“You caught it?” said Jeremy.

She nodded. A China Doll waitress brought complimentary melon liqueur in tiny green glasses and a lacquered tray of various fried things. Angela massaged her glass. Picked up a baby octopus, muttered, “Too cruel,” and placed it back on the plate.

“So you saved a life. Good for you.”

“I almost didn’t catch it, Jer. The syringe was already loaded- prepared by a nurse- and I was supposed to give the shot, and I just happened to glance down and read the order. I’ll never forget the look on the patient’s face. An old guy, an old sturdy guy who’d operated heavy machinery in his heyday and still liked to flirt. He must’ve seen my face, realized how thrown I was. He said, ‘Everything okay, girlie?’ ‘Sure,’ I said and I made a big show of inspecting the syringe. Then I lied, told him something was wrong with the needle, too many air bubbles, we needed to get a fresh one. I left him there, tossed that damn syringe in the nearest biohazard bin, called the head nurse over, and showed her the order. This was a smart woman, an experienced woman, she knew as much about dosages as most physicians. She said, ‘Oh, my,’ then she recovered, and it was, ‘Of course, we’re not going to tell anyone, are we?’ And I said, ‘Of course not.’ She suggested I alter the original order to where it should’ve been, and I did. Then I loaded up a new syringe, went back in, gave the poor patient his shot. He smiled at me. ‘There you are, I been missin’ you. Maybe you and I can go out some day, honeybunch, cut a rug.’ I smiled back- too shaken up to be offended and besides, he’s an old guy, another generation, how can you take offense? I said, ‘Well, Mr. So and So, you just never know.’ And when I left, I give my rear a little shake. To cheer him up- I know it was tacky, but this guy almost died, and I was almost the one who killed him. He deserved a little joy, no? A little atonement from me, too.”

Her lips shook. Lifting the tiny green glass, she tossed back her drink.

Jeremy said, “Nothing to atone for. You’re the hero of the story.”

“Pure luck. So close. Since then, I’ve been paranoid about dosages, double- and triple-check everything. Maybe it’ll make me a better doctor. You know the worst part of it? The attending- the idiot who couldn’t keep his decimal places straight- he never knew. We protected him, never told him. So what does that make me? A coconspirator?”

“If you’d told him, he’d have denied it. And you’d have come out the worst for it.”

“I know, I know,” Angela said, miserable. “This is some romantic evening- I’m sorry, Jer.”

Jeremy nuzzled the warm, sweet place behind her ear. So smooth, women. So finely wrought.

She said, “You’re a wonderful guy. Please, let’s keep this going.”

A week later, he received a postcard from Oslo.

Stunning photography, some place called the Vigeland Sculpture Gardens. Monumental carvings of hypermuscular figures displayed in a verdant parklike setting. To Jeremy’s eye, the images were aggressively proletarian-Wagnerian.

On the back of the card was fore-slanted writing in black fountain pen ink:

Dear Dr. C-

Traveling and learning. A.C.

The old guy picks up and leaves just like that. And why not? Arthur was retired, lived alone, had no work obligations.

Had downsized.

Jeremy was certain the Victorian had been abandoned for some reason other than Arthur’s sudden insight that the house was too large.

Ramona Purveyance knew the reason, she’d almost let it slip-he’d knocked around there too long after…

But when Jeremy had pressed, she’d finessed.

Had there been some tragedy in Arthur’s life? Some life-changing event? Perhaps the old man had simply confronted one of life’s routine tragedies: widowerhood.

Loss of the doting wife Jeremy had imagined. That would’ve been more than enough to insult Arthur’s gregariousness. Leading him to seek his pleasures elsewhere.

Late suppers with like-minded eccentrics.

Jeremy placed the postcard in a desk drawer. The next time he saw Anna, the faculty office secretary, he thanked her for providing Arthur’s address, told her Arthur loved the gift, was now traveling.

“Yes, he does that,” she said. “Sends me the prettiest postcards. So considerate.”

“A good way to occupy oneself,” said Jeremy.

“What is?”

“Travel. What with his living alone and all that.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“How long has he been single?”

Anna said, “Ever since I’ve known him- I believe he’s always been single, Dr. Carrier. Confirmed bachelor and all that. A pity, wouldn’t you say? Such a nice man?”

Living single meant you could hop to the airport, charm the ticket agent, board, loosen your shoelaces, nibble salted nuts, down a martini with two pearl onions, and settle back for the long flight.

If Arthur was behind the interoffice envelopes, he’d sent Jeremy two articles on laser surgery and left the country shortly after posting an old clipping about a missing English girl and her murdered chum.

At least, Jeremy had assumed the story was old because of the dry, brown paper. What was the point? A crime-history lesson? Wanting Jeremy to ponder yet another example of very bad behavior?

Wanting to lead Jeremy somewhere…

If so, the old man was being maddeningly oblique.

Where was the clipping… Jeremy searched his desk, remembered he’d thrown it out. What was the murdered girl’s name… Suzie something, a surname beginning with C… he struggled to retrieve the memory, felt it evade him maddeningly, a sour aftertaste, lodged in the soft, spongy tissue behind his tongue…

But the other name came to him, unbidden.

The girl who had vanished- an unusual name-Sapsted- Bridget Sapsted.

He turned on his antiquated computer, endured the squawks of his temperamental modem (the hospital had converted to word processing years after every other health facility, still refused to install an integrated system), sat back, and counted the dots in his acoustical tile ceiling until he finally connected to the Internet.

He entered the missing girl’s name into a search engine, heard the computer hum and snore and flatulate- indatagestion.

Three hits, all from British tabloids.

The case wasn’t ancient at all; the acid-laced pulp paper had deteriorated quickly.

Six years ago: As the clipping had stated, Bridget Sapsted had gone missing.

Two years later, Bridget Sapsted had been found, dead.

The young woman’s skeletonized remains had been buried shallowly, in a densely wooded area, less than a quarter mile from those of her “chum” Suzie Clevington. Found three weeks after Suzie. Nothing left but bones; the coroner estimated that Bridget Sapsted had been interred for the full two years before being sniffed out by dogs.

“Finding Suzie helped narrow the search,” said Det Insp Nigel Langdon. “We are now considering both young ladies the victims of the same killer. For evidentiary reasons we are unable to divulge an explanation for that assumption at the present time.”

Jeremy plugged the policeman into several data banks. Only one hit for any Nigel Langdon, and it had nothing to do with police work: Last year, a man by that name had delivered a lecture on the cultivation of peonies to the Millicent Haverford Memorial Garden Club. Kent.

Same district, had to be the same guy. Perhaps the Det Insp had also retired, chosen quieter pursuits.

Jeremy phoned overseas information, was stalled by several false starts, finally connected to the right English operator and obtained a listed number for a Nigel Langdon in Broadstairs.

Where the murdered girls had gone to school.

The time difference made it evening in England, but still early enough for a polite call.

He punched in the number, listened to the overseas squawk, was momentarily stunned when a cheerful woman’s voice chirped, “Hallo, who is it then?”