Harlan Coben - Miracle Cure

"Very funny."

"God, I hate these big cases," Willie said.

"Mayor'll be calling all the time. Everybody wanting answers."

"We might as well get started then. I want you to check the neighborhood. See if anybody saw anything."

"Sure thing. Someone must have heard something screams or a struggle or something."

Bernstein shook his head.

"I don't think the murder took place here."

"What do you mean?" "Take a look at the corpse," he continued.

"Bradley Jenkins has been dead since last night, right?"

"Looks like it."

"But at night this alley is packed with patrons of the Black Magic."

"Patrons. Is that what they call them now?"

Bernstein greeted the remark with a hint of a smile, oh, Willie, if you only knew... "Someone would have seen the murder if it happened back here last night. And there's blood only on the body none in the area.

If he had been stabbed a zillion times back here, the alley would have been sprayed with blood. No, I think Jenkins was killed somewhere else and his body was dumped here. That's where the M.O. is different. The body was moved this time."

Willie followed his young lieutenant's pacing, his head shifting back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match.

"Makes no sense, Twitch. There's a lot of places less risky to get rid of a body. Why here?"

"Don't know."

"You want me to find out if Bradley was gay?"

Max felt a powerful headache coming on and began to massage his temples with his fingertips. The son of a prominent, conservative senator found with multiple knife wounds behind a gay bar Tylenol wouldn't put a dent in this one.

"No need," Bernstein said. "I'll get the personal info from Sara."

"Send my condolences."

"Will do. I want the lab over every inch of this alley and I want this neighborhood canvassed. Ask if they saw anything out of the ordinary last night or this morning."

"Gotcha. Oh, one more thing."

"What?"

"Good luck with the press, those bastards. Next thing you know well have every loony in the area confessing or copy catting the son of a bitch."

Max nodded and clenched his teeth. The pencil in his mouth snapped into two jagged pieces, nearly cutting his gums.

It was going to be a bad week.

"How are you feeling?" Sara asked Michael for the twentieth time.

"Fine," he replied.

"Ask again and I'm going to scream."

"I'm just concerned."

"Then do something constructive," Michael said.

"Liker

"Like lock the door and get naked."

"I stepped into that one, didn't I?"

Michael nodded.

A woman's voice from behind them said, "Hello, Sara."

They both looked toward the entranceway where Dr. Carol Simpson now stood. Chopin's Concerto in D minor played from the small CD player beside Michael's bed. Reece, of all people, had fetched it from the Knick locker room at Madison Square Garden and brought it to the hospital, claiming, "This shit makes me sick, but it might be just what of' Mikey needs." "Michael," Sara said, "this is Dr. Simpson, the obstetrician I was telling you about." "Nice to meet you, Michael," Carol Simpson said.

"Nice meeting you." "I heard you'd been rushed in," she continued.

"How are you feeling?" "Better, thanks," he said.

"Good," she replied.

"Since I knew you were both here, I thought I'd stop by personally to deliver the news."

Michael sat up. His lips felt dry. He tried to wet them with his tongue, but there was no moisture there either.

"News?" he asked.

"Yes. I have the results of Sara's test."

"And?" Sara prompted.

Carol Simpson stuck out her hand.

"Congratulations. You're pregnant."

Sara's hands fluttered toward her mouth. "You're sure?"

"Positive. About two months, I'd say."

Sara turned toward Michael.

"Did you hear that, hon?"

Michael nodded, not yet able to speak.

"Forgive me, Doctor," he managed.

"It's just..."

"No need to apologize. It's nice to see."

Sara wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, smothering him against her chest.

"Well," Dr. Simpson said, "I have to be going back. Sara, want you to stop by and see me tomorrow morning, okay?"

"Okay."

Michael pulled away.

"Thanks, Doc."

"Take care of yourself, Michael. Congratulations again."

She left them alone.

Michael smiled.

"Do I have to start calling you Mommy soon?"

She nodded.

"And I get to call you Dad."

"Even in bed?"

"No. There I can still call you by your name."

"Hung Stallion?"

"Dream on."

"God, I can't believe it. We're going to be parents, Sara. You, me, and baby makes three."

They kissed.

"I love you, Michael."

"I love you too," he said, rubbing her still-firm stomach.

"Both of you."

As they kissed again, the phone rang. Michael reluctantly reached over, picked up the receiver, and said hello. After a brief pause he handed it to Sara.

"It's for you," he said.

"Who is it?"

He shrugged.

"Don't know."

Sara put the phone to her ear. A nasal, female voice said, "Please hold while I connect you."

There was one ring before the phone was picked up.

"Sara?"

"Max?"

"Jeez, you weren't easy to find. Took me over an hour to track you down. How Ve you been?"

"Never better."

"Glad to hear it."

She could almost see him chewing on his nails as he spoke.

"This isn't a social call, is it, Max?"

"No, it's not."

"So what's up?"

Max Bernstein let go a long breath.

"Bradley Jenkins was murdered. I need to talk to you right away."

They met half an hour later in a quiet corner in the hospital cafeteria. After a quick greeting Max said, "Everything we say here is confidential and off the record, okay?"

"Okay."

"Let me ask you something right off the top." "Go ahead," Sara said.

"Was Bradley Jenkins gay?"

"Yes."

Max had expected that answer. He nodded, his curly dark hair swaying with the movement. He put a fresh pencil into his mouth and began to chew. Then he crossed his right leg over his left, ran his hand through his curls, put his feet back on the floor, and then crossed his left leg over his right.

Bernstein was thirty-two years old, but he looked a good five years younger. Sara knew the police department for that matter the world at large considered Twitch Bernstein a bit of an enigma. Despite being homicide's number one lieutenant, he had no love of danger. He hated carrying a gun and had never used one in the line of duty. He was barely adequate with his fists, did not consider himself particularly brave, and tried to avoid violence whenever possible.

What he did like, however, was solving puzzles the bigger, the better.

And he was good at it. Damn good. No one knew for sure just how he did it, but Bernstein had the rare ability to plod and putter and shift and unnerve and fidget his way to the answer.

"My turn to ask a question," Sara said.

"What happened to Bradley and why did you want to know if he was gay?"

"That's two questions."

"Max..." "Just trying to keep things light," Bernstein said.

"We found his body this morning behind a gay bar in the Village."

"Jesus."

"The autopsy is not in yet, but we're sure he died from multiple stab wounds. We think... Sara, are you all right?"

Sara's eyes were wide, her face shockingly pale.

"Have there been other murders?" she uttered.

"What makes you say that?"

"Don't play with me, Max."

"We may have a serial killer on our hands," he said.

"I wasn't involved in the investigation of the first two cases, but two other men were killed in the same grisly way. We suspect that the same person committed all three murders."