"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."

"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.