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coffee maybe?”
    â€œI was thinking lunch.”
    She nodded again, this time more vigorously. “There’s a little place that just opened on Harbor Street . . .”
    â€œI’ll look forward to it.”
    McGuire waited several moments after the door closed before opening the envelope and removing a single sheet of plain bond paper. A five-digit number had been written in ink at the top. The rest of the correspondence was spaced with the degree of clarity and neatness only a word processor and desktop laser printer can produce.

    Due to the special nature of this case, it is imperative that you and I make direct contact at the outset. Charge your time and reasonable expenses, up to $1,000, to the docket number listed above. By the way, this is not a high priority. Work on it when you can.
    I want you to locate a man for me named Ross Randolph Myers, age about 45. His last known address is 387 Gloucester Street, apartment 3B, but he hasn’t lived there for two years. Mr. Myers once operated the Back Bay School of Business on Columbus Avenue, but it was placed in receivership about the time Mr. Myers vacated his condominium. Mr. Myers is about six feet tall, heavyset, has gray-blond hair, and no visible scars or blemishes. He is known as a heavy gambler, an activity that resulted, in part, in the collapse of his business and the seizure of his personal property. He served six months for tax evasion in 1999 and was released without restriction.
    I am interested solely in Mr. Myers’s current place of residence, which, if you determine it, I would appreciate hearing from you verbally. Please do not commit any of your information to paper.
    Cordially,
    O. Flanigan
    â€œThat all you got?” Ollie asked that evening, between spoonfuls of casserole fed to him by Ronnie. “Some guy skippin’ out on child support?”
    McGuire told Ollie about the warehouse worker, and his visit to the South Boston bar.
    â€œHell, any rookie whistle who’s lost his cherry in this town could’ve done the same thing,” Ollie said. “Lawyers, they don’t think about getting their asses dirty, sitting on a bar stool and listening to somebody who doesn’t say ‘whereas’ and never wore a sheepskin on their shoulders.”
    â€œSome of them don’t seem so sure of themselves,” McGuire said. “One of them, anyway,” and he told Ollie about Orin Flanigan’s visit that afternoon.
    â€œDoesn’t sound like anything he needs to keep so secret,” Ollie said.
    â€œI get a feeling it’s unofficial. Like he doesn’t want his partners to know about it.”
    â€œHe’s a partner?” When McGuire nodded, Ollie said: “What’s he got to be worried about, then? Unless he’s breaking some kind of lawyer ethics. Whatever the hell they are.” He waved away another spoonful of food and Ronnie began gathering the utensils together. “So, you gonna ask Wally Sleeman to help you, get you some dirt on this guy you’re lookin’ for?”
    McGuire nodded. “Probably cost me some Scotch. Which reminds me. Remember that skip tracer from years ago? Woman lived over on Huntington?”
    â€œLibby.” Ollie grinned. “Old Libby Waxman. Christ, what a character. Haven’t thought about her in years. Talked to her, lemme see, lemme see . . .” His eyes scanned the ceiling. Ronnie stood up, the plates and utensils in her hands, and left without a word. “It was when those two guys, couple of hustlers, took off more’n a year before . . . remember that guy they found down near the fens, head caved in . . . ?”
    McGuire was half-listening. He was concerned about Ronnie, the look on her face when she left the room.

Chapter Four
    â€œStill call him Fat Eddie, and I catch hell for it.”
    Wally Sleeman leaned back and scanned the other lunch-hour diners at Hutch’s, his small eyes flitting from one