Disclaimer: See chapter 1

A/N: Thanks to everyone for the reviews and PMs, they are much appreciated.

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Manuel Ortega, Manny to everyone who knew him, dumped a package of coffee into the filter and started a new pot brewing for the lunchtime rush. 'Manny's Grill' was a favorite hangout of the local cops and paramedics as it was only a few blocks from both the precinct and the fire hall.

As if on cue, the coffee began to drip into the pot just as the door opened to admit three uniformed officers. "Hey Manny," they called and waved as they settled into one of the many booths upholstered in a navy blue vinyl on either side of a table topped in a laminate that, as the sun shone brightly through the windows, resembled a shiny wood finish.

"Hey guys," Manny replied as he grabbed the other coffee pot and headed for their table. Les Hermanson, Jeff Grant and Kenny Jaworski turned their mugs upright feasting on the aroma of the brew as Manny approached. "So what's new today fellas? The feds still here?"

"Yeah, not that they're doing any good," Les said. "They gave us this profile yesterday that says we got a serial killer trying to get rid of drunk drivers."

"I say more power to him." Kenny raised his mug.

The door to the café opened again and Hotch, followed by the rest of the team, entered the establishment and found a round table that seated six in the middle of the room. The metal chairs had seats and backs upholstered in the same navy blue as the booths while the metal table was topped with the same wood like laminate.

"Don't look now," Jeff whispered, "but speak of the devil."

Manny turned his head to get a glimpse of the much talked about FBI agents. He was at first struck by the two beautiful women, one blonde in a grey suit with a yellow tank, and one brunette in a black suit with a red turtleneck. One of the men, in a black suit with a head of neatly trimmed dark hair, walked with the bearing of someone in charge although his demeanor looked more like that of a funeral director. An older man in a sports jacket and jeans seemed to emit an aura of relaxed elegance. Something about him was familiar to Manny but he couldn't quite place what it was. Then there was a bald black guy in a tee shirt and blue jeans with tattoos who looked more like a thug than an FBI agent. The last was a young guy with longish brown hair. Didn't the bureau have rules about that sort of thing? He wore cords, a jacket and a sweater vest carrying some kind of satchel over his shoulder. So, he thought, this was the great profiling team that was going to find a serial killer who, according to the cops he talked to, didn't even exist.

"The usual guys?" Manny asked and the men nodded. He walked to the counter, grabbed some menus and headed for his newest customers. "Coffee?" he said as he distributed the menus.

"Yes please," the man in the black suit said as the group turned over their mugs.

"Laura will be with you shortly," Manny told them and, after filling their cups and carrying on to fill the cup of a customer who'd just taken booth six, headed back to the counter.

The team opened the menus and began to peruse the selections. How many breakfasts, lunches and dinners had they ordered from restaurants in the years they'd been together JJ wondered? Too many to count. She smirked to herself. That probably wasn't true. Reid would likely know if she asked him.

A middle aged woman with blond hair pulled off her face and dark at the roots approached the table pulling a small pad from the pocket of her black skirt and a pen from behind her right ear. Smiling at the team, she asked, "What can I get for you folks today?"

The brunette woman was laughing at something the black man had said. "Something hot and spicy for hot stuff here," she said, slapping the man on the shoulder good naturedly.

"Manny has a great pork or chicken sandwich," she suggested. "The meat's been marinated in adobo sauce. Manny uses habanero peppers; they're quite hot," she added responding literally to the brunette's remark.

"That sounds like just what you need Morgan," the blonde interjected. "Habaneros are like the hottest peppers."

"Technically, that's not true," the younger man with the longish brown hair interjected. "The hottest chili pepper is the bhut jolokia from Assam, India. It registers at one million Scoville heat units unlike the habanero, that while still quite hot, normally registers only about 400,000."

Laura seemed taken aback by the comment but noticed that everyone else in the group seemed unfazed by the fact that this man knew so much about peppers. Maybe he did a lot of cooking in his off time. Maybe he wasn't very good at it because judging by his slim frame, she thought, he didn't eat much of it. She took their orders, retrieved their menus and headed for the kitchen.

The door opened again and two paramedics came into the café, talking as they entered. "…the way that Crosby snuck that puck behind Miller. Man I was pissed." Mike LeDuc told his partner.

"You mighta been pissed but I was worried that we were gonna be called out because somebody'd had a friggin' heart attack and we'd be stuck doin' CPR," Gary Stanwick replied. "At least we don't have to worry about it for four years."

"Mikey," Kenny called from his seat. "Get over it already."

"Hey, don't talk Jaworski. You caught that serial yet?"

Kenny simply shook his head.

Mike stopped by the cops' table and said in a rather poor impression of Tommy Lee Jones, "What I want from each and every one of you is a hard target search of every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse and doghouse in the area." He then laughed and sat with his partner in the booth behind the three police officers.

"Maybe you shouldn't hurry." Mike said as he turned his head towards Kenny Jaworski. "It would mean less mangled bodies for us to try to save," he finished as Manny approached with the coffee pot.

Morgan made a move to stand up but was stopped by Rossi's hand on his arm and Hotch shaking his head.

The customer in booth six, who had a good view of the cops, the paramedics and the profilers, smirked, amused by the scene that was playing out in the restaurant. A playwright couldn't have written it better.