Jack turned to his desk. In the center of his blotter was a slide tray with a Post-it attached. On it was a note from Maureen. The slides were the skin samples from Connie Davydov.

After getting his microscope out, Jack slipped one of the slides under the objective and took a look. Now that he had the diagnosis of botulism, the slides were superfluous. He’d taken the slice of skin to make sure the woman’s swollen eye was from trauma and not infection, and that was what he saw.

Putting Connie’s slides aside, he reached for David Jefferson’s folder. He thought he’d polish off the case a day early and surprise Calvin. While he worked, he happily anticipated the thought of spending an evening with Laurie and Lou after an invigorating pre-dinner run on the B-ball court.

NINETEEN

_________

NINETEEN

Wednesday, October 20

5:05 P.M.

“See you tomorrow!” Bob King called out as Curt emerged from the front of the firehouse.

Curt responded to the rookie with a wave that was more a wave of dismissal than acknowledgment. They were going in opposite directions on Duane Street after the shift change. “Come mid-morning tomorrow, I’ll never have to see you again,” Curt mumbled under his breath.

As the afternoon progressed, Curt had grown increasingly excited about Operation Wolverine. At last, all the planning and all the effort was about to pay off; the operation was now on the launch pad in the final countdown for a blastoff in less than twenty-four hours! The only remaining skirmish involved Jack Stapleton, and that snag was to be dealt with in the next hour or so.

Curt glanced at his watch. Since it was after five, he fully expected the mission operatives would all be at the rendezvous in Pete’s bar. Steve had not called during the afternoon: a sure indication that everything had to have gone as planned.

As Curt rounded the corner he saw a plain, dark blue van parked in a loading zone close to the bar. On the driver’s side door panel was stenciled the name of a Brooklyn plumber. Curt smiled. Undoubtedly it was the requisitioned vehicle.

The bar was practically empty. The whining country music that had provided the background earlier had been replaced with the harsh sounds of a group called Armageddon. Curt smiled again. It seemed so fitting.

The music was emanating from a boom box perched on a table in front of Carl Ryerson. In the smoky half-light of the bar, Carl’s crooked grin and the swastika on his forehead gave him a particularly satanic aura.

“You like the sounds, Captain?” Carl asked. He’d caught Curt’s smile.