"I see what you mean. Look, Max, I know the heat is coming down on you, but I can't hold back much longer. I won't say anything about the mutilation of Trian, but I have to let the public know about the connection of the three victims to the AIDS clinic."

"Sara..."

"Someone is going to dig it up soon anyway, and now Bradley's father can't be hurt any more than he already has." She gripped her cane.

"More important, Harvey has decided to go public with the clinic's success. He needs to raise funds. There'll be an hour story on the success of his AIDS treatment on News Flash

Max whistled.

"Talk about a major scoop," he said.

"Could be Pulitzer here, Sara. I'd hate to see you miss that."

"Not fair, Max."

"I know. My bias against the press flaring up again. Sorry."

"Forget it." She watched him start to gnaw on his finger not the nail, the finger.

"Max, don't you think the connection to the clinic is important?"

"Crucial," he answered, removing his finger from his mouth and rubbing his face with the same hand.

"My people are checking out everyone involved with the place."

"That's the crux of the whole thing, isn't it?" she asked.

"I mean, everyone assumes that a psychopath is targeting gays, but he could really be after AIDS patients or, more specifically, patients at Harvey's clinic."

"Could be."

"What about Harvey's fear that someone is trying to sabotage the clinic?"

Bernstein stood up and began pacing in a small, tight circle.

"A possibility but a long shot. According to Harvey, nobody outside the clinic not the PDA, you, or anybody else knew how close they were to finding a cure. Sure, there were rumors, but people don't usually try to sabotage a rumor."

"I'm not sure I agree with you there," Sara said.

"We've both seen plenty of people act on a lot less than unsubstantiated rumors before."

"Granted, but look at it this way if someone wanted to destroy Harvey and Bruce's work, why go to the trouble of murdering all these people in such a grisly fashion? Why not just burn down the clinic? Or why not just kill...?" His voice trailed away.

"Just kill?"

Max swallowed.

"I was about to say, "Why not just kill the doctors?" There was a long silence.

"Max, what did the handwriting analyst say?"

"Bruce Grey wrote the note. No chance of it being a forgery."

"Does that mean he definitely committed suicide?" Bernstein paused, his hand still nervously massaging his chin.

"Not necessarily," he began.

"Because of the note in Grey's handwriting, the suicide was barely questioned. It was an open-and shut case."

"And now?"

"There's so many holes, Sara. I checked out Grey's history.

He seemed happy enough, normal enough, no signs of depression or mental illness."

"But if Bruce wrote the note "

"Ah, but haw did he write the note?"

"I don't understand."

"As you know, I took the liberty of having the handwriting analyst check the note again. But this time I had him look for other details."

"Such as?"

"For one thing, Swinster noted that the handwriting was unusually shaky. Words and letters ran into one another. It was definitely written by Grey the shape and design of the letters tell you that but it was not his normal handwriting. He was in a rush or under duress or something like that."

"Isn't that normal in the case of a suicide?"

"Not really. Usually, the handwriting is slow and even and fairly normal. Grey always wrote very neatly even when he scribbled down a prescription. The suicide note was uncharacteristically sloppy. It could have been I said could have been coerced."

Sara sat forward with her eyes opened wide. Her words came fast.

"Then what you're saying is that maybe Bruce was forced to write it,"

she nearly shouted.

"Maybe somebody put a gun to his head and made him do it."

"Calm down, Sara. We don't know anything of the sort yet."

"And if that's the case, Harvey could be in real danger."

Bernstein shook his head.

"Don't start building this into something it's not. There are a million better explanations for all of this. It could be something as simple as Bruce Grey being so cold his hand shook when he wrote the note. Or it could be that he was nervous at the thought of running head first through a window."

"You don't buy any of that."

Max pocketed his keys.

"But it sounded good."

"Where are you going?"

"To the Days Inn. I want to check out Grey's room."

"Hey, hey, Mikey, boy! How you feeling?" Michael looked up and smiled. Reece and Jerome piled into the room with a half dozen other Knicks.

"You guys are a bunch of the ugliest candy-stripers I've ever seen." "But look what we brought you," Jerome said, holding up a brown paper bag.

"What is it?" Michael asked.

"Hospital food sucks, right?" Jerome continued.

"Bet your ass," Michael replied.

"Two days of it and I'm already going crazy."

"And," Reece added, "everyone knows how you Jews love food from the Orient."

"You mean...?"

"Yup," Reece interrupted, "take-out from Hunan Empire."

"I think I love you guys."

"Don't get mushy on us, old dude."

"I'll try not to break down."

"So how you feeling, Mikey?"

"Okay."

"When you coming back?"

"Probably not till next season."

"Shit."

"Yeah, tell me about it. But guys, guess what?"

There was a pause.

"Reece already told us the good news," Jerome said with a wide smile.

"You're going to be a papa.

Congratulations, man."

They shook hands.

"Thanks."

The other players gathered around him to offer their congratulations.

"Hey, old dude, how you gonna teach me anything from a hospital bed?"

Jerome asked.

"Watch old game films," Reece suggested.

"See how Mikey played when he was in his prime."

"They had movie cameras back then?" Jerome joked.

Reece laughed.

"What the hell are you laughing at?" Michael asked him.

"You're only a year younger than me."

"I know. That's why I want you back with the team. I don't want to be the new 'old dude'."

"Swell. How's practice going anyway?"

"We miss you, Mikey," Reece said.

"Nice to hear."

"Yeah," Jerome added, "I miss blocking your shot and putting it in your face."

"Just hand over the food, Jerome, before my doctor seer it."

"Too late."

The tall bodies of the New York Knicks turned toward the door. Harvey stood leaning against the frame of the doorway.

"Hey, Harv," Reece said.

"How's it going, Reece?"

"Not bad."

"Would you and your cohorts mind if I have a few minutes alone with Michael?"

"Of course not."

"Good," Harvey replied.

"In the meantime I'll have one of the nurses bring you hoodlums over to the pediatric wing. There's a few kids in there you fellas might be able to cheer up." "Be our pleasure," Reece said.

"Come on, guys. Let's go."

Michael's teammates bade him good-bye and left. Then Harvey closed the door and moved into the room.

"So what's up?" Michael asked.

"We just got back results of the blood tests," Harvey began.

"You were HBV positive."

"Meaning?"

"You have hepatitis."

"Isn't that what you were expecting?"

"Yes and no."

"Explain, por favor."

"Frankly speaking, its all a little strange."

"What do you mean?"

Harvey crossed the room.

"You have hepatitis B rather than hepatitis A."

"Is that bad?"

"Ninety percent of all hep B patients recover fully within three to four months. With a little luck and some good training, you could even be back in shape for the end of the season and the play-offs."

"Great."

"But we'd like to take a few more tests, Michael," Harvey said, "including a T cell study and an HIV test."