"Last text was from someone using the name StrangerDanger." Mike read the text: "Hv u tkn ur vits 2day?" Mike and Henry both frowned at the message but Jo quickly tensed and stared off into the river waters.

Henry wondered what could have caused Jo to suddenly appear so unsettled. One puzzle at a time, he told himself.

vvvv

That was two months ago but Henry still bristled as he recalled when Janeisha Trent's body was being removed from the back of the morgue van by two attendants while he'd looked on. Just as he'd begun directing them to the elevators, a familiar voice had come from behind him. By then, he knew that voice very well and though it didn't cause icy fingers to crawl up and down his spine like Adam's did, it still had a jarring effect to his system, causing his jaw to clamp shut and his teeth to grind together.

"Dr. Morgan," the brown-haired man with the steel-blue eyes had cordially addressed him. The underlying smugness and contempt in his voice had seeped through, though.

"Agent Fredrickson," Henry had stiffly replied. "Why, may I ask, have you commandeered Ms. Trent's corpse away from our morgue?"

"You know as well as I do, Doctor. She was one of our own, and we take care of our own. Besides, the bureau has its own pathology lab. Our people are just as capable as those in your morgue ... without all the Brit-boy insanity." He'd left after a two-fingered salute once her body had been loaded into a black van and then he'd slipped into the front passenger seat of a sleek, black SUV with tinted windows. As the two vehicles slowly exited the parking garage, Lucas felt it necessary to throw a barb.

"Their pathology lab doesn't have us, though," Lucas had proudly pointed out. When Henry had turned a surprised and questioning face to him, he'd back-pedaled a bit. "And by that, I mean their lab doesn't have you." He'd emphasized the last word by lifting both hands up and pointing both index fingers down at Henry.

Henry had half-smiled, slightly frowning, and told him, "Don't sell yourself short, Lucas. Your original assessment was correct. Their lab doesn't have us. You, as my assistant, have proven to be a most valuable asset." He concluded by dipping his head once.

Seated behind his desk in his office at the morgue, Henry smiled at the memory of the blush and look of surprise on Lucas' face after he'd told him that. However, his smile faded when reminded of Fredrickson's back-handed insult and of not being able to perform an autopsy on Janeisha Trent's body. And not just that, Hanson often reminded whoever would listen, all the evidence that the NYPD's CSU had gathered, including her cell phone with the last text message about taking her vitamins, had also been confiscated by the FBI via Agent Mark-ee Mark, as Hanson liked to call him.

"Boss? Boss? Hey-eyyy," Lucas said, waving his hand at Henry in an attempt to get his attention. Henry abandoned his thoughts and raised his eyebrows, finally focusing on Lucas.

"Boy, you really get lost, don't you?" his young assistant chuckled.

Henry sighed. "Can't seem to get Janeisha Trent's murder out of my mind." He looked directly at Lucas and added, "And the COD was murder, not natural causes. The FBI people got it wrong," he muttered and rose from his chair.

"Maybe it's a cover-up," Lucas offered, shrugging.

"Of course, it's some kind of cover-up!" Henry gnashed his reply and shrugged out of his white lab coat, hanging it on the coatrack near his desk. Grabbing his suit coat off of the rack, he held it by the back of the collar and twirled it up and behind him, effortlessly slipping his arms into the sleeves as gravity flattened it down around him. He then grabbed his scarf off of the rack and wound it around his neck a couple of times. A frown of confusion crossed his face when he noticed Lucas gazing at him, enthralled.

"What?"

"Uh, it's just, uh, how you do that with the, uh, suit coat," he stammered out. "The twirling up and, you know, reminds me of Zorro or Batman."

Henry held the ends of his scarf in each hand and gave Lucas a look of annoyed disbelief. Although he was familiar with the two fictitious heroes, he bemoaned the hero worship Lucas insisted on heaping upon him.

"Or not," Lucas quickly added, stepping aside to allow Henry to walk past him. He muttered an embarrassed "Good night" in response to Henry's.

Cover-up, Henry thought. He came to a stop just past Lucas' workstation and turned around to face him.

"Lucas. Might I run a hypothetical by you? You have ... keen acumen." He tilted his head, smiling slightly as he viewed him through squinted eyes.

"I do? I, I mean I do. I mean sure," Lucas' smiling face failed to hide his self-doubt.

"Lucas," Henry forged on, "what if Agent Trent's murder is being covered up - actually swept under the rug - by the FBI because she was working undercover?" He turned his head slightly away from Lucas as he spoke but maintained eye contact with him, furrowing his brow.

"Jo seemed to become quite disconcerted when Mike read the last text message received on Agent Trent's cell phone: 'Hv u tkn ur vits 2day?'." He jerked his head slightly to look directly at Lucas and asked, "What does that tell you?"

Disconcerted, Lucas thought, sighing. More Austen-y talk. Then, "You mean she freaked."

Henry rolled his eyes, closing then opening them again. "No, she didn't freak, Lucas. Jo doesn't ... freak," he replied, shaking his head vigorously. "She became visibly upset but turned away from us in order to hide it. You were right earlier when you said that she was tracking down a lead of her own."

"Okay. So, what you asked before about the text message to Agent Trent, I guess she was a bit of a health nut and so were ... her friends ... ?" Lucas flopped his hands up, then down. "I dunno, Doc. You must think I'm smarter than what I am."

"No, Lucas. You are smarter than you think." Henry sighed and continued along his train of thought. "What if Jo's late husband, Sean Moore, had received the exact same text message right before his own untimely death?"

"Oh, I gotcha," Lucas replied, drawing the words out. "If that was some kind of code to let her know that her cover had been blown - "

"A hypothetical, of course, but ... it would stand to reason that Sean Moore's cover had also been blown." Henry bit on the inside of his lower lip as he paced on a small scale near Lucas' workstation. "That could also mean that they may have been working on the same case."

"But he was supposed to have been in Washington, D.C., to take a deposition," Lucas reminded him. "You're saying he wasn't?" Henry shook his head, a sly smile creeping onto his face.

"Uh ... okay ... ?" Lucas was still a bit confused but ready to be enlightened by his boss with the Big Brains and the Sherlockian flair.

"Just - follow me on this. I'm willing to bet my life on it that the text messages connect Janeisha's and Sean's murders somehow." The thought slowly came to him that Jo may have to face the truth behind her husband's COD. That it was a murderously-induced heart attack. His smile turned upside down and his brow plunged into a dark scowl. That would explain why she had almost immediately involved herself with Agent Fredrickson: to get answers of her own because she had never really believed the heart attack story. Did Agent Fredrickson have any answers for her? Or did he have anything to do with Sean's death? If he did, Heaven forbid, that could mean that Jo was also in danger if he became suspicious of her. Getting to the bottom of this mystery was going to be a sticky wicket, indeed.

vvvv

"So, you're saying that you weren't really dumped by Jo for this FBI guy, then?" Abe asked while he stirred a creamy pot of homemade Alfredo sauce.

"Dumped? Rather a harsh term, don't you think?" He frowned as he sipped his tea. "She's simply trying to uncover the truth behind Sean Moore's death. She's working a case." Never did he like to think that Jo had forsaken him for this poor man's version of her late husband. Just the mere thought of that fellow being near her made his blood boil. The thought of him holding her ... caressing her ... kissing ...

"A case she's not supposed to be working, as I understand it," Abe pointed out, interrupting his thoughts. He set the tureen down in the center of the table with the Alfredo-sauced chicken and pasta in it. "Sounds like she's walking a thin line." He pulled off his oven mitts, placing them on the counter near the stove and took his seat at the table.

"Now, let's get down to the real reason why we live," Abe announced with a delightful grin. He ladled a generous portion of the meal onto a plate and handed it to his father.

Henry put the plate down in front of him and whipped his napkin out to fullness and placed it on his lap. "And what, pray tell, is the real reason we live?"

"To eat!" Abe replied. "You don't eat, you don't have the energy to do," he lowered his voice, "other things." He threw a devilish smile at his father and wiggled his eyebrows up and down.

"Abraham." Henry shook his head, frowning a bit but fought to keep a smile from showing.

"Anyway, I'm with Lucas and ... what's his face, Mike. Yeah. You've got to get crackin' on solving these two cases so you can get Jo away from that FBI mashugana."

"Ha! You've never even met the man. How can you be so certain that he's a ... mashugana?" Inwardly, though, he wholeheartedly concurred with his son's descriptor.

Abe stuck his fork into his food and with a one-eyed squint, pointed a finger at his father. "Any guy who comes between my Pops and his girl is a mashugana!" He shoveled a forkful of food into his mouth and chewed it up as if he were the giant in the fairytale, crunching the bones of his latest victim.

Although he was working hard at taming his smile muscles, Henry said, "I appreciate the sentiment, Abraham, but technically she is not 'my girl'. We've never even been on a first date, yet."

"Oh, you will," Abe replied after swallowing another tasty mouthful. "And she is." He looked his father directly in the eyes. "Your girl."

A blush spread across Henry's face at the same time that his smile muscles broke loose from his control and spread into a wide grin.

vvvv

At the same time across town ...

Jo and the aforementioned mashugana FBI guy, Frederickson, were savoring the delicious cuisine in a long-established Japanese restaurant that also served Chinese food. One of the first in the Beni-Hana restaurant chain, it had opened its doors in the late 1970's. For the last 12 years it had changed ownership and was now a member of the chain of restaurants under the Martin Yan empire.

"Maybe after this, we can top off the evening with a movie?" he asked before devouring another tempura shrimp.

Jo smiled and shook her head as she spooned up another beef wonton from her soup. "It's been a long, tiring day and I know that after stuffing myself on these delights, I won't be able to stay awake in a movie theater. It's home for me."

"Good. Wasn't thinking of a movie theater, anyway. So we can just go to your place, you can go to sleep in my arms." His words were blatantly suggestive, his smile hopeful. Maybe tonight, he thought.

What a jerk, Jo thought, and how unromantic. Henry would never say anything like that to her. Huh? And what made her think of Henry? Because she realized her quirky, crime-solving partner would know just the right words to say to her ... and which ones not to say.

She sighed, feeling her appetite shut down at her dinner companion's words - his very presence, actually - but still managed to keep her phony smile plastered on her face. She knew he was making a desperate stab at being romantic or sexy or something but, as usual, it had fallen flat. Frankly, she was beginning to think that this ploy of hers, pretending to have a romantic interest in this guy in the hopes of picking his brain and finding out the truth about Sean's death, was a mistake. Jo just couldn't stand the guy. Time to call it quits with the phony romance. Romance? Ha! That's a laugh. Guy doesn't know romantic from a hole in the ground! Still, she felt she'd made a few interesting discoveries, enough to end the charade, but the identical text messages sent to both Sean and Agent Trent had caused her to dig her heels in and stay in the game a bit longer.

"Not very romantic." The words with a harsh, metallic edge to them, escaped her lips before she realized it. "I ... uh ... am just not ready for anything like that yet," she felt it best to clarify while softening the tone of her voice enough to not piss him off too much. Never with you, buster, she vowed to herself.

Frederickson stopped eating and eyed the now unappetizing food around on his plate. 'What you said last time,' he glumly muttered to himself.

"Look," he chuckled, "I have to say that sometimes," he chuckled again, "it feels like there's someone else here with us." He looked across the table at her to see her reaction.

"Someone else?" she asked, genuinely confused. "You mean ... well ... naturally, this case you're working on reminds me of Sean."

"No, not Sean," he replied with a piercing gaze.

She shook her head, a confused smile on her face and huffed. "Then ... who?"

"Oh, I dunno," he replied, his frustration beginning to show. "Someone with a white lab coat, some fru-fru scarves and probably the phoniest British accent this side of the Atlantic comes to mind!"

Jo couldn't believe what she was hearing. She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times and finally found her voice. "Henry and I are just partners, professional partners and I can't believe we're arguing about this." She wiped her mouth with her napkin, threw it down by her bowl, and pushed her chair out to leave.

Fredrickson rose slightly in his chair and extended an outstretched hand to her. "Wait, wait, please." He'd caught her attention and managed to halt her exit. "Please. Just sit down?" He watched her as she retook her seat, her mouth in a thin line, her eyes downcast.

"I'm ... sorry. Just ... " He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I lose out to other guys ... ya know?" he chuckled mirthlessly. "You and I dated before you met Sean, remember? Well ... once, anyway." He clamped his lips together and tucked his chin into his chest.

'Yes,' she recalled. That one date had been enough for her. The man, in her opinion, had been merely going through the motions until he could get her into bed. Which didn't happen. Their mutual friend had sworn up and down that he was a great guy and a 'catch'. Yeah, right. He had not only bored her with all his FBI training talk but had grossed her out with his blatant, suggestive remarks of a sexual nature.

That was before she'd met Sean, the love of her life. Promiscuity did not enter her vocabulary of life until after his death. But even if she'd never met Sean or anyone else, one date with Mark Fredrickson had been enough for her.

"They're better looking," Fredrickson continued his self-debasement. "Better dressers. Smarter. They always seem to know the right things to do and say to keep a woman ... happy." He looked at Jo, then averted his gaze, a look of abject embarrassment on his face. "Guess that makes me a little paranoid when I'm ... when things don't seem to be going quite right ... " his voice trailed off.

Ohhh, Jo felt like kicking herself for thinking him only capable of banal and boring behavior. The poor guy's just clueless in dealing with women. Okay. She'd just been ready to take the out provided her earlier and end the "relationship" but now ... Dang! The way he'd just opened up to her (in a way that, admittedly, Henry never had and probably never would) tugged at her heartstrings. But she still had no plans to fall asleep in his arms.

"Um, Mark, um, look, there's no one else, okay?" There really wasn't. She'd told him the truth about her and Henry's strictly professional relationship. The ME seemed to have a thing for blondes, anyway. Sigh.

"There's that new superhero movie playing at the AMC on 84th." She smiled and patted his hand. "I'd love to go see it." She felt much better when he returned her smile and nodded. He stood briefly as she excused herself to freshen up in the ladies room.

He watched her as she walked towards the ladies room and disappeared into it. Once she was out of sight, his smile faded and he pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. He woke the phone up and tapped a contact on his phone list. The party at the other end answered on the first ring.

"This is Fredrickson ... No, no progress yet on that ... I'm workin' on it!"

He rolled his eyes and hissed into his phone. "Because she hasn't let me into her house yet."

He closed his eyes in frustration and nodded. "Yeah ... yeah, I know it's been two months. Just ... gotta take another route to get inside ... No, I'm sure that she's waiting for me to give her answers, so that means she hasn't stumbled across what Moore stashed in their own home yet."

He scoffed and added, "After all this time she hasn't found it. He hid it well ... Yes, I'm sure it's there. He may have been a bleedin' heart nice-nick but he was smart and thorough."

He could see Jo in his peripheral vision coming back to their table and knew he had to end the call. The phone still held up to his ear, he rose from his chair while she slid back into hers.

"Yeah. Great. Thanks for the update." He nodded, ended the call and shut off his phone, dropping it back into his jacket pocket.

"Problem?" Jo asked politely.

"Oh. Nothing I can't handle," he assured her with a fake, broad grin. Nothing at all.