Her eyes found the spot where she had stopped reading.

"Michael got full scholarship to Stanford for basketball as well as piano." She paused.

"The guy's a pianist?"

Lorry nodded.

"That part is fairly well known."

"Academic All-American at Stanford four years in a row... reputation of being a bit of a ladies' man "

"That's the understatement of the millennium," Larry interjected.

"The man changes women like some men change socks." He smiled.

"Hope you don't get sucked in."

"Changes women like socks? Very tempting but doesn't sound like my type."

"No one is your type," Larry replied.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he said, "that you never date."

"I've got too much work to do."

"Excuses."

"And no one interests me right now, okay."

"Listen, Sara, I'm sixty-seven years old, have seven grandchildren, and have been happily married for forty-four years."

"So?"

"So you're going to have to find someone else. I'm taken." She smiled.

"Damn. You found me out."

"And don't be so quick to judge Silverman," he added.

"Look at his past. Would you want to get close to too many people if you had his childhood?"

She put the file on her desk.

"This story is beginning to sound like a piece of cheap sensationalism," Sara said.

He shrugged.

"Depends on how you handle it. Fact is, Michael Silverman is a sports idol. We Jews love him because so few of us can play sports. I mean, the last time there was a Jewish athlete this famous. well, you'd have to go back to Sandy Koufax."

"What's your point, Larry?"

"It's a great human interest story. A man who overcame incredible adversity to become one of the world's top basketball players. And he'd be a perfect role model for abused kids."

"Suppose he doesn't want to be a role model."

"Tough. He's news, Sara, big news. So the story is a bit sensational so what? You're a reporter and this is a damn good story."

"All right, all right. I get the picture. I'm on my way over there now."

"Sara?"

She looked up, startled.

"I'm sorry, Eric."

"Don't apologize. I know you've got a lot on your mind right now, but remember this all Michael's problems are in the past.

You two are going to have a baby together, and Michael has never been happier in his life."

Sara tried to smile, but it never reached more than the corners of her mouth. She sensed that Michael's past woes were not finished with him yet, that they were still potent enough to reach into the present and hurt him... "Mind if I join you two?" "Hello, Max," Sara said.

"Max, you know Eric Blake, don't you?" "I believe we've met," Bernstein said.

"How are you, doctor?"

"Very well, thank you," Eric replied as the beeper on his belt went off.

"If you two will excuse me, I have to go." "Emergency?" Max asked.

"No. Just time for rounds."

Max scratched his face hard, like he had fleas.

"Can I ask you a quick question before you go?"

Eric stopped.

"Of course."

"When was the last time you saw Dr. Grey alive?"

Eric thought a moment, "The day he left for Cancun."

"Did he look the same to you?"

"The same? I don't understand."

"I mean, was his hair still dark and did he still have a beard?"

"Yes," Eric said without hesitation.

"Why do you ask?"

"No reason. Thanks, Eric."

"Anytime, Lieutenant. I'll see you later, Sara."

"Bye, Eric."

Eric Blake neatly piled the garbage on his tray before leaving.

When he brought his tray to the window, he was the only one who took the time to sort his silverware.

Sara turned to Max.

"I called you three times today."

"Sorry. Its been a busy day."

"Are you getting much flak about the castration story in the news?"

Max's whole body seemed to shrug.

"Nothing I can't handle with a grenade launcher and tear gas."

"I can imagine. Okay, so what have you learned?"

He leaned forward, his right elbow on the table, his left arm thrown behind the back of the chair.

"First of all, Bruce Grey had blond hair and no beard when he allegedly jumped out the window. He also was wearing cosmetic contact lenses to change the color of his eyes. I checked with several of his friends, even the limousine driver who dropped him off at the airport. Bruce definitely had dark hair and the beard when he left New York."

Sara nodded.

"As you would say, "Interesting."

" "To say the least. But there's more." He quickly told her about the rest of his conversation with Hector Rodriquez at the Days Inn. Sara sat stunned, quietly listening.

"Then Grey didn't commit suicide," she said when Max finished.

"He was murdered, Sara. I'm sure of it."

"And someone wanted to make it look like a suicide," she said.

"Seems so," Max replied.

"Hmmm. Bruce's murder has to be connected to the stabbings, agreed?"

"Agreed."

"So why did the killer want to make Bruce's death look like a suicide while doing nothing to hide the fact that the other three were murdered?"

"I don't know," Max said. He stood up, circled the table for 10 apparent reason, and sat back down.

"Max."

"What?"

"You're playing with your hair again."

Bernstein looked up at his right hand. Strands of hair were apped around his middle finger as though it were a curler.

untangled his finger and put his hands on the table.

"Saves 3n a perm," he explained with a smile.

"So what else did you learn?"

He leaned forward.

"This morning I went through the personal possessions found in Grey's hotel room. Everything was there wallet, ID, cash, credit cards, briefcase, change of clothe seven passport."

"So?"

"There was no stamp for Mexico on the passport."

"No mystery there. You don't need to use your passport to go into Mexico. Just proof of citizenship."

"Then why did he bring it with him?"

She shrugged.

"What else did you find in the passport?"

"It's what I didn't find," he said.

"You know those pages where the customs officials stamp the country you're visiting?"

"Yes."

"One of those pages had been neatly clipped out of Grey's passport. You would never notice unless you looked at it closely."

Sara looked up at the ceiling.

"So the killer doesn't want anyone to see what was on that page. Maybe Bruce never went to Mexico. Maybe he went someplace else and the killer doesn't want us to know where."

"My thinking exactly. So I called the Oasis Hotel down in Cancun."

"Did he check in?"

"Yes."

She waited for him to continue but he just sat there, smiling.

"Max, stop playing games with me. What happened?"

"I called your old contact at customs and immigration."

"Don Scharf?"

"Right. I know I should have asked you first, but time was of the essence. Anyway, he remembered me from that case we did a few years back where that rapist fled to Puerto Rico."

"What did you find out?"

"Well, it took a while but we finally traced down where Bruce went."

"And?"

"And Bruce did go down to Cancun first. But he flew out of Mexico the very next day."

"So where did he go?" Max smiled.

"Bangkok."

"There's no question about it, Eric," Winston CXConnor, chief lab technician at the Sidney Pavilion, said with his Alabama twang.

O'Connor had been working for the clinic since its inception and, in fact, had not lived in the South since entering Columbia University eighteen years ago. Still, the years had not subdued Winston's deep Southern accent.

"Take another look at the Western blot. The band pattern is unmistakable."

Eric swallowed and reached out his hand. The wall clock, one of those noisy kinds that schools use, read 5:10 a.m. When was the last time he had left the clinic? Eric did a little quick math.