Robin Cook - Marker

Jazz quickly scanned the people sprinkled around the space, and not seeing Mr. Bob or Mr. Dave, she went over to the sign-in desk and asked the receptionist for the men who wanted to see her. She pointed to two men hidden behind newspapers. Clearly, they were not Mr. Bob and Mr. Dave. From the look of their lower halves, they could have been homeless bums.

"Are you sure they asked for me?" Jazz questioned. Her next worry was that they were a couple of deep-undercover detectives trying to scare up dirt about Chapman. With a sense of resignation, Jazz walked over to where the two men were sitting. Her hand still clutched the Glock in her pocket.

"Hello!" Jazz called irritably. "I was told you two were looking for me."

The men lowered their papers, and when they did so, Jazz could feel her face flush and her pulse pound in her temples. It was all she could do to keep from pulling out her gun. One of the men was her father, Geza Rakoczi. He had a two-day growth of stubble on his face, as did his companion.

"Jasmine, dear, how are you?" Gesa questioned.

Jazz could smell the alcohol on his breath from where she was standing behind a shallow coffee table littered with magazines. Without answering, Jasmine looked at the other man. She'd never seen him before.

"This is Carlos," Geza said, noticing the direction of Jazz's attention.

Jazz looked back at her father. She'd not seen him for years and had hoped he'd drunk himself into the grave. "How did you find me?"

"Carlos has a friend who's good with a computer. He says you can find anything on the Internet. So I told him to find you, and he did. He said you played a lot of online games and used what he called 'chat rooms.' I don't know anything about all that malarkey, but he sure did find you. He even found out you were a member of this club." Geza's eyes roamed around. "Pretty fancy place. I'm impressed. You're doing all right, girl."

"What are you doing here?" Jazz demanded.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I need a little money, and knowing you're a fancy nurse and all, I thought I'd ask. You see, your mother died, God rest her soul. I got to come up with some money, or they'll be burying her out on some island in a plain wooden box."

For a moment, all Jazz could see in her mind's eye was the thirteen dollars she'd made shoveling snow. Remembering what happened to it only deepened her fury. As hard as she was holding the Glock, she was smart enough to take her finger out of the trigger guard.

"Get the hell out of here!" Jazz spat. She spun on her heels and headed back toward the locker room. She could hear Geza call out her name, and the next thing she knew, he had grabbed her shoulder, pulling her around.

Jazz yanked her hand out of her pocket-luckily without the Glock. Later, she'd wondered how it had happened, since her instinct was to draw the weapon. She jabbed her finger into his face. "Don't you ever touch me again!" she snarled. "And don't come pestering me! You know what I'm saying? If you do, I'll kill you. It's that simple."

Jazz turned again and headed for the locker room. She could hear Geza try to complain, saying that he was her father, but she didn't stop, and he didn't try to follow. She returned to her locker, spun the combination, and put her coat away. Back in the weight room, she decided to start her routine from the top, even though when she'd been disturbed, she was close to finishing.

Jazz had needed the exertion to control her fury and it worked to a large degree. By the time she returned to the locker room for her shower, she had regained control. She could almost see some humor in the pathetic creature that her father had become. She wondered when her mother had died. Jazz was amazed she'd lasted this long, as obese as she was.

Since she was behind schedule after doubling her workout routine, Jazz showered and dressed hurriedly. Emerging from the locker room, she looked back into the lobby area where her father had been sitting, and was relieved that he'd taken the hint and left.

As she approached her car, she couldn't help but remember the previous night, and after opening the door, the first thing she did was check the backseat. She wasn't happy about Mr. Bob and Mr. Dave surprising her the way they did. She liked to think of herself as being wary and observant.

Climbing into the Hummer and buckling herself in, Jazz was looking forward to some fun on the way to the hospital. Dueling with taxicabs was a good way to deal with the remnant of anxiety that her father's surprise visit had aroused. Waiting in the short line to get out of the garage, she got out her Blackberry. After three names in the last two nights, she wasn't optimistic, but she wanted to check just the same.

At the first red light, she logged on for messages. To her delight, there was one from Mr. Bob. Hastily, she opened it. "Yes!" she cried out. There was another name on her LCD screen. It was Patricia Pruit.

A smile spread across Jazz's face. All was well. By that time the following night, her account balance would be more than sixty thousand dollars.

When the light changed, Jazz bolted ahead of the pack of cars and taxis. No one seemed to want to challenge her. Settling back into the seat, she thought about how her father had found her. She was a little surprised. Although she spent a lot of time in chat rooms on the Internet, she thought she had been careful about her identity and whereabouts, except for the few times she "hooked up." She decided she'd better be more careful, because she liked chat rooms and wasn't about to give up the pleasure. It was only online that she found people of like mind to whom she could truly relate, respect, and even love. It was such a far cry from the assholes she had to deal with in real life.

Roger's dinner with Rosalyn turned out to be an unqualified success. The fact that she had been aloof when they first met was more than adequately made up by her behavior during dinner, particularly after she'd had a few glasses of wine. Following the meal, Roger tried to put her in a taxi to take her home, but she insisted that they share one. Outside her Kew Gardens apartment, she mounted a hard-to-resist argument for Roger to come in for a nightcap, a term Roger hadn't heard since college.

Ultimately, Roger did resist, even after a sustained and passionate kiss on the sidewalk. Roger had kept one hand on the open taxi door. Despite being severely tempted to take advantage of her hospitality and whatever else her newly expressed physicality implied, Roger kept reminding himself about the work he planned to do in his office. He felt he was on a roll, and even if he couldn't have anything that evening to present to Laurie, the weekend was just beginning.

After a promise to keep in touch, Roger climbed back into the cab and waved out the back window. Rosalyn stood nailed to the spot, waving until she disappeared from view. Roger was pleased. The venture to Queens had been rewarding. Not only did he get most of the information he wanted, he'd met a woman who was a strong candidate for some interesting future encounters.

By the time he had gotten back to the Manhattan General, it was nearly eleven o'clock. The first thing he did was visit the coffee shop and have a cup of real coffee. By the time he got up to his office, he was wired, and he dove into his work with alacrity. By two A.M., he'd developed quite a bit of data. Laurie's idea, coupled with his decisions of how to expand it, had proved to be strikingly fertile. In fact, it appeared to be too fertile. When he had started, he'd wondered if he'd come up with any suspects. Now he had too many.

Roger rocked back in his chair and picked up the first sheet he'd printed, a list of five doctors with admitting privileges at both Manhattan General and St. Francis, and who had actually exercised those privileges at both institutions over the previous four months. The original list of the doctors with dual privileges was far too long to be workable. That was when he decided to restrict it.