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tox report be done?”
    “I don’t know. It’s been twenty-four hours already. If this is something new, it may take weeks to identify. These pharmaceutical whizzes out there crank out drugs like new shoes. By the time we catch up with the latest fad, they’re on to something else.”
    “You agree, then? That it’s something new?”
    “Oh yeah. I’ve seen it all come down the pike. PCP, tropical ice, fruit loops. This is something different. Something bad . I think the only reason this guy’s still alive, and your two women aren’t, is that he’s a big dude. All that muscle mass. Takes a bigger dose to kill him.”
    It still might kill him , thought Kat, gazing at the comatose patient.
    “If this goes to the media, can I use you as a source?” she asked.
    “What do you mean?”
    “I think a warning ought to go out on the streets. That there’s bad stuff making the rounds.”
    Dietz didn’t answer right away. He just keptlooking at Nicos Biagi. “I don’t know,” he said at last.
    “What do you mean, you don’t know? It’d just be to voice your opinion. To confirm my statement.”
    “I don’t know,” he said again. He was gripping the IV pole. “It’s not as if you need me. You’ve got the authority.”
    “I could use the backup.”
    “It’s just … the press. I’m not crazy about talking to them.”
    “Okay, then just let me cite you by name. Would that be okay?”
    He sighed. “I guess so. But I’d rather you didn’t.” Abruptly, he straightened and glanced at his watch. “Look, I have to get going. I’ll catch you later.”
    Kat watched him walk out of the ICU, his shoulders hunched forward as though his whole body was straining to break into a sprint. What was he afraid of? she wondered. Why wouldn’t he talk to the press?
    She was on her way out of the ICU when she spotted the Biagis, coming in to visit their son. She guessed at once who they were, just by the grief in their faces. Mrs. Biagi was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and her face was seamed with worry.Mr. Biagi was much older and bald; he looked too numb to be feeling much of anything at the moment. They went to Nicos’s bedside, where they stood for a moment in silence. Mrs. Biagi stroked her son’s hair and began to sing softly, something in Italian. A lullaby, perhaps. Then she faltered, dropped her head to her son’s chest, and began to cry.
    Mr. Biagi didn’t say a word.
    Kat walked out of the ICU.
    In her haste to leave behind that scene, she took a wrong turn in the hallway. Instead of heading to the elevators, she found herself in a different wing, a part of the hospital she hadn’t seen before. White walls and gleaming linoleum told her this was a new addition, constructed only recently. Behind a glass case on the wall were displayed various mementos of the wing’s opening: Photographs of hospital officials at the ribbon cutting. Shots of a celebrity black-tie dinner. A bronze plaque, engraved with THE GEORGINA QUANTRELL WING . And a newspaper article with the headline: CYGNUS PRESIDENT DEDICATES MULTIMILLION-DOLLAR DRUG REHAB ADDITION . The accompanying photograph showed a sober-faced Adam Quantrell, posing beside the plaque.
    For a long time, Kat stood by that case, studying the photos, the news articles. Drug rehab? A surprising crusade for a man who made his fortune from drugs. Her gaze traveled the length of the case, paused at a teaching display of commonly abused drugs. Mounted on the board was a multicolored variety of capsules. And below it was the label: DISPLAY COURTESY OF CYGNUS PHARMACEUTICALS .
    Something clicked in Kat’s head. Dead junkies. A new drug on the street. Cygnus Pharmaceuticals.
    And a matchbook with Adam Quantrell’s phone number.
    She reached for her cell phone and called Sykes in Homicide.
    He was just leaving for home and did not seem particularly eager to prolong his workday.
    “Let me put it this way, Novak,” he said. “In the grand scheme of things, drug ODs are not high