Wild Justice

Wild Justice

Jaffe 01

Phillip Margolin

Wild Justice

Chapter 1

A lightning flash illuminated the Learjet that waited on the runway of the private airstrip moments before a thunderclap startled Dr. Clifford Grant. Grant scanned the darkness for signs of life, but there were no other cars in the lot and no one moving on the tarmac. When he checked his watch his hand trembled. It was 11:35. Breach's man was five minutes late. The surgeon stared at the glove compartment. A sip from his flask would steady his nerves, but he knew where that would lead. He had to be thinking clearly when they brought the money.

Large drops fell with increasing speed. Grant turned on his wipers at the same moment a huge fist rapped on his passenger door. The doctor jerked back and stared. For an instant he thought the rain was distorting his vision; but the man glaring at him through the window was really that big, a monster with a massive, shaved skull and a black knee-length leather coat.

Open the door, the giant commanded, his voice harsh and frightening.

Grant obeyed instantly. A chill wind blew a fine spray into the car.

Where is it?

In the trunk, Grant said, the words catching in his throat as he jerked his thumb backward. The man tossed an attachT case into the car and slammed the door shut. Water beaded the smooth sides of the briefcase and made the brass locks glisten. The money! Grant wondered how much the recipient was going to pay for the heart, if he and his partner were receiving a quarter of a million dollars.

Two rapid thumps brought Grant around. The giant was pounding on the trunk. He had forgotten to pop the release. As Grant reached for the latch another lightning flash lit the view through his rear window and the cars that had appeared from nowhere. Without thinking, he floored the accelerator and cranked the wheel. The giant dove away with amazing agility as the sedan careened across the asphalt, leaving the smell of burning rubber. Grant was vaguely aware of the screech of metal on metal as he blasted past one of the police cars and took out part of a chain-link fence. Shots were fired, glass shattered and the car tipped briefly on two wheels before righting itself and speeding into the night.

The next thing Clifford Grant remembered clearly was banging frantically on his partner's back door. A light came on, a curtain moved and his partner glared at him in disbelief before opening the door.

What are you doing here?

The police, Grant gasped. A raid.

At the airfield?

Let me in, for God's sake. I've got to get in.

Grant stumbled inside.

Is that the money?

Grant nodded and staggered to a seat at the kitchen table.

Let me have it.

The doctor pushed the briefcase across the table. It opened with a clatter of latches, revealing stacks of soiled and crumpled hundred-dollar bills bound by rubber bands. The lid slammed shut.

What happened?

Wait. Got to... catch my breath.

Of course. And relax. You're safe now.

Grant hunched over, his head between his knees.

I didn't make the delivery.

What!

One of Breach's men put the money on the front seat. The heart was in the trunk. He was about to open it when I saw police cars. I panicked. I ran.

And the heart is ... ?

Still in the trunk.

Are you telling me that you stiffed Martin Breach?

We'll call him, Grant said. We'll explain what happened.

A harsh laugh answered him. Clifford, you don't explain something like this to Breach. Do you understand what you've done?

You have nothing to worry about, Grant answered bitterly. Martin has no idea who you are. I' m the one who has to worry. We'll just have to return the money. We didn't do anything wrong. The police were there.

You're certain he doesn't know who I am?

I never mentioned your name.

Grant's head dropped into his hands and he began to tremble. He'll come after me. Oh, God.

You don't know that for sure, his partner answered in a soothing tone. You're just frightened. Your imagination is running wild.

The shaking grew worse. I don't know what to do.

Strong fingers kneaded the tense muscles of Grant's neck and shoulders.

The first thing you've got to do is get hold of yourself.

The hands felt so comforting. It was what Grant needed, the touch and concern of another human being.

Breach won't bother you, Clifford. Trust me, I'll take care of everything.

Grant looked up hopefully.

I know some people, the voice assured him calmly.

People who can talk to Breach?

Yes. So relax.

Grant's head fell forward from relief and fatigue. The adrenaline that had powered him through the past hour was wearing off.

You're still tense. What you need is a drink. Some ice-cold Chivas. What do you say?

The true extent of Grant's terror could be measured by the fact that he had not even thought of taking a drink since he saw the police through his rear window. Suddenly every cell in his body screamed for alcohol. The fingers lifted; a cupboard door closed; Grant heard the friendly clink of ice bouncing against glass. Then a drink was in his hand. He gulped a quarter of the contents and felt the burn. Grant closed his eyes and raised the cold glass to his feverish forehead.

There, there, his partner said as a hand slapped smartly against the base of Grant's neck. Grant jerked upright, confused by the sharp sting of the ice pick as it passed through his brain stem with textbook precision.

The doctor's head hit the tabletop with a thud. Grant's partner smiled with satisfaction. Grant had to die. Even thinking about returning a quarter of a million dollars was ridiculous. What to do with the heart, though? The surgeon sighed. The procedure to remove it had been performed flawlessly, but it was all for nothing. Now the organ would have to be cut up, pureed and disposed of as soon as Grant took its place in the trunk.

Chapter 2

The deputy district attorney had asked three questions of Darryl Powers, the arresting officer, before Amanda Jaffe realized that the first question had been improper. She leaped to her feet.

Objection, hearsay.

Judge Robard looked perplexed. How could Mr. Dart's question possibly be hearsay, Ms. Jaffe?

Not that one, Your Honor. I believe it was ... let's see. Yes. Two questions before.

Judge Robard looked as though he were in great pain.

If you thought that question was hearsay, why didn't you object to it when it was asked?

Amanda felt fires ignite in her cheeks.

I didn't realize it was hearsay until just now.

The judge shook his head sadly and cast his eyes skyward, as if asking the Lord why he had to be plagued with such incompetence.

Overruled. Proceed, Mr. Dart.

It took Amanda a moment to remember that overruled meant she had lost. She collapsed in her seat. By then, Dart had asked another killer question. Welcome to the real world, a tiny voice whispered in her head. She had earned an A in Evidence at one of the nation's top law schools and had written a note on hearsay for the law review, but she could not think fast enough to make a timely objection in court. Now the judge was certain that she was a moron, and only God knew what the jury thought of her.

Amanda felt a hand patting her forearm. Don't feel bad, girlfriend, LaTricia Sweet said. You're doin' fine.

Great, Amanda thought. I' m screwing up so badly that my client feels she has to console me.

And were you dressed as you are now, Officer Powers? Rodney Dart continued.

No, sir. I was dressed in civilian clothes, because this was an undercover operation.

Thank you, Officer. Please tell the jury what happened next.

I asked the defendant how much it would cost to have her engage in the sex acts she had suggested. The defendant said that she had her crib in the motel across the street and would feel more comfortable discussing business there. I drove to the motel lot and followed the defendant into room one-oh-seven.

What occurred inside the motel room?

I asked the defendant to explain the price of the various sex acts, and she mentioned rates ranging from fifty dollars to two hundred dollars for something she described as ' a night of ecstasy.'

What exactly was this ' night of ecstasy,' Officer Powers?

Quite honestly, Mr. Dart, it was too complicated to remember, and I couldn't take out my notebook at that time because I was undercover.

Darryl Powers had baby blue eyes, wavy blond hair and the type of smile Amanda had seen only in a toothpaste commercial. He had even blushed when he answered the night of ecstasy question. Two of the female jurors looked as if they were about to leap the railing of the jury box and tear off pieces of his clothing.

Amanda grew more despondent as Powers continued to explain the circumstances leading up to LaTricia's arrest for prostitution. Her cross examination was pathetic. When she was through, Rodney Dart said, The State rests. Then he turned toward Amanda, his back to the jury, and smirked. Amanda thought about giving Dart the finger, but she was too depressed to defend herself. What she really wanted to do was finish her first trial, go home, and commit seppuku. Besides, Dart had every right to smirk. He was riding roughshod over her.

Officer Powers smiled at the jury as he left the stand. All five of the women jurors smiled back.

Any witnesses, Ms. Jaffe? Judge Robard asked, but Amanda did not hear him. She was thinking about the previous afternoon when the senior partner in her law firm, her father, Frank Jaffe, had given her LaTricia's case and told her to be ready to try it in the morning.

How can I possibly try my first case without interviewing any of the witnesses or doing any investigation? Amanda had asked in horror.

Believe me, Frank Jaffe had replied, with LaTricia as your client, the less you know, the better off you are.

Amanda had read over the file in State v. Sweet four times before marching down the hall to her father's office, planting herself in front of his desk and waving it in his face.

What am I supposed to do with this? she' d demanded angrily.

Put on a vigorous defense, Frank had answered.

How? There's only one witness, a sworn officer of the law. He's going to testify that our client promised to do things to him for money that I'll bet ninety-five percent of humanity has never heard of.

LaTricia can take care of herself.

Dad, get real. She has thirteen priors for crimes like prostitution, prohibited touching and lewd behavior. Who is going to take her word over the cop' s?

Frank had shrugged. It's a funny world, Amanda.

I can't try a case this way, Amanda had insisted.

Of course you can. Trust me. And trust LaTricia. Everything will work out just fine if you go with the flow.

Judge Robard cleared his throat, then repeated himself.

Ms. Jaffe, any witnesses?

Uh, yes, Your Honor.

The skirt of her black Donna Karan power suit rode up her long legs as Amanda stood. She wanted to tug it down, but she was afraid that everyone in court would see her, so she stood before the court with her thighs partially exposed and color rising in her cheeks.

The defense calls LaTricia Sweet.

Before leaving her seat to cross to the witness box, LaTricia leaned over and whispered in Amanda's ear.

Don't worry about nothin' , honey. After I swear to tell the whole truth, you ask me what I do for a living, what I said to that police and why I said it. Then sit back and let me do my thing.

Before Amanda could reply, LaTricia sashayed across the room. Her bust and butt were so huge that Amanda was afraid that they would rip her tight red sweater and black leather mini skirt. A blond-orange wig, slightly askew, sat atop her head. Amanda compared her client to the radiant Darryl Powers and moaned inwardly.

Since she had no plan, Amanda decided to follow her client's instructions.

Ms. Sweet, she asked after LaTricia was sworn, what do you do for a living?

I walk the streets of Portland and sell my body, Ms. Jaffe.

Amanda blinked. The confession was a surprise, but she was relieved that her client was not lying under oath.

Can you tell the jury what happened on the evening of August third of last year?

Yes, ma' am.

LaTricia composed herself and turned toward the jury.

On August third I was working on Martin Luther King Boulevard when Officer Powers drove by.

Did you know that he was a policeman?

Yes, I did.

You did?

Oh, yes. I've seen Officer Powers run a game on several of my friends.

Then why did you ... Uh, what happened next?

LaTricia straightened her skirt and cleared her throat.

Officer Powers asked me if I would have sex with him. Now, I knew what he was trying to do. I've seen him arrest my friends, like I said. But I knew he couldn't arrest me if I didn't mention money. So I told him that I had a room in the motel across the street and I would feel more comfortable discussing our mutual interests there. Officer Powers asked me what those interests might be, and I described a few things that seemed to perk him up. At least I thought they did, because his face got all red and I noticed that something more than his temperature was rising.

Two of the jurors glanced at each other.

What happened then? Amanda asked.

LaTricia looked at the jurors, then down at her lap.

Officer Powers parked in the motel lot and we went to my crib. Once we was inside I ... This is a little embarrassing for me, Ms. Jaffe, but I know I got to tell the truth.

Just take your time, Ms. Sweet, Amanda advised her. LaTricia nodded, took a deep breath and continued.

Like I said, I' d seen Officer Powers around and I thought that he was about the sweetest thing I ever did see, so young and shy. All those friends of mine he' d busted said he was polite and treated them like ladies. Not like the other police. And, well...

Yes?

LaTricia cast her eyes down. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible.

The truth is, I fell in love with Officer Powers and I confessed my love as soon as I shut the door to my room.

The jurors leaned forward. Someone in the back of the room giggled.

I know that sounds crazy, LaTricia said, directing her comment to the spectators, and I know Officer Powers didn't say nothin' ' bout my confession when he was on the stand. I don't know if he left that out because he was embarrassed or because he didn't want to embarrass me. He's such a gentleman.

LaTricia squared her shoulders and turned back to the jury.

Soon as we was alone I came clean and told him that I knew that he was a policeman. Then I told him that I knew that I was just an old whore, used up by life, but that I had never felt about any man the way I felt about him. Officer Powers, he blushed and looked like he wanted to be anywhere but with me, and I can understand that. He probably has himself a fine white woman, someone foxy. But I told him that all I wanted was one night of love with him and that he could take me to jail when it was over, because one night of his sweet love would be worth an eternity of jail.

A tear trickled down LaTricia's cheek. She paused, drew a handkerchief from her purse, dabbed at the tear, then said, ' Scuse me, to the jurors.

Do you want some water, Ms. Sweet? asked Amanda, who had been swept up in the drama of the moment. Rodney Dart leaped to his feet.

Objection, Your Honor. This is too much.

Oh, I don't ' spect you to believe any of this, Mr. DA. An old bag like me trying to find love with a man half her age. But can't I dream?

Your Honor, Dart begged.

The defendant is entitled to put on a defense, Mr. Dart, Judge Robard answered in a tone that let the jurors know that he wasn't buying LaTricia's act, but several of the jurors were casting angry glances at the prosecutor.

Ain't much more to say, LaTricia concluded. I gambled for love and I lost. I' m ready to take what fate has in store. But I want you to know that I never wanted money from that man. All I wanted was love.

Frank Jaffe, the senior partner in Jaffe, Katz, Lehane and Brindisi, was a big man with a ruddy complexion and black curly hair that was streaked with gray. His nose had been broken twice in his youth, and he looked more like a teamster or a stevedore than an attorney. Frank was in his office dictating a letter when Amanda walked in waving the Sweet file.

How could you do this to me?

Frank grinned. You won, didn't you?

That's beside the point.

Ernie Katz was in the back of the courtroom. He said you weren't totally awful.

You sent Ernie to watch me be humiliated?

He also said that you looked scared to death.

I was, and giving me this insane case didn't help.

You' d have been scared no matter what case you tried first. When I tried my first case I spent the whole trial trying to remember the words you say when you want to introduce a piece of evidence. I never did get it right.

Thank you for sharing.

Hey, I lost my first trial. I knew you' d have a fighting chance with LaTricia as your client no matter how badly you screwed up. I've been representing her for years, and she usually comes out okay. Ernie said the jury was back in twenty minutes.

Twenty-two, Amanda answered with a grudging smile. I have to admit winning was a rush.

Frank laughed. Ernie also said that your closing argument was a doozy. Especially the part where you told the jury that you had scoured the statutes of the state of Oregon and had been unable to find love defined as a crime.

Amanda grinned. It had been a great line. Then she stopped smiling.

I still think you're a bastard.

You're a warrior now, kiddo. The whole office is waiting at Scarletti's to celebrate.

Oh, shit, they're just going to razz me. Besides, I didn't do much. LaTricia won the case with her cockamamie story.

Hey, trial lawyers should never be humble. Crow about your victories and blame your defeats on biased judges, ignorant juries, and the tricks of fascist prosecutors. As of now, you're the only lawyer in this office who's never lost a case.

Until she found a place of her own, Amanda was living with Frank in the green, steep-roofed East Lake Victorian where she had grown up. Amanda had not been home, except for summers and holiday visits, since she' d started college, nine years ago. Staying in the second-floor bedroom where she had spent her childhood felt strange after so many years of independence. The room was filled with mementos of her youth: diplomas from high school and college, shelves loaded down with swimming trophies and medals, framed newspaper clippings detailing her athletic feats.

Amanda was exhausted and a little drunk when she climbed into bed at ten, but she was too upset to sleep. Frank had had no business throwing her into court unprepared in the same way he' d thrown her into the pool at the YMCA when she was three to teach her how to swim. Then, at Scarletti' s, Frank had embarrassed the hell out of her by giving a speech that compared her victory in court to her surprise win her freshman year at the state high school swimming championships. She wanted her father to stop thinking of her as his little girl and to realize that she was a grown woman who had earned credentials that could open any door in the legal community.

Amanda had forgotten how controlling Frank could be. His assumption that he always knew what was best for her was infuriating. Tonight was not the first time she' d wondered if she had made a mistake by joining Frank's firm instead of going to one of the many San Francisco firms that had courted her or applying for a clerkship at the United States Supreme Court, as Judge Madison had advised.

Amanda stared at the shadows on the bedroom ceiling and asked herself why she had come back to Portland, but she knew the answer. Ever since she had been old enough to understand what her father did, she had been steeped in, and seduced by, the mystery and adventure of criminal law, and no one was better at criminal defense than Frank Jaffe. As a little girl, she had watched her father charm juries and confound hostile witnesses. He had held her in his arms at news conferences and discussed his strategy with her at the kitchen table over hot chocolate. While her law school classmates talked about the money they would make, she thought about the innocents she would save.

Amanda turned on her side. Her eyes had grown used to the dark. She studied the symbols of her successes that Frank had assembled. Frank had lived a lost childhood through her. She knew he loved her and wanted what was best for her. What she wanted was the chance to decide for herself what was best.

Chapter 3

Mary Sandowski burst through the operating room doors. As the nurse rushed along the crowded hospital corridor, she ducked her head to hide the tears that coursed down her cheeks. Moments later Dr. Vincent Cardoni slammed through the same doors and ran after her. When the powerfully built surgeon caught up with Sandowski, he grabbed the slender woman's elbow and spun her toward him.

You incompetent cow.

Visitors, patients and hospital personnel stopped to stare at the outraged physician and the woman he was berating.

I tried to tell you....

You switched the cups, you moron.

No. You

Cardoni shoved her against the wall and leaned forward until his face was inches from the cowering nurse. The pupils in his bloodshot eyes were dilated, and the tendons in his neck swelled.

Don't you ever contradict me.

Vincent, what do you think you're doing?

Cardoni pivoted. A tall woman with caramel-colored hair and an athletic figure was bearing down on him. She was wearing a loose brown dress and a white doctor's smock. The cold eyes she fixed on the surgeon were the color of jade.

Cardoni turned his rage on the newcomer.

This is not your business, Justine.

The woman stopped a few paces from Cardoni and stood her ground.

Take your hands off her or I'll have you up before the Board of Medical Examiners. I don't think you can stand another complaint, and there will be plenty of witnesses this time.

Is there a problem, Dr. Castle?

Justine glanced at the broad-shouldered man in green OR scrubs who now stood beside her. The white letters on his black plastic name tag identified him as Anthony Fiori.

There's no problem, because Dr. Cardoni is going to leave, Justine said, returning her gaze to Cardoni. A pulse throbbed in the surgeon's temple and every muscle in his body tensed, but he suddenly noticed the crowd that had gathered, and he released Sandowski's elbow. Justine stepped closer to Cardoni and studied his eyes.

My God, she said in a low tone that was still loud enough to carry beyond them. Are you on something? Were you operating on drugs?

Cardoni's fists knotted. For a moment it appeared that he would strike Justine. Then he spun and stalked away, shouldering through the onlookers. Sandowski sagged against the wall. Fiori caught her.

Are you okay? he asked gently.

She nodded as she wept.

Let's get you someplace less public, Justine said, taking Sandowski's arm and leading her down a side hall and into a call room where the residents sacked out. Justine eased the shaken nurse onto a narrow metal-frame bed that stood against one wall, and sat beside her. Fiori fetched a cup of water.

What happened? Justine asked once Sandowski regained her composure.

He said I switched the cups, but I didn' t. He filled the syringe without looking.

Slow down. I' m not following you.

Sandowski took a deep breath.

That's better. Just relax.

Dr. Cardoni was performing a carpal tunnel release. You anesthetize the hand with lidocaine before you operate.

Justine nodded.

Then you irrigate the wound with hydrogen peroxide before suturing it.

Justine nodded again

The lidocaine and the hydrogen peroxide were in two cups. Dr. Cardoni insisted on filling the syringe himself. He didn't look.

He injected the patient with hydrogen peroxide instead of the lidocaine? Justine asked incredulously.

I tried to tell him that he had it wrong, but he told me to shut up. Then Mrs. Manion, the patient, started complaining that it was stinging, so he injected her again and she started to scream.

I don't believe this, Justine said, shaking her head in disgust. How could he possibly mistake lidocaine for hydrogen peroxide? One of them is clear and the other has bubbles in it. It's like confusing Champagne and water.

I really tried to tell him, but he wouldn't let me. I don't know what would have happened if Dr. Metzler hadn't stopped him. It wasn't my fault. I swear I didn't mix up the cups.

Do you want to report this? I'll back you up.

Sandowski looked startled. No, no. I don't have to, do I?

It's your decision.

Sandowski's eyes were wide with fear. You're not going to report it, are you?

Not if you don't want me to, Justine answered soothingly.

Sandowski's head dropped, and she started to cry again. I hate him. You don't know what he's like, Sandowski sobbed.

Oh, yes, I do, she said. I' m married to that bastard.

Fiori looked surprised.

We're separated, Justine said forcefully.

She handed Sandowski a tissue. Why don't you go home for the rest of the day? Justine suggested. We'll clear everything with the head nurse.

Sandowski nodded, and Fiori used the phone to make arrangements for the nurse to leave.

Something's got to be done about him, Justine said as soon as Sandowski was out of the call room.

Were you serious when you accused Cardoni of operating on drugs?

Justine looked at Fiori. She was flushed.

He can't get through the day without cocaine. He's a malpractice case waiting to happen. I know he's going to kill someone if something isn't done, but I can't say a word. He's an established surgeon. I' m only a resident. I' m also suing him for divorce. No one would take me seriously.

I see what you mean, Fiori answered thoughtfully. It puts you in a tough spot. Especially if Nurse Sandowski won't report him.

I can't ask her to. She's scared to death.

Fiori nodded.

Thank you for stepping in when you did, by the way. I don't know what Vincent would have done if you hadn't been there.

Fiori smiled. You looked like you were handling yourself okay.

Thanks anyway.

Hey, we lowly residents need to stick together. Fiori saw the time on a wall clock. Oops, got to run or I'll be late for a date with a fatty tumor in Lumps and Bumps.

The handsome resident took off down the corridor with a purposeful stride. Justine Castle watched him until he disappeared around a corner.

Chapter 4

Martin Breach's sandy hair was thinning, his drab brown eyes were watery and he had the pale complexion of someone who rarely went outside during the day. He also had dreadful taste in clothes. Breach wore orange or green slacks with garish jackets and loud ties that were unfashionably wide. His outfits made him look silly, but Breach didn't care. By the time his enemies realized that they had underestimated him, they were frequently dead.

Breach had started in the trenches breaking legs for Benny Dee, but he was too intelligent to stay a leg breaker for long. Now Breach ran the most efficient and ruthless criminal organization in the Pacific Northwest. No one knew where to find Benny Dee.

Martin's right-hand man, Art Prochaska, was a giant with thick lips, a broad nose and pencil-thin eyebrows. Rumor had it that in his days as a collector for the mob he had used his huge head to stun debtors as effectively as an electric charge from a Taser. Prochaska had none of Breach's smarts, but he shared his taste for violence. When Martin climbed the ladder of crime, he pulled along the only person in the world he trusted.

Prochaska limped through the door of Breach's office in the rear of the Jungle Club and settled himself across the desk from his boss. He had injured himself when he hit the pavement at the airfield diving to avoid Clifford Grant's car. The office was tiny, and the furniture was rickety and secondhand. Pictures of naked women and a calendar from a motor oil company decorated the paper-thin walls. Raucous music from the strip club made it difficult to hear. Breach wanted the club to look run-down so that the IRS could not get a true picture of the money that flowed through it.

So? Breach asked.

Grant's gone. We checked his place and the hospital. No one's seen him since he split during the raid.

Breach was very quiet. To someone who did not know, he seemed relaxed, but Prochaska was aware that a rage of monumental proportions was building.

This is bad, Arty. I' m out a quarter of a million bucks, I' m out my profit and my reputation has taken a hit because of that quack.

If he hadn't taken off with the heart, we' d have been arrested.

Breach stared at Prochaska long enough to make the giant look down.

Where is he?

No one knows. Eugene and me searched his apartment. We didn't find squat. I got the feeling someone had tossed it before we did, but I couldn't say for sure.

The cops?

No, the place was too neat.

The partner?

Maybe.

Who is he, Arty?

Prochaska answered hesitantly. He always hated to tell Breach bad news. I got one possible lead. My friend at the phone company gave me Grant's records. He made a few calls to a number in the West Hills. The phone belongs to Dr. Vincent Cardoni.

Is he a surgeon?

Yeah, and he works at St. Francis Medical Center.

Breach's eyes narrowed. Clifford Grant had privileges at St. Francis.

The lady across the way from his apartment said that Grant didn't get many visitors, but she saw a woman up there and a man, maybe two. Anyway, the woman was a knockout, so the neighbor kidded Grant about her. She says he got all nervous. He said she was an associate from work named Justine Castle.

So what?

She's a doctor, Arty, a surgeon, and that ain't all. Castle is married to Vincent Cardoni.

Breach thought for a moment while Prochaska shifted nervously in his seat.

Do you think the cops have Grant? Breach asked.

Our people in the Bureau say no.

Do a background check on those two, Arty.

I' m doin' it already.

I want Grant, I want his partner and I want my money back. And once I've got all three, I' m going to get me a replacement for the heart I lost.

Chapter 5

Dr. Carleton Swindell, the hospital administrator for St. Francis Medical Center, won his bid on the computer bridge game, then checked his watch. He' d kept his appointment waiting for twenty minutes. Swindell's thin lips drew into a satisfied smile. Stewing was probably more accurate, if he knew Dr. Cardoni. Well, that was too bad. It would do Cardoni good to learn a little humility.

Swindell clicked his mouse. The bridge game disappeared and was replaced by a screen saver showing Einstein and Leonardo da Vinci playing tennis another game at which Swindell excelled. The hospital administrator went into his private washroom and adjusted his bow tie in the mirror. He believed himself to be a handsome man, still as dapper at forty-five in his tweed sports jacket, blue Oxford shirt and sharply creased slacks as he had been at Yale. His blond hair was growing a bit thin in places and he needed his gold wire-rimmed glasses for reading, but he sculled every morning on the Willamette, so his weight was the same as it had been during his university days.

Carleton returned to his office and glanced at his watch again. Twenty-five minutes. Cardoni would be boiling, he thought with satisfaction. Oh, well, no need to overdo it. He leaned forward and buzzed his secretary.

Please send in Dr. Cardoni, Charlotte.

Swindell composed himself and waited for the explosion. He was not disappointed. Charlotte opened his office door wide and pressed against it. Cardoni charged in. The scene reminded Swindell of a bullfight he' d seen in Barcelona. Charlotte was the matador, the door her cape, and the bull... He had to fight to suppress a smile.

I've been out there half an hour, Cardoni said.

I' m sorry, Vincent. I was on an important long-distance call, the administrator replied calmly. If Cardoni had seen the unlit lines on Charlotte's phone, he' d know that Swindell was lying, but Swindell bet he wouldn't call him on it. Have a seat.

What's this about? Cardoni demanded.

Swindell leaned back and made a steeple of his fingers. I've had a disturbing report about you.

Cardoni glared. The administrator noted the surgeon's flushed pallor, his disheveled hair and unkempt clothes. Cardoni was clearly on the edge. Maybe the rumors of drug use were true.

Did you accost a nurse in a public corridor yesterday?

Accost? Cardoni mocked. What does that mean, Carleton?

You know very well, Vincent, Swindell answered evenly. Did you accost Mary Sandowski?

Who told you that?

That's confidential. Well?

Cardoni smirked. No, Carleton, I did not accost her. What I did was ream her out.

I see. And you, um, reamed her out in front of patients and staff at this hospital?

I have no idea who was around. The dumb bitch fucked up during an operation. I should have gotten her fired.

I' d appreciate a little less profanity, Vincent. Also, you should know that more than one person has informed me that you were responsible for the mistake in the OR. Injecting your patient with hydrogen peroxide instead of lidocaine, I believe.

After that moron switched the cups.

Carleton tapped his fingertips together and studied Cardoni before replying.

You know, Vincent, this isn't the first complaint of... well, to put it bluntly, incompetence that's been made against you.

Every muscle in the surgeon's body went rigid.

I want to be frank, Swindell continued. If Mrs. Manion were to file a malpractice case against you, it would make three complaints. Swindell shook his head sadly. I don't want to take action, but I have a duty to this hospital.

None of those charges has any foundation. I've consulted my attorney.

That may be, but there's a lot of talk. Rumors of drug use, for instance.

So you've been chatting with Justine.

I can't reveal my sources. Swindell looked at Cardoni sympathetically. You know, there are wonderful programs for doctors in trouble, he said in a man-to-man tone. They're all confidential. Charlotte can give you a list when you leave.

She really got to you, didn't she, Carleton? Did you know that Justine's filed for divorce? She' d do anything to blacken my reputation.

You seem to have a number of court cases going on. Wasn't there something last year involving an assault?

Where is this going?

Going? Well, that depends on what I find out after my investigation is complete. I invited you here so you could tell me your side of the story.

Cardoni stood. You've heard it. If there's nothing more, I've got things to do.

There's nothing more for now. Thank you for dropping by.

Cardoni turned his back on the administrator and stalked out without shutting the door. Swindell sat motionless.

Did you want this closed? Charlotte asked.

Swindell nodded, then swiveled his chair until he was looking out at the lights of Portland. Cardoni was crude and disrespectful, but the problem he presented could be dealt with. Swindell's lips twisted into a smile of anticipation. It would be a pleasure taking the arrogant surgeon down a peg or two.

Vincent Cardoni waited for his connection beneath a freeway off-ramp. Thick concrete pilings straddled the narrow street. There was a vacant lot across the way, and a plumbing supply warehouse was the nearest building. At ten in the evening the area was deserted.

Cardoni was still in a rage as a result of his meeting with Carleton Swindell. Cardoni never called the administrator Doctor. The wimp may have trained as a surgeon, but he couldn't cut it. Now he was an administrator who got his rocks off by making life difficult for the real doctors. What really burned Cardoni was the prick's refusal to say whether it was Sandowski or Justine who had informed on him. Cardoni was leaning toward Justine. The nurse was too afraid of him, and it would be just like his bitch wife to use Swindell to put on the pressure so that she would have leverage in the divorce proceedings.

Headlights at the far end of the block flashed on and off, and Cardoni got out of his car. Moments later Lloyd Krause pulled under the off-ramp. Lloyd was six-two and a fat 250 pounds. His long, dirty hair reached the shoulders of his black leather jacket, and there were grease stains on his worn jeans. Cardoni could smell him as soon as he climbed out of his car.

Hey, man, got your page, Krause said.

I appreciate the speed.

You're a valued customer, Doc. So, what can I do you for?

I'll take an eight ball, Lloyd.

My pleasure, Krause answered. He walked to his trunk, popped the lid and rummaged around. When he stood up he was holding a Ziploc bag filled with two and a half grams of white powder, which Cardoni pocketed.

Two fifty, my man, and I'll be on my way.

I came straight from the hospital, so I don't have the cash with me. I'll get it to you tomorrow.

The dealer's easy smile vanished.

Then you'll get the snow tomorrow, he said.

Cardoni had expected this. Where do you want me to meet you? he asked, making no move to return the cocaine. Krause held out his hand, palm up.

The Baggie, he demanded.

Look, Lloyd, Cardoni answered casually, we've been friends for almost a year. Why make this hard?

You know the rules, Doc. No dough, no snow.

I' m going to pay you tomorrow, but I' m using this cocaine tonight. Let's not damage a good relationship.

Lloyd's hand plunged into his pocket. When it came out, he was holding a switchblade.

That's a scary knife, Cardoni said without a trace of fear.

The coke, and no more fucking around.

Cardoni sighed. I' m certain you're experienced with that knife.

That is fucking correct.

But you might want to ask yourself one question before you try to use it.

This isn't Jeopardy. Give me the coke.

Think for a moment, Lloyd. You're bigger than me and you're younger than me and you have a knife, but I don't look worried, do I?

Doubt flickered in the dealer's eyes, and he took a quick look around.

No, no, Lloyd, that's not it. We're all alone, just the two of us. I wanted it that way because I thought you might act like this.

Look, I don't want to hurt you. Just give me the dope.

You're not going to hurt me, and I' m not returning the eight ball. I know that for a fact. You better figure out why, quickly, before something bad happens.

What the fuck are you talking about?

It's a secret, Lloyd. Something I know that you don' t. Something I know about what happened the last time someone pulled a knife on me.

Cardoni noticed that the dealer had not moved closer, and he noted a tremor in Krause's hand.

There's a lot about me that you don't know, Lloyd.

He looked directly into his connection's eyes.

Have you ever killed a man? Have you? With your bare hands?

Krause took a step back.

Fear the unknown, Lloyd. What you don't know can kill you.

Are you threatening me? Krause asked with false bravado.

Cardoni shook his head slowly.

You don't get it, do you? We're all alone here. If something happens, no one can help you.

Cardoni straightened to his full height, moving sideways to give the dealer a smaller target.

I honor my debts, and I will pay you tomorrow.

The dealer hesitated. Cardoni's cold eyes bored into him. Krause licked his lips. The doctor got in his car, and Krause made no move to stop him.

It's three hundred tomorrow, Lloyd said, his voice shaky.

Of course, for the inconvenience.

You better fucking bring it.

No problem, Lloyd. Cardoni started the car. You have a good evening.

Cardoni drove off, waving casually, the way he might after finishing a friendly round of golf.

Chapter 6

Mary Sandowski's eyes opened. Wherever she was, it was pitch black and a blanket of warm, muggy air pressed down on her. Mary wondered if you could feel the touch of air in a dream but was too tired to figure out the answer, so she closed her eyes and dozed off.

Time passed. Her eyes opened again, and Mary willed herself out of the fog. She tried to sit up. Restraints cut into her forehead, ankles and wrists and anchored her in place. She panicked, she struggled, but she soon gave up. Lying in the dark, in the silence, she could hear her heart tap-tap-tapping.

Where am I? she asked out loud. Her voice echoed in the darkness. Mary took deep breaths until she was calm enough to take stock. She knew that she was naked because she could feel the air on her body. There was a sheet under her, and under the sheet was a firm padded surface. She might be on a gurney or an examining table like the ones at the hospital. A hospital! She must be in a hospital. That had to be it.

Hello! Is anybody here? Mary shouted. A nurse would hear her. Someone would come in and tell her why she was in the hospital ... if she was in a hospital. It dawned on Mary that the air smelled slightly foul. Missing was the antiseptic odor she associated with St. Francis.

A door opened. She heard the click of a switch, and a flash of light blinded her. Mary closed her eyes in self-defense. The door closed.

I see the patient is awake, a friendly voice said. It sounded vaguely familiar. Mary opened her eyes slowly, squinting into the light of the bare bulb that dangled directly overhead.

I hope you're rested. We have a lot to do.

Where am I? Mary asked.

There was no answer. Mary heard the sound of shoes moving across the floor. She strained to see the person who was standing at the foot of the table.

What's wrong with me? Why am I here?

A shape moved between Mary and the lightbulb. She saw a section of a green hospital gown that surgeons wore when they operated. Mary's heart lurched. A needle pricked a vein in her forearm.

What are you doing? Mary asked anxiously.

Just giving you a little something that will heighten your sensitivity to pain.

What? Mary asked, not certain she had understood correctly.

Suddenly Mary's throat constricted. She became aware of a warm feeling. Every nerve in her body began to tingle. She heaved for breath and began to sweat. Her pores exuded the smell of fear. Suddenly the sheet beneath her was damp and rough to the touch, and the air that caressed her naked body felt like sandpaper.

Without a word, a hand slid across her left breast. It felt unbearably cold, like dry ice.

Please, she begged, tell me what's happening.

A thumb caressed her nipple, and she felt fear so intense that it raised her body a fraction of an inch from the table.

Good, the voice remarked. Very good.

The hand slid away. There was complete quiet. Mary bit her lip and tried to stop shaking.

Talk to me, please, she pleaded. Am I sick? Mary heard the unmistakable metallic ping of surgical instruments touching accidentally. Are you going to operate?

The doctor did not answer her.

I' m Mary Sandowski. I' m a nurse. If you tell me what you're going to do, I'll understand, I won't be afraid.

Really?

The doctor chuckled and moved to Mary's side. She saw light dancing off the smooth steel of a scalpel blade. Now she was babbling with fear, but the doctor still refused to answer her question and began to hum a tune.

Why are you doing this? Mary sobbed.

For the first time the doctor seemed interested in something she had said. There was a pause while the surgeon contemplated her question. Then the doctor leaned closer and whispered.

I' m doing this because I want to, Mary. Because I can.

Chapter 7

Amanda Jaffe executed a flip turn and felt her foot slip on the tiles as she somersaulted off the pool wall. The bad turn made her shimmy as she headed into the final lap of her 800-meter freestyle, and she had to fight the water to get her body right. Amanda was on the edge of exhaustion, but she dug in for a final sprint. When she saw the far wall through the churning water, she gritted her teeth for one last, great effort, lunged forward and collapsed against the side of the pool. A clock hung on the wall in front of her. Amanda pulled her goggles onto her forehead. As soon as she saw her time, she groaned. It was nowhere near the time she had registered five years ago in the finals of the PAC-10 championships.

Amanda tugged off her swim cap and shook out her long black hair. She cut an imposing figure, with shoulders that were broad and muscular from years of competitive swimming. When her breathing leveled, Amanda checked the clock again, noting that her recovery time was also a hell of a lot slower than it had been when she was twenty-one. For a brief moment she thought about working out a little longer, but she knew she' d had it. She hoisted herself out of the pool and headed for the Jacuzzi, where she would soak until the pain in her tired muscles disappeared.

When she was dressed, Amanda went to the reception desk at the Y and stood in line to swap her key for her membership card. She had noticed the woman ahead of her when she was showering. She had the hard, muscled physique of someone who works out with weights and runs long distances, and her looks were as impressive as her body. The woman got her card from the clerk and walked toward an equally striking man in a blue warm-up suit. They made quite a couple. The man looked athletic. He had a dark complexion and blue eyes, and his black hair fell across his forehead in a boyish tangle.

Amanda frowned. There was something familiar about the woman's companion, but she couldn't remember where she' d seen him before. Then he smiled and she knew.

Tony?

The man turned.

I' m Amanda Jaffe.

Tony Fiori's face lit up.

My God, Amanda, of course! How many years has it been?

Eight, nine, Amanda answered. When did you get back to Portland?

About a year ago. I' m a doctor. I' m doing my residency at St. Francis.

That's great!

What are you up to?

I' m a lawyer.

Not medical malpractice, I hope?

Amanda laughed. No, I' m with my dad's firm.

Hey, I' m forgetting my manners. Tony turned to the woman. Amanda Jaffe, Justine Castle. Justine's a friend from the hospital, another overworked and underpaid resident. Amanda and I went to high school together, and her father and mine used to be law partners.

Justine had watched quietly while Amanda and Tony spoke. Now she smiled and extended a hand. It was cool to the touch, and her grip was strong. Amanda thought that her smile was forced.

Tony looked at his watch. We've got to get back to St. Francis, he said. It was great seeing you. Maybe we can get together for lunch sometime.

That would be terrific. Nice meeting you, Justine.

Justine nodded, and she and Tony walked down to the parking lot. Amanda had parked on the street. She smiled as she headed to her car. Tony had always been a hunk, but she could only fantasize about him in high school when she was a geeky freshman and he was a godlike senior. Then the difference in their ages had been huge. It didn't seem so great now. Maybe she would ask him out for coffee.

Amanda laughed. If he accepted, her social life would improve 100 percent. The only man her age at the firm was married, and she spent most of her working hours out of the office at the law library, which was not heavily populated by swinging singles. She had bar-hopped a few times with two girlfriends she knew from high school, but she didn't like the forced gaiety. In truth, she found dating painful. Most of the men she' d gone out with hadn't held her interest for long. Her only serious affair had been with a fellow law student. It had ended when a Wall Street firm hired him and she accepted a clerkship on the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit, which sat in San Francisco. Todd had made their continuing relationship conditional upon Amanda staying in New York and sacrificing the clerkship. Amanda had decided to sacrifice Todd instead and had never regretted the decision.

Though she didn't miss Todd, she did miss being with someone. Amanda had fond memories of buying the Sunday New York Times at one A.M. and reading it at breakfast over toasted bagels and hot coffee. She liked morning sex and studying with someone warm and friendly nearby. Amanda wasn't going to give up her identity for any man, but there were times when it was nice having a man around. She wondered if Tony and Justine were more than friends. She wondered if Tony would say yes to a cup of coffee.

Chapter 8

The weather in Portland was cold and wet, and Bobby Vasquez was tired and cranky. The wiry vice cop had spent the last two weeks trying to gain the confidence of a low-level junkie whose brother was connected in a big way to some very serious offenders. The junkie was sly and suspicious, and Vasquez was beginning to think that he was wasting his time. He was writing a report about their last meeting when the receptionist buzzed him.

There's a weird call on line one.

Give it to someone else.

Vasquez still had on the stained jeans, torn flannel shirt and red-and-black Portland Trailblazers T-shirt that he' d been wearing for two straight days. They smelled and he smelled, and he wanted nothing more out of life than a shower, a six-pack and tonight's Blazer telecast.

You're the only one in, the receptionist said.

Then get a number, Sherri, I' m busy.

Detective Vasquez, I've got a strange feeling about this. The person is disguising his or her voice with some kind of electronic equipment.

Sherri had just started, and she treated every new case as if it was the next O.J. Vasquez decided that it would be easier to take the call than argue with her, and it would definitely be more fun than writing the report. He picked up the phone.

This is Detective Vasquez. Who am I speaking to?

Listen to me, I won't repeat myself, the caller said through a device that produced an eerily inhuman monotone. Dr. Vincent Cardoni, a surgeon at St. Francis Medical Center, recently purchased two kilos of cocaine from Martin Breach. Cardoni is hiding the cocaine in a mountain cabin. He is going to sell it to two men from Seattle within the week.

Where is this cabin?

The caller told Vasquez the location.

This is very interesting, Vasquez was saying when the line went dead. He gazed at the receiver, then stared into space. The mystery snitch had said the magic word. Vasquez could care less about some junkie doctor. Martin Breach was another matter.

The closest they had come to indicting Breach was two years ago when Mickey Parks, a cop on loan from a southern Oregon police department, infiltrated Breach's organization. Vasquez had been Parks's control, and they had grown close. A week before Breach was going to be arrested, Parks disappeared. Over the next month, the vice and narcotics squad received untraceable packages containing the policeman's body parts. Everyone knew that Breach had killed Parks, knowing that he was a cop, but there was not a shred of evidence connecting Breach to the murder. Breach had cracked jokes during his interrogation while the detectives, including Vasquez, looked on helplessly.

Vasquez swiveled his chair and imagined a doctor in handcuffs slumped forward in an interrogation room, his tie undone, his shirt rumpled, sweat beading his forehead. A doctor in those circumstances would be very vulnerable. Draw a few pictures for him of the downside of spending time in the company of deranged bikers, honkie-hating homeboys and slavering queers and the doctor would drink gasoline to avoid prison. It wouldn't take much effort to convince a terrified physician that ratting out Martin Breach was easier than guzzling premium unleaded.

Vasquez swiveled again and confronted the first problem he foresaw. To arrest the doctor Vasquez needed evidence. The cocaine would do it, but how was he going to find Cardoni's stash? The courts had ruled that the phone tip of an anonymous informant was not a sufficient basis for securing a search warrant. If the informant would not give his name, he could be a liar with a grudge or a prankster. Information provided by an anonymous informant had to be corroborated before a judge would consider it. Vasquez could not get a warrant to search the cabin unless he could present some proof that the cocaine was inside. That was not going to be easy, but nailing Breach was worth the effort.

Chapter 9

The gravel in the nearly empty parking lot of the Rebel Tavern crunched under the tires of Bobby Vasquez's dull green Camaro. Two Harleys and a dust-coated pickup truck were parked on either side of the entrance. Vasquez checked the rear and found Art Prochaska's cherry red Cadillac parked under the barren limbs of the lot's only tree.

At night, the Rebel Tavern looked like a scene from a postapocalyptic sci-fi flick. Bearded, unwashed bodies clad in leather and decorated with terrifying tattoos stood four deep at the bar, eardrum-busting music made speech impossible and blood flowed at the slightest excuse. But at three on a Friday afternoon the cruel sun spotlighted the tavern's fading paint job and the jukebox was turned low enough for the hung-over to bear.

Vasquez entered the tavern and waited while his eyes adjusted to the dark. His investigation was not going well. Vincent Cardoni was under investigation by the Board of Medical Examiners, and his behavior at St. Francis Medical Center was becoming increasingly erratic and violent; there were even rumors about cocaine use. But none of this information provided probable cause to search Cardoni's mountain cabin for two kilos of cocaine. Vasquez was desperate, so he had set up this meeting with Art Prochaska, who had been busted by the DEA recently. Vasquez would have to help Prochaska with his federal beef if he wanted information, a prospect he found as appealing as a prostate examination, but it was starting to look as though Breach's enforcer might be his only hope.

Prochaska was nursing a scotch at the bar. While Vasquez bought a bottle of beer, Prochaska went to the men's room. Vasquez followed a moment later. As soon as the door closed, Prochaska locked it and slammed Vasquez face forward into the wall. Vasquez could not stand the feel of Prochaska's hands on him, but he expected the frisk and stifled his impulse to smash his beer bottle into the gangster's face. When the pat-down was finished, Prochaska stepped back and told Vasquez to turn around. The vice cop was standing close enough to smell the garlic on Prochaska's breath.

Long time, Art.

If I never saw you, it wouldn't be too long, Vasquez, Prochaska answered in a voice that sounded like a car driving over crushed gravel.

Vasquez took a sip of his beer and leaned back against the bathroom wall. I hear you're under indictment for possession with intent to distribute. I want to help you with the feds.

Prochaska laughed. You born again?

Don't be so cynical. I've been known to help bigger turds than you when it worked to my advantage.

Why don't you quit wasting my time and tell me what you want?

I need some information about Dr. Vincent Cardoni, a surgeon at St. Francis.

Don't know him.

Look, Art, you know I' m not wired. This is between us. I' m just trying to corroborate some information I received.

How can I help you if I don't know this guy?

By telling me if Martin Breach sold him two kilos of cocaine.

Prochaska moved very quickly for a man his size. Before Vasquez could react, Prochaska pinned him to the wall and pressed his forearm against Vasquez's windpipe. The beer bottle crashed to the floor. Prochaska tilted Vasquez's chin up, so he was forced to stare into the hit man's eyes.

I should crush your throat and kick you to death for even suggesting that I rat out my best friend.

Vasquez tried to struggle, but Prochaska had a hundred pounds on him. Panic made him twitch as he consumed the last of his air, but Prochaska confined him like a straitjacket. Just as Vasquez became light-headed, Prochaska eased off and stepped back. Vasquez sagged against the wall and gulped in the urine-scented air. Prochaska smiled wickedly.

That's how easy it is, he said. Then he was gone.

Chapter 10

An hour later Bobby Vasquez turned onto the two-lane highway that led into the mountains near Cedar City. The highway gained altitude quickly. Low-hanging clouds shrouded the tops of high green foothills, and the air was heavy with the threat of snow. On the north side of the highway, through a break in the towering evergreens, the cold, clear water of a runoff rushed downhill over large gray stones polished smooth by the constant torrent. On the south side, the highway ran beside a river that boiled with white water in some spots and crept along with lazy indifference in others.

While Mickey Parks had been undercover, Vasquez was the only person Parks could talk to without fear of giving himself away. He' d confided his fears and hopes to Vasquez as if Bobby were a priest in a confessional, and Vasquez had grown to like and admire the nanve, dedicated cop. Parks's death hit Vasquez hard. Prochaska's refusal to corroborate his tip did not dissuade Vasquez from going after his killers. It only made him more determined to bring down Breach.

A narrow dirt driveway led from the highway to the cabin. The weak light from the setting sun was cut off by thick rows of towering evergreens and the driveway was covered with dark shadows. At the end of a quarter mile the headlights settled on a modern home of rough cedar with high picture windows and a wide deck along the north and west sides. A stone chimney was part of the east side of the house and rose above the peaked shake roof. Vasquez wondered how much Cardoni's cabin cost. Even before his divorce, the best Vasquez had been able to afford had been a house half its size.

Vasquez parked the car so that it was pointing back toward the road. He pulled on latex gloves and walked toward the cabin. Crime was almost nonexistent in this mountain community and the house did not have an alarm. Once he stepped inside he would be committing a felony, but Vasquez had to know if Cardoni really had two kilos hidden in this house. If he found the stash, he would leave and figure out a way to get a warrant. He could even tail Cardoni and try to catch him selling. The main thing was to find out if he was on a wild-goose chase.

Vasquez turned his collar up against the chill and worked his way around the house, trying the exterior doors before resorting to forced entry. He got lucky when he turned the knob of a small door in the rear of the garage and it opened. Vasquez turned on the garage lights and searched. The garage had an unused feel to it. No tools hung from the walls; Vasquez saw no gardening equipment or junk lying about. He also found no cocaine, but he did find a key for the house hanging on a hook. A moment later Vasquez was standing in a downstairs hall at the foot of a flight of stairs.

At the top of the stairs was a living room with a wall of glass that provided a panoramic view of the forest. Something moved on the periphery of his vision, and Vasquez went for his gun, stopping when he realized that he' d seen a deer bounding into the woods. Vasquez exhaled and turned on the lights. He had no fear of being discovered. Cardoni's nearest neighbors were half a mile away.

The living room was sparsely furnished; the furniture was cheap and looked out of place in such an expensive home. It occurred to Vasquez that there was no dust or dirt anywhere, as if the living room had been cleaned recently. There were plastic plates and cups in the cupboards, a few mismatched utensils in the drawers. A pottery mug half filled with cold coffee sat on the drain board next to the sink. Vasquez also noted a coffeepot still holding a small amount of coffee. He touched the pot. It was cold.

The master bedroom had the same unlived-in feel. Vasquez saw an empty bookcase, a wooden straight-back chair and a cheap mattress that rested on the floor. There were no sheets on the mattress, but there were several dried brown spots that looked like blood. Vasquez searched the closets and the connecting bathroom. Then he moved on to the other rooms on the main floor. The more Vasquez searched, the more uneasy he felt. He had never seen such a tidily desolate home. Aside from the coffee cup and the coffeepot, there were no signs of life anywhere.

When Vasquez finished with the main floor he headed downstairs to the basement. There were four rooms, one of which was padlocked. Vasquez searched the other rooms. All were empty and devoid of dust or dirt.

Vasquez returned to the padlocked door. He had a set of lock picks with him and was soon inside a long and narrow room with walls and floor of unpainted gray concrete. A faint unpleasant odor permeated the air. Vasquez looked around. A sink was in one corner and a refrigerator in another. Between them, in the center of the room, was an operating table. Hanging from the padded tabletop were leather straps that could be used to secure a person's arms, legs and head. A metal tray that would hold surgical implements during an operation was completely empty.

The detective studied the floor around the operating table more closely and spotted several bloodstains. Vasquez knelt to get a better look at the blood and caught sight of something under the table. It was a scalpel. Vasquez picked it up gingerly and examined it closely. Flecks of dried blood covered the blade and the handle. He laid it carefully on the tray, then turned his attention to the refrigerator.

Vasquez grasped the handle. The door caught briefly, then popped free. The detective blinked hard, then released the handle as if his fingers had been burned. The refrigerator door slammed shut, and Vasquez fought the urge to bolt from the room. He took a deep breath and opened the door again. On the top shelf were two glass jars with screw-on tops labeled viaspan. The jars were full of a clear liquid with a faint yellow tinge. Vasquez spotted a plastic bag filled with a white powder on the bottom shelf. Not two kilos' worth. Nowhere near that amount. Days later the state crime lab would report that the powder was indeed cocaine. By that time, Vasquez would have trouble remembering that cocaine was even involved in the case against Dr. Vincent Cardoni. What Bobby Vasquez would remember for the rest of his life were the dead eyes that stared at him from the two severed heads that sat on the middle shelf.

Chapter 11

Milton County sheriff Clark Mills, a sleepy-eyed man with shaggy brown hair and a thick mustache, struggled valiantly to maintain his composure when Vasquez showed him the severed heads. Both belonged to white women. One head was oval in shape and covered with blond hair that was stiff and stringy from the extreme cold. It leaned against the interior wall of the refrigerator like a prop in a horror film. The second head was covered with brunette hair and leaned against the first. The eyes in both skulls had rolled back so far that the pupils had almost disappeared. The skin looked like a pale rubber compound created by a special-effects wizard and was ragged and uneven where the neck had been severed from the body.

Jake Mullins, Mills's deputy, had blinked furiously for a few seconds before backing out of the room. The person who seemed the least affected by the horror in the refrigerator was Fred Scofield, the Milton County district attorney. Scofield, a heavy man tottering on the brink of obesity, had been in Vietnam and was a big-city DA before burning out and moving to the peace and seclusion of the mountain community of Cedar City.

What should we do, Fred? the sheriff asked.

Scofield was chewing on an unlit cigar and staring dispassionately at the heads. He turned his back to the refrigerator and addressed the shaken lawman.

I think we should clear out of here so we don't mess up the crime scene. Then you should get on the horn and have the state police send a forensic team up here ASAP.

They collected the deputy, whose complexion was as pale as the heads in the refrigerator. While Sheriff Mills phoned the state police and the deputy collapsed on the living room couch, Scofield led Bobby Vasquez outside onto the deck and lit up his cigar. The temperature was in the low thirties, but the cold country air was a welcome relief after the close, fetid smell in the makeshift operating room.

What brought you to this house of horrors, Detective?

Vasquez had worked on his story while waiting for the police, and he had it down pat. He figured he could get it past anyone if he could get it by the flinty district attorney.

I've been investigating an anonymous tip that a doctor named Vincent Cardoni was planning to sell two kilos of cocaine he had purchased from Martin Breach, a major narcotics dealer.

I know who Breach is, Scofield said.

The cocaine was supposed to be hidden in this house.

I assume you corroborated this tip before barging into Dr. Cardoni's domicile?

There was not much of a moon, but Scofield could see Vasquez's eyes in the light from the living room. He watched them carefully while Vasquez answered his question. The vice cop's gaze never wavered.

Art Prochaska, Breach's lieutenant, was arrested recently by the DEA. I leaned on him, and he agreed to talk about Cardoni if I helped him with his federal case and kept him out of this one.

But you're not keeping him out of it.

No, sir. Not now. We're talking serial murders. That changes a lot of things.

Scofield nodded, but Vasquez thought he saw a glimmer of skepticism in the older man's features.

Prochaska confirmed that Cardoni had been buying small, personal-use quantities from one of Breach's dealers until a few weeks ago, when he suddenly asked for two kilos. Cardoni checked out, so Breach sold him the dope. Prochaska told me that the doctor had a buyer and the sale was going down today.

Scofield's jaw dropped and he almost lost his cigar.

You mean Cardoni and his buyer could be on their way here right now?

I don't think so. I think we missed the sale. I searched everywhere. The only cocaine I found was the small amount in the refrigerator.

Scofield puffed on his cigar thoughtfully. We just met, Detective. The only thing I know about you is that you're a sworn officer of the law. But I do know a thing or two about Martin Breach and Art Prochaska. Frankly, I am having a hard time believing that Prochaska would give any police officer the time of day, much less discuss Martin Breach's business.

That's what happened, Mr. Scofield.

Prochaska is going to deny everything.

Probably, but it will be my word against his.

The word of an experienced police officer against that of a scumbag dope dealer, Scofield reflected, nodding thoughtfully.

Exactly.

Scofield did not look like he was buying anything Vasquez was selling.

Why didn't you put all of this information in an affidavit and present it to a judge, who could give you a warrant to search Dr. Cardoni's home?

There wasn't time. Besides, I didn't need a warrant. I had exigent circumstances here, Vasquez said, naming one of the exceptions to the rule that searches must be conducted with a warrant. Prochaska said that the sale was going down today, but he didn't know when it was going down. I figured that I might miss the sale if I took the time to get a warrant. As it turned out, I missed it anyway.

Why didn't you bring backup or call ahead to Sheriff Mills or the state police?

I should have done all those things, Vasquez said, looking properly chagrined. It was bad judgment on my part to handle this alone.

Scofield looked off into the forest. The only sound was the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. He puffed on his cigar. Then he broke the silence.

I guess you know that I'll be prosecuting this mess right here in Cedar City and you're gonna be my star witness.

Vasquez nodded.

Do you want to add to anything you've told me or correct anything you've said?

No, sir.

All right, then, that's it. And I hope it is what happened, because this whole case will go down the toilet if I can't convince Judge Brody that he can rely on your word.

Chapter 12

Sean McCarthy came to the crime scene because of an inquiry by Bobby Vasquez, who remembered that Cardoni had recently assaulted a nurse who had disappeared. McCarthy was forty-seven, meticulously dressed and as pale and cadaverous as the corpses that were the subject of his homicide investigations. The detective's red hair was spotted with gray, the freckles that dotted his alabaster skin were dull pink and his eyes were rimmed with dark circles.

Detective McCarthy stood inches from the open refrigerator and gazed at the severed heads thoughtfully while Vasquez and Scofield looked on. Then he took out a stack of snapshots and raised a Polaroid to eye level. He studied it, then he studied the heads. McCarthy had shown none of the revulsion or shock expressed by the other officers who viewed the remains. Instead, his lips creased, forming a smile that was as enigmatic as it was out of place. When he was satisfied he closed the refrigerator door.

Those fucking heads don't bother you? Vasquez asked.

McCarthy did not answer the question. He glanced at the forensic experts who were photographing and measuring the basement room.

Let's get out of here so these gentlemen can work undisturbed.

McCarthy led Vasquez and Scofield upstairs and onto the deck. Vasquez was exhausted and wanted only to sleep. Scofield seemed edgy. McCarthy gazed at the morning sky for a moment, then held up one of the Polaroids so that Vasquez and Scofield could see it.

One of the victims is Mary Sandowski. I don't know the identity of the other one.

McCarthy was about to continue when a deputy emerged from one of the hiking trails that led into the forest.

Sheriff, he called to Mills, who was conferring with two men at the side of the house. We found something.

Ah, McCarthy said, I've been expecting this.

Expecting what? Vasquez asked, but the homicide detective set off after Mills and the deputies without answering. Vasquez looked at Scofield, who shrugged and followed the lanky detective into the woods. The men marched silently along a narrow trail. The sound of their footsteps was dulled by the thick dark soil. A loamy scent mixed with the smell of pine. A sign announced that the men were entering national forest; a quarter of a mile later, the trail bent right and they were suddenly in a clearing. A shovel was sticking out of a pile of dirt in the middle of the field.

It looked like the earth had been turned recently, the deputy explained, so I got a shovel and came back out here.

He stepped aside so that the other men could see his discovery. Vasquez walked over to the narrow hole that the deputy had dug. At the bottom was a human arm.

Dr. Sally Grace, an assistant medical examiner, arrived shortly before the last of nine bodies was exhumed from the damp ground. All of the corpses were naked. Two were headless females. Of the remaining corpses, four were female, three were male and all but one appeared to be young. After a cursory examination, Grace informed the law enforcement officials gathered around her that, with the exception of the middle-aged male, all of the victims showed evidence of torture. Furthermore, Grace told them, one of the headless females had been ripped open from the breastbone to the abdomen and was missing her heart, and one of the males and another female had midline cuts from the area beneath the sternum to the pubic bone and were missing kidneys.

While Dr. Grace talked, Vasquez studied the corpses. All of the victims seemed pathetically frail and defenseless. Their rib cages showed. Their shoulder blades looked sharp and visible under their translucent skin, more like wire hangers than bones. Vasquez wanted to do something to comfort the dead, like brushing off the clumps of dirt that clung to their pale skin or laying a blanket over them to keep them warm, but none of that would help now.

When Dr. Grace finished her briefing, McCarthy wandered up and down the row of corpses. Vasquez watched him work. McCarthy gave eight of the bodies a cursory examination, but he squatted next to the seemingly untouched middle-aged male and withdrew another Polaroid from his jacket pocket. McCarthy glanced back and forth between the photograph and the corpse, then spent a few moments in deep thought. When he stood up he summoned the medical examiner. Vasquez could not hear what the detective said, but he watched Dr. Grace squat next to the corpse and examine the back of its neck. She beckoned McCarthy and he squatted next to her, nodding as she pointed to an area of the neck and gestured with her hands.

Thank you, Dr. Grace, McCarthy said to the medical examiner. He stood up.

Want to fill us in, Detective? Scofield asked, making it clear that he did not appreciate mysterious behavior in a fellow investigator.

McCarthy started back toward the cabin. About a month ago, a detective from Montreal contacted me with information about an ailing Canadian millionaire who was negotiating with Martin Breach to secure a heart on the black market. Do you know who Breach is?

Scofield and Vasquez nodded.

We've long suspected that Breach has a small but lucrative sideline: the sale of human organs on the black market to wealthy individuals who are unwilling to wait for a donor. We also suspected that the organs are frequently obtained from unwilling donors. The investigation in Canada included wiretaps. Dr. Clifford Grant was mentioned several times. He was a surgeon at St. Francis Medical Center. McCarthy showed them the photograph he had examined earlier, then nodded back toward the bodies. He's the middle-aged victim who bore no marks of torture.

Scofield and Vasquez examined the picture, and they walked in silence for a while. When Scofield returned the photo the homicide detective continued.

We put Grant under twenty-four-hour surveillance as soon as we learned he was going to be involved in harvesting the heart. A few evenings after we received the tip, Grant was observed picking up a cooler from a locker at the bus station and placing it in the trunk of his car. If the cooler contained the heart, Grant could not have been the person who harvested it. You've only got a leeway of four to six hours between removing a heart and transplanting it into the body of the new recipient, and Grant was under constant surveillance. That meant that Grant had a partner.

Cardoni, Vasquez said.

Possibly.

Scofield lit a cigar and took a few puffs. The smoke curled up and spread out until it disappeared.

I was one of several officers who followed Grant to a private airfield. We observed Art Prochaska, Martin Breach's lieutenant, place an attachT case in Grant's car. Grant spotted us and took off before giving Prochaska the cooler. A few days later his car was discovered at the long-term parking lot at the airport.

And now we've found Grant and the operating room where the organs were harvested, Vasquez said.

And since we found Grant here, Scofield added, it's not much of a stretch to say that Grant's partner probably killed him.

They walked in silence for a few moments. As they came in sight of the cabin, Vasquez put out his hand to stop McCarthy.

I want to ask you a favor, he said. I want Breach, and I want Cardoni. I want to be part of this investigation. It was my case to begin with. I don't want to be cut out. What about it?

McCarthy nodded thoughtfully.

Let me talk to some people. I'll see what I can do.

Chapter 13

Frank Jaffe was an excellent storyteller. Amanda's favorite tale was the account of her miraculous birth, which Frank told her for the first time on her fifth birthday during a visit to Beth Israel cemetery. It was terribly cold that afternoon, but Amanda didn't notice the raw wind or the stark gray and threatening sky, so intense was her concentration on the grave of Samantha Jaffe, born September 3, 1953, died March 10, 1974. The headstone was small because Frank had not been able to afford elegance when he purchased it. The grave lay beneath the swaying leafless branches of an ancient maple tree, third in from a narrow road that roamed through the graveyard. Frank had gazed with sad eyes at the headstone. Then he had looked down on his little girl. Amanda was all that was good in the world and the reason that Frank persevered. In his mid-twenties Frank had been tall and strong, but a single father who worked all day and struggled in law school each night needed more than strength and youth to keep from folding.

You were born on March the tenth, Frank had begun, coincidentally the very same day as today, at three-oh-eight in the afternoon, which is almost the time it is now, in the year nineteen hundred and seventy-four.

At three-oh-eight in the afternoon?

Three-oh-eight on the dot, Frank assured her. Your mother was lying in a wide bed on soft white sheets....

How did she look?

She was smiling a wonderful smile because she knew you were about to be born, and that smile made her look like an angel the most beautiful of angels. Except, of course, she didn't have wings yet.

Did she get wings?

Certainly. It was part of the bargain, but the angel and your mother did not make their bargain right away, so your mother had to wait for her wings.

When did the angel come?

She appeared in the hospital in your mother's room just as you were about to be born. Now, angels are usually invisible, but your mother could see this angel.

Only my mother?

Only your mother. And that was because she was so like an angel herself.

What did the angel say?

' Samantha,' she said, in a voice that sounded like a light rain falling, ' God is very lonely in heaven and he wants you to visit.' ' Thank God for me,' your mother said, ' but I am about to bring a wonderful baby girl into the world, so I must stay with her.' ' God will be very sad to hear that,' the angel replied. ' It can't be helped,' your mother told the angel. ' My little girl is the most precious little girl in the world, and I love her to bits. I would be very sad myself if I couldn't be with her always.'

What happened then?

The angel flew back to heaven and told God what your mother had said. As you can imagine, God was very sad. He even cried a few tears. But God is very smart and an idea occurred to him, so he sent the angel back to earth.

Did the angel tell Mother God's idea?

She certainly did. ' Would you come and visit God in heaven if you could be with your little girl always?' she asked. ' Of course,' your mother answered. She was a wonderful person and never liked to see anyone sad. ' God has an idea,' the angel told your mother. ' If you will come with me right now, God will put your soul in your little girl, right next to her heart. Then you will be with her always. It will even be better than the way other mothers are with their children. You'll be with her everywhere she goes, even if she is at school or on the playground or on a trip.' ' How wonderful,' Samantha said, and she shook hands with the angel to seal the bargain.

Then what happened?

A miraculous thing. As you know, you can't get to heaven unless you die, so your mother died, but she didn't die until the second that you opened your mouth and took your first breath. When your mouth was its widest, the soul of Samantha Jaffe jumped right inside of you and went straight to a spot next to your heart.

Which is where she is today?

Which is where she is every minute of every day, Frank had answered, giving Amanda's hand a gentle squeeze.

Amanda remembered the story of her miraculous birth every time she and Frank made their birthday pilgrimage to the cemetery. For years Amanda really believed that Samantha lived next to her heart. As a small girl, at night, snug in her bed, she talked to Samantha about the things daughters confide to their mothers. As a teenager, it became a ritual before she mounted the blocks in each swim meet for Amanda to press her fist against her heart and silently ask her mother for strength.

Frank had never remarried, and an older Amanda wondered if her father really believed that Samantha dwelt with them. She had asked him once why he never married again. Frank told her that he had come close twice but had backed out in the end because neither woman could make him forget the love of his life. This saddened Amanda, because she wanted her father to be happy, but Frank always seemed at peace with himself, and she guessed that someone as strong as Frank would have married again if he had fallen in love.

Frank's sacrifice, if it was one, also impressed upon Amanda the power of true love. The emotion was not something to be trifled with, and she did not give herself easily. Love was very serious business. It was, as she learned from her father's example, something that could truly last forever.

Frank and Amanda had been lucky. A hard rain had fallen on the morning of March tenth, but it quit a little after noon and never resumed. The sun had even come out for a while when they were visiting Samantha's grave. As usual, Frank and Amanda were silent after leaving the cemetery. March tenth was always a hard day for both of them, and they used the drive home as a time to think.

A Porsche was idling in their driveway. As soon as Frank pulled next to it, the door to the Porsche opened and Vincent Cardoni started toward them wearing loose-fitting sweatpants and a faded UCLA sweatshirt. He was six-two and well muscled, with long black hair combed back from a high forehead. Cardoni's jaw was square and his nose classically Roman, but his complexion was washed out and his cheeks were sunken, as if he was not eating properly. A hard edge showed in the doctor's eyes, and anger forced his lips into a tight line.

There are cops at my house, Cardoni said as soon as Frank's door was open.

It's a bit cold out here, Vince, Frank said with a friendly smile. Why don't we talk inside?

Did you hear me, Frank? I said cops. More than one. I counted three cars. They were looking in the bushes around my house. The door was open. They were inside.

If they're in your house, the damage is done. We'll need to discuss this calmly if I' m going to repair it.

I want those motherfuckers out of my house, now!

Frank's face darkened when Cardoni swore. I don't believe I've ever introduced you to my daughter. Amanda is a fine attorney. She's just finished a clerkship at the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals. That's a very prestigious job. Now she's lowered herself and is working in my firm. Amanda, this is Dr. Vincent Cardoni. He's a surgeon at St. Francis.

Cardoni stared at Amanda as if seeing her for the first time.

Pleased to meet you, Dr. Cardoni, Amanda said, extending her hand.

Cardoni gripped her hand hard, and his eyes stayed on hers for a brief moment before sliding down her body. Amanda felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She released Cardoni's hand. His eyes held hers for a moment, then shifted back to her father.

Let's go inside, Cardoni said in a tone that made the words sound more like an order than the acceptance of an invitation. Frank led the way, and the doctor followed. Amanda hung back to allow a bit of distance between her and Frank's client. Inside, Frank turned on the lights and escorted Cardoni into the living room, where he indicated a couch.

Tell me what's going on, Frank said when they were all seated.

I have no idea. I was out for a run in Forest Park. When I drove back, I saw cops swarming over my yard and my house. I didn't stop to ask them why. He paused for a moment. This can't have anything to do with the scrape you got me out of last year, can it?

Doubtful. The case was dismissed with prejudice.

Then what's going on?

No use speculating. What's your phone number at home?

Cardoni looked puzzled.

I' m going straight to the horse's mouth. The police are probably still at your house. I'll ask the man in charge what's going on.

Cardoni rattled off his number, and Frank left the room. Amanda did not like being left alone with Cardoni, but he showed no interest in her. He fidgeted, then stood and began to pace around the living room, glancing briefly at the artwork and fingering curios. Cardoni walked behind Amanda and stopped moving. She waited for Cardoni to move again, but he did not. When she could not stand the stillness any longer, Amanda turned sideways on the sofa so she could see the surgeon. He was standing behind her, his eyes on the painting across the room from him. If he had been watching her, there was no way Amanda could prove it.

We're going to drive over to your house, Vince, Frank said as he reentered the living room.

Did they tell you what's going on?

No. I spoke with Sean McCarthy, the detective in charge. He wouldn't answer any of my questions. Vince, Sean is a homicide detective.

Homicide?

Frank nodded, watching Cardoni for his reaction. Sean is a sharp cookie, very sharp. He said he wants to talk to you. When I hemmed and hawed, he threatened to get an arrest warrant.

You're kidding.

He sounded very serious. Is there something we need to worry about? I don't like walking a client into a meeting with a homicide detective when I' m not fully prepared.

Cardoni shook his head.

Okay, then. Listen up. I have lost damn few cases, but when a client of mine has been convicted it is usually his mouth that's done him in. Do not speak unless I give you the okay, and when you do respond to questions, listen to what you're asked. Do not volunteer anything. Do you have that straight?

Cardoni nodded.

Then let's go.

Frank turned to Amanda. I'll ride with Vincent. You follow in our car.

On the ride to Cardoni's house, Amanda decided that she did not like Frank's client. She didn't appreciate the way he had moved his eyes over her when Frank had introduced her. It was unnerving to be examined so clinically, without lust or friendliness. The speed with which the doctor had switched off his anger while he studied her was also unsettling. However, Amanda's concerns about the doctor were quickly forgotten in the excitement of being included by Frank in what might be a murder investigation.

Since joining Jaffe, Katz, Lehane and Brindisi, Amanda, like most first-year associates, had been given the jobs no one else wanted to do. She liked legal research, so she had not resented her time in the law library. But she really wanted to try cases, and the bigger the stakes, the better. She wasn't certain if Frank had asked her along because he wanted her involved in Cardoni's case or because he might need a ride home. She didn't care. Either way, she would be in at the start of a murder case.

Cardoni lived in a sprawling yellow-and-white Dutch Colonial on half an acre of land shaded by beech, oak and cottonwood. When Amanda drove up she saw black-jacketed PPB officers scouring the grounds. Police cars were blocking the garage, so Cardoni parked his Porsche in the street and Amanda parked behind him. Sean McCarthy was waiting for them at the front door.

Frank, McCarthy said with a smile.

Good to see you again, Sean. This is Dr. Cardoni, and this is my daughter, Amanda. She's an attorney with my firm.

McCarthy nodded to Amanda and extended a hand toward Cardoni, which the surgeon ignored. McCarthy seemed unconcerned about the rebuke.

I apologize for the intrusion, Doctor. I've given strict orders to my men to respect your property. If there's any damage, please notify me and I'll see that you're compensated.

Cut the bullshit and get your men out of my house, Cardoni responded angrily.

I can understand why you're upset, the detective answered politely. I' d be too if I found strangers prowling through my home. McCarthy withdrew a document from his jacket and handed it to Frank. However, we do have court authorization to search. All I can promise is that we'll be out of your hair as soon as possible.

Is that legal? Cardoni asked.

I' m afraid so, Frank answered after reading the search warrant.

You have a very pleasant den. Why don't we go in there and talk? It will be warmer, and we won't be in the way of my men. That will speed up the search.

Cardoni glared at the detective. Frank placed a hand on his arm and said, Let's get this over with, Vince.

McCarthy led them down a hall and into a comfortable wood-paneled den where several other men waited. McCarthy introduced them.

Frank, this is Bobby Vasquez. This is the Milton County sheriff, Clark Mills. And this is Fred Scofield, the Milton County district attorney. Gentlemen, this is Dr. Vincent Cardoni and his attorneys, Frank and Amanda Jaffe. Dr. Cardoni, why don't you have a chair?

Thanks for inviting me to sit down in my own home, Cardoni replied. Amanda heard the edge in his voice but wasn't certain if it came from anger, fear or both.

What's going on here, Sean? Frank asked.

I'll answer you in a minute. First I' d like to ask your client a few questions.

Go ahead, Frank said to McCarthy. Then he turned to Cardoni and told him to wait to answer each question until after they consulted.

Dr. Cardoni, do you know Dr. Clifford Grant? I believe he also practices at St. Francis.

Cardoni and Frank leaned toward each other and had a whispered conversation.

I know who Dr. Grant is, Cardoni said when they were through. I've even spoken to him a few times. But I don't know him well.

Do you know a woman named Mary Sandowski?

Cardoni looked disgusted. He didn't bother consulting with Frank before answering.

Is this about Sandowski? What happened? Did she swear out a complaint?

No, sir. She didn' t.

Cardoni waited for more explanation. When it did not come, he answered McCarthy.

I know her.

In what capacity?

She's a nurse at St. Francis.

That's it? Vasquez pressed.

The interruption seemed to annoy McCarthy. Cardoni's eyes swung slowly between the vice cop and McCarthy. Cardoni was so focused and tight that it made Amanda uneasy.

What's going on here? the surgeon demanded.

When was the last time you were at your cabin in Milton County, Dr. Cardoni? McCarthy asked.

What the fuck are you talking about? I don't own a cabin in Milton County, and I' m not going to play this game anymore. Either tell me why you're ransacking my home or get the fuck out.

Frank raised his hand to quiet Cardoni.

I' m going to instruct my client not to answer any more questions until you explain the reason for them, he said.

Fair enough, McCarthy replied. He walked over to a television and VCR that sat in a gap between books in a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf and turned on the TV. There was a videocassette on top of the VCR. McCarthy took the cassette out of its case and put it in the machine.

We found this cassette in your bedroom, Dr. Cardoni. I' d be interested in your comments on the contents, if your attorney gives you permission to give them. It appears to have been shot in a basement room in a house in the mountains in Milton County. We found several items at the house that bore your fingerprints. One of the items is a scalpel that looks a lot like the scalpel you'll see on the tape. By the way, the cassette has already been dusted for prints, and yours are on it.

So what? I have dozens of videocassettes in the house.

Vincent, from this point on, I don't want you talking to anyone but me unless I say it's okay, Frank said. Understood?

Cardoni nodded, but Amanda could see that he was upset by the restriction. McCarthy turned on the set and the VCR. Amanda noticed that none of the law enforcement officers was looking at the TV; they were all focused on Cardoni.

A woman's terrified face filled the screen. She was saying something, but there was no sound on the tape. The camera panned down her naked body. She was gaunt, as if she had not eaten in days. The camera focused on her breasts and zoomed in on the woman's left nipple. It was flaccid. A gloved finger moved into view and stimulated the nipple until it became erect. The finger withdrew, and the woman's face filled the screen again. Suddenly her eyes grew impossibly wide and she screamed. Amanda froze. The woman screamed again and again. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and she passed out.

The gloved hand slapped the woman's cheeks until she came around. She began to sob. The camera was still tight on her face, and Amanda could read her lips. They formed the word please, and she said it repeatedly as tears streamed down her cheeks.

The camera moved, and the woman's face disappeared from the screen as it panned the surroundings. Amanda saw concrete walls, a sink, and a refrigerator. Then the camera returned to the woman. It pulled back and showed her from a side view. Blood was trickling down her heaving ribs. The camera shifted upward for a shot above the woman. There was a red puddle on her chest. The camera moved in. The nipple was missing.

Amanda's breath caught. She squeezed her eyes shut, and only a great effort of will kept her together. When she was under control, Amanda opened her eyes, making sure that she was not looking at the screen.

All the blood had drained from her father's face, but Cardoni's complexion had not changed. The detective switched off the set. Cardoni turned slowly until he was looking directly at McCarthy.

Will you please tell me what the fuck that was all about? he asked in a hard, emotionless voice.

Recognize the woman? the detective asked.

Frank regained his composure. He reached out and grabbed Cardoni's forearm. Not a word. Then he stared at McCarthy. I thought better of you, Sean. This is a cheap trick, and this interview is at an end.

McCarthy did not look surprised.

I thought you' d be interested in the type of person you're representing.

Frank stood. He still looked shaky, but his voice was steady.

I didn't see Dr. Cardoni in that horror movie. I assume you didn't either or you would have shown us a different segment.

You'll receive full discovery, including a copy of this tape, at the appropriate time.

McCarthy switched his attention to the doctor. Vincent Cardoni, I must inform you that you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford to retain an attorney, one will be appointed to represent you. Do you understand these rights?

Cardoni stood up and glared at McCarthy.

You can kiss my ass, he said slowly and distinctly.

Frank stepped between his client and McCarthy.

Are you arresting Dr. Cardoni?

Sheriff Mills is placing Dr. Cardoni under arrest. Multnomah County may have its own charges in the near future.

Is Dr. Cardoni charged with the murder of the woman on the tape? Frank pressed.

Fred Scofield stood up and answered Frank.

Sheriff Mills will be arresting Dr. Cardoni on the charge of murdering Mary Sandowski and for possession of cocaine, which was found in the doctor's bedroom, but I'll be going to a grand jury very soon to ask for indictments on eight other charges of aggravated murder. I anticipate that Dr. Cardoni will be spending a lot of time in Milton County in the near future.

I' d like you to step aside, Mr. Jaffe, Sheriff Mills said. We're going to cuff your client.

Cardoni switched into a fighting stance. Vasquez reached for his weapon. Frank laid his hand on Cardoni's arm.

Don't resist, Vince. I'll deal with this.

Then deal with it. I' m not going to jail.

You have to. If you resist, it will make things worse. It could affect release, and it can be used against you at a trial.

Amanda could see Cardoni processing this information. He relaxed instantly, again amazing Amanda at the speed with which he could change his emotions.

Can I speak with my client in private for a few moments? Frank asked.

McCarthy thought about the request, then nodded. You can do it in here, but I want Dr. Cardoni in handcuffs.

Cardoni's hands were cuffed behind his back, and Sheriff Mills conducted a pat-down search of the prisoner.

Do you need me? Amanda asked, trying to sound casual.

It would be better if Dr. Cardoni and I talked alone. We'll only be a minute.

No problem, Amanda answered, smiling to mask her disappointment.

I' m not going to pull any punches, Frank said as soon as the door closed. You're in a lot of trouble. Aggravated murder is the most serious crime you can face in Oregon. It carries a potential death sentence.

For the first time Cardoni looked worried.

Where are they going to take me?

Probably to the Cedar City jail.

How quickly can you get me out?

I' m not sure. There is no automatic bail in a murder case, and I don't want to move for a bail hearing until we're in the best position to get you out.

I' m not some car mechanic who can afford to sit around and collect unemployment. I' m a physician. I have patients scheduled for surgery.

I know, and I'll try to get the administration at St. Francis involved on your behalf.

Those bastards won't help me. They've been trying to get rid of me. This will give them their opening. Do you have any idea how long it takes to become a doctor? Do you know how hard I've worked? You've got to keep me out of jail.

I' m going to do everything I can, but I don't want to lie to you and build up your hopes. Scofield said that they were thinking of adding eight more counts of aggravated murder to the indictment. That could mean that they have eight other bodies. This is not going to be simple, like your assault case.

Now listen to me. Following my instructions could save your life. I mean that literally. You will be in a police car and then the jail, where they will process you in. Do everything they tell you. Do not resist. But do not, under any circumstances, discuss this case with anyone. I' m talking about cops, DAs and other prisoners, especially other prisoners. You're going to feel isolated and in need of a friend. There are going to be prisoners who will be your friend. They'll get you to feel comfortable. You'll unburden yourself to them. The next time you see your friend he will be testifying against you in exchange for having his case dropped. Do you understand what I just said?

Cardoni nodded.

Good. I'll be out to see you tomorrow. Try to think of people who can vouch for you at a bail hearing, and see if you can figure out why McCarthy wanted to know if you knew Dr. Clifford Grant.

Frank laid a gentle hand on Cardoni's arm. One last thing, Vince. Don't give up hope.

Cardoni looked directly into Frank Jaffe's eyes. His voice was steady and hard.

I never give up, Frank, and I never forget, either. Someone has set me up. That means that someone is going to pay.

So, Frank asked Amanda when they were alone in the car and headed home, what do you make of all that?

Amanda had been very quiet since the videotape started to roll, and she was subdued when she answered Frank's question.

The police seem pretty certain that Cardoni is guilty.

What do you think?

Amanda shivered. I don't like him, Dad.

Any specific reason, or just your gut?

His reactions aren't normal. Have you noticed that he switches emotions the way you and I switch TV channels? One second he's in a rage, the next he's cold as ice.

Vince isn't Marcus Welby, MD. That's for sure.

What was the other case you handled for him?

An assault. Vince was trying to score some cocaine. Amanda's eyebrows raised. He was in a bar that doesn't usually cater to members of the medical profession. He also tried to score with someone's girlfriend. When the boyfriend objected, Vince beat him so badly that he had to be taken to the hospital. Fortunately for Vince the man was an ex-con, and no one in that type of bar has decent eyesight or much of a memory when it's the police asking the questions.

The mention of violence made Amanda flash on Mary Sandowski's tearstained face. She felt a little dizzy and squeezed her eyes shut. Frank noticed that Amanda's face was drained of color.

Are you okay? he asked.

I was just thinking about that poor woman.

I' m sorry you had to see that.

Amanda grew thoughtful. When I was a little girl, you never took me to court when you tried the really bad cases, did you?

You were too young.

You didn't even do it when I was in high school. I remember asking you about the Fong case and the one where the two girls were tortured, but you never seemed to have the time.

You didn't need to hear about stuff like that at that age.

You always did shelter me when I was growing up.

You think it was easy for me raising a little girl by myself? Frank answered defensively. I always tried to figure out what your mother would have done, and I could never see Samantha letting me take an eleven-year-old to a rape trial.

No, I don't suppose she would have, Amanda answered with a brief smile. Then she thought about the videotape again and grew somber.

I guess it doesn't get much worse than what I just saw, she said.

No, it doesn' t.

I never really understood what you did, until now. I mean I knew intellectually, but...

There's nothing intellectual about criminal law, Amanda. There are no ivory towers, just tragedy and human beings at their worst.

Why do you do it?

Good question. Maybe because it is real. I' d be bored silly closing real-estate deals or drawing up contracts. And every once in a while you do make a difference in some poor bastard's life. I've represented a lot of very bad people, but I've also freed two people from prison who were sentenced to death for crimes they didn't commit, and I've kept people out of jail who didn't deserve to be there. I guess you can say that I spend a lot of my time in the shit, but every so often I come up with a pearl, and that makes the bad stuff worthwhile.

You don't have to take every case, though. You can turn some away.

Frank glanced at his daughter. Like this one, you mean?

What if he's guilty?

We don't know that.

What if you knew beyond any doubt that Cardoni tortured that woman? How could you help a person who could do what we saw on that tape?

Frank sighed. That's the question every criminal lawyer asks at some point in his or her career. I expect you'll be mulling it over while we work on this case. Those who decide they can't do it switch to some more refined type of law.

Are there enough pearls to justify working for someone like Cardoni?

Do you remember the McNab boy?

Vaguely. I was in junior high school, wasn't I?

Frank nodded. I fought that case and fought that case. He was convicted in the first trial. I cried after the verdict because I knew he was innocent. I wasn't experienced in handling death cases. I truly believed that the verdict was my fault. Guilt drove me, and I didn't stop until I' d won the appeal and a new trial.

The jury hung at the retrial. I couldn't sleep, I lost weight and I charged every moment that poor boy spent in jail to my soul. Then my investigator talked to Mario Rossi's mother.

The snitch?

Frank nodded. Rossi's testimony kept Terry McNab on death row for four years, but he confessed to his mother that he lied to get a deal for himself. When Rossi recanted, the prosecutor had to dismiss.

Frank was silent for a moment. Amanda saw the color rise in his cheeks and his eyes water. When he spoke again, Amanda heard his voice catch.

I can still remember that afternoon. We ended the hearing around four, and Terry's father and mother and I had to wait another hour for Terry to be processed out of jail. Terry looked stunned when he stepped outside. It was February and the sun had gone down, but the air was clear and crisp. When he stood on the steps of the jail Terry looked up at the stars. He just stood there, looking up. Then he took a deep breath.

My plane didn't leave until the morning, so I was staying at a motel on the edge of town. Terry's folks invited me to dinner, but I begged off. I knew they were just being polite and that the family would much rather be alone. Besides, I was wrecked. I' d left everything in the courtroom.

Frank paused again.

Do you know the thing I remember most about that day? It was the way I felt when I entered my motel room. I hadn't been alone until then, and the enormousness of what I had done had not sunk in. Four and a half years of fighting to do the right thing, the lost sleep, the tears and the frustration ... I closed the door behind me and I stood in the middle of my motel room. I suddenly understood that it was over: I had won, and Terry would never have to spend another moment caged up.

Amanda, I swear my soul rose out of my body at that moment. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back and felt my soul rise right up to the ceiling. It was only a moment, and then I was back on earth, but that feeling made every moment of those horrible four years worthwhile. You don't get that feeling doing anything else.

Amanda remembered how she had felt when she heard Not guilty in LaTricia Sweet's case. It had been so heady to win, especially when she hadn't thought she would. Then Amanda remembered what she had seen on the tape, and she realized that there was no comparison between LaTricia Sweet's case and the murder of Mary Sandowski. LaTricia wasn't hurting anyone but herself. No one had to fear her after she was set free. It would be totally different to help free the person who tortured Mary Sandowski.

Amanda had no doubt that her father meant what he had said. What she didn't know was whether she believed that the chance to save a few deserving people would ever be enough compensation for representing a monster who could coldly and cruelly cut the nipple off a screaming human being.

Chapter 14

Bobby Vasquez parked in his assigned spot in the lot of his low-rent garden apartment. On one side of the complex was the interstate and on the other a strip mall. Truth was, between the IRS and his child support payments, this was the best he could afford. There were two rows of mailboxes near the parking spot. Vasquez collected his mail and thumbed through it while he climbed the stairs to his second-floor apartment. Ads and bills. What did he expect? Who would write him?

Vasquez opened his door and flipped on the light. The furniture in the living room was secondhand and covered by a thin layer of dust. Sections of a three-day-old Oregonian littered the floor, the threadbare couch and one end of a low plywood coffee table. Each weekend Vasquez vowed to clean up, but he made an effort only when the dirt and debris overwhelmed him. He was rarely home, anyway. Undercover work kept him out at odd hours. When he wasn't working he kept company with Yvette Stewart, a cocktail waitress at the cop bar where he did his serious drinking. His wife had left him because he was never around, and he had continued the tradition after moving to this shithole.

Vasquez tossed his mail onto the coffee table and walked into the kitchen. There was nothing in the refrigerator but a six-pack, a carton of spoiled milk and a half-eaten loaf of stale bread. Vasquez didn't care. He was too exhausted to be hungry, anyway. Too exhausted to sleep, too.

Vasquez flopped onto the couch, popped the top on a beer can and flipped channels until he found ESPN. He closed his eyes and ran the cold can across his forehead. Everything was going just fine so far. Cardoni was in jail, and everyone seemed to have bought his story about the search. It felt good on those rare occasions when things went right for a change. Another thing that cheered Vasquez was Cardoni's claim that he did not own the Milton County house. Something like that was easy to check.

Vasquez turned off the set and pushed himself off the couch. He crumpled the sections of the newspaper and the beer can and threw them in the trash. Then he dragged himself into the bathroom. While he brushed his teeth he savored the fact that Dr. Vincent Cardoni was spending the first of what would be an endless number of days behind bars.

Chapter 15

Frank Jaffe sat in a back booth in Stokely's CafT on Jefferson Street in Cedar City and finished his apple pie while reading the final page of the police reports Fred Scofield had given him earlier that morning. The cafT had always been an oasis for Frank, his father and other weary hunters exhausted from hours of trudging through thick underbrush with nothing to show for their efforts but scratches, running noses and tales about the giant bucks that got away. It was the first place Frank had ordered a cup of coffee and sipped a beer. When Amanda was old enough, Frank had taught her how to shoot and introduced her to the wonders of Stokely's chicken-fried steak and hot apple pie.

Frank finished his coffee and paid the check. The Milton County jail was three blocks away on Jefferson in a modern annex behind the county courthouse, and Frank set off in that direction. In the days of Frank's youth, the population of Cedar City hovered around thirteen hundred and Jefferson had been the only paved street, but developers had ruined the town. Family-owned hardware and grocery stores were dying a slow death as national chains moved in; there was a mall with a multiplex cinema at the east end of town; Stokely's was forced to include caffF latte on its menu in order to survive; and the three-story red-brick courthouse on Jefferson was one of the few buildings that was more than thirty years old.

After checking in with the deputy at the reception desk, Frank was led to the attorney visiting room. A few moments later the thick metal door opened and Vincent Cardoni was brought in. The surgeon was dressed in an orange jail-issue jumpsuit, and there were dark circles under his eyes. As soon as the guard locked them in, Cardoni glared at Frank.

Where the hell have you been? I thought you were coming first thing this morning.

I met with Fred Scofield first, Frank answered calmly. He gave me some discovery that I needed to read through before we met.

Frank placed a stack of police reports on the cheap wooden table that separated them.

This set is for you. I thought we could go over some of it before the bail hearing.

Frank handed Cardoni a copy of the criminal complaint.

There are two counts against you now. The first involves the cocaine that the cops found in your bedroom. Frank paused. The other is a charge of aggravated murder for killing Mary Sandowski, the woman on the tape.

I didn't

Frank cut him off. Sandowski was found on property about twenty-five miles from here. More corpses were buried a short distance from the cabin where they discovered two severed heads. Most of the victims were tortured.

I don't care what happened at that cabin. I didn't do it.

Your word alone isn't going to be enough to win this case. Scofield has several witnesses who will testify that you attacked Mary Sandowski in the hallway of St. Francis.

Cardoni looked exasperated. He addressed Frank the way he might talk to a not-too-bright child.

Haven't I made myself clear, Frank? I do not own a house in Milton County, and I do not know a thing about these murders.

What about the videocassette? McCarthy says your prints are on it.

That's easy. The person who planted it obviously stole it from my house, taped over what was on it and returned it.

And the cocaine they found in your bedroom?

The question surprised Cardoni. He colored and broke eye contact with Jaffe.

Well? Frank asked.

It's mine.

I thought you were going to get help after I got you out of that last scrape.

Don't preach at me, Frank.

Do you hear me preaching?

What? Now you're disappointed in me? Fuck that. You're my lawyer, not a priest or a shrink, so let's get back to these bullshit charges. What else do the cops have?

Your prints are on a scalpel with Sandowski's blood on it. They were also on a half-filled coffee mug that was found next to the kitchen sink.

Suddenly Cardoni looked interested.

What kind of coffee mug?

It's in here someplace.

Frank shuffled through the stack of police reports until he found what he was after. He gave two photocopied sheets to Cardoni. One showed the mug sitting on the kitchen counter, and the other was a close-up. Cardoni looked up triumphantly.

Justine bought this mug for me in one of those boutiques on Twenty-third Street when we were dating. It was in my office at St. Francis until it disappeared a few weeks ago. I thought one of the cleaning people stole it.

What about the scalpel?

I' m a surgeon, Frank! I handle scalpels every day. It's obvious. Someone is framing me.

Frank thought about that possibility. He thumbed through the police reports.

This whole thing started with Bobby Vasquez, the cop with the mustache who watched the tape with us. He got a tip that you purchased two kilos of cocaine from Martin Breach and were storing them in a cabin you owned in the mountains near Cedar City. Vasquez claims that an informant corroborated the tip. He went to the cabin to search and found the severed heads in a refrigerator in the makeshift operating room we saw on the tape.

Who gave Vasquez the tip? Cardoni asked.

It was anonymous.

Really? How convenient.

A thought occurred to Frank.

Does Martin Breach supply your cocaine?

I said I didn't want to talk about the blow.

I have a reason for asking. Do you buy from Breach?

No, but the guy I buy from might. I don't know his source.

Frank made some notes on a yellow pad.

Let's talk about Clifford Grant.

Cardoni looked confused. What's this about Grant? That cop asked me about him at the house.

Frank told Cardoni about the investigation into Breach's black-market organ sales, the tip from the police in Montreal and the failed raid at the private airport.

It looks like the organs were being removed at the Milton County house, but the police are certain that Grant didn't harvest the heart. They think he had a partner.

And they think the partner is me? Cardoni asked calmly.

Frank nodded.

Well, they're wrong.

If they are, someone went to a hell of a lot of trouble to frame you. Who hates you enough to do that, Vince?

Before Cardoni could answer, the door opened and the guard entered carrying a plastic clothing bag. Frank looked at his watch. It was nine-forty.

We've only got twenty minutes until the bail hearing. I brought a suit, shirt and tie for you from your house. Put them on and I'll meet you in court. Read through the discovery carefully. You're a very bright guy, Vince. Help me figure this out.

The bail hearing in State v. Cardoni was held on the second floor of the county courthouse in the preu World War I courtroom of the Honorable Patrick Brody. Frank and his client sat at one counsel table and Scofield at another. Beyond the bar of the court were rows of hard wooden benches for spectators. Most days a few retirees and a sprinkling of interested parties were the only visitors, but the benches were packed for the hearing. Vans with network logos on their sides and satellite dishes on their roofs jammed the street in front of the courthouse; parking, which was usually a breeze, was impossible to find, as were accommodations at any motel within twenty miles. The combination of mass murder, black-market organ sales, torture and a handsome physician who had already been dubbed Dr. Death by the tabloids had lured reporters from all over the United States and several foreign countries to Cedar City.

While he waited for Fred Scofield to call his first witness, Frank glanced around the courtroom and spotted Art Prochaska watching the proceedings from a seat near the window at the back. Frank had represented several of Martin Breach's employees, but never Prochaska. Nonetheless, Frank recognized him instantly and wondered what he was doing at the hearing.

Judge Brody rapped his gavel, and Scofield called Sean McCarthy to lay out the case against Cardoni. Then the prosecutor put on several forensic experts before calling his final witness.

A woman crossed the courtroom and took the witness stand. She was beautifully dressed in a pale gray pantsuit, a green cashmere turtleneck and pearl earrings. The woman's caramel hair fell gently across her shoulders. Her jade-colored eyes flicked toward Cardoni for a second, then she ignored him. Frank had never seen her before, but his client obviously had, because he stiffened and stared angrily.

Could you please state your name for the record? the bailiff asked.

Dr. Justine Castle, she replied in a firm voice that carried easily to all corners of the courtroom.

How are you employed, Dr. Castle?

I' m a physician, and I' m currently in a residency program in general surgery at St. Francis Medical Center in Portland.

Where did you attend college and medical school?

I received a BS in chemistry at Dartmouth and a master's in biochemistry from Cornell, and I attended medical school at Jefferson in Philadelphia.

Did you work between college and medical school?

Yes. I spent two years working as a research chemist for a pharmaceutical firm in Denver, Colorado.

What is your relationship to the defendant, Vincent Cardoni?

He is my husband, Justine answered tersely.

Were you living together at the time of his arrest on the present charges?

Justine turned toward Cardoni and stared directly at him.

No. I moved out after he beat me.

There was a stir in the crowd, and Judge Brody called for order as Frank stood.

Objection, Your Honor. This is not relevant to the issue before the court, which is whether there is strong proof of my client's guilt of the murders in Milton County.

Overruled.

Can you tell Judge Brody the circumstances of this beating? Scofield continued.

Justine's voice did not waver and she did not flinch when she answered.

It occurred during a rape. Vincent wanted me to have sex with him. He was using cocaine and I refused. He pounded me with his fists until I submitted. Afterward he beat me some more for sport. I moved out that night.

And when was this?

Two months ago.

Judge Brody was old-fashioned. He had been married to the same woman for forty years, and his weekly attendance at church was not for show. His expression reflected the way he felt about men who abused women. Frank saw his chances of obtaining bail fading with each word Justine Castle spoke.

You mentioned drug use. Is the defendant addicted to drugs?

My husband is a cocaine addict.

Does this affect his judgment?

His behavior has become increasingly erratic during our marriage.

Did you recently witness erratic behavior on the part of your husband during an incident involving a nurse at St. Francis Medical Center named Mary Sandowski?

Yes, I did.

Please tell Judge Brody what you saw.

When Justine finished recounting Cardoni's assault on Sandowski, Scofield changed the subject.

Dr. Castle, do you have any reason to believe that the defendant would be a flight risk if he is released on bail?

Yes, I do.

Please explain to the judge why you believe the defendant might flee.

I have filed for divorce. My divorce attorney has been trying to locate my husband's assets. Almost immediately after I filed, my husband tried to withdraw large sums of money from our joint accounts and our investment accounts. We were able to anticipate some of these moves, but he still sent a lot of this money to offshore accounts. We also believe that he has accounts in Switzerland. These accounts would provide him with enough money to live in luxury if he was to flee the country.

The cords in Cardoni's neck were tight with anger. He leaned his head toward Frank without taking his eyes off Justine.

You asked me who would want to set me up, Cardoni whispered. You're looking at her. The bitch has access to my office at the hospital, and she has keys to my house. It would have been easy for Justine to steal the coffee mug, the scalpel and the videocassette. And Justine knew Grant.

You're suggesting that Justine was Grant's partner?

She's a surgeon, Frank. Harvesting those organs would be a piece of cake.

What about murder? Do you think she's capable of that?

As capable as she is of lying under oath. I never raped Justine and I don't have any offshore accounts. Her whole testimony is a lie.

What happened? Amanda asked as soon as Frank walked through the door to her office.

Bail denied, her father answered. He looked exhausted. I wasn't surprised. Cardoni couldn't come up with a single character witness, and Scofield's case is very strong.

How did Cardoni take the judge's decision?

Not well, Frank answered without elaborating. He had no desire to relive Cardoni's tirade, which was peppered with threats against Justine Castle and every member of every branch of government that was involved in his prosecution.

Where do you go from here?

I' m already working on a motion to suppress, but I don't have much hope that I'll win.

Let me take a crack at it, Amanda asked eagerly.

Frank hesitated. Amanda took a breath and plunged in.

Why did you ask me to come to work for you, Dad? Were you being charitable?

Frank was taken aback by the question. You know that's not it.

I know I don't need charity. I was law review at one of the top schools in the country, and I just finished clerking for a federal appeals court. I can get any job I want, and I' m going to start looking if you don't give me some responsibility.

Frank looked angry and started to say something, but Amanda pressed her case.

Look, Dad, I might be a neophyte in a trial court, but I' m a sixth-degree black belt when it comes to legal research. You tell me where you could get someone better to work on this motion.

Frank hesitated. Then he threw his head back and laughed.

You're damn lucky you're my daughter. If any other associate talked to me like that, I' d kick their ass into the center of Broadway.

Amanda grinned but held her tongue. One thing she knew from watching tons of appellate arguments was that you shut up when you' d won.

Come down to my office for the file, Frank said. An idea occurred to him. Since you're so anxious to get your hands dirty, why don't you keep Herb Cross company when he interviews Justine Castle, Cardoni's wife? She killed us at the bail hearing. Her testimony at a sentencing hearing could send Cardoni to death row.

Is Castle a doctor?

Yes. Why?

And she's very attractive?

A knockout.

I've met her.

Chapter 16

Every weekday morning Carleton Swindell rowed the Willamette, then showered at his athletic club. His hair was still a tad damp when he entered the anteroom of his office at seven-thirty sharp a few days after Vincent Cardoni's bail hearing. As soon as the hospital administrator walked in the door, Sean McCarthy stood up and displayed his badge.

I hope you don't mind my waiting in here, Dr. Swindell, McCarthy said while Swindell inspected his identification. There wasn't anyone around.

No problem, Detective. My secretary doesn't get in until eight.

McCarthy followed Swindell into the administrator's office. Diplomas from several prestigious universities, including a medical degree and a master's in public health from Emory University, were prominently displayed next to photographs of Swindell posing with President Clinton, Oregon's two senators and several other dignitaries. A tennis trophy and two plaques for rowing victories graced a credenza under a large picture window with a view of downtown Portland, the Willamette River and three snow-capped mountains. McCarthy did not see any family photographs.

I don't have any overdue parking tickets, do I?

I wish it were that simple. I assume you know that one of the doctors at your hospital has been charged with murder.

Swindell's smile disappeared. Vincent Cardoni. He shook his head. It's unbelievable. The whole hospital's been talking about nothing else.

So you were surprised by the arrest.

Swindell looked thoughtful. Why don't you sit down? he said as he walked around his desk. When he was seated, Swindell swiveled toward his view, leaned back and steepled his fingers.

You asked if I' m surprised. The type of crime a mass serial killing of course that shocks me. How could it not? But Dr. Cardoni has been a problem for this hospital since we hired him.

Oh?

Swindell looked pensive.

Your visit presents me with a problem. I' m not certain I can discuss Dr. Cardoni with you. Confidentiality and all that.

McCarthy took a document out of his inside jacket pocket and held it out across the desk.

I had a judge issue a subpoena before I came. It's for Dr. Cardoni's records.

Yes, well, I' m sure it's in order. I'll have to have our attorneys review it. I'll expedite the matter, of course.

Thank you.

Shocking. The whole business. Swindell hesitated. May I speak off the record?

Of course.

Now, I don't have proof of anything I' m going to tell you. It's what I believe you call deep background.

McCarthy nodded, amused by the TV cop lingo.

A week or so ago, Dr. Cardoni attacked Mary Sandowski, one of our nurses. Swindell shook his head. I read that she was one of the poor souls you found in that mountain graveyard.

McCarthy nodded again.

He's a violent man, Detective. Last year he was arrested for assault, and I've had complaints of abusive behavior from our staff. And there are rumors of drug use. Swindell looked grim. We've never substantiated the rumors, but I've got a gut feeling that there is something to them.

Another doctor who worked here was found in the graveyard.

Ah, Clifford. Swindell sighed. You know, of course, that he was in danger of losing his privileges here?

No, I didn' t.

Drinking, Swindell confided. The man was a hopeless alcoholic.

Did Cardoni know Clifford Grant?

I assume so. Dr. Grant was supervising Justine Castle's residency until we convinced him to take a leave of absence. Dr. Castle is married to Vincent.

Interesting. Is there anything else that would tie Grant to Cardoni?

Not that I can think of right now.

McCarthy stood. Thank you, Dr. Swindell. Your information has been very helpful. And thank you for expediting the subpoenas.

Swindell smiled at the detective and said, My pleasure.

As soon as McCarthy was out of the office, Swindell phoned Records. He wanted to make sure that the police received anything on Cardoni as soon as possible. It was the least he could do to thank them for taking care of a very annoying problem.

Walter Stoops made a living scrambling after personal injury clients and pleading out drunk drivers. Three years earlier Stoops had been suspended from the practice of law for six months for misusing client funds. Late last year the thinnest of technicalities had enabled him to avoid a count of money laundering when a Mexican drug ring was busted.

Stoops practiced out of an office on the top floor of a run-down, three-story building near the freeway. The cramped reception area was barely big enough to accommodate the desk of the secretary/receptionist, a young woman with stringy brown hair and too much makeup. She looked up uncertainly when Bobby Vasquez stepped through the door. He guessed that Stoops did not have many clients.

Could you please tell Mr. Stoops that Detective Robert Vasquez would like to talk to him?

He flashed his badge and dropped into a chair beside a small table covered with year-old issues of People and Sports Illustrated. The young woman hurried through a door to her left, returned a moment later and showed Vasquez into an office not much larger than the reception room. Seated behind a scarred wooden desk was a fat man in a threadbare brown suit wearing tortoiseshell glasses with thick lenses. His sparse hair was combed sideways across the top of his head, and the collar of his white shirt was frayed.

Stoops flashed Vasquez a nervous smile. Maggie says you're with the police.

Yes, I am, Mr. Stoops. I' d like to ask you a few questions in connection with an investigation that I' m conducting. Mind if I sit?

No, please, Stoops said, pointing to an empty chair. But if this is about one of my clients, I may not be able to help you, you understand, he said, trying hard to sound nonchalant.

Sure. Just stop me if there's a problem, Vasquez answered with a smile as he pulled a stack of papers out of a briefcase he was carrying. Are you familiar with Northwest Realty, an Oregon corporation?

Stoops's brow furrowed for a moment. Then a light went on.

Northwest Realty. Sure. What about it?

You're listed as the corporate agent. Would you mind telling me a little about the company?

Stoops suddenly looked concerned. I' m not certain I can do that. Attorney-client confidence, you know.

I don't see the problem, Mr. Stoops. Vasquez thumbed through the printouts. For instance, it's public record that you purchased a three-acre lot in Milton County in 1990 for the company. Your name is on the deed.

Well, yeah.

Have you purchased any other property for the corporation?

Uh, no, just that one. Can you tell me what this is about?

What other things have you done for Northwest Realty besides buying the land in Milton County?

Stoops twisted nervously in his chair. I' m very uncomfortable discussing a client's business. I don't think I can continue unless you explain why you're asking these questions.

That's fair, Vasquez answered cordially. He pulled two photographs out of his briefcase and tossed them on the blotter. The photos were upside-down for Stoops. He leaned forward, not yet processing what he was seeing. He reached out gingerly and rotated the snapshots. Then his face lost all color. Vasquez pointed to the photograph on the right.

These heads were found in a refrigerator in the basement of the house you bought for Northwest Realty.

Stoops's mouth worked, but no sound came out. Vasquez pointed at the other photo.

This is a picture of a graveyard we found. It's a short distance from the house. There are nine corpses. Two of them were decapitated. All of these people were probably tortured in the basement room where we found the heads.

Jesus, was all Stoops managed. He was sweating profusely. Why the fuck didn't you warn me?

I didn't know if that was necessary. I thought you might have seen these bodies before.

Stoops's eyes widened, and he bolted upright. Wait a second here. Wait one second. I read about this in the paper this morning. Oh, no. Now wait a minute. You can't come into my office and show me pictures like these.

Let me ask you again: What can you tell me about Northwest Realty?

The lawyer sank back in his chair. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow.

I've got a heart condition. Did you know that? Stoops glanced at the photographs again, then pulled his eyes away. What did you think you were doing?

Vasquez leaned forward. Let's not play games, Walter. I usually work narcotics. I know all about your arrangement with Javier Moreno. You're a fucking crook who got lucky. You owe one to the criminal justice system, and I' m here to collect. Talk to me, now, or I'll bring you in as an accessory to murder.

Stoops looked shocked. You can't think ... Hey, this is bullshit.

Vasquez stood up and took out his handcuffs. Walter Stoops, the law requires me to advise you that you have a right to remain silent. Anything you say

Stoops held out his hands, palms out. Wait, wait. I wasn't involved in that, he said, pointing toward the photographs. I don't know a thing about these murders. I overreacted, that's all. It was a shock seeing those heads. I' m gonna see the goddamn things in my sleep. Stoops wiped his brow again. Go ahead and ask your questions.

Vasquez sat down, but he set the handcuffs on the desk where Stoops could see them.

Who owns the Milton County property?

I can't tell you.

Vasquez reached for the cuffs.

You don't understand, Stoops said desperately. I don't know who owns it. The guy contacted me by mail. I can't even say it's a guy. It could be a woman. The deal was that I was supposed to find rural property with a house on it. It had to be isolated. There was a whole list of conditions. I would have said no, but ... Well, to be honest, I was in trouble with the IRS, and I was suspended for a while from practice, so there was hardly any money coming in. And, well, the price was right and there didn't seem to be anything wrong with what the buyer was asking. It was just a real-estate transaction.

Where did the corporation come in?

That was the buyer's idea. I was supposed to set one up and use it to buy the property. The deal was I would get cashier's checks, money orders and stuff like that to set up the corporation. Then I would send pictures and descriptions of properties I thought would work to a box number. When the client found a place he wanted, the corporation would buy it. It sounded peculiar, but it didn't sound illegal. That was the only transaction I was ever involved with for Northwest Realty. After I bought the land I never heard from the guy again.

Does the name Dr. Vincent Cardoni mean anything to you?

Just from the morning paper.

Would you have any objection to my seeing your file on Northwest Realty?

No, not now.

Stoops stood up and opened a gray metal filing cabinet that stood in one corner of his office. He handed a file to Vasquez and sat down. Vasquez thumbed through the documents. The only thing that interested him were photocopies of cashier's checks and money orders, all in amounts less than ten thousand dollars, that added up to almost three hundred thousand dollars. The significance of the amount of each money order was obvious to anyone who dealt with drug dealers. Selling dope was easy; using the cash you got for it was the hard part. The Bank Secrecy Act required banks to report cash transactions of $10,000 or more and to keep records of individuals who engaged in such transactions. In order to avoid this problem drug dealers structured their cash transactions in amounts less than $10,000.

Can I get a copy of the file? he asked.

I can't give you copies of the correspondence, but I can give you everything else.

Vasquez could have pressured him for copies of the few letters in the file, but there was nothing in them of use. All of the letters of instruction were unsigned and written on a computer. He settled for the rest of the file.

Vasquez sat in the waiting room while Stoops's secretary brought the material down the hall to a copier. He was disappointed. He had counted on Stoops to link Cardoni to the land, but it looked as though Cardoni had covered his tracks. It probably didn't matter. There was overwhelming evidence against the surgeon. There were the items with his prints that had been found in the cabin and the videocassette that had been found in his house in Portland. Once the jury saw that videotape, Cardoni was dead. Still, Vasquez thought, it would have been nice to have another piece of evidence tying him to the killing ground.

Chapter 17

Seven years ago a white grocery clerk had mistakenly accused Herb Cross, an African-American, of robbing a convenience store. Cross hired Frank Jaffe to represent him. When Frank's investigator failed to find witnesses to support Cross's alibi, Frank's client took matters into his own hands and used his contacts to track down the real robber. Frank was so impressed that he offered his client a job.

I'll ask the questions, Cross instructed Amanda as they walked down the fifth-floor corridor of St. Francis Medical Center toward the conference room in the Department of Surgery where Justine Castle was waiting. You listen and take notes. If there's something you think I haven't covered, chime in when I' m through. Our object today is to get as much information as possible from Dr. Castle, so let her talk. And don't defend Cardoni, no matter what she says. We want to see how she feels and what she knows. We're not here to convert her to our cause.

Cross got no argument out of Amanda. She had never interviewed a witness before and was relieved that Herb would be doing the questioning.

The windowless conference room was narrow and stuffy, and the air was permeated by the faint smell of sweat. A flickering fluorescent light fixture hung above shelves of medical books and journals. Justine Castle was sitting on one side of a conference table sipping a cup of black coffee. She had been in surgery for a good part of the afternoon, and Amanda thought that she looked worn out. Her hair was swept back in a ponytail, and she was not wearing makeup.

I' m Herb Cross, Frank Jaffe's investigator. We spoke on the phone. This is Amanda Jaffe. She's an attorney with the firm.

We met at the Y, Amanda reminded Castle, who showed no sign of recognition. You were with Tony Fiori.

Oh, yes, Castle answered dismissively. Tony's high school friend.

The cold response surprised Amanda, but she did not show it.

I want to thank you for seeing us, Dr. Castle, Herb said.

I only agreed to see you to be polite, Mr. Cross. Nothing I say will help your client. Our divorce is not amicable, and I find Vincent repulsive.

Yet you married him, Cross said. You must have seen something good in him.

Justine smiled ruefully. Vincent can be charming when he's not coked up.

Amanda and Cross sat opposite Dr. Castle. Amanda took out a pad and prepared to take notes.

You've read the newspaper account of the murders in Milton County, Herb began. Had Dr. Cardoni ever said or done anything that made you suspect that he was killing these people?

Mr. Cross, if I had any idea that my husband had done something like that, I would have called the police immediately.

Do you think he's capable of this type of violence?

Vincent is a violent man, she answered without hesitation. I assume you know about my testimony in court.

You testified that he beat you and raped you.

It's not a far stretch from rape and assault to murder.

The murders in Milton County were not acts of passion, Cross said. They were well-thought-out acts of sadism.

Vincent is a sadist, Mr. Cross. The rape was very methodical. The beating was not administered in some sort of insane rage. Vincent looked very satisfied with himself when he was through.

Dr. Cardoni denies raping or beating you.

Of course he does. You don't expect him to admit it, do you?

Did you report the rape to the police or seek medical assistance?

Justine looked disgusted. You mean, can I prove Vincent raped me?

It's my job to check the facts in a case.

Let's not kid each other, Mr. Cross. It's your job to trick me into saying something that will help Vincent escape the punishment he deserves. But to answer your question, no, I did not report the rape or seek medical assistance. So it's Vincent's word against mine. That possibility does not intimidate me in the least.

Dr. Castle, did you know that your husband owned a home in Milton County?

The police asked me about that. If he does own that place, he never told me.

Your divorce lawyer never ran across a reference to it or property owned by Northwest Realty when you were trying to discover Dr. Cardoni's assets?

No.

Did you know Dr. Clifford Grant?

Justine's anger faded away and was replaced by a weary sadness.

Poor Clifford, she said. He was my attending until the administration started taking his responsibilities away from him. Not that I can blame them. He couldn't stop drinking. That's why his wife left, and that made him drink even more. Then there was that incident in surgery. He almost killed a four-year-old boy.

And yet I get the impression that you liked Dr. Grant.

Justine shrugged. He was going through his divorce while he was supervising me. We went out for dinner every now and then. He trusted me and unburdened himself on occasion.

She stopped talking, and her eyes grew distant. I can't help wondering if I' m responsible for his death.

Why would you say that?

Vincent and Clifford didn't become friendly until we were engaged. The papers say that they were harvesting organs for the black market. I wonder if Clifford would have trusted Vincent if I hadn't brought them together.

What can you tell us about the incident with Mary Sandowski? Cross asked.

I was there when he attacked her. The poor woman was speechless with fright. He had her by the arm and he was screaming at her.

Do you know why he was so angry?

Mary told me that Vincent screwed up during an operation and became furious with her when she tried to warn him. I' m certain she was right.

Why is that?

I saw Vincent's eyes. He was coked to the gills.

What's your husband's reputation among the other doctors at St. Francis?

I can't speak for them. If you want gossip, you might want to talk to Carleton Swindell, the hospital administrator. I do know that the Board of Medical Examiners is looking into several complaints of malpractice that are probably legitimate. If it was up to me I would never let him in an operating room. I think he's a drug addict and an incompetent.

He's also rich, isn't he?

Justine raised an eyebrow suspiciously. What if he is?

I don't want to offend you, Dr. Castle, but isn't it true that you' d come away from the divorce with a lot of property and money if your husband is convicted of murder?

Justine pushed away from the table and stood up.

Anything I take out of this marriage I've earned, believe me. And now I' m afraid that I have to end this interview. I've been working since early this morning and I need to get some rest.

What do you think? Amanda asked as they headed toward the elevator.

I think that Dr. Justine Castle is one pissed-off lady.

Wouldn't you be if you were the victim of rape and assault?

Then you believe her?

Amanda was going to answer when she noticed Tony Fiori walking toward them. He was wearing green surgical scrubs under a white coat that looked as though it had never been washed. Scraps of paper poked out of the jacket's bulging pockets.

Tony!

Fiori looked puzzled for a moment. Then he smiled.

Hey, Amanda. What are you doing up here?

We just finished interviewing a witness in a case. This is Herb Cross, our investigator. Herb, this is Dr. Tony Fiori, an old friend from high school.

Herb shook Tony's hand.

Do you have time for a cup of coffee? Tony asked Amanda. I got bumped out of the OR by an emergency and I've still got half an hour before I have to be back.

I don't know, Amanda said hesitantly, looking at Cross.

That's fine, the investigator replied.

You're sure you don't need me?

I' m just going back to the office to write my report. We'll catch up later.

Okay, then. I'll see you at the office.

She turned to Tony. I can use a caffeine fix. Let's go.

It was raining when Amanda and Tony walked outside. They sprinted across the street to Starbucks, and Amanda found a table while Tony ordered for them.

One grande skinny caramel latte, he said, placing the drink in front of Amanda.

That looks like regular coffee, Amanda said, pointing to Tony's cup.

Hey, I' m a barbarian. What can I say?

Amanda laughed. It's strange we don't see each other for years, and now we bump into each other twice in less than a month.

It's fate, Tony answered with an easy smile.

You look like you're working hard.

Like the proverbial dog. Fortunately, my senior resident is a good guy, so it's not as bad as it could be.

What are you doing?

I've been on the surgical intensive care rotation for two months, but I've been doing elective surgeries for the past two days hernias, appendectomies. It's two-for-one day today. Let me take out your appendix and I'll remove your spleen for free.

No, thanks, Amanda answered with a laugh. I gave at the office.

Tony took a long drink of coffee. Man, I needed that. I've been at it since six this morning without a break.

I' m glad I came along.

Tony leaned back and studied Amanda.

You know what I remember about you? he asked with a smile. The swimming. You were so great at the state meet my senior year, and you were only a freshman. Did you keep it up in college?

All four years.

How' d you do?

Pretty well. I won the two hundred free in the PAC-Ten my junior and senior years and placed at nationals.

Impressive. Did you try for the Olympics?

Yeah, but I never really had a chance to make the team. There were three or four girls who could kick my butt on my best day. To tell you the truth, I was burnt out by my senior year. I didn't swim at all when I was at law school. I' m just getting back to it now.

Where did you go to law school?

NYU. The last two years I had a clerkship at the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals in San Francisco. You went to Colgate, right?

Only for a year. My dad died and it hit me hard. Tony's eyes grew moist, and he looked down at the table.

Now Amanda remembered. Dominic Fiori had been Frank's law partner. He was raising Tony after a bitter divorce. During winter break of Amanda's sophomore year in high school, Dominic had died in a fire. The sudden death of a parent was bound to be traumatic.

Anyway, I dropped out for a while and bummed around Europe and South America for a year after that, he continued in a subdued tone. Then I was a ski instructor in Colorado for a while before I got my act together and went back to school at Boulder. My grades weren't good enough for an American medical school, so I ended up in Peru. I took some tests when I graduated and was accepted at St. Francis for my residency.

That's a tough road.

Tony shrugged. I guess, he answered, looking a little embarrassed. So you were interviewing Justine for your case? he asked, changing the subject.

How did you know?

I have amazing psychic powers. Also, I read the papers. Your father and Cardoni have been all over the news since they found those heads. Tony was suddenly serious. You know, I was there when Cardoni had his run-in with Sandowski.

No, I didn' t.

Did he really decapitate her?

Amanda's legal training reared its head. I can't really talk about that.

Sorry, I didn't mean to be nosy. It's just ... I knew ' em both. He shook himself, as if trying to clear away an unpleasant image.

Amanda hesitated, then made a decision. I guess I can tell you. It'll come out at the trial anyway. There's a videotape of Mary Sandowski being killed. Whoever did it operated on her while she was conscious. She shivered. You're probably used to seeing people in pain, but I've never seen anything like that.

I haven't seen anything like that either, Amanda. A doctor tries to ease suffering. I' d have been just as upset as you.

Tony glanced up at the clock on the wall. I' m going to have to get back. He hesitated. Uh, look, he asked nervously, do you want to get together sometime? You know, dinner, a movie?

Amanda flashed a reassuring smile. Sure. I' d like that.

Tony grinned. Great. Give me your number.

Amanda took out a business card and wrote her home number on the back. Tony stood up.

Don't rush off, he told her. Finish your latte. I'll call soon.

Amanda watched Tony duck into the rain and jog back toward the hospital. She wondered if he' d really call. It would be tough giving up an evening in the library to go to dinner with a drop-dead gorgeous doctor, but Amanda believed she was woman enough to make the sacrifice.

And she sent us on our way, Herb Cross told Frank Jaffe as he concluded his account of the Justine Castle interview.

What was your opinion of her? Frank asked. Cross slouched in the client chair in Frank's office and stared at the West Hills through the window at Frank's back while he gathered his thoughts.

She's very bright and very dangerous. She hates our client and will do everything she can to put him on death row if she's called as a witness.

Cardoni thinks she set him up.

Cross looked surprised. He thinks Castle is a serial killer?

That's what he says. She's a surgeon, she knew Grant.

Cross looked skeptical.

I don't buy it either, Frank said, but we have to worry about Castle. I need to know if there's some way to get to her if she testifies. Go to the jail. Talk to our client. Get as much background on her as you can, then go after her.

Chapter 18

Bobby Vasquez found Sean McCarthy neck deep in paperwork when he walked into the squad room and pulled up a chair to the detective's desk.

Hey, Bobby, McCarthy said. What have you got?

A lot, he answered, opening a file he was carrying. Cardoni grew up outside of Seattle. His parents were divorced and Cardoni started getting in trouble soon after the split. He was a star wrestler in high school, excellent grades, but he was also arrested for assault. The case never came to trial. I don't know why it was dismissed.

After high school Cardoni went to Penn State on a wrestling scholarship, but he lost it in his sophomore year when he was arrested for assault.

Any specifics?

I got the police report on that one. It was a bar fight. He really fucked up the other guy. Cardoni went into the army as part of a plea bargain. Charges were dismissed.

How' d he do in the army?

No trouble I could find. He qualified for the wrestling team and trained during his hitch. He also excelled at unarmed combat. After the army, Cardoni went to Hearst College, in Idaho. Good grades, NCAA Division Two nationals as a junior and a senior, then medical school in Wisconsin and a residency at New Hope Hospital in Denver.

Any trouble in Idaho, Wisconsin or Colorado?

Cardoni was the defendant in a malpractice suit in Colorado. The insurance company settled it. I've got rumors of cocaine use, and there were a couple of sexual harassment complaints that went nowhere. After Cardoni finished his residency, he moved to Portland.

Where does Cardoni's money come from? McCarthy asked.

Some of it comes from an inheritance. His folks are dead. I also hear that he's invested wisely.

McCarthy leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers together thoughtfully.

If Cardoni is a serial killer, he may have cut his teeth before moving to Portland. Find out if a killing field like the one near the cabin was ever found in Washington, Pennsylvania, Idaho, Wisconsin, Colorado or any other place Cardoni lived.

Okay.

And while we're on the subject, did you have any luck tracing the ownership of the Milton County property?

None. I went to the banks that cut the cashier's checks, but there was no record of the purchases because they were under ten thousand dollars. Is there anything new on your end?

A little. I' m certain that the Milton County cabin is the place where the illegal organs were harvested. Remember those jars in the refrigerator?

The ones with Viaspan written on them?

Right. Viaspan is a cardiac preservation fluid. Before you cut the heart out of a donor's body, you inject Viaspan into it. It replaces the blood, fills up the vessels and preserves the heart so the metabolic processes don't continue when the heart stops beating. After you remove the heart, you place it in a plastic bag filled with Viaspan. Viaspan would also be used when transplanting other organs.

Like a kidney?

Exactly. We've also identified several of the victims. The decapitated woman without the heart is Jane Scott, a runaway. One of the victims is Kim Bowers, a prostitute who disappeared a year and a half ago, and another is Louise Pierre.

The Lewis and Clark student who went missing in June?

McCarthy nodded One of the males is Rick Elam, a shipping clerk who was reported missing in September. Elam and Pierre were missing kidneys. Now, here is the interesting part. Scott, Elam and Pierre were patients at St. Francis within months of their disappearances.

No shit! Were any of them a patient of Cardoni?

No, but they didn't have to be. All you need to do to find a donor for a heart is to find a person whose blood type is compatible with the recipient's and who is within twenty percent of the recipient's body weight. The heart of a person with type O blood can be given to anyone. All Cardoni or Grant had to do was look at their files.

Were any of the other victims missing organs?

McCarthy shook his head sadly. It looks like Cardoni was just having fun with some of those poor bastards and mixing business with pleasure with the others.

Chapter 19

Amanda was half an hour late for her date with Tony Fiori when she finally arrived at the YMCA. On the ride over she had worried that he would think she' d stood him up, but he smiled when he saw her.

I' m sorry, Amanda apologized. I had a jury out and they came back just before five.

Did you win?

Amanda let her grin answer the question.

It was so great, Tony. Dad put me on the court appointment list so I could get more trial experience, and they appointed me to help this poor woman, Maria Lopez. She's a single mother and she's got these three maniac kids. So she's at Kmart and JosT, her two-year-old, streaks down the aisle toward these toys, so she stuffs a roll of Scotch tape and a bottle of aspirin in her coat pocket and goes after him. JosT knows how to run, but he hasn't figured out stopping yet. Bam, he goes headfirst into this display counter. Maria is holding JosT, who is screaming his head off, and trying to comfort Teresa, who's three and is screaming to keep JosT company, and trying to keep an eye on Miguel, who's four. Naturally she forgets about the tape and the aspirin, and some idiot security officer arrests her for shoplifting.

How did you get her off?

I slam-dunked the security officer. He testified that Maria was looking around ' stealthily' when she ' slipped' the stuff in her pocket. And he said that JosT didn't take off for a second or so after she ' secreted the goods on her person.' He made Maria sound like some master thief. Then I showed him the videotape from the store's security camera. You should have heard him stammer and stutter after that. Maria was so grateful. She just manages to get by, and she was scared to death of what would happen to her kids if she went to jail.

Sounds like you did a super job.

Bet your ass I did, Amanda said, puffing up like a peacock.

Then you deserve an amazing dinner as a reward.

Oh? Where are we going?

It's a surprise. I'll tell you when we're finished working out.

They swam hard for an hour, and Amanda found that the time went quickly with Tony as her workout partner. She showered, toweled her hair dry and emerged from the locker room moments before Tony came out.

Tell me where we're going to dinner, she demanded. I' m famished.

Great, because it's a very exclusive Italian place I know. Did you drive?

Amanda nodded.

Then follow me.

Tony took the freeway, then exited onto the winding streets of a residential neighborhood with which she was unfamiliar. Finally Tony pulled into the driveway of a blue two-story Victorian with white gingerbread trim. A high hedge enclosed a small backyard, and a shaded porch fronted the street.

Welcome to Papa Fiori' s, home of the finest Italian food in Portland, Tony said when Amanda got out of her car.

You're cooking?