In the elevator she said, "Okay, Vince. Who is he?"

"You mean Quantrell?"

"No, the king of Siam."

"What's with you today? PMS?"

"Who is Adam Quantrell?"

Shradick shrugged. "Owns some pharmaceutical company. Cyrus, something or other."

"Cygnus? He owns the Cygnus Company?"

"Yeah, that's it. He's always in those society pages. You know, this or that black-tie affair. Surprised you haven't heard of him."

"I don't read the society pages."

"You should. Your ex was mentioned in 'em the other day. He was at some campaign benefit for the mayor. Had a nice-lookin' blond on his arm."

"That's why I don't read the society pages."

"Oh."

They got off the elevator and headed to M. J.'soffice. Mr. Coffee was doing overtime today. The glass pot had already been emptied twice, and what was left in it now looked positively vile. She poured out a cup and handed it to Shradick.

"How does Lou know Mr. Society?" she asked.

Shradick frowned at the evil brew in his mug. "Some private thing. Quantrell asked Lou for a little police assistance. Something to do with his daughter."

"Quantrell has a daughter?"

"That's what I hear."

"He didn't strike me as the daddy type. Not a guy who'd let sticky little hands anywhere near his cashmere coat."

Shradick took a sip from the mug and winced. "Your coffee's improved."

"What sort of help did Lou give him?"

"Oh, the girl dropped out of sight or something. You'd have to ask Lou. It happened a while back, before we got paired up."

"Was he working South Lexington?"

"Been on that beat for years. That's where his partner went down. Drive-by. Then I lost mine in Watertown, and Lou got stuck with me. The rest, as they say, is history." He took another sip of coffee.

"Adam Quantrell doesn't live anywhere near South Lexington."

Shradick laughed. "That's for sure."

"So why did he tap a South Lexington cop for help?"

"I don't know. Why don't you ask Lou?" Shradick's beeper went off. Automatically, he glanced down at the number blinking on his pocket pager display. "Now what the hell're they buzzing me for?"

"You can use my phone."

"Thanks." He reached for the phone and punched in a number. "Shradick here. Yeah, what's up?"

M. J. turned her attention to the stack of papers on her desk. They were the request forms to be sent with the body fluid samples to the state lab. If she wanted to make the three o'clock pickup, she'd have to fill them out now. She sat down and began checking the appropriate boxes: Gas chromatography/UC; immunoanalysis. Every test that might possibly identify the drug that had killed Jane Doe.

She looked up at the sound of footsteps. Beamis walked in. "Sorry to brush you off," he said. "It was sort of a personal matter for Mr. Quantrell."

"So I heard." She resumed filling out the forms.

He noticed the papers. "Is that for Jane Doe?"

"Courier comes by at three. I know you want quick answers." She gathered up the slips, wrapped them around the test tubes, and stuffed it all in a lab envelope. "So here it is, off to the races." She dropped the bundle into the basket marked Pick up.

"Thought you were going to run some tests here."

"I'll do ' em when I do 'em. First, I've got deadlines on a few autopsy reports. Court dates coming up. And my ex has already sent me nasty messages over voice mail."

Beamis laughed. "You and Ed still at each other's throats?"

"Lou, love is fleeting. Contempt is forever."

"I take it you're not going to vote for him."

"Actually, I think Ed's got the right temperament for a DA. Don't you agree he's got that striking resemblance to a Doberman pinscher?" She went to the filing cabinet and began rummaging for papers. "Besides, Ed and the mayor deserve each other."

"Aw, hell," grunted Shradick, banging down the phone. "Now we'll miss lunch."

"What is it?" asked Beamis.

"We just got a call. They found another one. Female, no signs of trauma."

M. J. looked up from the file drawer. Shradick was already scribbling in his notebook. "Another OD?" she asked.

"Probably. And my stomach's already growling." He kept writing in that matter-of-fact way of his. Too many corpses, too many deaths, and this is what it does to us, M. J. thought. A dead body means nothing more to us than a canceled lunch.

"Where's the vic?" she asked.

"South Lexington."

"What part of South Lexington?"

Shradick shut his notebook and looked up. "Same place we found the other one," he said. "The Projects."

Adam Quantrell walked briskly across the street, his shoulders hunched against the wind, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his raincoat. It was April already, but it felt like January. The wind was cutting, the trees skeletal; people on the street wore their winter pallor like masks.

He unlocked his Volvo, slid into the driver's seat, and shut the door.

He sat there for a moment, safely hidden behind tinted glass, relieved to be in a place where no onecould read his face, divine his thoughts. It was cold inside; his breath misted the air. But the real chill came from within.

It wasn't her. At least I should be thankful for that.

He started the engine and guided the Volvo into city traffic. His first inclination was to head for Surry Heights and home. He should call his secretary and tell her he wouldn't be in the office today. What he needed was a chance to regain his composure, something he'd lost when he'd first heard that doctor's voice on his answering machine.

What was her name again? Novak. Yes, that was it. Vaguely he wondered what Dr. Novak's first name was, thought it had to be something blunt and to-the-point, like the woman. She was a straight shooter; he appreciated that. What he hadn't appreciated was her sharp eyes, her keen antennae. She'd seen far more than he'd intended to reveal.

He merged onto the freeway. Still a half hour to Surry Heights. He wanted out of the city, out of all this gray and gloomy concrete.

Then he passed a highway sign that said: South Lexington, exit 2 mile.

What came next was a snap decision, a crazy impulse that rose purely out of guilt. He turned onto the ramp and followed the curve until it eased into South Lexington Avenue. Suddenly he was driving through a war zone. The area around the ME's office had been shabby, but at least the buildings were occupied, the windows intact.

Here, on South Lexington, it was hard to imagine anything but rats residing behind all this red brick andshattered glass. He drove past empty warehouses and dead businesses, reminders of the city's better days. Two miles south, beyond the abandoned Johan Weir tannery, he came to the Projects. He could see them from blocks away, those seven gray towers propped up against an equally gray sky.

They were relics from an earlier age, born of good intentions, but doomed by location and design. Built miles from any jobs, constructed of monolithic concrete, they looked more like prison towers than public housing. Even so, they remained occupied. He saw cars parked on the road, clumps of people gathered on corners, a man huddled on his front stoop, a kid shooting baskets in an alley hoop. They all glanced up as Adam drove past, every pair of eyes taking note of this territorial incursion.

Adam drove another block, pulled over to the side, and parked in front of Building 5.

For an hour he sat in his car, watching the sidewalks, the alleys, the playground across the street. Mothers shuttled babies in strollers across broken glass. Young kids played hopscotch on the pavement. Even here, he thought, life goes on. He knew people were watching him; they always did.