"Najarian," Eric corrected, noticing that the man seemed less at ease than he had on their first encounter. "Mr. Devine, we don't want to take up too much of your time, but there are some things we hoped you could clear up."
"Go right ahead," the little man said.
"We have reason, good reason, to believe that the man I spoke to you about the other night-the man you called Thomas Jordan-is Laura's brother."
"That's impossible.
The man's response was nearly knee-jerk.
"Is it?"
"Of course. That body was identified by the medical examiner, signed for by his next of kin, and cremated."
"Mr. Devine," Laura said, "we went to see Dr. Bushnell last night."
"So?"
"So he was drunk and barely able to make it from his chair to the door, let alone do the fingerprinting and research you claim he did."
"What Dr. Bushnell does on his own time is no concern of mine," Devine said, beginning to pace and avoiding any eye contact with her.
"He did exactly what I said he did."
Laura crossed to him and forced him to meet her gaze.
"Please help us," she said softly. "We don't want to cause trouble for you, but we are determined to find my brother."
"And I hope you do," Devine said. "But it won't be here, because I have nothing more to tell you."
He tried to hold her gaze but failed. Finally, he forced himself past her and across the room to his desk.
"Mr. Devine," Eric said, taking up the slack, perhaps you don't understand. We're convinced something's going on here. Something illegal.
"Nonsense."
"Is it?"
"I think I would like the two of you to leave."
"If we go, we'll be back," Eric said, "either with a court order to examine your records, or with a reporter. We promise you that."
"Do what you wish," the mortician said, pausing to mop at his brow with a linen handkerchief. "I have nothing to hide, and nothing more to say to you except that if you continue to harass me, I shall be forced to speak with the police.
"A wonderful idea," Eric said. "Let's do it now."
Arms folded, Devine turned to him.
"I think it's time you left," he said. "You have learned all there is to learn here."
"Mr. Devine, please," Laura said.
"No. I have work to do. Now, would you please go." Laura and Eric exchanged looks, and silently decided that this was not the time for a major confrontation.
"You know we'll be back, don't you," Laura said.
"My brother is all the family I have, and we're going to find him or learn what happened to him."
"I wish you luck," Donald Devine said.
The two of them had started toward the door when Eric turned back.
"Donald, I'd suggest you go right out and get yourself some more handkerchiefs," he said. "Before we're through, you're going to need a bunch of them."
For nearly a minute after the door closed behind his two visitors, Donald Devine stood statuelike by his desk.
"You can come out now," he said finally.
From the back room a tall man with broad shoulders and thick, graying red hair emerged. He wore chinos and a turtleneck that seemed to be stretched to the limit across his chest.
"Y-you see, Les?" Devine said, shifting uncomfortably. "I told you I could handle them."
"Yeah, Donald," the man said. "You did great. Just great.
Devine, who barely reached the man's chin, backed away.
"You really mean that?" he asked.
"Course I do, Don," the tall man said with a mirthless smile.
"Do you think they'll be back?"
"Now why would I think that, Don?"
"I… I don't know."
"You stayed so cool that I'm sure they don't suspect a thing."
"L-look," Devine said. "I've done exactly what you all told me to do."
"And been damn well paid for it."
"I just don't want any trouble. Those people at the hospital told me this wouldn't happen."
The man reached in his pocket, pulled out one of Laura's posters, and handed it to the mortician.
"Are your two visitors right?" he asked. "Is this the man?"
"I… I think so."
"Don, that's not good enough. This is the bastard who filmed us that night. Now the question is: Is he the man you brought to Charity or not?"
"Maybe."
The redhead grabbed Devine's tie and twisted it tightly around his fist, nearly lifting the little man off the floor.
"No 'maybe's."' "Y-yes. Yes, it's him," Devine croaked.
The man loosened his grip and went to the phone.
"Who are you calling?"
"Who do you think, Don?"
"Dr. Barber?"
"Good guess. If you're right, and this is the guy, then we don't have anything to worry about."
"Listen, I have nearly two hundred dollars in phone bills and another two hundred in gas that no one's paid me for yet."
"Don, just shut up." The man picked up the phone, and then he smiled.
"How ironic," he muttered. "Sandy North almost blows our whole operation, takes out two of Gambone's best men, and then ends up shuffling around in pajamas at Charity. I guess there is a God after all."
He stayed on the phone for just two minutes.
Then he slammed the receiver down.
"The bastard's gone," he said. "Escaped."
"That's not possible, is it?"
"I just said it happened, didn't I? So I guess it's possible."
His face was crimson.
"I don't like this," Devine said, again beginning to mop his brow. "I … I don't like this at all."
The man appraised him, his lips pulled back in an odd, icy grin.
"I know you don't, Donald," he said. "I know you don't.
Dr. Roderick Corcoran held appointments to the pathology staffs of all the medical schools in the city. A medical examiner for nearly thirty years, he was, in the words of one police official, long on experience but short on enthusiasm. In fact, the call that had brought him to the White Memorial autopsy suite had interrupted a session with the architect who was designing his retirement home on Cape Cod.
Now, as he completed his notes on the external examination of the body of Loretta Leone, Corcoran wrestled with the decision of whether or not it was worth adding a set of solar panels to the south roof.
Behind him, the White Memorial autopsy technician, Sang Huang, was preparing to make the huge "Y" incision that.would expose the woman's chest and abdominal contents. Sang Huang was nervous. After a four-month apprenticeship in the department, he was doing his first unsupervised case. He was a superstitious man, and not that comfortable around corpses. But the job had nearly doubled his salary, and for that kind of money he was willing to endure a lot.
He paced from one side of the steel autopsy table to the other, wondering whether he should wait for the pathologist's order, or simply proceed on his own.
This was not the case Huang wanted to start on.
The examiner was a man he didn't know. Everything seemed rushed and disorganized. And the corpse was fresher than any he had ever dealt with. He glanced down at the body. The skin was waxen and uniformly pale. There were none of the external signs of death that he was used to-no fatal wounds, no rigor mortis, no dependent lividity.
Involuntarily, he shuddered. excuse please, Docta," he ventured, "you want I start here now?"
"Whassat?" Corcoran glanced over his shoulder.
"Oh, sure, kid, sure. Get me six vials of blood from her heart, then set everything out on the table. I'll be done with this goddam paperwork in a minute."
Huang hesitated, then shrugged and used a scalpel to make incisions from each of the corpse's shoulders to the upper breastbone, then down past the navel to the top of the pelvic bone. At the touch of the blade, the skin beneath it seemed to tighten before falling away. Again, Huang shuddered. There was more bleeding from the incision than he had ever seen before. Much, more.