Finally, Strout put his hand on the grenade, stopping it midspin. His eyes skewered Hardy over his glasses. "You're leavin' somethin' out," he said.

"Not on purpose. Really."

"If I'm doin' this-which I'm not promisin' yet, mind you-then I want to know what you're lookin' for, and why."

Hardy spread his hands, hiding nothing. "I think there's some small but real chance that James Lector is the latest in a series of homicides at Portola." This made Strout sit up, and Hardy went on. "So Lector's death may or may not have been natural, and may or may not have been related to Tim Markham's," he concluded. "But certainly if Lector was murdered and died from a different drug than Markham, then there's a lot more going on at Portola than meets the eye at this stage."

"But again, it wouldn't do much for your client."

"Maybe not, John, but I need to find some evidence of other foul play where I can make an argument that my client wasn't involved. And don't tell me-I realize that doesn't prove he didn't kill Markham. At least it's somewhere to start, and I need something."

Strout was considering it all very carefully. "You got the Lector family's permission?" he asked. "When's the funeral scheduled?"

"No and I don't know. If you ordered an autopsy, we wouldn't need the family to…" This wasn't flying and he stopped talking. "What?"

"I believe I mentioned that there's already been a PM. If they got a cause of death they're happy with and I say I want another look at the body, it's goin' to ruffle feathers, both at the hospital and with the family. 'Specially if like the funeral's tomorrow or, say, this mornin' and we got to dig him back up." But something about the idea obviously had caught Strout's interest. If somebody was getting away with multiple homicides in a San Francisco hospital, it was his business to know about it. "What I'm sayin' is o' course we could do it without anybody's permission if I got a good enough reason, which I'm not sure I do. But any way we do it, it'd be cleaner if we asked nice and got an okay from the family."

"I'll talk to them," Hardy said.

"Then I'll make a gentlemen's deal with you, Diz. If it gets so it doesn't make anybody too unhappy, we'll do this. But if the family makes a stink, you're gonna have to go to court and convince a judge to sign an order. I'm not gonna do it on my own."

Hardy figured this was as good as it was going to get. He didn't hesitate for an instant. "Done," he said. "You'll be glad you did this, John. Ten to one you're going to find something."

Strout's expression grew shrewd. "Ten to one, eh? How much you puttin' up?"

Hardy gave it some thought. "I'll go a yard," he said.

"A hundred bucks? You lose and you'll owe me a grand?"

"That's it."

"You're on." Strout stuck out his hand and Hardy hesitated one last second, then took it.

18

It was Friday afternoon, the best time to do it. Joanne announced his appointment in her pleasant, professional voice. She, of course, knew all about it, having typed the termination papers, but she would do nothing to give it away. Also present, kitty-corner from his desk at the small conference table, was Costanza Eu, Cozzie for short, the Human Resources director at Parnassus. This was going to be, had to be, strictly by the book. Malachi Ross, behind his desk when Driscoll came in, didn't get up.

"Brendan." He didn't bother with much of a welcoming smile. "Have a seat."

Driscoll was within a spit either way of forty. Meticulously groomed, he sported a carefully trimmed mustache in an unusually attractive, somehow asymmetrical face. With his powerful physique and his short dark hair dyed a discrete blond at the tips, he could have been sent from central casting to play a young, slightly sinister CEO in any daytime soap opera. From his carriage, no one would surmise he was a mere secretary or-as Markham had always called him-an executive assistant. Today he wore a muted blue tie and a black pin-striped business suit, and he wasn't a step inside Ross's door when he cast a quick eye at Cozzie and knew what was up.

He didn't take the proffered seat. Instead, he approached it and put his hands on the backrest. "I was hoping I'd have the opportunity to clean up Tim's files before we got to this," he said. "Though of course I understand. But I'll do what I can in the next two weeks."

Ross made an elaborate expression of disappointment. "I don't think that will be necessary, Brendan. I've decided, and the board has agreed, that you won't be required to stay on after today." He had the thick envelope on the desk in front of him, and he picked it up. "We've included a check in lieu of your two weeks' notice, and on top of that what I think you'll find to be a very reasonable severance. Due to your long tenure with the company, as well as Mr. Markham's high regard for your services, the board has approved seven months of your full salary and five more months at half, as well as of course your fully vested pension, and letters of recommendation from myself and several other members of the board. You'll also have the option to remain enrolled in the employee health plan."

Driscoll stood rooted, his mixed emotions playing on his face. Eventually, he nodded and swallowed, accepting the fait accompli. "Thank you, Doctor. That's very generous. I assume you'll be wanting my keys and parking pass and so on."

Even as he said it, he had his wallet out, then reached into his pockets. After he'd placed all the required items on Ross's desk, he stood at attention in front of it for another long moment. Finally, he cleared his throat. "I kept his calendar mostly on the computer at my desk, although there's an incomplete hard copy in my top right drawer. I haven't gotten around to calling all of his appointments yet. There's also some unsent correspondence and I believe a few internal memos. If you'd like to send someone back with me, I'd be happy to print out…"

But Ross threw a glance, prompting Cozzie to speak up. "That won't be necessary, Brendan. We'll be going through all that material in the coming weeks. Standard procedure is we'd prefer to have you escorted from the building directly when you leave this meeting." She smiled with all the warmth of a cobra. "We understand that this can be a little disconcerting, but I'm sure you understand that it's nothing personal. Some people…" She let it hang, then shook her head and continued. "The contents of the closet by your desk, including your sweater and other personal goods, are boxed up just outside. Security will help you with them."

Some of the starch had gone out of Driscoll's bearing. He turned back to Ross. "What are you going to do about Mr. Markham's personal files? He left very specific instructions that I should…well, of what I should do if…"

"We'll take care of them," Ross said reassuringly. "Don't you worry. As you know, Mr. Markham left descriptions of his projects and detailed instructions for the board against just such a tragic event as this." Ross rose halfway out of his chair and smiled perfunctorily. "I did want to thank you again for your loyalty and discretion. And now, for your cooperation."

It was a dismissal, and at Ross's invisible sign, Cozzie was on her feet, coming around the table with a line of inane chatter, guiding the clearly shell-shocked Driscoll back toward the door. "You've got a beautiful day to start your new life, I must say that. Look at that blue out the windows. I don't remember the last time I've seen the sky so clear. And to think after the storm the last few days…"

Firing Brendan Driscoll, that officious little mouse, had been the first, albeit tiny, ray of sunshine in his life since Markham's death. No sooner had Cozzie left his office than he rose from his desk, went over to the wet bar, and poured himself a viscous shot of frozen vodka from the bottle of Skyy he kept in his freezer. The no doubt heart-wrenching departure scene with Driscoll in his reception area played itself out in about ten minutes while he savored his drink. Joanne buzzed him to say it was over. Driscoll was out of the building.