'We have an exception,' said Hawkes. 'What do you know about the disease?'
'Bacterial infection usually caught from animal urine,' she said. 'One of our cases? Lutnikov, Spanio, Collier, one of Dario Marco's men?'
'No,' said Hawkes. 'It's you. Danny got a sample of your mucus from a tissue you threw away. You don't have the flu. What do you know about leptospirosis?'
'Next to nothing,' said Stella, leaning back and closing her eyes.
Hawke's hand touched her forehead.
'Fever,' he said. 'Headache?'
'Yes.'
'Chills, muscle ache, vomiting?'
'Nausea, no vomiting.'
Hawkes gently turned her in the chair and looked at her face.
'Slight jaundice, red eyes,' he said.
'You sound like you're doing an autopsy,' Stella said.
'My patients don't usually talk back,' he said. 'Abdominal pain, diarrhea?'
'A little of both,' Stella said.
'Hospital,' said Hawkes.
'How about outpatient treatment?' she asked. 'I'm really close on the Spanio murder.'
'Danny can follow through. You know what untreated or improperly treated leptospirosis can turn into? Kidney damage, meningitis, liver failure. I've seen one death from it. When did you start showing symptoms?'
'Yesterday,' Stella said, resigned. 'Maybe the day before.'
'You remember being exposed to animal…?' Hawkes began.
'The cats,' said Danny.
'What was that?' asked Hawkes.
'Old woman died in her home on the East Side,' said Stella. 'Cat woman, forty-seven we could find. We ran it as a crime scene because there were signs that someone had broken into the house, but she had a heart attack. Overweight, seventy-eight years old. Didn't take care of herself.'
'Or her cats,' said Hawkes. 'Where are they now?'
'Humane society took them,' said Danny.
Hawkes shook his head.
'See if you can round them up,' Stella said to Danny.
'If there are any recently dead ones,' Hawkes said, 'I'd like to have them brought in.'
'My guess,' said Stella, 'is that, except for a lucky few, they were all euthanised and cremated. Treatment?'
'Overnight in a hospital bed,' said Hawkes. 'Antibiotics, probably doxycycline. I'll call Kirkbaum and have a room saved for you.'
'How long?' asked Stella.
'If we caught it early enough, two or three days. If not, we could be talking a week or two. Judging from the viral load, it may just be that Danny saved your life.'
Danny grinned smugly and adjusted his glasses.
'I'm a stubborn ass,' she said. 'Thanks.'
'You're welcome,' said Danny. 'And, yes, you are one major stubborn ass.'
Stella stood and said, 'Danny, gather all these Spanio photos and tell Mac to come to the hospital as soon as he can get there.'
'You'll be all right,' said Hawkes. 'I haven't had a complaint from a patient yet.'
'That's because they're all dead,' said Stella.
There was a uniformed cop at the entrance to Marco's Bakery and another uniformed cop at the back exit on the shipping dock. This didn't surprise Big Stevie.
The only question was: Were the cops there to keep Marco from getting out, or to keep Stevie or someone else from getting in?
It didn't matter. Stevie knew at least two other ways into the building. He knew that the window to the men's toilet was easy to open. Even if it was locked, the lock was just a small slide bolt he would have no trouble breaking with a firm tug. He wouldn't even make much noise.
The problem with going through the toilet window was that he would have to find something to stand on, get leverage, and then climb through. Usually this would be no problem. But with his leg growing ever more numb, the task might be more than he could handle. Once inside the toilet he would have to go out the door past the bakers and their assistants. He was a familiar sight back there, at least normally. Normally, no one would have paid much, if any, attention to the big man, but today might be altogether different. He doubted that even in his weakened state, bleeding and walking like a mummy in those old movies, that anyone in the bakery would be able to stop him and most would probably simply pretend they had never even noticed him. They had all done time. D and D. Deaf and dumb. It was the stay alive philosophy of prison.
No, it would have to be the storage basement. He didn't know if any of the opaque windows could be opened without making noise that would attract attention. He did know that he wasn't seen by the cop on the loading dock. Window number one was firm, didn't budge, probably hadn't been opened in twenty years or more. Window number two had four sections. The dirty glass plate in the upper right-hand section of the window was loose and the window itself had a little give to it.
Stevie found a small chunk of concrete and knelt by the ground-level window. He tore off a piece of his undershirt, placed it against the loose pane, and struck the cloth with the piece of concrete, struck it gently. There wasn't much noise, but the pane did not give way. He tried again, striking a little harder. Something cracked. There was now a hole in the glass about the size of his fist. He put down the concrete and took the torn piece of shirt from the window.
Stevie inched his thick fingers through the hole in the glass. He felt the cutting of the glass, ignored it and slowly worked the top piece of glass loose. He placed it on the ground.
He wiped his bleeding fingers on his already bloody pants and reached through the open space in the window. There was just enough room for him to force his hand and arm far enough to reach the lock. It was rusted shut, but Stevie was determined. He shoved. The rusted metal bolt came off. Using his right arm, sitting awkwardly, he reached in and put pressure on the window. The window resisted. Slowly Stevie began to feel the window losing the battle. Suddenly, the entire window shot up on creaking hinges.
Stevie knelt panting, waiting, listening for running footsteps, but none came.
He had finished the easy part of his task. Now came the hard part, getting his bulk through the open window. He knew it would be close. He took off his coat and placed it on the ground.
A cold wind drove through him and he realized that snow was falling again. He was growing weaker and he would have to move quickly while he was still able.
He eased his injured leg through the open window followed by his good one and started to push himself backward through the window. When he was inside as far as his stomach, it felt tight, but not impossibly tight. He kept pushing backward. His stomach scraped against the thin metal frame of the window, and he wasn't sure if he would make it through. He was sure at this point that he would never be able to pull himself back out. He struggled, grunting, seeing the blood from his fingers against the snow and then, suddenly, he popped through the window and went sprawling backward into dusty darkness.
He lay on his back panting, out of breath, eyes closed. Big Stevie was in pain. He was cold. And he was bloody. But he was on a mission, and he was inside Marco's Bakery.
The search perimeter around Drietch's firing range had been widened. Two uniformed officers were helping Aiden search for the missing bolt cutter.
