"I'll do what I can. Tell you what-next time, I'll bring you a Quarter Pounder with Cheese."

"And a Big Mac. I see those ads on television and they always look so good."

"Believe me, they are. I'll bring you one of those, too." I walked down the hall as far as the staff lounge, where I stuck my head in and said, "I'm looking for Charles."

The man I saw sitting at the table with the evening paper was in his fifties and was dressed in scrubs, like the woman bringing out the trays. He was a mild nut brown, and narrow through the shoulders, his arms hairless and scrawny. He set his paper aside and got to his feet politely to identify himself. "Charles Biedler," he said. "How may I help you, Miss?"

I explained who I was and what I wanted, repeating the gist of what Ruby Curtsinger had told me. "I know you've answered these questions before, but it would really be a help if you'd tell me what you remember."

"I could show you where he was parked and where I stood that night."

"I'd love that," I said. He picked up a folded section of the paper and carried it with him as we moved toward the entrance. I paused to retrieve my umbrella and my slicker, which I held over my head like a yellow plastic tent. Charles used his newspaper as a rain hat and we hurried outside, hunched against the rain, which was blowing against us in gusts. Charles paused at the end of the walkway, pointing toward the cars. "See where that little blue VW's parked? Doctor's space was right there. I saw him crossing the lot and then he got in his car and pulled out right around to here."

"You didn't see anyone else?"

"No, but now that corner of the parking lot was darker at nine o'clock than it is right now. Warm that night. I was in my shirt sleeves like this only without the gooseflesh. I spoke to him like always, you know, calling out a word and he said something back, kind of bantering like."

"There was nothing unusual?"

"Not as I recall."

"I'm trying to see this as you did. Ruby says he had his suit jacket over his arm. Did he carry anything else?"

"I don't think so. I can't picture it if he did."

"What about his car keys?"

"I guess he must have had those in hand. I don't remember him reaching in his pocket."

"So he unlocked the car door and then what?"

"I don't remember nothing about that."

"Did the interior light go on?"

"Might have. After he got in, he sat a while and then he started up the engine and swung around this way so he could drive out the front."

"Was that his pattern?"

Charles blinked, shaking his head. "Most times."

His newspaper was getting soaked and I knew it was time to retreat to the overhang.

"Let's get out of this rain," I said.

We headed back to the entrance, pausing again just outside the front door.

I said, "Was there anything else? Anything at all, even if it seems trivial."

"He didn't call out good-night like he usually did when he drove past. Last thing he'd do, he used to wave and shake a finger, kind of teasing me like, because I told him I quit smoking."

"Was the car window down?"

"I couldn't say for sure."

"You didn't see anyone in the car with him?"

Charles shook his head.

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure. And truthfully, that's as much as I know."

"Well, I appreciate your time. If you should think of anything else, would you give me a call?" I took a business card from my bag and handed it to him. "I can be reached at this number. There's a machine if I'm gone."

As I left the porch and started out across the parking lot, I turned and waved. Charles was still there, staring after me.

I sat in my car for a while, thinking about the fact that I was parked right where Dow Purcell had been on the night of September 12 I did a 180 survey, turning my head. What had happened to him? The rain kept tapping on my car roof like the restless drumming of fingers on a tabletop. He hadn't been assaulted. He'd gotten in his car and he'd sat there a while… doing what? I started the car and backed out of the space, heading, as Purcell had, toward Dave Levine Street. I glanced back at the building. Charles was gone by then. The walk was empty and the rain slanting against the light made the entrance seem bleak.

I turned right, scanning the street on either side of me. The area was residential. St. Terry's Hospital was only four blocks away. There were medical buildings in the surrounding area, apartment buildings, and a few private homes, but not much else. No bars or restaurants along this stretch where he might have stopped for a drink. Once I reached the next intersection, it was impossible to guess which way he might have gone.

I circled back to the office, and by 5:30, I was typing up a rough draft of the next installment of my report. It helped to be forced to lay it all out again in narrative form. I'd done an additional four hours of work, which I deducted from the balance of the retainer, leaving me $1,125 of indentured servitude. I could feel anxiety whispering through my bones. I was no wiser now than I'd been when I first started and probably no closer to finding Dr. Purcell. I didn't even have a scheme, no clever strategy about how to proceed. What more could I do? Fiona wanted results. I was moving, but getting nowhere. I checked my watch. 6:02. I leaped to my feet. I was already late for Rosie's, but it couldn't be helped. I shoved the report in my handbag, thinking I could work on it later if I needed to.

Traffic was heavy on the rain-slick streets. While stuck at a stoplight, I turned the rearview mirror to check my appearance. I seldom wear makeup so I looked much the same; sallow by the light of street-lamps, my hair a dense thatch of brown. I felt less than glamorous in my jeans and turtleneck, but it couldn't be helped. I didn't have time to go home and change. Into what? I don't have anything else. This is what I wear.

I parked my car in front of my apartment and dog-trotted the half block to Rosie's. I pushed open the door, dumped my umbrella, and left my slicker on a peg. Where Friday night the place had been emptied by the weather, tonight it was jammed. Both the jukebox and the television were going full-blast, Monday Night Football having captured a rowdy cluster of sports enthusiasts at the bar. The cigarette smoke was dense and all the tables were taken. I saw William emerge from the kitchen with a tray at shoulder height while Rosie was uncapping beer bottles as fast as she could. I searched the crowd, wondering if I'd managed to arrive before Tommy Hevener. I felt a plucking at my sleeve and looked down to find him looking up at me from the first booth on the right.

Oh, my.

He was freshly shaved and he'd changed into a white dress shirt with a sky-blue wool crew neck pulled over it. He said something I missed. I leaned closer to him, taking in the scent of Aqua Velva. When he repeated himself, his voice in my ear set up a tickling chill that went down to my feet. "Let's get out of here," he said. He got up and grabbed his raincoat off the seat across from him.

I nodded and began to inch my way toward the door again. I could feel him following, one hand against my back. The gesture assumed a familiarity I should have objected to, but didn't. We paused at the entrance while I collected my slicker and my umbrella. He shrugged into his raincoat and turned the collar up. "Where to?" he asked.

"There's a place one block over. Emile's-at-the-Beach. We can walk."

His umbrella was the larger so he raised it and held it over my head as we emerged into the pelting rain. I kept my hand on the stem a fraction of an inch from his and we moved forward with the odd gait one assumes when walking in tandem. The rain was coming down so hard, the water was propelled through the umbrella fabric like a mist. A car passed, throwing up a plume that landed in front of us with a splat.