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the state because the administrators order us to. But with prostitutes it’s mostly futile, because of how rapidly they switch names. They do it to fool the courts — to conceal evidence of prior arrests. So maybe that’s what she did. Tyrene Mazursky. Maybe there’s more to her than one identity.”
    “An alias,” said Doresh, enunciating slowly. “You don’t think we thought of that.”
    “I — I’m sure you did. It just occurred to me.”
    “Anything else occur to you, Doc?”
    “Just that.”
    Silence. “Anything else you want to tell me, Doc?”
    “No, that’s it.”
    “Because I’m listening,” said the detective.
    “Sorry if I bothered you,” said Jeremy.
    “Tyrene Mazursky,” said Doresh. “It’s funny you should mention her because I just got back her final autopsy report and have it here in front of me. Not pretty, Doc.
Another
extremely not-pretty. Kind of a Humpty-Dumpty situation.”
    The detective let the message sink in. No way to put her back together again . . .
another
. . . the same had happened to Jocelyn.
    It was the closest, since the murder, that he’d come to being informed.
    He nearly screamed out loud. Took a breath, said, “That’s horrible.”
    “Tyrene Mazursky,” said Doresh. “Turns out, she was married to a Polish guy, years ago. Commercial fisherman, one of those guys who goes out on the lakes and seines and hauls in whatever comes up. Also, he was part of those crews that go looking for submerged logs — hundred-year-old logs that fell off the barges. Fancy maple wood, they use ’em for violins. Anyway, this guy was a big drunk. He died in a capsize a few winters ago, left her with nothing. Even before that, she was whoring a little, what with him being gone all the time, drinking away his wages. After he died, she got serious. About her profession, that is.”
    Hearing Tyrene Mazursky’s life reduced like that froze Jeremy’s heart and his mouth. His hands began to tremble.
    He said, “Poor woman.”
    “Sad story,” Doresh agreed. “Guess we both know about that, huh? Have a nice day, Doc.”
    Jeremy placed the phone in its cradle. Imagined Tyrene Mazursky working the docks. Waiting for her ship to come in.
    Jocelyn. Working the wards, waiting to see Jeremy that night.
    Men do it to women. That’s what it is.
    He sat there bathed in sweat, sour-mouthed, watching as evening darkened the air shaft outside his window.
    Finally, he picked up the phone again and punched an extension.
    “Chess,” boomed a familiar voice.
    “It’s me, Arthur. Turns out Friday’s fine.”
     
13
     
    L ate Thursday, Jeremy found a handwritten message in his box, forward-slanted script, black ink on substantial blue rag paper, the liquid elegance of a fountain pen.
     
Dr. C:

Friday, 9:30 p.m. I’ll call with details.

AC
     
    On Friday, serious rain arrived, frigid, unannounced, relentless as a military assault. Overtaxed storm drains backed up, and some regions of the city were assailed by filth. Auto collisions played a drumbeat on tight urban skin. The air smelled like mercurochrome. The docks at the harbor grew slick with accumulated slaps of oily lake water, boats rocked and sank, and unshaven men in knit caps and waders retired to dark bars to drink themselves senseless.
    Jeremy’s car fishtailed all the way to the hospital. Angela phoned him at shift’s end, sounded exhausted.
    “Rough day?”
    “A bit rougher than usual,” she said. “But I’ll try to be sociable. If I fall asleep, you can prop me up.”
    “I’m sorry,” Jeremy told her. “Something came up. An evening with Dr. Chess.”
    “Dr. Chess? Well, then go, of course. He’s brilliant. What’s the topic?”
    Jeremy had hoped for disappointment. “Something erudite. He wasn’t clear about the details.”
    “Have fun.”
    “I’ll give it a shot.”
    “Why don’t you call me when it’s over?”
    “It could be late,” said Jeremy. “Dinner doesn’t begin until half past