Michael sat up, his eyes finding Harvey's and locking onto them.

"An HIV test? Isn't that " "Yes," Harvey, "it's a test which is supposed to indicate if you are carrying the AIDS virus."

"Why would I need one of those?"

"Its merely a precaution," Harvey continued.

"We're sure you don't have AIDS or anything of the sort. You're not homosexual and you're not an intravenous drug user, which means your chances of having it are next to nil."

"So?"

"So Eric and I discussed it. We also consulted Dr. Sagarel, the gastroenterologist. The thing is no one really understands how you contracted hep B."

"Some bad seafood maybe?"

"You're thinking of hepatitis A," Harvey continued.

"Hepatitis B is transmitted through blood transfusions, saliva, semen, stuff like that. Now I know you're going to want to slap me for asking, but I have to do it anyway. It's important that you tell the truth."

"Shoot."

"I know you love Sara, but have you had any extramarital affairs? Any at all. An indiscretion during a Knick road trip, anything?"

"No," Michael answered.

"Never."

Harvey nodded.

"Normally, we wouldn't think of going through with an HIV test, but when Eric reviewed your records, he came up with the fact that you had a blood transfusion after your boating accident in the Bahamas."

"But that was years ago."

"I know. If it were more recent, I wouldn't worry about it as much.

Nowadays we have the technology to screen blood donations so that the chances of a patient's receiving HIV contaminated blood are very remote. Back then the test didn't exist."

"So you're saying "

"I'm not saying anything. Look, Michael, Eric and I have HI Von-the-brain with the clinic and all. You don't have AIDS, I'm nearly positive of it. Under normal circumstances I would have just gone ahead and done the HIV test without telling you."

"So why didn't you? You didn't give me details about the other tests."

"Because the law requires that you sign a form, that's all."

"And Dr. Sagarel agrees with you and Eric about this?"

Harvey's face seemed to cloud over in hurt for a brief moment.

"Yes, Michael. He agreed."

"Harv," Michael began, "I don't mean to question your judgment " Harvey waved his hand.

"Don't worry about it, Michael. It was the right question to ask."

"So now what?"

"I'd like to draw some blood, if it's okay."

Michael shrugged, his eyes still scared. Then he nodded.

"You guys are the doctors." "Good," Harvey said.

"Give me your arm."

"Pick a vein, any vein at all."

Harvey did so, inserting the needle into the protruding blue line.

"Believe me, Michael, this is merely a formality."

"I hope you're right."

He finished taking the blood and withdrew the needle.

"I am," he said. He walked over to the door, opened it, and stepped into the hallway.

"Janice?"

As per Harvey's instruction, Janice Matley, his most loyal and trustworthy nurse, was waiting by the door. Harvey had brought Janice over from the clinic because he did not trust anyone with this task.

"Yes, Doctor?"

He handed her the blood sample.

"Give this to Eric or Winston only. Nobody else. If neither one of them is there, just wait."

She nodded and left. Harvey stepped back into Michael's room.

"When will you know the results?" Michael asked.

"In a week," Harvey answered.

"Now stop worrying like an old lady. There's no reason to think you have anything other than hepatitis."

Mr. Philip Adams, assistant manager of the Days Inn, unlocked the door.

"Here it is," he said.

"Room 1118."

"Damn," Lieutenant Bernstein said.

"Something wrong?"

Max took his finger out of his mouth.

"Hangnail. It's driving me nuts."

Philip Adams watched with something near horror while the police lieutenant used his teeth to rid himself of the annoying problem.

"Will there be anything else?"

"Has anybody stayed here since the suicide?"

"Actually, business has been a little slow right now so we've kept it vacant."

"Has the room been cleaned since the incident?"

"Oh, sure."

"Can you find me the maid who cleaned it?"

"She's off today."

"When will she be in?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"I'd like her to call me when she gets in."

"Of course, Lieutenant, but why are you investigating this now? The suicide was more than two weeks ago."

"Just trying to tie up a few loose ends," Bernstein explained.

"Can you also find me the receptionist who was on duty the night of the suicide?"

"Hector checked Dr. Grey in," Adams said.

"The police spoke to him already."

"When does Hector come in?"

"He's here now."

"Then please send him up."

"No problem."

"Has any work been done on the room since the incident?"

Adams coughed into his fist.

"We replaced the broken window he jumped through, of course."

"Nothing else?"

The assistant manager thought a moment.

"No, I don't think so."

"Okay, thanks."

"Here's the key, Lieutenant."

"I'll return it to you on my way out."

"Thank you."

Left alone, Bernstein paced the room in a circular pattern, hoping to get a feel for the surroundings. Then he closed his eyes and tried to step into the good doctor's shoes. He tried to picture Dr. Brace Grey checking into this hotel, taking the elevator up to the eleventh floor, unlocking the door, moving into this room.

Max imagined Grey trying to force open the window and finding that it was nailed shut. So what did Grey do next? He must have decided to take a running start and leap through the glass. Max pictured him backing up, sprinting forward, hurling his body against the glass, shattering it into small shards, slicing himself in the process. Not exactly a neat suicide. Very messy, in fact.

And painful jumping through glass could not have been a lot of laughs.

Something's wrong here, Twitch.

He nodded to himself. Why here? Why a leap? Why jump through glass?

It did not add up. The man was on the verge of a major medical breakthrough. He had been divorced for seven years already, had a kid he didn't see enough, loved to read, loved to work, was more or less a homebody. According to Harvey Riker and several of Bruce's friends, Grey rarely traveled and had only been out of the country three times his recent trip to Cancun, Mexico (taking a vacation before suicide?) and twice to Bangkok a few years back, where the clinic kept all confidential blood and lab samples and test results. Max had learned that Harvey and Bruce were paranoid about leaks, sabotage, government interference, that kind of thing hence the decision to have a safehouse way out in Bangkok. Might have seemed like unsubstantiated paranoia at the time but now... Bernstein stopped in mid-thought when he saw it.

His gaze fastened on the left side of the wall by the door, his eyes widening. He slowly crossed the room and examined the chain-lock, which hung from the wall and door in two separate pieces. The steel chain was snapped in two. Max bent forward to get a closer look when a knock on the door made him jump.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Hector Rodriguez," a voice with a Hispanic accent called out.

"Mr. Adams told me you wanted to see me."

Bernstein opened the door.

"Come in."

The slight, dark-skinned man moved into the room. He wore a hotel uniform and a goatee that looked like it had been penciled onto his face.

"Mr. Adams said you have some questions about the suicide?"

"Hector, did anyone notice this before?"

Hector squinted at the chain-lock.

"I don't think so. No one's used this room since the suicide."

"Are broken chain-locks a common occurrence in this place?"