Byrnegot up, walked over to the bubbly gal in white rayon.

    'Hi!'she chirruped. 'How are you today?'

    'Neverbetter, thanks,' Byrne said. Of course, if that was the case, what the hell washe doing at the hospital? 'How about yourself?'

    'Super!'she replied.

    Hername tag read Viv. Probably short for Vivacious.

    'We'rejust going to check your height and weight.' She led him over to the digitalscale, instructed him to take off his shoes. He stepped on the scale.

    'Idon't want to know how much I weigh, okay?' Byrne said. 'Lately I've just been... I don't know. It's hormonal, I think.'

    Vivsmiled, zipped her lips in a dramatic gesture, recorded Byrne's weight withouta word. 'Now, if you could turn around, we'll check your height.'

    Byrnespun around. Viv stepped on a footstool, raised the bar of the stadiometer,then lowered it gently, touching the top of Byrne's head. 'What about height?'she asked. 'Would you like to know how tall you are?'

    'Ithink I can handle my height. Emotionally speaking.'

    'You'restill six foot, three inches.'

    'Good,'Byrne said. 'So I haven't shrunk.'

    'Nope.You must be washing in cold water.'

    Byrnesmiled. He liked Viv, despite her vim.

    'Comethis way,' she said.

    Inthe small, windowless examining room Byrne cruised the two battered magazines,picking up a dozen new 30-minute chicken recipes, along with some tips on howto get puppy stains out of the upholstery.

    A fewminutes later the doctor came in. She was Asian, about thirty, quiteattractive. Pinned to her lab coat was a photo ID. Her name was Michelle Chu.

    Theygot the pleasantries about the weather and the insanity of the people in theindoor parking garage out of the way. Dr. Chu ran through Byrne's history onthe computer's LCD monitor. When she had him sufficiently pegged, she turned inher chair, crossed her legs.

    'So,how long have you had insomnia?'

    'Letme put it this way,' Byrne said. 'It's been so long that I can't remember.'

    'Doyou have trouble falling asleep or staying asleep?'

    'Both.'

    'Howlong, on average, does it take you to fall asleep?'

    Allnight, Byrne thought. But he knew what she meant. 'Maybe an hour.'

    'Doyou wake up during the night?'

    'Yeah.At least a couple of times.'

    Thedoctor made a few more notes, her fingers racing across the keyboard. 'Do yousnore?'

    Byrneknew the answer to this. He just didn't want to tell her how he knew.'Well, these days I don't really have a steady...'

    'Bedpartner?'

    'Yeah,'Byrne said. 'That. Do you think you could write me a prescription for one ofthose?'

    Shelaughed. 'I could, but I don't think your insurance provider would cover it.'

    'You'reprobably right,' Byrne said. 'I can barely get them to pay for the Ambien.'

    Ambien.The magic drug, the magic word. At least around neurologists. He had herattention now.

    'Howlong have you been taking Ambien?'

    'Onand off for as long as I can remember.'

    'Doyou think you've developed a dependence?'

    'Withoutquestion.'

    Dr.Chu handed him a pre-printed sheet. 'These are some of the sleep-hygienesuggestions we have—'

    Byrneheld up a hand. 'May I?'

    'Absolutely.'

    'Noalcohol, caffeine, or high-fat foods late at night. No nicotine. Exerciseregularly, but not within four hours of bedtime. Go to bed and get out of bedat the same times every day. Turn your alarm clock around so you can't see thetime. Keep your bedroom cool, not cold. If you can't fall asleep in ten minutesor so, get out of bed until you feel tired again. Although, if you can't seeyour clock, I don't know how you're supposed to know it's been ten minutes.'

    Dr.Chu stared at him for a few moments. She had stopped typing altogether. 'Youseem to know quite a bit about this.'

    Byrneshrugged. 'You do something long enough.'

    Shethen typed for a full minute. Byrne just watched. When she was done she said,'Okay. Hop up on the table, please.'

    Byrnestood up, walked over to the paper-lined examining table, slid onto it. Hehadn't hopped anywhere in years, if ever. Dr. Chu looked into his eyes, ears,nose, throat. She listened to his heart, lungs. Then she took out a tapemeasure, measured his neck.

    'Hmm,'she said.

    Nevera good sign. 'I prefer a spread collar,' Byrne said. 'French cuffs.'

    'Yourneck's circumference is greater than seventeen inches.'

    'Iwork out.'

    Shesat down, put her stethoscope around her neck. Her face took on a concernedlook. Not the you are in deep shit look, but concerned. 'You have a fewmarkers for sleep apnea.'

    Byrnehad heard of it, but he really didn't know anything about it. The doctorexplained that apnea was a condition wherein a person stops breathing duringthe night.

    'Istop breathing?'

    'Well,we don't know that for sure yet.'

    'I'mkind of in the stop-breathing business, you know.'

    Thedoctor smiled. 'This is a little different. I think I should schedule you for asleep study.' She handed him a brochure. Color pics of smiling, healthy peoplewho looked like they got a lot of sleep.

    'Okay.'

    'You'rewilling to give it a shot?'

    Anythingwas better than what he was going through. Except maybe the business about notbreathing. 'Sure. I'm in.'

    In thewaiting room, three of the five people were asleep.

    Byrnestopped at the American Pub in the Center Square Building on Market Street. Theplace was lively, and lively was just what was needed. He staked a place at theend of the bar, nursed a Bushmills. At just after ten o'clock his phone rang.He checked the ID, fully prepared to blow it off. It was a 215 exchange, with afamiliar prefix. A PPD number. He had to answer.

    'Thisis Kevin.'

    'DetectiveByrne?'

    Itwas a woman's voice. A young woman's voice. He did not recognize it. 'Yes?'

    'It'sLucy.'

    Ittook Byrne a little while to realize who it was. Then he remembered. 'Hi, Lucy.Is something wrong?'

    'Ineed to talk to you.'

    'Whereare you? I'll come get you.'

    Along pause.

    'Lucy?'

    'I'min jail.'

    TheMini-Station was located on South Street between Ninth and Tenth. Originallyactivated in 1985 to provide weekend coverage from spring to autumn, addressingthe issues generated by crowds gravitating to South Street for its clubs,shopping and restaurants, it had since become a seven days a week, twenty-fourhours a day, year-round commitment, expanded to cover the entire corridor,which included more than 400 retail premises and nearly eighty establishments withliquor licenses.

    WhenByrne walked in, he immediately spotted an old comrade, P/O Denny Dorgan. Shortand brick-solid, Dorgan, who was now in his early forties, still worked thebike patrol.

    'Alertthe hounds,' Dorgan said. 'We got royalty in the building.'

    Theyshook hands. 'You getting shorter and uglier?' Byrne asked.

    'Yeah.It's the supplements my wife is making me take. She thinks it will keep me fromstraying. Shows you what she knows.'

    Byrneglanced over at Dorgan's bike, leaning near the front door. 'Good thing you canget heavy-duty shocks on the thing.'

    Dorganlaughed, turned and looked at the waif-like girl sitting on the bench behindhim. He turned back. 'Friend of yours?'

    Byrnelooked over at Lucy Doucette. She looked like a lost little kid.

    'Yeah,'Byrne said. 'Thanks.'

    Byrnewondered what Dorgan wondered, whether he thought that Byrne wasdallying with a nineteen-year-old. Byrne had long ago stopped being concernedwith what people thought. What had happened here was clear. Dorgan had steppedin between a misdemeanor and the law, on Byrne's behalf, and had done it as afavor to a fellow cop. The gesture would go into the books as a small act ofkindness, and would one day be repaid. No more, no less. Everything else wassquad-car scandal.