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"Bed thirteen."
"Thirteen?" The clerk looked at the Cardex file and frowned. "There's no one in bed thirteen."
"That's his bed number, I'm sure of it." M. J. glanced at the oscilloscope, where every patient's heart rhythm wriggled across the screen. Number thirteen was blank.
A nurse walked past the desk, carrying an armful of charts. "Excuse me, Lori?" called the ward clerk. "There was a Mr. Biagi in bed thirteen. Do you know if he's been moved?"
Lori stopped, turned to look at the trio of visitors. "Are you friends or relatives?"
"Neither," said M. J. "I'm from the ME's office."
"Oh." The look of caution eased from the nurse's face. "Then I guess it's okay to tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"Mr. Biagi died. Two hours ago."
6
Jane Doe. Xenia Vargas. Nicos Biagi. They were all dead.
How many more would die?
M. J. sat in the back seat of Isabel's Mercedes and stared out at the midnight scenery of South Lexington. She'd forgotten about her bruises, her empty stomach, the throbbing of her freshly sutured neck. She was numb now, shaken by the new addition to the death toll. Three in two days. It was lethal, this drug. It sucked the life out of its victims as surely as a dose of strychnine. Unless the word got out on the streets, there'd be more Jane Does checking into private drawers in the morgue. She only hoped Wheelock had stressed the urgency in his press conference. Had there been a press conference? She'd missed the evening news…
Exhausted, she sank back into the luxury of soft, buttery leather. She'd never been in such a clean car.
She'd never been in the back seat of a Mercedes, either. This she could learn to like. She could also learn to like the smooth ride, the sense of insulated safety. Maybe there was something to be said for money.
She focused on the view through the window and tried mightily not to notice the billing and cooing coming from the front seat. Isabel had stopped at a red light, and she brushed back Adam's hair with her manicured fingers. "You poor thing! Look at those bruises! I'll have to get you all cleaned up when we get home."
"I'm perfectly fine, Isabel," Adam said with a sigh.
"What happened to your overcoat?"
"They took it. Along with my wallet."
"Oh! And you got hurt trying to fight them off?"
"No, as a matter of fact, I got hurt trying to get away."
"Don't say things like that, Adam. I know perfectly well you're not a coward."
So do I, thought M. J.
Adam merely shrugged. "Keep your illusions, then. I'll try not to shatter them."
The red light changed to green. Isabel drove up the freeway on-ramp. "We missed you at supper, you know," she said. "We all had a lovely meal, even if we were minus our host."
Adam looked out the window. "Hope you left some wine in my cellar."
"Enough for a nightcap."
"I'm really pretty tired. I think I'll probably go straight to sleep."
There was a silence. "Oh," said Isabel. "Well, there's still tomorrow night. You are up for that, aren't you?"
"What's tomorrow night?"
"The mayor's di
"I just did."
Isabel gave a laugh. "You'll be a hit, you know. All those lovely bruises. Like some macho badge of honor."
"More like a badge of stupidity," said Adam.
"What is the matter with you?"
"Get off here," said Adam. "Bellemeade exit."
"Why would I want to go to Bellemeade?"
"It's where I live," said M. J. from the back seat. Had Isabel forgotten she was there?
"Oh, of course." Isabel took the exit. "Bellemeade. That's a nice neighborhood."
"It's close to town," said M. J., a neutral response that could be taken in many different ways.
After a few blocks and a few turns, they pulled up in front of M. J.'s house. She was proud of that house. It had three bedrooms, a charming front porch, and a lawn that wasn't loaded with chemicals. It wasn't Surry Heights, but she was happy here. So why did she feel the sudden urge to apologize?
Adam got out and opened her door. To her surprise, he also offered his hand. She stepped out onto the sidewalk beside him. The streetlamp spilled light across his golden hair.
"Can you get into the house?" he asked.
"I keep an extra key under the flowerpot."
"You don't have a car."
"I'll catch the bus to work."
"That's crazy. I'll arrange something."
"I'm really okay, Adam. I've gone without wheels before."
"Still, I feel responsible. You got into this mess because of me. So let me take care of it. A taxi to work, at least."
She looked up at him, sensed how very much he wanted her to accept his help. "Okay," she said. "Just for a day or two. Until I come up with a new car."
He smiled. "Thanks. You just gave me a warm fuzzy."
Laughing, she headed up the walkway to her front porch. Then she glanced back.
He was still watching, waiting for her to go inside.
Only when she'd entered the house and turned on the hallway light did he get back in the car. She looked out the front window and saw the Mercedes drive away.
Back to Surry Heights, she thought. Back to his world.
And Isabel's.
She locked the front door and wearily climbed the stairs to bed.
After he'd sent Isabel home, Adam holed up in his study and nursed a much-needed glass of brandy. His head ached, his eyes were bleary, and his ribs hurt like hell when he took a deep breath, but he couldn't quite drag himself off to bed yet.
He kept playing and replaying that terrifying image from tonight: M. J. Novak, down on her knees, her hair yanked back, her throat bared. And the switchblade, pressing against her flesh. He closed his eyes and tried to shut it out, but couldn't. At the instant he'd seen it, he'd lost all fear for himself, had stopped caring what would happen to him. All he knew was that they were going to kill her, and there was nothing he could do to stop it, not a single damn thing.
He clutched the brandy glass and drained it in one neat gulp. She came through it better than I did, he thought.
But then, M. J. Novak was something extraordinary, not like any woman he'd ever met. A true survivor who would land on her feet every time. Considering her roots, she had to be a survivor.
Mariana Josefina Ortiz.
A Spanish name, yet she didn't look it. The hair was right, a lush, raven's-wing black, but not those green eyes. They could see right through you, straight to a man's soul.
He wondered what she saw when she looked at him.
He wasn't sure he really wanted to know.
Finally he set down the brandy glass and hauled himself out of the chair. On the way out of the room, he passed the photo of Maeve. It sat on the end table, a quiet portrait of his smiling stepdaughter. Was Maeve smiling much these days?
He should have known. He should have seen it coming.
He had no excuses, except that he'd felt overwhelmed, by his work, by single fatherhood, by a daughter who was so traumatized by her mother's death that she slipped into an eternally sullen adolescence. He couldn't talk to her; after a while he'd given up trying and had resorted to a father's tactic of last resort: asserting his authority. That hadn't worked, either.
By the time he'd realized Maeve was in trouble, it was too late. She was on a constant high-booze, pills, everything, anything.
Like Georgina.
Maybe it was in their genes, some cruel twist in their DNA that preordained their addictions. Maybe it was simply that they couldn't cope with life or stress.
Or was it him?
He turned away from the photograph and climbed the stairs. Once again, alone to bed. It didn't have to be this way. It had been clear tonight that Isabel was ready and willing-and frustrated by his lack of interest. They'd known each other for years, had been seeing each other on a regular basis for months. Shouldn't he be making some kind of move?