He could hear her but wasn't really listening to what she was saying. He knew what she'd found anyway. He should have interrupted, but he just liked the sound of her voice, the idea that she was so close he could reach out his hand and touch her. He wouldn't though. He was afraid even to look directly at her, fearing she might disappear. So he fixed his gaze on Gretel, curled up now at the end of his lounge chair, taking her turn at a nap.

When Elizabeth ended he cleared his throat. "Does Ella like puzzles?" he asked. "What?" she replied, taken off guard by the seeming non sequitur. "Well," he continued slowly, "all kids do. But sometimes they get frustrated when the pieces don't fit. " He paused, then asked drily "When Ella can't find the right piece, do you give it to her?" Elizabeth lifted her gaze to meet his. "Sometimes," she answered, "But I never hide it in my hand."

Robert carefully lifted a stack of journals and pulled out a thin folder and handed it to Elizabeth. Inside she found a single photocopied sheet of paper. It was a public health form for declaring infectious STDs. The patient information was all there: age, sex, symptoms. Except for the name. It was signed by Susan Lewis and dated sometime from the week that Robert had lost his job as chief of staff. "A gift from Brenda," Robert added with a little smile. "You remember my former assistant?" he asked Elizabeth, "She knew that I didn't really want carnations."

Elizabeth was still uncertain. The symptoms listed were those of syphilis, but the patient's age and other health conditions did not correspond to those of the young man she had treated. She waited for Robert to explain, but he was waiting for her to ask. And suddenly she did feel like a frustrated child ready to stamp her foot and scream, "Just tell me!" She hated that he made her feel like this, that he would never just give her what she needed, that he seemed to enjoy making her come to him and ask ever so politely. This time, though, he didn't seem to be enjoying himself as much as usual.

"Sixty year old man," he continued, "comes in with arythmia, but Susan finds syphilis. Leave it to Susan! But she doesn't have a chart from that day with a sixty-year-old white male. Kerry does."

"But the boy was only twenty-two," Elizabeth objected irritably.

"Not the same day," Robert replied patiently, taking a deep breath and adding. "Kerry may be in bed with the alderman, but so was your patient."

Elizabeth gasped, putting the pieces together immediately. Then, indignantly, unbelievingly, she retorted, "Robert. You're saying that Kerry covered up Bright's condition and his lover's? You think that she treated the boy without taking a history or making a chart? You're accusing Kerry of killing that young man?"

Robert didn't answer at first, but then in a quiet voice, responded, "I'm not accusing anybody."

Then it really sunk in. Kerry's anxiety about the young man's condition. The alderman's concern about the body of his assistant. Kerry's sudden rise and Robert's precipitous fall. But why wasn't Robert enjoying his power to destroy his rival? Did he want to protect the boy's memory? The alderman's good name? The hospital's funding?

As if she had asked these questions aloud, Elizabeth leaned back and looked him in the eye. "Well?" she asked.

Darkness was falling and she couldn't see Robert's expression but could sense that it too was dark. "If only it had been embezzlement, or even better, sexual harrassment," he ironized. "All of the mistakes Kerry could make, and she chose this one."

Elizabeth didn't understand. She waited for him to explain, but he just sat there. So she broke the silence stuttering, "B-b-but it wasn't a mistake. Robert, she killed that boy. It was gross negligence and covered up by all sorts of lies. And exploited to earn her a raise and a promotion. What she did was not only incorrect but immoral. Robert!" Elizabeth's voice had risen with each sentence, trying to provoke a response from the quiet man on the other side of the table.

Slowly, he shifted positions on his chair. He'd been reclining when she'd presented the file. Now he turned to face her. "Elizabeth," he began carefully. "If I report Kerry she doesn't just lose her job as chief of staff, she loses her license. She loses her job as a doctor. She killed a patient and covered it up. She would never practice again."

"So you're not going to do anything!" Elizabeth sputtered. "You're going to let her get away with this. You're going to be complicit in a cover- up, and now Susan and I are implicated too." She felt the blood rushing to her face in anger. Anger at Kerry but also anger at Robert's inaction. What had happened to his unstoppable ambition? What had happened to his take-no-prisoners attitude?

"The puzzle can't be completed without all of the pieces, "he reminded her tersely. "And I guess I just don't want to play nicely. I won't give you my piece."

"Fine," Elizabeth retorted, getting to her feet and returning the folder to the table. She was about to tell Robert that she didn't need his help, that she would resolve this situation herself, that she wasn't afraid to tell the truth and even to lose some friends along the way.

But his voice turned gentle when he called her back, "Lizzie. Please." He was standing now and moved toward her until they faced each other. She stiffened her back and glared down at him; he looked at her with his quiet, deep-set eyes. She could barely see their expression in the twilight but she could feel their pull. He reached out, took her hand and gently drew her back to where they'd been, except this time, they both sat down side by side on the long lounge chair. She was so close, he could speak quietly, almost whispering.

"If I turn her in, I do to Kerry what that helicopter did to me. I take away the best thing about her. I take away her reason for living. I take away her ability to give other people back their lives." He stopped, swallowing almost inaudibly. "And if I don't, she can continue to be a doctor, and probably a better doctor than before. She can save people. She can do what I no longer can."

Hearing his words, finally understanding why, Elizabeth felt tears well up in her eyes and crowd the back of her throat. "But she called you a cockroach," Elizabeth blurted helplessly.

Robert laughed softly. "You've called me worse," he reminded Elizabeth. Unable to object, Elizabeth wiped away a tear and turned to smile at him, but Robert had risen from his place and retreated into his kitchen, closing the patio door behind him.