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her?”
    He frowned. His eyebrows were as white as the hair on top of his head. “Boy, now that I think of it, it’s been a while. Lemme think.” He scratched his chin and peered up at the ceiling. “Hm,” he said. “Couple weeks, I’ll bet. Never really noticed. They come and go. Most of ’em have other places to live, too. You know, Florida or Killington in the winter, Nantucket, Chatham in the summer. I don’t keep track of them.”
    “Does Mary Ellen Ames have a vacation place?”
    He shrugged. “Seems to me she does. Couldn’t tell you where.”
    “A couple weeks, huh?”
    “Now, that just means I haven’t seen her. I’m off at seven, back again seven in the morning. She could be comin’ in and goin’ out when I’m not here.”
    I handed him one of my cards. “Do me a favor,” I said. “When you see her, give me a call?”
    He took the card. “I guess I could do that. I mean, if her mother’s dying…”
    “Something else,” I said. “Will you deliver a note to her for me?”
    “I can leave it in her mailbox, sure.”
    I took a sheet of my business stationery from my attaché case. I wrote on it: “Ms. Ames, Your mother is dying of cancer. She hasn’t much time left. She wants to see you. I need to discuss her estate with you. Please call me at your earliest convenience. Yours truly, Brady L. Coyne, Esq.”
    I folded it, slipped it into an envelope, wrote “Mary Ellen Ames” on the outside, and handed it to Harold Wainwright. He took it over to a row of slots on the wall beside the desk and shoved it through one of them.
    “Is there a regular night man on duty here?” I said to him.
    He nodded. “Young fella named Donald. He comes on at seven.”
    “One more favor, then,” I said. “Tell him I plan to stop by tonight. See if you can persuade him to cooperate with me.”
    He nodded. “I can do that, sure. Can’t guarantee he will cooperate, you understand. But I’ll tell him.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    We shook hands and I left.
    As I was descending the path, a mailman pushed open the gate and walked past me. I turned around. “Excuse me,” I said.
    He stopped and looked at me. “Meaning me?”
    “Yes. Do you have any mail for Ames?”
    He didn’t bother to check. “Nope,” he said.
    “You sure?”
    “Positive, friend. It’s being held at the post office.”
    “When did she request that?”
    “She didn’t.”
    “Has she moved or something?”
    “Nope. Takes about two magazines to fill up one of them little boxes. Can’t cram anything else into it.”
    “She hasn’t been picking up her mail, then?”
    “Nossir. Not for two or three weeks. I’m holding it for her. Left her a memo telling her we got it when she wants it.”
    I nodded. “Well, thank you.”
    He shrugged. “You betcha.”

6
    I SAUNTERED BACK TOWARD Copley Square, dangling my jacket on my forefinger over my shoulder. By the time I got to Clarendon Street I’d worked up another sweat. But I wasn’t pondering environmental disasters. I was trying to figure out how I was going to reach Mary Ellen Ames.
    She hadn’t been home in about two weeks. Nobody seemed to know where she was.
    It had been nearly a week since I had talked with Susan. That meant she was a week closer to death.
    When I got back to the office I called Susan’s house in Concord. Terri Fiori answered. “Susan Ames’s residence,” she said.
    “Good day, General. It’s Brady Coyne.”
    “Oh, hi, Mr. Coyne. How are you?”
    “Brady.”
    “Yes. Brady.”
    “I’m fine. How’s Susan?”
    “Oh, about the same. She tires quickly. She’s napping now.”
    “Well, don’t bother her. If you don’t mind, just tell her that I’ve found that Mary Ellen is living on Beacon Street, but I haven’t been able to catch up with her yet.”
    “I’ll tell her,” she said. “She’s been talking about her daughter a lot lately. Since you were here.”
    “I understand. I’m doing my best.”
    “Look, Brady,” she