Picking the receiver back up, Taylor was told that Mr. Marshall was available. After some static Kevin’s sleepy voice crackled over the line.

“Is this really Taylor Cabot?” Kevin asked.

“Do you remember a Carlo Franconi?” Taylor demanded, ignoring Kevin’s question.

“Of course,” Kevin said.

“He’s been murdered this afternoon,” Taylor said. “There’s an autopsy scheduled for the morning in New York City. What I want to know is, could that be a problem?”

There was a moment of silence. Taylor was about to question whether the connection had been broken when Kevin spoke up.

“Yes, it could be a problem,” Kevin said.

“Someone could figure out everything from an autopsy?”

“It’s possible,” Kevin said. “I wouldn’t say probable, but it is possible.”

“I don’t like possible,” Taylor said. He disconnected from Kevin and called the operator back at GenSys. Taylor said he wanted to speak immediately to Dr. Raymond Lyons. He emphasized that it was an emergency.

NEW YORK CITY

“Excuse me,” the waiter whispered. He’d approached Dr. Lyons from the left side, having waited for a break in the conversation the doctor was engaged in with his young, blond assistant and current lover, Darlene Poison. Between his gracefully graying hair and conservative apparel, the good doctor looked like the quintessential, soap-opera physician. He was in his early fifties, tall, tanned, and enviably slender with refined, patrician good looks.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” the waiter continued. “But there is an emergency call for you. Can I offer you our cordless phone or would you prefer to use the phone in the hall?”

Raymond’s blue eyes darted back and forth between Darlene’s affable but bland face and the considerate waiter whose impeccable demeanor reflected Aureole’s 26 service rating in Zagat’s restaurant guide. Raymond did not look happy.

“Perhaps I should tell them you are not available,” the waiter suggested.