“Who could it have been?” she asked. “Did you see the person who attacked you? What was he looking for in Dumenco’s apartment?”

Craig shook his head. “We interrupted him, but he managed to destroy Dumenco’s home computer. All of his disks, maybe just as a precaution. But Dumenco wasn’t dumb enough to do any important research on his home computer, with no security.”

“His work wasn’t classified, so he could have worked at home whenever he wanted.”

“Sure, but Dumenco’s real ‘home’ was in his lab anyway. He wouldn’t have stayed in his apartment when he could have been at Fermilab. That apartment was just a place where he went to sleep once in a while.”

Paige laid a hand on his shoulder. “How’s Jackson?”

“Seems to be all right,” Craig said. “Trish hasn’t come in to check on us yet-apparently she’s away from the hospital. But the attending physician says we’ll both recover. That chlorine gas knocked us flat, but we got to the window soon enough, managed to crack the door open a bit. No permanent damage.” He took another slow, gradual breath, musing. “I wonder what Jackson would look like as a blond?”

“Probably not any better than you,!‘ she chuckled.

Craig broke out coughing instead. “I’ll be all right. Just need a little rest.”

“What you need is a good dinner, the best Chicago cuisine has to offer.”

“As long as it’s not more bratwursts and sauerkraut.” Craig looked over at her. “Are you asking me out on a date, Ms. Mitchell?”

“It is the nineties,” she said, feeling warm inside. Yes, she thought, it would be good to start seeing him again. She hadn’t realized until just that moment that she really did miss his smile. Not that she didn’t enjoy formal dinners with Nels Piter, but Craig had a certain naive honesty she had come to miss, and that was something Piter certainly didn’t have.

She grew serious. “I think we should spend some time discussing the case. You know, like old times back in Livermore or out in Las Vegas.”

“It’s a deal,” Craig said, “but I need to change clothes first.”

She wrinkled her nose at the lingering chlorine smell. “Yes, Craig, I think that would be a good idea.”

When Paige stepped out of the examining room, she saw Trish LeCroix waiting by the door. As Paige exited, Trish looked down at a sheaf of papers, as if pretending she hadn’t been eavesdropping or wanting to see Craig herself. “Why, it’s Dr. LeCroix,” Paige said. “Craig was just looking for you.”

“Call me Patrice,” she said stiffly. Her words bore little friendliness.

“How is Craig’s condition?” Paige asked.

Trish flipped her papers over. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been busy. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She turned to walk down the hall, and Paige had to hurry to keep up with her. Craig had described Trish as being somewhat cold and self-centered, and Paige could see how the woman gave that impression.

“Wait,” said Paige. “Have you talked with his doctor?”

“I’m sure he’ll be all right,” Trish said offhandedly. “The fumes only caused a bit of superficial damage. He’ll have chest pains for a while, maybe an occasional bloody nose from the damaged soft tissue, but nothing too serious. Agent Jackson ’s worse off, but he’s tough. They’ll be back on the case without even taking time for a coffee break. FBI agents, you know-they think they’ve got to be more macho than anybody else.”

Paige wondered why Trish was so cold and impatient. Out of curiosity, she had tracked down some of “P. LeCroix’s” impassioned editorials written for the Bulletin of the Physicians for Responsible Radiation Research. Her writings were anything but lukewarm.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Trish said, “we all have very little time. Craig had a trivial exposure to a mundane hazard that anybody could concoct with a few household chemicals. It’s nothing compared to what Georg Dumenco is going through.” She pressed her lips together in a frown. “There’s only so much sympathy in the world, and every patient can’t have all of it.”

Paige blinked and stopped in her tracks, letting Trish continue toward the Intensive Care ward. She found the other woman’s behavior to be very odd-very odd indeed.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Wednesday, 7:48 p.m.

Batavia, IL

Holding a hand to his mouth as he coughed, Craig paced the lobby of Little Naples, waiting for Paige. The small restaurant had dark wood paneling that had been popular several decades ago. It was adorned with scenes from the Italian Alps, photographs of immigrants, and an old coat of arms. A local hole in the wall, Paige had said, with extremely good Italian food.

Craig wore a maroon tie, white shirt, and a dark blue suit while his other clothes were cleaned to remove the chlorine smell, though he doubted they could be salvaged. At least now that he was on “official travel,” the Bureau paid per diem for sundries such as dry cleaning-and for a new suit, since the old one had been damaged in the line of duty.

Paige walked in wearing the same light blouse and blue skirt she had worn at the hospital, but she had added a smart-fitting jacket and a string of pearls. Craig held out both hands to greet her. “You look great.”

“Thanks.” Paige squeezed his hands, then flipped her blond hair behind her shoulders. “How are you feeling?”

Craig gave a wan smile, then coughed again. “Hanging in there. Trish seems to think I’ll recover quickly.”

Paige became serious. “Yes. Patrice takes your accident pretty lightly, from what I could see. You’ve got to take care of yourself-otherwise, you’ll be sharing a room with Goldfarb.”

Craig blinked. Did she just not get along with Trish, or was there a hint of jealousy? He never had a problem reading body language of suspects-he wished he could do the same with Paige… and Trish. He forced a smile. “At least I’m glad we got a chance to be alone. I’d like to go over some details of the case-after all, we’ve got a good track record of working together so far.”

Paige cleared her throat as she stepped up to the hostess. “Mitchell, party of three. Reservations at eight.”

As the young lady ran her finger down a list of names, Craig lifted his eyebrows. “Three?”

Paige stepped quickly after the hostess, as if she didn’t want to talk about it. “Nels is joining us, if that’s all right. I thought it would be good to include him in the discussions.”

Craig’s face grew warm. He followed Paige as they wound around tables to a private area by the window. Three place settings adorned a red tablecloth, rotated 90 degrees on top of a white tablecloth. Large red wine glasses and smaller white wine glasses sparkled in the flicker of a single candle. A long-stemmed red rose perched in a clear vase. The hostess moved to pull out a chair for Paige, but Craig stepped forward and beat her to it.

After taking his seat, Craig scanned Paige’s face. “So far, you’re the only person I’ve discounted from Dumenco’s case. I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk about the case in front of Dr. Piter. He could be the man responsible.”

“Nels a suspect? Oh, Craig, he’s a perfect gentleman and well respected in his field. It would be like Albert Einstein killing someone out of professional jealousy. He may have a big ego-”

“I’ll say,” muttered Craig, unfolding his napkin.

“But he means well,” continued Paige.

Craig stopped his retort as a busboy silently poured water for them. After he left, Craig leaned forward and spoke with carefully measured words. “Someone did try to kill Dumenco. Someone did destroy his home computer and his personal files. That substation exploded, Goldfarb was shot, and Jackson and I were attacked with chlorine gas. All this might have something to do with Dumenco’s work, or the Nobel Prize, or Dumenco’s past.”