"How romantic. Have you found the lucky lady?"

"Hardly. I've been too busy getting myself situated and adjusted to living in the civilized world."

"Well, I'm certain you will not have any trouble," Rosalyn said as she began amassing the papers from which she'd culled the lists she'd given to Roger. "I bet you have some fascinating stories to tell about your travels."

"Indeed!" Roger responded happily. He was relieved. He knew he'd piqued her interest. "I'll be happy to share a few of the less harrowing, if you'd allow me to buy you dinner. It's the least I can do after having kept you here for so long. That is, of course, if you are free. Would you allow me the honor?"

Somewhat flustered, Rosalyn shrugged. "I suppose."

"Then it's a deal," Roger said. He stood up and stretched his legs. "There's an Italian restaurant here in Rego Park that's been a fixture since the fifties as a hangout for the local mafioso. The food was great the last time I was there eons ago, and not a bad wine list, either. Are you game to see if it still exists?"

Rosalyn shrugged again. "It sounds intriguing, but I can't be out late."

"Me neither. Heck, I'm going back to the office tonight."

Jasmine Rakoczi!" a voice called.

Jazz stopped her repetitions on one of her favorite exercises. She was lying prone working her hamstrings and buttocks. Turning her head to the side, she could see that someone was standing next to the machine she was using. Surprisingly enough, the feet and legs were female, not male. Jazz took her earphones out, then twisted around to look up into the face of the individual. She couldn't see much, because the face was backlit from the fluorescent ceiling lights.

"I'm sorry to bother you," said the almost featureless face.

Jazz could not believe someone was harassing her in the middle of her routine, and it was more irritation than anything else that got her to extract her legs from the machine and sit up. She found herself confronted by one of the women who manned the front desk. She'd seen her earlier when she'd signed in.

"What's the damn problem?" Jazz demanded. She wiped her forehead with her towel.

"There are a couple of gentlemen out in the lobby," the woman said. "They said they needed to see you right away, but Mr. Horner wouldn't let them come back here."

A slight but distinctly uncomfortable shiver descended Jazz's spine. Mr. Bob and Mr. Dave's unexpected visit the evening before flashed into her mind. Something must be up. It wasn't like Mr. Bob to approach her in such a public place.

"I'll be out," Jazz said. She took a drink from her water bottle as she watched the health-club employee head out of the weight room. Jazz's first thought was that her Glock was back in the pocket of her coat, hanging in the locker. If there was going to be trouble, she wanted the Glock. But why would there be trouble? Mulhausen had gone smoothly, without a ripple. The only thing that came to her mind was the possibility of something happening in regard to the Chapman investigation. Like everyone else on the eleven-to-seven shift, Jazz had been approached by a couple of exhausted-looking detectives for routine questioning. But that had gone down just fine, as evidenced by the conversation they'd all had at nursing report. The buzz was that it had been a mugging, pure and simple. Hospital security had made a big point of promising they'd be beefing up patrols, particularly at the times when shifts changed.

Jazz walked quickly to the door. As preoccupied as she was she didn't even notice the men staring at her. Wasting no time, she went back to the locker room and grabbed a Coke at the entrance. Opening her locker, she pulled on her coat over her workout clothes, thrusting her hand into her right pocket to clutch her Glock.

With one hand in her pocket and the other holding the Coke, Jazz had to use her shoulder to open the door to the lobby. Beyond the sign-in desk, there was a rather spacious sitting room, and beyond that, a restaurant and bar. There was even a small sports-apparel shop.

Jazz quickly scanned the people sprinkled around the space, and not seeing Mr. Bob or Mr. Dave, she went over to the sign-in desk and asked the receptionist for the men who wanted to see her. She pointed to two men hidden behind newspapers. Clearly, they were not Mr. Bob and Mr. Dave. From the look of their lower halves, they could have been homeless bums.

"Are you sure they asked for me?" Jazz questioned. Her next worry was that they were a couple of deep-undercover detectives trying to scare up dirt about Chapman. With a sense of resignation, Jazz walked over to where the two men were sitting. Her hand still clutched the Glock in her pocket.

"Hello!" Jazz called irritably. "I was told you two were looking for me."

The men lowered their papers, and when they did so, Jazz could feel her face flush and her pulse pound in her temples. It was all she could do to keep from pulling out her gun. One of the men was her father, Geza Rakoczi. He had a two-day growth of stubble on his face, as did his companion.

"Jasmine, dear, how are you?" Gesa questioned.

Jazz could smell the alcohol on his breath from where she was standing behind a shallow coffee table littered with magazines. Without answering, Jasmine looked at the other man. She'd never seen him before.

"This is Carlos," Geza said, noticing the direction of Jazz's attention.

Jazz looked back at her father. She'd not seen him for years and had hoped he'd drunk himself into the grave. "How did you find me?"

"Carlos has a friend who's good with a computer. He says you can find anything on the Internet. So I told him to find you, and he did. He said you played a lot of online games and used what he called 'chat rooms.' I don't know anything about all that malarkey, but he sure did find you. He even found out you were a member of this club." Geza's eyes roamed around. "Pretty fancy place. I'm impressed. You're doing all right, girl."

"What are you doing here?" Jazz demanded.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I need a little money, and knowing you're a fancy nurse and all, I thought I'd ask. You see, your mother died, God rest her soul. I got to come up with some money, or they'll be burying her out on some island in a plain wooden box."

For a moment, all Jazz could see in her mind's eye was the thirteen dollars she'd made shoveling snow. Remembering what happened to it only deepened her fury. As hard as she was holding the Glock, she was smart enough to take her finger out of the trigger guard.

"Get the hell out of here!" Jazz spat. She spun on her heels and headed back toward the locker room. She could hear Geza call out her name, and the next thing she knew, he had grabbed her shoulder, pulling her around.

Jazz yanked her hand out of her pocket-luckily without the Glock. Later, she'd wondered how it had happened, since her instinct was to draw the weapon. She jabbed her finger into his face. "Don't you ever touch me again!" she snarled. "And don't come pestering me! You know what I'm saying? If you do, I'll kill you. It's that simple."

Jazz turned again and headed for the locker room. She could hear Geza try to complain, saying that he was her father, but she didn't stop, and he didn't try to follow. She returned to her locker, spun the combination, and put her coat away. Back in the weight room, she decided to start her routine from the top, even though when she'd been disturbed, she was close to finishing.

Jazz had needed the exertion to control her fury and it worked to a large degree. By the time she returned to the locker room for her shower, she had regained control. She could almost see some humor in the pathetic creature that her father had become. She wondered when her mother had died. Jazz was amazed she'd lasted this long, as obese as she was.