Book 3 of Cat and Mouse

Title: Startup Costs

Rating: PG-13 for language, violence, and adult situations

Summary: Sam, former FBI agent and friend of the turtles starts a private security business in New York City, while back in the lair Mike deals with family life, and the return of Agent Sanders.

Credits: Thanks to the beautifully talented and endlessly patient Sassy for the beta read.

Disclaimer: I do not own the turtles, Splinter, Casey, April, or a toaster oven. Not for profit – only for fun.

Prologue:

Washington, D.C.

A sandy haired man sat behind a clean, oak desk and studied a family portrait that had been sitting on his desk for the past three years. Pictured was a typical family: an attractive dark-haired woman, and two dimpled children with matching coloring. Also in the photo was a man in a dark blue suit with deadened eyes, a fake smile, and sandy hair.

Three days after the photo was taken, his wife left him. Walked out, taking nothing but some clothes and the two girls. He had struggled mightily to get her back each and every day in between, but he had failed. She was dead now, and likely the girls were, too. But they had never been part of his equation, save as something to hold her to him. And look how well that had worked out. No, it wasn't the smiling little girls that he missed, and ached to have in his arms again.

The phone on his desk rang and he picked it up.

"Sanders," he stated, still looking at the picture.

"Agent Sanders?" the voice on the other end queried. "This is Mark Matlin from New York. I'm with CSI, Agent Sanders, and I have a couple of questions."

"Go ahead," Sanders replied, his mind already starting to gear up.

"Did your wife have any unusual medical conditions, or was she on any medication at the time of her death?" the CSI queried.

The agent hesitated for a moment before answering. "No. As far as I know, Juliet was in perfect health."

"Well, then I have a puzzle," Mark Matlin said. "See, there wasn't enough physical evidence to conclusively say there was a body in the car." At the continued silence on the other end, the CSI continued. "No bone fragments or anything. And we found some unusual electronics in the remains of the vehicle …" By now, Greg Sanders was no longer listening. His thought processes were speeding ahead to a conclusion.

"Thank you, Mark," Sanders said, cutting off his caller. "Thank you very much." He hung up before the CSI could say anything else. The agent set the photo down carefully on his immaculate desk, and smiled at the image behind the glass. "Oh, clever. Very clever. But you had help with this, didn't you, Juliet? Yes, help from that Agent Gallagher." The phone was picked up again for another call, this time outgoing. "I need a flight to New York."

New York City, NY

Casey Jones let out a harsh grunt, and shoved the sofa forward with all of his might. It slid across the floor of the truck, and bounced against a stack of boxes.

"Hey," a female voice called from behind him. He armed sweat from his forehead, and gave a nod to the petite redhead. "How's it going?" she questioned, stepping around him to set two lamps down just inside the back door of the rental truck.

"Good," he replied. He pulled at his t-shirt a little. He would need a shower when he got home before April would so much as speak to him. "Almost done?"

"Another box, and I'm done," Sam said. She rubbed at the back of her neck, and grimaced at the perspiration she found there. She had pulled her hair up into a ponytail, but it hadn't helped at all. "Take a break, Casey. I'll get that last box, and we'll be on our way." Casey nodded, and sat down on the back bumper to take a breather. Sam turned back to the apartment building that had been her home for the last two years, and climbed the concrete steps.

Back inside and on her own floor, she opened her apartment door to retrieve the last of her belongings. When she returned to the door, she opened it to find a familiar face on the other side.

"So you're really moving out?" her neighbor queried morosely. Sam set down her box.

"Gotta go, Mr. Adams. I just can't afford this place while I'm trying to start up a business," Sam explained as she dug in the pocket of her shorts. "I can leave a number where I can be reached – just in case you need anything."

"Aw, that's alright, Samantha. I've got Mrs. Gonzalez on the other side all set to take me on my grocery runs," Richard reassured her. Sam stopped searching for the card, and reached out to touch the older man's hand gently.

"I'm going to miss you, Mr. Adams," Sam confessed. "Maybe after I get things going, I can move back in."

"What kind of a business are you starting, Samantha?" Richard asked.

"Private security. Bodyguard type stuff, and consulting," Sam stated. She shook her head a little. "Not quite the same as working for the FBI, but I think it will work out."

"Well, my nephew could use something like that …," Richard said, musing. "He runs a business of his own, and he told me he had some security problems."

"Really? Well, I would be happy to talk to him." Sam resumed her search for the errant card, and this time the white cardboard didn't evade her. She pressed it into Richard's hand. "Just give him this, or get Mrs. Gonzalez to read it, okay?"

"Okay, Samantha," Richard replied. He wrapped his hand around hers, and squeezed her fingers. "You take care of yourself. I'll give this card to my nephew next time he visits. You'll like him. He's a fine young man."

"You know what you can do with your good luck charms, you piece of shit!"

The man holding out the tiny carved figures – each one resting on a simple black cord – stepped back and ducked his head a little. "Okay," the street vendor said, moving away from the towering man before him. He had thought the well-dressed man might be a potential sale, but obviously not.

"Yeah, just stay outta my way," Carl Adams responded angrily. His cell phone rang, and he ripped it out of his pocket with a snarl. "What?" he shouted into the tiny piece of electronics.

The voice on the other end was recognizable, and not very welcome.

"She's what? She's dead?" Carl hollered into the tiny piece of electronics. "The hell? Drug overdose?" Carl cursed more colorfully, and stomped down the street to his waiting car. "And why the hell am I supposed to care that she's dead? Put some other bitch on that corner!" He reached his car and the driver quickly opened the door to the back seat. Carl climbed in, still yelling into the phone. "Her kid? I don't give a damn about some dead whore's kid!"