"What was the name?" Laurie asked.

"I'm not sure I'm at liberty to divulge that," Jeff said.

Laurie knew she had the right to ask, as it was undoubtedly a medical examiner case, but she didn't push the issue. The name didn't matter, other than to reassure herself she'd not missed a case. She was more interested in Jack's upcoming surgery.

"Was there anything you can remember about the case that was unusual?"

Jeff shook his head. "It went entirely smoothly. Well, there was one thing. We staff have been regularly tested for MRSA ourselves on a weekly basis. During the week that the death occurred, I did turn positive. Whether it happened from that patient, I don't know. But I can safely say I'm free now. I was screened just yesterday."

"I'm happy to report I'm also free of those buggers," Jack said.

"Were you the anesthesiologist for David Jeffries on Monday?" Laurie asked.

"No, I wasn't. That was Dolores Suarez."

"Thank you for talking with me," Laurie said. She smiled weakly. Jeff's efforts didn't make her any more confident.

"We'll take good care of your husband," Jeff promised. He said good-bye and disappeared back into the examining area.

"So," Jack said. "You have to admit this is a nice operation, so to speak. Just the fact there's no waiting makes it unique."

"It's neat, it's clean, it's pleasant," Laurie admitted. "But there is obviously a problem here, despite its apparent cleanliness."

"Don't tell me you are not reassured."

"MRSA is surely not respecting the luxurious venue."

"You are impossible," Jack said with a sigh. "Every hospital is seeing MRSA."

"But every hospital is not seeing multiple cases of MRSA necrotizing pneumonia that's killing people as if it were a raging hemorrhagic fever like Ebola."

"Come on!" Jack said with some frustration. "Let's get to work."

"THIS IS A fucking mess," Franco complained. "This is what you got me out of bed for?" He gestured ahead through the van's windshield. In front of the medical examiner's office was an unruly crowd of fifty or sixty people staging an unauthorized protest over the medical examiner's initial report regarding Concepcion Lopez, whom Bingham had posted the day before. Most of the protestors were Hispanic. And most were carrying amateurish placards taped or stapled to broom handles attesting to a supposed cover-up and complaining of police brutality to the Hispanic community.

"What I can't figure is what they're doing here so goddamn early," Angelo said.

"I'd guess to get on the morning news," Franco said. "Besides, they get more bang for the buck if they block rush-hour traffic, which they are obviously doing."

Many of the protestors were wandering out into First Avenue. Police in riot gear were waiting to be called out of their bus parked on 30th Street. For the time being, the regular police were trying to keep the crowd out of the streets and confined to an area directly in front of the OCME but with minimal success.

Franco and Angelo were sitting in the Lucia organization's van, which was mostly used for hijacking and other forms of thieving at Kennedy Airport. They were parked at the curb between 29th and 30th streets in a no parking/no standing area in front of one of the original Bellevue Hospital buildings. They had a good view of the entrance to the OCME, except for a Range Rover parked in front of them.

"What's with this SUV?" Angelo complained. "This is a no-parking zone for chrissake. It's amazing how people just ignore the law."

"Calm down!" Franco responded.

Angelo hit the steering wheel several times in frustrated anger. "Of all days, why do they have to have their protest today?"

"You're getting yourself all worked up," Franco warned. "Why don't we just leave. With all these cops around, much less all these bellyaching nuts, there's no way we're going to be able to make a grab."

"I want to at least see her," Angelo groused. "Then I want to go to Home Depot."

With a dumbfounded expression, Franco looked over at Angelo. "Home Depot? What the hell are you going to get at Home Depot?"

Angelo returned the stare, and in the process raised his eyebrows as much as he was able.

"Wait a second!" Franco said, suddenly remembering. "Tell me you're not going to get a bucket and quick-set!"

"Vinnie specifically said I could do it my way, and that is exactly what I plan to do. Ever since I saw it in that movie, I've wanted to do it to someone who deserved it, and no one deserves it more than Laurie Montgomery, as I'm sure Vinnie would agree."

"Oh, for the love of God." Franco groaned, raising his eyes heavenward.

"There she is!" Angelo shouted excitedly, pointing out his side window. He reached for the door handle and had the door open before Franco was able to get ahold of his arm.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Franco shouted as Angelo struggled to free his arm. "The place is crawling with cops. It's suicide to go out there."

Angelo stopped struggling, pulled his foot in, and closed the door. He knew Franco was right. There was no way he could approach Laurie under the circumstances. As tense with anticipation as he'd been all morning, he'd reacted by reflex when he'd caught sight of her getting out of a taxi on the opposite side of the street.

obviously avoiding the crowd of protesters in front of the OCME. Suffering from acute and frustrating impotence, he was forced to watch Laurie a mere fifty or so feet away as she leaned back into the taxi and extracted a pair of crutches. Next to emerge was Jack.

"That's her boyfriend," Angelo growled. "I wouldn't mind icing him at the same time."

"Calm down!" Franco said again. "I feel like I'm sitting with a mad dog."

For almost a minute, Laurie and Jack stood in plain sight, severely testing Angelo's restraint, waiting for the light to change. Then, like a cat forced to watch a tempting mouse walk directly in front of its nose, Angelo had to find the self-control to witness their slow progress across First Avenue. When they turned to cross 30th Street, they were only the length of the Range Rover in front.

"This would have been perfect, if it hadn't been for the protest."

"Maybe so, maybe not," Franco said philosophically. "So now you've seen her, let's get the hell out of here."

Angelo started the van. "I'm thinking," he said. "She's going to recognize me just as easily as I recognized her."

"Maybe easier," Franco agreed.

"That means we should have more people." Angelo put the van in gear, looked behind him down First Avenue, and pulled away from the curb. "When we come back later this afternoon, I think we should have Freddie and Richie with us."

"I think that's a good idea," Franco agreed.

ADAM HAD SCOUTED the area around the OCME the night before and had come up with a plan to make a definitive ID on the target. He'd arrived that morning just before seven and had parked his Range Rover in an appropriate no-parking zone where he was reasonably confident the commercial plates would work their usual magic. He hadn't been happy about the protest, which was just beginning to form, not because of the people and the confusion they would cause but because of the TV vans and crews he assumed would be sent to cover the event. Adam wanted to avoid at all costs being caught on film.

As he'd expected, the outer door to the OCME had been open, although it had been locked the night before. Why he'd been so sure it would be open in the morning was that by peering in the previous night, he had been able to see a reception desk inside and another set of glass doors beyond.

Once inside, Adam had retreated to a vinyl couch with a copy of The New York Times. The receptionist asked Adam if she could be of assistance. He had told her that he was told to wait for one of the medical examiners.