Jack hung up the phone. “That was Bart Arnold,” he said. “I’ve had the entire forensics department searching for a missing recent liver transplant.”

“What’s UNOS?” Ted asked.

“United National Organ Sharing,” Jack said.

“Any luck?” Ted asked.

“Nope,” Jack said. “It’s baffling. Bart’s even checked with all the major centers doing liver transplants.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a transplant,” Ted said. “I’m telling you, the probability of my two tests matching by chance is very small indeed.”

“I’m convinced it was a transplant,” Jack said. “There’s no rhyme or reason to take out a person’s liver and then put it back.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Jack said.

“You seem committed to this case,” Ted commented.

Jack gave a short derisive laugh. “I’ve decided that I’m going to unravel this mystery come hell or high water,” he said. “If I can’t, I’ll lose respect for myself. There just aren’t that many liver transplants. I mean, if I can’t solve this one, I might as well hang it up.”

“All right,” Ted said. “I’ll tell you what I can do. I can run a polymarker which compares areas on chromosome four, six, seven, nine, eleven, and nineteen. A chance match will be in the billions to one. And for my own peace of mind, I’ll even sequence the DQ alpha on both the liver sample and the patient to try to figure out how they could have matched.”

“I’ll be appreciative whatever you can do,” Jack said.

“I’ll even go up and start tonight,” Ted said. “That way I can have the results tomorrow.”

“What a sport!” Jack said. He put out his hand and Ted slapped it.

After Ted left, Jack switched off the light under his microscope. He felt as if the slide had been mocking him with its puzzling details. He’d been looking at it for so long his eyes hurt.

For a few minutes, Jack sat at his desk and gazed at the clutter of unfinished cases. Folders were stacked in uneven piles. Even his own conservative estimate had the figure somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. That was more than usual. Paperwork had never been Jack’s forte, and it got worse when he became enmeshed in a particular case.

Cursing under his breath from frustration at his own ineptitude, Jack pushed back from his desk and grabbed his bomber jacket from the hook on the back of his office door. He’d had as much sitting and thinking as he was capable of. He needed some mindless, hard exercise, and his neighborhood basketball court was beckoning.

The view of the New York City skyline from the George Washington Bridge was breathtaking. Franco Ponti tried to turn his head to appreciate it, but it was difficult because of the rush-hour traffic. Franco was behind the wheel of a stolen Ford sedan on the way to Englewood, New Jersey. Angelo Facciolo was sitting in the front passenger seat, staring out the windshield. Both men were wearing gloves.

“Get a load of the view to the left,” Franco said. “Look at all those lights. You can see the whole freakin’ island, even the Statue of Liberty.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it already,” Angelo said moodily.

“What’s the matter with you?” Franco asked. “You’re acting like you’re on the rag.”

“I don’t like this kind of job,” Angelo said. “It reminds me of when Cerino went berserk and sent me and Tony Ruggerio all over the goddamn city doing the same kind of shit. We should stick to our usual work, dealing with the usual people.”

“Vinnie Dominick is not Pauli Cerino,” Franco said. “And what’s so bad about picking up some easy extra cash?”

“The cash is fine,” Angelo agreed. “It’s the risk I don’t like.”

“What do you mean?” Franco questioned. “There’s no risk. We’re professionals. We don’t take risks.”

“There’s always the unexpected,” Angelo said. “And as far as I’m concerned, the unexpected has already occurred.”

Franco glanced over at Angelo’s scarred face silhouetted in the half light of the car’s interior. He could tell that Angelo was dead serious. “What are you talking about?” he questioned.

“The fact that this Laurie Montgomery is involved,” Angelo said. “She gives me nightmares. Tony and I tried to whack her, but we couldn’t. It was like God was protecting her.”

Franco laughed in spite of Angelo’s seriousness. “This Laurie Montgomery would be flattered that someone with your reputation has nightmares about her. That’s hilarious.”

“I don’t find it funny at all,” Angelo said.

“Don’t get sore at me,” Franco said. “Besides, she’s hardly involved in what we’re doing here.”

“It’s related,” Angelo said. “And she told Vinnie Amendola that she’s going to make it her personal business to find out how we managed to get Franconi’s body out of the morgue.”

“But how is she going to do that?” Franco said. “And worse comes to worse we sent Freddie Capuso and Richie Herns to do the actual dirty work. I think you’re jumping to conclusions here.”

“Oh yeah?” Angelo questioned. “You don’t know this woman. She’s one persistent bitch.”

“All right!” Franco said with resignation. “You want to be bummed out, fine by me.”

As they reached the New Jersey side of the bridge, Franco bore right onto the Palisades Interstate Parkway. With Angelo insisting on sulking, he reached over and turned on the radio. After pushing a few buttons he found a station that played “oldies but goodies.” Turning up the volume up he sang “Sweet Caroline” along with Neil Diamond.

By the second refrain, Angelo leaned forward and turned off the radio. “You win,” he said. “I’ll cheer up if you promise not to sing.”

“You don’t like that song?” Franco questioned as if he were hurt. “It’s got such sweet memories for me.” He smacked his lips as if he were tasting. “It reminds me of making out with Maria Provolone.”

“I’m not going to touch that one,” Angelo said, laughing despite himself. He appreciated working with Franco Ponti. Franco was a professional. He also had a sense of humor, which Angelo knew he himself lacked.

Franco exited the parkway onto Palisades Avenue, passed Route 9W, and headed west down a long hill into Englewood, New Jersey. The environment quickly changed from franchise fast-food restaurants and service stations to upper-class suburban.

“You got the map and the address handy?” Franco asked.

“I got it right here,” Angelo said. He reached up and turned on the map light. “We’re looking for Overlook Place,” he said. “It will be on the left.”

Overlook Place was easy to find, and five minutes later, they were cruising along a winding, tree-lined street. The lawns that stretched up to the widely spaced houses were so expansive they looked like fairways on a golf course.

“Can you imagine living in a place like this?” Franco commented, his head swinging from side to side. “Hell, I’d get lost trying to find the street from my front door.”

“I don’t like this,” Angelo said. “It’s too peaceful. We’re going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Now don’t get yourself all bent out of shape,” Franco said. “At this point, all we’re doing is reconnoitering. What number are we looking for?”

Angelo consulted the piece of paper in his hand. “Number Eight Overlook Place.”

“That means it’s going to be on our left,” Franco said. They were just passing number twelve.

A few moments later Franco slowed and pulled over to the right side of the road. He and Angelo stared up a serpentine driveway lined with carriage lamps to a massive Tudor-style house set against a backdrop of soaring pine trees. Most of the multipaned windows were aglow with light. The property was the size of a football field.

“Looks like a goddamn castle,” Angelo complained.

“I must say, it’s not what I was hoping for,” Franco said.

“Well, what are we going to do?” Angelo asked. “We can’t just sit here. We haven’t seen a car since we pulled off the main drag back there.”