Chaz looked around at the other members who were finishing up their breakfasts. The paneled dining room was only half-full. Dim recessed lighting and lush plants strategically positioned in front of the dining alcoves guarded everyone’s privacy almost as much as Pedro did. No one had so much as glanced his way.

But that would change.

Gossipmongers would soon be watching his every move.

Just like before.

And like before, they’d try to pin Kelly’s murder on him, only then it was just her disappearance.

“I’d advise you to remain cool,” his father continued, carefully placing the paper on the table. He leaned back, the thick bristles of his steely gray hair glistening silver under the light. “After all, we knew this was coming. They did let us know about finding her remains and about the forensic report. You’ve had time to prepare yourself.” At seventy-four, the man could still sear his son’s soul with that hard blue stare of his.

He couldn’t go through it again, the police once more poring over every detail of Kelly’s final days, probing, digging, questioning. He’d be right back in the nightmare, living in fear of a knock on the door, a phone call, a newscast. Chaz ran a hand over his thinning brown hair. “How can I stay cool?”

Charles Braden leaned forward and flashed the smile that made the world jump to his wishes. “By never forgetting that you’re innocent. By remembering the police cleared you back then. By knowing I’ve already reminded a few key people in the NYPD of that fact. Trust me, they’ll be looking for someone else.”

“What about the media?” he asked.

“I can make a few calls to them as well. So stop looking so morose. As far as police and reporters go, I think you’ll be pretty much left alone.”

Long ago Chaz had tried to emulate his father’s easy charm in getting people to do what he wanted, but he learned at an early age that he was lousy at it. He got better results by using raw power, and that only worked within the walls of the hospital. Even there he didn’t have his father’s facile ability to succeed as a doctor and reach the inner circles of power. He was a drudge. Hard work and long hours had won him the position of Chief of Cardiology. The one category where he held his own was in physical presence. He, too, was tall and thin; people noticed when he walked into a room.

Pedro returned with an oversize cup filled with a particularly strong brew. Chaz thanked him, and doctored it with sugar only. To his disgust he saw his hand tremble slightly as he took a sip. “I won’t be left alone if they find out I was the last one to talk with Kelly.”

St. Paul’s Hospital,

Buffalo, New York.

Finally, the presentations were over. At this point Earl usually fired off a few pointed questions to drive home any teaching pearls. Today he felt more like firing off a machine gun. After a few uninspired attempts to come up with some zingers, he called it quits. His audience left, muttering in frustration, and a few of his staff gave him what’s-the-matter-with-you looks.

All he could think of was, Who? Who had done this to Kelly? Some stranger? Her husband?

He tried to see patients, but the parade of faces and stories blurred into one another. As for his clinical responses, only the reflexes from twenty-four years’ experience saw him through.

“… Prilosec, Flagyl, and Biaxin ought to do the trick…”

“… an ECG, blood gas, and nuclear scan of his lungs for starters…”

“… albuterol by aerosol and IV steroids…”

He kept wondering if Chaz Braden had killed her after all. Yet why him, when he could have divorced her, ruined her burgeoning career, gotten back at her any number of ways? He continued to pummel himself with questions, sadness pulling him inside out one second, outrage filling him like a balloon the next.

Well practiced at putting on his “everything is fine” face for his patients and troops during the worst of cases, he could feel the tightly contracted muscles of his jaw and knew he looked drawn and tense. “What a lousy actor, you are,” he muttered, disgusted with the pale imitation of his usual take-charge presence, knowing he shouldn’t continue to work with his mind in such a tumult. “Can you cover for me?” he asked Dr. Michael Popovitch, his portly second-in-command, and one of his closest friends.

Michael looked up from a cut hand he was suturing and eyed Earl over a pair of bifocals. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Of course. I’ve got some personal business to take care of.”

“Go to it.”

Earl walked quickly to his office, where he could steady himself in private. He flopped into the high-backed chair and ran his fingers through his gray hair. The steady shush of the air ducts in the tiled ceiling pressed in on him.

Away from the distractions of ER, he felt the initial numbing effect of the news subside as the slower, crawling emotions of grief took over. A tightness in his gut crept up to his chest, and sadness, no longer alternating with an urge to pistol-whip Kelly’s killer, overwhelmed him. Its intensity surprised him; he’d not thought about Kelly for years. Perhaps the reaction felt so strong because he’d always told himself she was thriving somewhere, happy with a career, a man, maybe kids. That’s how he’d imagined her when he first started to shut her out of his thoughts so that he could get on with his life and how she had remained until today, sealed up in rarely visited memories, but alive. Now her murder seemed fresh and recent-

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts.

Susanne poked her head around the door. “Sorry, Dr. Garnet. We just got two ambulances from a three-car pileup on the ninety and another’s on the way. Michael says he apologizes, but can you come?”

Michael wouldn’t have had him called unless he was really needed. “I’ll be right along.”

Getting to his feet, he felt heavy, as if walking underwater. He heard a siren in the distance coming closer by the second, and his heart quickened. No matter how many years he’d had in the pit, that sound always got his adrenaline pumping. Rushing through the hallway toward triage, he tried to clear his mind for the work ahead, only to have more questions intrude.

Should he go to the police? Tell them everything? Or keep his mouth shut and hope they never found out? It had been such a long time. But if the police started searching for the man in the cab again…

An old fear swept through him, a dread of discovery he’d lived with since the day she disappeared. He couldn’t say for sure when it finally faded away, sometime after he left New York at the end of his residency in 1978. Now it came back, a contagion roaring out of remission.

11:45 A.M.

“Telephone, Dr. Garnet,” said a clerk in the nursing station, her eyes scanning his face. “Should I take a message?”

Her politeness disconcerted him. Everyone in the department had been treating him with kid gloves all morning. Obviously they all knew something was wrong. Normally that same clerk would stack up seven calls on hold, expecting him to take every one of them pronto, and he would have thrived on it.

He took the receiver from her. “Dr. Garnet speaking.”

“Earl! It’s Ronda. Did you read in the Herald that they found the body of that medical student you and my sister used to hang out with at NYCU, the one who disappeared?”

New York City University had been where he attended medical school.

He hesitated. “Yeah. I saw that this morning. A real shock.”

“Must be. From what Melanie has told me about those times, I know the three of you were good friends.”

“That we were.”

“Better you be forewarned. The police will probably want to talk to everyone who knew her.”