CHAPTER NINE

Norman Navare would die two days later. The call from Delilah came during Balint’s monthly meeting with the chairman—and he excused himself early by telling Dr. Sanditz that he’d suffered a death in the family. Then he raced down to the emergency room, anticipating the worst. He even feared that his mistress might cause a scene, although he sensed that the nursing student wasn’t the disturbance-provoking type. But it turned out that the “medical emergency” Delilah had described proved far less alarming than he’d expected. At least, for him. Navare was indeed critically ill—but his condition had nothing to do with his heart. The housepainter had fallen off a stepladder.

“I found him when I came home from my shift,” explained Delilah. She’d managed to remain surprisingly calm. “He’d been trying to change one of the light bulbs in the foyer, and he must have lost his footing.”

They stood on either side of her father’s stretcher in the “resuscitation” unit of the emergency department, waiting for a bed in the ICU. Assorted tubes and wires protruded from every corner of the housepainter’s body. Balint had skimmed the electronic chart. Navare’s CT scan showed considerable cerebral hemorrhage, but his lab values looked stable. It was one of those cases that might go either way. However, from Balint’s vantage point, the best possible outcome was death. That would spare the debilitated old man months of recovery and possible brain damage. At a personal level, it would also relieve him of any responsibility for securing the man a heart.

Delilah appeared to be thinking along the same lines—or at least along parallel lines. “Will this keep Papa from staying listed for a heart?” she asked.

“Let’s focus on one thing at a time. Once he recovers, we’ll have to see where we stand . . .”

Delilah placed her hand on her father’s forehead. “I warned him not to climb up on that stepladder. I must have warned him a thousand times . . . The college kid next door was always willing to change the bulbs for us, but Papa was too ashamed to ask.”

Balint remembered how it had felt when his own father had died—the torment of being yanked out of his high school chemistry class by the assistant principal, then driven to the hospital by his Aunt Clara. He remembered seeing his father spread out on a gurney with a ghostly sheet tucked up around his neck. Breathless. Like a wax display in a museum. Before that day, he’d believed—without ever thinking about it too deeply—that life was inherently fair. If you worked hard and took care of yourself and looked after your family, then God smiled upon you and let you win the cosmic chess game. And Balint had believed in God back then—a benevolent, handsoff God who periodically tipped the scales of justice in favor of the universal good. After that day, he’d accepted that God only helped those who helped themselves. In college, he’d even worn a T-shirt that read: “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.” And at some point, the Lord dropped out of the equation entirely, and it was all about ammunition. He’d never shared these thoughts with anybody—not with Delilah, certainly not with Amanda, not even with the know-it-all therapist they’d sent him to see when his father died. This was the sort of secret that, if divulged, could unravel a person forever.

“You’re crying,” said Delilah. “Oh, Jeremy.”

His lover stepped around her father’s body and wrapped her arms around him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

How absurd that she’d thought he was crying for her father, when he was actually crying for his own loss. Absurd—but convenient.

“We’ll get through this,” said Delilah. “Together. One way or another.”

At the recommendation of the ER attending, who predicted at least another hour before an ICU bed became available, they stepped upstairs to the cafeteria to grab a quick lunch. When it came to space in the intensive care unit, even the chief of cardiology had little pull. After all, you couldn’t simply dump one of the current ICU occupants out of a bed, so you had to wait for one of them to recover—or expire.

Balint canceled all of his patient appointments for the afternoon. He was aware that his colleagues might witness him strolling through the hospital with Delilah, but what was so wrong about comforting a patient’s daughter? As it turned out, the few familiar faces he encountered in the cafeteria—Myron Salt, Sid Crandall from rheumatology—greeted him at a distance, but chose to stay clear.

Over lunch, Delilah talked about her father’s boyhood in Venezuela and her paternal grandfather’s involvement in the coup d’état of 1945. When they returned to the emergency room, the same ER attending informed them that Navare’s EEG had flatlined and asked if they’d like for him to summon a priest.

“He’s brain dead,” Balint explained to Delilah. “I’m sorry.”

“But his heart’s still beating . . .”

“On the machine. When the machine stops, his heart and lungs will also stop.”

Delilah nodded and sat mute for ten minutes. Then she rose suddenly and had a brief, pointed conversation with the ER physician.

At 2:14 P.M., the nurses turned off all the machines.

THE FUNERAL was scheduled for Thursday afternoon. On his way out of the office, Balint ran into Warren Sugarman opposite the hemodialysis suite. Although he had no way of proving it, gut instinct told him that this encounter hadn’t been a coincidence, that his rival had been lying in wait. Sugarman lacked his usual entourage of obsequious surgical residents sporting immaculate scrubs.

“I can’t talk right now,” said Balint as he hurried toward the elevators. “I’m on my way to a funeral.”

Sugarman followed him. “I’m headed downstairs.”

“It was that patient you wouldn’t give the heart to.”

Balint felt no need to inform him that Navare had fallen on his head.

“I’m sorry. Truly, I am.”

They boarded the bustling elevator. When they reached the lobby, Sugarman resumed the conversation. “I didn’t realize you were going to patients’ funerals these days,” he said. “That’s mighty generous of you.”

Balint couldn’t discern whether he was being mocked. Then it struck him that Sugarman had no memory of refusing to list Delilah’s father for an organ—that the surgeon didn’t even recall their conversation about Navare being a family friend. He obviously hadn’t connected the patient with Balint’s mistress.

“I need to be at the cemetery in twenty minutes,” lied Balint, picking up his pace as he crossed the plaza en route to the parking garage. A light snow was falling, coating the statues of medical luminaries in glistening flakes. “Is there something specific you wanted to talk about?”

“I ran into your wife,” said Sugarman.

Balint kept walking. He shielded his eyes from the snow with his hand.

“Gloria’s father had back surgery, so I was picking up Davey from school.”

They’d arrived at Balint’s car. He didn’t give a damn for Sugarman’s explanations—as long as he didn’t have to hear them. “So you ran into Amanda . . .”

“Your wife tells me that your daughters are into ice-skating. It planted the idea in my head that we could all go skating together—give my boy, Davey, an opportunity to spend some time with your kids.” Sugarman lowered his voice. “He’s hit a rough patch since Gloria and I split up. Frankly it would do him some good.”

The last thing on earth that Balint wanted was to spend a day ice-skating with Warren Sugarman and his idiot son. It suddenly crossed his mind that this might be the final occasion he ever saw the surgeon alive—or the final occasion, minus one. Even if he agreed to the skating date, he could always kill the prick beforehand.

“Why don’t you and Amanda work something out?” suggested Balint.

“Sure. If that’s okay with you.”

“Why wouldn’t it be okay?”

He faced his rival over the trunk of the Mercedes. Sugarman sported a broad, oafish grin, but looked to be at a loss for words. In the distance, someone’s car alarm raged for help. Balint didn’t understand how he’d once considered this ignorant slab of meat to be his friend.

“Okay, then I’ll call Amanda,” said Sugarman. “And I’m very sorry about your patient. We should all really make a habit of going to patients’ funerals, when we can . . . You are a genuinely good soul, Balint. I’ve got to hand it to you.”

If only you knew, thought Balint. If only you knew . . .

THE FUNERAL itself was a modest affair. A mass at Saint Rahab’s Church in Hollowell was followed by a brief graveside service. Afterward, they’d retired to a mom-and-pop diner for a light afternoon meal.

Among the mourners were several of the dead man’s cousins, his partners in the painting business, and a band of nursing students from his daughter’s graduate program. Delilah held Balint’s arm through both events and introduced him around as her boyfriend. Mercifully, none of the nursing students looked familiar. The only awkward moment occurred during the Mass, when his mistress nudged him forward to accept communion. Balint shook his head and let her slide past. While he had no scruples against enjoying a free cracker and a sip of wine, he realized that Delilah might at some point discover the truth—at least, about his religion—and that taking communion was the sort of offense for which she might struggle to pardon him. He prided himself on his foresight in this regard.

Balint paid no attention to the service. His thoughts were consumed with the fate of Mrs. Constantinou, whose body apparently still had not been discovered. That was the downside of selecting a victim with limited social connections. In theory, weeks might elapse before anybody noticed the woman missing. The impulse even entered his head that he might try to speed up the process—for instance, by calling 911 from a pay phone and summoning the police to her address—but that, Balint realized, was sheer insanity. His only realistic option was to wait.

To his consternation, the news finally broke while he was driving Delilah home from the restaurant. They’d gotten delayed in traffic on the turnpike, and since Amanda was expecting him for supper, he’d flipped on the traffic report. Instead, a newsflash announced that the Emerald Choker had choked once again. This time, of course, Balint already knew the identity of the victim before the media reported it. Her decomposing body had been discovered, it turned out, by a concerned letter carrier.

Balint shut off the radio—even though he longed to listen for more. “You can always count on the post office.”

“I thought you wanted to hear the traffic,” said Delilah.

“I’ll turn it back on in a few minutes. I don’t like listening to that serial killer business. It makes me sick to my stomach . . .”

Delilah nodded. “Why do you think a person does something like that?”

“Kills people? Probably because he’s mad as a hatter.”

“But why? Do you think it’s because he had an unhappy childhood or do you believe some people are just born that way . . . ?”

Balint didn’t have a good answer. “Probably some combination of both. You need to be born with the capacity for evil—and then something has to go terribly awry.”

“I don’t know,” replied Delilah. “Sometimes I think we’re all capable of that. I realize that sounds crazy, but what I mean is, if any of us found ourselves desperate enough, or suffered the right trauma, we could end up going haywire. I’m not saying that’s an excuse—don’t get me wrong. It’s still wicked. But just like the church teaches we’re all capable of great good, I can’t help thinking that we’re all capable of great wrongdoing.”

“You might be correct,” said Balint. “But I hope not.”

The traffic cleared a few minutes later and he was able to get Delilah home with time to spare for his commute back to Laurendale. Balint walked her to her front door and embraced her. He wished he could stay over—but, unfortunately, he explained to her, he had night duty at the hospital. Delilah understood. She always did. She didn’t even say a word about communion.

AMANDA HAD dinner waiting for him when he arrived home. Macaroni for Phoebe, hot dogs for Jessie, and swordfish steak for the adults. Whatever Balint might say about Amanda’s inadequate fidelity, she remained as efficient a household manager as ever—on top of her thirty-six-hour workweek at the library. Over the past several days, he’d watched with some surprise as Delilah struggled to manage the responsibilities related to her father’s death: locating his will, paying for the casket, arranging the hearse. Balint couldn’t imagine his mistress raising children, let alone caring for children in addition to working a full-time job as a nurse. But, unlike Amanda, the girl was totally devoted to him.

He had wanted to discuss Warren Sugarman’s proposal over dinner, but he didn’t dare mention the subject of ice-skating in front of his daughters. They’d have reacted to the mention of the “I-word” with the same intensity that other children did to words like “kitten” or “pony.” But after the meal, he received a genuine emergency phone call from the hospital—one of his cardiology fellows had shown up for his shift drunk—and it was nearly eleven o’clock when Balint was finally able to arrange for emergency coverage. By then, his wife was sleeping soundly.

Balint finally had a moment alone with Amanda the following night. It had been a momentous day: Chief Putnam had taken the bait of the five ribbons, and was reporting that the authorities now had reason to suspect an as yet undiscovered crime in addition to the four known killings. The chief held a joint press conference with Detective Mazzotta, the imposing brunette who headed the Queensberry homicide squad. Mazzotta appeared about forty, good-looking, but with a sharp edge that contrasted with Putnam’s easygoing manner. Together they’d formed something called the “Ad-hoc Task Force on Serial Killings”—or simply “The Task Force”—with the goal of coordinating resources across jurisdictions. During the press conference, Mazzotta even quoted a poem:

Though the mills of God grind slowly,

Yet they grind exceeding small;

Though with patience he stands waiting,

With exactness grinds he all.

“It’s by the poet Henry Longfellow. We memorized it in high school,” explained the detective. “At the time, I didn’t really understand what it meant or why it mattered—but today, I finally know. It means that it may take us more time than we’d like to solve these brutal murders. But mark my words, we will solve them. So I ask for the public’s patience and understanding during these difficult days.” All it required was one stanza and Detective Mazzotta became a media darling overnight.

Balint had listened to the radio between patients all afternoon. Now that they’d found Sofia Constantinou’s corpse, no obstacle remained that would prevent him from killing his nemesis. By the time he discussed Sugarman with his wife, Norman Navare’s funeral felt like a distant memory.

Balint entered the bathroom while Amanda was brushing her teeth and sat down on the lid of the toilet. She’d had the room painted bright yellow—and he despised the color scheme. Half-rolled tubes of her assorted creams and ointments covered the countertops.

“I ran into Warren Sugarman a few days ago,” he said.

Amanda spit into the sink and rinsed. Her eyes widened.

“What’s this about us going on an ice-skating trip with his kid?”

His wife gargled again and shut off the faucet. “It was my idea. His son, Davey, is having a hard time. The boy doesn’t make friends easily . . . He’s not the most inspiring child, to tell you the truth. You’ve seen him. Other children just don’t seem to like him.”

“And what makes you think Jessie and Phoebe are going to like him?”

“They probably won’t. But they do like skating. I thought maybe it would do the poor child some good if the girls spent an afternoon with him.”

“And what good will that do Jessie and Phoebe?”

His wife began lacquering her face with a pale green lotion called Cucumber Rejuvenator. “I remember what it was like to be an unpopular kid, Jer. And, to be honest, it’s absolutely goddamn miserable. Anyway, I don’t see how it will kill Jessie to spend an afternoon with one of her classmates.”

Balint had been an extremely popular child from as far back as he could remember. That had been his one comfort—even after his father passed away. It genuinely irked him to think that his own wife had once been a friendless creature like Davey Sugarman. “I’m sorry that you had a hard time of it,” he said, “but that’s no reason to turn our daughters into guinea pigs. It’s not my fault that Davey Sugarman is a tubby little dolt—any more than it was my fault that Abby Goldhammer couldn’t swim. I’m raising children, Amanda, not running a charity for wayward delinquents.”

Amanda spun around. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Said what?”

“Something’s wrong with your brain, Jeremy Balint. He’s an eight-year-old boy, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you show some compassion?”

“Not when it comes at my daughters’ expense. Do you think they’re going to gain any popularity hanging out with that boy?”

“They’ll learn empathy,” snapped Amanda. “That’s just as important.”

“Are you going to phrase it that way to them?” pressed Balint. “They’re not stupid. Are you going to tell them that they have to play with Davey Sugarman because he’s an ugly, awkward loser, but it’s important to show compassion for ugly losers?”

Amanda swung shut the door of the medicine cabinet. The mirror rattled—and for a second, Balint feared that it might shatter.

“I’m going skating with Warren and his son,” she said firmly. “And I’m taking along your daughters. You can decide whether you’d like to join us . . . Or whether associating with an unpopular eight-year-old might compromise your sterling reputation.”

His wife stormed out of the bathroom and slammed the door. Then she slammed it a second time for effect. Balint waited until he was confident that she’d settled under the covers—and then crossed silently through the dark bedroom. He stayed up until the early hours of the morning, listening to radio callers discuss the Emerald Choker case with two “experts” on serial killings. That night—for the first time since a bout of poison oak six years earlier—he slept on the couch in the living room.

AMANDA DIDN’T mention their spat over breakfast the next morning. She acted as though nothing had happened, so he did the same. Her principal concern appeared to be that she’d managed to double-book them for the following Saturday evening—both for dinner with the Sucrams and for a gathering at the van Houtens’. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” she said. “Maria van Houten is having a farewell party for Alyssa Pickering—now that Herb’s dead, Alyssa can’t afford the property taxes—and I didn’t think twice about agreeing to come. But we’ve been pledged to Betsy and Vince Sucram for months . . .” If Amanda truly cared about Herb Pickering’s widow, she’d pay the property taxes herself, he noted—but Balint didn’t dare suggest as much. She’d either take him up on his offer, as nutty as it sounded, or she’d complain that he was ridiculing her.

“I’m sure you’ll work something out,” said Balint.

“I’m sure I will too. Still, it’s frustrating.” His wife cleared away his plate and called the girls downstairs for their oatmeal. “But remember. We’re doing something on Saturday night. So don’t get yourself called into the hospital . . .”

“I’ll ask my patients to hold off on having their heart attacks until Monday,” responded Balint. He considered kissing Amanda on the forehead—but didn’t. Only when he was already headed into town did he second-guess himself.

This was to be the morning that he was taping four sixty-second radio spots for Etan Steinhoff. He’d anticipated that four minutes worth of tape would require about twenty minutes of studio time, or half an hour, at most. The rabbi stunned him when he demanded a block of five hours. “It’s a complicated process,” explained Steinhoff. “We’ll try to get through things quickly, but it’s always better to err on the safe side.” So Balint was committed to the pointless project until one o’clock.

The recording studio occupied a loft over Laurendale Lanes, the local bowling alley, but the chamber was fully soundproofed. “If the building caught fire,” said the audio engineer, Eve, who hooked up his microphone, “they couldn’t hear your screams.”

“Then let’s hope there’s not a fire.”

The technician laughed. “That’s a good one. ‘Let’s hope there’s not a fire.’ ” She was cute enough—although she wore blue liner around brown eyes. Balint even considered inviting her out for coffee. He ultimately decided against it, but not because of any ethical scruples against betraying Delilah. Unlike cheating on one’s wife, cheating on one’s mistress seemed a minor transgression. The logistics of another intrigue, on the other hand, struck him as daunting.

Eve retreated behind a glass shield and settled into a chair beside the rabbi. “I need to test the mic,” she said into Balint’s headphones. “Say something.”

He thought for a moment. “Though the mills of God grind slowly,” he quoted. “Yet they grind exceeding small.”

She flashed him a thumbs-up. “And thanks for not saying ‘Testing 1-2-3,’ by the way,” she added. Of course, that had been his second choice.

Balint smiled at Steinhoff through the glass. The rabbi, who was speaking into his cell phone, gave him a vigorous nod.

“When you see the green light go on,” said the girl, “start reading.”

Balint glanced at the wall clock. He couldn’t imagine how this business could possibly take five hours. When the green light flashed, he started reading from the script that the rabbi had provided: “I’m Dr. Jeremy Balint and saving lives is my job. It’s also my passion. Every year in this state, thousands of adult men and women go without routine medical care. Many of these men and women die. The tragedy is that these people are entitled to free comprehensive care—often only minutes from their own homes . . .” He watched the second hand on the clock as he read. At fifty-nine seconds, he hit the final word. Perfect.

He shut the script and turned to Steinhoff. “How’d I do?”

The rabbi held his hand over his cell phone. “Good—but not good enough. There’s a long and complex history here, Dr. Balint. The Tuskegee experiments, Henrietta Lacks. These people have every reason to distrust doctors. So if we’re going to convince them to come to our clinics—clinics that are, quite frankly, run by rich white Jews from places like Laurendale and Hager Park—you’re going to have to sound like the most honest and moral man they’ve ever heard in their entire lives. I want to hear Martin Luther King meets Marcus Welby, okay? And keep in mind that we’re not deceiving anybody. As far as we’re concerned, you are the most honest and moral man around. Got it?”

“I think so,” said Balint. “Would you like me to imitate Dr. King’s voice?”

“That won’t be necessary,” answered Steinhoff. “Just channel his spirit.”

Balint read the script again. All he had in common with Martin Luther King was that they’d both cheated on their wives—at least, if the media reports about King were to be believed—but he didn’t suspect Steinhoff would view that as a selling point. When he was done, the rabbi still wasn’t satisfied.

“You sound like a doctor. Like a real doctor. These people don’t know doctors from a hole in the ground. You need to sound like what they want a doctor to sound like. Pretend you’re a twenty-five-year-old mother in Newark with an eleven-year-old kid who has already been arrested twice for criminal mischief, and you haven’t been to a physician since your son was born—and that physician was some nitwit from Ghana or Pakistan who barely spoke English and operated out of a run-down basement. Pretend you’re that woman for a moment—and try to sound like the doctor who she’s wanted to take care of her for her entire life.”

“It might be easier to pretend,” quipped Balint, “if I did it in blackface.”

The audio technician grinned. Steinhoff shook his head.

“We don’t have time for costumes,” he said. “Just do the best you can.”

His best required exactly five hours, it turned out. The rabbi claimed that the final versions were indeed perfect—far better than the earlier takes—but the truth was that Balint couldn’t tell the difference.

NOW THAT Sofia Constantinou’s death was front-page news, Balint had no excuse for putting off his final encounter with Warren Sugarman. Nevertheless, January drifted into February and he found himself delaying the necessary preparations. He still had enough green ribbon on his person for one more crime, but he’d made no effort to map out Sugarman’s schedule or to find a window when he might slip away from Amanda. Securing sufficient time apart from his wife would prove more complicated in this case, because he couldn’t kill the surgeon while Amanda was away at a “bridge tournament” or similar event, if she was actually meeting up with Sugarman on these occasions. Of course, now that Norman Navare had died, the immediate time pressure was off. He could act quickly or wait as long as he wished; some serial killers disappeared and resurfaced years later. As much as he hated to admit it, he actually enjoyed following the efforts of Chief Putnam and Detective Mazzotta as they tried to reassure the public that they had the situation under control—when anyone with half a brain realized that they didn’t. By now the bounty on the killer of Kenny McCord exceeded $300,000.

Whatever was causing Balint to drag his feet, it certainly wasn’t any sympathy for his rival. He despised Warren Sugarman more than he ever had. If he could have pressed a button and vaporized the man without any consequences for himself, he’d have done so in a heartbeat. The real obstacle, he realized, was fear. Killing strangers seemed fundamentally different from killing someone whom he knew well—a colleague he interacted with on a weekly, and often a daily, basis. Once again Balint feared he might freeze up at the last instant. Or that Sugarman, who was smart enough in his own way, might utter something during those final seconds to knock him off his guard. Maybe it was merely that he’d come so close to victory that he feared taking any steps which might jeopardize his previous successes.

This was Balint’s state of mind on the Saturday night that they joined the Sucrams for dinner at the new oyster house in Pontefract. Amanda had salvaged the evening by dropping by the van Houtens’ home earlier in the day and leaving a crystal salad bowl for Alyssa Pickering. Balint didn’t understand what a woman who couldn’t afford to pay her property taxes was supposed to do with a $200 bowl—unless she was supposed to sleep in it—but he kept his commentary to himself.

He’d been forewarned that his job was to tell Betsy and Vince Sucram how much he’d enjoyed their daughter’s wedding, and then to steer clear of politics and religion and anything else that might insult them. “Just don’t cause any trouble, Jer,” pleaded Amanda. “If you have to ask yourself whether something will offend anybody, please don’t say it. Trust me, it will.”

“Give me some credit,” he replied. “I’m not a Neanderthal.”

“I’m not saying you are. But you do have a track record. And the Sucrams are the leading donors on Rabbi Steinhoff’s new tabernacle. Etan will have my head if you manage to insult them.”

“You and Etan are on a first-name basis now?”

“Yes, we are,” said Amanda. “And that would be precisely the sort of remark I’d rather you didn’t air in front of Vince and Betsy.”

“Duly noted.”

He pulled up the Mercedes in front of the restaurant and handed his keys to the valet. The Sucrams were already waiting for them at the bar. Balint found himself in the midst of a flurry of handshakes and kisses, then whisked off to a table in an oak-paneled side room. On the opposite wall hung an enormous sailfish.

“Your daughter had a fine wedding,” said Balint. “We had a marvelous time.”

“Thank you,” said Betsy Sucram. “We were so glad you could join us.”

“That fellow you sat us with—tax lawyer—the guy was hilarious.”

“Must have been Vincent Hearn,” interjected Vince Sucram. “My namesake.”

“That’s right. Hearn. He and I had a long debate over whether we should be referring to your daughter and her partner as ‘bride and bride’ or ‘spouse and spouse.’ ”

Amanda kicked him in the knee. Hard.

Betsy Sucram pursed her lips. “And what, pray tell, did you decide?”

Balint shrugged. “I can’t remember anymore. Five martinis and they could have been two grooms for all I knew.”

This time, Amanda’s shoe came inches from his groin, and he grabbed the tablecloth—nearly toppling their water glasses. “Sorry,” he said.

That was about the time when he first noticed two women who’d just been seated at the far end of the nearly empty dining room. One was their peculiar neighbor, Bonnie Kluger, who wore an odd, kimono-style robe and a bright crimson hat. Her outfit looked a bit like casual wear for the Pope—if the Pope had been Japanese. The other patron was Sally Goldhammer. Balint hadn’t seen Sally since the day her daughter had drowned.

He drew Amanda’s attention to the newcomers. The Sucrams also noted their arrival and maintained an awkward silence.

“You really must say something, Jeremy,” Amanda said. “She’s seen us. We can’t just pretend she’s not here.”

“So why do I have to say something?”

“Trust me. It’s better that way. She’s already made it clear that she wants nothing to do with me—but if you went up to her and apologized, it might go a long way toward making her feel better.”

“I can’t apologize,” said Balint. “That’s practically an admission of guilt. Her lawyers will eat me alive.” He turned to Sucram for support. “You’re a businessman, Vince. You understand where I’m coming from.”

Vince Sucram nodded politely. Later, Balint learned that he’d been mistaken and their dinner companion was actually an anthropology professor—that the money came from his wife’s family enterprise. “Maybe you could express your sadness over the situation without actually taking any blame.”

“Could this get any more awkward?” asked Amanda. “Please just get it over with, Jeremy. Before we all die of embarrassment.”

So he dropped his napkin on his chair and strode across the dining room. A look of sheer terror suffused across Sally Goldhammer’s face. Bonnie Kluger, unfazed, gnawed a crust of bread.

“I hope I’m not intruding, Sally,” said Balint. “I wanted to let you know how sorry I am about all you’ve been through.”

The woman stared at him without acknowledgment.

“She appreciates the thought,” Bonnie answered for her. “But you’ll forgive her if she’s in no mood to talk to you at the moment.”

“I understand.”

He was about to return to his own table when Bonnie said, “I hear you were bitten by a raccoon.”

“Scratched,” he corrected her.

“Yes, scratched. Very unusual.”

Balint felt threatened. “I interrupted its lunch, I’m afraid. But I learned my lesson. Next time I’m going to be much more careful.”

Bonnie’s eyes latched into him like fishhooks. “I know all of the raccoons on our street intimately,” she said—as though claiming to know all of their human neighbors. “It would be highly out of character for any one of them to attack you unprovoked. Surely you must have done something to antagonize him.”

If he could have chosen a second local victim after Sugarman, this woman would certainly have been next on his hit list.

“You’re mistaken, Bonnie,” he said. “I did nothing of the sort.”

The strange woman stared straight through him—as though she alone could sense his inner core of iniquity. Then she waved her hand before her face, sweeping him toward inconsequence and oblivion.

“Very well. No sense in arguing,” said Bonnie. “But I urge you to take care of yourself. If you do provoke raccoons, they’re capable of gouging your eyes out.”

Apparently Bonnie’s voice had carried across the dining room, because when Balint returned to his own table, after a brief detour to the restroom, Vince Sucram was already whispering an anecdote about eye-gouging rituals among the Pau-Gha people of Indonesia.