“I can’t believe how well this is working out,” Colleen said. “I was a lot more drawn to Chet; he’s fun and open and easy to talk with. I have enough problems of my own, so I’m not attracted to the anguished, brooding type.”

“I didn’t say anything about being attracted to Jack Stapleton,” Terese said. “That’s something else entirely.”

“What’s your gut reaction to this idea of using Hippocrates himself in one of our ads?”

“I think it has fantastic potential,” Terese said. “Run with it. Meanwhile I’m going to head upstairs and talk with Helen Robinson.”

“Why?” Colleen asked. “I thought she was the enemy.”

“I’m taking to heart Taylor’s admonition that we creatives and the account people should work together,” Terese said breezily.

“Yeah, sure! Likely story!”

“Seriously,” Terese said. “There’s something I’d like her to do. I need a fifth column. I want Helen to confirm that National Health is clean when it comes to nosocomial or hospital-based infections. If their record is atrocious, the whole campaign could backfire. Then, not only would I lose my bid for the presidency, but you and I would probably be out selling pencils.”

“Wouldn’t we have heard by this time?” Colleen asked. “I mean, they’ve been clients for a number of years.”

“I doubt it,” Terese said. “These health-care giants are loath to publicize anything that might adversely affect their stock price. Surely a bad record in regard to nosocomial infections would do that.”

Terese gave Colleen a pat on the shoulder and told her to keep cracking the whip, then headed for the stairwell.

Terese emerged breathless onto the administrative floor, having taken the stairs two at a time. From there she marched directly toward the carpeted realm of the account executives. Her mood was soaring; it was the absolute antithesis of the anxiety and dread of the day before. Her intuition told her she was onto something big with National Health and would soon be scoring a deserved triumph…

As soon as the impromptu meeting with Terese had ended and Terese had disappeared around the corner, Helen returned to her desk and put a call in to her main contact at National Health Care. The woman wasn’t immediately available, but Helen didn’t expect her to be. Helen merely left her name and number with a request to be called as soon as possible.

With the call accomplished Helen took a brush from her desk and ran it through her hair several times in front of a small mirror on the inside of her closet door. Once she was satisfied with her appearance, she walked out of her office and headed down to Robert Barker’s.

“You have a minute?” Helen called to him from his open door.

“For you I have all day,” Robert said. He leaned back in his chair.

Helen stepped into the room and turned to close the door. As she did so, Robert surreptitiously turned over the photo of his wife that stood on the corner of the desk. His wife’s stern stare made him feel guilty whenever Helen was in his office.

“I just had a visitor,” Helen said as she came into the room. As was her custom she sat cross-legged on the arm of one of the two chairs facing Robert’s desk.

Robert felt perspiration appear along his hairline in keeping with his quickening pulse. From his vantage point, Helen’s short skirt afforded him a view of her thigh that didn’t stop.

“It was our creative director,” Helen continued. She was very conscious of the effect she was having on her boss, and it pleased her. “She asked me to get some information for her.”

“What kind of information?” Robert asked. His eyes didn’t move, nor did he blink. It was as if he were hypnotized.

Helen explained what Terese wanted and described the brief conversation about the plague outbreak. When Robert didn’t respond immediately, she stood up. That broke the trance. “I tried to tell her not to use it as the basis of an ad campaign,” Helen added, “but she thinks it’s going to work.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything,” Robert remarked. He loosened his shirt and took a breath.

“But it’s a terrible idea,” Helen said. “I couldn’t think of anything more tasteless.”

“Exactly,” Robert said. “I’d like her to propose a tasteless campaign.”

“I see your point,” Helen said. “I didn’t think of that on the spur of the moment.”

“Of course not,” Robert said. “You’re not as devious as I am. But you’re a quick study. The problem with the idea about nosocomial infection in general is that it could be a good one. There might possibly be a legitimate difference between National Health and AmeriCare.”

“I could always tell her the information wasn’t available,” Helen said. “After all, it might not be.”

“There is always risk in lying,” Robert said. “She might already have the information and be testing us to make us look bad. No, go ahead and see what you can find out. But let me know what you learn and what you pass on to Terese Hagen. I want to keep a step ahead of her.”

“Hey, sport, how the hell are you?” Chet asked Jack as Jack scooted into their shared office and dumped several folders onto his cluttered desk.

“Couldn’t be better,” Jack said.

Thursday had been a paper day for Chet, meaning he’d been at his desk and not in the autopsy room. Generally the associate medical examiners only did autopsies three days a week. The other days they spent collating the voluminous paperwork necessary to “sign out” a case. There was always material that needed to be gathered from PA investigators, the lab, the hospital or local doctors, or the police. Plus each doctor had to read the microscopic slides the histology lab processed on every case.

Jack sat down and pushed some of the paper debris away from the center of the desk to give him some room to work.

“You feel all right this morning?” Chet asked.

“A little wobbly,” Jack admitted. He rescued his phone from beneath lab reports. Then he opened up one of the folders he’d just brought in with him and began searching through the contents. “And you?”

“Perfect,” Chet said. “But I’m accustomed to a little wine and such. Remembering those chicks helped, particularly Colleen. Hey, we still on for tonight?”

“I was going to talk to you about that,” Jack said.

“You promised,” Chet said.

“I didn’t exactly promise,” Jack said.

“Come on,” Chet pleaded. “Don’t let me down. They’re expecting both of us. They might not stay if only I show up.”

Jack glanced over at his officemate.

“Come on,” Chet repeated. “Please!”

“All right, for chrissake,” Jack said. “Just this once. But I truly don’t understand why you think you need me. You do fine by yourself.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Chet said. “I owe you one.”

Jack found the ID sheet that had the phone numbers for Maurice Hard, Susanne’s husband. There was both a home number and an office number. He dialed the home.

“Who you calling?” Chet asked.

“You are a nosy bastard,” Jack said jokingly.

“I’ve got to watch over you so you don’t get yourself fired,” Chet said.

“I’m calling the spouse of another curious infectious case,” Jack said. “I just did the post, and it’s got me bewildered. Clinically it looked like plague, but I don’t think it was.”

A housekeeper picked up the phone. When Jack asked for Mr. Hard, he was told Mr. Hard was at the office. Jack dialed the second number. This time it was answered by a secretary. Jack had to explain who he was and was then put on hold. “I’m amazed,” Jack said to Chet, his hand over the receiver. “The man’s wife just died and he’s at work. Only in America!”

Maurice Hard came on the line. His voice was strained. He was obviously under great stress. Jack was tempted to tell the man he knew something of what he was feeling, but something made him hold back. Instead he explained who he was and why he was calling.