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his wool overcoat.  "In recess for motions.  Where you going in such a hurry?"
    "Nowhere, just over to Oscar's for a hair cut."  Drake buttoned his worn navy pea coat, but not before noting Jimmy's disapproving glance at his T-shirt and grease stained jeans. 
    "Heard about Lester Young.  Tough break.  So how much longer's Miller gonna keep you with the task force?"
    "Aw, you miss me.  Didn't know you cared." 
    Jimmy snorted and moved up onto the landing to slouch against the wall opposite from Drake. 
    "Miller's sending me over to Three Rivers to work undercover on the night shift.  Kwon, too."
    Jimmy arched an eyebrow at that.  "Three Rivers?  I thought you guys already cleared the hospitals."
    "So did I.  But some doctor from the ER convinced Miller someone there's stealing FX.  And Miller, being Miller, suspects everyone, including her."  Drake ran his fingers over the three-day beard that was beginning to itch.  At least he thought it was about three days old.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd bothered to shave.  "So now I've got to go get cleaned up so's I don't scare the patients." 
    He started down the steps, then turned back to his sartorially superior partner.  "You ever get a shave over at Oscar's?"
    "You mean like with hot towels, fancy lotions, all that jazz?"  Jimmy removed his fedora, exposing the flat top Oscar kept close shorn for him.  "This doctor, do you think she's behind the FX thefts?"
    Drake thought a moment, remembering the way he'd been able to con a cup of coffee from Hart.  He hadn't had to work very hard, and he didn't think that was because Hart was a soft touch, either.  "I'm not sure.  She doesn't seem the type, that's for certain."
    "Is she your type?"  Jimmy gave him a stern, remember-what-happened-last-time, look.
    If it had been anyone but Jimmy asking, Drake would have just shot him the bird.  But Jimmy had taken a chance, still partnering with him after last summer.  "Don't worry.  She's about the exact opposite of my type.  Besides, nothing's gonna happen.  She's a suspect."
    CHAPTER 7
    Six-forty that night and the ICU bustled with activity.  Flocks of white-coated students and residents wearily followed their attendings from bed to bed, trying to put out any fires before leaving their patients in the care of the on-call doctors.  Two shifts of nurses crowded into the small dictation area behind the nurses' station, the day shift giving report to their night colleagues.  In the middle of it all, there was one island of solitude.
    No one approached Jane Doe's bed.  She lay there, pale and unmoving, IV tubing and monitor leads her sole connection to the outside world.  The only sound from her was the faint whoosh of the ventilator filling her lungs. 
    No friends or family--so she was probably still Jane Doe, Cassie thought as she pulled the chart from the rack at the ICU nurses' station and sat down beside Adeena Coleman, the social worker assigned to the case.  Cassie pushed her sweater sleeves up and flipped through the already thick binder, finding the neurology consultation.  As usual, they were hemming and hawing, taking a wait-and-see attitude.  She turned to Adeena.
    "Anything?" she asked the social worker. 
    Adeena shook her head, rattling the copper beads woven into her braids.  "Not yet.  The police are working on her fingerprints.  I'm sending her information to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children."
    "The milk carton people."
    Adeena nodded, then pointed her ballpoint at Cassie's forearm.  "Nice bruise.  Should we talk?"
    Cassie smiled and twisted her arm over to admire the latest patch of purple forming there.  It was a nice bruise, almost as nice as the move that had followed when she twisted beneath Mr. Christean's guard and cut his legs out from under him with a sweep kick.  First time she'd been able to best her instructor.  "Kempo.  I'm testing for my brown belt next month."
    Adeena's eyes narrowed