“Tomorrow’s Saturday. I have no idea if the ME’s office is even open. I don’t know how long they keep the bodies there, either. I would imagine the office encourages families to arrange to take their relatives to the funeral homes as quickly as possible. Plus, if we go tomorrow, they’re likely to be short-staffed. They’ll probably say, ‘Come back Monday.’ And I just can’t sit around. I have to know.”

“You’re probably right about Saturdays,” George said. “But—”

“No, George, I’m going today. You go to class. There’s no way I can get in trouble at the OCME.”

“You’re very resourceful,” George said with a wry smile.

Pia ignored the comment. “I’ll leave now. Would you mind hanging on to this coffee cup? I’ll keep the Geiger counter and hope I need it.”

George took the bag. “Not at all. We’ll meet up as soon as you get back.” He watched a focused Pia leap up and lift her cafeteria tray. “And be careful! Try to stay out of trouble!”

Pia merely glowered at him before leaving.

George watched her wend her way among the tables, deposit her tray at the window, and then leave. The idea occurred to him to call the police now that Pia was safely out of sight. But he knew if he did that, whatever the outcome, Pia would never talk to him again. He was certain that she would consider it an act of betrayal.

Tossing back the remains of his coffee, George got to his feet. At least he was going to be on time for the lecture.

PART III

PART III

Chapter 45.

45.

BELMONT SECTION OF THE BRONX
NEW YORK CITY
MARCH 25, 2011, 3:28 P.M.

Aleksander Buda ended the call on his cell phone and held the device in his hand, then used his spatula-like index finger to tap the end-call button. There was now a problem in an operation that had gone so smoothly up to now, and he hated problems. Problems gave him terrible heartburn. He found the container of different-colored antacid tablets he always carried, took a handful, and chewed them quickly, one after another. Buda was fifty-something—fifty-what he didn’t know for sure, because his family had left Albania with a few pots and pans and a little money but no documentation indicating when he was born. Over time, first in Italy and then in the United States, he had acquired the paper trappings of the immigrant, including a date of birth in 1958, but he had no idea if it was true.