CHAPTER 1
TUESDAY, MAY 17, 11:29 P.M.
Yvars, seated behind his mahogany desk, had just finished puttingaway his notes from the evening's group therapy session when hethought he heard a faint sound. It must be Max playing with his keys.He often wondered how Max passed the time. His ten to six shift hadto be incredibly boring.
He heard the thud again. This time louder. He knew it couldn't bethe bell. The sound was different. Besides, the bell had been broken, andhe didn't think the electrician had come to fix it. Neither could it be apatient. The hour was too late. Mort lifted his muscular frame from theleather chair and walked toward the noise. Then he heard it again. Athumping sound pressing against his front door. Who could it be? Maxwould have notified him on the intercom if someone was there to seehim. Maybe it was Max himself at the door. Yes, that was probably whatit was. He saw my light on, Mort thought, and his boredom got the best of him.He's probably out there wanting to chat.
Mort opened the door and stood momentarily frozen. Standingin front of him was a tall, thin young woman in a torn blood-soakednightgown. Before he could utter a word she collapsed, three notebooksscattering in all directions.
"Dr. Yvars," she panted, "you must help me! I have to talk to you."
Mort dragged her limp body into his office. He then closed the door.He raced to the phone on his desk and punched in 911.
"Please hang up. Don't call anyone," she uttered weakly.
"I must. You need immediate help or you'll bleed to death."
"It's too late." She coughed up several large clumps of blood.
"I can't just let you die," Yvars replied. "This is Dr. Yvars," he saidinto the telephone. "I'm at 201 West Eighty-Eighth Street. A woman isbleeding to death in my office. Send a paramedic unit over immediately."He quickly hung up the phone.
"It's no use. I'll be dead before they get here."
Mort bent down and gently held her bloody hand. "I have somegauze in my back room. I should be able to stop some of the bleeding,buy some time. Wentworth Hospital is only a few minutes from here.You'll be okay."
"Where are my three notebooks?" she whispered. "Get them!"
Mort glanced around the blood-spattered beige carpet, lifted himselfup, and retrieved two of them.
"There's another one someplace," she murmured.
"I'll find it later. Right now I have to stop the bleeding."
"I beg you not to. I'm dying. I know that. So do you. Kathy Stylestold me you were a good listener. Hear me out. I need you to find mykiller."
"I'm a doctor. That's for the police to do," Mort said, pressinghis right hand firmly against the large gaping wound under her rightbreast.
"No. Not the police. Not the FBI. Kathy told me that you ..." Shepaused to catch her breath. The room was starting to spin. "That youspecialize in treating violent patients."
"I do, but what has that to do with you?" Mort paused. "Did one ofmy patients stab you?" he asked.
"I doubt it. I don't think anybody I know other than Kathy wouldever go to a psychiatrist. It's your knowledge of human nature I need."
She began feeling a wave of nausea again. This time more forceful.She vomited once. Then again. "Will you help?"
"Yes," Mort reluctantly replied. "If I can, I will."
"All you need to know to find my killer is written in my threenotebooks." she gasped.
Mort spotted the third one next to his magazine rack.
"Put them in a safe place for now. Read them later. You'll knowwhat to do."
Mort stood up, took the three notebooks, and put them on the topshelf of the nearby closet. He then returned to her side.
"Promise me one thing," she said.
"What's that?"
"Don't hand those notebooks over to the police!"
"I have to," Mort replied.
"Please don't or you'll get yourself killed as well," she repliedweakly.
Then the room began a sickening whirl. She tried mouthing anothersentence, another word. She couldn't. Her breaths were becoming morerapid, less regular. The room was becoming darker. Then nothing.
Mort felt for her pulse. There wasn't any. He began cardiac message."Hang in there!"
Suddenly the door flew open. Max rushed in, followed by twoheavyset men in white. The two paramedics began working on her,attempting to revive her.
Five minutes later the taller of the two faced Mort. "It's no use. Herpupils are fixed and dilated."
Mort stared at the blood-soaked lifeless figure sprawled on thecarpet.
"Are you the doctor who called 911?" the shorter of the two askedas he took out a pad and pen from his jacket pocket.
"Yes. I'm Mort Yvars."
"What do you know about her?"
"Nothing," Mort replied helplessly.
"Why was she here?" the taller one asked.
Yvars hesitated before replying. Should he heed the words of a dyingwoman or tell them what she said? He decided he'd best acquiesce to herplea. "I don't know. I never saw her before."
"Where'd she live?" the shorter one asked.
"I'm not sure, but she was near death when she got here. I have tobelieve that she couldn't have walked very far. She must live close by."
"What was her name?" the taller one asked.
"I don't know. She knocked on my door. I let her in and called 911,and within minutes she arrested. I was trying to resuscitate her whenyou got here."
"Jim," the shorter one began, "call the Twentieth Precinct. Tell themto come to 201 West Eighty-Eighth apartment 1F. We have a DOA."
CHAPTER 2
WEDNESDAY, MAY 18, 12:47 A.M.
"Mort, are you okay? What happened?" Millie asked, standing in theentranceway to their apartment.
Mort, his hands trembling, related the events that had transpired.
"Where's Detective Feldman now?" Millie asked.
"Across the street from my office. They traced her path of blood. Itled right to her apartment. He's probably over there now. He orderedthe attendant to take her body to the medical examiner."
"Are you sure you're all right? You look green."
Mort took a deep breath and feigned a smile. "I'm shook up. That'sall. Really I'm fine."
Millie rubbed her thin fingers through Mort's thick brown hair.
"Forgive me for worrying, but it's not every night that you call to tellme about a stranger who comes to your office after being stabbed severaltimes and then drops dead. It's scary. I love you. I worry about you."
"You have nothing to worry about. I wasn't murdered. She was."
"That's not what I'm worried about. I know you better than youthink. Perhaps better than you know yourself. I'm afraid you'll meddle.Get involved. End up like her."
Mort kissed Millie on her cheek. "I'll be fine. We'll grow oldtogether. You'll see."
"Mort, you haven't answered my question!"
"I didn't realize you'd asked one," Mort said with a sheepish grin.
"Well, are you going to?"
"Am I going to what?"
"Search for her killer."
Mort didn't respond.
"I knew it. You are going to put your two cents in. Get killed. I'llbe widowed," Millie replied.
"I have to. She pleaded with me. If a client came to you, you'd dothe same. I know you would."
Millie couldn't say anything. Mort was right. She would. She sighed.She'd have to hope that Mort knew what he was doing. She had noother choice.
"Did you make any progress in court today?" Mort asked.
"Yes. We should be ready to start jury selection tomorrow."
"What's Benson's read on...
