Schuyler Falls Police Station

In the lobby of the Schuyler Falls Police Station, two uniformed policemen shoot the breeze over cups of coffee while desk sergeant Paul Smithers trades places with his nighttime counterpart. The conversation drifts upwards a half-flight of stairs to the detectives' bullpen, but this early in the morning there's only one person there to hear it. And Frank Gabriel isn't paying much attention.

Alone at his desk, the detective glances up at the black login screen displayed on the computer monitor. After logging in to the CopWeb database, he clicks through to the People Search page, but the phone rings before he can type more than the first three letters of his brother's name.

He grabs the receiver. "SFPD, Sergeant Gabriel."

"Frank, it's me. I'm sorry I didn't call earlier, but I--"

"What the hell took you so long?" Frank's hand tightens around the phone as he looks at the blinking cursor in front of him. "I left that message two days ago!"

"Don't bark at me." Eleanor Marshall's calm, cool voice sounds nothing like her older brother's. "I didn't get the message until now. I've been out of town at a broadcasting convention -- something you would know if you ever checked your email. Now what is so urgent?"

Frank casts a quick look at the stairwell, but it's safely empty. "Del's out."

He hears her slow intake of breath. "How do you know?"

"He showed up outside my doorstep, that's how I know. And I've spent the last forty-eight hours trying to find out just what in hell he's doing back on the street. Apparently no one at the Lockport facility believes in working the weekends, even when there's been some kind of screw-up."

"Why do you think it was a screw-up?"

"Because he shouldn't have been up for parole yet. And we'd have been notified -- it has to be a mistake. Or he broke out, which means--"

"Frank, it wasn't a mistake." Ellie's words are very quiet. "He was granted parole last month."

Frank listens to his heartbeat pounding in his ears for some time before comprehending what Ellie has said. "How come you know about this, and I didn't? They called you?"

"Yes. As far as why you didn't get notified ... well, I guess they didn't have your new address or number."

"That's bull. You've moved too, and you've got a new last name. How'd they track you down?"

"Because ... " Ellie hesitates. "Del gave them my number. He needed someone as a reference, to prove he had some contact on the outside, and-- and because he needed a place to stay."

Nearly dropping the phone, Frank takes a second to steady himself. He can almost feel his blood pressure going through the roof. "You're telling me he's been staying with you for weeks and you kept it from me? Jesus Christ, Ellie, how could you do that?"

"I had to. You don't think clearly where Del's concerned! I mean, you have plenty of reason, I'm not saying you don't," Ellie adds hastily, as if knowing Frank's about to blow a gasket. "But it's been a long time. Seven years, Frank. A man can change in seven years, and I really think he has."

"Then you're a fool, Ellie, 'cause he'll never change. Not in seven years, not in a hundred. Since the day he dragged himself out of Mama's womb and nearly made her bleed to death, that boy's caused nothing but pain."

"That's your opinion." Ellie's voice sharpens. "Believe it or not, other people have different experiences than you do, and we're entitled to our own beliefs. I believe he deserves a second chance."

Frank laughs harshly. "How many are we supposed to give him? He's pissed on every opportunity anyone's ever gave him to make something of his useless life. Del's not one of those unlucky kids you like to play Mother Theresa to, Ellie -- he's a career criminal. I can't believe after what he did, you expect me to forgive and--"

"Not forgive, no, but ... oh, God," she says, suddenly weakening. "I hate being in the middle here. I sympathize with you, I really do. But Del's still part of my family, just like you and Theo. I can't help believing that there's good in him. And what I've seen over the past two weeks, I think it's possible. So what else can I do except try to help him?"

"You can shut him out and hope he doesn't destroy your life. The way he did mine."

There's nothing Ellie can say to that point, and sure enough, she doesn't respond. He lowers his voice. "And the way he's following me around, he's probably aiming to do the same thing all over again. "

"You don't know that. Please, don't do anything until we all have a chance to talk to each other. The four of us, we should all sit down. We haven't all been together since Daddy died."

Frank hears someone walking up the stairs towards the bullpen, and he turns his chair away towards the dingy window looking out on Route 58. "I have to go."

"All right, but can I call you later? My shift's over at three. And Frank--" Ellie softens her voice. "Please, try to understand. He's flesh and blood. He's our brother."

He closes his eyes briefly, hearing another voice saying similar words...

Standing by the fireplace in his living room, Frank stares at the flames as they devour the torn pieces of his wedding photograph. Olivia Ortiz takes a sharp inward breath, holding it until she at last lets the air out with an exhaled, disbelieving question.

"That man is your brother?"

Frank nods, barely moving his head. Olivia steps closer to him. "You should have told me. You should have told me right from the beginning."

"No. I wish I hadn't opened my mouth now."

"I'm glad you did. It's ridiculous, you shouldn't be embarrassed because you have an ex-con for a brother. Are you forgetting who I'm related to?"

Turning towards her, Frank shakes his head. "You don't understand, it's -- it's old business. Dead and buried, and I don't want to--"

"Obviously not that buried, or he wouldn't be here. What did he do, anyway? What did you arrest him for?"

Frank shakes his head. "I told you I don't want to talk about it. I'm serious, Olivia, this subject isn't up for discussion. It's history."

"History?" Olivia lifts her arm in the direction of the large picture window looking out onto Cypress Street. "Your brother was out there today, Frank. He could still be there now, just down the block."

Shaken, Frank moves over to the sofa, leaning over to snap the draperies shut. He can feel Olivia watching him. "You have to promise me now," he says, clearing his hoarse throat. "You won't go near him again. And you'll stay here tonight. I'll take you home tomorrow."

She raises an eyebrow. "Thanks for the invitation. But if I stay here, it's not going to be because you're protecting me. I don't want whatever you and I have together mixed up in some warped version of The Bodyguard."

"Olivia, you don't get it. This isn't a game. You don't know -- you don't know what he's capable of."

For the first time he sees a flicker of concern on her strong-featured face. "Then tell me. What is he capable of?"

Frank meets her gaze. "Anything."

The scene flashes through his memory in an instant. Frank opens his eyes, staring at cars driving on the highway outside. "I don't care if he's flesh and blood, Ellie. He's never acted like a brother to any of us except when he wants something. And he's after something now. I know it."

"But you don't know that what he wants is something so terrible. Do you? Maybe he just wants a fresh start."

He shakes his head in disbelief. "I'll speak to you later."

Frank puts the phone down just as he sees Mike Fiore walking through the alcove to the offices, and with one swift move reaches out to the terminal's keyboard to minimize the CopWeb screen. Mike greets him with a triumphant smile, and Frank waves in return. Privately, he can't help but answer his sister's question with the grim truth: You're wrong, Ellie. I know exactly what Del wants.

Schuyler Falls Courthouse

Inside the large, domed courtroom, Ross Granger exhales and stares down at his briefcase, trying not to slam it before flipping the brass locks shut. With a muttered word to his assistant, the ADA backs away from his chair and passes through the crowded aisle to the exit.

In the distance, Ross hears the judge call the next case, a straightforward deal that he knows his assistant can handle on her own. His thoughts turn to the unpleasant task before him, tightening his mouth into a grim line.

When he slips through the doors, Ross heads down the corridor and the bank of pay phones near the wide, curving marble stairwell. He reaches for the nearest free receiver, but his attention is distracted by the sight of a very familiar face appearing from one of the small offices nearby.

"Hey!" Ross leans forward to touch the short woman's sleeve before she passes him by. "Maxie?"

Maxine Granger turns, brown eyes snapping with her usual lively interest. "They let in all sorts of riff-raff here, don't they?"

"This is my domain, I'll have you know." Ross grins and kisses his sister's cheek, then examines her noticeably casual outfit -- a flannel shirt and jeans. "A better question is what are you doing here? You haven't been arrested for one of your bizarre undercover scams, have you?"

"I'm overwhelmed by your confidence." With a toss of her head, Maxine glances back at the door she just exited. "Actually I was getting down and dirty with old fashioned research."

Ross follows the direction of her gesture. "In the Probate Office?"

Nodding, she brushes her hands together. "God bless public records, but y'all could tell your colleagues to dust a little."

"I'll be sure to let them know of your dissatisfaction. I thought you were working on the newspaper building fire."

"Yup. I'm following up on some of the paper's funding sources, and one of 'em was someone's residuary estate. I wanted to doublecheck the amount."

He lifts his gaze. "And people say private eyes lead glamorous lives. Though one look at you would prove otherwise."

"Hey, I'm not going rooting about in old files without dressing appropriately. I'll be changing, don't you worry. Anyway, I'd rather do what I do than have your job, trapped in this glorified mausoleum all day."

Ross smiles crookedly. "Yes, well, they let me out now and then. Speaking of which, are you free for lunch later? I think I'm going to need some cheering up, and your charming self might be just the thing."

"Mmm, I don't think I'll be able to manage that, hon. I'm balancing two cases on these petite but strong shoulders."

"Including that mysterious case that Dad hooked you up with, right?"

"Right." She pulls her thumbnail across the edges of her small notebook. "I need to start coming up with some results on that one or my client's gonna get antsy. It'll probably mean the better part of the next couple of days, unfortunately. But is there something else I can do for you? What's got you down?"

Ross sighs, his fingers tightening around the handle of his briefcase. "I have some bad news to deliver to a friend."

"Putting someone away, huh?"

He shakes his head. "I wish. And now I'm going to have to put off making the call until later, because I need to get back to work."

"Sorry. Didn't mean to keep you."

"No, it's my fault. Serves me right for procrastinating."

Maxine pinches his cheek, an old teasing gesture between them, and says a quick goodbye before leaving him alone. Ross turns back to the phone, grits his teeth at the missed opportunity, and swivels to return to court.

Arleigh Academy

Hallway outside Room 214

1400 Franklin Avenue

Simon Nichols shuts his cell phone and slips it inside the front pocket of his jeans. Running a hand absently through his thick dark hair, the young man turns to the bank of lockers and grins at the blonde standing nearby hanging up her coat.

"Y'know, I am so in charge it's scary. Everything's on for tomorrow. Didn't I tell you I could do it?"

"So many times my ears are starting to bleed," Becca Nichols murmurs, tugging on her tight-fitting white blouse. She pops open the top two buttons to reveal a hint of cleavage, a step she couldn't risk before homeroom -- her teacher's notoriously strict about the dress code. Refreshing her lipgloss, Becca shuts the locker and nearly gets pushed back into it by some new kid rushing through the hall.

The short, stocky boy apologizes, but Simon shoves him away from his sister. "Learn how to walk, you tub!"

"It was an accident. I said I was sorry."

But by now Simon's dismissed the stranger, who flushes and walks away. "God, this place is totally overrun with Skyfalls High losers."

"Tell me about it." Becca grimaces, surveying the crowded hallway. "Dr. Rausch said they only allowed transfers for the best students --"

"Probably not much of a competition. That school's loaded with slack-jawed mouth-breathers."

"--But now it's like we're infested with geeks. Is there some city law over there that says you have to be hideous to get an A?"

Simon chuckles and looks at a few girls walking past. "Yeah, they're all pretty much kennel material. So anyway, getting back to me. Now that I've set everything up, are you going tomorrow night?"

With a toss of her head, Becca shrugs. "Where's it going to be?"

"The Garage." Simon seems to anticipate her less than enthusiastic reaction. "Yeah, I know it's played out, but it's the best club I could get on short notice. At least I got DJ Trance to spin."

Becca tilts her head. "Mmm. It might not totally suck. But Trance must have cost you, especially on such short notice. He's huge."

His attention distracted by the sight of one of his friends, Simon grabs the other boy's arm and gives him a quick update on the rave plans. After getting congratulated with a slap on the back, he returns to his sister with a grin. "Of course it cost me. All good things do, right? I'll make up for it, trust me."

"But why do you always wait until the last minute? Can't you plan in advance for once in your life?" She smirks at him. "Or maybe it'd ruin the whole underground 'cred' you think it gives you?"

"It's got nothing to do with that. I like having to pull all this shit together in a hurry. It's like creating order from chaos, you know? Plus, it gives me a reputation as a man who can make magic."

"Whatever..." Becca, losing interest in her brother's ambitions as a promoter, frowns a little as she spies a familiar face down the hall. "What is up with that guy?"

"Huh? Who?"

"Loser by the water fountain. He keeps staring at me. Do you recognize him? From homeroom? He was doing it then too, creeped me out a little."

Simon turns, casting his dark green gaze down to the other end of the corridor. Slowly his wide lips curl into a smile. "Sure, and you know him too. He was at the opera, remember?" Becca's unrecognizing frown encourages his mocking laughter. "Damn, Bec, you must've been more wasted than I thought. Picture him out of that sad-ass sweater and fugly jeans and slap a tux on him. He was the guy with the photographer, the one Daphne introduced. Justin or Jason something."

Becca narrows her eyes, slowly remembering the events from that champagne-fogged night. "Oh my God, you're right. But look at him. He was really cute that night -- a tightass, but cute. And now ..." She grimaces again. "He looks like a junior Bill Gates."

"Without the benefit of being a billionaire."

"Seriously. But how could he change so much in a couple of days?"

"Looks like the fairy godmother turned him back into a mouse." Simon leans conspiratorially towards his sister. "I guess the bet's off, huh? I'm not cruel enough to make you go through with it. Not that it matters, 'cause you still don't have a chance in hell, but--"

"Shut up." Pulling away from him, Becca raises her chin defiantly. "You know me better than that. If I bet something, I'll go through with it. But I don't even remember what it was. If it's what I think you're getting at--"

"You doing him."

Becca purses her lips. "Then it's too easy. Look at him, the guy's never had a girl in his life -- unless you count fantasies about that Borg chick from Star Trek. I could nail him by sixth period."

He laughs. "Overconfident much?"

"It's not overconfidence. Hey, I'd say fifth period, except I can't cut social studies this week."

Her brother puts a hand on her shoulder. "You're right," he says solemnly. "The challenge is beneath a woman with your superior talents. All right, I'll come up with something a little more interesting ... if you're really still up to it."

"You know I am. And you better come up with some interesting stakes, too, 'cause I'll need a prize worthy of the sacrifice."

Simon nods, and the twins walk together down the hallway before heading in opposite directions.

Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Third Floor

Stepping closer to the patient's bed, Rena Carlson reads the words that Doug White has written on the spiral notepad lying near his right side. She smiles a little, though normally she'd be embarrassed by the question.

"I guess you could say that, Dr. White," she says, meeting his tired but curious gaze. "I mean, your brother and I haven't gone out on a lot of dates, exactly ... and something always seems to interrupt us. But yes, Greg and I are kind of ... seeing each other."

As she finishes up in the room, Doug's respirator provides the only accompaniment. His smoke-damaged lungs are far from healed, and his mental processes seem slow -- which could be from the painkillers or the residual shock to his system from his near-death experience. But Rena is relieved that he hasn't succumbed to what is probably the biggest threat this first week after the fire: a lung infection. Having escaped that so far, Doug's chances for a full recovery improve every day.

Finally Rena prepares to leave, but Doug writes something quickly and taps the pad with his pen to get her attention.

Looking at the text, she nods. "Yes, Elaine is doing very well, she's amazingly resilient. And before I forget, she's told me everything you did for her down in that elevator. She wanted me to tell you how incredibly grateful she is."

Didn't do much. She's a v. strong woman.

"Even someone who's very strong can need help, and from what she told me, your actions may be the reason she's doing as well as she is."

Least I could do. I messed with a lot of women all the time. You prob. know that. Hurt them. If I helped Elaine it's good. Make up for some of what I've done.

Rena can almost feel the regret emanating from him. After a hesitation, she reaches out to touch his trembling hand.

"Dr. White ... I hope you know that everyone at the hospital is rooting for you. It's obvious you've been working very hard over the past few months to -- to get help for your illness. And we're all behind you ... especially Greg. I know he's extremely proud."

Doug searches her face, as if trying to discern the truth in her words. Finally he seems to relax. Thanks, he writes. After a hesitation, he adds: I think my bro. is v. lucky.

Touched, Rena squeezes his hand gently before leaving.

When she reaches the nurses' station, Rena slows her pace, surprised at the sight before her. Several dozen files -- patient records, mostly -- are piled on the counter, more being added by two harried desk clerks. Curious, she moves over to another nurse, who's observing all this activity with a disapproving frown.

"What's going on here, Hilda? It looks like a tag sale for manila folders."

The taller woman grunts deep in her throat. "New initiative from the brain trusts up in administrative services. Apparently Stanford's hired a consultant firm."

"Consulting in what, exactly?"

"Ask her yourself. She gave me some rigmarole that I couldn't repeat it if I tried."

"Ask her? Her who?"

"Ms. Grady over there." Hilda gestures over to the far end of the counter, behind which sits a young African American woman, her straight hair scraped back in a severe knot, a pair of square-rimmed gold glasses perched on her nose, and her short but solid figure enhanced by a tailored lime-colored suit that's probably worth a week of Rena's salary.

Raising an eyebrow at Hilda, Rena moves up to the desk and clears her throat. "Um, hi there. Is there something I can do to help?"

The woman glances at the nametag on Rena's sweater before smiling a greeting. "Nurse Carlson. Very nice of you to ask, but it's not the most efficient use of your time, is it?"

"I suppose you're right," Rena says, returning the smile forcefully, "but I guess I was really just trying to find out what's going on. Nurse Karovski said you're some kind of consultant..?"

"Yes, I'm with WG Harcourt." When Rena doesn't respond, Ms. Grady continues. "We're a management consulting firm. We've been hired to help the hospital."

"Help in what way?"

The other woman nods in satisfaction, as if pleased to have a chance to explain her work. "We're performing an operational review. My mandate is to investigate, strategize and eventually implement a new service delivery model for patient care."

"I see." Rena hesitates, not wanting to appear ignorant, but she refuses to let the matter drop. "But all that means ... what, exactly?"

"Well, for example, I'll need to focus on time and motion study -- efficiency in the workplace, streamlining procedures, making sure that staff members are being appropriately deployed. That sort of thing."

Relieved that she actually understood everything, Rena glances over at the pile of folders nearby. "But why do you need to review old patient records?"

"It's part of identifying strengths and weaknesses in the way that the hospital staff treats its consumers, i.e., the patients."

"I.e., the patients," Rena murmurs, a little sarcastically. She walks over to the pile and picks out a few names, recognizing most of them. In fact, she's able to detect a pattern in the files selected, and the realization puts a wrinkle in her brow. "Um ... can I ask one more question? How come so many of them have all been treated by a single doctor -- Dr. Greg White?"

Ms. Grady leaves her chair, walking parallel with Rena on the other side of the desk. Her gait and movements are all very precise. "I'm impressed, Nurse," she says, sounding sincere. "You have quite a good memory for patients. To answer your question, I'm developing a workflow chart for a random sampling of the medical staff, tracking their caseloads and methodology. This individual is just one of the first names I've chosen."

"That makes sense," Rena admits, brushing her fingers along the edges of the folders. "I hope you don't mind all my questions. We've never gone through anything like this, at least not since I've been here, so I'm just curious."

"Completely understandable. Of course I don't mind ... after all, curiosity's one of the benchmarks of a highly qualified nurse."

"Thanks. Well ... I'd better get moving. Nice to meet you, Ms. Grady."

The older woman holds out her hand. "And you too. But please," she adds with a sudden flashing grin that's at odds with her prim appearance. "Call me Maxine."

Law Firm of Blake, Geary, Wallace and Ashton

Martina Rosenoff's Office

Martina Rosenoff pushes up the sleeves of her gold colored cardigan sweater and pulls open the bottom file drawer of her desk, humming a little. Her search is interrupted by the buzzing of her telephone. She smiles as she picks up the phone, having a flash of intuition that Mike is calling to check up on his new fiancée. "Hi, Seiji," she says, greeting her new secretary. "Is it Detective Fiore?"

The young man sounds apologetic. "No, Ms. Rosenoff. It's a Mr. Eckhert, from the District Attorney's office?"

Her pleased expression melting into wariness, Martina hesitates before allowing Seiji to put the call through. She unconsciously straightens up in her chair. "Yes?"

"Good morning, Martina. How are you?"

"Busy. What do you want?"

He doesn't seem concerned by her impatience, remaining as smooth and slick as ever. "I heard about your unfortunate incident at the hospital. I've been very worried about you."

"There's no need. I'm just fine, thank you." She shakes her head at his transparency. "Now kindly skip the false pleasantries and get to the point."

Alex forces a chuckle. "Very well. I'd like to arrange a meeting this week, as soon as possible. We need to talk face-to-face."

"No, quite the opposite, Alex. What we need is to stay far, far away from one another. I don't think you'd like what I have to say, and I know I have no interest in hearing anything from you."

"I merely want to clear up some facts. Trust me, it's in your own best interest."

"Still trying to threaten me? Don't even think of playing that card any more, Alex." Martina lowers her voice, although the walls throughout the law firm are quite thick and soundproofed. "You lost your power over me the night of the opera -- the very second I discovered you with Danielle Nichols."

He pauses only briefly. "Well, now. I don't know what you think you saw, but you seem to have misinterpreted--"

"Misinterpreted?" Martina raises an eyebrow. "How many ways are there to interpret the sight of a man and woman groping each other?"

"That's a coarse way to put it."

"Yes, well, as you've often said, I lack your good breeding. You know, the kind of breeding it takes to seduce someone else's wife up against a bathroom wall."

Alex takes a moment before responding. "May I ask if you've repeated this misinformation to anyone else?"

"You may ask anything you choose, but you can do it to a dial tone. I'm hanging up now."

"Martina, I insist that we have a private meeting. Something calm, rational ... adult to adult. Believe me, it's quite imperative--"

"Listen to me carefully, Alex." She leans forward in her chair. "Until I have a case against you and we have actual business to discuss, I will have nothing to do with you. Do you understand that? Not a meeting, not a phone call, not a message by carrier pigeon. Goodbye."

Placing the receiver back in its cradle, Martina takes a deep, ragged breath. Her heart's pounding a mile a minute, but she feels damn good. Empowered.

She nearly jumps from her chair when the phone rings a second time. "It's the DA's office again," Seiji tells her.

"I don't believe this," Martina mutters to herself, anger knotting her stomach muscles. Raising her voice, she returns her attention to her secretary. "I don't want to speak with him. Tell Eckhert that I've said all I --"

"It's not him, Ms. Rosenoff -- it's Ross Granger."

Frowning, Martina stares at her desk blotter. "All right," she says. "Put him through, please."

A few seconds later, Ross's stressed tenor greets her. "Marty, how are you doing?"

"I'm better, thanks. Is something wrong?"

He exhales. "Is it that obvious?"

"I've always said you need a better poker face. Better do some work on your voice too." Martina twists her engagement ring nervously, still not used to it. "Where are you calling from, anyway? You sound like you're in a zoo."

"I'm at a payphone at the courthouse. I'm in between hearings."

"Then you are in a zoo. Well, what can I do for you, Ross? Is this about the Kessleman case?"

"Um ... no, actually it's about Ricky Henderson."

Martina is surprised into a laugh, relieving some of her tension. "Excuse me? The baseball player?"

"What? Oh, no, not him. I guess you wouldn't know --.Henderson's the man who attacked you."

Her throat suddenly constricts. But her mind still works quickly, and after only a second or two she's able to figure out the reason for Ross's call. "He's been granted bail, hasn't he. Judge Pierce overturned the night court's decision."

"Yes. I'm sorry, Marty. I did what I could, but his attorney did a song and dance you wouldn't believe. By the time he was through, I'm surprised Pierce didn't give him a Tony Award."

"But how high was the bail? Will they be able to pay--"

"It was high, fifty thousand, but his lawyer's either got deep pockets or a running tab with a bail bondsman. Henderson's already free -- pending the trial date, of course."

Restless, Martina stands up from her desk and paces to the window. "Who was his attorney?"

"Albert Lee. I've run up against him a couple of times, he's based in West Cornwall."

"Yes. I've heard of him too. He's very good."

Ross hesitates. "Martina, are you all right?"

"Yes, of course I am. I should have expected this ... I've danced my way around the system too." She turns away from the window, sighing. "Thank you, Ross. I appreciate your calling me."

When she hangs up, Martina hesitates for a moment before pushing the sleeves of her sweater back over her suddenly cold arms.