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said Jeremy. Then he remembered Arthur’s persistent curiosity about “very bad behavior.” Had all that been a prelude to this?
    “A wide range of issues,” said Arthur. “We aim for erudition, but nothing ponderous, Jeremy. The company’s amiable, the food is well prepared — quite tasty, really — and we pour some fine spirits. We sup late. Though I don’t imagine that will be a problem for you.”
    How could Arthur know of his insomnia? “Why’s that?”
    “You’re an energetic young man.” One of the pathologist’s big hands slapped the table. “So. Are we set?”
    Jeremy said, “Sorry, Friday’s tough.” He didn’t have to lie. Angela’s on-call ended Thursday night. No date had been set for Friday, but there was no reason for her to turn him down.
    “I see. Well, another time, then.” Arthur got to his feet. “No harm trying. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. If you change your mind, feel free to let me know.” He placed a palm on Jeremy’s shoulder. Weighty; Jeremy became aware of the pathologist’s bulk and strength.
    “Will do. Thanks for thinking of me, Arthur.”
    “I thought
precisely
of you.” Arthur’s hand remained on Jeremy’s shoulder. Jeremy whiffed bay rum and strong tea and something acrid, possibly formaldehyde.
    “I’m flattered,” said Jeremy.
    Arthur said, “Do consider this: During times of abject disorder, a good, late-night supper can be most fortifying.”
    “Disorder?” said Jeremy.
    But the old man had already turned and left.
     
     
    Back in his office, he failed to conjure anything to do with Angela, past or future.
    The word caromed around his head:
Disorder
.
    Not mine; the city’s. The world’s.
    Mine.
    The old bastard was right. What better description of a time when women were stalked and hunted and brought down like prey simply because they were women. Where men with low resting heart rates chose their victims with all the gravitas of grocery shoppers squeezing melons.
    Men who craved blood gas and terror-struck eyes, the confiscation of body juice, the ultimate power.
    Monster-men who
needed
all that to get their
own
blood rushing.
    Disorder
was the perfect description of a world where Jocelyn’s death enlisted her in the same sorority as Tyrene Mazursky.
    He hadn’t been able to conjure Angela, but now Jocelyn’s face flew into his head. Her laughter, even at his lamest jokes, the way she cared for her hopeless patients. Her pixie face when it flushed and compressed in the throes of pleasure.
    When it had been really good for her, the flush that rose from her pelvis to her chin.
    Then, another kind of face. Also compressed. No pleasure.
    Nausea coiled around Jeremy’s gut. He felt the urge to vomit, grabbed his wastebasket, and plunged his face into it. All that came were dry heaves. He sat low, dangling the basket, his head between his hands, sweating, panting.
    Monster-men, creating human dross. Then other men — coarse civil servants like Hoker and Doresh — fashioned careers from the waste.
    He managed to expunge a plug of mucus from his throat and throp it into the trash. Removing the plastic bag from the basket, he took it to the men’s room, tossed it, returned to his office, locked the door, and thumbed through his address book.
    He found the number and punched it.
    Detective Doresh answered, “Homicide,” and Jeremy said, “I was wondering why a black woman would have a name like Mazursky.”
    “Who’s — Dr. Carrier? What’s going on?”
    “It just struck me as odd,” said Jeremy.
It struck me as profoundly disordered.
“Then I thought: Maybe she used an alias. Because prostitutes do that. I’ve seen it — we treat them here at the hospital, they come in for their STDs — sexually transmitted diseases — and their nonspecific urinary tract infections, malnutrition, dental problems, hepatitis C. One woman will have five different charts. We don’t expect much in the way of reimbursement, but we do try to bill