bishop parried.

"Nor does it overrule a court of law that examined all the evidence and awarded in favor of Mr. Wagner," added Alex.

"The judge was clearly biased in favor of Mr. Wagner," returned Ms. Facile in supercilious tones. "It's come to my attention that he was a fan of Mrs. Wagner's character on a certain soap opera. She sent him a personalized, autographed photo. I believe he then gave certain considerations..."

"You have to be kidding," Alex protested. "An autograph!"

"Wait a minute," Wagner said, eyes flashing. "Are you implying that the judge favored me in a 1990s court case because Kit sent him a personalized photo sometime in the 1980s? Of all the fool...Ms. Facile, my wife spent one night a week sending personalized photos to her fans--I helped her, so I know!--including dozens of hospitalized cancer patients. He would have been one of hundreds."

"I would be careful of slander, Ms. Facile," Bobby said in an almost light tone belayed by his fixed stare. "Mr. Wagner can count on some powerhouse legal counsel."

Ms. Facile gave him a look as if he was something nasty she had trod upon. "Whoever you may be, I certainly wouldn't try the case again in Los Angeles--I believe certain collusion has been occurring for years. Not to mention there was far too much negative publicity against the Saunders family the first time for a fair trial. I've already submitted a change of venue to Massachusetts."

"Then he'll certainly be well represented," Bobby parried ominously. "You can tell Mr. Saunders that, if this goes any further, you'll be discussing this with Saltonstall and Saltonstall, LLC."

He smiled thinly when she had the grace to look startled for a few seconds before ice returned to her features. She then thrust papers back into her briefcase, stood up, and said, "You'll be hearing from me again, Mr. Wagner."

Bishop was on her feet. "Not in the next few days if I can help it. And mind you tell Mr. Saunders his sneak thieves won't get around my guards."

Now the attorney looked startled. "Thieves?"

"Someone tried to break into this room last night, Ms. Facile. So far as I know, your client is the only one that rabidly interested in these props."

"Nonsense. It's probably one of those weirdoes out there," And Facile stalked from the room.

"I feel personally attacked," Bobby said, eyebrows arched, taking a seat with a puckish expression.

Wagner leaned back, fingers laced behind his head. "She'll be back after me once she realizes I can't afford that law firm."

"Oh, I think you can," Bobby said, relaxed, "since the senior partner is the brother of my former FBI supervisor, and the junior partner is the uncle of our goddaughter."

"As my dad used to say, 'you're in like Flynn,'" Alex assured.

"So tell me more about Saunders I and II," Bobby proposed.

"Surely you don't want my impressions!" Wagner said in surprise.

Bishop rolled her eyes. "Oh, Mase, Bob lives for this stuff."

Bobby relaxed, but his fingers tapped quietly on the tabletop as Wagner looked doubtful, but began, "Well...MacKenzie Senior was just about what you'd expect. Ken wanted to be high-power, started as a director, and hoped to be DeMille or Welles. Then he became a producer. He realized he wasn't a Welles or even a Kubrick. Instead, he decided to give the public what they wanted, not particularly insightful drama, but shows they could watch and relax. He started with Westerns, then clicked into futuristic mode after John Glenn's flight. The Borough was eventually his best, as he got more realistic. That one even won an Emmy.

"He married Natalie Freeman, former ingenue, a regular on the talk-show circuit with Hedda Hopper and Zsa Zsa Gabor. Now, Junior--MacKenzie Junior--and his sisters Emily and Elaine grew up with nannies. Junior got himself kicked out of prep schools, managed to graduate from USC film school after a fat endowment from Dad, then worked his dad's series as 'executive producer,' although he spent most of his days chasing anything in a skirt and dressing like he was second-string in the Rat Pack. Wife drowned herself in booze, and Mac...Mac whom you met briefly...spent most of his summer vacations on the sets of his dad's shows while Junior played house with the starlets and the secretaries in their miniskirts." Wagner snorted. "Junior made sure he had the best clothes and the latest gadgets, though. I remember Little Mac owned one of the first Instamatic cameras I'd ever seen, when he was eight. He always had the latest and greatest."

"Thought it might be something like that," Alex responded dryly, watching Bobby's face change as the specter of his own bon vivant father shadowed the room.

Wagner, too, understood his expression almost at once, saying quietly, "I'm sorry..."

"And Mac?" Bobby continued steadily. "You said he...what? latched onto Walter Nelson as a father figure?"

"With me and Dan Vargas--he played Captain Jonah Hicks--as big brothers, I suppose, but it was a minor thing," Wagner shrugged. "Definitely Walt."

Bobby cocked his head at Lynn Bishop. "You already knew Saunders. How?"

"He approached me Thursday night in the breakfast room where they were having 'picnic night.' Introduced himself, explained his relationship with Mason," Bishop explained. "You must have rubbed off on me," and she said it with a smile, "because I got a bad vibe off him immediately. He was nervous, rubbing the palms of his hands together, blink rate off the charts--hinky."

"Then I showed up," Wagner spoke up. "Lynn's security company had just finished delivering the props, inventorying them, and checking the room's security. The Montague's security officer was with me; we had everything on lockdown, and I'd met Officer Dannin. Tommy was there, too, one of the volunteers, and...another guy, a con volunteer, too. Sam...no, Stan...Stanford Barringer. Odd thing, I thought I saw him after that, but he hasn't been one of the volunteers. Pity, he was a fount of knowledge, like Wendy Craven--the head of the Nautie Brigade who introduced me yesterday. He knew the most obscure things, the series budget, how much the old Aurora model kits sold for.

"Mac was shy at first. I hadn't seen him since the trial, more than a quarter of a century. As Lynn said, he appeared fidgety, looked pale, circles under his eyes like he hadn't been sleeping."

"He launched directly into a pitch for the props," Bishop continued. "And now that I recall, with a particular emphasis on the cat, which was odd, because I knew the cat wasn't part of Mason's salvage. As he said, Sandra gave it to him after Walt's death"

"But I figured he was here due to Walt," Wagner argued. "The cat was always special, a fan favorite. It even figured in an episode...um...'The Clockwork Cat' it was called. An old enemy of Admiral Hariman sends a spy aboard Nautilus II, and he drugs the admiral. The lucky cat becomes a clockwork monster in his delusions. You had to know Little Mac back then, not a spoilt monster, but a very sweet, shy, serious little man. Walt sensed he was lonely, had a director's chair made for him, with a little cup holder for his chocolate milk, and Mac--he was about seven in 1963--would sit enthralled while Walt told him about the war, Japan, his courtship of Sandra...oh, and these little fantasy stories, too, about the lucky cat and a magic ruby ring. Little Mac ate it up until his nanny showed up-"

There was a knock on the door, and Olivia peeked in. "Is this a private panel or can anyone join?"

"You have extended privileges," Bishop said warmly.

"What happened to the Starfleet Academy panel?" Bobby asked.

Randall was the one who rolled his eyes this time. "Oh, it was mostly kids," and Alex had to bite her lip at the dour inflection he gave the final word, "and a bunch of people with World Cup shirts."

Olivia flopped into a chair. "And the panel moderators let them take over the conversation, so after fifteen minutes of 'Which team would Jay-Den play on?' 'Which team would Darem Reymi play on?' we both got bored and walked out."

"'Spock' was back, though," Randall offered. "He was wearing the uniform from Wrath of Khan."

Bobby saw Olivia make a face. "What, Min?"

"Randall asked about his costume--he didn't make it himself."

"Not everyone's as talented as Mrs. Perrino, and I know there are fans who make a living re-creating costumes," reminded Alex, speaking of her former neighbor who had fashioned several outfits and Halloween items for Olivia.

"That wasn't it. Since he told us who made his costumes, he said he wanted something in return--'the lowdown' on the lucky cat, because he'd seen that we were Mr. Wagner's friends and probably had the 'inside scoop'!"

"'Livia looked just like you, Mom," Randall declared soberly. "She crossed her arms," and he mimed Alex's typical firm stance, "and told him she didn't have any 'lowdown.' But Asher and Charlotte heard it, and they asked us about it in the dealer's room. We told them the same thing." His hazel eyes were stormy, and he clenched his fists. "He shouldn't be cosplaying Spock if he isn't honorable. Spock wouldn't have asked for such things!"

Alex was surprised by the venom in his voice, and flashed a look at Bobby.

"Gossip spreads fast," Bishop frowned.

"Please call me or your father if he does that again," Alex instructed. Then, because both children still looked troubled, she covered her annoyance and added, "And did you have any birthday hints to drop upon us?"

Olivia paused a second. "Maybe."

"I recognize that face," Bobby said with amusement. "How high is the price?"

"On one thing I saw, Papa, I wouldn't even ask."

Randall had been covertly checking out everyone's faces, and he asked, "Have you been talking about that Mac Saunders guy?"

"A brilliant deduction, buddy," and Bobby patted his back. "What gave us away?"

"When we came in, you look like when we talked about..." and Randall glanced at his sister. "You know. Like last fall."

"Mmmn." He'd deliberately avoided mentioning Callandra Benoit. "We learned...well, that he wasn't very happy as a child."

"Did his dad want him to play sports, too?" sighed Randall.

"That would have at least been some attention from his father," Alex provided sourly.

"Oh," Olivia remarked, remembering Renata Sandoval, her old classmate at boarding school, whose divorced parents competed in trying to buy her affection, "one of those."

Wagner watched Randall's eyes stray to the service door. "Are you thinking of lunch?"

Caught out, Randall fumbled. "Oh, n-no, sir. I...um..."

"Oh, too bad. It's pizza today," was Wagner's innocent reply. "I was just going to put the order in."

"At least let us put some money in the kitty," Alex protested, and Olivia chortled at the double meaning of the pun.

"Sorry, my treat, Ms. Eames," countered Wagner, picking up his cell phone.

They were busy for the rest of the afternoon: Bobby talked Alex into attending a Rod Serling panel along with a Babylon 5 panel, during which she contributed a police officer's critique of Michael Garibaldi and the rest of the security team. On his own, Bobby attended a panel on Jules Verne films and another called "The Writers' Edge," concerning innovations in software, which drifted, predictably, into a condemnation of AI-written material.

The children enjoyed a Lower Decks panel, one about fantasy television series from My Favorite Martian to I Dream of Jeannie, and finally the first of two fanfiction panels, this one G-rated (the far-spicier one was scheduled for 10 p.m. and no under-18s allowed). They also took second turn around the dealer's room, and Olivia, with the vendors' permission, snapped photos of birthday "ideas."

"A Picnic Supper"--hamburgers, cheeseburgers, hot dogs, the appropriate buns, coleslaw, potato chips, and tortilla chips and salsa--was provided by the hotel for their guests that evening, and at seven they were ensconced back in the Berkshire Ballroom for Wagner's second panel, playfully entitled "Nautilus, Too!" but mostly concentrating on Michigan Avenue PD and his animated fantasy voice work.

Bobby's phone vibrated while Wagner regaled the audience with tales of meeting Mark Hamill and John DeLancie. He showed it to Alex. "Karin." he mouthed.

They both slipped out the side door and found a small boardroom that had been used for card games but was now empty, and Bobby answered the phone and selected "speaker."

Karin's voice this time was neither bright nor energetic. "You said this Mac Saunders character has been hanging around?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Nobody's talking. Usually these Hollywood types are only too glad to spill the dirt. I'm getting shrugs--'no problem with him'--or downright deflections. Someone mentioned him as 'hard luck.' One woman, Sheila Saunders' hairdresser, let slip 'health problems,' then clammed up and hung up, as if she'd been overheard and told to shut up." She paused. "Oh, and the name 'Victor Ciccione' came up in one of my searches, but I'm not sure how credible it is."

"Vic 'The Bean' Ciccione?" Alex asked, surprised.

"The Cicciones--LA's answer to the Masucci clan," Bobby confirmed.

"If Saunders has a beef with the Cicciones, it's no wonder he might be sniffing around for some profit from the props," Alex said darkly.

"The 'Little Mac' that Mason talks about, hero-worshiping a World War II vet...he wanted to better himself, be like Walt-"

Alex tilted her head. "Maybe enough to get in over his head?"

"I'll call if I find out anything more." Karin interrupted their brainstorming. "The Ciccione connection bothered me."

"Sorry, Karin, didn't mean to leave you out of the loop."

"That's okay. I know you two. Later."

"Our methods are known to the world, Captain Eames," Bobby said playfully, pocketing his cell.

"We better not let anything else slip," she returned wryly, and they returned to Wagner's panel.

Bobby had ambled back into the living area of their hotel room, having finished another installment of Elnora Comstock's nature adventures. The lights were out, but they could both hear Olivia and Randall's whispered reactions to that evening's Retro 70s dance.

"Sounds like they're still in shock that we can do something besides a waltz and a rumba," Alex quipped, pausing in the midst of a text to her sister. "Liz is laughing her head off."

He collapsed next to her on the sofa, scratching at his head. "I thought Min's eyes would pop out of her head when we did the Electric Slide."

"Liz is really losing it over that," Alex said, "because she's the one who taught me the Electric Slide."

"I remember..." He put her arm around her shoulders. "I remember...I was seven and Frank was ten, and he was trying to teach me the Twist. It was...um...right before my mom...well…and she stood in the door of the living room hysterical at Frank's gyrations," and here he waved his arms like palm fronds whipping in hurricane winds, "and me trying to imitate him. She finally said, 'Let an old hand at dancing show you how to do it, boys.'"

Bobby paused, his voice suddenly thick and eyes glistening with emotion, then finished, "She could've been on Bandstand, Alex. She was always something."

She caressed his face and would have kissed him-

Grrrrrrrr.

The sound made them jump and turn toward the children's door. Sam was standing, alert, his head low, eyes fixed on the door to the corridor.

"Sam?"

The collie took one slow step at a time into the room and toward the door, snarling again, and in the meantime Olivia in her nightgown and Randall in t-shirt and shorts appeared.

"I didn't know Sam knew how to growl," the latter said in surprise.

Bobby rose slowly and touched the dog's ruff, which bristled under his fingers. "All right, let's check it out, Sam."

He snapped a leash on the dog, and, after checking the peephole, cautiously opened the door, and bright light spilled from the hallway into the more dimly-lit hotel suite. Outside came a thump as if someone struck a hollow-paneled door, and then a thud of running feet, and Sam snapped to the end of the leash, pulling Bobby along with him.

Randall took a long step forward, but Alex blocked his way at once, then hissed, "Stay there!" and padded to the door to peer outside. They were in the pet-friendly rooms on the first floor with easy access to a rear door that led to the pet walk area, and in the other direction were the lobby, the entrance to the breakfast room, and the exit to the pool area and exercise room. From outside their door, she could see two figures and the big collie standing near the lobby entrance, Bobby's hands gesticulating, then a third figure with a brimmed cap appeared and loped toward the pool exit.

Finally she saw Bobby and Sam turn back toward the room, only to halt three doors down so Sam could sniff at something on the floor and Bobby bend down to check it out.

When he let Sam off the leash in the room, the dog bounded toward the children, brushing against them and whining.

"Good boy!" Olivia told him. "You didn't bark once."

"Good dog, good bird," Bandit commented from his swing, which relieved the tension.

"Sam was after someone," Bobby confirmed. "Whoever it was made for the pool exit and disappeared. It looked like a man running." He tipped his head sideways, considering. "And it may just be coincidental, but someone pushed what looks like a piece of paper or an envelope under the door to Room 101. I need to go back and tell the desk clerk."

Alex shooed the children back to bed; to her relief, Sam settled between their beds as if nothing had happened. When Bobby returned, they sat watching the news, but he was restless, and they soon shut off the television, covered Bandit's cage, and headed off to bed.

Only then did Bobby tell her that Room 101 was Mason Wagner's suite.

"It was a note from Mac."

Wagner, in his "undercover" Pittsburgh Pirates cap and shirt, monster sunglasses, stonewashed jeans, and red Converse knockoffs, with a cane dangling from one arm, had shuffled to their corner table on Sunday morning. Feeling safe with his back to the crowd, he removed the shades, his eyes blinking at the light with crow's feet sharply accenting his tiredness.

"Lynn and I have been talking. She's extended an invitation to Mac for Sunday evening. We can talk while I pack up the props, I'll be well backed up with her and Officer Dannin, and maybe we can put an end to this nonsense."

"Do you need a second mediator?" asked Bobby with interest.

"You're not leaving tonight?" Wagner asked, surprised.

"We have our pets with us," Alex told him, "so we can't very well make check-out time and still see all the panels planned for today, and the hotel doesn't do extended checkouts. After the convention ends, we'll probably go out to dinner somewhere besides Silverhorn as a final treat, then head for home Monday morning."

"Once we get home," Olivia said chattily, "we'll have to start prepping for trivia Tuesday night at the Dark Crystal. We have some brill trivia I found in a book we bought on the way here."

"You should visit us some Saturday night, Mr. Wagner," Randall offered. "It's pretty boss. You can meet Shard and TJ and everybody. If you can't drive back that late, you can stay in Mom's office that's our guest bedroom. The Murphy bed is really comfy--all our company says so--and TJ's food is soooooo good!"

Alex's veiled look at Bobby clearly said, Remember that timid little boy who wouldn't come out of Shard's office? His nod showed that he certainly did.

Wagner smiled. "Don't you think you should ask your parents before inviting strangers to stay overnight?"

"You're not a stranger," Randall said, taken aback. "We're friends now."

Olivia grinned. "Maybe even kindred spirits."

"She made his day," Bishop said to Alex later, after the rest of the family had gone off to their respective panels. "He and Kitty never had children. He has friends in Everett, and still in the city, but no family."

Alex strolled the antechamber, gazing at the props of a series she had always kidded her younger brother about when he watched the reruns, but her thoughts elsewhere. "I take it Walt and Sandra never had children, either? Is that why he took an interest in Mac?"

"They had a little girl who died of leukemia at age nine, according to Mason. Not much you could do about leukemia in the 1950s. After that, Sandra went through a bad patch."

"Not much you could do about that in the 50's, either," Alex agreed, "except be drugged up to your eyeballs."

"I hope we can straighten this prop business out tonight," Bishop said, smoothing the display tablecloth although it was tautly pristine. "I was wary taking this job, but Mason turned out to be a dream client."

She concluded, "And it led to this reunion to make it perfect." She looked earnestly at Alex. "I envied you two. The way he looked...you looked...in perfect sync. He was fine while you were still in the office. Once you left...it was like taking the weight off one side of a scale. Unless he was absorbed in the case, he was all out of balance." Her eyes twinkled. "On my last day, he did apologize to me. He was like a teenager, practically scuffled his feet and..."

"...looked embarrassed?" Alex finished. "I can see it. It took me a long time to understand, and I worked with him for two years before that."

"An acquired taste," Lynn Bishop said, eyes gleaming, "like raw oysters and marmite and deep dark Scotch."

"You're also invited to visit, you know," Alex said as her phone rang, smiling as she extended the invitation before saying hello. Her grin grew broader as she listened, then said, "Sounds good. I'll be there in a few."

"I have to go," she explained to Bishop. "Between lucky cats and childhood crushes, I apparently missed some clues this weekend. The younger members of the contingent need some Mom advice."

Bishop gave her a thumbs-up. "Good luck!"

Their final day at the convention was as enjoyable as the first two. Between panels, they met for lunch at the rear of the Berkshire Ballroom, once more treated to lunch by Wagner. Randall told him gravely that "TJ's wings are much better than these," thus reinforcing the previous invitation. Olivia eagerly mentioned talking to an "older girl" (all of fourteen) who was writing fanfiction for an anime called Medalist on Archive of Our Own.

"May I apply for an account?" she asked. "It'll take a bit. There's a waiting list."

"So, another writer in the family?" asked Bishop, eyes dancing. She'd abandoned her business suit and was in a sleeveless sage green blouse and loose grey slacks, hair pulled back in a ponytail, finally looking more placid. "What kind of story are you thinking of writing?"

"I s'pose I've grown out of it," was her dubious answer, "but I always wanted to write a Molly of Denali story. One about a younger Molly and Tooey. Or...maybe a Johnny and Cilla story taking place after the war, or what happened to Isannah."

Bishop looked at her questioningly, and Olivia said, "From Johnny Tremain. It's one of my favorite books."

Wagner saluted her with a drumette. "Maybe we are kindred spirits. That was one of my favorites, too."

Bobby remembered the conversation later at the publishing panel when an older moderator disparaged fanfiction. He raised his hand and offered that, with rising concerns about literacy rates and AI authorship, anything that encouraged children or adults to write original fiction was a positive move, and she glowered at him for the remainder of the hour.

Mason Wagner's final panel was at four, just before closing ceremonies. Randall noticed immediately that "Spock" was there again, this time in his grey outfit from the Next Generation story "Unification." The previous evening, Bobby had pointed out to him that someone being a fan of Spock and cosplaying him didn't necessarily mean that they subscribed to the character's philosophies, yet all four were displeased when "Spock" raised his hand to be called on, then insinuated that Wagner must have some behind-the-scenes info that would be uniquely of interest to his "followers."

Wagner had taken a nap before the presentation and was now alert and ready for a challenge; he stepped away from the display tables to approach "Spock," only to recognize him.

"I thought you looked familiar, Stan," he said, disappointed. "We had such a great conversation on Thursday afternoon. Did you help unpack the props simply hoping to get a scoop for your Instagram account? Well, I'll tell you, 'Mr. Spock,' I'm a Baby Boomer with no pretensions. What you see," he continued firmly, "is what you get. And I don't invade people's privacy for the sake of advancing the career of an 'influencer.'"

Randall looked back at "Spock" and intoned "Yayyyyy!" to which most of the audience joined in.

After closing ceremonies at five, and helping Bishop secure the props with a new guard on duty, Alex proposed China Kingdom, a restaurant she'd found while surfing for dinner ideas; the reviews were sterling. They had a brief tug-of-war over who would pay the bill, but Bobby and Alex insisted that after three lunch treats from Wagner it was their turn.

They finally compromised on Bishop providing the tip, and then Wagner ordered sake for the adults. Alex was secretly pleased to see Randall trying potstickers along with his sacrosanct chicken chow mein and pork fried rice, and also sampling some of Bobby's octopus.

Olivia, of course, ate her entire meal with chopsticks, emulating her father.

Back at the hotel, Bobby joined Wagner and Bishop to prepare for the meeting with MacKenzie Saunders, while Alex returned the children to the room. She left Olivia with dire vows not to open the door for anything but a fire alarm, then she and Randall went for an evening jog and took Sam out at the same time. When they returned, Olivia looked discouraged.

"I'm not 13 yet," she wailed, "so I can't be in the queue for AO3."

Alex realized she felt as Bobby had during the book tour, so reluctant for the girl to turn ten. Another milestone was approaching, and this time he wasn't going to be the only one to be hit hard. "Maybe you can be on the waiting list right before your birthday? At the end of August? That's not so long. Remember, we're going to be pretty busy in the next two weeks, and then we have vacation."

Randall looked up with a satisfied grin from the big shopping bag filled with their dealer's room purchase, which had been tucked behind the easy chair. "Why don't you start your story? It'd be sick if you finished in time to post it your first day on AO3."

Moments later Olivia sat on the sofa tapping on her laptop keys; Randall sprawled on the floor, pillowed against Sam while changing channels on the television and finally finding Star Trek; and Alex was reading the "space procedural" she had found in the dealer's room, about a defense attorney at a space station solving a crime. It was well-done--the author, a local who she had spoken to at his sales table, was an attorney who had spent time at legal aid--and had drawn her right in. An hour later she was still engrossed, occasionally scratching Bandit under his chin, as the budgie perched just under her collarbone, fluffed up, contentedly grinding his beak, when Olivia finally said, "Isn't that talk they're having with Mr. Saunders taking awf'ly long?"

Alex glanced at her Fitbit, then jerked her head toward the digital clock on the desk to confirm the time. Her instincts fluttered, but she called herself foolish.

"That's probably a positive thing," she said reassuringly. "Mr. Saunders may have come with an attitude--or another lawyer! But I'll bet they've worked things out and are just sitting around swapping stories. Tell you what," and she rose smoothly, collecting Bandit on her finger as she did and putting him back in his cage, "I'll walk down there and put an end to the gabfest. I forgot to give Lynn back the key card for the ballroom anyway...I might forget before we leave tomorrow." She put on her best mother voice. "You two might think about starting to pack up-"

Randall groaned, but Alex simply laughed, and, snatching up her own card key and that of the ballroom off the desk, she extracted safety promises from both, then let herself into the corridor.

Now she was uneasy. It really was getting late, and Bobby knew they had planned an early breakfast/departure...

The corridor was eerily deserted after the noisy activities of the convention; the lights had even been dimmed slightly. A man and a little girl padded toward the elevator in swimsuits, each draped in a towel. A teen was leaning against the wall adjacent to the lobby, intent on his cell phone. A ringtone ululated from the lobby.

And then her own phone rang, and she looked at it in relief, only to realize it wasn't Bobby's ringtone.

"Hi, Karin," she said into the cell.

"Hey, Alex," Karin replied. "Bobby in the shower or walking the dog? I've called him three times and he hasn't picked up."

Alex tried to respond neutrally. "Yeah. What's up?"

He was waiting on a call from Karin. He would have picked up for her.

"I have more info on this MacKenzie Saunders guy. He does have some financial problems, but it doesn't appear to be OC related. The reason everyone's been so-close mouthed is because he's been in and out of psychiatric treatment. You'd think that would be the norm in the media industry, but apparently it's hush-hush with 'Hollywood royalty' like the Saunders family."

"I'm sure this will be very helpful," Alex answered. "What type of psychiatric problems? Could you find out?"

"Depression and anxiety mostly, but moments of paranoia-"

"Violence?" answered Alex more quickly than she should have.

It was her tell. "Alex...where is Bob?"

"With Mac Saunders."

"Alone?" Karin's voice rose an octave.

"No. With an old Major Case friend who's doing security at this convention, Lynn Bishop, and Saunders' old mentor, Mason Wagner. Karin, I gotta go."

On instinct, she ended the call, muted the phone, and headed purposefully for the Berkshire Ballroom. The conference center halls were still open but dimly lit, vacant of the vendors who hadn't made it into the dealer's room and fans chatting on easy chairs and sofas. Advertisements for books and role-playing games and online fan clubs had been stripped from the walls, and the previously welcoming corridor now looked ominously cavernous.

She tried the main door and was surprised to find it unlocked. Swallowing, she eased it open millimeters at a time until the gap revealed the ballroom, hours earlier full of light and sound, currently dark except for a few security lights in the rafters and quiet except for the vibrating hum of the air conditioning. Now she opened the door enough to slide her slim frame into the room and eased the door closed.

The window of the anteroom revealed it brightly lit inside.

Well, it should be. They're talking, like they were supposed to.

The chairs were stacked against the wall now, so she could easily walk its length, treading uneasily on the carpet until she reached the door, stepping to the side so that no movement could be detected from within. Surprisingly, someone hadn't bothered to close it completely, and she could overheat everything.

"...talking for awhile--you look tired, Mac," came Bobby's voice. "Why not take a seat?"

A chill ran over her, and it wasn't from the air conditioning. She was familiar with that tone of voice: it was the one he used when talking down suspects. He had used it on Officer Ray Wiznesky at his breaking point and on tormented small-town Kentuckian Marla Reynolds, and so many more.

"I could go home," Saunders said in a querulous voice. "I could go home and rest, Mase, and know everything would be safe, for Sheila, for my kids, if you would just give me the ring. It's inside the lucky cat."

"But the props are all packed up," came Wagner's voice, raspy and dry, "in a locked transport. I don't have the key."

"I turned over the key to my superiors at Middlesex Secure Solutions at dinnertime," Bishop said in a coaxing tone, trying to emulate Bobby's soothing voice. "I could call them, see if I can have someone bring the key."

"No, no," was Saunders' panicked voice. "Then someone else will know the fix I'm in. What would Dad think of me?"

Based on Mason's story, Alex recalled, it sounded as if he hardly thought of you at all.

"Sit down, Mac," Bobby urged warmly. "Take a load off. Here's a soda. You can drink it and still keep an eye on us. I'll open it for you."

"It might be drugged."

Paranoia. Great.

Alex reluctantly retreated to the ballroom door, then punched 911 into her phone. When the operator picked up, she whispered hurriedly, "Please don't speak. No noise. Possible hostage situation at the Montague Inn. Street address unknown, near the Union Square T station. I'm former NYPD. 10-0. 10-18. 10-30. 10-64. 10-73. 10-85, I repeat, 10-85. I can't stay on the line. Montague Inn. 10-85." Panting now, she returned to the door.

"Better, isn't it?" she heard Bobby soothe. "You can rest your elbow and keep your hand steady."

"Here," Bishop said. "See, you watched me open the soda, and I've sipped from it. It's okay."

There was a sliding noise, then someone clearing their throat and the tap of an aluminum can. Then silence, then the tap of the can on the table.

"So you need the ring," Bobby said easily. "But...surely, um...we can still help you without it. You said you had bad luck?"

"I'm up to my ears in debt," Saunders confessed. "If I don't do something, I'll lose our house. I made a few crap investments I never told Sheila about. And that ring was mine. Dad promised me all the props from Nautilus II."

"But the lucky cat wouldn't have been included," Bobby reminded softly. "It belonged to Walt Nelson's wife."

"But Mason has it now," argued Saunders. "I thought it was his now. That's why I wanted to buy the props, or at least the cat. I figured he could use the money after his wife being so sick."

"Mac, I'm kinda confused...must be m-me, not understanding...but how did you figure to pay Mason Wagner for the lucky cat if you're short on c-cash?" Bobby made himself sound confused, like a geriatric uncle asking how an iPhone worked.

"I have this buddy," Saunders confessed. "A jeweler, Tommy Ciccione. Walt described that ring, in his stories, in detail, down to the hallmark. I gabbed about the ring to Tommy one day, when we were shooting the breeze, and he said it sounded valuable, that it could solve my problems. He told me he knew someone who'd take it immediately and give me enough cash to get myself off the hook, at least so we wouldn't lose the house. I was gonna offer Mason a check it would take a couple of days to process--Tommy knows a trick to mess up the scan so it takes longer--and then I could just apologize to Mase about the check problem, give him the amount from the proceeds."

"You must have been worried that your wife would find out," Wagner interjected sympathetically. "I think Kit would have dumped me if I kept that kind of secret from her."

"That's what I mean! I can't lose Sheila! And what would our kids think? And our friends? I would never be able to hold my head up in public again. Everyone knows our family, I can't disgrace our name."

Alex, listening from the other side of the door, sighed to herself. And he doesn't think that isn't going to happen now?

She took the risk of slowly standing on tiptoe and peering through the narrow glass window. To her relief, it was only Bobby and Bishop, the latter's hair now shockingly red against her pale face, with their eyes facing the door. Mason Wagner was to their right, at the narrow end of the table.

The tall, thin form that must be MacKenzie Saunders III luckily had his back to her. She tried to take in the details of his deterioration over the weekend--his now lank and greasy hair, the rumpled suit jacket, how his shoulders jerked, indicating his nervousness--then both mind and body momentarily froze.

A pistol in his right hand.

Glock 26.

The same firearm Major Case had issued to her.

Aimed at her husband's head.

Aimed at her husband's head.

Alex had a dizzying flashback of a raid, a kicked-open door at a strip club, an undercover assignment she was unaware of, and her own sidearm pointed in Robert Goren's face.

Stay calm. Stay calm.

"You've got me intrigued now," Bobby said, leaning back in his chair. Alex saw his face, open, overtly curious, practically begging the person he was questioning to tell their story, just as Declan Gage had taught him. "This must be some ring. It's that valuable?" He gave no hint that he had seen her, although she was sure his eyes had scanned the window.

"Dad used to drop me by the studio as a kid," Saunders said reminiscently. "I was about six when I started. Walter Nelson was my hero. My dad was too young to serve in World War II, but he wouldn't have been able to anyway. He lost an eye as a kid, running with a stick." He gave a nervous giggle that sent a frisson of anxiety down Alex's spine. "Isn't that a cliché? My nanny said that all the time, 'Mackie, don't run with that stick in your hand!' Funny, huh? Huh?

"So I'd sit next to Walt between takes, and he'd tell me war stories. He was my hero. And he'd talk about the ring, a Cartier from the 1800s. He said it was priceless to his family, that it was supposed be the engagement ring for the woman who became his wife. His father promised it to him specially for her. He laughed when he told me about it, about the big ruby set in 24-carat gold."

She saw Wagner lower his head, hand across his face, then lift it again. Exhaustion was written there, and he looked more 90 than 80.

"Mac, since this is my fault, let me work with you. I can help you with your money problems--I've got a great lawyer, you know that. He'll work with you, too."

"I don't need your help!" And now Saunders grew agitated, waving the pistol, his voice shrill. "You stole my stuff. My dad promised. My grandfather welshed on the deal, but my dad promised. He always got me things I wanted."

"I know," Wagner said, sounding indignant. "I saw the way your grandfather treated you. Always offhand. Your dad, though--I'll bet you he tried to save those props for you, and your grandfather went against him." He paused. "Mac, please, let me get out my phone. I'll call Al Markman. You saw how he manipulated Filmgems, got the judge on my side...he can do that for you."

Alex's phone vibrated in her pocket. Settling square on her feet again, she saw it was a text from Karin. What room are you in?

Berkksrhire, Alex thumbed with trembling hands.

Hold tight.

Huh?

"Mac! Don't!" she heard Wagner shout.

A crash from inside the anteroom made her jump, Bobby bellowed, "Drop it! Drop it!", a man's guttural scream shattered the air, and Bishop cried out, "Mason! Watch out!"

Time had run out--Alex had a second to act, and did. Phone thrust into her pocket, she charged through the door, eyes taking in at once the dogpile that was Bobby and Lynn Bishop stretched out over the collapsed hotel table, struggling to hold Saunders' right arm so the Glock was pointing at anything but themselves or Mason Wagner, who was sprawled on the floor nursing his left arm. Fueled by panic and adrenaline, even while held down by two people trained in restraint, Saunders' arm kept lowering into the danger zone.

Alex darted forward, her right hand slashing sideways to give Saunders' arm a quick, vicious chop right below the wrist. He screamed, and the pistol flew from his spasming fingers across the room, and finally the three of them were able to subdue Saunders, who began to weep.

Alex's phone vibrated again. Stunned, she pulled it from her pocket. Karin. Karin, ohthankyouGod, Karin.

Cambridge police in Berkshire Room. Where are you?

"Clear!" she shouted hoarsely to the momentary confusion of the room's other occupants, collapsing against Bobby's side. "Clear! All...clear..."

"Well, no, ma'am," the blond-haired SWAT Team tactical commander told Alex a few minutes later after Saunders was safely restrained and a paramedic was examining Wagner's left arm, "we scrambled after a call from Los Angeles. FBI Class 1 priority. We received your 911 call on the way here. But that 10-85 came through loud and clear."

("Well, hell," Karin later said briskly, "the minute you hung up on me I had a call into the Cambridge police. It didn't hurt that the chief I was transferred to knew both Hogarths.")

"Thank you," Alex tried to say sincerely, but her eyes were scalded with tears of relief, and Bobby's arm closed around her, forming a safe space. "His gun...at your head...Bobby..."

"I know," he whispered, trying to tamp down the ghost of Mike Stoat. "You came through, Eames. You always come through."

A heartbreaking cry came from the corner where Saunders was guarded by two SWAT members. "Dad! Dad! I'm sorry! He wouldn't let me have the cat! I could have made it work...Mason, Mason, please, buddy, the ring, the cat...make my dad happy...proud of me..."

Wagner groaned, "Do you think it would help if I told him the truth?"

"Now?" Bobby asked bleakly. "No. It looks like he's already become disconnected, gone into a full psychotic break. I get the feeling he's had more than 'daddy issues' all these years, but no one in the family would admit it."

"Like the boy who shot up Sandy Hook Elementary," Alex said bitterly. "God forbid we make the family look bad."

She sighed as she surveyed the scene: near the door, the two SWAT members on alert with a handcuffed, weeping MacKenzie Saunders III seated between them; Bishop on her feet at their right, hair and clothing disheveled as she spoke to the tactical commander; Mason Wagner seated in a chair to their left with a paramedic checking out the swollen, rapidly purpling bruise that stretched from the back of his hand to the elbow of his left forearm. Bobby looked as if he had aged ten years, and, while she couldn't see herself, she could feel herself, still vibrating inwardly, and rested her head against Bobby's chest for a few more precious seconds.

Then she pulled out her phone and touched the small icon that would connect her with Olivia just as the two SWAT team officers lifted Saunders to his feet. They were gentle with him, for his sobbing had ceased and he was now practically catatonic, eyes wandering vacantly around the room.

She revealed nothing in her voice but regret when Olivia picked up. "Hi, Min. We'll be back in just a few minutes. I'm sorry we took so long. Mr. Saunders has had a really hard time--even your dad and Lynn and Mr. Wagner couldn't make him see reason. He was very upset, and they finally had to call the police. But they'll be taking him to where he'll get some help." A pause. "Yes, we're fine. We just didn't want it to have to come to this." A longer pause, a little glow in her eyes. "I will. We'll be there as soon as possible, as soon as we finish giving our statements. Yes, I'll tell him."

She hung up, then smiled at Wagner. "Olivia and Randall say they were happy to meet you, and to say goodbye for them. Randall asked me to remind you about Saturday night."

Wagner smiled wanly, then winced as the paramedic gently turned his forearm. "You got good kids."

The tactical commander said a few final words to Bishop, then followed the SWAT team escorting Saunders out. Bishop turned to Bobby and Alex, blowing out a sigh. "So, how will you spin this to the kids? You'll have to tell them before they see it on the news. Cronenberg," and she indicated the vanished tac, "says WBZ already has a van out there."

"There won't be much spin," Bobby told her soberly. "We always tell them the truth." His chuckle was rueful. "Bad things happen when we don't. We'll just...um...soft-pedal a couple of details." He cocked a head at Wagner. "Let's call it more Ivan Tors than Quinn Martin or Ken Saunders."

"Understood...completely," nodded Wagner.

"Mr. Wagner," the paramedic advised, "I'm pretty sure your arm isn't broken, but I think you ought to get it checked out. There's an Urgent Care just down the street."

"Makes sense," Wagner responded, rising from the chair. "Give me ten minutes to get myself together, okay?"

The paramedic nodded, and Wagner made his way to the rear corner of the room where two boxy squares sat in shadows. Upon his return, he set the DVD set of Nautilus II on the table. "Ask Randall to be kind," he advised. "As I told him, it's not Star Trek."

Alex nodded.

"And this, Alex" and he placed the boxed set of Michigan Avenue PD next to Nautilus II, "is for you, in hopes that your older self enjoys it as well as your 10-year-old self did." He gave her a lopsided grin. "At least reminds you of your dad."

Bobby regarded him thoughtfully. "You said 'the truth.' The ruby ring? It's real?"

Wagner bowed his head. "Yes--and no. I mean there was a ruby ring, and it was Cartier. It was Walt's grandmother's. And when Walt told those stories to Mac as a child, it was around that ring he centered his tales. After Marianne died--his daughter, who had leukemia--he poured his heart into those stories for Little Mac, for Marianne's sake, a rare ruby ring with magical powers.

"But he never owned the ring, and I've never seen the real thing, just a photo." Wagner twisted his own wedding ring. "When he decided he would propose to Sandra, he sent a telegram home. He wanted his grandmother's ring sent to him. His father had promised it to him when Walt found 'Miss Right.' Except...well, I told you Walt's father never accepted Sandra. He realized who it was Walt wanted to marry, so he went to Woolworth's--Kresge's, whatever, some five-and-dime--and spent ten cents on a gold plastic ring with a red glass 'stone.' He sent it APO with a note: 'This is good enough for a Jap.'

"Walt realized he had to be honest with Sandra. She had to know what she was facing, or their relationship would start on a lie. He brought her the plastic ring, told her what it should have been, explained what his father did. And, he told me, that he waited for her to refuse him, not wanting to endure the bigotry," And now Wagner smiled ruefully. "But Sandra took the ring, put it on her finger, and said proudly, 'I accept your solemn promise to marry me, Walter Allan Nelson. And I will hold you to it!' Sandra was buried with that ring; it was her last wish. It wasn't valuable, but it was priceless, because it came with the truth."

Bobby tilted his head, thinking. "That story...W-Walt's stories...sound like something Olivia's history club would like to hear. Would you ever...um...consider speaking to them?"

"We'd be willing to drive you up and back," Alex offered immediately.

"In a vintage Mustang, if that sweetens the deal," Bobby added.

Wagner looked wistful. "I would...be honored. Spread the stories to another generation."

"Mr. Wagner," the paramedic reminded.

"You go, Mr. Queller," Bishop said suddenly. "I'll take him and bring him back."

"You sure?" asked the paramedic.

"Well, someone has to give him a ride back," she said sternly. "It might as well be me. Besides, we'll have a few more hours together. Mason, just let me stop by my room and get my laptop, so I can write up the report on this assignment while you're being treated." She grinned at Bobby. "Almost like being back at MCS. Somehow your cases were always one for the books, Goren."

Bobby pulled himself to his feet, Alex rising next to him; they balanced each other. "It's been a pleasure working another case with you, Detective Bishop," and he offered her his hand.

"But let's not do it again," she said, laughing, bumping fists with him instead.

A muscle in his upper lip visibly twitched. "Agreed."

"Come on, Mase," Bishop said, offering Wagner her arm, and they waved farewell.

"Let's go face the music," Alex said as Bobby picked up the DVD set for Randall. A little spark of mischief had returned to her eyes. "'Just an ordinary day with the Gorens'?"

Bobby coughed, then added, "By the way, Eames, I bought us memberships for next year."

"Wonder what that will bring," said Alex.