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very good one, I guess. Yeah, I’m a cop.”
    “Well,” I said, “it would seem that between a cop and a lawyer, we ought to be able to find her.”
    “You really don’t know where she is either, then?”
    “No,” I said.
    “Gonna keep lookin’?”
    I nodded. “Yes.”
    “If you find her, will you tell me?”
    “If I find her,” I said, “I will first ask her if she wants me to tell you. If she says no, then I will not tell you. What about you?”
    “Me?”
    “If you find her, will you tell me?”
    “Same deal, I guess. What’d you say you wanted with her?”
    “I’m her mother’s lawyer. She’s dying. It’s about her estate.”
    “So Mary Ellen’s gonna get even richer, huh?”
    “Looks that way.” I fished another business card from my jeans pocket, scratched my home phone number on the back, and gave it to Finn. “Here’s my number. Home and office. I’d appreciate a call. From you or her.”
    He took the card, ran the ball of his thumb over the raised lettering, and shoved it into his pocket.
    “You don’t have any idea where she might’ve gone?” I said.
    “I been lookin’ for a week. Haven’t got a clue.”
    “Do you know if she has a vacation place?”
    “Yeah, matter of fact. She’s mentioned it. She’s got a cabin or something on some pond somewhere, I think. I never been there.”
    “No idea where it is?”
    “Nope.”
    “Maybe she’s there,” I said.
    “Hope so.”
    “Why?”
    “Means she’ll be back. But I doubt that’s where she is.”
    “Why?”
    “She woulda told me she was goin’.”
    Maybe not, I thought. But I remembered the inside of her closets. There didn’t seem to be any empty hangers or missing pieces from the matching luggage. Her bed was unmade and there were dirty dishes in the sink. She left her prescription of Pertofrane in her medicine cabinet. Her place had not looked the way a woman would leave it if she was going away on an extended vacation.
    I stood up. “Can I go now?” I said.
    Finn grinned crookedly. “Hope you ain’t mad.”
    I held my hand down to him. “It was good to meet you. A big relief that you didn’t mug me.”
    We shook hands and I resumed my stroll down the path that crossed the Common. I glanced back over my shoulder. Dave Finn was still sitting there on the park bench, watching me.

10
    J ULIE HAD SET UP a morning full of conferences for me on Tuesday, so I didn’t get a chance to make any calls until after lunch. That’s when I took out my notebook and punched up the first number on my list, Dr. Arline McAllister, the gynecologist with the Cambridge office. The woman who answered the phone sounded harried and informed me that the doctor was at the hospital and wasn’t expected back until late afternoon. I left my number and requested she call me.
    Next on my list was Dr. Peter McAllister, the plastic surgeon whose office was in Chelsea. I tried the number I had written down.
    A woman answered. “Dr. McAllister.”
    “I’d like to speak to the doctor, please.”
    “I’m sorry, sir. The doctor—”
    “I’m a lawyer,” I said.
    She hesitated. “Your name?”
    “Coyne. Brady Coyne.”
    “Your client?”
    “Let me speak to Dr. McAllister, please, miss.”
    “Just a moment.”
    She put me on hold. I lit a cigarette. It was less than half smoked when she returned. “The doctor can speak with you now, Mr. Coyne.”
    I heard a click, then, “Dr. McAllister. How can I help you?”
    “I want to discuss Mary Ellen Ames,” I said.
    I heard a hesitation. Then, “Beg your pardon?”
    “Mary Ellen Ames. Your patient.”
    “I have no patient by that name, sir.”
    “Has she been your patient? Have you done surgery on her?”
    “Look,” he said. “What is this?”
    “You never heard of Mary Ellen Ames?”
    “Never.”
    “Don’t you want to look it up in your records?”
    “I don’t need to. I’d recognize the name of any patient I ever had.”
    “I find that hard to believe.”
    “Well, your