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sixteen

ROGER LEANED BACK AND stretched his arms up toward the ceiling. They felt cramped after the hours he'd spent leaning over the library table in the conference room of the human resources department of St. Francis Hospital. Stacked around the table in little individual piles were numerous pages of computer printouts, plus a recently burned CD. Sitting across from him was the department head, Rosalyn Leonard. She was a serious-appearing, tall, striking woman with inky black hair and porcelain skin who had initially intimidated Roger since she seemed immune to his charm, which Roger took personally. It was inordinately important for him to think of himself as attractive to women he thought were attractive. But persistence had paid off, and as the hours had passed, he had finally prevailed. Ever so slowly at first, she had begun to warm. During the last hour, he felt she was flirting in return. The fact that she was not wearing a wedding band was not lost on Roger, and as the day melded into evening, he had tactfully inquired about her social status. When he learned that she was single and currently between relationships, he even considered taking the risk of asking her for a dinner date, especially if things didn't work out with Laurie.

When Roger had come out to Queens from Manhattan earlier that afternoon it had been a little like going home, since the hospital was located in the East Side of Rego Park, which was a stone's throw away from the section of Forest Hills where he had grown up. Although both of his parents had passed away, he had several aunts and an uncle who still lived close to his boyhood home. As he'd peered out of the taxi window while cruising along Queens Boulevard, he'd even entertained the idea to pass by the old homestead when he was finished with his errand.

Roger had made significant progress. His meeting with Bruce Martin, who headed up the Manhattan General Hospital 's department of human resources, had been quite fruitful, although not at the outset. When Roger had initially asked straight-out for employee records, Bruce had told him that there were all sorts of federal rules that restricted access to such information. That forced Roger to be creative in his request, by contending that in his role as the chief of the medical staff, he was starting a study about the interaction between the doctors and all the support and custodial staff, particularly in regard to new employees and particularly during the night shift, when the hospital was on, in his words, "cruise control." Roger assiduously avoided mentioning even a hint of his true goal.

By the time Roger had left Bruce's office, he'd been promised a list of all employees at the Manhattan General Hospital and a list of new employees since mid-November, with a particular emphasis on people who worked the eleven-to-seven night shift. There had been a slight worry in Roger's mind when he had proposed such a seemingly arbitrary commencement date for the new employees that Bruce would have become suspicious in some form or fashion, but Bruce had merely written it down without any reaction. He promised Roger he'd have the list before he left work that very afternoon, and would have it placed on Roger's desk.

The second thing Bruce had done was call Rosalyn Leonard, his counterpart at St. Francis Hospital, to tell her that Roger would be coming over and to give her an idea of what Roger needed. At the time, Roger didn't appreciate how helpful that had been. Had Roger walked in off the street with his requests, which was his initial plan, he wouldn't have gotten anywhere with Rosalyn. There was no doubt in Roger's mind that she would have been dismissive and unhelpful. Thanks to Bruce's call, she had already done some of the preliminary work before Roger arrived. It turned out that getting the kind of lists Roger wanted required accessing a number of different sources. Roger had been surprised that the various departments in AmeriCare hospitals more or less functioned as individual fiefdoms within the constraints of their centrally dictated budgets.

The other thing Roger had accomplished before leaving the Manhattan General was to get Caroline started on amassing the professional staff list, with particular interest in those physicians who had admitting privileges for both the Manhattan General and St. Francis. Roger had taken the time to see if that information was generally available by calling up a few individual doctor's records. Unfortunately, it was spotty. Caroline had promised him she would do what she could, as it wasn't specifically coded. She had said that she was hopeful, since she was personally friendly with one of the computer whizzes employed by the hospital, who could often figure out how to do the impossible.

"Well, there you have it," Rosalyn said, pushing a final, thin stack of papers in Roger's direction across the library table's varnished surface. She patted the top with the palm of her hand. "Here's a complete list of all Saint Francis employees as of mid-November, with a notation of those working the night shift; a list of St. Francis employees who either quit or were terminated between mid-November and mid-January; a list of our full-time professional staff, also as of mid-November; and finally, a list of our professional staff with admitting privileges. Is that all you want for your study? What about new employees since mid-November?"

"No need," Roger said. "I think this should do it for what I have in mind." He glanced through the pages containing all the hospital employees as of mid-November and shook his head in amazement. "I had no idea so many people were required to run an American hospital." He wanted to divert the conversation away from his putative study. As sharp as Rosalyn was, he guessed she'd see through his ruse rather quickly if he was forced to say too much.

"Like all AmeriCare hospitals, we're actually on the lower slope of the bell curve," Rosalyn said. "As with all managed-care organizations, one of the first things AmeriCare does when it takes over a hospital is reduce the personnel in most every department. I should know, since the unenviable task fell to me. I was responsible for a sizable number of pink slips."

"That must have been difficult," Roger offered in an unconsciously preoccupied tone. He put the full list aside and glanced at the list of the employees that had left St. Francis. Even that was much longer than he had anticipated. It also wasn't as detailed as he had hoped, particularly in respect to which particular shift individual employees worked, whether they were terminated or left on their own accord, and where they went. "I'm surprised there is as much turnover as this. Is this representative?"

"Generally speaking, yes, but it might be slightly on the high side, because the period you are interested in encompasses the holidays. If people are thinking of moving to a new job, and want to take a little time off in between, the holidays are a popular and predictable time."

"And it seems like it's mostly nurses."

"Unfortunately, that's the reality. There's a serious nursing shortage, which puts them in the driver's seat. We're constantly recruiting nurses, and other hospitals are recruiting ours like a tug-of-war. We're even being reduced to seeking prospective candidates abroad."

"Really?" Roger questioned. He knew the United States drained doctors from developing countries who came to America, presumably to train, but then stayed, but he wasn't aware that nurses were being recruited as well. Considering the health needs of the developing world, it seemed ethically questionable at best. "The list doesn't say where the individuals went."

Rosalyn shook her head. "That information isn't put into the main employee data bank. It might be in the individual record if the individual requested a recommendation be sent to another institution or if an inquiry came in from another institution. But we have to be very chary with those records, as you well know. There's always the threat of litigation unless the individual authorizes access. "

Roger nodded. "What if I end up with questions about individual people for my study? I mean, questions about their records in regard to their general performance while at Saint Francis, like whether they got along with their coworkers or whether there was any disciplinary action taken for any reason."

"That will be difficult," Rosalyn said, nodding as if agreeing with herself. "Is this study of yours an in-house study, or is it something you're thinking of publishing?"

"Oh, it's definitely in-house with limited access, except at the highest administrative level. It's definitely not meant for publication."

"If that's the case, I can probably help you, but I'd need to run it by our president and general counsel. Do you want me to do that Monday? That would be the first chance I'd have."

"No, not really," Roger said quickly. The last thing he wanted was for the two presidents to have a chat about his so-called study. "Hold off until I see if I need any more personal information on any of these people. I probably won't."

"Just give me twenty-four hours' notice if you do."

Roger nodded and was eager to change the subject. He cleared his throat and finally got around to ask the key question on his mind. "Which, if any, of these employees who left Saint Francis came to the Manhattan General, meaning they stayed within the AmeriCare family? Is that information readily available?"

"Not that I'm aware of. As you know, AmeriCare operates its hospitals as individual entities. The only economies of scale relate to price and origin of basic supplies. If a Saint Francis employee leaves and goes to Manhattan General, for us it's no different than if they went to a non-AmeriCare hospital."

Roger nodded again. What he was realizing was that he was facing some serious collating time when he got back to his office. The chance that he'd have something to take over to Laurie's apartment that evening as an excuse to get together with her was looking slim. He lifted his wrist and glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to seven. The window behind Rosalyn was completely dark. Night had long since fallen.

"I'm afraid I've kept you here an unreasonably long time," Roger said. He smiled warmly. "I'm very appreciative of your help, but I'm afraid I'm feeling particularly guilty since it is Friday night, and I'm sure I have kept you from something much more entertaining and enjoyable."

"It has been my pleasure to help, Dr. Rousseau. Bruce was very flattering about you when he called. I understand you were with Médecins San Frontières."

"I'm afraid so," Roger said modestly. "But please call me Roger."

"Thank you, doctor," Rosalyn said and then laughed at herself. "I mean, thank you, Roger."

"There's no reason to thank me. It is I who should be thanking you."

"I've read about the work that Médecins Sans Frontières does around the globe. I'm very impressed."

"There is a great need in the world for even the most basic healthcare in the trouble spots of the world." Roger was pleased that the conversation had taken such a personal turn.

"I'm sure. Where did you go during your service?"

"South Pacific, the Far East, and finally Africa. A mixture of impenetrable jungle and arid desert." Roger smiled. He had this story down pat, and just like it had with Laurie, it usually had an auspicious social outcome.

"It sounds like a movie. What made you leave Médecins Sans Frontières, and what brought you to New York?"

Roger's smile broadened. He took a deep breath before closing in on the pièce de résistance of his come-on. "The eventual realization I wasn't going to change the world. I'd tried, but it wasn't going to happen. Then, like a migratory bird, I felt the instinctive need to come back here to nest and start a family. You see, I was born in Brooklyn and grew up in neighboring Forest Hills."

"How romantic. Have you found the lucky lady?"

"Hardly. I've been too busy getting myself situated and adjusted to living in the civilized world."

"Well, I'm certain you will not have any trouble," Rosalyn said as she began amassing the papers from which she'd culled the lists she'd given to Roger. "I bet you have some fascinating stories to tell about your travels."

"Indeed!" Roger responded happily. He was relieved. He knew he'd piqued her interest. "I'll be happy to share a few of the less harrowing, if you'd allow me to buy you dinner. It's the least I can do after having kept you here for so long. That is, of course, if you are free. Would you allow me the honor?"

Somewhat flustered, Rosalyn shrugged. "I suppose."

"Then it's a deal," Roger said. He stood up and stretched his legs. "There's an Italian restaurant here in Rego Park that's been a fixture since the fifties as a hangout for the local mafioso. The food was great the last time I was there eons ago, and not a bad wine list, either. Are you game to see if it still exists?"

Rosalyn shrugged again. "It sounds intriguing, but I can't be out late."

"Me neither. Heck, I'm going back to the office tonight."

Jasmine Rakoczi!" a voice called.

Jazz stopped her repetitions on one of her favorite exercises. She was lying prone working her hamstrings and buttocks. Turning her head to the side, she could see that someone was standing next to the machine she was using. Surprisingly enough, the feet and legs were female, not male. Jazz took her earphones out, then twisted around to look up into the face of the individual. She couldn't see much, because the face was backlit from the fluorescent ceiling lights.

"I'm sorry to bother you," said the almost featureless face.

Jazz could not believe someone was harassing her in the middle of her routine, and it was more irritation than anything else that got her to extract her legs from the machine and sit up. She found herself confronted by one of the women who manned the front desk. She'd seen her earlier when she'd signed in.

"What's the damn problem?" Jazz demanded. She wiped her forehead with her towel.

"There are a couple of gentlemen out in the lobby," the woman said. "They said they needed to see you right away, but Mr. Horner wouldn't let them come back here."

A slight but distinctly uncomfortable shiver descended Jazz's spine. Mr. Bob and Mr. Dave's unexpected visit the evening before flashed into her mind. Something must be up. It wasn't like Mr. Bob to approach her in such a public place.

"I'll be out," Jazz said. She took a drink from her water bottle as she watched the health-club employee head out of the weight room. Jazz's first thought was that her Glock was back in the pocket of her coat, hanging in the locker. If there was going to be trouble, she wanted the Glock. But why would there be trouble? Mulhausen had gone smoothly, without a ripple. The only thing that came to her mind was the possibility of something happening in regard to the Chapman investigation. Like everyone else on the eleven-to-seven shift, Jazz had been approached by a couple of exhausted-looking detectives for routine questioning. But that had gone down just fine, as evidenced by the conversation they'd all had at nursing report. The buzz was that it had been a mugging, pure and simple. Hospital security had made a big point of promising they'd be beefing up patrols, particularly at the times when shifts changed.

Jazz walked quickly to the door. As preoccupied as she was she didn't even notice the men staring at her. Wasting no time, she went back to the locker room and grabbed a Coke at the entrance. Opening her locker, she pulled on her coat over her workout clothes, thrusting her hand into her right pocket to clutch her Glock.

With one hand in her pocket and the other holding the Coke, Jazz had to use her shoulder to open the door to the lobby. Beyond the sign-in desk, there was a rather spacious sitting room, and beyond that, a restaurant and bar. There was even a small sports-apparel shop.

Jazz quickly scanned the people sprinkled around the space, and not seeing Mr. Bob or Mr. Dave, she went over to the sign-in desk and asked the receptionist for the men who wanted to see her. She pointed to two men hidden behind newspapers. Clearly, they were not Mr. Bob and Mr. Dave. From the look of their lower halves, they could have been homeless bums.

"Are you sure they asked for me?" Jazz questioned. Her next worry was that they were a couple of deep-undercover detectives trying to scare up dirt about Chapman. With a sense of resignation, Jazz walked over to where the two men were sitting. Her hand still clutched the Glock in her pocket.

"Hello!" Jazz called irritably. "I was told you two were looking for me."

The men lowered their papers, and when they did so, Jazz could feel her face flush and her pulse pound in her temples. It was all she could do to keep from pulling out her gun. One of the men was her father, Geza Rakoczi. He had a two-day growth of stubble on his face, as did his companion.

"Jasmine, dear, how are you?" Gesa questioned.

Jazz could smell the alcohol on his breath from where she was standing behind a shallow coffee table littered with magazines. Without answering, Jasmine looked at the other man. She'd never seen him before.

"This is Carlos," Geza said, noticing the direction of Jazz's attention.

Jazz looked back at her father. She'd not seen him for years and had hoped he'd drunk himself into the grave. "How did you find me?"

"Carlos has a friend who's good with a computer. He says you can find anything on the Internet. So I told him to find you, and he did. He said you played a lot of online games and used what he called 'chat rooms.' I don't know anything about all that malarkey, but he sure did find you. He even found out you were a member of this club." Geza's eyes roamed around. "Pretty fancy place. I'm impressed. You're doing all right, girl."

"What are you doing here?" Jazz demanded.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I need a little money, and knowing you're a fancy nurse and all, I thought I'd ask. You see, your mother died, God rest her soul. I got to come up with some money, or they'll be burying her out on some island in a plain wooden box."

For a moment, all Jazz could see in her mind's eye was the thirteen dollars she'd made shoveling snow. Remembering what happened to it only deepened her fury. As hard as she was holding the Glock, she was smart enough to take her finger out of the trigger guard.

"Get the hell out of here!" Jazz spat. She spun on her heels and headed back toward the locker room. She could hear Geza call out her name, and the next thing she knew, he had grabbed her shoulder, pulling her around.

Jazz yanked her hand out of her pocket-luckily without the Glock. Later, she'd wondered how it had happened, since her instinct was to draw the weapon. She jabbed her finger into his face. "Don't you ever touch me again!" she snarled. "And don't come pestering me! You know what I'm saying? If you do, I'll kill you. It's that simple."

Jazz turned again and headed for the locker room. She could hear Geza try to complain, saying that he was her father, but she didn't stop, and he didn't try to follow. She returned to her locker, spun the combination, and put her coat away. Back in the weight room, she decided to start her routine from the top, even though when she'd been disturbed, she was close to finishing.

Jazz had needed the exertion to control her fury and it worked to a large degree. By the time she returned to the locker room for her shower, she had regained control. She could almost see some humor in the pathetic creature that her father had become. She wondered when her mother had died. Jazz was amazed she'd lasted this long, as obese as she was.

Since she was behind schedule after doubling her workout routine, Jazz showered and dressed hurriedly. Emerging from the locker room, she looked back into the lobby area where her father had been sitting, and was relieved that he'd taken the hint and left.

As she approached her car, she couldn't help but remember the previous night, and after opening the door, the first thing she did was check the backseat. She wasn't happy about Mr. Bob and Mr. Dave surprising her the way they did. She liked to think of herself as being wary and observant.

Climbing into the Hummer and buckling herself in, Jazz was looking forward to some fun on the way to the hospital. Dueling with taxicabs was a good way to deal with the remnant of anxiety that her father's surprise visit had aroused. Waiting in the short line to get out of the garage, she got out her Blackberry. After three names in the last two nights, she wasn't optimistic, but she wanted to check just the same.

At the first red light, she logged on for messages. To her delight, there was one from Mr. Bob. Hastily, she opened it. "Yes!" she cried out. There was another name on her LCD screen. It was Patricia Pruit.

A smile spread across Jazz's face. All was well. By that time the following night, her account balance would be more than sixty thousand dollars.

When the light changed, Jazz bolted ahead of the pack of cars and taxis. No one seemed to want to challenge her. Settling back into the seat, she thought about how her father had found her. She was a little surprised. Although she spent a lot of time in chat rooms on the Internet, she thought she had been careful about her identity and whereabouts, except for the few times she "hooked up." She decided she'd better be more careful, because she liked chat rooms and wasn't about to give up the pleasure. It was only online that she found people of like mind to whom she could truly relate, respect, and even love. It was such a far cry from the assholes she had to deal with in real life.

Roger's dinner with Rosalyn turned out to be an unqualified success. The fact that she had been aloof when they first met was more than adequately made up by her behavior during dinner, particularly after she'd had a few glasses of wine. Following the meal, Roger tried to put her in a taxi to take her home, but she insisted that they share one. Outside her Kew Gardens apartment, she mounted a hard-to-resist argument for Roger to come in for a nightcap, a term Roger hadn't heard since college.

Ultimately, Roger did resist, even after a sustained and passionate kiss on the sidewalk. Roger had kept one hand on the open taxi door. Despite being severely tempted to take advantage of her hospitality and whatever else her newly expressed physicality implied, Roger kept reminding himself about the work he planned to do in his office. He felt he was on a roll, and even if he couldn't have anything that evening to present to Laurie, the weekend was just beginning.

After a promise to keep in touch, Roger climbed back into the cab and waved out the back window. Rosalyn stood nailed to the spot, waving until she disappeared from view. Roger was pleased. The venture to Queens had been rewarding. Not only did he get most of the information he wanted, he'd met a woman who was a strong candidate for some interesting future encounters.

By the time he had gotten back to the Manhattan General, it was nearly eleven o'clock. The first thing he did was visit the coffee shop and have a cup of real coffee. By the time he got up to his office, he was wired, and he dove into his work with alacrity. By two A.M., he'd developed quite a bit of data. Laurie's idea, coupled with his decisions of how to expand it, had proved to be strikingly fertile. In fact, it appeared to be too fertile. When he had started, he'd wondered if he'd come up with any suspects. Now he had too many.

Roger rocked back in his chair and picked up the first sheet he'd printed, a list of five doctors with admitting privileges at both Manhattan General and St. Francis, and who had actually exercised those privileges at both institutions over the previous four months. The original list of the doctors with dual privileges was far too long to be workable. That was when he decided to restrict it.

As chief of the medical staff, Roger had unfettered access to the credentialing information and records of all physicians associated with the Manhattan General. Three of the five doctors on his list had disciplinary problems. Two of the doctors were euphemistically called "impaired" because of addiction problems to which Roger could surely relate. They were on probation, with some minor limitations in respect to their privileges, after having gone through drug rehab six months ago. The other individual, Dr. Pakt Tam, was involved in multiple malpractice suits that were still pending, all of which involved untimely deaths, although not the ones in Laurie's series. The hospital had tried to revoke his privileges, but he had sued, and his privileges were reinstated by court order pending the trial.

Dr. Tarn's case had stimulated Roger to look up all the doctors whose privileges had been either eliminated or curtailed over the previous six months, with the idea that they could be angry, vengeful, and deranged, or any combination. That inquiry had led to eight doctors. The problem was that he had no way of knowing if any of them had had an association with St. Francis. Quickly, he scribbled a note to himself to call and ask Rosalyn on Monday. He attached the note to the page with the eight doctors and put it off to the side.

The thought about an angry doctor had made Roger think about any disgruntled current or former employee of the hospital, particularly a nurse or someone else who had direct access to patients. If he was going to think about doctors, he had to think about everyone else in the hospital as well, so he'd made a note to talk to Bruce to get a list of employees terminated prior to the mid-November cutoff date, maybe even going back a year. He'd taped the note to the edge of his desk lamp so he'd be sure to see it. At that point, he had begun to get discouraged, but he had pressed on.

The next group Roger had considered was the anesthesiologists. As he had voiced to Laurie, and for the reasons Laurie had concisely specified, he felt their expertise made them prime suspects, and his intuition had paid off with a couple of interesting possibilities. Two had immediately jumped out at him. Both worked the night shift exclusively, and presumably by choice. One was Dr. José Cabreo, who had a history of impairment with OxyContin, as well as several malpractice suits. The other was Dr. Motilal Najah, a recent addition to the professional staff from St. Francis. Roger had printed out copies of both doctors' records and had drawn stars next to their names. Those papers were directly in front of him just off the central blotter. As far as he was concerned, they were his chief suspects, with Najah ahead of Cabreo. Although Najah's credentialing record was clean, the timing of his transfer was just too perfect.

The last group Roger had looked into was the rest of the hospital employees. Comparing the list of people leaving St. Francis after mid-November with the list of new employees at the Manhattan General during the same period, Roger had come up with a group of more than twenty people. At first, the number shocked him, but then, when he thought about it, it made a certain amount of sense. The Manhattan General was the flagship of the AmeriCare fleet, and if there was active recruiting going on, as Rosalyn suggested, it would be natural for most professionals and support personnel to prefer to be at the name institution.

Recognizing his limitations as an amateur sleuth, Roger had known immediately that twenty-three suspects were too many for him to consider. To narrow the group, he had used Laurie's suggestion of considering only those people who worked the night shift at St. Francis and moved to the night shift at Manhattan General. With such narrow parameters, he had no idea if he'd get any hits, but to his surprise, he did. He had gotten seven. The names were Herman Epstein from pharmacy, David Jefferson from security, Jasmine Rakoczi from nursing, Kathleen Chaudhry and Joe Linton from the laboratory, Brenda Ho from housekeeping, and Warren Williams from maintenance.

Roger picked up the sheet containing these seven names. Although it was more people than he had expected, he thought he could deal with seven. As he read over them again, he couldn't help but notice how much the surnames reflected the ethnic heterogeneity of American culture. He felt he could guess the general ancestral origins of all except Rakoczi, although if pressed, he'd say Eastern European. He looked at the various departments involved and realized that all of them would have access to patients in some form or fashion, particularly during the night shift, when oversight was at a minimum. Vaguely, he wondered if he should try to talk Rosalyn into getting him their St. Francis records. Now that he had the beginning of a personal relationship with her, perhaps he would be able to get the information without her sending up a red flag, but there were no guarantees. Yet how else was he to proceed?

Putting the paper down next to the list of anesthesiologists, Roger looked at his watch. It was now a quarter after two in the morning. He shook his head. He couldn't remember the last time he had stayed up so late working. He guessed it had been back in his medical residency. It was a bit depressing, thinking of most of the rest of the city sleeping, but at least he wasn't tired. The bolus of caffeine he'd gotten down in the coffee shop was still coursing around in his bloodstream, making him feel antsy. He even noticed that he'd been unconsciously tapping his right foot. He wished it were about ten P.M. instead of two A.M., because now that he had all these potential suspects, he would love to call Laurie and maybe even suggest that he pop over to her apartment. Unfortunately, that was out of the question. As upset as she was about her BRCA1 situation, he was surely not going to wake her up.

Thinking about the hour made Roger realize that for the first time since he'd been employed at Manhattan General, he was actually in the hospital during the night shift when all the questionable deaths that he and Laurie were interested in had occurred. With the caffeine on board, sleep was out of the question, and as long as he was in the sleuthing mood, he might as well check out the surgical floor where more than half of the questionable deaths had occurred and, while he was at it, at least some of his so-called suspects. With that idea in mind, he picked up the records of the two anesthesiologists and the sheet with the seven individuals who'd transferred from the night shift at St. Francis to the night shift at the General. He looked over them again, committing the names to memory.

Roger was about to get up when another thought occurred to him. Given how wired he was, he knew he'd be up most of the night. Since he'd need some sleep, he'd likely not be back to the office until late morning. With that in mind, Roger dialed Laurie's extension at work.

"It's me, Roger," he said to Laurie's voicemail. "It's after two in the morning, but your suggestion about Saint Francis was on target. It's produced a lot of potential suspects, certainly more than I expected, so I have to give you credit. I'm looking forward to sharing it all with you, and maybe we could get together tomorrow night for dinner. At the moment, I'm heading upstairs to do a bit more detective work, like check out the surgical floor and meet some of the people on my lists while they are on duty. As a teaser, let me tell you about one of the night-shift anesthesiologists, Motilal Najah. I interviewed him when he applied for a staff position. Anyway, I had forgotten that he had come from Saint Francis right after the holidays. Is that a coincidence or what? And he's just the tip of the iceberg. Anyway, I'm going to be here another few hours, so I might not be back here in my office until possibly noon or early afternoon. I'll call you as soon as I get in. Ciao!"

Roger hung up the phone and looked at the list of the seven nonphysicians who'd also transferred to the General during the period in question, and he wondered if he should have run down the list for Laurie. More than anything else, he wanted to fan her interest as much as possible, in the hope that she'd accept the idea of getting together. He thought about calling again to add to his message, but then decided the message he'd given was enough of a teaser.

After donning the long, white coat he wore whenever he ventured out into the hospital, Roger walked the length of the administration area. He'd been there a few times in the evenings, but never after midnight. At this hour, it was like a mausoleum.

The main hospital corridor was empty, save for a person using a floor polisher in the distance. As he rode up in the elevator, he was amazed at how wide-awake and energized he felt. He also recognized a touch of euphoria, which unfortunately reminded him of heroin. He shook his head. He didn't want to fall into that trap. For doctors, such temptation is harder to fight, with drugs so easily available.

Roger got out at the third floor and pushed through a pair of swinging doors into the OR complex. He found himself in a deserted corridor. To his right, the sound of a TV issued forth from the arched opening leading into the surgical lounge. Hoping to run into some of the surgical staff, he walked in.

The room was about thirty feet square, with windows that looked out onto the same courtyard as the staff cafeteria did. Two opposing doors led into the locker rooms. The furniture consisted of a couple of gray vinyl couches, a smattering of chairs, and several dictating desks. A central coffee table was littered with newspapers, outdated magazines, and an open box of pizza. A corner TV was tuned to CNN, but no one was watching. In another corner was a small refrigerator with a communal coffee pot on top.

Ten people were sitting in the room, all dressed in the same unisex scrubs. Some had hats or hoods, and some didn't. Although the OR appeared egalitarian, Roger knew otherwise. It was the most hierarchical domain of the hospital. Most of the people in the room were reading and munching on various snacks while sipping coffee, while others chatted.

Roger went over to the coffee machine. He debated having more, not to keep awake, but more as a social ploy, as well as an ostensible reason to be there. He hadn't recognized anyone in the room. Believing he was adequately wired, he opened the refrigerator and opted for a small orange juice.

With his drink in hand, Roger swept his eyes around to look more closely at the various people. No one had paid him any heed when he'd come in, but now a woman made eye contact and smiled. Roger walked over to her and introduced himself.

"I know you," the woman said. "We met at the Christmas party. My name is Cindy Delgada. I'm one of the nurses. We don't get admin visitors very often. What brings you up here in the middle of the night?"

Roger shrugged. "I was working late, and I thought I'd wander around a bit for some human contact and see the hospital in action."

A wry smile appeared on Cindy's face. "Not much excitement with this somnolent group. If you're looking for entertainment, I suggest the ER."

Roger laughed to be polite. "No cases tonight?"

"Oh, yeah," Cindy said. "We've done two, there's one going on right now in room six, and we have another coming up from the ER within the hour."

"Do you know Dr. José Cabreo?"

"Of course," Cindy said while pointing to a pale, heavyset man in a chair by the window. "Dr. Cabreo is right over there."

Hearing his name, José lowered his paper and looked over at Roger. He had a bushy mustache that hid most of his mouth. His eyebrows rose expectantly under the edge of his surgical cap.

Roger felt obligated to walk over. He hadn't necessarily planned to talk with the two anesthesiologists directly; his informal game plan had been to engage the OR staff in casual conversation about the men to see if he could get a feel for their personalities. Roger wasn't fooling himself. He was no psychiatrist and had no delusions that he'd be able to recognize a serial killer unless the person out-and-out told him, yet he had a vague idea that he would be able to sense if either man could be a potential suspect.

"Hi," Roger said self-consciously, since he didn't know what to say. He berated himself for not anticipating the possibility of such a confrontation.

"What can I do for you?" José questioned.

"Well," Roger said, trying not to sound as confused as he was. "I'm chief of the medical staff."

"I know who you are," José said. His voice had an edge, as if he was wary of what Roger wanted.

"You do? How is that?" José was one of many on staff he'd not met, which included just about everybody on the night shift.

José pointed to Roger's nametag.

"Oh, of course," Roger responded, bouncing the heel of his hand off his forehead. "I forget it's there."

There was an awkward pause. The rest of the room was quiet except for the TV whose volume was turned way down. Roger had the sense the other people in the room were listening.

"What is it you want?" José asked.

"I just wanted to make sure that you are content, and there are no problems."

"What do you mean, 'problems'?" José demanded. "I don't like your implication."

"There's no reason to get upset," Roger said soothingly. "My intention is merely to be proactive and meet the staff. We've not had the pleasure." Roger stuck out his hand toward José, whose face had flushed.

José eyed Roger's hand but made no attempt to shake it. Nor did he get to his feet. Slowly, his eyes rose and reengaged Roger's. "You've got a lot of nerve coming up here out of the blue and talking to me about problems," he said heatedly. He poked his finger threateningly toward Roger. "This better not have anything to do with ancient history, like dredging up the painkillers I needed for my back or my closed malpractice cases, because if it does, you and the rest of the administration will be hearing from my lawyer."

"Calm down," Roger urged softly. "I had absolutely no intention of talking about any such thing." He was taken aback at José's belligerence and defensiveness, yet he forced himself to remain cool and collected. If the man could get this wound up with such little provocation, maybe he was a loose cannon capable of the unthinkable. To defuse the situation, Roger quickly added, "My real goal in stopping by was to ask how things were working out with Dr. Motilal Najah. You've been here a long time, and Dr. Najah is a relative newcomer. As the senior man, I was interested in your opinion."

Some of the hostility and tenseness drained out of José's face, and he motioned for Roger to take a seat next to him. As soon as Roger was seated, José leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Why didn't you say that straight off? Motilal is the one you should be talking with, if you're concerned about problems."

"How so?" Roger asked. José's eyes now had a conspiratorial glint. Roger found himself thinking that even if José wasn't a serial killer, he might be the last person Roger would want giving him anesthesia.

"The man is a loner. I mean, like, we're kind of a tight team on the night shift. Let me tell you, he doesn't interact with anyone except in a professional capacity. He eats by himself and never comes in here to socialize. And when I say never, I mean never!"

"He seemed personable enough when I interviewed him," Roger said. Roger could distinctly remember being impressed by Motilal's easy candor and gentle manner. He seemed friendly enough, yet what he was hearing from José suggested that Motilal had some antisocial traits, and if that was true, he'd have to be considered a suspect.

"He fooled you then," José said. He sat back and then gestured around the room. "Ask anybody if you don't believe me."

Roger's eyes scanned the room. The people had gone back to their reading or conversation. Roger looked back at José. Roger was beginning to feel pessimistic about winnowing down his potential suspect list with what he was hearing about Motilal and the way José was acting.

"What about his professional skills?" Roger asked. "Is he a good anesthesiologist?"

"I suppose," José said. "But one of the nurse anesthetists would be better at evaluating that, since they have to work directly with the lazy bum. The problem that I have with him is that he is never here. He's always out wandering around the hospital."

"What's he doing when he's wandering around?"

"How should I know? All I know is I end up doing all the work. Like ten minutes ago, I had to page him to get his ass up here, since it was his turn to do a case. Hell, I had already done two tonight."

"Where was he when you paged him?"

"Down on the OB-GYN floor. At least, that's what he said when I asked him. But he could have been in one of the local bars, for all I know."

"So he's doing a case at the moment?"

"He better be, or our chief, Ronald Havermeyer, is going to hear about it. I'm tired of covering for that guy."

"Tell me something," Roger said, settling back into his seat. "Have you been aware that in the last couple of months there have been seven unexpected and unexplained deaths of healthy, relatively young people in our hospital within twenty-four hours of surgery?"

"No," José said-a bit too quickly, in Roger's estimation. José held his hand out toward Roger as if to quiet him. A wall speaker had crackled to life.

"Code red in 703," a disembodied voice announced. "Code red in 703."

José heaved himself to his feet, tossing his newspaper aside. "Wouldn't you know it? The second I get a chance to sit down, there's a cardiac code. Sorry to break this off so abruptly, but when we're not on a case, we're supposed to show up for a code. I urge you to talk with Motilal. If you're trying to head off problems, he's your man."

José rushed from the room with his stethoscope clasped in his hand. From out in the hall, Roger could hear the double doors leading to the elevator lobby bang open and noisily swing shut. Roger exhaled uneasily and glanced around the room. No one had reacted to their strange conversation, to the code announcement, or José's sudden departure, until his eyes reconnected with Cindy Delgada's. She smiled again and made a questioning gesture with her shoulders. Roger got up and walked back to her.

"Don't mind Dr. Cabreo," she said with a laugh. "He's a hopeless pessimist and our resident prophet of doom."

"He seemed a bit defensive."

"Ha! That's the understatement of the year. He's out-and-out paranoid, with a touch of misanthropy, but you know something? We give him some slack because he's a damn good anesthesiologist, and I should know, since I work with him almost every night."

"That's reassuring," Roger said, although he was hardly convinced. "Did you happen to hear what he said about Dr. Najah?"

"I got the gist."

"Is that the general feeling up here in the OR?"

"I suppose," Cindy said with a shrug. "It's true Dr. Najah doesn't socialize and hang around with us, but no one minds except José. I mean, this is the graveyard shift, after all."

"What does that mean?"

"We all have our quirks, which is why we work this shift. Maybe we're all a little misanthropic in our own ways. I know I like the fact that there's less supervision and a lot less bureaucratic crap. Why Motilal prefers this shift, I don't know. Maybe it's as simple as just being shy. He's hard to read since he's so quiet, but I'll tell you, he's definitely a good anesthesiologist, and don't get me wrong because I said it about José, because I don't say that about everybody."

"So you wouldn't say Dr. Najah is antisocial."

"Certainly not in the psychiatric sense. At least, I don't think so, but to be honest, I really don't know. I've probably only spoken ten words to him."

"José complained about him wandering around in the hospital. Do you have any idea where he goes?"

"I believe so. I think he visits all the in-house preops scheduled for morning. Why I think so is because he's always carrying around the next day's surgery schedule."

Roger nodded while silently reaffirming his opinion about his deficiencies as a detective. After chatting with José, hearing a little about the loner Motilal, and learning about the night shift in general, he wasn't eliminating anyone as a suspect, but he pressed on. "Did you hear what José said when I asked him if he was aware of the seven deaths we've seen over the last couple of months?"

"Yeah, I heard," Cindy said with a derisive chuckle and a dismissive wave of her hand. "I don't know what was going on in his mind, because he knows about them. We all know about them, particularly the anesthesiologists. I mean, we haven't exactly been dwelling on the issue, but it's been the topic of conversation on occasion, especially as the cases mount."

"Why would he tell me he was unaware of them?"

"Beats me. Maybe you should ask him when he comes back. The anesthesiologists never stay long on codes. They just pop in if they happen to be available to intubate the patient or, if the patient was already intubated, to make sure the patient was intubated properly."

"Thanks for chatting with me," Roger said. He then glanced around the room a final time. "I have to say, no one else seems particularly friendly."

"As I said, we have our quirks, but if you came up here on a regular basis, you'd find people friendly enough."

With a final wave and appreciative smile, Roger walked out to the elevator. His finger went toward the call button, but stalled in midair. His visit to the OR hadn't been particularly helpful. He had two anesthesiologists who were potential suspects before he arrived, and he still had two after he left.

The choices were simple. He could stay on the third floor and visit the pharmacy and try to find out something about Herman Epstein, who'd transferred from the night shift at St. Francis to the night shift at the General. He could go down to the second floor and visit the lab to find out what he could about the two lab technicians who were on the same list. He could go back down to the first floor and visit security or even to the basement to visit housekeeping and maintenance, where there were two more similar transferees. Yet something told him he wasn't going to learn anything, thanks to his total lack of investigative experience. His little chat with José had made it clear that he didn't even know what questions to ask, short of "Are you a serial killer who's been knocking off patients during the night shift?" Laurie's idea was good in theory, but in reality, there were just too many potential suspects. All the transferees had access to the hospital in general by virtue of their respective job descriptions.

The thought of directly asking people if they were a serial killer brought a smile to Roger's face. It wasn't hard to guess what would happen to his reputation and job if he started asking such a question. Roger sighed and looked at his watch. It was now after three a.m. Although some of the caffeine euphoria was wearing off, the feeling of being wired hadn't. There was no way he would fall asleep if he went back to his apartment.

Impulsively, Roger pressed the up button on the elevator. He decided he'd pay a visit to the surgical floor, whose charge nurse had been mugged and killed and where four of the seven unexpected deaths had taken place. He also decided to take a quick tour through the fifth floor, which housed orthopedics and neurosurgery, where there had been two deaths. He reasoned that he'd never been in the hospital during the night shift, particularly on the patient floors, and having a sense of the ambience and locale might be helpful in his thinking.

Although he had assumed as much, the atmosphere of the surgical floor was completely different than it was during the day. Instead of controlled chaos, an unexpected and deceptive serenity reigned. Even the lighting was different, dimmed from its daytime starkness. As Roger walked from the elevator lobby toward the nurses' station, he saw no one. It was as if there had been a fire drill and everybody had run out of the building.

Reaching the nurses' station Roger looked at the bank of monitors displaying the EKGs and pulses of all the patients. With modern wireless technology, such telemetry was now easily available on regular hospital floors. The problem, of course, was that no one was there watching it.

Roger looked down the lengthy corridor in both directions. The composite floor gleamed in the half-light. At that moment, Roger heard the telltale squeak of a desk chair. Wondering where the sound had come from, he rounded the end of the nurses' station and walked over to an open doorway. It led into a utility room with a long built-in desk/countertop, under and over cabinets, and a refrigerator. Sitting at the desk with her feet propped up and reading a magazine was an arresting-appearing nurse. Her features reflected a hint of Asian exotic, which Roger had come to appreciate in his years in the Far East. Her eyes were appropriately dark, as was her cropped hair. Beneath her scrubs was the hint of a shapely, hard body.

"Evening," Roger said before introducing himself. He noticed that the nurse was reading a firearms magazine, which seemed mildly inappropriate.

"What's up?" the nurse inquired without removing her feet from the edge of the countertop.

Roger smiled inwardly. He remembered a time in the not-so-distant past when nurses were deferential to doctors to the point of acting intimidated, even in the United States. This one clearly wasn't.

"I'm just checking to see how things are going," Roger said. "I know you tragically lost your charge nurse yesterday morning. I'm sorry."

"Not a problem. Actually, she wasn't all that good as a charge nurse."

"Really?" Roger questioned. It seemed a curiously unsympathetic response. Such candor with a stranger was hardly the norm, whether what she said was true or not. He read her nametag: Jasmine Rakoczi. He remembered that she was on the transferee list.

"I'm not pulling your leg. She was a weird one, and nobody liked her much."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Ms. Rakoczi," Roger said. He leaned back against the countertop and crossed his arms. "Has Clarice Hamilton assigned a new charge nurse for the shift?"

"Not yet. We got a temp to tide us over, but just as another grunt. I kind of took charge and assigned the patients. Somebody had to do it, and the others were just sitting around, wringing their hands. Anyway, things are going just fine."

"I'm glad to hear it," Roger said. "Ms. Rakoczi, I'd like to ask you a question."

"Call me Jazz. I don't respond to Ms. Rakoczi."

"I assume you have been aware of the four deaths of relatively young, ostensibly healthy, postop patients that have occurred on this floor over the last six or seven weeks or so, with the last one just last night."

"Of course. It would be hard not to be aware."

"True," Roger agreed. "Have they bothered you?"

"How do you mean?"

Roger shrugged. The question seemed so self-evident. "Have they disturbed you psychologically?"

"No, not really. This is a big, busy hospital. People die. You can't get attached, because if you do, you'll go crazy and your other patients will suffer. You brass sitting in your fancy offices don't remember what it's like out here in the trenches, you know what I'm saying?"

"I suppose," Roger said. He detected a not-too-subtle change in the nurse's demeanor. She had started out breezy but now seemed wary and taut, almost to the point of anger.

"Are you asking me this because they occurred on my floor?"

"Obviously."

"There have been similar deaths on other floors."

"I'm aware of that."

"In fact, there was one tonight, just a half hour ago, up on the OB-GYN floor. Why don't you go up and hound them?"

A distinctly unpleasant tenseness gripped Roger's entire body, which he blamed on the caffeine. After the euphoria passed, he invariably felt as if all his nerves were exposed. Learning of yet another death right while he was there in the hospital supposedly looking for suspects, made him feel uncomfortably complicit, as if he should have been able to prevent it. "Were the specifics about the same?" he asked, hoping vainly for a negative reply.

"I suppose," Jazz responded. "The word is, it was a woman in her thirties, in for a hysterectomy. Seriously, why don't you go on up and ask the nurses if it bothered them."

For a beat, Roger stared at this exotic-looking nurse whom he had originally thought of being attractive and rather sexy, while she brazenly stared back. Now he thought she was almost eerie, reminding him to a degree of his reaction to Dr. Cabreo and to the story about Dr. Najah. He couldn't help but remember Cindy's comment about people working the night shift being quirky, though maybe "quirky" wasn't nearly strong enough. Maybe "neurotic" was closer to the mark. He couldn't help but wonder if he'd find the whole lot of people on his supposed suspect list equally bizarre. One way or the other, it was becoming clear he would have to work on Rosalyn to get the transferees' personal records, no matter the risk.

"What is this?" Jazz sneered. "The silent treatment, or are we having some kind of juvenile staring contest?"

"Sorry," Roger said, breaking off eye contact. "I was just shocked to learn about yet another death. It's upsetting and alarming. I'm surprised you seem to be able to take it so lightly."

"It's called professional distance," Jazz said. "Those of us who actually treat people have to maintain it." She brought her feet down with a thud, tossed her magazine to the side, and stood up. "I got patients to see. Enjoy yourself upstairs on OB-GYN."

"Just a second," Roger said. He grabbed Jazz's arm as she tried to brush past him. He was surprised at its muscularity. "I have a few more questions."

Jazz looked down at Roger's hand gripping her upper arm. There was a tense moment, but she controlled herself. She raised her eyes to Roger's. "Let go of my arm or you will be very sorry. You hear what I'm saying?"

Roger let go and recrossed his arms to be completely non-threatening. He didn't want to give this woman any excuse for physical violence, of which he intuited she was capable. In truth, she was scaring him. "I understand you transferred from Saint Francis recently. Would you mind telling me why?"

It was Jazz's turn to stare before responding. "What is this, an interrogation?"

"As I told you, I'm chief of the medical staff. There was a mild complaint about your attitude by one of the doctors, and I'm looking into it. Frankly, this doctor has a history of unfounded complaints, but I still am obligated to check into the allegation." Roger was lying, but he felt he had to come up with some explanation for his questioning her on the spur of the moment. The nursing staff was not under his jurisdiction.

"What's this freaking doctor's name?"

"I'm not at liberty to disclose the individual's identity."

Jazz broke off eye contact with Roger. Her eyes darted around the room. Roger could see that her nostrils were flared, and she was breathing deeply. She was no longer wary. She was now definitely angry.

"Let me explain," Roger said. "I'm inquiring if you left Saint Francis for a similar reason. Did you have trouble with any doctor on the Saint Francis staff? We have to ask."

"Hell, no!" Jazz snapped. "I might have had a few words with my charge nurse on occasion, but never a doctor. I mean, I could count on one hand the number of times I even saw a doctor over there on the night shift. They were all home, screwing their wives."

"I see," Roger said. He wasn't about to comment on Jazz's last inappropriate point but picked up on the first. "So you also felt your charge nurse over at Saint Francis was not as competent as you would have liked?"

A wry smile appeared on Jazz's face. "You guessed it, but it's not surprising. The night shift attracts some weirdoes."

Roger nodded. As a result of his first night-shift visit, he couldn't have agreed more. "Out of curiosity, did you ever think you might share some of the blame if you didn't get along too well with either charge nurse?"

Any vestige of a smile disappeared from Jazz's face. "Oh, yeah! It's my fault that these two fat ladies were so stupid. Give me a break!"

"So why did you transfer?"

"I wanted a change, and I wanted to move into the city."

"Why do you personally work the night shift?"

"Because there's a lot less bullshit. There's still some, I admit that, but it's a lot less than during the day or even during the evening. When I was a corpsman in the military, I was assigned to the Marines for independent duty. I like working on my own the best."

"So you were in the military."

"Damn straight! I was with the Marines during the first Gulf War."

"Interesting," Roger said. "Tell me, what is the background of the name Rakoczi?"

"Hungarian. My grandfather was a freedom fighter."

"One other question if you don't mind," Roger said, trying to be nonchalant. "Did you know that when you were at Saint Francis, there was a series of similar deaths, back in November?"

"It was the same: It would have been hard not to be aware."

"Thanks for your time," Roger said, pushing away from the countertop. "I think I will follow your suggestion and go up to OB-GYN, but I might have a few more questions. Would you mind if I came back if that were the case?"

"Suit yourself."

Roger tried to smile reassuringly at Jazz before walking out of the utility room and heading toward the bank of elevators. As he walked, he shook his head imperceptively. He couldn't believe it.

He'd talked to two people on his list and heard about a third, and he felt he could make a case for any of them possibly being deranged enough to be doing the unconscionable.

Jazz leaned out of the utility room just enough to watch Roger head down toward the elevators. She couldn't believe it. Trouble was coming out of the woodwork. The sanctioning had been going so well until Lewis, then all hell had broken loose. And just when she had eliminated one potential disaster, another one had popped up. "What a bastard!" she murmured. She knew from the way he dressed and spoke that he was another one of those damn Ivy League types.

When Roger reached the elevators and pushed the call button, he turned and looked back toward the nurses' station. Jazz pulled her head back. She didn't want him to see her staring after him like she was concerned. She shook her head, then slammed an open palm onto the countertop. A few loose papers wafted to the floor.

"What the hell should I do?" she murmured. She shook her head again. The thought went through her mind to call Mr. Bob, but she quickly dismissed it. She had the sense that if she complained about anything, she wouldn't get any more names. She'd be dismissed from Operation Winnow. It was as simple as that.

Jazz shrugged. She couldn't think of anything. Although the worry gnawed at her, she didn't know what to do. At the same time, she knew she had to be careful, because this freaking admin type could end up being a whole lot more than a ripple, the way he was talking.

The elevator door slid open and Roger stepped out onto the seventh floor. To the left, beyond double doors, was the medical ward, and to the right through similar doors was OB-GYN. He pushed into OB-GYN. In contrast to the surgical floor below, there were a lot of people in evidence both at the nurses' station and in the hallway. He even saw an orderly pushing a gurney with a patient shrouded in a sheet toward the patient elevators. Roger guessed it was the patient he'd come up to inquire about.

Advancing to the nurses' station, Roger stood for a moment and just watched. He guessed it was the resuscitation team along with some of the floor's nurses. The resuscitation cart with its defibrillator was parked against the corridor wall. The people were talking in small groups, most likely debriefing themselves about the failed resuscitation attempt.

"Excuse me," Roger said to a woman directly in front of him. She was busy writing in a chart but looked up. Like Jazz downstairs, she was dressed in scrubs, but unlike Jazz, she emanated both civility and respect. Also unlike Jazz, she was slightly obese, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. "Could you tell me who is the charge nurse?"

"I am. I'm Meryl Lanigan. What can I do for you?"

Roger introduced himself and said that he was inquiring about the recent death.

"The name was Patricia Pruit," Meryl said. "This is the chart. Would you like to see it?"

"I would indeed. Thank you." Roger took the chart and rapidly scanned it. The demographics were as he had feared. Patricia Pruit was a healthy thirty-seven-year-old mother of three. The previous morning, she'd had an uncomplicated hysterectomy for fibroids. Her postoperative course had been entirely uneventful, and she had already been started on clear fluids by mouth. Then came disaster.

Roger looked back down at Meryl. She was waiting for the chart, which she took back.

"It certainly is a tragedy," Roger said. "And so unexpected, given her age and past health."

"It's heartbreaking," Meryl agreed. She opened the chart to the nurses' notes.

"There have been others quite similar on other floors over the last month or so," Roger said.

"So I've heard. Luckily, this is our first. We might take it harder than others, since we're accustomed to much happier outcomes."

"I have a couple of questions, if you don't mind. Did you happen to see a Dr. Najah on your floor tonight?"

"We did, just like we usually do."

"How about Dr. Cabreo?"

"We saw him as well, but only after the code was called."

"How about a nurse named Jasmine Rakoczi, who goes by the name Jazz?"

"Funny you should ask."

"How so?"

"We see a little too much of Ms. Rakoczi most every night. I've even complained to Susan Chapman, who used to be her charge nurse, saying that I didn't want her up here. I'm going to have to go a little higher now that we don't have Susan with us any longer."

"What does Ms. Rakoczi do when she comes up here?"

"She tries to be friendly with the aides. Other than that, she's always looking in the charts, which she has no business doing."

"Do you recall specifically that she was up here tonight?"

"I remember, all right, because whenever I see her, I challenge her. I challenged her tonight, just like I always do."

"What did she say?"

"She said she was the acting charge nurse downstairs and needed some supplies. I can't remember what it was. I sent her into our supply room to get whatever she needed, but I told her then to please leave. I also told her she'd have to replace whatever she borrowed, which she promised she would."

"And she went into your supply room?"

"She did."

"And then what happened?"

"I guess she got what she needed and went back downstairs. I really don't know, because I was off taking care of a problem with one of the patients. And then, of course, we had the code."

"What room was Patricia Pruit in?"

"703. Why do you ask?"

"I'd like to take a look."

"Be my guest," Meryl said while pointing down the appropriate corridor.

Myriad thoughts were swirling around inside Roger's head as he walked toward the patient's room. In his estimation, Jasmine Rakoczi was becoming more and more of an enigma. He kept asking himself why she would constantly be coming up a floor to the OB-GYN section to hobnob with the aides when she seemed so asocial, and why would she be going through OB-GYN charts. It didn't make any sense. What did make sense was that both she and Dr. Najah had come to OB-GYN prior to the code. Of course, he wondered how many others on his transfer list had come as well. For all he knew, it could have been all of them.

Patricia's room was a mess. The debris from the cardiac resuscitation attempt littered the floor. In the frenzy of the event, some of the wrappers, syringes, medication containers, and the like had been merely tossed aside. The bed had been cranked down flat, raised to help with the CPR, and the resuscitation board was still in place. A few telltale droplets of blood were sprinkled across the wrinkled, white sheet.

Unfortunately, what Roger was looking for was not in evidence. The IV pole was in its usual position at the head of the bed, but without the bottle or plastic container of fluid that had to have hung there. As a consequence of being on the scene, Roger had gotten the idea of having the IV contents checked. Since Laurie had told him that toxicology had come up short, maybe testing the IV fluid would yield something.

Roger turned around and went back to the nursing station. He got Meryl's attention and asked her about the missing bottle.

Meryl shrugged her shoulders. "I don't have any idea where it is." She then turned around and yelled to the medical resident who'd been in charge of the resuscitation, asking the same question. He shook his head, indicating that he didn't know, either, before getting back to his sidewalk mini-conference. He and the other residents were still loudly debating why they had been unsuccessful.

"I guess it went down with the patient," Meryl said. "We always at least leave the IVs in place, along with any other tubes."

"This might be a silly question, but I haven't been on staff that long. Where exactly did the patient go?"

"To the morgue, or what we use as the morgue. It's the old autopsy theater in the basement."

"Thanks," Roger said.

"Not at all," Meryl said.

Roger went back to the elevators. He pressed the down button but then eyed the sign for the stairs. He suddenly had it in his mind to ask Ms. Rakoczi why she went to the OB-GYN floor so often, and what it was that she needed that night. Since the elevator was taking its time arriving, Roger used the stairs. As he descended, he acknowledged that the caffeine was finally starting to wear off. His legs felt heavy. He decided that he'd have one more chat with Ms. Rakoczi, hunt briefly for the IV bottle, and then head for home.

The surgical floor was as quiet as it had been earlier. Roger surmised that the nurses were all attending to their patients. He saw some of them as he passed open doors into the patients' rooms. Rather than bother anyone, he thought he'd wait at the nurses' station for Ms. Rakoczi to return. To his surprise, he found her where he'd found her earlier, in the same position, reading the same magazine.

"I thought you said you had patients to see," Roger said. He knew he was being abrasively provocative with someone with a volatile temperament, but he couldn't help himself. This woman was obviously goldbricking.

"I saw them. Now I'm manning the nurses' station. Do you have a problem with that?"

"Luckily for both of us it's not my bailiwick," Roger said. "But I do have another question for you. I followed your suggestion and went upstairs to OB-GYN and spoke with Meryl Lanigan. She said you were a frequent visitor to her floor. In fact, she said you were up there earlier. I'd like to know why."

"For my continuing education," Jazz said. "OB-GYN interests me, but I didn't get much exposure to it with the Marines, for obvious reasons. So I frequently go up there on my breaks. Now that I've learned a bit about the field, I'm thinking of putting in for an opening in OB-GYN."

"So it was for continuing education that took you up there tonight?"

"Is that so hard to believe? Instead of going down to the cafeteria on my lunch hour with my half of the surgical-floor team and talking about drivel, I went up to OB-GYN to learn something. I don't know what it is about this place. Whenever you make an extra effort to improve yourself, you get nothing but grief."

"I don't want to add to your burden," Roger said, struggling to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "But there seems to be a discrepancy. Ms. Lanigan told me that when she confronted you earlier, you said you wanted to borrow something."

"Is that what she said?" Jazz questioned with a scornful laugh. "Well, she's right in one sense. I did need to borrow some infusion lines, thanks to central supply not restocking us, but that was an afterthought. What I was really doing up there was sucking up information from reading nursing notes. She probably doesn't want to admit that, because she's probably worried I'm gunning for her job."

"That wouldn't be my take," Roger said. "But what do I know? Thanks for your time, Ms. Rakoczi. I'll be back in touch if I have any more questions."

Roger walked out of the utility room and rounded the nurses' station countertop. He was now feeling genuinely fatigued. The caffeine had completely worn off. A few moments earlier, he'd entertained the idea after talking again with Ms. Rakoczi of returning to the OR to see if he could find Dr. Najah. As with Rakoczi, he wanted to ask him what he had been doing on the OB-GYN floor, but now he had second thoughts. He was exhausted. It was nearly four o'clock in the morning.

Roger resolved that the first thing he would do when he got into his office later that morning was call Rosalyn and beg for Jasmine Rakoczi's St. Francis record. He didn't care about the consequences. He found himself wondering how much the general nursing shortage had to do with the fact that Jasmine Rakoczi was employed. The overwhelming chances were that she was not a serial killer. That would be too easy. But the fact that she was employed as a nurse with her attitude was a travesty as far as he was concerned, and he intended to do something about it.

Roger pressed the elevator's down button and hazarded a glance back toward the surgical nurses' station. It was only for a split second, but he thought he caught a glimpse of Jazz eyeing him from around the edge of the door to the utility room. Roger wasn't so sure, and as tired as he suddenly felt, it could have been his imagination. The woman made him uneasy. He hated the thought of being a patient under her care.

The elevator came, and he boarded. Just before the doors closed, he looked back at the utility-room doorway. For the second time, he didn't know if it was his eyes or his brain that was tricking him, because he thought he saw her again.

He took the elevator down to the basement level, where he'd never been. In contrast with the rest of the hospital it was completely utilitarian. The walls were unadorned stained concrete, and myriad exposed pipes-some insulated, some not-ran along the ceiling. The lighting fixtures were simple porcelain sockets with wire cages. Just beyond the elevators, an old sign composed of peeling paint applied directly onto the concrete wall said "autopsy amphitheater," accompanied by a large red arrow.

The route was labyrinthine, but by following the red arrows, Roger eventually arrived at a set of double leather doors with oval windows set at eye-level height. The glass was covered with a greasy film. Although Roger could tell a light was shining in the room beyond, he couldn't make out any details. He pushed through, then propped the door open with an old brass doorstop.

Inside was an old-fashioned, semicircular two-story medical amphitheater, with rows of tiny seats that rose up on tiers into the shadows. Roger guessed it had been built a hundred years ago, when anatomy and pathology were kingpins in the academic medical curriculum. There was a lot of old, scraped, and pitted dark varnished wood, and the lighting came from a single, large, hooded lamp that hung on a long cord from the ceiling. The light was centered on an antiquated metal autopsy table that occupied the center of the pit. Against the back wall was a glass-fronted cabinet with a collection of stainless-steel autopsy tools. Roger wondered when they'd last been used. Outside the medical examiners' office, few autopsies were now done, particularly in managed-care hospitals like the Manhattan General.

Standing within the pit, along with the autopsy table, there were several shrouded hospital gurneys, obviously supporting corpses. Roger started forward, not knowing which was Patricia Pruit. As he approached the first body, he questioned, as he'd done in the past, why Laurie had chosen forensic pathology as her career. It seemed so contrary to her vibrant personality. With a shrug, he grabbed the edge of the sheet and lifted.

Roger grimaced. He was looking at the remains of an individual who had been involved in some kind of accident. The man's head was horribly distorted and crushed such that one eye was completely exposed. Roger replaced the sheet. His legs felt weak. As a medical student, he'd not liked pathology, particularly forensic pathology, and this victim reminded him of that fact in an uncomfortably brutal fashion.

Roger took a few breaths before stepping over to the second gurney. He reached for the edge of the sheet, but his hand didn't make it. Instead, he was propelled forward off his feet, having been hit smack in the middle of his back with what felt like a two-by-four. He knew he was falling, and his arms reflexively flew out to cushion himself, but before he hit the tiled floor, the board hit him again, taking his breath away.

Roger collided with the floor and skidded forward on the glazed tile. His head thumped up against the wall that separated the pit from the tiers of seats. He tried to move, but blackness descended over him like a heavy, suffocating blanket.