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car. The tall man was bent over in a question mark as he walked. The long black coat hanging from his lean frame only added to his insectlike appearance. “He sure flew out of here,” she said, pointing toward the window.
    They saw Hessler get in a sedan, start up the car, and peel out of the lot without bothering to clear even his windshield.
    “Wonder where he’s going in such a hurry,” said Garcia.
    “Miss!” yelled a voice across the hall.
    Both agents turned. An enormously pregnant woman was summoning them from her bed. She’d kicked off her covers and seemed to be struggling to sit up. Her hospital gown was hiked halfway up her generous thighs.
    Bernadette headed for the room. “She needs a hand.”
    “I’m not going in there,” said Garcia. “She said Miss , not Mister.” One of the Minneapolis agents came up to him with a question, and the two men went down the hall together.
    “Want help sitting up?” asked Bernadette, moving to the bedside.
    “Ah, screw it. Isn’t worth it.” The woman dropped back against the pillows. She had a plump, rosy face and straight blond hair down to her shoulders.
    “Want me to raise your head?”
    “That’d be great, doll.”
    Bernadette pushed the controls on the bed rails. “When’re you due?”
    “First thing in the morning.”
    “A Cesarean?”
    “Yup.”
    “Good luck.”
    “I saw deputies going up and down the hall,” said the woman. “A bunch of guys in suits. Are you with them?”
    “Yeah. I’m an FBI agent. Bernadette Saint Clare.”
    “This about that girl on the news?” The woman protectively put her hands on her mountainous belly. “Television said they cut out her baby.”
    The details had gotten out, and quickly. Bernadette took the photo from her jacket and showed it to the woman. “See her around town?”
    The woman whipped the picture out of Bernadette’s fingers. “So this is the poor thing. What’s her name?”
    “She look familiar?”
    “I’ve been on bed rest. Stuck inside.” The woman handed it back to Bernadette, and her eyes widened. “Christ. Did someone at the hospital do it?”
    “No, no,” said Bernadette, afraid to upset the expectant mother. “The body was brought here, that’s all.”
    That lame explanation seemed to satisfy her, and she nodded. “Oh. Right.”
    “If this girl sought out prenatal care, any idea where she might have gone?”
    The woman didn’t hesitate. “Clinic in Akeley. West end of down town, a couple of blocks off the main drag. It’s close to the hospital, and the doctor there is the best. Eve Bossard. She’s so popular, everybody loves her. Around here, you can’t swing a dead cat by the tail without hitting a girl named Eve.”
    “Eve Bossard,” Bernadette repeated.
    “Really nice lady. Makes house calls. Can you imagine that in this day and age?”
    “No, I can’t.”
    “Operates a free clinic certain afternoons. Doesn’t care how poor you are or what sort of health insurance you’ve got.”
    “That’s wonderful,” said Bernadette.
    “Plus she’s a specialist. Handles difficult pregnancies.” The woman added proudly, “I’m having twins.”
    After Bernadette left the room, she took out her notebook and flipped to a clean page. Wrote down two words:
    Eve Bossard .
    Garcia came up to her with a cup of coffee in each hand. He passed her one.
    She sipped. Scalding, black, and bitter, exactly how she liked it. She told Garcia about the Mother Teresa obstetrician.
    “We can follow up tomorrow,” he said. “She might have seen the kid in her clinic.”
    She checked her watch. “We’ve still got a lot to do here to night.”
    Bernadette and Garcia went down the hall, strategizing. They had to talk to four more nurses, a janitor, and a radiology tech. Though the disinfectant smelled fresh, they didn’t want to rule out anyone who’d been in the building the previous twenty-four hours, and who had knowledge of the storage room/morgue. They’d finish interviewing the