Fatal Reaction

only that, but Childress is well connected, if not well liked, throughout the scientific community. If he came to Danny and said he could get his hands on a new AIDS drug, then it’s more than likely that Danny would believe him.”
    “Interesting.”
    “Have you compared the fingerprints from his rap sheet against the ones that were found on the glass in the apartment?” I asked.
    “I woke up the guy from the forensics lab this morning and made him come in to run the comparison.”
    “And?”
    “They don’t match.”
    “You’re kidding,” I said, disappointed.
    “Don’t take it too hard, Kate,” said Elliott, putting his arm around me and giving me a friendly squeeze. “After all, it was only a hunch.”
    “I know,” I replied in my best spoiled-little-rich-girl voice. “But it was my hunch and I liked it.”
     
    The next morning Stephen and I arrived at O’Hare almost an hour early. Stephen had woken in a nearly manic state, panicked that the roads would be bad and terrified of being late. Fortunately, the snowplows had been out all night and the roads were clear and nearly deserted because it was Sunday. With time to kill before the JAL flight came in, Stephen paced up and down the curb in front of the international arrivals terminal, frantic that the limo drivers wouldn’t show up.
    After my years with Guttman I recognized these symptoms of type A overload. I left him to make a spectacle of himself in front of the skycaps and went into the terminal in search of a cup of coffee. By the time I located the closest Starbucks and came back outside, the cars had arrived, and Stephen, in his relief, was shaking hands with all the drivers, assuring them how much he appreciated their efforts. We left them shaking their heads behind his back and headed for international arrivals.
    The JAL flight landed precisely on time, which struck me as incredible considering the distance it had flown. While we waited for the passengers to clear customs Stephen arranged for four porters with their big carts to help with the luggage. Most of the other people who were meeting the flight were Asian, no doubt waiting for relatives or friends. Standing among them Stephen looked like a big, nervous giant. I found myself wishing I had one of those tranquilizer guns they use on large animals.
    After all the frenzied preparations I must confess the actual arrival of the Takisawa delegation was something of an anticlimax—seventeen tired Japanese businessmen in identical black suits that looked like they’d been slept in. They all came up to right around Stephen’s waist. Old man Takisawa was the last one past the barrier. He was older than I expected—stooped, graying, and almost frail after the long flight.
    After an orgy of bowing we got their luggage loaded into the cars with a minimum of fuss. Stephen rode with the chairman in the first car. I went in the second limo and sat up front with the driver. Traffic was picking up, but it was still not bad. The snow was over, and the sun had come out. When we got close enough to catch our first glimpse of the downtown skyline, I turned around to tell the Japanese and found them already leaning out the windows taking snapshots of the view.
    When we arrived at the Nikko, the general manager of the hotel, three of his assistants, and the entire bell staff were lined up outside the front door awaiting our arrival. Old man Takisawa seemed pleased by his reception. Stephen and I stayed long enough to make sure everyone was comfortably settled into their rooms and that there were no complaints.
    As we walked back out through the lobby I had to concede that, so far, Mother had done quite a job.
     
    My parents’ house is one of the most beautiful on the North Shore. A gem of Georgian architecture designed by Louis B. Sullivan, it sits, surrounded by majestic elms, on a deep lawn of verdant green atop a dramatic bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. I had spent the afternoon at my mother’s hairdresser’s, albeit against my will, and arrived at my childhood home as coiffed and manicured as I had been on my wedding day.
    I got there early not only because I knew that Mother expected it, but in order to be able to enjoy the grand spectacle of her inevitable preparty hysteria. In certain circles Mother was as famous for her temper as for her sense of style, and it was the rare person who got a chance to see her lose it more than once.
    By the time I crossed the threshold I knew she had