Suddenly Jordan stopped. He’d realized something else. Despite all these problems, he was doing more surgery than ever. There had to be another part to it all. As he started walking again, it all began to make a kind of grotesque, malicious sense. He picked up his pace. Definitely playing dumb was the way he should handle it. It was the safest by far. And he liked to do surgery.

Pushing into the operating room, he went up to Cerino, who was significantly sedated.

“We’ll have you done in no time,” Jordan said. “Just relax.”

After giving Cerino a pat on the shoulder, Jordan turned and headed out to scrub. As he passed one of the orderlies in scrubs, he realized it wasn’t one of the orderlies. Jordan had recognized the eyes. It was the gaunt one.

4:30 p.m., Friday

Manhattan

Laurie was hesitant to visit the lab again. She didn’t want to risk another run-in with John DeVries. But attempting any more paperwork just then was ridiculous. She was far too distracted. She decided to find Peter. Surely he had to have more results by then.

“I know you promised to call if you found anything,” Laurie said once she’d found him, “but I couldn’t help but stop by just to check how you were doing.”

“I haven’t found a contaminant yet,” Peter said. “But I did learn something that might be significant. Cocaine is metabolized in the body in a variety of different ways producing a variety of metabolites. One of the metabolites is called benzoylecgonine. When I calculated the ratio of cocaine and benzoylecgonine in the blood, urine, and brain of your victims, I can estimate the amount of time from injection to death.”

“And what did you find?” Laurie asked.

“I found it was pretty consistent,” Peter said. “Roughly an hour in thirteen of the fourteen. But in one of the cases it was different. For some reason Robert Evans had practically no benzoylecgonine at all.”

“Meaning?” Laurie questioned.

“Meaning that Robert Evans died very quickly,” Peter said. “Maybe within minutes. Maybe even less, I really can’t say.”

“What do you think the significance is?” Laurie questioned.

“I don’t know,” Peter said. “You’re the medical detective, not me.”

“I suppose he could have suffered an instantaneous cardiac arrhythmia.”

Peter shrugged. “Whatever,” he said. “And I haven’t given up on a contaminant. But if I find something, it’s going to be in nanomoles.”

Leaving the toxicology department, Laurie felt discouraged. Despite all her efforts she didn’t feel any further along in her investigation of these unlikely overdoses than she had been at the start. Intending to talk again with George Fontworth and have him explain what had surprised him on the autopsies, Laurie descended to the basement level and poked her head into the autopsy room. She didn’t see George, but she saw Vinnie and asked about George.

“He left about an hour ago,” Vinnie said.

Laurie went upstairs to George’s office. The door was open but he wasn’t there. Since his room was adjacent to one of the serology labs, Laurie went in and asked if anyone had seen George.

“He had a dentist’s appointment,” one of the techs said. “He mentioned he’d be back later, but he didn’t know when.”

Laurie nodded.

Stepping out of the lab, she paused outside George’s office. From where she was standing she could see the autopsy folders from the two overdose cases he’d handled that day.

Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Laurie stepped into the office and opened the top folder. It was Julia Myerholtz’s file. That was the case George had been working on when Laurie had gone over to his table. She hastily read through George’s autopsy notes. Immediately she understood what he had meant by the “surprise.” Obviously he’d responded the same way Laurie had with Duncan Andrews.

Looking at the forensic investigator’s report, Laurie noticed that the victim had been identified at the scene by “Robert Nussman, boyfriend.”

Taking a piece of scratch paper from a pad on George’s desk, Laurie jotted down Julia’s address.

Laurie was just about to open the second file when she heard someone coming down the hall. Sheepishly, she closed the folder, pocketed the piece of scrap paper, and stepped back out into the hall. She nodded and smiled guiltily as one of the histology techs passed by.

Although Bingham had chastised Laurie for visiting Duncan Andrews’ apartment, she decided she would go to Julia Myerholtz’s place. Hailing a cab, she convinced herself that Bingham’s anger had more to do with the unique fact that the case was such a political hot potato. He hadn’t objected to examination of the scene per se-or so Laurie rationalized.

Julia’s apartment was in a large posh building on East Seventy-fifth Street. Laurie was quite surprised when the doorman came to the curb to open her door for her as she paid the cab fare. It amazed her to experience the kind of style some people enjoyed in the city. The ambience was certainly a far cry from her own in Kips Bay.

“May I help you, madame?” the doorman asked. He had a thick Irish brogue.

Laurie showed her medical examiner’s badge and asked to see the superintendent. A few minutes later the man appeared in the foyer.

“I’d like to view Julia Myerholtz’s apartment,” Laurie told him. “But before I go up, I want to make certain that no one is there just now.”

The superintendent asked the doorman if the apartment was empty.

“It is indeed,” the doorman said. “Her parents aren’t due in until tomorrow. You want the key?”

The superintendent nodded. The doorman opened a small cabinet, took out a key, and handed it to Laurie.

“Just give it back to Patrick here when you leave,” the superintendent said.

“I’d prefer if you came along.”

“I have a hot water leak in the basement,” the superintendent explained. “You’ll be okay-9C. It’s to the right when you get off the elevator.”

The elevator stopped on 9, and Laurie got out. Just to be sure, she rang the bell of 9C several times and even pounded on the door before going in. She didn’t want to run into any of the deceased’s loved ones this time around.

The first thing Laurie noticed were the shards of a plaster cast statue scattered over the floor of the foyer. Judging by the larger pieces, Laurie guessed the piece had been a replica of Michelangelo’s David.

The roomy apartment was decorated in a comfortable, country style. Not sure of what she was looking for, Laurie simply roamed from room to room, surveying the scene.

In the kitchen Laurie opened the refrigerator. It was well stocked with health food: yogurt, bean sprouts, fresh vegetables, and skim milk.

In the living room the coffee table was loaded with art books and magazines: American Health, Runner’s World, Triathlon, and Prevention. The room was lined with bookshelves filled with more art books. On the mantel, Laurie noticed a small plaque. She went closer to read the inscription: “Central Park Triathlon, Third Place, 3034.”

In the bedroom Laurie discovered an exercise bike and lots of framed photographs. Most of the photos featured an attractive woman and a handsome young man in various outdoor settings: on bikes in a mountain setting, camping in a forest, finishing a race.

As she wandered back into the living room, Laurie tried to imagine why an amateur athlete like Julia Myerholtz was apparently taking drugs. It just didn’t make any sense. The health food, the magazines, and the accomplishments just didn’t jibe with cocaine.

Laurie’s musings were abruptly cut short when she heard a key in the door. For a second of absolute panic she contemplated trying to hide, as if she expected Bingham to come through the door.