up from his paper-cluttered desk, his eyes red and weary.
"what's up?" he asked.
"Harvey, you remember Lieutenant Bernstein."
"Of course. Hello, Lieutenant."
"How's it going, Doc?"
"Fine, thanks," Harvey replied.
"Sara, I just finished talking to Michael. As we suspected, the abdominal ultrasound showed swelling in Michael's liver." "What does that mean?" Sara asked.
"It could mean a dozen things, but Dr. Sagarel, Eric, and I still agree that it is probably hepatitis. We should have the results of the blood test in another day or two. Chances are he'll need a couple of weeks here and at least a month of bed rest."
"And basketball?"
"Not this season, Sara. There's an outside chance he'll be able to play in the play-offs."
"He knows?" "I told him. His reaction was a little strange."
"Meaning?" "It didn't really bother him all that much. He told me the good news about your pregnancy. Hell, it was all he'd talk about." "Pregnancy?" Max.
"You didn't tell me."
"Hardly seemed the time." "Congratulations," Max said.
"Thank you. Harvey, Lieutenant Bernstein needs to talk to you."
Harvey stood and moved in front of his desk.
"Is this about what we discussed last night?"
"Might be," Max interjected, trying to sound professional but coming across like a bad actor in an old private-eye movie. He had never been good at the tough-guy bit.
"Is Bradley Jenkins a patient of yours?"
Harvey's face twisted into a look of confusion and annoyance.
"What the hell does that have to do with anything?"
Bernstein cleared his throat.
"Mind answering the question?"
"As a matter of fact, I do." His line of vision swung over to Sara.
"What's going on here?"
Sara looked over to Max, who nodded for her to go ahead.
"Bradley Jenkins was found murdered this morning," she said.
"What?"
"Multiple stab wounds," Bernstein said.
"We suspect that his death is related to the murders of two patients at your clinic, a Bill Whitherson and a Scott Trian."
"Jesus Christ."
"Now would you mind answering my question? Was Bradley Jenkins a patient at the clinic?"
Harvey moved tentatively back toward his chair like a man who had taken too many blows. He sat down and lowered his head into his hands.
"Sara," he asked after a few moments had passed, "can he be trusted?"
"Yes."
His eyes tried to lock onto Bernstein's, but the lieutenant's were busy dancing about the small office.
"Swear you won't let the media get it."
"Swear."
"Yes, Bradley Jenkins was a patient of mine a very confidential patient."
"How long had Bradley been receiving treatment here?"
"Not long. Four months maybe."
"And the other two Whitherson and Trian?"
"They were both here from almost the beginning."
"How long ago was that?"
"More than two years."
Max nodded. He finally took out his pad and used the pencil to write on it.
"Now why don't you tell me about last night's conversation with Miss. Lowell?"
Harvey looked over to Sara.
"You can trust him," she said.
Hesitantly, Harvey began by telling Max his suspicions that the murders were related to the clinic. Then he explained that they were close, painfully close, to finding a treatment for AIDS.
Max nodded vigorously, jotting pages of notes and listening without comment.
When Harvey stopped speaking, Bernstein said, "You said 'we' might have found a cure. Who is 'we'?"
"Mostly myself and my late partner, Dr. Bruce Grey and a new member of the team, Dr. Eric Blake."
"Blake's a friend of Michael's, isn't he?"
"Yes," Sara replied.
Max's eyes narrowed in thought. The pencil found its way back into his mouth.
"Dr. Bruce Grey... isn't he the guy who swan-dived through a hotel window a couple of weeks back?"
Harvey glanced toward Sara and then nodded.
"Interesting," Max said again.
"So what do you make of his suicide, Dr. Riker?"
"I'm not sure I make anything out of it," Harvey replied.
"Bruce committed suicide, I guess. That's what the police insist anyway. The rest of what I told Sara must have been some wild fabrications my overtired mind and overactive imagination invented.
It's crazy."
Max moved toward the chair in front of the desk and sat down.
"I enjoy crazy."
Cassandra tiptoed down the staircase. She was still a bit hung over from last night's festivities, but her headache was not nearly as bad as usual. She tried to put the pieces of the previous evening back together. She recalled some heavy-duty conversation with Michael. She vaguely remembered screwing Senator Jenkins in the cabana. She had some recollection of drinking too much.
But the part she remembered with startling clarity came toward the end of the party. Cassandra had made her way to the bar for one last shot before she called it a night. While waiting for the bartender to fill her glass, she started a conversation with a man