Marker

twelve

ONE HUNDRED NINETY-NINE, two hundred," Jazz counted to herself before stopping her sit-ups. She lay back on the inclined plane of the sit-up apparatus, keeping her hands behind her head while she stared up at the ceiling panels of the health club's weight room. She was breathing heavily from pushing herself during her entire workout by doing twice her normal number of repetitions with each exercise and at each weight station. Such exertion usually had a cathartic effect on her, cleansing her mind, and today was no different. She felt better. She closed her eyes and let her body relax, despite her head being lower than the rest of her, causing her blood to rush to her head.

The problem had been that Jazz hadn't been able to stop fretting about the snafus with Lewis and Sobczyk to the point that sleep had been difficult. Prior to those two messy episodes, she'd done ten missions without a speck of trouble. It irritated her that people could be so difficult, especially Lewis grabbing her arm the way he did. Sobczyk hadn't been much better, the way she gurgled and writhed around at just the wrong time. The only good part was that that sorry situation had pushed her over the edge as far as Susan Chapman was concerned. Jazz had fantasized about getting rid of her from day one, and now it was done.

Jazz slipped her feet from beneath the padded restraints and swung her legs over to the side. She stood up and glanced in the mirror at her very red and perspiring face. She grabbed her towel and wiped the sweat off her forehead before glancing up at the clock. Although she had essentially doubled her entire workout routine, it had taken her only thirty minutes longer.

Letting her eyes briefly sweep around the room, she caught the inevitable furtive looks from the mostly male occupants, including blond Mr. Ivy League, whom she hadn't seen for a while. In the mood she was in, she almost wished he'd try to talk to her again. This time, she wouldn't be so nice.

Knowing that she had to get a move on if she was to get to work reasonably early, Jazz headed for the locker room. Now that she had her irritation about the Lewis and Sobczyk episodes under control, she was able to think more clearly about them. Both were hardly her fault. Rotating her left arm, she looked at the still-raw scratch marks. She couldn't believe the guy had had the nerve to scratch her like that, and she hoped to hell he wasn't HIV-positive. He certainly deserved what he got. In the future, Jazz reminded herself, she should steer clear of the subject's free hand. As far as the Sobczyk debacle was concerned, that was Chapman's fault, and now that Chapman was history, there was little to worry about.

With her towel and her Walkman in one hand, Jazz used the other to push into the woman's locker room. She tossed the towel into the convenient hamper, and with the Walkman under her arm, she took a Coke from the ice-filled tub. After a glance around to make sure no one was watching, she walked on. She flipped the tab and took a long, satisfying slug.

Ultimately, the real threat of the foul-ups with Lewis and Sobczyk was the possibility of discovery. Mr. Bob had warned about ripples, and both episodes had been like ten-foot waves. Participating in Operation Winnow had been the best thing that had ever happened to Jazz, and she shuddered to think of what might have occurred had she not wasted Chapman when she did. Or, worse yet, what might have happened if Chapman had gone directly to the nursing supervisor that morning instead of walking out to her car. Jazz didn't even like to think about it, because everything she had worked for could have gone down the drain. Back at the beginning of her relationship with Mr. Bob, she had decided that she was not going to let anything or anybody stand between her and her newfound success. Just before she came to the health club, she'd gone online and checked her account. As she had anticipated, her balance was now close to fifty thousand dollars. Just looking at the figures had made her feel like she had died and gone to heaven.

"Hey," someone taunted. "I heard you were a nurse, not a neurosurgeon!"

Jazz stopped and turned to look at the person who had spoken to her. She was a fleshy woman, trussed up in a towel like a cannoli. "Do I know you?"

"You told me you were a neurosurgeon," the woman said disdainfully. "And the trusting person I am, I believed you. Well, I know differently now."

A derisive half-laugh escaped from Jazz's mouth. Vaguely, she remembered making such a comment, but the fact that this tub of lard remembered it and had the nerve to bring it up was a bad joke. "Why don't you get a life, you porker?" Jazz scoffed and then walked on before the woman could respond. Jazz shook her head and wondered if she should begin checking out another health club. At her current one, it used to be just the men who irked her, but now that the women were starting, it might be time to move on.

Jazz didn't take long in the shower, nor did she dillydally, climbing into her scrubs and white jacket. When she pulled on her oversized olive-drab coat, she checked her pockets as she always did. She fondled the Glock and the Blackberry while she scanned the locker to make sure she'd taken everything she wanted.

As Jazz rode down in the elevator, she wondered when she'd get her next mission for Operation Winnow. She hoped it would be soon, and not just for the money. With the problems on the last two cases making the possibility of discovery a realistic concern, she worried about being spooked. She'd learned about dealing with such negative thoughts in the military. The idea was to jump right back into the water.

On the upper garage level, she headed over toward her waiting car. It gleamed in the garage's raw fluorescent light and looked awesome despite the fact that it was no longer virginal. On the back left quarter panel was a smudge of yellow paint and a slight dent from a recent run-in with a taxicab. Jazz wasn't happy about the defect in the vehicle's otherwise flawless surface, but the damage to the taxi and the irritation of the driver compensated for the minor blemish.

When Jazz was about ten feet away, she activated the door release, and she could hear the mechanical clicks as the doors unlocked. Coming alongside, she glanced at her reflection in the tinted windows and fluffed her fringed hair with her fingers. She opened the driver's-side door, tossed her gym bag into the passenger-side seat, and swung herself up behind the wheel. As she stuck the key in the ignition with anticipation of hearing the roar of the V- 8, a hand gripped her shoulder.

Jazz almost went through the roof. Spinning around fast enough to jab herself in the hip with the steering wheel, she shot a glance into the backseat. In the half-light of the interior, made dim by the darkly tinted windows, all she could see were the outlines of two men. Their faces were hidden in shadow. While Jazz frantically struggled to get her hand into her coat pocket to get the Glock, one of the men spoke: "Howdy, Doc JR!"

"Jesus, Mr. Bob!" Jazz blurted. She gave up on the Glock. Instead, she slapped her hand over her forehead. "You scared me half to death."

"That wasn't the intention," Mr. Bob said unapologetically. "We're just being discreet." He was sitting on the passenger side of the back seat, leaning slightly forward. The other man was sitting back with his arms crossed.

"How the hell did you get in here?" Jazz questioned. She squinted to try to get a look at the other guy while rubbing the top of her iliac crest. It was throbbing from its painful contact with the steering wheel.

"Easy. We kept a key when we delivered the vehicle. I'd like you to meet a colleague of mine: Mr. Dave."

"I can't see either one of you," Jazz complained. "Should I turn on the interior light?"

"It's not necessary, and I prefer you don't."

"What are you doing here?"

"We came for reassurance."

"Reassurance about what?"

"For one thing, we want to be certain the two patients whose names you got yesterday were sanctioned."

"Absolutely. I did them both last night." Jazz felt her pulse quicken. Nervously she worried that Bob had somehow learned about the screwups.

"Then there's the little matter of a nurse getting whacked in the Manhattan General's parking lot, supposedly for a measly fifty bucks. What can you tell us about that sorry incident?"

"Nothing. I haven't heard a thing. When did it happen?" Jazz ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth. It had gone bone-dry. But she purposefully didn't look away or squirm in her seat, thanks to her military interrogation training.

"This morning, between seven and eight. The name was Susan Chapman. Did you know her?"

"Susan Chapman! Of course I knew her. She was the incompetent charge nurse on my floor."

"That's what we thought, and frankly, that's why we are concerned. We wanted to be reassured you weren't involved, considering your reputation, Doc JR. I know that officer bastard in San Diego had it coming, but you did shoot him, even if not lethally. Are you sure this Susan Chapman didn't get in your face and push you over the edge, something like the marine officer? We feel it is kind of a coincidence she got shot, considering your history, and she being your immediate superior."

"Is that what this is about? You think I shot Susan Chapman? Hey, no way! I mean, Susan and I might have had our differences, but that was minor stuff like her always giving me the crap patients or giving me lip because I sat down for two seconds. There's no way I'd shoot her. Come on! What do you think I am, crazy?"

"The point here is that we have to be certain your behavior is beyond reproach. I made that very clear when I recruited you into the program. Remember! There can't be any ripples. Of course, all this is predicated on your wanting to remain an active participant in Operation Winnow."

"Absolutely," Jazz said with conviction.

"You're happy with your compensation, and I trust this SUV we're sitting in has been an enjoyment?"

"There's no question. I'm very happy."

"Good! Now, do I have your word that if there's a problem in any aspect in relation to your position, or your fellow workers, or the work that you do for us, you'll give me a call with the special number I gave you? I trust you still have the number?"

"I thought that telephone number was just for emergencies."

"I'd consider what I'm talking about an emergency. I want you to call if you are ever tempted to do anything out of the ordinary, particularly anything violent that might stimulate an investigation like I'm certain this murder of the charge nurse will do. Remember! I told you from the beginning that for us, security is of the utmost importance, since any breach could put the entire operation in jeopardy. I'm sure you don't want to do that."

"Of course not."

"We consider any type of investigation worrisome, especially if you are drawn into it."

"I agree."

"Then we see eye to eye."

"Most definitely."

Mr. Bob turned to his companion. "Is there anything you'd like to say or ask Doc JR?"

"How many days a week do you come to this sports club?" Mr. Dave asked. He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward slightly.

Jazz shrugged. "I don't know, maybe five or six, sometimes even seven. Why?"

"So, other than your apartment or the hospital, this is the only other place you spend significant amounts of your time?"

"I suppose."

"Any current boyfriends or close girlfriends?"

"Not really," Jazz said. Although she could not see the man's face, from his voice, she felt that Mr. Dave was younger than Mr. Bob. "What the hell are these questions for?"

"We always like to know our agents," Mr. Bob said, "and the more facts we have, the better we know them."

"Seems rather personal to me."

"That's the kind of operation this is," Mr. Bob said with a smile. His teeth looked particularly white in the dim light. "Do you have any questions for us?"

"Yeah! What are your real names?" Jazz laughed nervously. She felt she was at a distinct disadvantage with them knowing about her and she knowing nothing about them.

"Sorry, that's confidential."

"Then I don't have any questions."

"Okay," Mr. Bob said. "We have something for you: another name. I trust that you are working tonight."

"Absolutely! I'm on the next four nights, so I'm available. What's the name?"

"Clark Mulhausen."

Jazz repeated the name. With a new mission, she was now fully recovered from the shock of the men surprising her in the Hummer and from Chapman's murder being mentioned. In fact, she was now elated. She was, in her words, jumping right back into the water.

"So you'll be able to do Clark tonight?"

"Consider it done," Jazz said with a confident, wry smile.

Mr. Bob opened his door and got out. Mr. Dave did the same on his side. "Remember! No ripples!" Mr. Bob reminded her before closing his door.

"No ripples," Jazz repeated over her shoulder, but she wasn't sure the men had heard, because both rear doors closed simultaneously as she spoke. She watched the two men walk down the row of cars toward an H2 Hummer that was a spitting image of hers. Jazz hadn't noticed it when she'd come into the garage. As soon as the men climbed into their vehicle, Jazz started her engine and backed out of her slot.

"Creeps," she muttered as she drove toward the ramp leading up to the street. Although she was excited about getting another name and glad everything was copacetic about Operation Winnow, she was aggravated by the way she was being treated. She didn't like being subservient and talked down to, which is what the conversation with Mr. Bob and Mr. Dave had been like. Even the names of the two men were stupid and a slap in the face. She also vaguely wondered how much they were being paid for each sanction if she was getting five grand. Hell, she thought, she was doing all the work.

"So, what do you think?" David Rosenkrantz asked Robert Hawthorne.

Bob was in the driver's seat, slowly drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and staring out the windshield at the bare concrete wall while he mulled over their conversation with Jazz. He had yet to start the car. Dave was in the passenger seat, eyeing his boss.

"I don't know," Bob said finally, throwing both hands into the air. He shook his head and turned to his underling. Bob was a big, athletic-appearing man with coarse features that contrasted with his Italian suit. The natty dress was a relatively new affectation. Most of his life had been spent in military fatigues, roaming the world on special ops as a member of the Army's Special Forces. "Running this operation is a classic catch-22. We spend so much effort finding and cultivating these antisocial fruitcakes who are willing to carry out the missions without compunction, but then we have to deal with their craziness. This Rakoczi is a case in point. Can you imagine she actually tried to shoot that marine officer in the nuts just because he made a pass at her?"

"Yet she's effective," said Dave. Dave was in his mid-twenties, almost half Bob's age. He was of a slighter build but equally athletic. He'd been recruited by Bob in prison, where both had done time: Bob for nearly killing a gay man who had made the mistake of approaching him in a bar, and Dave for simple grand larceny.

"She's the best we have," Bob answered. "That's why I'm torn. There's no pussyfooting around with Radoczi. We give her a name and bam, the person's gone the same night. Not once has there been any hesitation and excuses like we've had to put up with, with all the others. But like I implied to her, I'm afraid she might be a loose cannon."

"Do you think she was involved with the murder of the nurse?"

"To tell you the truth, I have no idea, although I wouldn't put it past her. At the same time, I know she wouldn't do it for fifty bucks, so maybe it was a mugging. I just don't know. I'd hoped that by surprising her, we'd have a better idea."

"She didn't react much when you first mentioned the nurse's name, but then she seemed to get a little mad."

"I got the same impression, but I don't know how to interpret it. Like most of our emissaries, she has a history of not getting along with her superiors, so the news that Chapman was dead might have just made her feel good about not having her around anymore." Bob started the vehicle's engine and twisted around to back out of the parking slot.

"I think we'll just have to hold tight and see what happens," Bob said. Once he got the car in the clear, he put it in drive and started for the ramp. "If there are any more coincidental shootings, we'll have to suspect the worst, and she'll have to go. If that happens, you'll be the man."

"Yeah, I know," Dave said. "That's why I asked her about her habits."

"I guessed as much," Bob said, pulling up to the booth. "But take what she said with a grain of salt. People like Rakoczi have as much qualms about lying as they do about polishing their shoes."

Dave nodded, but he wasn't concerned. Rakoczi's loner inclinations would make dealing with her a breeze.