Donahue requests the meeting through official channels — formal consultation on the Surgeon case, medical expertise. It is the third time. They are at the same diner.
Gideon arrives at eight AM and Donahue is there again, in the same position, with the same coffee, wearing a different version of the same tie.
"Doctor."
"Agent Donahue."
They go through the official portion of the meeting in ten minutes. Donahue has questions about a specific toxicological scenario. Gideon answers them with the same precise, uninflected accuracy he always brings to this. The answers are useful. He gives them freely.
"Thank you," Donahue says. He closes his notebook. He refills his coffee from the carafe the waitress left. "How's the hospital?"
"Busy."
"I hear you had a complicated week. The pediatric case."
Gideon goes still for a fraction of a second. Not visibly — but Donahue sees it. He always sees the fraction.
"Where did you hear that?"
"I read the incident report summary. It's public record." A pause. "I'm sorry. That kind of case is hard."
"Yes." He drinks his coffee. "It is."
"You've been doing this for a long time," Donahue says. "The work. The hours. The weight of it." He looks out the window. He is apparently talking about nothing. He is never talking about nothing. "I've been doing mine for twenty-six years. The things I carry—" He stops. He turns back. "Does it ever feel like the work and the life are the same thing? Like you can't locate where one ends?"
"I think that's the nature of medicine."
"And investigation." A pause. "I find I've stopped being able to think about anything else. Whatever I'm doing — at home, at dinner, in the middle of a conversation — the case is always running in the background."
Gideon looks at him. Donahue is looking at him with the gray, patient eyes.
"Which case?" Gideon says.
Donahue smiles. Not a big smile — just the corners. The version that says: yes, we both know what I'm talking about.
"You know what I find interesting?" Donahue says. He sets down his cup. "I've been in this city for four months. I've talked to a lot of people. And you're the only one who never asks me how the case is going. Everyone else asks. Victims' families, other doctors, people I run into at the hospital. They all ask."
"Maybe I'm not curious."
"Maybe." He picks up the check. "Or maybe you already know."
He leaves two twenties on the table. He puts on his coat.
"Same time in two weeks?" he says.
"My office can confirm the availability."
"Of course." He buttons the coat. "Enjoy your day, Dr. Vale."
He walks out. Gideon sits with his coffee for a long time.
He thinks: the man is getting closer.
He thinks: be careful.
He thinks: the list is done. There is nothing new to find.
He pays his share of the check. He goes to work.