When they had reached the eleventh floor and settled themselves at their desks, Eames reached for the phone. "I'm going to call Hammond and find out if this new girl's connected to his practice, too."

" 'Hammond'?" he echoed, raising his eyebrows at her sudden switch to using the guy's last name.

"Yes, 'Hammond.' You got a problem with that?"

"Nope."

"Good. I might have to hurt you if you did. " And with that, she tuned him out as she dialed Hammond's cell phone number and settled the phone against her ear.

He answered after three rings with a warm, if slightly out of breath, "Alex, hello!"

"Hello, yourself," she replied, trying not to let her partner see her smile. "You got a minute?"

"For you, sure. I've got a few minutes between patients right now."

"Great, thanks. Listen, could I run a name by you, and you tell me if it rings any bells?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. "There was another one killed."

It wasn't a question, and she didn't treat it like one. "You know I'm not going to talk about that, Chris. Now, do you want to hear the name or not?"

"Shoot," he ordered.

"Hillary Viernes."

"Uh . . ." She could hear his chair squeak as he leaned back in it, thinking. "I don't think we've ever had anyone by that name here."

Shit, she thought, almost able to feel their one good lead slip out of her hands. "Are you sure?"

"Well, I can ask around and try to confirm it for you, but I'm pretty good with names, and that one doesn't sound familiar."

Sighing heavily, she slumped back in her chair. "Ok. Well yeah, ask around, if you don't mind, and call me if anyone comes up with anything." She glanced at the phone's cradle, which was out of arm's reach now that she was slouching, and sighed again. "Look, Chris, I have to g-"

"Wait!"

The exclamation was a departure from his usual cool conversational style, and she stopped with the phone an inch from her ear. "What?"

Hammond cleared his throat. "Are you sure you don't want any help with things? I mean, I could probably help you with a profile . . ."

She flicked a glance at Goren, who was examining his fingernails and studiously ignoring her. "I appreciate the offer, but my partner's got that covered. Now, I really have to go. I'll talk to you soon, ok?"

He replied with a distant, "Yeah, sure. Ok," and proceeded to hang up the phone in her ear.

"Yeah, goodbye to you too," she said to the empty line, then let out an annoyed breath and leaned forward to replace the phone on its base. "We're screwed, Bobby."

Moving his eyes away from his hand, he spared her a glance. "He break up with you?"

"No," she snapped, giving him a sour look. Then, propping her elbows up on the desk and resting her chin in her hands, she went on, "Although he did hang up on me when I said I couldn't talk."

"Hmm."

"Stop that."

"What?"

"You're smiling!"

"I'm not allowed to smile now?"

"Not at me getting hung up on, you're not. Now, do you want to hear why we're screwed, or are you just going to take my word for it?"

Obediently clearing the smile off his face, he shrugged. "He's never heard of her, judging from your side of the conversation."

"He's . . . damn it, I hate it when you do that."

"Sorry."

"No you're not."

"Ok, I'm not," he agreed easily. "Was there anything else he had to say - about the case, that is ?"

Narrowing her eyes threateningly, she glared at him for a few seconds until she was sure she'd adequately communicated her displeasure, then smiled slightly and shrugged. "He offered to help with a profile."

"Ah. That was the 'my partner's got that covered,' I presume?"

"Yeah."

Dropping his eyes, he picked up a pen and uncapped it. "He's trying to insert himself into the investigation. You know that's -"

"He's a shrink! I don't think it's that unusual for him to offer his services to catch a guy like this. When he starts popping up at scenes and trying to get information out of us, then you can put your little check mark next to 'interactions with police' and say he's trying to insert himself."

He re-capped the pen and put it down. "I'm just -"

"You two," Deakins called from his office doorway, waving a hand in their direction. "I need to talk to you. Inside." The command was accompanied with a matching jerk of his head, directing them into his office.

Neither of them had been expecting a summons, and now they exchanged looks, each silently accusing the other of having done something to get them both in trouble.

"Now, Detectives. The staring contest can wait."


The captain's office wasn't empty when the two detectives made their wary entrance. Three men, all in dark suits, were scattered around the room, varying degrees of discomfort showing on their faces. One, a stocky man with silver hair, was surveying the premises with casual interest, seeming to have hardly noticed the newcomers.

The second was a tall, middle-aged man built like a football player whose sartorial splendor looked like it could give Goren a run for his money. His hair was graying at the temples, but he appeared to be a few years younger than the first man, and he was standing with his arms crossed, scowling defensively and looking as though he expected to be attacked at any second.

The third man was significantly younger than the other two, and his age was reflected in his uneasy behavior. Where the first man looked cool and collected, and the second looked hyper-alert, the last looked slightly dumbstruck by his surroundings.

"Goren, Eames," Deakins said, waving the detectives to chairs, "I'd like you to meet the core of your new task force."

Eames didn't bother to smother her groan at that. Task forces never worked well, as far as she was concerned, especially when the participants were strangers, as these new men were to her and Goren.

Deakins pinned her with a hard look, pointing his pen at her threateningly. "Don't give me that, Detective. You should have seen this coming. You and Goren are good, but the bodies are piling up, and -"

"Who are they?" Goren interrupted impatiently, turning in his chair to scrutinize the visitors.

The eldest of the men cleared his throat politely and stepped forward. "I'm Special Agent Ted Kratzer," he said, pointing to himself. "And these are Special Agents Eddie Straub and Tony D'Argenzio," he went on, pointing first to the football player and then to the younger man.

"FBI," Eames summarized coolly. "What'd we do to merit three of you at once?"

"The Chief of D's is getting nervous," Deakins explained. "Four dead middle-class girls aren't as easy to overlook as a couple of dead hookers. His words," he added hastily as Eames opened her mouth, "not mine. But he's got a point. People are going to be screaming bloody murder when it gets out that these deaths are connected. I, for one, welcome the opportunity to share the heat with another agency."

"That's not exactly how we like our presence to be justified," said Kratzer, a hint of a smile playing at his lips, "but hey, whatever works for you guys. We're not here to take over your investigation, Detectives. We're support staff."

"Investigative Support?" Goren asked him, looking slightly more interested. "Or just support?"

"Yes, and yes. Straub and I are BAU. D'Argenzio came along for the ride."

D'Argenzio colored slightly, looking like he wished he could fade into the corner.

Eames, noticing his discomfort and wondering why tact wasn't part of the FBI training program, offered the young man a smile. "They've got you apprenticed to the big guys, huh? You must be on your way up."

"Uh, hopefully, ma'am," he replied, turning redder but relaxing slightly.

"Ugh, call me 'Eames,' or 'Alex'. Anything but 'ma'am' . . . that makes me feel like my mother."

"Sorry."

Giving him a smile of forgiveness, she fought the urge to reach out and ruffle his hair. "Ok, so if you guys are our 'support' . . . what exactly does that mean you'll be doing?"

"Profiling, I assume," Goren filled in before the agent could respond.

"Got it in one!" Straub announced, breaking his self-imposed silence. "Maybe this won't be so bad after all, Teddy."

Kratzer spared the younger man a glance and sighed, then looked back at the detectives and said with a shrug, "Seven hours on I-95, crammed in a car with two other guys, doesn't do great things for anyone's temper."

"Apparently not," Eames said with a smile, finding herself charmed by the older man, who managed to be at once both grandfatherly and acerbic.

"Hey, two out of three," Deakins spoke up from behind his desk, grinning at her. Then, looking at the FBI agents, he explained, "Eames is our resident hardass. Once you get her to come around, you're in, and so far you seem to be doing pretty good. Well, at least two of you."

Straub looked down at the woman who, to him, appeared to be just a slight, pixie-faced blonde, and raised his eyebrows dubiously. "Hardass?"

She gave him a predatory grin. "Try me."

"I'd recommend you don't," Deakins told him. "Now, I think the conference room is empty if you guys want to set up camp in there. I'll be in as soon as I talk myself out of jumping out a window," he added sarcastically, making a show of sifting through the towering pile of phone messages on his desk.

Eames and Goren looked at each other for a moment, and then she stood up and turned to Deakins. "Yeah, sure."

Sighing, Goren stood up beside her and motioned for the FBI agents to follow him as trailed his partner out of the room. "Eames, who made the coffee this morning?"

"Beats the hell out of me. It's probably gone by now anyway," she replied without turning her head as she led the way across the squad room. "But you are notmaking the next batch. The FBI'll be pissed if we kill their guys on the first day."

"Yeah," Kratzer spoke up from behind her, "save that for after you've got the profiles out of us. But don't worry, we're used to sludge masquerading as coffee. Years of experience." He patted his belly as if congratulating it on its toughness, then looked over his shoulder at the other two men. "Although D'Argenzio, you might want to watch it."

"Oh, don't worry," D'Argenzio assured him casually. "You've been out too long to remember how crappy the coffee in the dorms at Quantico is, but believe me when I say I'll be fine here."

Straub winced in apparent sympathy. "He's got a point, Ted."

"Oh, the hell with ya both," Kratzer snorted, flipping a dismissive hand at the over man over his shoulder.

"Conference room," Eames announced, pointing a thumb toward the room over her shoulder after allowing a moment's silence to see if the agents would continue their amusing argument. "Home sweet home for the foreseeable future."

The three men took in the room. "We've seen worse," Straub told her. "Although you look like you're short on chairs. And," he added, looking around the group, "there's only one of you four I'm willing to let sit on my lap."

"You wish," Eames said with a smirk. "Now let's get to work, shall we?"


Endnote: the "BAU" is the Behavioral Analysis Unit, the FBI's current name for their profiling division.