<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ff99">A spot of trouble.  Right.  A spot of trouble that involved <i>gutting </i>an informant.  And how delusional -- or arrogant -- did a man have to be, to admit to to gutting somebody in front of an FBI agent.<br/>
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She drank deeply of her doctored coffee.  "Okay.  Irish mob.  That's not good."  She blew out a breath, fluttering the hair around her face.  "Okay."  She forced herself to stay calm.  Hitmen and the mob were pretty contrary to calm, but she had to do the job.<br/>
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"I talked to some people I trust in Vice.  So far, no one's seen anything unusual on the street -- no upticks in violent disturbances there, either.  But..." she pulled a folder out of the messenger back next to her on the seat, "there's been a sharp increase of people checking themselves in to inpatient psychiatric care.  I wasn't able to interview any of them, but my gut says that it's related to the case."</span></span>