Angela hasn't come to spy. In fact, she scowls murderously when she spots Maury Parkman's boy, and his bizarre little family, at a table less than twenty feet away. This is her swanky little Italian place, dammit, where they make dirty martinis the way they're supposed to be made. A Parkman in this space offends her almost as much as one inside her head.

Worse still she recognizes his Indian companion as the grubby cab driver who had once delivered the corpse of her beloved Peter. Judging by the syrupy smiles they're together, and it's their shared daughter who bounces in the seat between them. The younger Parkman leans in, puts his arm around the girl's chair, rests his hand affectionately on the Indian's back. At one point they clink glasses, and it galls Angela to realize they're here to celebrate Matthew's promotion; not a proud achievement when you simply rip what you need out of defenseless minds.

Trash begets trash.

Oh, Maury's boy might be dressed in a dark suit -- and he might wear a policeman's badge and call himself righteous -- but he's still his father's son. Maury was always low class, a grifting Jewish sleaze who won the evolutionary lottery. And like his father Matthew reaches well beyond his worth. Who was violated in order for the younger Parkman to pay for this family date, to dress up his cab driver in an expensive suit, to part the little girl from her true family?

Angela remembers when Maury, too, pretended to be a family man: she'd even seen him laughingly help little Matty twirl pasta into a spoon the way the little girl does now. Matthew might have more exotic tastes than his father -- indeed, Angela herself can appreciate the Indian's delicately cut features -- but his true colors will not stay hidden forever.

She wonders if the Company even need bother breaking up this little family before Matthew grows tired of them first.

She wonders, because Bobby Bishop's called her recently. He still keeps in touch, even thirty years on. Angela can still hear the tendrils of hope in his voice, the impotent resentment that she had preferred Arthur -- and Kaito -- and frankly Victoria --- to his snot-nosed infatuation. Bobby's never completely let it go, even after finding some poor woman who could stand to fuck him and bear him a child, and he still lets Angela know from time to time what he's doing with the Company. As if she'll suddenly go weak-kneed at his rugged leadership, or bestow Arthur's posthumous approval. Angela doles out just enough interest to keep a valuable source of information from drying up.

Lately, Bobby's begun planning to take back the tracking system.

The system's fathers will oppose him, of course. But the cab driver need not be conscious for his blood to be harvested, and Maury's son... well, no one wants to relive that particular chapter in Company history. Three birds, one stone.

Bobby's planning well; Arthur would approve, particularly how it mirrors the uglier Parkman tendencies. If Maury's boy decides to wash his hands of a tiresome child, that can easily be arranged. And if he wants to start playing in other people's dreams, his cab driver can be made to lie comatose forever. There's a karmic symmetry to this, she thinks. Her lips curl at the rim of her martini glass.

Angela suddenly realizes she is being watched.

Not watched. Burned by the younger Parkman's dark eyes. Naturally he's picked her out across the restaurant, being so familiar with her private thoughts. Angela draws herself up frostily, challenging him, daring little Matty to show her how far he's come.

But he does nothing, says nothing, gives not one hint to his sweetly oblivious family that anything is wrong. And he gives no signal that he is in Angela's head; he doesn't need to. Matthew needs only tighten his arm around the child, curl his fingers possessively at the Indian's sleeve, let his eyes turn implacably cold, to let her know he will be his father's son if pushed.

It passes quickly, but the message is clear. One look at them, and Angela Petrelli knows she wants no part in the fight Bobby Bishop's about to pick.