"Not a hell of a lot more than you told me in the first place," Jack admitted. Maggie's defense of Hollander had jibed with everything he'd discovered about the man over the past week. "Roman Hollander seems like a competent, dedicated doctor. Personally, I don't see him killing kids, even as a favor to them. You'd have a hard time making even a circumstantial case against him because too many other people have access to the ICU, a needle, and potassium chloride."

Maggie's defense of Isabel Rojas had turned out to be equally compelling in light of Jack's investigation. "Hollander's surgical nurse, Isabel Rojas, has been with him almost from the beginning of his career," Jack continued, "and seems as dedicated to the doctor as she is to her job. But she doesn't strike me as the type to run around killing kids, either. Are we even sure yet whether the other five deaths were murders?" Jack asked. "Maybe Laurel Morgan's death was an accident. Maybe some nurse didn't write it down when she gave the kid a dose of potassium, and somebody gave the kid another dose."

Buckelew shook his head. "I wish the Morgan case were an isolated incident, an accident. But we've heard back from the medical examiners in Houston and Dallas we asked to take a look at those five bodies we had exhumed. They'd all been embalmed, just like we figured, but one of the mortuaries left all the IV s and shunts intact, and massive amounts of potassium chloride showed up in the kid's IV tubing.

"Another one of the victims was a preemie with veins too small for an IV. A catheter was inserted in the shinbone to the marrow. By using bone from the uncatheterized shin as a control, the ME was able to document a lethal dose of potassium chloride in the other shin."

"Aw, damn," Jack muttered.

Harley swatted at a fly with a souvenir flyswatter the size of a paper plate, since even the flies were bigger in Texas. "We can't prove the other three kids were murdered, but it's a good bet they were. We're dealing with someone ruthless enough to snuff kids," Harley said soberly. "If Hollander's nurse has been with him for years, she's also a viable suspect."

Jack settled his booted ankle on the opposite knee. "The problem is, short of putting a video camera in the ICU-"

"All right," Harley said.

"All right what?"

"I'll take care of the paperwork to authorize surveillance video cameras in the I CU. You tell the guys where you want them, and I'll arrange to have them monitored twenty-four hours a day by local police."

"I count six deaths in seven years, Captain. We could end up with a helluva lot of videotape waiting for the murderer to show up."

Harley smacked a fly and shoved it off his desk with the flyswatter. "I guess I haven't told you."

"What?"

"Every one of those kids died between March 31 and April 6."

Jack glanced at the wall where the captain's Texas-shaped yearly planning calendar was tacked up with Alamo stickpins. Each day that passed was stamped with a red boot. Today was March 28, Good Friday. According to Harley's information, if the killer held to the previous pattern, he might strike as soon as Monday-and had a mere seven days in which to claim his seventh victim.

"I don't know whether to hope the doctor or his nurse try something or not," Jack said. "What if we get them on video but can't catch them in time to keep them from killing a kid?"

"We do the best we can, Jack. We can't save them all."

A poignant silence fell between them as they both remembered why Jack had requested an administrative leave.

"You did the best you could, Jack."

"My best wasn't good enough." Jack couldn't look at Harley. His nose stung, and tears were too close to the surface. "I keep thinking that if I'd done something differently . . . kept my distance . . . or kept my gun . . . something . . . that little girl would be alive today."

"Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, Jack. You have to trust yourself to make the right decision at the time."

"That's just it," Jack said. "I don't trust myself anymore. Are you sure you want me on this case?"

"You're the best there is in a hostage situation, Jack. I want you there if it comes down to that."

The silence grew uncomfortable again.

"Is that all you have to report?" Harley asked.

Jack nodded because he couldn't talk past the Texas-size frog in his throat.

"Then let me throw another can of beans on the fire," Harley said, leaning back and threading his fingers over his belly.

"What?" Jack croaked.

"We have another suspect."

"For Christ's sake! Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"I'm telling you now," Harley said, "if you'll shut up and listen."

Jack pressed his lips flat.

"The MEDCO investigator did a computer check of all common factors and identified another person with a link to all the purported victims in San Antonio, Houston, and Dallas."

"Who is it?" Jack asked impatiently.

"Margaret Wainwright."

Jack's heart jumped from a steady thump to full speed like a jackrabbit taking off from a standing start. "That's bullshit."

"'Fraid not, son. The situation's delicate enough with Hollander's wife being an associate with Wainwright & Cobb. I can't tell you how sensitive this case becomes if we start investigating one of the Wainwrights for murder."

Jack ground his teeth, thinking what a fool he'd been to tell Maggie Wainwright who he was. It was like announcing to a burglar when you were going to be gone from home so he could come over and help himself. He opened his mouth to confess to the captain what he'd done, but what came out was, "In what way is Maggie Wainwright connected to all of these deaths?"

"She's been counsel for the hospital in each and every case."

Jack heaved a sigh of relief and slumped back into his chair. "Hell, Captain. You had me going there for a minute. Of course she'd show up on the computer as counsel for the hospitals. That's no reason to suspect-"

"She wasn't just counsel, Jack. She was there. She did her clerkship one summer in Houston for a firm that represented a MEDCO hospital, and she was recruited by a law firm in Dallas to work with a MEDCO hospital. After that she moved to San Antonio to work for Wainwright & Cobb and began representing MEDCO hospitals statewide."

"Are you suggesting she's the murderer?"

"She's certainly one of the suspects."

Jack tried to laugh and couldn't manage it. He rose and paced the cowhide that covered the floor. "I've met Maggie Wainwright, and I can tell you she's not a murderer."

"Did you know she had a couple of kids who died?"

Jack stumbled. It felt like all the air had been sucked from his chest. "What?"

"MEDCO dug up the information from her health insurance records. She had two live births, but the investigator found out both boys drowned ten years ago, in 1987. Seems one of the boys was DOA, but the other survived on life support for a while. The family removed the kid from the hospital, and the investigator couldn't find a record of what happened to him after that. At least no insurance claims were ever filed."

"Jesus." Jack slumped into the horn and hide chair. "She never said a word."

"I don't expect it's something Ms. Wainwright cares to talk much about," the captain said. "But her background definitely gives her a motive, Jack."

"What motive is that?"

"The same one we've given the doctor and his nurse. Ms. Wainwright, of all people, would know how much a family can suffer in a situation where a child is on life support without much expectation of a full recovery."

Jack set his jaw and shook his head. "She's not the one. It's Hollander or the nurse. Or somebody else we haven't tied to the victims yet."

"I take it you like the lady," Buckelew said.

"You could say that," Jack conceded. He hadn't realized until this moment just how much he liked Maggie Wainwright. Way too much. He knew better than to think they were headed for any kind of long-term relationship. After all, neither of them wanted to get involved. But he liked the look and taste and feel of her. He wasn't done with her by a long shot.

"Are you going to be able to stay objective about Ms. Wainwright, Jack, or should I assign somebody else to this case?"

Maggie a killer? Jack tried to imagine it and couldn't. He sorted through some of the things she'd said, things he hadn't thought much about at the time-like the fact she believed as much in quality of life as Dr. Hollander. "Does that make me capable of murder?" What if she and the doctor and his nurse had formed their own mercy-killing society?

Jack's stomach churned, and he swallowed down the bile in his throat. "I'll do my job," he said through tight jaws. "If Maggie Wainwright is killing kids, I'll be the first one in line to make sure she hangs for it."

It was easy enough to say he would stay objective, but Jack was having a hell of a time doing it. As he perused himself in the steamy bathroom mirror, straightening his cummerbund and adjusting the bow tie that had come with the tux he'd rented from Anthony's, he looked like a man on his way to an execution.

He'd been waiting all week for Saturday to come so he could spend the evening with Maggie. He had planned to hold her and kiss her and had certainly imagined making love to her. Right now he felt about as comfortable as a horse thief at a necktie party. What if Maggie was guilty? What if she'd used the information he'd given her about being a Texas Ranger to throw him off her scent?

Jack hadn't always been scrupulous about his bed partners, but he wasn't ready to make love to a murderer. So where did that leave him? He was tempted to confront Maggie with what he knew and see what she had to say for herself. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure that would solve the problem. What if she told him she was innocent? That didn't necessarily make her so.

He was still sorting through everything in his head when he arrived at the guard gate for the address off Broadway Maggie had given him, 200 Patterson. He waited while the guard called to make sure he was welcome, then drove past the black wrought-iron gate through what amounted to a manicured park surrounding the exclusive high-rise condominium.

Jack left the keys in his truck when he got out at the etched glass doors under the portico and belatedly realized-when he saw the smirk on the parking attendant's face-how awkward it might be for Margaret Wainwright to arrive at the Cancer Society Gala in a pickup.

Hell, Maggie knew he drove a truck. If she hadn't wanted him to pick her up in it, she should have said something. Except they hadn't spoken all week. Jack was both nervous and anxious, two things he hadn't felt because of a woman for a long time.

On the way up to her tenth floor apartment in the elevator, he stuck a finger between his bow tie and his throat. The damned thing seemed to have tightened by itself. The door-man downstairs had called up to let her know he was coming, so he knew Maggie was expecting him.

Still, when she opened the door to his knock, she looked surprised. "Jack. Come in. You look wonderful."

Does that surprise her? Jack wondered.

Before he had time to be offended, she said, "I'm almost ready. Would you like a drink? There's liquor on the bar in the living room and beer in the small refrigerator behind it. I'll only be another minute."

She closed the door behind him without touching him and headed down the hall to the bedroom before he could say a word. Not that he could have spoken to save his life.

She had looked exquisite in a form-fitting, full-length black sheath which, he realized only when she turned her back on him, had no back. He could see the dimples at the base of her spine. The saliva pooled in his mouth, and he swallowed hard.

"Jesus," he muttered. That outfit was like the come-hither nicker of an eager mare. Jack told his body "Whoa," but it was hearing "Giddyap."

He hurriedly stepped down into the sunken living room and headed for the wet bar in the corner. Maybe a good, strong drink would help.

Maggie's living room reminded him of the outdoors, with pale green carpet underfoot and a rose silk couch covered with a half dozen pillows that matched the same flowery print as a nearby overstuffed chair. A ficus stood in a Chinese pot in the corner and a profusion of wildflowers filled a basket on the mantel above a white-brick painted fireplace. He leaned over to sniff and only then realized the flowers were fake.

She obviously liked cats, but the ones in her living room weren't any more real than the flowers. She had tossed a pink, pillow-shaped cat on the chair, while a clear crystal one sat on the pine coffee table, and a sleek black ceramic feline reclined at the foot of the fireplace. With the one at her office, that made four fake cats she owned. Not that Jack was counting.

As he got himself a Pearl beer from the small refrigerator behind the bar, Jack couldn't help thinking something was out of kilter in Maggie's apartment. He just couldn't put his finger on what it was.

Before he'd taken more than a gulp or two of the ice-cold Pearl, she was back. "That was quick," he said.

"I just needed to put on my earrings and some lipstick."

The diamond earrings dangled enticingly from her ears, and the lipstick was a bright red that had a lot more to do with GO than STOP. Jack figured if he didn't get her out of there pretty damn quick, they weren't going to leave at all.

When he set his beer on the bar, she said, "We have time to sit for a while. Please go ahead and finish your beer."

Sit beside her? In that dress? Was she crazy? "Will you join me?" he asked, staying right where he was.

"I don't drink."

Jack didn't drink much either, a beer once in a while to be social. An alcoholic mother had convinced him of the dangers of indulging. He looked at the bottles on the bar and noticed none of them were open. "Did you buy all of that for me?"

Two pink spots appeared on her cheeks. "I wasn't sure what you drank."

It was apparent Maggie didn't normally entertain guests in her home, which meant he was a special case. "I appreciate the thought," he said.

"Woody used to insist the bar be kept-" She frowned and looked around the room as though expecting to find something-or someone. When she didn't, she crossed and sank into the flowered chair, picked up the cat pillow, and hugged it close.

Jack suddenly realized what was strange about Maggie's apartment. Despite the fact she'd been married and had two kids, there were no pictures of her husband or her sons in the room. She had apparently cut them out of her life. Like the real cat she so obviously wanted, but hadn't let herself have, along with real flowers and a real ficus. In fact, there wasn't a single living thing in the apartment besides the lady herself.

"What's wrong?" Maggie asked.

"I wondered why you don't have pictures of your husband and kids sitting around."

Her eyes rounded in alarm. "Who told you about my sons?"

"The question is, why didn't you tell me, Maggie?"

She looked around the empty apartment before she met his gaze and said, "I try not to spend much time thinking about them. How did you find out?"

"My captain has a file on you." Which Jack had taken with him, hoping it would tell him more about her. The information had been sketchy at best-except it revealed her sons had drowned on April 2, and her husband had died on April 6.

"Why would the Rangers be interested in me?" she asked.

Jack took a deep breath and said, "Because you're a murder suspect now, along with the doctor and his nurse."

Maggie leapt to her feet, abandoning the cat. "But why? I haven't done anything!"

"You had opportunity, Maggie. You've worked for law firms representing all three hospitals where the suspicious deaths occurred. And you had motive."

"What motive?"

"The same as the doctor and his nurse. Sparing the families of those kids the same kind of suffering you endured when your kids drowned and one of your sons ended up on life support."

Her complexion turned chalky, and she swayed. He crossed quickly to catch her, afraid she was going to faint. He eased her onto the flowered chair and knelt in front of her. "Maggie? Are you all right?"

She nodded, then looked earnestly into his eyes. "I'm not the one who's killing kids, Jack. I won't deny I've suffered because of what happened to my sons. But I would never . . . I could never . . . ."

He wanted to believe her. But how could he, when all the murders had occurred during the same calendar days each year that her family had died? It was too much of a coincidence to ignore. Nevertheless, the rational part of him that argued "She's the killer" was being outshouted by the impassioned part of him that said he couldn't want her so much if she was capable of such heinous crimes.