They arrived at an estate overlooking a small, private lake. It was a beautiful but understated mansion, surrounded by a high fence that was studded with security cameras. As the uniformed officer opened the large, wrought iron gate, Ryan Stone fought back a wave of nausea. Hawkins was possibly the worst driver he had ever had the distinct displeasure of riding with. She seemed to notice the look of discomfort on his face,

“Something wrong?” the question sounded innocent, but her smirk suggested otherwise.

“Next time I’m driving,” he groaned.

“Why, you have a problem with my driving?”

“Oh no, you drive like a NASCAR champion,” he paused, “who was recently blinded in a freak accident.”

“Nice imagery,” Hawkins chuckled. “But we did make great time.”

“Oh yeah, great time,” his voice dripped sarcasm. “I bet we’d beat the ambulance to the accident scene by at least 20 minutes.”

She smiled wryly as she reached out and knocked on the large wooden door.

“I’m still driving though,” she murmured, as an agent opened the front door.

“Can I help you?” the Agent asked.

Hawkins flipped out her badge, a smooth and practiced motion.

“Point me in the direction of the crime scene.”

“Oh, Agent Hawkins, we’ve been expecting you. This way please,” the young man ushered them into the hallway.

Ryan was practically green with envy as they walked through the house. It was stunning, rich wood and high-end furnishings of glass and stainless steel everywhere he looked. The entryway even had a decorative fountain. He supposed that this was the kind of house that passed as “modest” when you were obscenely wealthy. He’d take this over his 6-floor walk-up any day. Reaching the top of the stairs, he could see that the door to Alex Pauling’s room was open. Grayson Pauling was inside, sitting on the bed, staring blankly into space. Ryan could tell that the man was distraught, just barely holding it together. As Hawkins looked at him, Ryan saw her eyes narrow in anger, but he was too late to stop her.

“What is he doing in there?” she demanded sharply.

“Well, he wanted to be near where his son was,” the agent stammered. “We’d already gone over the room, so we didn’t see the harm in it.”

“The room isn’t cleared until I clear it,” she snarled. “Get him out.”

Pauling had clearly heard the whole exchange; he got to his feet and began walking towards the door, noticeably upset by Hawkins’s attitude.

“Excuse me,” he puffed out his chest, getting in her face. The man was a seasoned businessman, he wasn’t easily intimidated. “But who are you to tell me where I can be in my house?”

“I,” Hawkins didn’t back down an inch, “am the agent looking for your son, and you are contaminating my crime scene.”

Taylor Hawkins brushed past him and walked into the room. Pauling’s cheeks were red with anger, but he said nothing. Ryan rubbed a hand over his face; this was certainly going well, he reflected, he had managed to keep Hawkins from offending anyone for a whole 13 seconds. Pauling left the room, but went only as far as the doorway. He stood silently between Ryan and the young agent, watching as the red head lingered in the very center of the room, eyes closed. She was perfectly still and silent for a long moment. Then, suddenly, she turned back to them,

“Do you smell that?” she asked.

No one seemed to know who she was talking to, so an awkward moment passed before Ryan sniffed at the air.

“Smell what?” he responded.

“Cigarette smoke,” she replied impatiently. “Do you smoke?” her question was directed at Pauling.

“No,” Pauling responded quietly.

“Do any of the Agents who processed the scene smoke, Agent…” she trailed off.

“Agent Cartwright, ma’am. And no, there were only 3 men in here, none of them smoke.”

“Hmm,” she mumbled, but said nothing more on the matter.

She slid on a pair of gloves and moved through the room meticulously examining every detail. Ryan watched, fascinated. She was slow, methodical; sometimes she barely seemed to move at all, but from the intense look of concentration on her face, it was clear that she was seeing things that interested her, though for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what they were. A long time passed, without a sound, but as she approached the bed and slid her gloved hands along under the covers she hesitated, sniffed the sheets and then turned back to the doorway.

“Mr. Pauling, does your son wet his bed?”

“What?” Pauling seemed surprised. “No, no, he’s never done that.”

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“And are you sure you would know?”

“Of course, I would know! He is my son!”

“Agent Cartwright, could you check with the maid for me? See if she confirms that.”

“What, you don’t think I know my own son?! Having a nanny doesn’t make me a bad father and it doesn’t mean I don’t spend time with Alex!” Pauling was indignant, incensed even.

“I never said it did. Agent Cartwright, now, please?”

Cartwright turned and left quickly, probably glad to have an excuse to leave the tense situation.

“Did you find something?” Ryan asked, trying to shift the focus back to the investigation.

“Yes,” she replied. “The bed has a urine stain; it’s still a bit damp, fresh.”

Hawkins turned back and continued examining the bed and the bed post.

Pauling turned to Ryan, he was clearly incensed,

“This is outrageous! She has no right to treat me this way! I am a good father; I know my son! The NIA has some nerve sending this, this…” he was shouting, but his voice broke, as if he were on the verge of tears.

Ryan felt a little surge of panic. Hawkins was being as subtle as a sledgehammer, and Pauling was getting defensive. This was exactly what Collins has sent him to prevent, and he wasn’t doing a very good job. It was time to earn his pay.

“Mr. Pauling,” Ryan’s tone was soothing, “we know that you are a good father, and we are truly sorry that this has happened to you. My partner didn’t mean anything by…”

“She damn well did mean something by it! Don’t try and feed me that bullshit. I should see you both fired for this unconscionable display of insensitivity and unprofessional conduct! I am a victim! My son is missing, and she is wasting time questioning my parenting? What possible purpose can this serve?”

“Mr. Pauling, we all care deeply about your son’s welfare, and we are all trying our best to bring him home to you safely.”

Pauling scoffed, obviously sceptical. The man was not going to be placated by empty words, he was a hard-nosed businessman and a panicked father, not a good combination. So, Ryan decided to try a different tact,

“Look, I am going to level with you Mr. Pauling. You are something of an important person. You know that, and I know that. There are very influential people in this country who want us to stay on your good side. Because of this, the federal government, and by extension, NIA, has a vested interest in resolving this case favourably and in keeping you as calm and as happy as possible, under the circumstances. I am sure that you understand that.”

“Yes,” Pauling was humouring him, though barely. But, as Ryan had anticipated, logic appealed to him.

“Good,” he continued calmly. “So, think about it this way: why would an agency, which we both agree wants to keep you happy, send a woman like that,” he gestured to Taylor Hawkins, “to investigate your son’s kidnapping?”

Pauling furrowed his brow, Ryan kept talking,

“They knew full well that Agent Hawkins here doesn’t have a diplomatic bone in her body, they knew that she would likely piss you off, but yet they sent her anyway. You are an intelligent man, Mr. Pauling, surely you can see that there is only one explanation for that,” Ryan paused to let him consider for a moment. “She’s the best they have, plain and simple. If anyone can find your son, it is Taylor Hawkins,” he knew that he was overstating things a bit, but Ryan figured it was worth the risk. “I know you don’t like her attitude, no one ever does, but she is a brilliant investigator. And to be frank, you are going to need the best, if you ever want to see your son again. Surely, Alex’s life is worth more to you then courtesy and etiquette?”

The color had drained from Pauling’s face, the anger seeped away, leaving him deflated and it was clear to Ryan that he had made his point. Pauling collapsed onto a wooden bench in the hallway; he dropped his face into his hands.

“You’re right, of course. All that matters is finding Alex. I… I…” a strangled sob escaped his lips and he couldn’t continue. After a moment, Pauling pulled himself back together. “I am so sorry, I’m not normally like this. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I should apologize to your partner. She is only trying to do her job and I acted very badly.”

Ryan breathed an internal sigh of relief; he had, it seemed, managed to diffuse the situation, at least for the time being, but he was going to have to be more careful with Hawkins in the future.

“I wouldn’t worry about her,” Ryan said soothingly. “And you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, either. This would be an unbearable situation for anyone. But you have to understand, sometimes we need to ask difficult questions like that. They may not be polite, but they will help us to find Alex.”

Pauling took a deep breath and raised his head from his hands, his face was streaked with tears.

“I do understand,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to overreact that way, but ever since I found that note, I have just been out of my mind. Alex… he’s my whole world. After his mother died… he was really all I had. I just don’t know what I would have done without him. He was just a little baby, a newborn, but he was all that held me together when Juliana died. I don’t think I’ll survive without him.”

Ryan didn’t know what to say, he could see the depth of the man’s grief and it was almost overwhelming. He placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, but the gesture seemed hollow. He’d never felt so powerless. Suddenly, Hawkins’s voice broke the despairing silence,

“Mr. Pauling?”

Pauling rose to his feet slowly, as if his grief were physically weighing him down. He returned to the doorway and Ryan followed behind him.

“Yes, Agent?” he asked wearily.

“Do you know what this is?” Hawkins slid a finger of her glove through a greasy, slick spot on one of the bedposts.

Pauling looked at it for a moment, furrowing his brow, trying to remember.

“Oh, that must be from last night,” he said at last. “The fundraiser I was at had one of those old-fashioned popcorn machines, and I brought some back for Alex. He must have spilled some butter. Does it matter?”

“It just helps me form a chronology of events.”

“How?”

Hawkins, it seemed, had a certain weakness for her craft. Ryan had noticed already that, though she rarely spoke unprompted, when people showed interest in her deductions, she seemed willing to walk them through it.

“Well, you can see if you look at the smear that someone put their hand in it. You can also see from the pattern in the grease that that someone was wearing fine-grained leather gloves.”

“Gloves?” Pauling sounded surprised.

“I assume that neither you, nor your son, were wearing gloves in his bedroom last night.”

“No, of course not.”

“Then we can conclude that it was probably the man who took your son. Now, gloves explain why we didn’t find any fingerprints on the ransom note. Gloves do have a texture and a pattern, like fingerprints, but they lack the natural oils of our hands and thus, usually don’t leave prints. But in this case, the oil on the bedpost means that we can see prints of the glove, which tells us where he went and what he touched. You can see a glove print on the note placed on the pillow,” Hawkins pointed to a smudge in the corner. “Then you can see the slight smears of oil on the sheets of the bed, and on the windowsill, here.”

Pauling followed her finger intently as she indicated where the prints had been developed by the crime scene technicians.

“It shows us his movements, and it may show us something else.”

“What?” Pauling asked.

“Do you have a ladder?” Hawkins asked, ignoring his question.

“I think that there is one in the gardener’s shed.”

“Let’s go, then. I’m done here.”