“Jeremy?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

“I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’m not sure when I’m going to have free time.”

“Are you on tonight?”

“No, but I need to hit the sack early. I’m still feeling kind of run-down- maybe the flu hasn’t left my system.”

“Want me to walk you up to the ward?”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“You, too.”

The following afternoon, she called to tell him she’d been tied up in surgery, planned to observe more.

Ted Dirgrove had “performed” a quintuple bypass. The verb made Jeremy think of a stage and a baton.

“Interesting,” he said.

“Amazing. It’s something to see.”

“And the patient survived.”

“What do you mean?”

“The only patient Dirgrove and I have in common didn’t.”

“Oh.” She sounded deflated. “Yes, that was bad… I guess I’d better be going- did I ever thank you for babying me through my flu?”

“More than once.”

“I wasn’t sure if I did. Since I got back on service, things got so hectic so quickly, and I know we haven’t- anyway, thanks again. For the soup and everything else. That was beyond the call of duty.”

Her gratitude sounded formalized. Putting space between them.

Who was he kidding? He’d done that. The conversation-killing glower, when all she’d done was ask about…

“Still feeling run-down?” he said.

“A little, but better.”

“So the bypass was amazing.”

“Really, Jer. The human heart, this little thing, like a big plum- like a skinless tomato. What a gorgeous thing, the way the chambers and valves work in concert. It’s… philharmonic. While the arteries are being spliced in, they keep the heart pumping artificially and… it’s… I keep thinking in orchestral terms, that perfect balance, the tempo- uh-oh, I just got another page, have to go.”

The third postcard was from Damascus, Syria. A picture of the ancient Casbah- a shiny shot of jumbled stalls and their proprietors. White-robed men peddling brassware and carpets and dried nuts.

Postmarked Berlin.

Aha!

Aha, what?

All Jeremy could come up with was that Arthur’s wanderlust had its limits. The old man was unwilling to forgo the creature comforts of the Western World for a Levantine jaunt.

But he wanted Jeremy to think Levantine.

Damascus… Jeremy knew Syria was a brutal dictatorship, but, beyond that, the country and its ancient capital meant nothing to him.

Oslo, Paris, Damascus… Oslo, Paris, Berlin, Damascus? If this was a game, he wasn’t even on the playing field.

He stuck the postcard in the Curiosity file. Had a second thought and pulled out the file and reviewed its contents and ended up with a crushing headache.

He popped aspirin, took the risk of drinking his own lousy coffee.

By the end of the day, alone, with no chance of seeing Angela, with the prospect of his dark, cold house in his immediate future, he found himself hoping for another Otolaryngology envelope. Anything to clear the haze. He stopped by the Psychiatry Office to make sure no new mail had come through.

The office was closed.

Nothing arrived in either of the next day’s deliveries. Same for the day after that.

Suddenly, life was too quiet.

The weekend rolled around. Angela was back on call and Jeremy endured a solitary Saturday, doing crosswords, pretending to be interested in sports, smiling at Mrs. Bekanescu when she stuck her head out to sweep her front porch. Receiving an ugly look in return.

What had Doresh told her?

He read the entire Sunday paper, wondering if any details about the nameless woman on the Finger would surface. They didn’t. By Sunday evening he was ready to climb the walls.

His beeper had been silent all weekend. He phoned the page operator and asked if any calls had come through.

“No, Doctor, you’re all clear.”

He drove to the hospital anyway, attacked his book introduction, was astonished to find the words flowing. He finished the damn thing by 10 P.M., reread it, made a few changes, and packaged it to send to the Head of Oncology for review.

Now what?

Not long ago he’d have cherished the solitude. Now, he felt incomplete.

He logged on to the computer, returned to the Clarion archive, activated his account and entered Norbert Levy’s name as a search-word. Not limited, this time, by “homicide.”

Zero.

The same went for “Edgar Marquis” and, not surprisingly, the pseudonym-protected “Harrison Maynard.”

Tina Balleron had mentioned a couple of Maynard’s aliases. “Amanda… Fontaine,” “Barbara Kingsman.”

Nothing under either nom de plume.

He gave up, turned the computer off, drove to the Excelsior Hotel, made a beeline for the bar. Empty bar, he had his pick of booths and chose the same one where he and Arthur had drunk and talked and nibbled on hors d’oeuvres.

He ordered a double scotch.

The old waiter who’d served them wasn’t on duty. The young man who brought his drink was bland-faced and cheerful and had a high-stepping, prancing walk that made Jeremy think of a racehorse straining at the bit.

“Any particular brand, sir?”

“Nope.”

Same room, same booth, but nothing was the same.

Jeremy sat there for a long time, stretching out his refills in an attempt to simulate self-control.

The young waiter was bored and took to reading the paper. Insipid music played in the background. By the time Jeremy finished his third scotch, his body was buzzing.

No sadder place than Sunday in a big-city hotel. This city prided itself on Midwestern wholesomeness, and Sunday was family day. Even the lobby was deserted, saurian salesmen departed to long-suffering wives, hotel hookers doing whatever working girls did on Sunday.

Sometimes they died.

Jeremy waved that away. Actually moved his hand to dispel the thought. No one was around to notice the ticlike gesture, and he repeated it. Amused, like a naughty kid who’d gotten away with something.

He called for still another drink, filled his blood with alcohol, drank himself rosy. On some level- a cutaneous level- it was a pleasant experience. But for the most part he felt detached.

Living in someone else’s skin.

On Monday he woke up mean and logy and stiff, and he wondered if he’d caught Angela’s flu.

A brisk walk in the chilled air burned his chest and woke him up and by the time he drove to work, he felt semicivilized. Stopping for coffee in the dining room, he spotted Ted Dirgrove and another white-coat engaged in what looked like tense conversation. The same swarthy, mustachioed man who’d sat with the surgeon the first time Jeremy had noticed him. The two of them, and the cardiologist, Mandel.

No reason to notice them now, because the room was filled with white-coats, and Dirgrove and his companion were off in a far corner. But something about the heart surgeon… Angela’s enthrallment with what Dirgrove did…

He was jealous.

He filled a cup, headed out of the room. Dirgrove and the other man hadn’t budged. Their discussion looked tense- something academic? No, this seemed personal. Their body postures were those of two dogs facing off.

Then Dirgrove smiled, and so did the other man.

Two dogs with their teeth bared.

Even match. The other doctor was Dirgrove’s height, had a similar, slender build, and, like Dirgrove, his hair was close-cropped. But this curly cap was as dark as his mustache.

The dark man talked with his hands. Offered a parting shot and exited the dining room. Dirgrove stood there alone, his hands clenched. That cheered Jeremy, and he decided he was hungry and went back for a sweet roll.