Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Fourth Floor

A metallic female voice announces the elevator's arrival onto the fourth floor, one last warning to Beth Durand that she has only a little while before she must submit to an intrusive physical exam. Instinct urges her to take flight, to hide in the back of the elevator and let the doors open and close without her. But there are too many people behind her, and when the elevator arrives, she has to get out anyway to let others through.

Struggling to decide on a plan, Beth stands for a moment in the purgatory between the reception desk and the safety of the elevator. But when one of the passengers holding the door for her calls out an impatient, "Staying or going?" she finds herself shaking her head. "Thanks anyway," she says quietly, forcing herself forward.

The reception desk clerk looks up as she approaches. "Good afternoon," the older woman says. "May I help you?"

"Yes, please." Beth tries not to invest the words with too much meaning, but she can't help it. "I have an appointment with Dr. Starr. At two. My -- my name is Beth Durand."

"All right then. And is this the first time you've been here?"

Beth watches the clerk roll her chair over to a small computer monitor. "No. I was just here the other day, down in the E.R. I was also here about a week ago, giving blood..."

The clerk's fingers fly at the keyboard as she peers at her monitor. "D-u-r-a-n-d, right? With a 'u' and one 'r'?"

"Yes."

"Hm. Looks like you haven't filled out any intake forms, so I'll need to give you a few--"

"Are you sure that's necessary? It's almost time for the appointment now."

"I know, but yes, it's standard procedure. You need to register with us, sign some waivers and receive a few patients' rights booklets. It shouldn't take too long."

Swallowing, Beth accepts a clipboard full of forms and several packets of information. She's directed over to a small waiting area, where she sits by a somewhat oppressive fake rubber plant and stares down at the upper most form -- a list of questions relating to her current health status. Finally she starts to check off the boxes that apply to her.

One question in particular makes her pause and clutch the pen more tightly between her cold, white fingers. Finally, exhaling in defiance, she checks the "No" box. Because no matter what Dr. Starr claims, Beth knows that the test results on Monday were wrong.

They have to be.

Criterion Holdings

Cornwall, NY

Cameron Nichols takes the sparkling glass of water from his executive assistant, thanking her, and turns back to the older woman sitting in the black chair nearby. "As you requested, Mother," he says, smiling as he bends to hand her the refreshment. "You seem extraordinarily thirsty today. This is your third glass since we left the restaurant. Are you feeling all right?"

Adele Nichols lifts her shoulders, which like the rest of her are draped in a deep, blood-red silk suit. "The sauces at Le Poisson are too salty. You should get rid of that second-rate sous-chef."

"You think so?" Cameron resumes his seat by her side. "My meal was excellent, and I've heard no complaints before. I prefer to let Chef Brounel take care of his kitchen."

Adele's topaz eyes seem to sharpen while she glares at him over the rim of her glass. "No wonder things have changed since I left the country. You should never leave important details to others. Le Poisson used to be a restaurant deserving of a Michelin star, and now look at its state."

"You've been spending too much time in Paris. All our restaurants can't be Pierre Gagnaire."

"No, but I'd rather they not turn into McDonald's."

Chuckling, Cameron shakes his head. "Come now, Mother. I hardly think that grilled salmon you ordered was the equivalent of a Filet-o-Fish. Something else made that lunch unpleasant for you -- what was it?"

"Turn your gaze inward, Cameron. Kindly don't analyze me, I'm not in the mood."

"I'm merely trying to encourage conversation." Cameron leans forward, clasping his hands together. "You've been remarkably silent for the past three days. It's not like you to be so secretive."

Adele tilts her head and reveals amusement at his words. Cameron laughs dryly. "Well, I'll rephrase that. It's not like you to be so secretive for so long. I can tell that you're distracted, and I'm a little concerned at its cause."

"Why, how touching. But I sense that you're not so much concerned for me as for others in your family."

He nods, still smiling but with less pleasure. "It hasn't escaped my notice that when you withhold information from me, it's often because you think you have something on Danny. Or even Nick."

"Nick? I have no interest in him or that side of the business. I handed those reins over to you long ago."

"So you say." Cameron relaxes in his chair. "Honestly, Mother, I'm aware that despite your so-called retirement, you go behind my back to ensure things are running as you see fit. Sometimes I ignore it, since it's harmless enough -- and I certainly trust your judgment in most things."

"Are my ears deceiving me?" Adele puts her glass down, hard, on the table beside her. "Are you actually condescending to me?"

"I wouldn't dream of it. I'm speaking the truth. You know how to run certain aspects of this corporation better than I -- although in time, I'm sure I'll be your equal, if you'll stop playing the puppetmaster trying to control things from behind the scenes."

Adele stands up, smoothing her skirt and pacing to his vast mahogany desk. "That time hasn't arrived yet. I won't be pushed into inactivity just to pacify your ego."

"And I'm not asking you to be inactive. I'm asking you to go against your sixty some-odd years of training and learn how to be forthright with someone. With me." Cameron hesitates, and then lowers his voice. "May I ask ... does this involve Danny?"

Though her back is to him, he can see the ripple of laughter going through her. When she turns around, she wears a supremely contemptuous expression on her regal ivory face.

"That question is precisely the reason you fail to be my equal. Unlike you, I've always known how to prioritize."

The cell phone in her purse gives a muffled chirp, cutting off Cameron's retort. He reaches over to the table where the black Chanel bag lies, but Adele's surprisingly swift gait back from the desk stops him from picking it up.

"Leave it," she snaps, reaching out to take the purse out from under his fingers. Slipping out the tiny silver phone, Adele flips it open and walks away, murmuring almost inaudibly.

Moments later, she turns back to Cameron. The curving smile of her red lips is of a cat contemplating the delectable flesh of a canary. And the sparkle in her eyes has returned.

Though Cameron is still annoyed with her, he can't help but observe the obvious: "Good news, I take it."

"Yes." Adele slips the phone back into her purse. "A pesky leak problem has just been dealt with."

"A leak. I take it you don't mean plumbing."

She laughs, pulling the chain of her purse over her shoulder. "That detail oriented I'm not. Thank you for lunch, Cameron."

Cameron stands up, smiling despite himself. "I suppose you're feeling more charitable towards the salmon now that your problem is gone?"

Adele turns the large brass handle to swing open the door. "Don't be absurd, the sous-chef needs to be tossed out. I'll talk to Chef Brounel about it myself." Leaving him without another word, she shuts the door behind her.

Schuyler Falls Police Department

Built twenty years ago, the second floor of the police station provides enough space for four detectives, the police chief's private office, a dozen or so uniformed officers marching in and out, some reluctant visitors such as witnesses and suspects, and squat, unattractive furniture consisting mostly of metal desks, creaking chairs and filing cabinets.

Right now, the place is empty except for the furniture ... and two men walking through the narrow aisle leading to Chief Cahill's office.

Frank Gabriel keeps his gaze squarely on the broad, leather-clad back of the man in front of him. Adrenaline surges through him, and it's all he can do not to grab his brother's arm, swing him around and let rage take over.

When he saw Del back on Sunday afternoon, Frank allowed the younger man to taunt him into such a reaction -- into unchecked, overemotional and far too tempting violence. If Olivia Ortiz hadn't stopped him, Frank could easily have continued to slam his fists into Del's smug, leering face without the slightest remorse.

Frank's still not sure if he's grateful to Olivia or not.

"Go on in," he orders now, nodding in the direction of the doorway nearby. "To the right."

Del stops at the glass door, turns slightly, and shifts his gaze to Frank. "This ain't your office. You taking over the squad, bro?"

"Just get inside," Frank mutters, not in the mood to define the department's hierarchy right now.

Del shrugs and enters Chief Cahill's office. Frank follows suit, closing the shuttered door behind them, and heads around the large desk to sit down. Del takes the seat opposite him, easily filling the chair with his large frame. Wearing a slow, cocky smile, he relaxes and tips his chair back, resting one foot on the edge of Cahill's desk.

Frank's jaw hardens. Standing up again, he leans forward and shoves Del's foot off the desk. "Show some goddamn respect," he snaps as Del's chair slams back down.

"Whatever you say, boss," Del drawls mockingly while readjusting his position.

Getting a good look at his brother for the first time in seven years, Frank can see the difference that time has wrought on his appearance. Del was always strong but lean. Now his body has bulked up tremendously -- his leather coat's sleeves are stretched to capacity, and he probably can't button it over his muscular chest. As would be expected in a man who's aged from 22 to 29, his face is now solid, more mature. And thanks to God only knows what violence he's experienced in prison, its dark brown skin now has a network of healed scars.

Not including the fresh wound on his lower lip that Frank gave him on Sunday.

Noticing the direction of Frank's gaze, Del lifts a hand to his mouth. "Yeah, you did a nice job there. Must've hurt your hand on me too."

"Actually it felt good," Frank says shortly. He clenches and unclenches his first beneath the desk. "I don't have time for small talk, so let's get to it. I've done some checking on you. I know you somehow fooled the parole board into believing you've changed enough to be released. I know you've spent the last few weeks sponging off Ellie. What I don't know is what you're doing here."

"No law against visiting my brother's workplace."

"Cut the crap, you know what I'm asking you. I want to know what you're doing here. In Schuyler Falls."

Del gestures towards the window. "Can't a man come back to his hometown?"

"This isn't your hometown. The family was only in Skyfalls for five years."

"But they were important years. Junior High. High school."

"Who the hell do you think you're talking to? School meant nothing to you. You cut every other day until they finally kicked your ass out--"

"Yo, they didn't kick me out. I quit."

Frank shakes his head in contempt. "Still rewriting history."

Del smiles and slowly returns his gaze to him. "It's a skill that's come in handy ... once or twice."

The apprehension that Frank has tried to hold at bay since first spying Del three days ago now rushes to flood his body. It turns his muscles to stone, and prevents him from taking a deep enough breath to speak.

Finally he forces the words from his throat. "I'm asking you again. Why are you here? What do you want?"

"What any man wants. Money. Happiness." Del leans forward a little. "You happy, Franklin?"

"This isn't about me."

"Sure it is. Because I want the same things you've got. And you sure got plenty, don't you? The house. The car."

"If you want things like that, get yourself a real job for the first time in your life."

Del lifts his hand. "I'm heading over to a job site later. But I'm thinking there might be a way to, y'know, speed up the process."

This puts a cold smile on Frank's face. "Yeah, I figured. You're looking for family handouts, is that it? Well, I know you've already borrowed plenty of Ellie's savings. And Theo's too smart to lend you a dime, even if he wasn't living hand-to-mouth."

"I didn't even bother asking him." Del's eyelids lower to half-mast. "So that leaves you."

"It leaves nobody. I'm not giving you a goddamn thing."

"I think you will. Better for both of us that way. Wouldn't want anything to happen to you, just 'cause you weren't charitable enough with your baby brother."

Frank doesn't even blink at the obvious implication. "Not too smart, Del. A guy on parole shouldn't be threatening a police officer."

"Threatening? Shit, I'm just talking about the bigger scheme of things. What goes around comes around, you know how it is. Besides, you've got plenty of money, right? You always saved every penny you earned. Ain't like you're spending it on clothes." The younger man gives him a one-sided smile. "Of course, there's that fine girlfriend of yours ... 'Livia with the gypsy eyes. Looks like she's the type who'll cost you. Maybe you should stop seeing her, that'll make you a little more liquid. Probably be safer for her anyway."

Frank pushes himself to his feet, barely controlling himself from lunging at Del. "That's the last time," he says in a near whisper. "The very last time you mention her. You got that?"

Maddeningly calm, Del lifts his shoulders. "That's right, you're always protecting your woman." He lets the phrase linger for a second, then tilts his head. "Not surprising, considering poor Nat. And I heard you lost another one a couple years ago. That true?"

Frank remains silent, hoping that the immediate stabbing pain caused by Del's words is safely hidden behind the wall of anger surrounding him. When there's no response, his brother stands and makes a clicking sound with his tongue, a sham of sympathy. "Now that's one piss-poor track record you've got, Franklin."

"Get out," Frank mutters, and then follows it up with a barked command: "Get out now!"

"I'm going. Don't wanna be late for my interview." Del moves to leave the office. "I'll be speaking to you soon, though. Our business ain't done, and I think seven years is a long time to wait for that happiness I've got coming to me."

On his way out, Del suddenly clasps one large hand on the edge of the door as he sends a cool glance back at his brother. "About your track record. Think that gypsy girl of yours knows she's living on borrowed time?"

With a snarl, Frank starts around the desk, but by the time he's taken three steps Del has shut the door behind him. And he has only a few seconds of deep, ragged breathing before the phone in Cahill's office rings.

"What?" he mutters into the receiver when he picks up. "I mean -- Chief Cahill's off--"

"Gabe, it's Smitty. 911 just got a report of a body found behind the Moonlight Bay club."

Frank exhales, trying to get himself together. "Jesus, not again. Does it look like a homicide?"

"Not from what I've heard. But I think you'll want to know about this one..."

David Reilly's House

In the bright kitchen, Noah Morgan's sun-kissed hair is in stark contrast to his disconcertingly dark gaze. Moving nothing but his eyes, he shifts his intense stare over to the detective nearby, as if daring Mike Fiore to ask his question a third time.

Mike is too pissed off and stressed to be intimidated by a suspect. "You plan on answering, Mr. Morgan, or do I have to drag you uptown?"

"We've discussed that already. You've no cause to arrest me."

"Complain about that to your lawyer after waiting in a holding cell for a couple of hours." Mike lowers his voice. "Besides, you're a material witness. That's cause enough."

Noah continues to look at him, and without so much as blinking he shifts gears. "You ask if I knew David and Clark Durand were romantically involved. Well, no, Detective, I didn't." He pauses, and then twists his mouth into an odd smile. "Fact is, I still don't know."

"I'm telling you they were."

"That's not good enough. I'd be curious to hear the name of your source, this person who supposedly saw David at the nightclub?"

Mike lifts an eyebrow. "No offense, but I'm not gonna be divulging that info to you."

"Why not?" Noah's smile doesn't change. "Because you suspect I'm a murderer?"

You're damn right. "If I do, your attitude isn't helping matters any. I think it's kind of strange that you're not being more open to us. What's the matter, Noah? Don't you want to see David's murder solved?"

Noah looks at him for a few seconds, than chuckles as he lifts his mug of tea. "Ah, so I've switched from 'Mr. Morgan' to 'Noah.' A trusty tactic. I see you are considering me a suspect."

After remaining quiet for much of Mike and Noah's back-and-forth dialogue, Officer Bill Howard interjects himself into the tense moment. "Do you have some experience with the police, sir?"

Mike watches Noah's sudden shift of attention to the youngest of the three men, and can't help noticing the wariness that flickers across his usually guarded expression. Atta boy, Billy.

But Noah recovers in an instant, barely hesitating before his response. "I've seen enough cop programs to recognize a standard interrogation trick."

"Yeah?" Bill's boyish face lights up a little. "American shows or British ones? Man, I loved Prime Suspect. That Helen Mirren--"

"Yes, she's excellent." Noah sets his mug down again, amused. "Sorry, but I'm afraid you're wasting your time, Officer. I'm familiar with the good-cop-bad-cop routine, too."

Mike's jaw hardens. The past few days have been bad enough, with no sign of the bastard who attacked and terrorized his fiancée, and Martina now too shaky to spend the night in their burglarized home. But Noah Morgan is tearing away at his last nerve with this smug, superior attitude, and Mike loses what little patience he has left.

"That's it," Mike says roughly, taking a step closer to Noah. "You're about to see bad-cop-bad-cop, because I'm sick of your non-answers. Warrant or not, Officer Howard and I are gonna take you to the station, see if you do any better there. You can go in cuffs or you can come along--"

Mike's beeper interrupts his threat. He swallows the remaining words and orders Bill to keep an eye on Noah, backing away so he can answer the call.

A few moments later, he closes his phone thoughtfully before turning to the other two men. "Looks like you get a reprieve, Mr. Morgan," he murmurs. "We'll have to finish this later."

Noah leans back against the sink countertop, apparently unconcerned about his narrow brush with getting arrested. Mike dismisses him and nods at Bill. "There's a 10-29 over on 1st. Uniforms are there already."

Without a beat, Bill moves smoothly to the hallway. Mike follows suit, but though his mind is no longer concentrating on the Reilly case, he doesn't forget the object of his suspicion. He glances backwards at Noah's immobile form. "You'll be staying in town."

"As promised, Detective." Noah lifts an eyebrow. "Despite all the crime, it's a pleasant enough place to be."

After Mike closes the front door behind him -- Noah didn't bother seeing them to the door -- he joins Bill on the path leading to the sidewalk. Bill's blue-green eyes peer closely at him. "What is it, Mike? Looks like it's more than just a dead body."

"It is." Mike tries to sound neutral, but the mixed emotions churning within him tighten his vocal cords. "Supposedly he's got an ID on him. It's Rick Henderson -- Martina's attacker."