"It doesn't have to be a late night," Roger added when Laurie hesitated. "It can be a restaurant of your choosing right around where you live."

"How about on the weekend?" Laurie suggested. "I happen to be free."

"That could be held out as a bonus if you enjoy yourself tonight," Roger said zealously, taking Laurie's suggestion as an auspicious response. "I'm afraid I must insist on tonight, provided, of course, you are free. That gives you an easy out, since you can always say you are busy. But I hope you don't. I have to admit right up front I have not been bowled over by interesting, accomplished women in this town, and I have had my antennae fully extended."

Laurie was flattered with Roger's insistence, especially compared to Jack's indecisiveness, and having been introduced to him by Sue, Laurie felt there was no reason why she shouldn't accept. She had been looking for a diversion, and this was the healthiest. "Okay," she said. "We have a date!"

"Great! Where? Or would you prefer I pick?"

"How about a restaurant in SoHo called Fiamma," Laurie suggested. She wanted to steer clear of any of the places she and Jack had frequented, even if there was a low probability of running into him. "I'll call and make a reservation at seven."

"Sounds good. Should I pick you up at your apartment?"

"Let's meet at the restaurant," Laurie said, as a sudden brief image of Mrs. Engler's bloodshot eye peering out from behind her door popped into her head. She did not want to subject Roger to that. Not at this stage.

Fifteen minutes later, Laurie walked out of the Manhattan General Hospital with a definite spring to her step. She was both surprised and thrilled at what felt like an adolescent infatuation. It was a type of excitement she'd not experienced since being in the ninth grade at the Langley School for Girls. She knew from experience that the feelings were premature and that they probably wouldn't stand the test of time, but she didn't care. She was going to enjoy the euphoria while it lasted. She deserved it.

Standing at the curb, she looked at her watch. With time to spare and with the University Hospital in proximity she decided to head over and pay a quick visit to her mother before returning to the OCME.

eight

5 WEEKS LATER

JASMINE RAKOCZI WAS reasonably certain that there were at least two snipers positioned on the rooftop of the gutted building to her right. Directly ahead was an open space of no more than fifteen feet leading into a building taller than the sniper's position. Her plan was simple: dash across the divide, dive into the building, and then head for the roof. At that point, she could dispatch the snipers and then move deeper into the ravaged city to accomplish her mission.

Rubbing her hands together in anticipation of her bolt across the open space, she made herself as ready as possible. Her heart was racing and her breathing was rapid and shallow. Calling on her military basic training, she calmed herself, took a deep breath, and then made the move.

Unfortunately, things didn't go as she had planned. Halfway across the open space and just when she was fully exposed, she hesitated as something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. The result was predictable. She was shot, and having been shot, she certainly was not going to be promoted.

Voicing a few choice swear words she had learned in the marines, Jazz sat back, took her hands from the keyboard, and vigorously rubbed her face. As a stand-in for a Russian conscript in the battle of Stalingrad, she had been concentrating intently for several hours while playing the computer game Call of Duty. She'd been doing fantastic until this current debacle, which meant she'd have to start over. The goal was to complete progressively more difficult missions and be promoted up through the ranks to reach the level of tank commander. Now it wasn't going to happen. At least not tonight.

Letting her hands drop down into her lap, she looked over to the side of her computer screen to see what had messed her up. It was a small, blinking, pop-up window she'd set to appear when she got an e-mail. Imagining that she was going to be even angrier when she found some stupid porn solicitation or a Viagra advertisement, Jazz clicked on it. To her delight, it was a message from Mr. Bob!

A shiver of excitement coursed down Jazz's spine like a bolt of electricity. She'd not heard from Mr. Bob for over a month and was beginning to think Operation Winnow had been terminated. Over the last week, she'd become depressed enough to be tempted to use the emergency number Mr. Bob had given her, even though he had made it crystal clear that the number was only for emergencies from her end. As that was not technically the case, she'd resisted, but as the days had worn on and her discouragement mounted, she'd begun to warm to the idea. After all, she was getting to the point where she might have to move on from the Manhattan General Hospital, which was the hospital where Mr. Bob had specifically asked her to become employed.

The reason Jazz was thinking of moving was because her relationship with the night-shift charge nurse, Susan Chapman, had deteriorated to the point of ridiculousness, as did her relationship with the rest of the shift's nurses, for that matter. Jazz had come to believe the night shift was the place where nursing incompetents hid from the world. She had no idea how Susan had ever gotten to be in charge of anything, much less the surgical floor at the General. Not only was Susan a fat blob, but she knew crap and was always bossing Jazz around to do this or do that, and finding fault with everything Jazz did, which was easy, since the other nurses kept ragging on her about everything, especially when she'd duck into the back room to put her feet up for a few minutes and read a magazine.

Worst of all, Susan always assigned the worst cases to Jazz, as though she was thumbing her nose at her every night, letting the other nurses have the easy ones. Susan even had the nerve to complain to Jazz about Jazz nosing around in the charts of the cases not assigned to her and to question why Jazz frequently went to the obstetrics floor when she was supposed to be at lunch. Susan said the obstetrics charge nurse had called to complain.

Jazz had bit her tongue at the time and resisted the temptation to ream Susan out the way she deserved or, better yet, to follow her home and use the Glock to get rid of her once and for all. Instead, Jazz dreamed up an explanation involving her need for continuing education… blah, blah, blah. It was all bull, but it seemed to work, at least temporarily. The problem was that Jazz needed to go to obstetrics and neurosurgery most every night, since it was the only way she could keep up with what was happening in those specialties. Even though Jazz had not had any patients to sanction, she had kept up with reporting adverse outcomes, which were mostly in obstetrics, involving druggies giving birth to screwed-up babies. Un- fortunately, such reporting was not that challenging or fun, and the money was piddling compared to the pay for sanctioning patients.

Holding her breath, Jazz opened Mr. Bob's e-mail. "Yes!" she shouted while she punched the air over her head with both hands like a professional cyclist winning a leg on a grand tour event. The e-mail was simply the name, Stephen Lewis, meaning Jazz had another mission! Suddenly, going to work was not going to be the grim experience it had become. Putting up with Susan Chapman and the rest of the schmucks wasn't going to be any easier, but at least there was a reason.

Beside herself with excitement, Jazz quickly accessed her offshore bank account. For a pleasurable moment, she just stared at the balance. It was thirty-eight thousand nine hundred and sixty-four dollars and some odd cents. The best part was that by tomorrow, it would be five thousand higher.