"Can I say something now?" Laurie questioned.

"If you must."

"The CA-MRSA, or community-acquired, has definitely shown up as a problem in hospitals, and that's been over a number of years at an ever-increasing rate."

"That may be so, but I believe the fact that the bug is the CA-MRSA exclusively lends more credence to my theory. But be that as it may, I also called Dr. Wendell Anderson's office and spoke to his scheduling nurse. Thinking of you, I asked her whether it would be possible, if I put off the surgery, to again be scheduled at the seven-thirty slot. She said it would be up to the doctor, because he always starts at eight-thirty or nine and that he was doing me a favor by coming in early on Thursday."

"Well then let's delay it," Laurie said.

"I don't want to delay it. That's the point. Yet I wanted to ask in case I changed my mind, but I didn't."

"Why not?" Laurie demanded with obvious irritation at Jack's intransigence.

"Because the sooner it gets done," Jack growled, "the sooner I'll be on the bike and on the b-ball court."

"Jesus Christ!" Laurie exclaimed, throwing up her hands in frustration. "How can you be so foolishly stubborn?"

"I'll tell you how," Jack snapped back. "Before I hung up with Anderson's secretary, I asked her to have Anderson call me back, which he did within the hour. I put the questions to him very directly. First, I asked him if he knew about the MRSA in the Angels hospitals. He said he did, and he admitted there was a significant mystery to it, because he told me all the infection-control mechanisms that the hospital had instituted at great expense. He said infections had decreased but were still occurring at a much-reduced rate. He also told me that he had himself instituted some control measures above and beyond what the hospital was doing."

"What were they?"

"On his own cases he insists the anesthesiologist give supplemental oxygen, maintain the patient's body temperature, and even monitor and maintain glucose levels."

"Has he had any recent postoperative infection?" Laurie asked incisively.

"I'm glad you asked that question," Jack said smugly. "Although I know it's an egotistical sore point with surgeons, I asked him directly if he had. Surprisingly enough, he said he's only had three postoperative infections in all his career, and all three had been open compound fracture repairs, meaning the cases were dirty to begin with. Also, all three were at University Hospital, not Angels Orthopedic."

"So he's not had an MRSA case."

"Well, I don't know what the bacteria was involving his cases at University, but the point is, he's had no infection problem at Angels."

Laurie stared off. She could sense she was losing the argument.

"I even went a step further," Jack said. "I asked him from one doctor to another if he would go ahead and have the surgery as scheduled given the timing in relation to my injury and the fact that Angels is struggling with an MRSA problem." Jack paused for maximum impact.

"And?" Laurie was forced to say. She wanted to know.

"He said in a heartbeat he would do it. And furthermore, he said he wouldn't operate at Angels if he didn't feel that confident. He said the only thing he would personally do was use an antibiotic soap for several days before the procedure. When I admitted to already doing that, he said I'd be fine. He also said that when I go in for my pre-op bloodwork tomorrow, that he would arrange that I be screened for MRSA, and that if I turned out to be a carrier, he would insist I be treated and that the operation would be delayed. The last thing he said was that he'd see me Thursday morning at seven-thirty a.m., and I'd be back on my bike in three months and playing b-ball in six."

Laurie looked over at her pile of cases and hospital records. She felt a mixture of frustration, anger, and despondency. Jack had certainly made some cogent points, especially talking directly to his surgeon, who was highly regarded and rather famous for operating on celebrity athletes. Yet still, Laurie could not help but feel it was a wrong decision to proceed with the surgery under the circumstances. It would be okay if it were an emergency, but as elective surgery, it still seemed crazy to her.

"Come on!" Jack said, standing up and touching her shoulder in the process.

As if she were in molasses, Laurie got to her feet.

Jack handed her matrix back to her. "I still think you should proceed with investigating this series. There has to be an explanation, and I for one would certainly like to hear it."

Laurie nodded, took the matrix, and tossed it casually onto the rest of the debris on her desk.

Jack wrapped his arms about her and hugged her. "Thanks for caring," he said.

Laurie hugged back.

"I love you," Jack said.

"I love you, too." Laurie said.

11

"So, how are we going to work this?" Angelo asked Franco.

He and Franco were in Franco's car, having pulled over to the left side of Fifth Avenue between 56th and 57th streets. There was a row of massive concrete urns sitting on the sidewalk, presumably for protection of the Trump Tower from wayward vehicles. The commercial entrance to the building was behind them, forcing one of them at any given time to be looking back over his shoulder to keep the area under observation.

"That's a good question," Franco answered. "This isn't the easiest assignment I've ever had. Where's that description again?" Angelo handed over the sheet of paper.

"Your turn to watch the entrance," Franco said. Facing forward, he quickly reread the description. "I guess we will have to rely on the hair. I can't even imagine what blond with lime-green highlights will look like. It sounds almost scary."

"I think the size issue will tip us off, at least initially," Angelo said. It was easier for him to look back while sitting in the front passenger seat. "It's hard to see the hair color with the angle of the sun, and there's a lot more people coming out. I guess it's quitting time."

"If we don't see her soon, I'm going to start worrying we've missed her."

"That won't bother me," Angelo said. "I have a nagging feeling about this hit."

"Oh, come on, you pessimist," Franco said. "Enjoy the challenge of it. By the way, where are the date-rape pills and the gas you got from old Doc Trevino?"

"The pills are in my pocket, and the ethylene is on the floor of the backseat along with the plastic bags. That stuff is unbelievable how fast it works. Two seconds, the person is out."

"Well, we sure can't use the gas here in broad daylight. Well, maybe it isn't so broad anymore."

"Of course not, but it might come in handy if she kicks up a fuss once we get her in the car. I don't want to be forced to shoot her in the car."

"Hell, no," Franco said. "Not on my upholstery. Let me see the pills."

Angelo reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a letter-sized envelope, which he handed to Franco. Franco squeezed the ends of the envelope together and looked in at the contents. There were ten small white pills nestled in the bottom crease.

"How many of these things do you have to use?" Franco asked.

"Doc said just one. All you have to do is plop it into a cocktail, and twenty minutes later you can pop it to her."

"How come he gave us so many?"

"Beats me. Maybe he thought we could have fun with the others."

Franco tipped the envelope and poured half of the pills into his hand. Then he dropped them into his jacket pocket and handed the envelope back to Angelo. "If we use one tonight and it works, maybe I'll give it a try."

"Sounds like it would be a great evening," Angelo said teasingly. "Viagra for you and Rohypnol for your honey."