A Fine Line Read Online Free PDF Page B

understand your concern, okay? But when I gave you this number, the idea was you’d call me if you thought of something. So have you thought of anything?”
    “You think this wasn’t an accident, right?” I said. “You think somebody knocked him down, meant to hurt him.”
    “Supposing they did,” he said. “Who could’ve done it?”
    “I can’t think of anybody.”
    “Call me when you can,” he said.
    I slept poorly and woke up early thinking about Ethan Duffy. The entire night had passed, and he hadn’t called me.
    I turned on the coffee machine, took a shower, shaved, and by the time I was dressed, the coffee had finished perking.
    I took a mugful out to the balcony to wait for the sun to rise, which it did, right on schedule, an event that never ceased to fill me with wonder.
    When my mug was empty, I went inside and refilled it. Then I did what I’d been dreading. I called the hospital and asked for Acute Care.
    “I’m calling to see how Walter Duffy is doing,” I said when the woman answered.
    “Hold on, please,” she said.
    I held on.
    Several minutes later, she came back on and said, “May I ask who’s calling?”
    “My name is Brady Coyne. I’m Mr. Duffy’s lawyer.”
    “You’re not a relative, then.”
    “No. I’m his lawyer. And his friend.”
    “Well, I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve been told not to speak with anybody except a relative about Mr. Duffy’s condition.”
    “Told by whom?”
    “I can’t tell you that.”
    “Can you at least tell me if his surgery was successful?”
    I’m sorry, sir, but—”
    “I just want to know if he’s okay.”
    “Sir, please.”
    “That’s okay. Forget it.”
    I was willing to bet it was the police who gave the Acute Care people those instructions. That did not comfort me.
    Ethan was a relative. I wondered if he’d talked to the folks at Acute Care, or if the police had talked to him.
    I left earlier than usual for work and headed for Walt’s townhouse. I was hoping that the crime-scene tape would be gone and Ethan would be there, and he’d offer me some coffee and we’d sit in the bird garden and he’d tell me that he’d spent the night at the hospital, that Walt was fine, and that he was sorry he hadn’t called me.
    But when I got there, the front door was still crisscrossed with yellow crime-scene tape and my business card was still stuck under the knocker where I’d left it.
    I went around to the alley. When I approached the door to the bird garden, I saw Henry.
    He was lying against the door, curled in a ball. His white-and-orange fur was smudged with mud. For a moment I thought he was dead.
    “Hey,” I said. “Henry.”
    He lifted his head, blinked at me, and yawned. Then he stood up, stretched, and came over.
    I squatted down and held out my hand, and he sniffed it. Then he gave it a cursory lick, just to be sure he hadn’t missed a morsel of something edible.
    “Where have you been?” I said. “Where the hell is Ethan?”
    Henry sat beside me and watched my face.
    I scratched his ears. “Did you spend the night outside? I bet you’re hungry.”
    “Hungry” seemed to be a key word in Henry’s vocabulary. He stood up and pressed his nose against the door. His stumpy little tail was wagging hard.
    “You can’t go in there,” I told him. I blew out a breath. “What the hell am I going to do with you?”
    He turned to look at me. His ears were cocked, and he seemed to arch his eyebrows.
    I sighed. “Okay, okay. You better come with me. I hope you know how to heel.”
    We headed down Mt. Vernon Street and turned left on Charles. Henry heeled nicely all the way. I picked up a large black coffee and a cinnamon bun at the Starbucks on the corner. They didn’t object to Henry, who sat quietly just inside the doorway while I waited at the counter. Out on the sidewalk, I gave Henry half of the bun. It went down in one massive gulp. I nibbled my half.
    Then we strolled to my office in Copley Square. It was slow going, as