“Isn’t that normal in the case of a suicide?”
“Not really. Usually, the handwriting is slow and even and fairly normal. Grey always wrote very neatly—even when he scribbled down a prescription. The suicide note was uncharacteristically sloppy. It could have been—I said could have been—coerced.”
Sara sat forward with her eyes opened wide. Her words came fast. “Then what you’re saying is that maybe Bruce was forced to write it,” she nearly shouted. “Maybe somebody put a gun to his head and made him do it.”
“Calm down, Sara. We don’t know anything of the sort yet.”
“And if that’s the case, Harvey could be in real danger.”
Bernstein shook his head. “Don’t start building this into something it’s not. There are a million better explanations for all of this. It could be something as simple as Bruce Grey being so cold his hand shook when he wrote the note. Or it could be that he was nervous at the thought of running headfirst through a window.”
“You don’t buy any of that.”
Max pocketed his keys. “But it sounded good.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Days Inn. I want to check out Grey’s room.”
“HEY, hey, Mikey, boy! How you feeling?”
Michael looked up and smiled. Reece and Jerome piled into the room with a half dozen other Knicks. “You guys are a bunch of the ugliest candy stripers I’ve ever seen.”
“But look what we brought you,” Jerome said, holding up a brown paper bag.
“What is it?” Michael asked.
“Hospital food sucks, right?” Jerome continued.
“Bet your ass,” Michael replied. “Two days of it and I’m already going crazy.”
“And,” Reece added, “everyone knows how you Jews love food from the Orient.”
“You mean—”
“Yup,” Reece interrupted, “takeout from Hunan Empire.”
“I think I love you guys.”
“Don’t get mushy on us, old dude.”
“I’ll try not to break down.”
“So how you feeling, Mikey?”
“Okay.”
“When you coming back?”
“Probably not till next season.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. But, guys, guess what.”
There was a pause. “Reece already told us the good news,” Jerome said with a wide smile. “You’re going to be a papa. Congratulations, man.”
They shook hands. “Thanks.”
The other players gathered around him to offer their congratulations.
“Hey, old dude, how you gonna teach me anything from a hospital bed?” Jerome asked.
“Watch old game films,” Reece suggested. “See how Mikey played when he was in his prime.”
“They had movie cameras back then?” Jerome joked.
Reece laughed.
“What the hell are you laughing at?” Michael asked him. “You’re only a year younger than me.”
“I know. That’s why I want you back with the team. I don’t want to be the new ‘old dude.’ ”
“Swell. How’s practice going anyway?”
“We miss you, Mikey,” Reece said.
“Nice to hear.”
“Yeah,” Jerome added, “I miss blocking your shot and putting it in your face.”
“Just hand over the food, Jerome, before my doctor sees it.”
“Too late.”
The tall bodies of the New York Knicks turned toward the door. Harvey stood leaning against the frame of the doorway.
“Hey, Harv,” Reece said.
“How’s it going, Reece?”
“Not bad.”
“Would you and your cohorts mind if I have a few minutes alone with Michael?”
“Of course not.”
“Good,” Harvey replied. “In the meantime I’ll have one of the nurses bring you hoodlums over to the pediatric wing. There’s a few kids in there you fellas might be able to cheer up.”
“Be our pleasure,” Reece said. “Come on, guys. Let’s go.”
Michael’s teammates bade him good-bye and left. Then Harvey closed the door and moved into the room.
“So what’s up?” Michael asked.
“We just got back results of the blood tests,” Harvey began. “You were HBV positive.”
“Meaning?”
“You have hepatitis.”
“Isn’t that what you were expecting?”
“Yes and no.”
“Explain, por favor.”
“Frankly speaking, it’s all a little strange.”
“What do you mean?”
Harvey crossed the room. “You have hepatitis B rather than hepatitis A.”
“Is that bad?”
“Ninety percent of all hep B patients recover fully within three to four months. With a little luck and some good training, you could even be back in shape for the end of the season and the play-offs.”
“Great.”
“But we’d like to take a few more tests, Michael,” Harvey said, “including a T cell study and an HIV test.”
Michael sat up, his eyes finding Harvey’s and locking onto them. “An HIV test? Isn’t that—”
“Yes,” Harvey interrupted, “it’s a test which is supposed to indicate if you are carrying the AIDS virus.”
“Why would I need one of those?”
“It’s merely a precaution,” Harvey continued. “We’re sure you don’t have AIDS or anything of the sort. You’re not homosexual and you’re not an intravenous drug user, which means your chances of having it are next to nil.”
“So?”
“So Eric and I discussed it. We also consulted Dr. Sagarel, the gastroenterologist. The thing is no one really understands how you contracted hep B.”
“Some bad seafood maybe?”
“You’re thinking of hepatitis A,” Harvey continued. “Hepatitis B is transmitted through blood transfusions, saliva, semen, stuff like that. Now, I know you’re going to want to slap me for asking, but I have to do it anyway. It’s important that you tell the truth.”
“Shoot.”
“I know you love Sara, but have you had any extramarital affairs? Any at all. An indiscretion during a Knicks road trip, anything?”
“No,” Michael answered. “Never.”