As Jazz rode down in the elevator, she wondered when she'd get her next mission for Operation Winnow. She hoped it would be soon, and not just for the money. With the problems on the last two cases making the possibility of discovery a realistic concern, she worried about being spooked. She'd learned about dealing with such negative thoughts in the military. The idea was to jump right back into the water.

On the upper garage level, she headed over toward her waiting car. It gleamed in the garage's raw fluorescent light and looked awesome despite the fact that it was no longer virginal. On the back left quarter panel was a smudge of yellow paint and a slight dent from a recent run-in with a taxicab. Jazz wasn't happy about the defect in the vehicle's otherwise flawless surface, but the damage to the taxi and the irritation of the driver compensated for the minor blemish.

When Jazz was about ten feet away, she activated the door release, and she could hear the mechanical clicks as the doors unlocked. Coming alongside, she glanced at her reflection in the tinted windows and fluffed her fringed hair with her fingers. She opened the driver's-side door, tossed her gym bag into the passenger-side seat, and swung herself up behind the wheel. As she stuck the key in the ignition with anticipation of hearing the roar of the V- 8, a hand gripped her shoulder.

Jazz almost went through the roof. Spinning around fast enough to jab herself in the hip with the steering wheel, she shot a glance into the backseat. In the half-light of the interior, made dim by the darkly tinted windows, all she could see were the outlines of two men. Their faces were hidden in shadow. While Jazz frantically struggled to get her hand into her coat pocket to get the Glock, one of the men spoke: "Howdy, Doc JR!"

"Jesus, Mr. Bob!" Jazz blurted. She gave up on the Glock. Instead, she slapped her hand over her forehead. "You scared me half to death."

"That wasn't the intention," Mr. Bob said unapologetically. "We're just being discreet." He was sitting on the passenger side of the back seat, leaning slightly forward. The other man was sitting back with his arms crossed.

"How the hell did you get in here?" Jazz questioned. She squinted to try to get a look at the other guy while rubbing the top of her iliac crest. It was throbbing from its painful contact with the steering wheel.

"Easy. We kept a key when we delivered the vehicle. I'd like you to meet a colleague of mine: Mr. Dave."

"I can't see either one of you," Jazz complained. "Should I turn on the interior light?"

"It's not necessary, and I prefer you don't."

"What are you doing here?"

"We came for reassurance."

"Reassurance about what?"

"For one thing, we want to be certain the two patients whose names you got yesterday were sanctioned."

"Absolutely. I did them both last night." Jazz felt her pulse quicken. Nervously she worried that Bob had somehow learned about the screwups.

"Then there's the little matter of a nurse getting whacked in the Manhattan General's parking lot, supposedly for a measly fifty bucks. What can you tell us about that sorry incident?"

"Nothing. I haven't heard a thing. When did it happen?" Jazz ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth. It had gone bone-dry. But she purposefully didn't look away or squirm in her seat, thanks to her military interrogation training.

"This morning, between seven and eight. The name was Susan Chapman. Did you know her?"

"Susan Chapman! Of course I knew her. She was the incompetent charge nurse on my floor."

"That's what we thought, and frankly, that's why we are concerned. We wanted to be reassured you weren't involved, considering your reputation, Doc JR. I know that officer bastard in San Diego had it coming, but you did shoot him, even if not lethally. Are you sure this Susan Chapman didn't get in your face and push you over the edge, something like the marine officer? We feel it is kind of a coincidence she got shot, considering your history, and she being your immediate superior."

"Is that what this is about? You think I shot Susan Chapman? Hey, no way! I mean, Susan and I might have had our differences, but that was minor stuff like her always giving me the crap patients or giving me lip because I sat down for two seconds. There's no way I'd shoot her. Come on! What do you think I am, crazy?"

"The point here is that we have to be certain your behavior is beyond reproach. I made that very clear when I recruited you into the program. Remember! There can't be any ripples. Of course, all this is predicated on your wanting to remain an active participant in Operation Winnow."

"Absolutely," Jazz said with conviction.

"You're happy with your compensation, and I trust this SUV we're sitting in has been an enjoyment?"

"There's no question. I'm very happy."

"Good! Now, do I have your word that if there's a problem in any aspect in relation to your position, or your fellow workers, or the work that you do for us, you'll give me a call with the special number I gave you? I trust you still have the number?"

"I thought that telephone number was just for emergencies."

"I'd consider what I'm talking about an emergency. I want you to call if you are ever tempted to do anything out of the ordinary, particularly anything violent that might stimulate an investigation like I'm certain this murder of the charge nurse will do. Remember! I told you from the beginning that for us, security is of the utmost importance, since any breach could put the entire operation in jeopardy. I'm sure you don't want to do that."

"Of course not."

"We consider any type of investigation worrisome, especially if you are drawn into it."

"I agree."

"Then we see eye to eye."

"Most definitely."

Mr. Bob turned to his companion. "Is there anything you'd like to say or ask Doc JR?"

"How many days a week do you come to this sports club?" Mr. Dave asked. He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward slightly.

Jazz shrugged. "I don't know, maybe five or six, sometimes even seven. Why?"

"So, other than your apartment or the hospital, this is the only other place you spend significant amounts of your time?"

"I suppose."

"Any current boyfriends or close girlfriends?"

"Not really," Jazz said. Although she could not see the man's face, from his voice, she felt that Mr. Dave was younger than Mr. Bob. "What the hell are these questions for?"

"We always like to know our agents," Mr. Bob said, "and the more facts we have, the better we know them."

"Seems rather personal to me."

"That's the kind of operation this is," Mr. Bob said with a smile. His teeth looked particularly white in the dim light. "Do you have any questions for us?"

"Yeah! What are your real names?" Jazz laughed nervously. She felt she was at a distinct disadvantage with them knowing about her and she knowing nothing about them.

"Sorry, that's confidential."

"Then I don't have any questions."

"Okay," Mr. Bob said. "We have something for you: another name. I trust that you are working tonight."

"Absolutely! I'm on the next four nights, so I'm available. What's the name?"

"Clark Mulhausen."

Jazz repeated the name. With a new mission, she was now fully recovered from the shock of the men surprising her in the Hummer and from Chapman's murder being mentioned. In fact, she was now elated. She was, in her words, jumping right back into the water.

"So you'll be able to do Clark tonight?"

"Consider it done," Jazz said with a confident, wry smile.

Mr. Bob opened his door and got out. Mr. Dave did the same on his side. "Remember! No ripples!" Mr. Bob reminded her before closing his door.

"No ripples," Jazz repeated over her shoulder, but she wasn't sure the men had heard, because both rear doors closed simultaneously as she spoke. She watched the two men walk down the row of cars toward an H2 Hummer that was a spitting image of hers. Jazz hadn't noticed it when she'd come into the garage. As soon as the men climbed into their vehicle, Jazz started her engine and backed out of her slot.