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this interview, and he was just cold like anything.”
    “Tell me about it,” agreed Bernstein. “But I hear Kratsas is even worse. For starters, he doesn’t have Larsen’s talent. But what you’ve really gotta watch out for is that he’s nice. Always ready to chat about sports or old movies like he’s your best pal.”
    Barbara Lukas rolled her eyes. “So you think he’s on your side—and he’s a pipeline right back to Larsen?”
    “You got it,” nodded Bernstein.
    “Who else should we know about?” asked Dan.
    “Who
shouldn’t
we know about?”
    Seeing how much Bernstein was enjoying this performance, Logan had a strong feeling he was purposely being overdramatic.
    “Who else?” pressed Barbara Lukas.
    “Greg Stillman.”
    There was a surprised silence. The name needed no explanation. Dr. Gregory Stillman, world-renowned specialist in breast cancer, was one of those chiefly responsible for the ACF’s reputation.
    “C’mon,” said Logan finally, “someone’s doing a lot of exaggerating here.”
    Bernstein snorted. “I’m talking personality, not medicalacumen. Talk to the senior associates—this is a guy who describes
himself
as ‘a vicious SOB.’ He thinks other people respect him for it.” He paused for effect. “And they do.”
    A few minutes later, Logan moved alongside Reston at the buffet table. “You buy any of that?”
    Reston shrugged. “Hard to tell. Maybe we were just watching a guy working real hard to impress a good-looking woman.” He smiled. “Who can blame him?”
    “Well,” said Logan, “we survived Claremont.…”
    The remark called for no elaboration. The institution they’d just left was a political minefield, famous even in the cutthroat world of high-powered medicine for the willingness of young doctors to curry favor with their superiors and, when it came to that, to cut one another up; and, maybe even more so, for the readiness of senior personnel to shaft their subordinates in self-protection.
    “Damn right,” agreed Reston, “no way this could be as bad as that. At Claremont, you had the greed factor, everyone after the same big pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Here—”
    “It’s for science,” Logan finished the thought.
    Reston laughed. “I was gonna say the only pot’s the one we piss in.”
    “So what brought you into research? You don’t really seem like the type.”
    “Me? I hate the sight of blood.”
    Logan smiled.
    “You think I’m kidding? The first time I saw an autopsy—the way they folded that poor guy’s scalp and used an electric saw to pop his top—I
knew
there had to be a better angle.”
    “Really? I always found autopsies pretty interesting.”
    “Another thing,” said Reston, ignoring this, “—I think over the long run clinical work can have a disastrous effect on your libido. I mean, I love women. But you can take the most beautiful one in the world—someone you’d normally
fantasize
about—and stick her in one of those damn hospitalgowns, with that harsh light showing every zit and blemish, and, sorry, the romance is gone. Especially if you catch her later in the autopsy room. You’re not gonna
think
about sex for a week.”
    “Well …” If Logan didn’t know quite how to respond, he at least had to admire the guy’s candor, a trait he’d encountered all too rarely at their prior place of employment. “I’m pretty sure you won’t have to suffer through too many autopsies here. That doesn’t seem to be part of the drill.”
    “I hope not. Let’s face it, the only reason they did so many at Claremont was so those weenies in the administration could keep their asses covered.”
    “Wasn’t that everyone’s main job at Claremont, keeping his ass covered? All you wanted to do was get out of that place unscathed.”
    Reston nodded. “So? How’d you manage it?”
    “I don’t know.” He thought about it a moment. “Look, you have to be good. They don’t screw people with real promise.