The fact of the matter was that Decker had enjoyed an hour of solitude. He’d brought with him some papers Rabbi Schulman had photocopied for him—sections of Talmud concerning capital crimes. The Rosh Yeshiva had taken the time to translate not only the Aramaic of the Talmud, but the commentaries as well. Decker had asked for them, then let them sit for over a month. Of course, a distingushed man like Rav Schulman would never say anything, but Decker knew the old man was waiting for Decker to bring up the subject. When opportunity strikes…

Decker folded the papers in his pocket, happy he’d gone through half of the material, and followed the sway of the nurse’s hips.

Dr. Meecham was at his desk, talking on the phone. He motioned Decker down, and motioned the nurse out.

His desk was a mess—piles of papers, three Styrofoam cups, a half-eaten sandwich, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The whole room was a trash heap—a small cell crammed with junk. And this guy did internals all day? Must do his conferences with the women in the examining rooms.

The doctor himself struck a good appearance, the kind of older man who’d be soothing to younger women. He seemed to be around sixty, with a head full of white hair and a matching mustache. His face was long and lean, his skin craggy and tan. No telling how tall he was, but his shoulders and neck were wide. He wore a clean white coat over a white shirt and navy tie. He had a gold pen in his pocket, and a Gucci clip bisected the tie.

He hung up and looked at Decker. “You’d better be the cop.”

Decker nodded.

“I don’t know how many times I’ve told Joy not to bring people in here,” Meecham said. “This room could give you the wrong impression.”

Decker didn’t say anything.

“Actually, I’m meticulous with my hygiene when I’m working,” Meecham said. He took out a cigarette and lit up. “But I get careless now and then about myself. You smoke? You look like the kind of person who doesn’t give a shit about what the Surgeon General says.”

Decker took a cigarette just to make Meecham feel comfortable. They both puffed away for a moment, then Meecham said, “What gives?”

“It’s about Linda and Luke Darcy.”

“Yeah?” Meecham asked. “What about them?”

“They went to see you about fertility problems,” Decker said, improvising. “What can you tell me about it?”

“Confidential.” Meecham shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Then you don’t know.”

“Know what?” Meecham asked.

“They’re dead.”

The cigarette fell out of Meecham’s mouth. He quickly stubbed it out.

“Can I see their file now?” Decker asked.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

Decker answered the question by pulling out his badge, letting Meecham know he was for real. Neither one spoke for a minute.