Having a reasonable idea of what the chief was upset about, Jack tried to come up with an explanation. Unfortunately, none came to mind. After all, he could have waited to get Franconi’s X rays until Bingham’s arrival that morning.

“You can go in now,” Mrs. Sanford said, without looking up from her typing. She’d noticed the light on her extension phone had gone out, meaning the chief was off the phone.

Jack entered the chiefs office with a sense of déjà vu. A year ago, during a series of infectious disease cases, Jack had managed to drive the chief to distraction, and there had been several such confrontations.

“Get in here and sit down,” Bingham said roughly.

Jack took the seat in front of the man’s desk. Bingham had aged in the last few years. He looked considerably older than sixty-three. He glared at Jack through his wire-rimmed glasses. Despite his jowls and sagging flesh, Jack saw that his eyes were as intense and intelligent as ever.

“I was just beginning to think you were really fitting in around here, and now this,” Bingham said.

Jack didn’t respond. He felt it best not to say anything until he was asked a question.

“Can I at least ask why?” Bingham said obligingly in his deep, husky voice.

Jack shrugged. “Curiosity,” Jack said. “I was excited and I couldn’t wait.”

“Curiosity!” Bingham roared. “That was the same lame excuse you used last year when you disregarded my orders and went over to the MGH.”

“At least I’m consistent,” Jack said.

Bingham moaned. “And now here comes the impertinence. You really haven’t changed much, have you?”

“My basketball has improved,” Jack said.

Jack heard the door open. He turned to see Calvin slip into the room. Calvin folded his massive arms across his chest and stood to the side like an elite harem guard.

“I’m not getting anywhere with him,” Bingham complained to Calvin, as if Jack were no longer in the room. “I thought you said his behavior had improved.”

“It had, until this episode,” Calvin said. He then glared down at Jack. “What irks me,” Calvin said, finally addressing Jack, “is that you know damn well that releases from the medical examiner’s office are to come from Dr. Bingham or through public relations, period! You examiner grunts are not to take it upon yourselves to divulge information. The reality is that this job is highly politicized, and in the face of our current problems we certainly don’t need more bad press.”

“Time out,” Jack said. “Something’s not right here. I’m not sure we’re talking the same language.”

“You can say that again,” Bingham asserted.

“What I mean is,” Jack said, “I don’t think we are talking about the same issue. When I came in here, I thought I was being called onto the carpet because I bullied the janitor into giving me keys for this office so I could find Franconi’s films.”

“Hell, no!” Bingham yelled. He pointed his finger at Jack’s nose. “It’s because you leaked the story about Franconi’s body being discovered here at the morgue after it had been stolen. What did you think? This would somehow advance your career?”

“Hold up,” Jack said. “First, I’m not all that excited about advancing my career. Second, I was not responsible for this story getting to the media.”

“You’re not?” Bingham asked.

“Certainly, you’re not suggesting that Laurie Montgomery was responsible?” Calvin asked.

“Not at all,” Jack said. “But it wasn’t me. Look, to tell you the truth, I don’t even think it’s a story.”

“That’s not how the media feels,” Bingham said. “Nor the mayor for that matter. He’s already called me twice this morning, asking what kind of circus we’re running around here. This Franconi business continues to make us look bad in the eyes of the entire city-particularly when news about our own office takes us by surprise.”

“The real story about Franconi isn’t about his body going on an overnight out of the morgue,” Jack said. “It’s about the fact that the man seemingly had a liver transplant that no one knows about, that’s hard to detect by DNA analysis, and that somebody wanted to hide it.”

Bingham looked up at Calvin, who raised his hands defensively. “This is the first I’ve heard about this,” he said.

Jack gave a rapid summary of his autopsy findings and then told about Ted Lynch’s confusing DNA analysis results.

“This sounds weird,” Bingham said. He took off his glasses and wiped his rheumy eyes. “It also sounds bad, considering that I want this whole Franconi business to fade away. If there is something truly screwy going on like Franconi getting an unauthorized liver, then that’s not going to happen.”

“I’ll know more today,” Jack said. “I’ve got Bart Arnold contacting all the transplant centers around the country, John DeVries up in the lab running assays for immunosuppressants, Maureen O’Conner in histology pushing through the slides, and Ted doing a six polymarker DNA test, which he contends is foolproof. By this afternoon, we’ll know for sure whether there’d been a transplant, and, if we’re lucky, where it had taken place.”

Bingham squinted across his desk at Jack. “And you’re sure you didn’t leak today’s newspaper story to the media?”

“Scout’s honor,” Jack said, holding up two fingers to form a V.

“All right, I apologize,” Bingham said. “But listen, Stapleton, keep this all under your hat. And don’t go irritating everyone under the sun, so that I start getting calls complaining about your behavior. You have a knack for getting under people’s skin. And finally, promise me that nothing goes to the media unless it goes through me. Understand?”

“As clear as a crystal,” Jack said.

Jack could rarely find an excuse to get out on his mountain bike during the day, so that it was with a good deal of pleasure that he pedaled with the traffic up First Avenue on his way to visit Dr. Daniel Levitz. There was no sun, but the temperature was pleasantly in the fifties, heralding the coming spring. For Jack, spring was the best season in New York City.

With his bike safely secured to a no parking sign, Jack walked up to the sidewalk entrance of Dr. Daniel Levitz’s office. Jack had called ahead to make sure the doctor was in, but he’d specifically avoided making an appointment. It was Jack’s feeling that a surprise visit might be more fruitful. If Franconi had had a transplant, there was definitely something surreptitious about it.

“Your name please?” the silver-haired matronly receptionist asked.

Jack flashed open his medical examiner badge. Its shiny surface and official appearance confused most people into thinking it was a police badge. In situations like this, Jack didn’t explain the difference. The badge never failed to cause a reaction.

“I must see the doctor,” Jack said, slipping his badge back inside his pocket. “The sooner the better.”

When the receptionist regained her voice, she asked for Jack’s name. When he gave it, he left off the title of doctor so as not to clarify the nature of his employ.

The receptionist immediately scraped back her chair and disappeared into the depths of the office.

Jack’s eyes roamed the waiting room. It was generous in size and lavishly decorated. It was a far cry from the utilitarian waiting room he’d had when he’d been a practicing ophthalmologist. That had been before the retraining necessitated by the managed-care invasion. To Jack, it seemed like a previous life, and in many ways it was.

There were five well-dressed people in the waiting room. All eyed Jack clandestinely as they continued to peruse their respective magazines. As they noisily flipped the pages, Jack sensed an aura of irritation, as if they knew he was about to upset the schedule and relegate them to additional waiting. Jack hoped none of them were notorious crime figures who might consider such an inconvenience a reason for revenge.