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soon. In fact, I think a trip to Aruba might be just around the corner.” He pulled away smiling.
    “You promise?” The thought of Aruba sent me into immediate euphoria.
    “Yes, I promise.”
    After kissing my forehead and squeezing me one last time, Michael was out the door. It took a while for me to fall back asleep, and it was only for an hour. Later, standing at my bedroom window, I thought about questions to ask Dr. Esposito. They would have to be direct, as it had become quite clear the doctor would see through any type of sugarcoating. It was also clear that he certainly wouldn’t tolerate being jerked around. After watching a jogger stop in front of my house and tie his shoe, I started to get myself cleaned up and ready to go.
    The drive took less than an hour. Esposito’s office was on the south side, near Strongsville. Pulling into the parking lot of his building, I wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the architectural-award-winning edifice looming before me. Twelve stories high, it had an old Spanish-style design, with light pink ceramic tiles and a deep peach stucco exterior—a building more suited for South Beach, Miami, than Strongsville, Ohio. It looked odd among the other, standard glass-and-brick buildings.
    The physicians list inside the lobby told me one thing: only the crème de la crème of Cleveland physicians had their offices here. They were the plastic surgeons, the neurosurgeons, the oncologists, and the cardiologists. Looking at the list reminded me that I hadn’t even determined what type of doctor Esposito was. I couldn’t imagine any doctor this high on the food chain would need a side job with a tissue-donor company.
    Scanning the doctors’ names on each floor, I found DR. DONOVAN ESPOSITO, MD, PLASTIC SURGERY, in suite 6-A. After a brief elevator ride, I stopped in the ladies’ room on the sixth floor to make sure everything was in order, appearance-wise. I had to be at the top of my game. My previous experience interviewing doctors had educated me to the fact that although they vary in their expertise, a great number of them are arrogant.
    Some border on blatant narcissism, especially if they are called onto the carpet. They don’t believe laws apply to them. They expect to be admired for their godlike talents. How dare anyone question a man who had just performed an eight-hour, lifesaving surgery on a five-year-old car-accident victim? Even if he did just break his wife’s nose the day before. Most are the same, and I didn’t expect Donovan Esposito to be any different.
    No surprise, the waiting area of his office was professionally—and tastefully—decorated. Contemporary paintings on the walls were paired with a modern vase full of fresh roses that adorned each corner table. The three taupe leather couches looked so inviting, they would have made any patient want to run and dive on them. At the far end of the roomwas the receptionist’s window. Behind it (again, no surprise) sat a twentysomething blonde who appeared to have been nipped and tucked to death. Her chest was so large on her small frame, it looked uncomfortable, and as I got closer, the earlier notion that she was in her twenties faded. This woman was clearly in her forties and had made multiple attempts to maintain her youth. Her face had taken on the shiny, plastic, cat look that most people associated with too much tweaking. I stood and listened while she was on the phone, instantly recognizing her voice.
    “Mrs. Esposito, I presume?” I asked as she put the phone on its cradle.
    “Yes. Do you have an appointment?” Her smile seemed permanently fixed on her face.
    “Yes, I do. I’m Sergeant CeeCee Gallagher with the Richland Metropolitan Police Department. I’m here for my noon appointment with Dr. Esposito.” I smiled back.
    Her smile faded. “Oh, yes…I’m not quite sure he has enough time blocked off for the amount of Botox injections that you’ll need.”
    “If you could let him know I’m