But who could blame her after this morning?

She headed back to her office. Raymond picked her up in the hall.

“Now can we talk?”

“Sorry I snapped at you.”

“Don’t be silly, honey. Nobody snaps at me. Nobody dares.”

Alicia managed a smile.

Raymond—never “Ray,” always “Raymond”—Denson, NP had been one of the original caregivers at the Center for Children with AIDS. The Center had MDs who were called “director” and “assistant director,” but it was this particular nurse practitioner who ran the place. Alicia doubted the Center would survive if he left. Raymond knew all the ins and outs of the day-to-day functions, all the soft touches for requisitions, knew where all the bodies were buried, so to speak. He clocked in at around fifty, she was sure—God help you if you asked his age—but he kept himself young-looking: close cropped air, neat mustache, trim, athletic body.

“And about my beeper,” she said, “I turned it off. Dr. Collings was covering for me. You knew that.”

He paced her down the narrow hallway to her office. All the walls in the Center had been hurriedly erected and the haste showed. Slap-dash taping and spackling, and a quick coat of bright yellow paint that was already wearing through in places. Well, the decor was the least important thing here.

“I know,” he said, “but this wasn’t medical. This wasn’t even administrative. This was fucking criminal.”

Something in Raymond’s voice… his eyes. He was furious. But not at her. But then, what?

A premonition chilled her. Were her personal troubles going to spill over into the Center now?

As she continued walking she noted knots of staff—nurses, secretaries, volunteers—all with their heads together, all talking animatedly.

All furious.

An icy gale blew through her.

“All right, Raymond. Lay it on me.”

“The toys,” he said. “Some rat bastard motherfucker stole the toys.”

Astonished, disbelieving, Alicia stopped and stared at him. No way. This had to be some cruel, nasty joke. But Raymond was anything but cruel.

And were those tears in the corners of his eyes?

“The donations? Don’t tell me—”

But he was nodding and biting his upper lip.

“Aw, no.”

“Every last one.”

Alicia felt her throat tighten. Strangely enough—and she damned herself for it—this was hitting her harder than Leo Weinstein’s death.

A man she knew, a man with a wife and family was dead, and yet… and yet… this felt so much worse.

She’d met Weinstein only a couple of times. But these toys… she and Raymond—especially Raymond—had been collecting them for months, sending staff and volunteers to forage all through the city for donors—companies, stores, individuals, anybody. The response had been slow at first—who was thinking about Christmas gifts in October? But once Thanksgiving was past, the giving had picked up. Last night they’d had a storeroom full of dolls, trucks, rockets, coloring books, action figures… the works.

This morning…

“How?”

“Pried open the outer door and took them away through the alley’. Must have had some sort of panel truck to hold everything.”