He arrived early at the Seventh Avenue address Gia had given him. A little placard on the door was the only indication that this nondescript storefront had anything to do with AIDS.

He probably could have started hunting the stolen Christmas gifts without coming down here, but he figured a quick look at the scene wouldn’t hurt. Might even give him a handle on the thieves.

“I have a four o’clock with Dr. Clayton, I believe?” he told the slim, attractive black woman at the reception desk. The nameplate read simply, Tiffany.

“Name, sir?”

“Jack.”

“Jack what?”

He wanted to tell her, Just Jack, but that inevitably led to more questions, and further refusal tended to brand his identity in a person’s mind. He preferred to slide off the memory without a trace.

He smiled and fished for a name beginning with “N.” He’d used Meyers last time he’d been asked, and since he liked to proceed in alphabetical order…

“Niedermeyer. Jack Niedermeyer.”

“Fine, Mr. Niedermeyer. Dr. Clayton is still in another meeting right now. A reporter. We had a robbery here last night, you know.”

“Really? What did they take?”

“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 assets. 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?”