“Buy me something, then. Jeans, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a bra. That’s all I need.”

“A bra? You mean, like brassiere? Ix-nay.”

“Murray, you were wearing a twenty-something blonde at Krumas’s fundraiser. You can’t tell me you blush and get prickly heat in a lingerie department. Size 36-C. And size 12 shirt, 31 long jeans. You record all that for posterity?”

“Okay,” Murray scowled. “I got it. Now, what were you doing at Sister Frances Kerrigan’s home to get her killed?”

I sat up in bed and looked at my arms. “Somehow, I don’t seem to have a shirt on.”

“Before we talk? Do you know what it took to get in here? I had to find the name of a patient and pretend to be visiting her. And then I had to skulk around until I could get at a computer and hack in to find your room number. They won’t let me back in. I’m not leaving until you talk.”

“Yeah, I figured you’d welsh on your end of the deal, but don’t worry your perfectly groomed head. Mr. Contreras will be glad to bring me some clothes. He loves me most when I’m on the DL.” I closed my eyes behind my dark lenses and leaned back against the pillows.

“Oh, damn you, you manipulative bitch, Warshawski!”

“I’m going to call the nurse in ten seconds, Ryerson. I’m not the bottom-feeder who hacked into a hospital computer system.”

“You’re the bottom-feeder who got a nun fried.”

I sat up and pulled off my shades. “You put that out anywhere—in print, on a blog, in a text message—and you will spend the rest of your life defending a libel action, do you hear me?”

There was an uneasy silence between us, before Murray said, “You were there when she was attacked.”

I ignored him. “And to speak in such language about Sister Frances’s death … She worked her whole life for social justice and civil liberties, and you think you can talk about her death like a Chris Matthews gag line! Do you know what it’s like to hold someone whose head is on fire, burning on top her body like the wick on a candle? Get out of here!”

“I’m sorry, V.I., okay? We all spend too much time trying to think of the next clever, cynical thing to say. That was tasteless and thoughtless. I apologize.” He pulled out his cellphone, in contravention of all the posted signs, and called someone to buy me clothes. He even gave his gofer a credit-card number and told her to deliver them to the hospital.

I put my shades back on. The dim light in the room was making my eyes hurt. And, besides, I’d started crying, which I didn’t want Murray to see.