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  Now your wife can eat it without the embarrassment of being unable to slice the pieces into portions she can manage.

  “Honey, are you ready for me to help you serve the salads?” I asked.

  “I am,” Carter said.

  Micah looked up. “I will take care of Hannah’s plates for the rest of the evening.”

  I picked up two of the salad plates. “Thanks for the help,” I said.

  “I enjoy doing this for the woman who is the love of my life. I will do anything for her.” He glared at me. “And for my children.”

  A shiver ran down my spine. Was he threatening me that if I ever did anything to hurt Hannah, there might be consequences? Or was he simply giving me insight about their personal lives?

  Or was I overreacting?

  Whichever, I might have uncovered another element to their story.

  67

  The dinner conversation covered many subjects. As the wine flowed and the chatter became louder, I kept listening, hoping the fellowship we were developing as a group would convince Micah and Hannah to let me proceed with their story.

  “The lamb was perfectly prepared,” Micah said when he finished the main course. “My compliments to the chef and his able assistant.”

  “Here, here,” Hannah seconded. “A toast to Carter and to Tina: Thank you for a terrific dinner.”

  They raised their glasses toward my husband and me.

  “And I would like to thank my husband who did all the work,” I said.

  “Thank God, he did,” Cas said. “You would have burned the lamb to a crisp.”

  The group laughed and sipped their wine.

  Hannah placed both hands under her wine glass, but before she could attempt to lift it, Micah reached over and gently placed his left hand under hers. His support allowed her to continue the toast without spilling her wine.

  It was an instinctive move, one that had become part of their lives. And duplicating what he’d done with her salad, he had cut her lamb into bite-sized pieces. He’d done the same thing with the side dishes of roasted asparagus with a honey and balsamic drizzle and potato gratin.

  Hannah whispered to Micah. He stood up.

  “I am sorry, but Hannah and I must leave before dessert,” he said. “I am about to begin Phase I trials, and I have to be at the lab early in the morning.”

  “On Sunday?” Molly asked. “Doc, I’m glad I don’t work for you.”

  “Devastating diseases do not get the weekend off. If I am going to the change the future of medicine, I cannot miss even one day in the lab.”

  Micah scooted Hannah’s chair back and helped her up.

  “I’ll show you out,” I said, hoping to apply a little pressure for a future interview before they departed.

  Micah continued with effusive praise about the events of the evening until we were outside on the front porch. Hannah hadn’t said a word, either because Micah dominated the moment, or she was too exhausted to speak.

  Micah turned to me. “Once again, we both thank you for this delightful time together.”

  “It was great fun, and I would like to continue it by interviewing both of you for my monthly column.”

  His face darkened. “Hannah and I are private people. We do not do interviews.”

  What about the hundreds of public interviews you’ll have to give if your medical research changes the world?

  Without another word, they left. He supported her arm as they descended our front stairs. Their driver pulled up in the black Escalade and stopped. He popped out and opened the rear door. Micah helped Hannah inside and then joined her. The SUV drove off into the Chicago night.

  Along with my story.

  My story deadline was the second Friday in August. I needed to interview them before that.

  How am I going to do it?

  68

  In our darkened bedroom, I snuggled in Carter’s arms.

  “Did you catch Micah’s comment about the Phase I trials of his work?” I asked.

  “I did,” he said.

  “I don’t know much about that. Do you?”

  “A little. Northwestern and the University of Chicago frequently run ads in our paper announcing Phase I trials. They advertise for volunteer patients with the disease they are studying.”

  “I get that, but what’s a Phase I trial do?”

  “It tests a new drug or treatment on a limited number of patients. The doctors evaluate the safety profile, determine a safe dosage range, and identify any side effects.”

  “I assume there are other phases.”

  “Two more. Phase II involves more patients to determine the effectiveness while continuing to monitor side effects. Phase III involves an even larger group of patients but this time comparing the results with other existing treatments.”

  “Do the patients get paid?”

  “They do, and it’s one reason why these trials are expensive.”

  “Are the medicines free?”

  “Yes, they are, and the patients also receive free medical exams during the trial.”

  “What if there are side effects of the drugs or treatment?”

  “The patients have to sign release papers acknowledging those risks.”

  There’s definitely a story here.

  “Can you alert your ad guys to see if Micah’s name comes up in requests for Phase I participants?” I asked.

  “I’ll do it tomorrow, but there’s only one problem: Neither of us knows what disease he’s treating.”

  “I made a computer file of all the scientific papers written by Micah in the past couple of years. I’ll send them to Cas. Maybe she can figure it out.”

  “Let me know what she says.”

  “I will, but not tonight. I’m feeling that baby urge. Hope you’re not too sleepy.”

  Silly question. He’s a man.

  69

  Sunday morning, I ran and then went to Whole Foods. Carter took care of Kerry while I shopped for dinner items. In the produce aisle, the young lady pushing the cart toward me looked familiar.

  She halted in front of me. “Oh hi, Mrs. Thomas.”

  “Corky? I didn’t recognize you.”

  “I look way different when I’m not at XSport because there I don’t wear makeup, or curl my hair.”

  I studied her. “But there’s something else.”

  She arched her back allowing her breasts to stand out. “I have bigger boobs. I had them put in on the fourteenth. That’s why I haven’t been in class. The surgeon wouldn’t let me work out.”

  Her breasts looked about the same size as her two exercise partners. “Like Sammy and Donna,” I said.

  “Exactly. They had their surgery on the Monday before I had mine done.” She looked around. “But please don’t tell anyone, okay?”

  “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  But I am curious why you said that.

  “Speaking of Donna, may I ask you a question?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Late Friday afternoon, she was walking in our neighborhood with Dr. Lorenz, the dentist who lives next door to me. She went inside with him. Are they hanging out?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Is he your dentist?”

  “For sure.”

  “Why did you choose him?”

  “He’s free.”

  “Each visit?”

  “No, only the first one. But if other stuff needs to be done, he will give us a discount.”

  “Us?”

  “Donna and Sammy and I work at the Twenties. He came there Thursday night and gave out his card for one free exam and cleaning.”

  “I might have to try him.”

  “He gave a card to your friend Molly. He said he was new and trying to build up his practice. Donna and I went in Friday morning. She went back Friday afternoon.”

  The dentist is sniffing around, but why?

  There was one way to find out, and it couldn’t be worse than the five pelvic exams I’d subjected mysel
f to in order to get inside information for the Arlington clinic story.

  Of course, doing it had almost gotten me killed.

  70

  Monday afternoon, Cas watched Kerry for me. I walked three blocks north of our home to Dr. Lorenz’s office. I’d made the appointment using Linda’s name, cell phone number, and her address in Lakeview. I had her driver’s license, her black American Express card, and her dental insurance card.

  I had been leaving our home, including for my morning run, through our back door. I didn’t want Lorenz to see me, but if he did, Linda and I looked enough alike in the tiny picture on her driver’s license that I felt sure I could pull off the switch.

  Linda’s pregnancy? Easy to handle. That morning I’d rented a third trimester padded pregnancy belly at a costume store I’d used in Lincoln Park when I was single. If he ran into the real Linda elsewhere in the neighborhood, he would see a pregnant brown-haired woman pushing a stroller.

  Cheap reproductions of famous paintings hung on the walls, and baby diarrhea-colored linoleum covered the floor in his office. New magazines and brochures for expensive dental procedures were scattered on the top of the only table. Lined up against the wall were four metal chairs covered with light blue vinyl. The odor of fresh paint hung in the air. I hadn’t seen a receptionist when I’d entered. I sat down to wait.

  An inner door opened, and Dr. Lorenz stepped into his office waiting room. “Mrs. Misle?” he asked.

  Lorenz had a mortician’s voice, soft and atonal. He wore a short, white, lab coat with a yellow dress shirt and blue tie. His ample neck strained against the top button of his shirt.

  “Yes, that’s who I am, Linda Misle.” My speech was pressured, and I sounded like a kid breathing helium from a balloon at a birthday party.

  “Please, come in,” he said, as he held the inner door for me.

  I entered and followed him toward an exam room to my left. He led me to a dental exam chair. Sitting down, I glanced around and saw his dental school diploma prominently displayed on the wall in front of me. The odor of mint mouthwash and hand-sanitizer filled the room. His dental instruments sat lined up on a tray next to the chair.

  Maybe you are a dentist and I’m wrong about you.

  He handed me a pen and a clipboard covered with papers. “Please fill these out,” he said.

  “Do you need my dental insurance card too?” I asked.

  “That would be helpful,” he said. “I’ll make a copy of it while you finish the papers.”

  I handed him Linda’s dental card, her driver’s license, and credit card. I heard his copy machine fire up while I finished the paperwork.

  He came back into the exam room and handed Linda’s cards back to me.

  “Now, what seems to be the problem?” he asked, as he tilted the chair backwards.

  71

  “Problem?” I asked.

  “Yes, I assume you have a dental issue,” Lorenz said.

  “Oh, right. Teeth. I just need a routine exam to make sure my teeth are okay.

  “A good plan.”

  “But I’m a little nervous. I’ve had the same dentist since I was a child, and he died, poor thing, and I have to find a new one.”

  “It’s possible I knew him. What’s his name?”

  “Name?”

  “Your dentist. His name.”

  “Right. Thomsen. Allen Thomsen.”

  “Was his office in this neighborhood?”

  “No, I grew up in Lincoln Park.”

  “Your driver’s license shows you live on West Roscoe.”

  You did check me out.

  “I do, with my husband, Howard, and our daughter, Sandra.”

  “Not too far from me. I’ll do an x-ray first and go from there.”

  After he took my dental x-rays, he turned on his computer and went over them in detail. The dental exam followed and was thorough and painless. But it was accompanied by an interview about our neighborhood.

  He began with softball questions, inquiring about shopping and my restaurant recommendations. That was followed with more detailed questions about our neighbors. The transition was subtle. He would go back and forth between inquiries about my favorite foods and people I had seen in the neighborhood.

  The questions he tossed at me were the same ones I would have asked if I were working on a story about potentially strange happenings going on in the neighborhood. He was a pro at it. He took his time, and when he’d mined my brain for all the information he could obtain, my exam was over.

  But I was a pro too. I avoided asking him any questions or giving away any facts that might reveal my true identity. Alerting him that I was a journalist would be the stupidest move I could make.

  He finished the exam. “In summary, your teeth are perfect, and you need to keep them that way.”

  He followed that with a mini-lecture on how to brush and floss. He gave me a free toothbrush and a small sample of toothpaste.

  “When should I come back?” I asked.

  “I should have front office help soon. I’ll have them call you.”

  He was a real dentist, but was there a reason he chose to live next door to me?

  Did it have to do with al-Turk?

  I have to know.

  I couldn’t be sure that stealing his trash would give me the answer. Breaking into his home while he was at work might.

  What else can I do?

  72

  Tuesday afternoon, the torrid heat had disappeared, and the temperature, at least for one day, was delightful, in the mid 70’s. It was a no-brainer to move our playgroup from Linda’s home to Hamlin Park. I was late. The rest of the moms and their kids had arrived before me.

  I’d spent my free time that morning planning how I would break into the dentist’s house. From memory, I’d drawn up the floor plan of Lyndell’s home and made an “X” on the room that had been her office, assuming that since Lorenz had rented all of her furniture, he would use that room for the same purpose.

  Lorenz’s home security system was my next hurdle. Even though I knew Lyndell’s code for her system, I had to assume he’d changed it and her front door lock and key. From the boxes in the garage, I already had found the equipment to bypass the system. And the door lock wouldn’t be an issue; I had my lock pick gun and torque wrench.

  None of my friends needed to know about my plans to break into Lorenz’s house. At least not yet.

  “Sorry, I’m late,” I said. “I was grinding away on the computer.”

  “What were you working on?” Linda asked.

  “The Phase I trial Micah mentioned it at the dinner party,” I said.

  “What did you find?”

  “Not enough. I need an expert.”

  “That would be me,” Cas said. “I participated in several of those clinical trials, and let me tell you, they’re a pain for the nursing staff.”

  “Why?” I asked. “I haven’t found any mention of that online.”

  “And you won’t. The doctors get all the glory if the treatment works, but the staff members who do all the real work rarely get mentioned.”

  “I don’t get what you mean,” Molly said.

  “It’s the amount of computer work. Each entry must be confirmed for accuracy and then backed-up. Any screw-ups and the FDA will pull the study and the funding.”

  “Is this why it’s so expensive to do?” Linda asked.

  “It could easily take four or five years before a drug is finally released and makes any money, and by then, the research teams could have blown through two hundred to three hundred million dollars.”

  “What if the drug is a spectacular success in the first trial or even the second one?” I asked. “The FDA can’t let sick people die while the doctors are forced to go through all three trials.”

  “That happens way too frequently. But it’s not the same in Europe and other countries. They find a drug or treatment that works and they release it.”

  “What about unknown side effects?” L
inda asked.

  “It’s a risk a dying patient in the U.S. might want to take. They’ll fly to one of those countries and pay whatever it costs to be treated.”

  “Can’t the FDA fast-track a drug that will obviously save lives?” I asked.

  “If they do, it’ll still take a minimum of two years before that happens.”

  “Micah is gonna be a busy boy for the next few years,” Molly said.

  “Did you notice how Micah and Hannah interacted at dinner?” Linda asked.

  “Someone cut up her food so she could eat it,” Cas said. “I assume that’s what Micah did in your kitchen.”

  “He did,” I said.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Linda asked. “Is it arthritis?”

  “Possibly, or more likely a neurodegenerative disorder,” Cas said.

  “What are you guys talking about?” Molly asked. “Science wasn’t one of my favorite subjects in high school before I dropped out to start modeling.”

  “Do you know much about Parkinson’s disease or multiple sclerosis?” Cas asked. “Or amyotrophic lateral sclerosis?”