The stirring sounds of the soundtrack to Crimson Tide filled Kateri's ears as her feet pounded down the pavement of Belmont. With time-change—a pox on that invention—the sun was only now rising, even though it was getting close to 7am. What light there was filtered through the handful of trees, casting shadows across the pavement and the brownstones that lined many streets of the older neighborhood in the Bronx.

Kateri preferred to go running every morning before the city got the most bustling and crowded. While the streets of the primarily residential neighborhood were not that busy quite yet, the owners of local family-owned businesses and restaurants were already up and working, getting ready for another busy day in the "Little Italy of the Bronx." The delicious smell of sweets and the scent of freshly ground coffee were already starting to fill the air, drifting from open doors letting in the crisp morning air.

Kateri wound down her run around 8am, and after cooling down and stretching, she headed for her favorite little coffee/pastry shop. It had been owned by the same Italian-American family for over 80 years, being passed down from generation to generation over the years. They technically did not open until 9am on Saturdays but were always happy to feed her coffee and a fresh bagel and talk while they made the store ready to open. Kateri usually went by the shop most mornings after her runs, if she were not off on a case.

Lorenzo, the grandson of the original owner and now the owner himself, was in the front sweeping, when Kateri appeared outside. He was an older man, probably in his 60s, with a friendly, craggy face and salt-pepper hair. He smiled widely and, putting aside his broom, hurried to the door.

Ernesta must be in the back with their workers.

"Buongiorno, my dear," Lorenzo said, opening the door and motioning her in, "Come in, come in."

"Grazie," replied Kateri, gratefully stepping inside. She only knew a handful of Italian words, and it was all due to this couple. "How are you today?"

"We are very well. Business has been very good this week," Lorenzo replied, bustling behind the counter and calling for his wife. "Your usual?"

"Yes, please," Kateri replied, slipping into one of the tall seats at the counter and checking her phone quickly out of habit. She kept her phone on vibrate in one of the tightest pockets in her pants, but when she was running, she still did not always feel it when it went off.

No calls. Yay. No more scum bags have done bad enough sleaze-ball worthy things to give us another hunt yet, though it's still early.

About ten days had passed since the end of the hunt for Thomas Gilman, a family annihilator who had slit his own children's throats and killed their mother, slitting her throat and then shooting her for good measure. After a nearly week-long hunt with too much collateral damage, the team had finally caught up with him in East Eden, and the fugitive had been captured—with the loss of one arm—though it had been a close call for Jess.

There had been training and paperwork—paperwork is like death and taxes, always hated, always present—since that hunt, but unusually there had been a longer than usual break between hunts. Not that I'm complaining. Not in the slightest!

Ernesta appeared out of the back. There was a smudge of flour in her hair, and her lined face was smiling. Grey hair was pulled back in a neat bun and covered in a hair net. "Buongiorno, Kateri."

Kateri smiled back. "Buongiorno."

Ernesta's smile widened, and her eyes twinkled. "Your pronunciation is better, but it still needs some work."

Kateri laughed, her smile fond. She reminds me of Mother. Something about the lilt in her voice and the smell of spices. Maybe the laugh, too. "I shall attempt to rectify that."

Her own mother had died in the same car accident that had killed her father in 1995. Kateri had only been about eight years old when her parents died, and her memories of them were dim. Most of what she knew or remembered about them came more from pictures and family stories than actual memories.

Kateri had moved to Belmont about three years earlier, after she had joined Jess' team. Her new apartment was only fifteen miles from HQ and within running distance of some of her old Bronx haunts. She had met Lorenzo and Ernesta at church (the three went to the same parish). The first time Ernesta had introduced herself, something about her had triggered faint memories of Kateri's mother, and the agent had been fond of the couple ever since. The bakery, church, and her volunteering through the church had become Kateri's main links to life outside of work. Granted, she also did spend a considerable amount of time off-duty with her teammates.

We're basically one big happy family.

Finally, a work-life balance.

Isn't the camp counsellor pleased? Kateri was not fond of therapists or shrinks she periodically had to see, and she was even less fond of admitting when they were right.

Lorenzo set a steaming cup of coffee and a freshly baked bagel in front of her. Kateri reached for the money she had put in her pocket for the express purpose of paying for her breakfast, but as happened several times a week, Lorenzo waved away the offer of payment and admonished her to eat before it went cold.

Kateri stayed at the bakery until it opened for the day at 9am, and then as the sign was switched from closed to open, she started to think about what to do next.

Head home for a shower.

Then go shopping or do laundry and clean the house and go shopping later?

Hmmmmmm...

Any plans for the day were derailed when her phone buzzed once with an incoming text. Kateri pulled her phone out and thumbed it open. It was a group text from Jess: they had a case.

Kateri took the last sip of her coffee, which had started to grow cold, and rose. "Work. I've gotta run. Thanks as always."

"Of course," replied Ernesta, who had just finished helping a customer at the register. "Be safe."

"I'll do my best, as always," Kateri replied, slipping on her coat, "but say a prayer for me at mass tomorrow."

I do my best, but disasters happen anyway. I certainly have the scars to prove it, and so do the others.

"I always do," the other woman replied.

Because she had been out when the message arrived and had to go home to get her go-bag and her truck, Kateri was one of the last to arrive at HQ. Kenny had just arrived also and was just climbing from his jeep, when Kateri parked a few spaces down.

"Morning, Kat," he hollered amid banging noises as he went looking for something in the somewhat organized chaos that was his trunk.

"Morning, Kenny," Kateri replied, locking her car and heading toward the door into the team's muster room. "I see we're both running late today."

"I was out doing laundry," Kenny replied. "The one in my apartment's busted. What's your excuse?"

"I was out in Little Italy getting breakfast."

I hope I didn't forget anything. Go-bag was already packed, and I checked it the other day. Gun, check. Duh! Back-up gun, check. Boot knife, check. Gauze roll, check….

"Ah, fun!" With a few long strides, Kenny caught up to her and got the door for her.

"Thanks."

The rest of the team had already arrived and were in the process of finishing gathering supplies. Friendly greetings were exchanged by all along with a few grumbles about the loss of Saturday plans. She had had no important plans to disrupt—cleaning and shopping had been her only tasks for the day—but Kateri was glad to have some company, though for any other reasons besides "some low-life did something awful again" would have been preferable.

A few minutes after Kateri and Kenny arrived, one of Hana's computers made a dinging sound, and the tech specialist threw the most-wanted poster for the team's latest fugitive up onto the boards. A minute after that, SAC Castille arrived.

Their fugitive was Justin Brock, a doctor with military training who was wanted for First Degree Murder and Unlawful Flight to Avoid Persecution.

Military training, ugh.

A doc? So much for the Hippocratic oath!

"Has ties to at least one known gang," Kateri noticed with interest. She was glad for a case with gang ties. That meant she would be of more use to the team.

"The Criminal Investigation Division put Dr. Brock on the Most Wanted List this morning. The headlines are 'Two Homicides and a Fugitive with the Resources and Means to Flee the Jurisdiction,'" said Castille, beginning the briefing.

"Not to mention the medical skills to set himself up in a foreign country," added Jess, handing over a mug of coffee to the SAC.

Kateri stared at the screen, fingers drumming on her chin. If he knows the local language sure. With access to cash, no compunctions or morals, and med skills, he could also set himself up with basically any major street gang or crime family in this country, too.

"And the unlawful flight warrant should be here any minute. In terms of the number of fugitives who made our Most Wanted List," Castille continued, her steps taking her toward the door out to the parking garage, "I did not check where Brock stands."

"He's number 524 on the hit parade," Hana put in, rising from her desk and making for the back of the room to get something.

"But who's counting?" joked Kenny.

"Well, I look forward to this Task Force putting him on this list," concluded Castille, motioning toward the glass case next to the door which contained the posters of the 29 fugitives the team had itself put away.

Castille departed, and Jess turned to look at the screens. Kenny had headed for the 'kitchen' area and was making himself something, while Hana had returned to her desk and finished giving the team the run-down of what was known so far about Brock and the case.

"Brock found his wife in the kitchen shot twice by the intruder. He then finished her off with the intruder's gun," said Hana.

Kateri shook her head and made a face. Talk about messed up. Gives a new meaning until 'death do us part.' Sheesh!

"But get this," Hana continued, "Mrs. Brock managed to call 911 on her cell. The operator heard her identify Brock before he shot her."

"Bummer for Brock!" said Kenny, which made Kateri make a half-muffled snort of laughter from where she was pulling a couple final things from her locker and trying to not get in her partner's way as he packed, too.

Kateri had thought she was fully packed and ready to leave … until she saw the notice about Brock having gang ties. Depending on what trees exactly she might need to start shaking, her methods for getting that info differed. Thus, a make-up bag with a few extra goodies was added to her duffle bag along with an extra jacket and a small case with two pairs of fake glasses.

It's amazing how much different you can look with just a few small touches.

"When the Newburgh cops turned up fifteen minutes later, Brock was gone, and the family safe was cleaned out."

"So, tell me about the intruder," Jess asked, when Hana stopped.

"The late Glenn Eriks. Priors for burglary and weapons possession. Associated with a local biker gang."

Kateri had finished packing her extras and maneuvered around her partner to get close enough to the screens to see the new info Hana had flicked up. The biker gang this dude was associated with was the Forsaken Sons.

Forsaken Sons. Forsaken Sons. Kateri's fingers went back to drumming on her chin. Biker gangs aren't my thing, but I know that name. Why do I know them?

Jess looked over his shoulder at Kateri. "Forsaken Sons, do you know them, Kat?"

She nodded and then made a face and added a so-so gesture with one hand, "Know of them, boss, more than know them. Biker gangs weren't exactly my thing, but I know this one for some reason, though I can't remember why. I should have some trees that I can shake."

"Good. Any info you can get could be helpful," Jess replied and turned back to Hana. "And Brock's family?"

"Step-daughter. This was a second marriage for him. Divorced his first wife twelve years ago."

"Where are we on the UFAT warrant?" asked Jess, walking around the table and back toward the screens.

"Just got in," replied Clinton's voice from straight behind Kateri. She jumped … just slightly … and sidestepped with an apologetic smile to let her partner past. "We're good to go."

The team started straggling out toward the cars and getting their gear stowed. Jess and Barnes were the last two out, and as they exited, Jess began parceling out assignments.

"We're looking for girlfriends, boyfriends, anyone with a personal or business hook with Brock. Hana, deep dive on background, social media, sites for naughty husbands. CROSBY …"

Kateri bit her lip to keep from laughing at the way Kenny's head snapped around with a 'who me' look in his eyes.

"If you could put that protein bar down long enough…"

"Hey, I'm a growing boy," Kenny play-protested.

"Did you say you have a growing b**t?" asked Hana, as usual taking the chance to playfully snip at her usual snark companion. Her words gained her a beaming smile and an eye roll.

"Check Brock's phone records," Jess continued, "texts, emails. Clinton, malpractice suits, financials, side-business. Kat, look into this connection with the Forsaken Sons. I want to know what Brock's done and who's he done it with. Barnes and I'll start with the step-daughter." Jess closed the car-door with a thud, drawing back everyone's attention when they had started turning toward their own cars, "Don't underestimate this fugitive. He might look like a foot doctor who's in over his head, but he got the drop on an ex-felon and executed his wife in cold blood. Skill and depravity. We have to consider him capable of anything."

"So," said Clinton, once they were on the road, "I have a number of calls I need to make, but I can do them from anywhere. Where do you need to go to start shaking trees?"

"Back to the Bronx," Kateri replied. "Biker gangs aren't my thing. Street gangs and mob families are, so I'll start with my usual sources and see if they know anything. If they don't, then I'll get creative."

"Claremont Park as usual?"

Kateri nodded, realized that her partner probably wouldn't see the gesture since he's actually focused on the road in front of him like he should be, and added verbally, "Yes, please."

Clinton knew the route well by now—they'd certainly taken it often enough over the last couple of years—and headed north from HQ up FDR Drive to the Willis Avenue Bridge. Once they were in the West Bronx, it was a short jaunt up 87 from the bridge until you got to 95 opposite Washington Heights. He got off at Webster Avenue and stopped in the McDonalds parking lot across from Claremont Park.

"Do you want me to come with you?" asked Clinton, once the car was parked.

"You ask me this every time," replied Kateri, unbuckling, a crinkle of amusement around her dark eyes. "You have calls to make, and Billy will be more willing to talk without company. I'm safe here."

Clinton shook his head, looking skeptical. "And you give me the same answer every time, and I'm still not convinced or happy about you not having back-up."

"Billy would have the hides of anyone who hurts me, and I'm not exactly walking in there with my eyes closed. He's helped me a lot over the years, but it doesn't mean I trust him one whit."

"He might have their hides, but you might still be dead. Just be careful, kid," he said, his voice softening slightly. "I'll be here if you need me."

"Always do my best," replied Kateri. She climbed from the car and, with a quick wave good-bye, crossed the parking lot with long strides. Finding an opening in the traffic, she bolted across Clay Avenue and then headed south toward the basketball court, burying her hands in her coat pockets and tucking her chin into the scarf wrapped around her neck.

At least I remembered a warmer jacket this time. Considering the fact that the temperature was currently below 40 with a nice gusty wind, Kateri had forgone her usual leather jacket for a thicker lined coat that actually had a hood.

Despite the chill of the morning, the basketball court was occupied by a mix of people, and a vigorous, fast-paced game was ongoing. Some of the players looked more like prep-school boys, while others would have been prime targets for racist cops. Kateri scanned the crowd of players, looking for faces she recognized. Finally, she spotted a familiar face. Off to one side was standing a tall, well put-together black man, who was alternating shouting instruction and imprecations towards the players. After a minute, he looked up and caught sight of Kateri, standing by the entrance to the court. He nodded. A few moments later a teenager was dashing off the court and up the street.

Now I wait. My job involves a lot more waiting than most people probably think the FBI do. Life isn't like one of those cop shows on TV.

Kateri turned away from the court and headed back toward the steps that led up from the street. She took a seat and prepared to wait. The runner was sent, so Billy would either be there soon or one of his associates would come if he was too busy to talk with her.

Her wait was unusually long.

It was nearly half-an-hour before a tall Hispanic man came striding up the street, the teenager who had been dispatched from the basketball game to go find him trotting to keep up. A deep scar bisected the left side of the man's face, giving him a very severe appearance, and he had an air about him that screamed danger.

Here we go. Finally get this show on the road.

As usual Kateri was both somewhat pleased and much more discomfited to need to come to Billy for help. As had been alluded to during the Gilman case not that long before, Billy—known to the cops as Billy "the Viper" Suarez—was the reason that Kateri knew and had experienced what she called "the Little Brother Complex" before.

On one side, Billy Suarez was the long-time leader of the Underground Crew, a vicious street gang that controlled a large chunk of the West Bronx. He was a quick and dirty streetfighter, who was ruthless and cruel with any who crossed him. Drug running, weapons trafficking, auto theft, you name it, the Crew was involved with it, except for sex trafficking. Large amounts of money gained from those operations were then funneled back into the community.

Mobster with the heart of gold is a thing of TV, but there is occasionally some honor among thieves.

Pablo Escobar, anyone?

On the other side, Billy was one of Kateri's childhood friends, playmates, and protectors. He had grown up in the West Bronx, not far from the territory he now controlled. After her parents died, Kateri had been placed in a foster home in the same area, and the two had met, when Billy had protected her from a school bully who had taken offense to Kateri's skin-color and trouble with languages.

Try growing up in a trilingual household, and you'd mess up which you answered in, too.

Kateri had reminded Billy of his own sister, so he had said, and had been promptly taken under the older boy's wing. He had already been gaining a reputation by that point, and after that nobody dared touch her. She'd helped him and some others with their homework and widened her circle of 'friends' among the somewhat less than reputable denizens of the local neighborhood, 'friendships' that would later become useful in her later career.

It sounds clichéd, but even the worst of people have to grow up with someone.

It's rare that they're completely isolated.

Billy knew Kateri was an FBI agent, and she had told him point-blank multiple times that if he or any of his minions did anything illegal in her presence, she would arrest him or them. All he did was laugh and pat me on the head. Despite her being a "Feebie," Billy still had a soft-spot for her and kept her under his protection. Anyone of his local gang who touched her was dead meat. I still might be dead, but I wouldn't be the only one. And as long as any information she wanted wouldn't blow back on him personally or on the Crew, Billy was always happy to spill the beans on any other local crews, even the one or two nominally connected to the Crew.

"Morning, chica," Billy said. He waved off his side-kick and took a seat on the steps beside Kateri.

"Mornin', Billy," Kateri replied. As grateful as I am for his help when we were kids, knowing the horrid things his gang has done and needing his help makes me want to take a shower. Whenever there was finally enough evidence to take Billy down, part of her hoped to be the one to snap on the cuffs.

"So, whatcha need this fine morning?" Billy asked, leaning back so that he was sprawled across the steps.

Kateri pulled her phone out and opened a picture of Dr. Brock. She tilted her phone so Billy could see. "I don't suppose you know him or know of him."

Billy cocked his head, studied the picture for a few seconds, and then shook his head. "Nahh. Don't know him or of him. Looks like a do-gooder, pansy, though."

One eyebrow crawled its way toward her headline. "You really don't know, or you know but don't want to talk."

"The former," replied Billy with an air of vague affront.

Kateri rolled her eyes and swiped left on her screen until she came up with a picture of Glenn Eriks. "Didn't figure you would, but thought I'd ask just in case. Know this guy?"

This look took only a few seconds also, but this time Billy's reaction was entirely the opposite. "Yeaaahhh, I know him," he growled, "Forsaken Sons thug. Why?"

"Because," Kateri replied, swiping back to the doc's picture, "your do-gooder, pansy got the drop on and murdered your thug here."

Billy raised an eyebrow. He suddenly looked interested, instead of bored. "Now you're talkin'. What do you want to know?"

"Does the Crew have a connection to the Forsaken Sons?"

Billy shook his head. "Our territories aren't anywhere close enough for that, but they're trouble." Interesting. Billy has almost no compunctions, so if he says they're trouble, insert shudder here.

"And by nowhere close, you mean?" Kateri asked. The Underground Crew was primarily just a Bronx gang, but under Billy's leadership, the Crew had been gaining in power steadily for years. She was quite sure they had contacts and did work well outside New York City.

"As in mid-state. Nowhere close."

"And yet you know about them?"

"Don't ya know, chica, I have connections," Billy replied with a smile that was more than half-smirk.

Kateri rolled her eyes. "So the Forsaken Sons and the Underground Crew have no connections, but you really don't like each other anyway. What's the word on the street? I'm sure you have heard something…"

A nod.

"Anything interesting?" Kateri asked, feeling like rolling her eyes again. Sometimes Billy felt helpful and was willing to spill whatever he knew without prompting. Other times, getting info out of him was like pulling teeth.

Why would a Forsaken Sons thug be at the house of a foot doctor with unknown gang ties?

"I don't know a lot," Billy cautioned, "but word is that they've been moving a lot of dope recently. A lot. They've always been big on the drug scene, but they've been moving more recently, comin' up in the world. … Some might or might not have ended up in the city."

The web deepens.

Kateri raised an eyebrow. "What kind of dope?"

"The good stuff."

Coming from a Crew member, 'the good stuff' could mean almost anything but weed or the stuff that is likely to kill you as give you a trip if you touch it.

"Any idea who their supplier is for that much dope?"

Billy shook his head. "Must be someone good."

Like a doctor?

Kateri spent a while longer trying to wrangle any helpful intel out of her old 'friend' before finally admitting she probably had about as much as she was going to get for the day.

"You'll give me a call if you hear anything more?" she asked, rising from the cold ground and shaking the pins and needles from the foot that had gone to sleep.

Billy nodded, rising also. "Sure, chica. I hear somethin' useful. I'll call you."

Kateri and Billy parted ways, and Kateri returned to the McDonald's parking lot and her partner's car. Clinton was still on the phone, but he looked up when he saw her approaching. She gave him a smile, a thumbs-up and then jerked the same thumb toward the McDonald's and raised an eyebrow. All that was to be interpreted, "Success. All's good. I'm going to McDonald's. Want something?" Clinton shook his head.

Kateri used the bathroom quickly, bought some coffee (as much to warm her hands as to drink), and returned to the car. Clinton had just finished a call, when she climbed inside the wonderfully warm car and gave an unintentional dramatic shiver.

"Anything helpful?" Clinton asked, his attention half on scribbling notes on a pad of paper balanced on one leg. His laptop was balanced on the other leg.

"Billy knows Eriks, but not Brock. The Crew doesn't do anything with the Forsaken Sons, but Billy's not a fan. The Forsaken Sons' territory is primarily mid-state, nowhere close to here, but they have a wide sphere of influence that stretches down to the city. They are big on the drug scene and have been for years, but especially recently, they have been moving a lot of stuff, progressively more openly. Billy didn't specify what kind of drugs, only said 'the good stuff.'"

Clinton made a non-committal sound of interest, as he finished writing something.

"Well, I just spent the last ninety minutes on the phone with the medical board and the county clerk's office, and there have been no malpractice suits or complaints to the board about Brock. He's as clean as a whistle from that angle, but I've got more checking to do."

"Might look clean as a whistle, but something is rotten about this guy," noted Kateri.

Whatever reply Clinton might have made was cut off by his phone buzzing with an incoming text.

"It's Jess," he said. "They want us in Newburgh."

"I'll drive. You can keep working. I might shake some more trees later, but I have all the information I can get quickly for now."

The two quickly bought some food from McDonald's to eat in the car, since it was already noon, and then got on the road. Fighting afternoon traffic, it was another hour-and-a-half before Clinton and Kateri arrived at Dr. Brock's clinic. They were the last to arrive, but the trip had at least been useful, allowing Clinton to check Brock's finances and look for any side business.

Zilch to the latter, and clean as a bell to the former. This guy's almost too squeaky clean.

Dr. Brock's clinic was swarming with cops, assorted other FBI agents, and the rest of the team. Jess and Barnes met them outside and led the way toward where Hana and Kenny were working.

"His legal and financial records are clean as a whistle. No complaints with the medical board," Clinton announced, summarizing the past three hours of phone calls and teeth pulling.

Jess looked over at Kateri. She nodded, indicating that she had learned some useful stuff, but then mouthed "not here."

"And nothin' popped on his phone records," added Kenny, who was leaning on the receptionist's desk studying his tablet, "texts, emails. They'd put my grandma to sleep."

How very you of you to say that.

"His social media put me to sleep," inserted Hana, who was behind the desk doing fancy tech things to the clinic's computers and files. "I've never seen so many pictures of shrimp cocktails."

Definitely how very you of you to say that. Kateri bit her lip to keep from snickering.

"Bottom line," Kenny concluded, "there's no sign he was going to step out on his wife."

"But I don't see how he'd have time," noted Hana wryly. "He was seeing 50 to 70 patients a day."

"A day?" asked Kateri incredulously. I cannot have heard you right. 8-hour work day. That's like 6 to 9 patients an hour. How do you even treat someone in 10 minutes or less or even have time to stop to rest, eat, or use the bathroom?

Hana nodded, adding, "There must be a lot of bunions in Newburgh."

What is a bunion exactly? Do I want to know?

Clinton had gone over to speak with the nurse, and the rest of the team came over to join the conversation.

"This is Ms. Augustin, Brock's nurse."

Jess introduced the rest of the team. "Thanks for coming in. This must be a shock for you."

The hallway was narrow, and the entrance from the reception area was small, Clinton, Jess, and the nurse taking up most of the space. Kenny had gone down the hall a few yards to look at the pictures plastered over one wall, so Kateri drifted down the hall to see what had caught his attention: pictures of Brock in uniform and medical awards/certificates.

Doesn't seem especially noteworthy to me.

"Yes, very much." From a quick glance, Kateri agreed that the nurse seemed genuinely shaken.

"Have you been with him long?" asked Barnes.

"Since he opened the clinic four years ago," Ms. Augustin replied.

"We need to see Dr. Brock's office," instructed Barnes, and the nurse turned to lead the three down the hallway.

"He was a two-striper in the 12th Infantry," Kenny noted, his gaze fixed firmly on the pictures of Brock in uniform. He and Kateri stepped back to let the nurse and their teammates pass. "My regiment. Served in Bosnia."

"He is very proud of his service," the nurse replied, opening Brock's office door.

Never would have known it. Don't slip on my dripping sarcasm.

"We noticed," Barnes added ironically, as the team filed in behind her.

Brock's office was small with several large pieces of furniture taking up much of the floor space. More pictures of Brock in uniform were plastered over the large wall behind his desk, and a Bronze Star was set in a prominent position on the desk itself. With six people in the room, the space began to get somewhat claustrophobically small, so Kateri caught her partner's eye, made a face, and then took up a position by the doorway, while the others searched.

Never let it be said that the team was not thorough. Every inch of Brock's office was searched. The files on his desk were looked through. Things that had fallen on the floor were examined, and every drawer was searched.

"What was in this drawer?" Jess asked, gesturing toward the desk, as Barnes crouched down to retrieve a crumpled piece of something.

"Cash," Ms. Augustin replied. "A lot of his patients paid in cash."

The crumped piece of something in Barnes' hands was revealed to be cash. What denomination it was, Kateri couldn't make out.

"And Dr. Brock kept it all in his office?" Barnes asked, slight puzzlement on her face.

"They paid him directly," the nurse replied, crossing her arms across her chest. She now seemed somewhat uncomfortable. "He liked to do his own bookkeeping. It's not my area."

Kateri was starting to get a hinky feeling. And that didn't seem the slightest bit unusual to you?

Jess and Barnes exchanged pointed looks, as Clinton asked, pointing to a cabinet behind the desk, "What's in here?"

"Prescription pads," the nurse replied, fidgeting with her hands.

Are you nervous because your office is full of FBI agents and your boss murdered two people, or is there something you don't want us to know?

"Is there a key?" Clinton asked, holding out one hand for the key, which the nurse brought him.

Kateri took a step further into the office so she could better see what was going on. I've got a bad feeling about this. The door was unlocked and opened, and the shelves that were supposed to be full of prescription pads were empty, entirely empty.

"I don't understand. There were at least a hundred pads in there two days ago," the nurse said.

I've got a feeling where this is going.

Biker gang moving lots of drugs.

Doctor with no compunctions and lots of missing pads.

Anyone see a connection here besides me?

Like he had read her mind, Jess noted, looking up from the patient files he had been perusing, "None of these files have any medical histories, no blood work, no X-Rays, no MRIs. What exactly did Dr. Brock do for his patients?"

"He treated them. They presented with ankle pain, foot pain."

Kateri sighed and pinched the bridge of her noise in a rare, open display of annoyance.

And you weren't suspicious?

This has as many red flags as a bull baiting competition.

"And he treated them without any tests? Or maybe it didn't matter. He just wrote 'em a prescription for painkillers." Jess was not pleased.

The nurse got a deer-in-the-headlights look on her face.

Opioids would certainly fall under the good stuff in Billy's definition.

"Is that what this was, Ms. Augustin?" Jess asked. "An opioid pill-mill?"

"I don't know," the nurse shook her head, eyes wide and panicked. "I just did what Dr. Brock told me."

Ah, the old 'I was just following orders' defense. Like that's worked so well in the past for a lot of people. You have a conscious. Use it, for heaven's sake.

Again, the agents exchanged pointed looks.

"And what was his fee for writing a script?" asked Jess.

"His basic consultation was 300 dollars."

50 to 70 patients a day. 300 bucks a patient. Goodness gracious, that's a lot of money.

"Just for writing his name?" put in Barnes.

"Maybe he thinks he can bankroll his run by selling 'scripts?" wondered Clinton, glancing over at his partner.

Kateri made an agreeing face and nodded. Definitely could be. With what Billy coughed up, the pieces are falling into place now. Brock could definitely bankroll himself doing that and set himself up most anywhere and have a near-automatic in with the local gang/mob/lowlife group of the area.

Jess picked up Brock's Bronze Star and studied it for a long moment. "Let's start with his most loyal patients."

Records in hand of Brock's most common previous patients, the team regathered in the parking lot. The other agents and cops were far enough away that the team could talk without being overheard.

"What did your contacts have to say?" Jess asked.

"Just went to see Billy. He usually has information he knows and is willing to cough up, and my other contacts take longer to get to."

"He have anything useful?"

"He knows of Eriks, but not Brock," replied Kateri, unzipping her jacket. The sun had come out fully, and the temps had warmed up in the last several hours. "The Underground Crew does not do anything with the Forsaken Sons, and Billy is definitely not a fan, so he was happy to share what he knew. According to the word on the street, the Forsaken Sons, who have been on the drug scene for a long time, are moving up in the world and have been moving a lot of dope recently. The good stuff, Billy said, though he was not specific as to what 'the good stuff' might mean. After this," she jerked her head in the direction of the doc's office, "I definitely have my suspicions."