“I think you’ve got yourself in overdrive,” Colleen said. “You’re a ball of nerves.”
“So what else is new?” Terese said.
“When was the last time you went out for dinner and a few drinks?” Colleen said.
Terese laughed. “I haven’t had time for anything like that for months.”
“That’s my point,” Colleen said. “No wonder your creative juices aren’t flowing. You need to relax. Even if it’s just for a few hours.”
“You really think so?” Terese asked.
“Absolutely,” Colleen said. “In fact we’re going out tonight. We’ll go to dinner and we’ll have a few drinks. We’ll even try not to talk about advertising for one night.”
“I don’t know,” Terese voiced. “We’ve got this deadline…”
“That’s exactly my point,” Colleen said. “We need to blow the tubes and clear out the cobwebs.
Maybe then we’ll come up with that big idea. So don’t argue. I’m. not taking no for an answer.”
8
* * *
WEDNESDAY, 4:35 P.M., MARCH 20, 1996
Jack navigated his mountain bike between the two Health and Hospital Corporation mortuary vans parked at the receiving bay at the medical examiner’s office and rode directly into the morgue.
Under normal circumstances he’d have dismounted by then and walked the bike, but he was in too good a mood.
Jack parked his bike by the Hart Island coffins, locked it up, then whistled on his way to the elevators. He waved to Sal D’Ambrosio as he passed the mortuary office.
“Chet, my boy, how are you?” Jack asked as he breezed into their shared fifth-floor office.
Chet laid his pen down on his desk and turned to face his officemate. “The world’s been in here looking for you. What have you been doing?”
“Indulging myself,” Jack said. He peeled off his leather jacket and draped it over the back of his desk chair before sitting down. He surveyed his row of files, deciding which one to attack first.
His in-basket had a newly replenished pile of lab results and PA reports.
“I wouldn’t get too comfortable,” Chet said. “One of those looking for you was Bingham himself. He told me to tell you to come directly to his office.”
“How nice,” Jack said. “I was afraid he’d forgotten about me.”
“I wouldn’t be so flippant about it,” Chet said. “Bingham was not happy. And Calvin stopped by as well. He’d like to see you, too, and smoke was coming out of his ears.”
“Undoubtedly he’s eager to pay me my ten dollars,” Jack said. He got up from his desk and patted Chet on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about me. I have a strong survival instinct.”
“You could have fooled me,” Chet said.
As Jack descended in the elevator, he was curious how Bingham would handle the current situation. Since Jack had started working at the ME office, he’d had only sporadic contact with the chief. The day-to-day administrative problems were all handled by Calvin.
“You can go right in,” Mrs. Sanford said without even looking up from her typing. Jack wondered how she knew it was he.
“Close the door,” Dr. Harold Bingham commanded.
Jack did as he was told. Bingham’s office was spacious with a large desk set back under high windows covered with ancient venetian blinds. At the opposite end of the room was a library table with a teaching microscope. A glass-fronted bookcase lined the far wall. “Sit down,” Bingham said. Dutifully Jack sat.
“I’m not sure I understand you,” Bingham said in his deep, husky voice. “You apparently made a rather brilliant diagnosis of plague today and then foolishly took it upon yourself to call my boss, the Commissioner of Health. Either you are a completely apolitical creature or you have a self-destructive streak.”
“It’s probably a combination of the two,” Jack said.
“You’re also impertinent,” Bingham said.
“That’s part of the self-destructive streak,” Jack said. “On the positive side, I’m honest.” He smiled.
Bingham shook his head. Jack was testing his ability to control himself. “Just so I can try to understand,” he said as he entwined the fingers of his shovel-like hands, “did you not think that I would find it inappropriate for you to call the commissioner before talking with me?”