Free Tight Lines by William G. Tapply

“I’ll be there.”
    “Um, hey, Gloria?”
    “Yes, Brady?”
    “What’s up?”
    “Oh, nothing much. It’s been a while, that’s all. I thought it would be nice to get together.”
    “It would be nice,” I said.
    After we exchanged good-byes, I swiveled around and stared out the window. Nothing much, she had said. My ex-wife was going to announce to me that she was getting remarried. To a lawyer. Ten years younger than her. A wuss. A dweeb. I wondered why she felt she had to tell me.
    I returned to the papers on my desk, and at five Julie poked her head into my office. “I’m off,” she said.
    I waved to her without looking up. The very model of the hard-working attorney.
    “Brady?” she said.
    I sighed and lifted my head. “Yes?”
    “What are you doing?”
    I moved the back of my hand across the papers scattered over my desk. “My job. I’m a lawyer, see.”
    “No, I mean on the Susan Ames thing?”
    “Still trying to catch up with Mary Ellen.”
    “And already you’re way behind in your real work.”
    “Susan is my client. It’s real work.”
    “Playing detective?”
    “I’m not playing detective. I’m trying to do my job.”
    She shrugged. “It’s your law practice.”
    “Precisely.”
    “Well,” she said, “just have all that stuff on my desk in the morning.”
    I snapped her a salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
    After she left I slid the new Orvis catalog out from under a stack of manila folders. They had just brought out a great new line of fly rods. I really needed a couple of new rods. I swiveled around to face the window while I studied the catalog.
    My phone rang around five-thirty. I picked it up. “Brady Coyne,” I said.
    “This is Doctor McAllister,” said a deep male voice. “Returning your call.”
    “Thank you,” I said. “I was hoping you might have some time…”
    “Did you have a referral?”
    “Pardon me?”
    “Did someone refer you to me?”
    “Oh.” I laughed quickly. “No, it’s not that. I don’t need—well, maybe I could use it. Probably could. But I’m not looking for treatment, Doctor. I’m a lawyer.”
    I paused, and I could hear the hesitation in his voice before he said, “Yes?” Why is it that everybody assumes a lawyer is out to screw them?
    “Doctor McAllister,” I said, “is Mary Ellen Ames your patient?”
    There was a long pause. “Sir, I’m sorry, but…” His voice trailed off.
    “I don’t want you to violate confidentiality,” I said. “I know all about the privileged status of our patients and clients. But I’m Mary Ellen’s mother’s lawyer. I’ve been trying to find her. Susan Ames is dying, and—”
    “She’s my patient, yes.”
    “You prescribed Pertofrane for her?”
    “What exactly do you want?” he said.
    “I just need to talk with her.”
    Another pause. “I see.”
    “So do you know how I can get ahold of her?”
    “You’d appear to be doing very well, Mr. Coyne. You know I treat Miz Ames, you know her medication.”
    “Well, I can’t find her.”
    “Mr. Coyne,” he said after a moment, “you asked me for some time. I can do that. But not now. If you’d like to get together…?”
    “Sure,” I said. “That would be good.”
    “Let’s see,” he said. “Today’s Tuesday. I’ve got my seminar tonight. How would nine be? Too late for you?”
    “Tonight?”
    “Yes.”
    “Nine is fine. Where?”
    He gave me directions to his place in Brookline. His office was in his house. It sounded like a large house in a nice neighborhood.

11
    D R. WARREN MCALLISTER’S BIG Victorian was exactly where he said it would be in Brookline, and I got there ten minutes early. A giant elm tree, apparently immune to the Dutch elm disease that has virtually extinguished that elegant old tree from New England, grew on the lawn. Its swooping limbs still clung stubbornly to a few clumps of leaves. Foundation plantings of rhododendrons had been allowed to sprawl unchecked across the front of the house, almost