Kettleman smiled, pretending to be listening patiently as he reaching for the bottle of antacid beside the bed.

“You hearing me, Joe? It’s your wife.”

“Well, I agree those numbers don’t sound good, but I don’t think—”

“I can prove it. The other guy on the boat, his name was Paul Bianchi, wasn’t it?” Silence. “Wasn’t it?” Kettleman popped a handful of tablets into his mouth and crunched them up. “Sorry, man. I wish it wasn’t true.” More silence. “Do you want me to take care of this?”

This did get a response from Kettleman. “No, absolutely not. It’s my account, I’ll deal with it.”

“Right. Ok. About that other thing, the surgeon.”

“Yes?”

“Lawrence sent a polite letter reminding her about the repercussions of violating doctor-patient confidentiality. It was hand delivered about a half hour ago, right there in the hospital.”

Kettleman breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, there you go. Things have a way of working out, don’t they? I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Without a goodbye, Kettleman dropped the receiver on it’s base.

“Ok,” he said, turning his attention to the detectives. “So Saturday? Let’s see, in the morning—”

“Business troubles?” asked Gates, sensing blood in the water despite Kettleman’s stoic disposition.

Kettleman chuckled. If they wanted to talk business, he didn’t care. There was absolutely nothing for him to worry about with that. Now that the surgeon had been handled, Kettleman was happy to talk on any subject they wanted. The only minor problem that remained was his wife, but she wasn’t exactly a criminal mastermind.

Kettleman spent the next half-hour answering questions about his businesses. Though he kept his answers short, he answered them all honestly. Eventually the junior detective lost his patience and intervened, directing the conversation back to the matter at hand. An hour and a half later, Gates ran out of questions.

The moment the door closed behind the detectives, it opened again. The surgeon, Dr. Samuels. And she was pissed.

“Who do you think you are?” she demanded, slamming the chart to the foot of the bed. “How dare you threaten me!”

“Ma’am.”

“I worked my butt off to get where I am, and no lowlife—”

“Ma’am, please.”

“Four years undergrad, four years post grad, six years of residency!”