"All the donated Christmas toys."

"Get out!"

"It's true. The police are on it right now. I think they should-oh, there's Dr. Clayton now. Looks like she's finishing up."

Jack saw a slim brunette in a white coat walking his way with a guy who looked more like a deliveryman than a reporter. She escorted him to the door, then scanned the street outside as if looking for something. Whatever it was, when she turned back Jack's way, she didn't look as if she'd found it. Or maybe she had. Either way, she didn't seem happy.

"Dr. Clayton, this is your four o'clock: Mr. Niedermeyer."

Dr. Alicia Clayton was better-looking close up, but still kind of... plain. She had fine, angular features-a thin, sharp nose, sharply etched lips-neither too fine nor too full-and blue-gray eyes. Her hair was fine too, bobbed to chin length, and a deep, deep black-not black-dye black like the Goth kids did their hair, but a genuine, rich, glossy black.

And no makeup. Someone who took such good care of their hair, you'd think they'd want to enhance their other a.s.sets. But not, apparently, Dr. Clayton.

Well, if nothing else, the lack of makeup gave her a clean, scrubbed look, which Jack supposed was a good thing for a doctor.

But her eyes... something hiding there. Fear? Anger? A little of both, maybe?

She thrust out her hand. "Welcome, Mr. Niedermeyer."

She had a good grip.

"Just call me Jack."

"You'll want to see the scene of the crime, I imagine."

"I was going to suggest that."

No wasting time. All business. Jack liked that.

The Center wasn't at all what he'd expected. The halls were bright, painted cheery shades of yellow and orange.

"You're a pediatrician?" he said as they walked along.

She nodded. "Subspecialty in infectious diseases."

"My sister's a pediatrician."

"Really? Where's she practice?"

Jack mentally kicked himself. Why the h.e.l.l had he said that? He never thought about his sister the doctor. Or his brother the judge. Must be those calls from Dad.

"I'm really not sure," he said. "We don't keep in touch."

Dr. Clayton gave him a strange look.

Yeah, he thought. Sounds pretty lame, I know, but my sister's far better off not being linked to me.

As they pa.s.sed open doorways he peeked through and saw rooms filled with toddlers laughing and playing and running around. They didn't look sick.

"That's the day-care area," Dr. Clayton said. "Where HIV-positive kids can play with other HIV-positive kids, and no one has to worry about pa.s.sing on the infection."

A little boy ran out of one of the rooms and skidded to a stop before them.

"Dr. Alith!" he cried. "Look at my hair! I got a buth cut!"

"Very nice, Hector. But you know you're supposed to stay in the playroom."

Hector was all of four years old and maybe thirty pounds. His ultra short light brown hair was about the same shade as his skin. He looked pale under his pigment, but his grin was a winner.

"Feel my head!" he said. "It'th a buth cut."

A heavyset woman in a flowered smock appeared at the door of the playroom, filling it. "C'mon back, Hector," she said. "It's your turn at the light box."

"No. I want Dr. Alith to feel my buth cut!"

The woman said, "He just got that haircut and he's been driving us all nuts about it."

Dr. Clayton smiled and brushed her hand over Hector's stubbled head. "Okay, Hector, I'll check out your buzz cut, but then-"

Her smile faded and she pressed her hand to his forehead. "I think you feel a little warm."

"He's been running around like a little madman-'Feel my buzz cut! Feel my buzz cut!' I'm sure he's just overheated."

"Could be, Gladys, but bring him by. my office before he goes home, okay?"

Hector jumped in front of Jack and angled the top of his head toward him. "Feel my buth cut, mithter!"

Jack hesitated. Hector was a cute little guy, but he was a cute little guy with HIV.

"C'mon, mithter!"

Jack gave the bristly top of Hector's head a quick rub. He didn't like himself for how quickly he pulled his hand away.

"Ithn't it mad?" Hector said.

"The maddest," Jack told him.

Gladys scooted Hector back to his playroom and they moved on to the next area, which wasn't so pleasant. Jack peeked through a window in a door and saw a room full of kids hooked up to IV's.

"This is the clinic area. Kids come in here for outpatient therapy-we infuse them, monitor their progress, then send them home."

And then they came to a huge plate-gla.s.s window that stretched from waist level to the ceiling.

"We board the homeless or abandoned infants in there," Alicia said. "We have volunteers to hold them and comfort them. The crack babies need a lot lot of comforting." of comforting."

Jack spotted Gia cradling a baby in her arms on the far side of the gla.s.s, but he didn't pause. He didn't want her to see him.

"You do a lot here," he said as they moved on.

"Yeah, we've had to become a clinic, a nursery, a day-care center, and a foster home."

"And all because of a single virus."

"But we have to deal with more than the virus," Alicia said. "So many of these kids aren't born merely HTV positive-as if 'merely' can somehow be used with HIV-but addicted to crack or heroin as well. They hit the world screaming like any other baby at the insult of being ejected from that warm cozy womb, but then they keep on screaming as the agonies of cold-turkey withdrawal set in."

"A double whammy," Jack said. Poor kids.

"Yes. Some parents leave their kinds an inheritance, some leave hidden scars; these kids were left a virtual death sentence."

Jack sensed something very personal in that last sentence but couldn't latch onto what it might have been.

"Perhaps 'death sentence' is overstating it. We can do a lot for these kids now. The survival rate is way up, but still... once they get through withdrawal, they still have the aftereffects of addiction. Crack and heroin burn out parts of the nervous system. I won't bore you with a lecture about dopamine receptors, but the result is fried circuits in the pleasure centers. Which leaves our little crack babies edgy and irritable, unable to take solace in the simple things that comfort normal infants. So they cry. Endlessly. Until the strung-out junkie mothers who made them this way beat them to shut them up."

Jack realized she probably gave this spiel to all the visitors, but he wished she'd stop. He was getting the urge to go hurt somebody.

"The lucky ones"-she cleared her throat harshly-"try to imagine a lucky HIV-positive crack baby-wind up here."

She stopped before a windowless door.

"Here's the storeroom where the toys were kept."

She showed him the room, empty but for some Scotch tape and wrapping paper.

"The toys will be wrapped in this paper?" he said, memorizing the pattern.

"Most, but not all."

He pulled open the door to the alley, and checked the alley itself. Easy to see how it had been done. The outer door frame and the surface around the latch were deeply gouged and warped. Looked like the work of a long pry bar in the hands of someone with the finesse of an orangutan.

He saw Dr. Clayton shiver in the cold wash from the open door. She rubbed the sleeves of her white coat. She was very thin-no insulation.

"How are you going to handle this?" she said as Jack closed the door.

Jack said, "Not here. Can we talk in your office?"

"Follow me."

On the way to her office, Dr. Clayton stopped at the front door and peered out at the street. He saw her stiffen, as if she'd seen something that frightened her.

Sam Baker had been sitting here in the car, taking his turn on surveillance for a good hour now, testing his memory, and checking out his hair in the rearview mirror.

And he hated looking in that mirror. People would think he was some sort of f.a.g or something, primping and prissing. But d.a.m.n, his once thick-and-wavy sandy hair was getting thinner and grayer every G.o.ddam day. He was only forty-six and he could see his scalp. If this kept up, he'd be bald before he hit fifty.

Baker glanced up and saw someone staring his way through the front door of the AIDS center. He looked closer and resisted the impulse to duck down when he saw that it was the Clayton broad. Not to worry. She could see the car, but not who was in it.

At least this confirmed that she was still there.

Not that he gave a rat's a.s.s where this crazy broad went. But the towel head who was paying him did, and that was what counted. He- The cell phone rang. Baker grabbed it and hit the send b.u.t.ton.

"Yeah?"

"It is I."

s.h.i.t. Baker had thought it was one of his men. But it was Ahab the Ay-rab himself: Kemel Muhallal.

"Yes sir."

"I wish to inquire about the status of the object of our mutual interest."

"Say what?"

"The woman. Where is she?"

"Still where she works." Baker didn't want to be more specific than that. Not on a cell phone.

"She has not sought out another lawyer?"

"Nope."

"If she does, I do not want a repeat of what happened to her last attorney."

"All right," Baker said. "We've been over that already. And I told you. Everything will work out fine. Trust me."

He'd been in deep s.h.i.t since this morning. Christ, he'd thought he'd get high-fived for taking out her lawyer, but no. Kemel the towel head got p.i.s.sed instead. Really Really p.i.s.sed. Said it would draw attention to the case and wanted to know why Baker had done it without authorization. p.i.s.sed. Said it would draw attention to the case and wanted to know why Baker had done it without authorization.

Hey, why not? he thought. When you hire an ex-Special Forces demolition expert, you get a take-charge kinda guy. You already had me plant one bomb-a big big one-so when you tell me this Weinstein jerk's making too many waves, I figure you're saying you've got a problem you want solved. So I solve it. Permanently, just like the other one. That's the way we handled it when I was with SOG in 'Nam. That's the way I've handled all my a.s.signments since I started going out for hire. No complaints so far. one-so when you tell me this Weinstein jerk's making too many waves, I figure you're saying you've got a problem you want solved. So I solve it. Permanently, just like the other one. That's the way we handled it when I was with SOG in 'Nam. That's the way I've handled all my a.s.signments since I started going out for hire. No complaints so far.

And not to worry. The c.o.ke I planted in the car will have everybody looking in the wrong direction.

But still Kemel was p.i.s.sed. And that wasn't good. Kemel had deep pockets, and Sam Baker wanted to stay on his good side. In fact, he wanted to attach himself to Kemel and ride him back to Saudi Arabia. Because d.a.m.n, those Saudis needed all the Sam Bakers they could buy.

Sam figured he'd be square with Kemel if the Clayton b.i.t.c.h didn't go out and hire another lawyer and gave up on this house that everyone was so d.a.m.n interested in. Then he could step up to him and say, See? Blowing up her lawyer in front of her scared her off. Y'gotta believe, man. I know know what I'm doing. what I'm doing.

"I trust you only when you are doing what you are authorized to do. Watch her and do nothing else."

"Aye-aye, Cap'n. Ten-four, Roger Wilco, over and out." He hit the end b.u.t.ton. "a.s.shole."

Baker ground his teeth. He was p.i.s.sed, and suddenly realized this was a good time to check his short-term memory. See if talking to that towel head had screwed it up. He closed his eyes and recited the phone number from the sign of the deli across the street. When he checked he saw that he'd got it right.

Good. Sharp as ever. A long time before he wound up like his mother.

He glanced at the AIDS center doorway and caught the Clayton broad slipping back inside.

If Muhallal would let him in on what was going on, he could do a better job. He knew there were two sides here: Alicia Clayton on one side, and her brother Thomas Clayton-one seriously seriously creepy dude-on the other. And their father's will between them. How Kemel Muhallal got involved, Baker had no idea. But it had to do with the house. The brother wanted the house, and Kemel was ready to spend big bucks to see to it that he got it. creepy dude-on the other. And their father's will between them. How Kemel Muhallal got involved, Baker had no idea. But it had to do with the house. The brother wanted the house, and Kemel was ready to spend big bucks to see to it that he got it.

They'd hired him to help out. They wanted the house guarded. No one allowed in unless authorized by Muhallal or the brother. They also wanted to keep close tabs on the sister, but under absolutely no circ.u.mstance-and this had been repeated and repeated until he was sick of hearing it-was he to harm her, or even allow her to be harmed by someone else.