Free So Like Sleep by Jeremiah Healy Page A

dialed his home number and got a mellow female voice.
    “Yes?”
    “This is John Cuddy returning Lieutenant Murphy’s calls.”
    “Just a minute, please.”
    I waited. Murphy came on. “Just a second,” he said.
    I waited again. “Okay,” he said, “what’ve you got?”
    “Lieutenant,” I said, as gingerly as possible, “I’m returning your call to be polite, but my client is Willa Daniels, not you. All I’ll say is that so far the police report checks out down to the commas.”
    “Now look, mister—”
    “Lieutenant, before we get so mad we can’t sleep, let’s be straight on what the dispute is. If I find out something, you want me to tell you. I’m saying I won’t. Since there’s nothing to tell yet, there’s nothing to fight about.”
    Murphy stayed silent. It must have been very hard for him.
    “Call me if you need anything,” he said in a businesslike voice, and rang off.
    I stared at the telephone. I wondered why Murphy didn’t blow up.
    I dialed Mrs. Daniels. I summarized my day for her, and she said she would try to persuade William to talk to me. I told her that the lieutenant wanted to be kept abreast of what I found out and that my doing so probably couldn’t hurt William. She agreed that I could tell Murphy anything I thought could help.
    I hung up and thought about calling Nancy, even on a pretext. Instead, I broiled a steak with some canned mushrooms and drank two Molson Golden ales. I carried my landlord’s color portable into the bedroom and watched two fires, one robbery scene, and three traffic accidents on the eleven o’clock news before drifting off to dreamland.

Eleven
    I HATE WAKING UP to Sunrise Semester . I shook the pins-and-needles sensation from my right leg and turned off the set. The clock radio said 6:35 A.M. A little early for investigating.
    I did calisthenics for about an hour, including maybe a quarter as many sit-ups on the horizontal as I had watched Homer Linden perform on the slant. Before I went in to shower and shave, I poured milk on a half bowl of granola, which I then put in the fridge. Twenty minutes later, I watched Jane Pauley interview some weather expert about the jet stream while I sat down to breakfast. Granola may be good for you, but even tenderized it’s like eating a dirt road.
    At eight-thirty, I called the Goreham College general number and got no answer. I fetched my Times from downstairs, read for a while, and tried again. After two transfers, I got the student directory operator, who gave me McCatty’s dorm address and room telephone. Six rings, no answer.
    I next tried Mariah Lopez at U Mass. Somebody’s secretary said she would be in by 11:00 A.M. The secretary took my and William’s names and gave me brief directions.
    I got dressed and first drove down to Boston Garden. I easily found a parking space and walked the three blocks back up to 100 Cambridge Street, one of the state office buildings. The lobby directory listed room 1507 for the Board of Registration in Medicine. Despite Homer’s and Lainie’s endorsements, Marek’s experimental hypnosis therapy still smacked of quackery, and I wanted to check on his background. I took the elevator to the fifteenth floor.
    Around two corners I found a powder-blue wall with a reception window cut into it and the board’s designation on a silver and black sign. I looked through the window into a multidesked office area. A well-dressed young woman with short dark hair noticed me and smiled brightly. She said, “Can I help you?” as she walked toward me.
    “Yes. I’d like to see the file on a doctor.”
    The smile never wavered. “I’m sorry, but the only information we can give out over the counter is the doctor’s current address, alma mater, and graduation and licensing dates.”
    “How can I get permission to see the rest of the file?”
    She half-turned and called to another young woman, with shoulder-length blond hair. The colleague came over, echoed the first one’s