THE WOMAN WAS WATCHING US FROM UNDER HALF-MAST LIDS, one swollen and discolored. Her skin was sallow, her cropped black hair spiked out in clumps.

"You're acquainted with Unique Montague?" I asked.

The woman raised two palms. Her nails were chewed, her inner elbows welted with sinewy scars. "I said she come here. Nothing more."

"How do you know that?"

"I spend half my life waiting at this dump." The woman glared at Berry. "Don't matter if you're dying."

"You're not dying, Ronnie." Berry's tone was cold and unfeeling.

"I got the flu."

"You're a junkie."

I intervened. "You spoke to Unique Montague here at this clinic?"

"I don't waste no breath on whackos. Heard this whacko talking to a big brown cat. Called herself Unique."

"You're sure?"

"I heard you askin'. I laid down an answer."

"When was she here?"

One bony shoulder hitched.

"Do you know where she lives?"

"Whacko told the cat they was going to some shelter."

"Which shelter?"

"I look like a fucking social worker?"

"Language," Berry admonished.

Ronnie's mouth clamped into a thin, tight line. Kicking out her feet, she laced her fingers on her belly and lowered her eyes.

Goat-chin spoke without raising his head from the wall. "Someone gonna see me, or should I just go home and mail my snot to y'all in a baggie?"

Berry was about to respond when a door opened, footsteps clicked, and a man entered from a hallway to the right of her desk. The man held two charts.

"Rosario. Case."

Hearing his name, goat-chin asked, "You the doc?"

"No."

A smirk crossed the kid's face. "Nurse Nancy?"

"Daniels. Corey Daniels. You got a problem with male nurses?"

When goat-chin opened his eyes, the smirk evaporated. For good reason.

If Berry was big, Daniels was bigger. I'm not talking NBA tall and skinny. This guy looked like Sasquatch in scrubs. His hair was pulled back in a sumo knot, and a line of tattoos snaked from his biceps to his wrist.

"Sorry, man." Goat-chin lost all interest in eye contact. "I feel like shit."

"Uh-huh." Daniels shifted to Ronnie. "You living out another dose, sunflower?"

"I got a fever."

"Uh-huh. Both of you follow me."

"Mr. Daniels," I said, as Ronnie and goat-chin pushed to their feet.

"Yo." Surprised, as though noticing Ryan and me for the first time.

"They're asking about some woman named Unique Montague." Berry's voice seemed a bit louder than necessary.

"And they are?"

"Coroner and a cop."

"Got ID?" Daniels asked Ryan.

OK. The nurse was more shrewd than the secretary. Or not. I produced my UNCC faculty card. Ryan flashed his badge. Daniels barely glanced at either.

"Wait while I situate these patients."

Whatever "situating" involved, it took twenty minutes.

When Daniels returned, he again spoke only to Ryan. "Dr. Marshall wants you to come back in an hour so he can talk to you personally."

"We'll wait," Ryan said.

"Could take longer." Daniels kept his eyes steady on Ryan.

"We're patient people."

Daniels gave Ryan a "suit yourself" shrug. When he'd gone, I took a shot at a ceasefire.

"May I ask how long you've been with this clinic, Miss Berry?"

Sullen stare.

"How many patients do you treat each week?"

"If this is a job interview, I'm not applying."

"I'm impressed with GMC's commitment to the poor."

Berry put a finger to her lips and shhh'ed me. The gesture jiggled that limbic switch.

"You must be very devoted to the organization's aims to do this type of work."

"I'm a saint."

I wondered how saintly she'd be with my boot up her ass.

"Have you worked at other GMC clinics?"

Eyeing me coldly, Berry pointed at the Kmart chairs.

"What? Am I speaking in a rude manner again?" Barely holding my temper in check.

Again, Berry jabbed the sit command.

The little bundle of axons triumphed. The switch engaged.

"How did it work? You got the front desk when poor Helene vanished?"

Berry turned away.

I was conjuring an even more stupid quip when Ryan laid a calming hand on my shoulder. I had done exactly the sort of thing Gullet had warned against. Gratuitously disclosed information without getting anything in return. Chagrined, I settled into the chair next to Ryan.

Berry got up and locked the front door, then returned to her desk and busied herself shuffling paper.

Ten minutes dragged by.

Goat-chin appeared clutching a small white bag. Berry let him out. A short time later it was Ronnie.

Now and then I'd glance up and catch Berry watching us. Her eyes would flick away and paper would rustle. The woman seemed to have a lot of paper.

At seven, I rose, paced, resumed my seat.

"You think Marshall slipped out the back?" I asked Ryan under my breath.

Ryan shook his head. "The pit bull's still guarding the front."

"Did I?"

Ryan gave me a quizzical look.

"Slip out. Leave. Daniels acted like I wasn't here."

"The pit bull noticed you."

I glared at Ryan.

"OK. The staff lacks some people skills."

"GMC should look for a twofer, get their up-front tag team sensitivity training."

"I thought you weren't going to ask about Flynn," Ryan said with just a hint of reproach.

"I wasn't. Daniels pissed me off. Berry pissed me off. And it occurred to me that if they worked here together, Berry and Flynn might have confided in each other."

Ryan looked dubious.

"They could have been friends." More petulant than I intended.

Slumping back, I chewed a thumbnail. Ryan was right. It was unlikely Berry and Flynn had much in common. And, to be honest, I hadn't really thought it through that far. It was an impulse question, sparked by anger. Maybe I'd tipped our hand needlessly.

"You want to take Marshall?" I asked.

"My involvement is strictly unofficial." Ryan mimicked Gullet's monotone drawl.

"You think this is a waste of time, don't you?"

"Maybe. But I sure enjoy seeing you kick ass."

"I'm certain it was Montague in that barrel. I just want to get a take on the clinic staff."

"I apologize for keeping you so long."

Ryan and I looked up to see a dark-haired man in the hallway entrance. Though of average height, he was heavily muscled, and wore a white lab coat, gray slacks, and Italian shoes that probably cost more than my car.

"Dr. Lester Marshall. Sorry, but my nurse failed to get your names."

Ryan and I stood. I made introductions, leaving our affiliations vague. Marshall didn't ask. Apparently Daniels had covered that for us.

"My nurse tells me you're inquiring about Unique Montague. May I ask why?"

Behind us all paper-shuffling ceased.

"We believe she may be dead."

"Let's discuss this in private." To Berry, "Corey has left, Adele. You may go, too. We're through for the day."

The first-floor layout suggested the clinic had started life as a private home. As Ryan and I followed Marshall down the hallway, I noted two examination rooms, a kitchen, a large supply closet, and a bath.

Marshall's office was at the rear of the second floor, perhaps once a bedroom. Four other doors opened off the upstairs corridor. All were tightly shut.

The doctor's space was small and outfitted spartanly. Battered wooden desk, battered wooden chairs, battered filing cabinets, window AC barely keeping up with the heat.

Marshall seated himself at the desk. On it lay a single folder. No photo of the wife and kids. No funny plaque or carving. No paperweight or mug from a medical conference.

I checked the walls. No framed pictures. Not a single certificate or diploma. Not even a state medical license. I thought doctors were required to display those. Perhaps Marshall's hung in an examining room.

Marshall gestured Ryan and me into chairs with a flourished palm. Up close I could see that his hair was styled, not cut, and receding fast. He could have been anywhere from forty to sixty.

"You know, of course, that rules of confidentiality prohibit the sharing of patient information by a health care provider." Marshall showed teeth that were even and brilliantly white.

"Miss Montague was a patient at this clinic?" I asked.

More perfect teeth. Caps?

I pointed to the folder. "Am I correct in assuming that's Miss Montague's file?"

Marshall aligned the bottom of the folder straight with the desk edge. Though his fingers were thick, the nails were manicured. His lower arms suggested time spent at a gym.

"I'm not requesting the woman's medical history," I said. "I'm simply asking for confirmation that she was treated here."

"Would that fact not constitute a part of one's medical history?"

"It's highly likely Miss Montague is dead."

"Tell me about that."

I gave him the basics. Found in the water. Decomposition and saponification. Nothing confidential there. Not my fault if he thought it was an accidental drowning.

Still Marshall didn't open the folder. In the small, warm room I could smell his cologne. It smelled pricey. Like his nurse and receptionist, the guy was annoying as hell.

"Perhaps you'd prefer a warrant, Dr. Marshall. We could alert the media, get lots of airtime for GMC, maybe score you some national coverage."

Marshall made a decision. Or perhaps the decision had been made earlier and the good doctor had been buying time to assess.

"Unique Montague did present here for care."

"Describe her, please."

Marshall's description matched the DOA in the barrel.

"When was Miss Montague's last visit?"

"She came infrequently."

"Her last visit?"

Marshall opened the folder and carefully flattened the flap with one palm.

"August of last summer. The patient was given medication and told to return in two weeks. Miss Montague failed to follow up as advised. Of course, I can't—"

"Do you know where she lived?"

Marshall took his time perusing the file, turning pages and aligning each even with the edges of the others. "She provided an address on Meeting Street. Sadly, it is a familiar one. The Crisis Assistance Ministry."

"A shelter."

Marshall nodded.

"Did she name next of kin?"

"That line is blank." Marshall closed the file and used the same palm motion to press the crease. "That is often the case with our clientele. Unfortunately, I haven't the time to become personally involved with my patients. It's my one regret about the practice I've chosen."

"How long have you been with the clinic?"

Marshall smiled, this time baring no teeth. "We've finished discussing Miss Montague, then?"

"What else can you tell us?"

"The woman loved her dear cat."

Marshall recentered the two halves of his tie. It was silk, probably by a designer I didn't know.

"I am generally present at this clinic for some part of each Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. On alternating days I see patients elsewhere." Marshall stood. We were being dismissed. "Feel free to contact me if I can offer further assistance."

===OO=OOO=OO===

"I don't think he liked us." Ryan started the Jeep.

"What was your take?" I asked.

"The guy's a hand washer."

"He's a doctor."

"In the Howard Hughes sense. I'll bet he double-checks locks, counts paper clips, arranges his socks by color."

"I arrange my socks by color."

"You're a girl."

"I agree. Marshall's overly neat. But do you think the poser knows more than he's saying?"

"He admits he knows more than he's saying. He's a doctor."

"And the others?"

"Big."

"That's it?"

"Big and surly."

Reaching out, I cranked the AC.

"And Daniels has done time."

"Why do you say that?"

"Jailhouse tattoos."

"You're sure?"

"Trust me. I'm sure."

Maybe it was the heat. Maybe frustration at my inability to produce results. Even Ryan was irritating me.

Or was I irritated at myself for losing my cool? Why had I asked about Helene Flynn? Had mentioning her been a good move or a gaffe? Would word get back to GMC? To Gullet?

My visit could stir things up, maybe force a response from Herron, motivate GMC to cooperate in the investigation of Flynn's disappearance.

On the other hand, my little drop-in could cause problems for Emma. Infuriate the sheriff, and push him to cut me out of the loop.

At least I hadn't divulged details of Unique Montague's death.

No cool. No results.

I leaned back to ponder. I was doing that when my cell phone sounded.

No results? Oh, baby, did we have results.