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She winced and chased a waving hand aimed at her from the crowd.

Tegg headed straight to Alan Feldstein. "Feeling better, Alan?

Hmm?"

"They got it all, I'm told. Nothing like the big C to get you thinking, I'll tell you that." He studied Tegg and said confidentially, "You're a doctor. How much of what you tell your patients is B.S.? I don't believe half of what my doctor tells me."

"my patients have four legs. We don't enter into a lot of conversation."

"I suppose not."

"Have you seen Byron this afternoon?"

"I don't believe he's here," Alan Feldstein said, stretching his neck. He added, "if you had a wife that young, would you be here?"

"Well, at least we know your operation was successful," Tegg whispered quietly to the man. Feldstein grinned. Tegg bailed out while he was still ahead.

He was on his way to check how Pamela was handling Pin the Tail on the Zebra when he spotted a leather jacket out of the corner of his eye. Maybeck pretending to be one of the public spectators of K dog show.

Tegg did his best to contain his anger. He brushed off several attempts to snag him, cut outside the tent, and walked over to stand beside the man, facing in the direction of the dog show. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "Connie found an AB-NEGATIVE in the database," Maybeck said softly, screening those horrible teeth from sight with his hand. "Ninety-five pounds. Single. She ain't been an active donor in over two years, but she's in the phone book--lives in Wallingford.Tegg experienced that weightless feeling in his stomach of being in an elevator that was falling too quickly. It was one thing to consider performing a heart harvest, another thing entirely to actually set it in motion. "Can you deliver?" Tegg inquired. They had never attempted a kidnapping. "This ain't pizza we're talking about."

"Don't toy with me, Donald," Tegg said, knowing how the man disliked the use of his proper name. "Are there any other AB-negs?" Tegg asked rhetorically, knowing AB-negative accounted for less than four percent of the population. He was one himself. They were extremely lucky to have found even a single match. "None.'/ "Age?"

"She'd be. Maybeck attempted to add in his head. It bothered Tegg it should take him so long. "About twenty-six."

"That's very good."

"Why you think I'm here? I know it's good."

"Look into it. Find out if it can be done."

"We can do it. I already got it figured. I been watching her place. Back door is fucking perfect for this."

Tegg didn't trust his assessment. Maybeck was more than likely blinded by the possible money. What wouldn't he risk for that? "But I'm gonna need your help."

"My help?" Tegg asked.

"You're the one who's going to get her to open the door for us."

Us? Tegg was thinking. Their relationship was symbiotic: Tegg needed a flunky, a go-between with the runaways and with Connie Chi at Bloodlines; Maybeck liked the idea of large amounts of cash for relatively little work. But us? Tegg seldom thought of them as any kind of team. It was an arrangement, was all often an unpleasant one at that. "I'm telling you, Doc. I got it all worked out. We go for it tomorrow morning."

Tomorrow? Tegg wanted this chance at a heart. But how badly?

How far was he willing to go? He glanced at his watch; he would have to make arrangements with Wong Kei. Could he arrange a meeting for later tonight?

it started to sprinkle. Rain would put a quick end to the dog show.

Maybeck said, "One phone call from you to this girl, Doc, and she's not only going to let us into her home, but she's going to make sure no one else is there. You want me to tell you about it?"

Tomorrow? Tegg was still thinking. "I'll call you," he said, turning and walking away. Then he changed his mind and headed toward his Trooper parked alongside the Pro Shop. He could use the cellular to call Wong Kei.

He could put this in motion immediately.

Dr. Ronald Dixon had something to tell him, and it pertained to Daphne's investigation-Boldt knew that much from the way Dixie had phrased the unexpected invitation to this dinner show.

The entrance to Dimiti's jazz Alley is, appropriately enough, down an alley, opposite a parking garage. Boldt parked his seven-year-old Toyota and crossed the alley, feeling out of place. He was accustomed to The Big joke's sticky floors and chairs with uneven legs. This place was aimed more at the BMW crowd.

Dixie's wife had allegedly been called to an emergency session of the local Girl Scout chapter, freeing the ticket he now handed to Boldt as the two met at the front door. Boldt didn't believe the story for a minute. Nancy Dixon didn't like clubs. That was just Dixie's way of sparing Boldt the fifteen-dollar ticket. Dixie confirmed his status as a regular when the two men were greeted warmly by the host and shown immediately to one of the best tables. Dixon placed a flight bag on the floor but kept it within reach. He could have checked it upstairs along with their coats. Why hadn't he?

Boldt ordered a glass of milk from the waiter who delivered a Scotch for Dixie-they knew his drink. The house began to fill. Good-looking women with good-looking guys. Computer whiz kids and aerospace experts. Older couples who remembered 78s and Big Noise From Winnetka-false teeth, false hair, but real lives. A couple of smokers relegated to the distant seats under the air vents. Bread roll baskets passing by in a blur. Nylons. Even a few spike heels. God, it was good to get out now and then, good to be out with Dixie again. "I bet it's been a year since I've been here," Boldt said. "Kids do that. it'll change."

"I hope not. I like things the way they are." Some part of Boldt, in spite of his rampant curiosity, wanted Dixie to leave that bag on the floor, wanted to keep the conversation personal, and off whatever that bag contained. "I want to tell you a story," Dixie announced. Boldt's skin prickled with anticipation.

"What happens in my line of work as in yours is that cases come and go. Some are solved, some are filed. Some go dormant, though they never quite leave your mind." He sampled the Scotch and clearly approved. "Every now and then something triggers you, something goes off in your brain, and you think: "I've seen this before." or "Didn't I hear somebody talking about something like this?" or "I know this is familiar to me." You know what I'm talking about. It happens to all of us."

Boldt nodded. He felt impatient and restless. "Cases overlap," he went on. Boldt fidgeted with his spoon, barely containing himself. "It happens all the time-more often than seems possible. There are reasons for such overlaps: There are only a limited number of murderers in King County at any one time-at least we hope so-more often than not, a relatively small number given the population base. We average less than ten in any given month. Sometimes zero. Right? From my viewpoint, it means there's a good possibility-even a probability-that any two bodies discovered around the same time, or in the same area, or relating to a similar cause of unnatural death may in fact be the work of the same person. It takes a certain jump in logic, however, to immediately reach that conclusion in this particular case, but that's my job, isn't it? Damn right it is. That's exactly what I'm here for. And my job is to pass along my concerns to the police if and when such suspicions bear investigation. In this instance, you, my friend, are the police, and I'll explain why."

"Nearly six months ago now," he continued, "a man carrying a brown paper bag arrived unannounced at our offices requesting to see "whoever's in charge." That's me, of course. He was of average height, in his early forties, with graying curly hair.

e was of a slight build-a hundred and forty-five Pounds maybe-the kind of guy who stays thin from an excess of nervous energy. You've met a dozen just like him. He was wearing a suit-a nice suit. This was his lunch hour. He was a corporate attorney by trade, name of Carsman.