“No needles,” Dr. Savard said calmly. “This is a sphygmomanometer—”

“A what?”

“A sphygmomanometer.” She pulled up the single stool in the room and sat on it. That simple act seemed to make Sister Xavier relax.

“Your heart beats to push blood through your arteries. The blood brings oxygen and nutrition to the cells,” she said in a tone of voice that had nothing schoolmarmish about it. “The force of the pulsing of the blood puts pressure on the walls of those arteries. This machine”—she touched it almost gently—“measures that. Your blood pressure.”

“And why do you need to know about my blood pressure?” Sister Xavier was trying to sound irritated, and failing. Dr. Savard had tapped her curiosity and disarmed her completely.

“It’s useful information for a surgeon,” Dr. Savard said. “It will influence the kind and duration of anesthesia we use.”

“Anesthesia?” Sister Xavier grabbed onto the word. “Anesthesia?”

At that moment Dr. Savard seemed to realize the source of Sister Xavier’s agitation.

“Did you think you would be awake for the procedure?” Dr. Savard said. “I should have made clear to you, and I apologize.” She turned to her assistants.

“Bring in one of the gas-ether regulators, please,” she said. “So I can explain the way it works to Sister Xavier.”

13

“SO,” MARONEY SAID, sliding into his desk chair and leaning back with his hands behind his head. “I see you got a private letter this morning.”

Jack let out a whistling breath. “Here,” he said, and tossed it onto Oscar’s desk. “Read it yourself.”

It was the path of least resistance, Jack told himself. Maybe he should have done this weeks ago, and saved himself the henpecking.

“Mezzanotte,” Oscar read aloud, and paused to raise an eyebrow in Jack’s direction before he went on.

Sister Mary Augustin will be here in the hospital for the next three or four days looking after a patient from the convent. Today between one and three would probably be best if you want to talk to her. Ask the porter to send for me, and I’ll arrange it.

“She signed it ‘Savard.’” Oscar looked at the back of the sheet of paper as if he’d find some explanation for such oddness there. “From this it sounds like she doesn’t like you much.”

“She likes me just fine.” Jack’s tone said that he would entertain no more questions in that direction.

Which Maroney ignored. “Is that so? And what about you?”

Jack picked up the newspaper and snapped it open. “I like me fine too.”

“Ass,” Maroney said. “What’s this about a nun?”

“She’ll make it easier to get answers at the Foundling.”

After a long moment Oscar said, “It’s a damn odd way to court a woman, chasing around the city looking for orphans for what, almost a month. You don’t think you’ll find them, do you?”

Jack considered, and then lowered his paper. “It’s unlikely,” he said. “But it’s important to her.”

“Hmmm,” Oscar said, and picked up his own paper. From behind it he said, “Tell me where you’ve been so far.”

Jack pulled out his notes and slid them across the desk. It had taken long enough to get Oscar to ask for them.

•   •   •

A NURSE IN training who looked to be all of fifteen showed Jack up to the third floor of the New Amsterdam Charity Hospital, casting glances over her shoulder when she thought he might not notice and then dropping her gaze to study the floor. He might have asked some questions, but he had the idea that she would have been too nervous to answer. Because he was with the police or because he was male or both; it was impossible to know.

She stopped outside a room with wide double doors and spoke to him without meeting his gaze.

“Dr. Savard said that if you would come in and sit at the back of the classroom, she’ll be with you as soon as possible.”

“I’ll do that. Thank you.”

She hesitated as if she had something else to say, then fairly sprinted away down the hall.

For almost a month now Anna had been setting up little tests, as though she couldn’t decide how to feel about him until she had put him through his paces. If she had grown up in an Italian family, her father would have gone after the same information in one fifteen-minute, sweat-soaked interview. Jack didn’t know much about her own father, but maybe he would have let her handle things this way, feeling her way forward, step by step.

He knew already how her mind worked. She was sure that sooner or later she’d reveal something about herself that would scare him off; he would decide that she was too forward, too opinionated, too educated. She would never defer to his opinion in anything except the law; she had no interest in keeping house. She was tough and uncompromising when it was called for. While she had never said it openly, he understood that she had no use for religion.

She could be irritable, but she was usually willing to let herself be distracted. In the middle of a sharp commentary about the traffic or something in the paper he would sometimes kiss her without warning. She always seemed surprised at first and then, suddenly, pleased, and she always kissed him back. They never discussed any of this, what it meant that she came to him gladly when he pulled her into a doorway and kept her there until she was soft and warm and pliant in his arms.

Sometimes at night, hovering between sleep and waking, Jack asked himself the very question she seemed determined to force: What would it take to make him see that they were not, in the end, suited? Thus far he hadn’t come up with an answer.

Now he slipped into the classroom and sat in the back row to observe Anna as she taught.

The room was not very large, three rows of chairs arranged in a semicircle around a center worktable crowded with books and papers, beakers and covered bowls, and three microscopes. Eight young women were standing at the table, bent forward to watch as Anna described something she saw on the slide. One of them was Sister Mary Augustin, whose white bonnet and habit stood out against the dark blackboard as though she were lit up from the inside.

Anna straightened and turned to the blackboard where she had already printed necrosis, epithelial, and something in Greek. And she teased him about Italian.

As she spoke she wrote out instructions. “I want you to spend at least an hour preparing slides and then examining and documenting the tumor under the microscope. Your drawings and notes should be very specific, from the gross anatomical to cellular. You must discuss the tissue types as a foundation for your diagnosis. For tomorrow I’d like you to write up a prognosis and treatment plan. You may work in pairs if you like. Questions?”

Sister Mary Augustin said something very soft and low, and Anna turned to her. “You certainly are welcome to participate. Your patient will sleep for a few hours more, and a nurse will be sitting beside her until she wakes. Now you’ll have to excuse me while I speak to Detective Sergeant Mezzanotte.”

The little nun’s head came up suddenly and her gaze fixed on Jack. He nodded to them both and left to wait in the hall.

•   •   •

JACK SAID, “ARE you poaching souls from the Catholic Church?” And was surprised to see that she was a little embarrassed.

“If you like,” she said finally. In her office she sat on the edge of the desk directly across from Jack, who was leaning against the door. “Though I’d characterize it more as responding to intellectual curiosity. She hasn’t taken final vows yet, has she?”

“What makes you think that?”

“She’s wearing white. Most of the other Catholic nuns I’ve seen wear black habits.”

“She wears white because she’s a nursing sister,” Jack said. “At the Foundling all the nuns wear white. All the nursing nuns.”

Anna’s expression shifted, irritation drawing a line between her brows. Apparently she didn’t like this particular fact about the Sisters of Charity.

“Why are you here, anyway?”

Jack took some pleasure in flustering her, there was no denying it.

“Because you sent for me.” And before she could work up any more of a temper he said, “You are very good in the classroom. Very much in control but not overpowering or unaware. You had their interest and attention.”

Now he had embarrassed her, but she was pleased, too. “Thank you,” she said quietly. When she raised her head again she was smiling. “Do you still have time to go to the Foundling on Sunday?”

He nodded. “Sister Mary Augustin?”

“There’s something going on there, but I have no idea what. She seems subdued. The only way to know if she’s willing to help is to ask her.”

They were silent for a long moment, just looking at each other. “Then Sunday at noon, if that suits. But tonight, if you’re still interested—”

She was waiting, her eyes on his face, her expression a study in hard-won composure.