He left the bottle on the table and strolled away.

"You really do come here a lot."

Will laughed. "Yeah, Joey's the owner's nephew. We go way back."

Alicia sipped the wine and found the first sip a little tart, but the second wasn't so bad.

"So," she said, edging toward a question that had begun to niggle at her. "I imagine working all day and following people half the night plays havoc with your social life."

"Social life? What's that?"

"You know—friends, family, girlfriend… that sort of thing."

"It was no sacrifice, believe me. My friends didn't miss me, my folks retired to South Carolina; and as for the woman in my life"—he rotated his glass, staring into the swirling ruby fluid—"she up and left almost a year ago."

"I'm sorry," Alicia said, mentally kicking herself for prying. She fumbled for something to say. "I—I guess the long hours of being a cop are tough on a relationship."

Will grunted. "I wish that had been it. I could have handled that, maybe even worked something out. No… it was just about this time last year she went home to visit her family in Vermont—a little town called Brownsville—and ran into an old beau. They hooked up, the old sparks started burning again, and next thing I know she's on the phone telling me all about it and saying she's not coming back to New York, she's staying in Vermont and marrying this guy."

"That must have hurt," Alicia said, feeling for him. He'd delivered the story so matter-of-factly, but she sensed the lingering pain.

"That it did. Took about a million calls and even a trip to Vermont before it finally got through to me that she really meant it." He straightened and looked at her, as if shrugging off the memories. "But that was then. I got over it. Life goes on."

And now you think you should find someone else, Alicia thought. Please don't set your sights on me, Will Matthews. You've had enough trouble already.

"How about you?" he said. "How's your love life?"

Alicia echoed his earlier comment. "Love life? What's that?" She forced a smile. "Especially when you're married."

He blinked. "Married? I thought…"

For a moment she was tempted to morph her story about a traveling beau into a traveling husband, but she couldn't lie to him. Not after what he'd done for her.

"But you've already met my spouse," she said, smiling as she watched his baffled expression for a few heartbeats. Then she let him off the hook: "The Center. We're inseparable, you know."

"Oh!" He laughed. "Married to the job," he said, nodding. "I know all about that. Got a bit of that problem myself."

It's not always a problem, she thought. Sometimes it's a solution.

She could see him relax. That was good… and that was bad. He probably thought he had a clear field.

They spent the meal and perhaps an hour afterward talking, Will probing for details of her life, Alicia dodging and countering with a steady stream of questions that forced him to talk about himself.

The upshot of the evening was Alicia gathering a portrait of a decent man who liked beer, bass fishing, and basketball; a dedicated detective who'd managed—at least so far—to avoid the deep cynicism that seemed to infect most big-city cops.

And Will? As they left the restaurant, Alicia doubted he knew much more about her now than he had when he'd walked in.

As Will drove her home, Alicia watched his hands where they gripped the wheel. Strong hands, and strong arms. She wondered what those arms would feel like around her. She rarely minded being alone, in fact, most of the time she was too busy to realize that she was alone.

But there came times, at night, mostly, when she felt an urge to cling to someone, to feel protective arms around her, when she simply wanted to be held.

She was feeling relaxed and safe as Will pulled to a stop in front of her apartment. And she was torn: Ask him in or not?… ask him in or not?

And then a beeper sounded.

Will checked his belt. "Not mine."

Alicia fished hers out of her shoulder bag, and felt the mood shatter as she recognized the number on the display.

Hector's floor. Only one reason they'd be calling her at this hour.

"Will, can you take me over to St. Vincent's? Fast? I mean, really fast."

He replied with squealing tires.

SATURDAY

1.

After only three hours sleep, Alicia was back in the hospital, this time in the Pediatric ICU. Little Hector Lopez had crashed last night—grand mal seizures and respiratory arrest. She and the house staff had pulled him through—just barely.

Will had hung around for hours downstairs in the waiting area. He didn't know Hector, had never laid eyes on him, yet he'd seemed genuinely concerned. Finally Alicia convinced him to go home.

He'd hugged her and wished her luck, and she'd watched him go, thinking this was someone special.

But now she was watching Hector, unconscious, a slim ribbed endotracheai tube snaking from his mouth to a larger tube, his bony chest rising and falling in time to the hissing rhythm of the ventilator at his bedside.

She heard a knock on the glass partition to her left and turned to see Harry Wolff gesturing to her from the other side. She'd called him in on consult regarding the seizure. He'd done a spinal tap. Hector's central nervous pressure had been up, and the fluid had looked hazy. Not good, not good…

Alicia stepped to the door and pulled her mask down to her chin. "Harry. What have you got?"

His expression was grim. "Candida in the CSF."

Alicia sighed. Damn. That explained the seizure. Although not a complete surprise, she'd been hoping the pediatric neurologist would find something easier to treat.

"Any more seizure activity?" he said.

"No. But there will be if I don't get this yeast under control. Trouble is, his immune system's in free fall."

"I'll keep looking in. Good luck."

"Thanks, Harry."

She turned and looked back at Hector. She was losing him. Damn it, this was her home field, this was the only place in her life these days where she called the shots. But she seemed to be losing here as well.

There had to be a way to turn this around. Had to be…

2.

Ramirez showed up a few minutes early, but Jack was ready and waiting at the town house, decked out in his green blazer, white shirt, striped tie, Dockers, loafers, and shit-eating grin.

He'd been here for an hour or so already, familiarizing himself with the place. The house itself didn't need any window dressing; it was in perfect shape. All the closets and dressers were filled with clothes. Whoever had inherited this from the late Dr. Gates hadn't removed a thing.

The only touch he added to the place was a photo he'd picked up in a secondhand shop—two men sitting side by side on a log. He left it in the master bedroom. Then he outfitted the sitting room off the front hall with a card table, and on that arranged manila folders, deposit receipt forms, Xeroxed from the original Hudak Realty form.

Ramirez wore a full-length black leather overcoat. A single, heavy gold chain gleamed through the open collar of his golf shirt. He had broad shoulders and a thick middle. He flashed Jack a bright, wide grin, showing off his caps, but his dark eyes were on the move, taking in every detail of the front hall—the etched glass in the front door, the crystal chandelier, the brass carpet rails on the steps leading up to the second floor.

Jack handed Ramirez a card—an exact copy of Dolores's except that the name had been changed to David Johns—and gave him the tour, regurgitating much of the patter he'd heard from Dolores on Thursday. He watched Ramirez run his hands over the fine wood of the antiques as they went from room to room.