Marker

twenty

JACK HAD MANAGED TO FOOL Flash with a head fake and clever use of a pick, and for a moment, Flash had no idea where Jack was. By the time Flash had figured out what had happened, Jack had snaked his way in under the basket. Warren had seen the move out of the corner of his eye and shot a perfect pass into Jack's waiting hands. Jack twisted around and was poised to make a simple layup to win the tied game. Unfortunately, that was not what happened. By some inexplicable miscalculation on Jack's part, the ball didn't glance off the backboard and drop through the basket as he intended. Instead, it fell far short, lodged between the basket's rim and the backboard, and stayed there. Play ground to a halt. Totally embarrassed to have missed such an easy shot, Jack had to leap up to knock the ball free. Then, as the final indignity, a player on the opposing team grabbed the ball, stepped out of bounds, then let loose with a long pass down the court to Flash, who'd taken advantage of Jack being under the basket to break free. Jack was supposed to be guarding him. Instead, Jack had to watch impotently while Flash went in to make a layup at the opposite end, and, unlike Jack, he didn't miss. The game was over. Flash's team had won.

Jack slunk off the court, wishing he could disappear. He dodged some of the puddles along the sidelines. With his back pressed against the chain-link fence in a dry area, he sank to a sitting position with his knees up in the air. Warren sauntered over, hands on his hips and a mocking, wry smile on his face. Warren was fifteen years Jack's junior, with a body that would have made a men's underwear model jealous. As the best basketball player in the neighborhood, and as a keen competitor, he hated to lose, and not just because it meant he might have to sit out a game or two. For him, it was a personal affront.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Warren questioned. "How could you miss that shot? I thought you had recovered, but that has to go down as one of your more pitiful exhibitions."

"Sorry, man," Jack said. "I guess I wasn't concentrating."

Warren gave a short, derisive laugh as if that was the understatement of the year before taking a seat next to Jack with his knees angled up in a similar fashion. In front of them, a new group of five was getting ready to take on Flash and his team. Despite the crummy weather and the fact that it was Saturday night, there had been a big turnout.

Jack's basketball had recovered to a degree over the last several weeks, but that afternoon, Laurie's pushiness and her playing the victim role had provoked him to no end. He could sympathize with her about what she was facing lately, but from his perspective, she had no idea what being a victim was really like. On top of that he couldn't believe she kept harping on him about his use of humor, which he felt was his only defense against the harsh reality that fate and AmeriCare had thrown at him. And, worse yet, he couldn't comprehend that she wouldn't listen to what he'd been thinking about this new curveball of her being pregnant. After she'd broken the news, he'd thought of nothing else and had been looking forward to sharing his feelings, both pro and con. The news had forced him to face the idea of a second family as a reality, and he'd come around to believing he might not be quite as scared of the situation as he thought… at least until that afternoon, when she acted so demanding and victimized. When he thought about the conversation again, he couldn't believe she was "sick and tired" of discussing having a family, because, prior to her moving out, he couldn't remember that last time she'd even brought up the subject.

"Hell!" Jack exclaimed suddenly, snapping his headband off his forehead and throwing it to the pavement.

Warren looked at him questioningly. "Man, you're in bad shape! Let me guess! Laurie's still acting up."

"You've no idea," Jack said scornfully. He was going to elaborate when he heard a distant muffled beeping. Grabbing his backpack, he opened the zipper and took out his cell phone, which he normally didn't bring out onto the court unless he was on call. But that evening after the fracas with Laurie, he wanted to stay in touch in case she came to her senses. When he flipped the lid and saw that he had a message, he checked caller ID.

"It's her," Jack said with a touch of exasperation. With no idea what to expect and scant hope for a miracle, he called his voicemail. As he began to listen to the message, he stood up. As he continued to listen, his jaw slowly dropped, then he disconnected and looked down at Warren, momentarily paralyzed. "Good God! She's been taken by ambulance to the Manhattan General for emergency surgery."

Breaking free from his brief, stunned immobility, Jack bent down and snatched up his gear. "I got to change and get the hell over there!" He turned and started at a run toward the playground exit.

"Hold up!" Warren called after him.

Jack didn't stop or slow down, knowing full well the seriousness of a ruptured ectopic pregnancy. When he was held up by traffic on the street, Warren caught up to him.

"How about I give you a lift," Warren said. "My ride's just around the corner."

"Fantastic," Jack responded.

"By the time you get your ass back down, I'll be sitting out here waiting on you," Warren said.

Jack waved acquiescence before sprinting across the street. He took the stairs in his apartment building by twos and started pulling off his clothes on the final flight. The rest of his basketball outfit came off as he traversed his apartment, anxious to get to the hospital before Laurie was taken up to the OR. He didn't like the idea of her having surgery, and he didn't like the idea of her being at the Manhattan General.

As he thundered down the stairs, Jack struggled into the same clothes he'd worn that day. True to his word, Warren was sitting in his black SUV when Jack emerged from his building. Jack jumped in and Warren took off with a screech.

"Is this surgery serious?" Warren asked.

"You'd better believe it," Jack answered. While he tied his tie, he chastised himself for reacting so emotionally to Laurie's mini-outburst that afternoon. What he should have done was just let her rant without getting his dander up, but he'd not been in control. He'd not been in control since she walked out of his apartment.

"How serious?" Warren asked.

"Let me put it this way; people have died from the problem she has."

"No shit!" Warren murmured as he pressed his foot down on the accelerator.

Jack grabbed the handhold above the passenger-side door to steady himself as Warren 's SUV surged forward to make the traffic light at the 97th Street traverse. A few minutes later, Warren had the Manhattan General in his sights.

"Where do you want to be dropped off?" Warren asked.

"Follow the signs for the emergency department," Jack said.

Warren ended up nosing in between two ambulances at the receiving dock, and Jack jumped out. "Thanks, man," Jack called.

"Let me hear how things go!" Warren shouted out his window.

Jack waved over his shoulder, then vaulted up onto the platform and ran inside. The waiting area was packed with people. Jack headed directly for the double doors that led into the emergency room proper, but he was barred by a beefy, red-faced, uniformed policeman. The man had been standing to the side, but stepped in front of the doors as Jack neared.

"You gotta sign in at the desk," the officer said, pointing over Jack's shoulder.

With a bit of effort, Jack got out his wallet and flipped it open. Attached was his formal medical-examiner badge. The policeman drew Jack's hand closer to examine it. "Sorry, doc," he said when he recognized what it was.

After glancing into a few of the cubicles and having no luck finding Laurie, Jack stopped one of the nurses, who was scurrying down the corridor with a clutch of blood-sample tubes in her hands. When Jack asked for Laurie by name, she squinted as if she were slightly myopic at a dry-erase board that Jack had not seen back near the entrance doors. "She's in the acute-care area," the woman said. She pointed into the depths of the complex. "Room 22."

Jack found her alone in the room, surrounded by all sorts of acute-care equipment. Behind her was a flat LCD screen with realtime tracings of her blood pressure and pulse. Her eyes were closed, and her hands were folded on her chest with her fingers intertwined. Except for her pallor, she looked the picture of contented repose. Behind her and hanging from an IV pole were a cluster of bottles and a plastic pouch of blood, which ran into her left arm.

A few steps brought Jack to Laurie's side. He put his hand on her forearm, reluctant to wake her from her peaceful slumber but afraid not to. "Laurie?" he called softly.

Laurie's heavily lidded eyes opened. She smiled when she saw Jack. "Thank goodness you're here."

"How do you feel?"

"Considering everything, I feel pretty good. Anesthesia came down and gave me some kind of preop. I'm about to go up to surgery. I was hoping you'd get here before I went in."

"Is it a ruptured ectopic pregnancy?"

"All indications point to it."

"I'm so sorry you're going through this."

"Aren't you a little relieved? I mean, be honest!"

"No, I'm not relieved. In fact, I'm worried. Can't we get you over to another hospital? What about your father's hospital?"

Laurie smiled with drug-induced serenity. She shook her head. "My doctor only has privileges here. I asked about going someplace else right off, but I'm afraid I'm stuck. She's pretty sure I'm still bleeding internally, so we don't have the benefit of a lot of time." Laurie detached her forearm from Jack and gripped his. "I know what you are thinking, but I'm okay with being here, and more so now that you've come. Although theoretically I'm at risk of being a victim of my series, I don't think it's that high. The odds are in my favor, especially with Najah away from the scene."

Jack nodded. He knew she was right statistically, but it was hardly consolation, particularly with the case against Najah so circumstantial. The fact was, he didn't like Laurie being there period, yet he resigned himself to there being little choice. She could exsanguinate during a transfer.

"I'm okay, really," Laurie added. "I like my doctor. I've great confidence in her. And I asked her what was going to happen to me tonight. She said that after the surgery, I'd go to the PACU."

"What the devil is the PACU?"

"Postanesthesia care unit."

"What happened to the recovery room?"

Laurie smiled and shrugged. "I don't know. Now it's called the PACU. Anyway, she told me that I'd probably stay in the PACU all night, and if I were to leave, she wants me in an acute-care unit because of how much blood I've lost. None of the cases in my series happened in intensive care, only on hospital floors. I feel safe until tomorrow, when I'm sure we can arrange for a transfer. My father can get me over to the University Hospital, and even if my doctor can't follow me over there, my old GYN would fill in, I'm certain."

Jack nodded. He still wasn't happy, but he could see her point. Besides, in terms of emergency surgery, the Manhattan General was right up there with the best.

"Are you as comfortable as I am?" Laurie asked.

"I guess so," he admitted.

"Good," Laurie said. "And remember, all this is in addition to the fact that the prime suspect is safely in custody."

"I'm not willing to rely on that," Jack said.

"Nor am I, if it were the only thing," Laurie said. "But it adds to my peace of mind."

"Good," Jack responded. "And your peace of mind is the most important. For me, I like the idea you'll be in the PACU. That's real security. The case against Najah is pure supposition."

"Without a doubt," Laurie agreed. "Which leads me to a suggestion. There's no reason for you to hang around here doing nothing while I'm up in surgery. Why don't you go back to the OCME and take a look at the material on my desk, particularly Roger's lists. You could even bring them back here. I've written down some of my ideas, but it would be good to get your take, especially if Najah turns out to be a dead end, pardon the pun."

"Sorry!" Jack asserted forcibly. "I ain't leaving here while you're in surgery. No way!"

"Okay, don't get huffy. It was just a suggestion."

"Thanks but no thanks," Jack reiterated.

There was a pause in the conversation. Jack glanced up at the LCD screen. He was mildly concerned that Laurie's blood pressure was low and her pulse was high, but he was pleased to see that they were staying steady.

"Jack," Laurie said, gripping his arm tighter. "I'm sorry I was so irritable this afternoon. It was wrong of me not to let you talk. I apologize."

"Apology accepted," Jack said, directing his eyes back down at Laurie. "And I'm sorry I was so damn sensitive. You've had plenty of reasons to be distraught. The problem is I've been pretty upset myself. Of course, that's hardly an excuse."

"Okay, Laurie!" a cheerful voice said. Laura Riley bounded into the room, along with an orderly. "The operating room is ready, and all we need is you."

Laurie introduced Laura to Jack and was careful to mention that Jack was a fellow medical examiner. Laura was gracious but cut the conversation short, saying she really wanted to get things under way. There had already been a little delay waiting for one of the operating rooms to free up.

"Would it be okay if I observe?" Jack asked.

"No, I don't think that is a good idea," Laura said without hesitation. "But since it's the evening shift, I can probably take you up to the surgical lounge, and you can wait there. That's bending the rules a bit, but you are a physician. Then, as soon as we've gotten Laurie taken care of, I can give you an update. That is, of course, if it's all okay with Laurie."

"It's okay with me," Laurie said.

"I'll take you up on the surgical lounge offer," Jack said. "But first, maybe it would be a good idea if I gave blood. Laurie and I are the same blood type, and if she needs another unit, I'd like to be the donor."

"That's very generous," Laura said. "Chances are we'll use it." Turning to Laurie she said: "Now let's get you up to the OR and get you fixed up." She nodded to the orderly who unlocked the wheels of the gurney and began angling it toward the hallway.

"Excuse me," an accented voice called out in a peremptory tone.

Jazz stopped and turned around. It was the owner of the sundry store on Columbus Avenue that she frequented. He had also tapped her on the arm at the same time he had spoken.

"You forgot to pay," the man said, pointing to her canvas bag, which was slung over her shoulder.

A wry smile appeared on Jazz's face. She estimated that this anemic-looking guy weighed less than ninety pounds when he was wet, yet here he was, accosting her in the middle of the sidewalk on Columbus Avenue. It was amazing the nerve some people had, de- spite having no way to back up their behavior. Of course, he could be packing, but Jazz seriously doubted it. He had on a snug white apron tied around his middle, precluding access to any pockets.

"You took milk, bread, and eggs but no pay," the man elaborated. He then bunched his lips into a tight ball and thrust out his chin. From Jazz's perspective, there was no doubt he was pissed, and he acted as if he was ready to fight, which didn't make sense unless he was gazillion-level black belt in some exotic martial art. She was bigger than he, invariably in better shape, and had her right hand holding her Glock in her coat pocket.

"You come back to the stored!" the man ordered.

Jazz instinctively glanced around. No one seemed to be paying them any attention, yet that would undoubtedly change if she created a scene. Still, she was tempted. She looked back at her heckler. But before she could speak, her Blackberry in her left coat pocket beeped and vibrated in her hand. She usually left it on when she was out walking around.

"One second," Jazz said to the store proprietor as she pulled her Blackberry out in the open. A larger, more genuine smile took over her face as she noticed it was a message from Mr. Bob. After getting three names in the last two days, she wasn't expecting another, but why else would he be contacting her at the time of day when she got names? She quickly opened the message.

"All right!" Jazz exclaimed. There on her screen was the name Laurie Montgomery. Taking her right hand out of her pocket, she gave the storekeeper a thumbs-up sign. She couldn't have been more pleased. Another five thousand dollars was coming her way, meaning that in three nights, she'd earned a whopping twenty thousand dollars!

"My wife will call the police if you don't come back and pay," the man insisted.

With the windfall addition of five thousand dollars to her net worth, Jazz experienced a flush of uncharacteristic magnanimity and largesse. "You know, now that you mention it, I think I did walk out without paying. Why don't we wander back and settle up."

The airplane's wheels thudded against the runway, and the fuselage shook from the impact. The noise and vibration yanked David Rosenkrantz from the depths of sleep. Momentarily disoriented, it took him a moment to get his bearings. Turning his head to the side, he looked out the rain-streaked window. He had landed at LaGuardia Airport, the terminal's lights barely visible through the misty air.

"A good night for ducks," a voice said. "They said it was going to start raining again around ten, and for once they were right."

David turned to the man sitting next to him. He was a prim, late-middle-aged fellow with rimless glasses, dressed like David in a shirt and tie. Robert insisted David wear business clothes. He explained it lent an aura of legitimacy to their operation. David liked it because he felt he blended in better. With all the flying he had to do, he looked like just another businessman.

David's fellow passenger was leaning forward to see out of David's window. "Are you coming home, or are you on business here in New York?" the man asked. Throughout the entire flight he'd not uttered a word. He'd had his nose in his laptop the whole time.

"Business," David said without elaborating. He didn't like talking too much with his fellow travelers; conversations inevitably worked their way around to what kind of business David was in. In the past, if forced, David had said he was in healthcare consulting. That had worked until the day he found himself chatting with a fellow passenger who was legitimately in the field. The remainder of the conversation had been rather dicey, and David had been saved by the opportunity to deplane.

"I'm in business, too," the prim man said. "Computer software.

By the way, where are you staying? If you're staying in Manhattan, maybe we could share a taxi. When it rains in New York, they're like hen's teeth."

"That's very generous," David said, "but I've yet to make arrangements. This trip was put together at the last minute."

"I can recommend the Marriott," the man persisted. "They almost always have availability on the weekend, and it's a good central location."

David smiled as best he could. "I'll keep that in mind, but I'm not going directly into town. I have to make a stop here in Queens." He planned to take a taxi to Long Island City, where he'd have the cab wait while he picked up the arranged gun.

"Remember, this hellcat is usually packing," Robert had advised. "So don't give her much breathing room. In fact, don't give her any breathing room at all. The whole problem is that she has no compunction whatsoever about using her piece."

David had nodded at this unsolicited advice, but he didn't need to be told any such thing. He was a professional and had been doing this for years. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. The address was 1421 Vernon Avenue, Long Island City. He wondered what kind of place it would turn out to be. He also wondered if getting the gun would go smoothly. On a recent trip to Chicago, the gun source had been picked up the day before on unrelated charges, throwing off the whole operation and forcing David to stay in the windy city for five days. He hoped the same snafu wouldn't happen in New York, since he was anxious to be on his way back to St. Louis in twenty-four hours or so.

David looked at the other addresses he had written down on the paper. They were Jasmine Rakoczi's apartment and her health club, both on the Upper West Side.

"Where is that Marriott?" David asked the prim man, who was * busy packing his laptop into its carrying case.

" Times Square," the man said.

"Is that on the West Side?"

"It sure is, right near the theater district."

He thought he'd keep the Marriott in mind. His general plan was to get the gun and then find a hotel. He was exhausted from having spent a number of long nights out on the West Coast, and he was looking forward to a good, long sleep. Then he'd figure out the best way to deal with the Rakoczi woman. The nicest part of the whole affair was remembering what she looked like. Robert had even said she had one of the best bodies he'd ever seen, and Robert definitely had good taste. David fully planned to see for himself, which meant her apartment would be the best bet.