Laurie wished she could speak to the tenant who complained of noise. What did he hear and when did he hear it? When it began to rain in earnest, Laurie hailed a cab and headed for home. Over a salad and some hot tea, she got out all the material she had concerning her series and made a new sheet listing the cases in order. She started two columns beside the column of names: “Found by”; “Two Men at Scene?”

She filled in what answers she had. The rest of the afternoon she devoted to filling in the blanks. It meant a lot of legwork, but Laurie knew she had to be thorough if she was ever going to get anyone to believe in her theory.

By late afternoon, Laurie was convinced her efforts had been worthwhile. In each of the scenes the bodies had been discovered by a doorman or superintendent investigating after a neighboring tenant’s complaint of strange noises coming from the deceased’s apartment. With the information on her sheet nearly complete, Laurie headed home convinced more than ever that there was something sinister afoot. There were too many coincidences. Now if only she could persuade someone in a position to do something about it.

By the time she got home, it was dark. She wasn’t sure what her next move should be. Out of curiosity, Laurie opened the Sunday Times to see if the media had picked up the story of the banker and the Columbia coed who’d OD’d. She found a brief mention of the deaths in the depths of the second section. The article made the deaths sound like just another couple of overdoses and made no mention of other demographically similar occurrences in the recent past. Another day, another opportunity to alert the public lost.

Laurie decided to try Lou’s home number. She wasn’t sure she had enough to convince him of anything, but she was eager to give him an update. She got Lou’s answering machine but decided against leaving a message.

Hanging up the phone, Laurie pondered the thought of calling Bingham. Believing it would be an exercise in futility at best, and might get her fired at worst, she gave up the idea. He clearly stated that he intended to do nothing, at least not until he spoke with the commissioner of health.

Laurie’s eyes moved from the phone to the open newspaper. Slowly the idea of leaking the story herself began to occur to her. She’d had a bad experience with giving her opinion to Bob Talbot the last time, but in all fairness to him, she’d not specifically said her remarks were confidential.

With that thought in mind, she got out her address book to see if she had his number. She did, and she gave him a call.

“Well, well,” he said when he heard it was Laurie. “I was afraid I was never going to hear from you again. I didn’t know what else to do beyond apologizing.”

“I overreacted,” Laurie admitted. “I’m sorry I never got back to you. It was just that I got an awful chewing out by the chief over your story.”

“I apologize again,” Bob said. “What’s up?”

“This might surprise you,” Laurie said, “but I may have a story for you, a big story.”

“I’m all ears,” Bob said.

“I don’t want to talk on the phone,” Laurie said.

“Fine by me,” Bob said. “How about I buy you dinner?”

“You’re on,” Laurie said.

They met at P. J. Clark’s on the corner of Fifty-fifth and Third. They were lucky to get a table on a rainy Sunday evening, especially one by the far wall where they could talk above the usual hubbub. After a clear-eyed Irish waiter took their order and slid two brimming draughts in front of them, Laurie began.

“First, I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing talking to you. But I’m desperate. I feel I have to do something.”

Bob nodded.

“I want you to promise me you will not use my name.”

“Scout’s honor,” Bob said, holding up two fingers. Then he took out a note pad and a pencil.

“I don’t know where to begin,” Laurie said. She was hesitant at first, but once she began explaining recent events, she warmed up a bit. She began with Duncan Andrews and her first suspicions and took him through to the double death of George VanDeusen and Carol Palmer. She emphasized that all the victims were single, educated, successful people with no hint of drug use or illegal activity in their pasts. She also mentioned the pressure brought to bear on the medical examiner to keep a lid on the Duncan Andrews case in particular.

“In a way it’s too bad he was the first. I think part of the reason Bingham keeps rejecting my series theory is because the series began with him.”

“This is unbelievable,” Bob said when Laurie had to pause with the arrival of their food. “I haven’t seen anything about this in the media at all. Nothing. Zip.”

“There was a mention of the double death in this morning’s Times,” Laurie said. “But it was in the second section. It got barely a squib. But you’re right, there’s been no mention of the other cases.”

“What a scoop,” Bob marveled. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll have to move on it if I’m going to make tomorrow morning’s paper.”

“But there’s more,” Laurie said. She went on to tell him that the cocaine involved was coming from one source, was probably contaminated with a trace of a very lethal compound on top of being extremely potent, and was probably being distributed by a single pusher who somehow came in contact with upscale young people.

“Well, that’s not exactly true,” Laurie corrected herself. “It might be two people. On most of the cases that I’ve investigated, two men have been seen going into the victim’s apartment.”

“I wonder why two?” Bob asked.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Laurie admitted. “There are a lot of mysteries about this whole affair.”

“Is that it?” Bob questioned. He was eager to leave. He hadn’t even touched his food.

“No, that’s not all,” Laurie said. “I’ve begun to get the feeling that these deaths are not accidental, that they are deliberate. In other words they are homicides.”

“This keeps getting better and better,” Bob said.

“All of the bodies were found shortly after death,” Laurie said. “That in itself is unusual. Single people who die alone are usually not found for days. In all the cases I’ve investigated, a phone call led to the discovery of the body. In two cases the victims called their significant other beforehand. In all the others, an anonymous tenant in the victim’s building called the doorman to complain about strange sounds emanating from the victim’s apartment. But here’s the catch: based on medical evidence, these complaints about noise came several hours after the time of death.”

“My God!” Bob said. He looked up at Laurie. “What about the police?” he asked. “Why haven’t they gotten involved in all this?”

“Nobody buys my series theory. The police aren’t the least suspicious. They consider these cases to be simple drug overdoses.”

“And what about Dr. Harold Bingham? What has he done?”

“Nothing so far,” Laurie said. “My guess is he wants to steer clear of such a potential hot potato. Duncan Andrews’ father’s running for office; his people have really been leaning on the mayor, who’s been leaning on Bingham. He did say he’d talk to the commissioner of health about it.”

“If these are homicides, then we’re talking about some new kind of serial killer,” Bob said. “This is hot stuff!”

“I think it’s important for the public to be warned. If this can save one life, it’s worth it. That’s why I called you. We’ve got to put the word out about the contaminant in this drug.”

“Is that it then?” Bob asked.

“I think so,” Laurie said. “If I think of anything I forgot to mention, I’ll call you.”

“Great!” Bob said, getting to his feet. “Sorry to run, but if I’m going to get this into tomorrow morning’s paper, I’ve got to go directly to my editor.”

Laurie watched Bob weave through the crowd of people waiting for tables. Looking down at her veal swimming in a pool of oil, she decided she wasn’t hungry herself.