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long experience as a physician and private investigator, gave nothing away.
    â€œCan’t get over running into you like this. Never see you at the monthly meetings,” Ned chided.

    Fenimore mumbled something.
    â€œWell, what d’ya think of our little problem?”
    Why the “little”? To make it seem smaller? “I can’t say, Ned. For a start, I’ll check out Missing Persons and give you a call tonight.”
    Ned wrinkled his brow again, mentally flipping the pages of his crowded social calendar. “Think we have the orchestra tonight. But we’re dining in. You can probably catch me at home between six and seven.”
    Accustomed to the odd priorities of people in Hardwick’s circles—the orchestra took precedence over a missing prospective daughter-in-law—Fenimore nodded and they parted. Hardwick’s broad, imposing back headed up the marble steps of the society while Fenimore’s slighter frame slipped through the wrought-iron gate and turned down Walnut.

CHAPTER 10
    MONDAY AFTERNOON
    M rs. Doyle looked up from her typewriter and glanced at the clock. Fenimore had been gone for more than two hours, and all that had transpired were three routine phone calls and one teenage patient off the street with no appointment. The patient was a disreputable-looking youngster who could very well wait. She had told him the doctor wasn’t a pediatrician, and he had given her a very hard look. Much too hard for such a young person, she thought. It had quite rattled her. She told him to take a seat, the doctor would be in shortly.
    That was twenty minutes ago and he was still there, staring straight ahead, not touching the magazines. Maybe he couldn’t read. From his appearance, that was possible. Faded jeans and a ragged T-shirt. Mrs. Doyle softened toward him. Illiteracy was a terrible thing. She volunteered at her local library to teach reading, and it was pitiful to see people older than herself who had lived their whole lives without reading a word. No lurid newspaper accounts. No sizzling romances. How did they stand it?
    â€œWell, Horatio!” The doctor’s greeting resounded in the waiting
room. “If you’ve come for your kitten, I’m afraid you’re too early. My cat doesn’t produce on demand.” He picked up Sal, who had been rubbing against the boy’s leg.
    â€œUh, no. I came about somethin’ else.” He stared at Fenimore’s bruised face but made no comment.
    â€œWell, come on back then.” Fenimore led the way to his outer office, his nurse’s exclusive domain. “Have you met Mrs. Doyle?”
    The boy nodded sullenly.
    Mrs. Doyle pressed her lips together and continued typing.
    â€œI see.” He waved him into his inner office, leaving the door ajar. “Well, what can I do for you? You look healthy enough.” Sal, who had been dangling over his arm all this time, leaped to the floor as Fenimore seated himself at his desk.
    There was an awkward pause. Then the boy blurted, “Do you have some work for me? I could come after school.”
    Fenimore felt Doyle’s displeasure emanating from the outer office. He ignored her. “Have a seat.” He waved him into a chair that had started life in a Sunday school, moved on to a secondhand furniture store, and was ending its days in Fenimore’s office. “D’ya know your alphabet?”
    â€œSure.” He looked offended.
    â€œGood. Then you can file. Can ya read?”
    â€œI’m fourteen, for Chrissake!” (Mrs. Doyle regretted her wasted sympathy.)
    â€œGood. Then you can sort the mail. Can you type?”
    He shook his head and muttered, “Do I look like a fucking secretary?”
    â€œGood.” Fenimore glanced warily through the door at his nurse. “We wouldn’t want to put Mrs. Doyle out of business.”
    Mrs. Doyle, like the queen, was not amused.
    â€œWell, Doyle, what d’ya