Deputy Pokrass turned out to be a woman in her thirties, tall and trim, with sandy hair cut short, glasses with tortoiseshell rims. The tan uniform seemed designed for her: all function, no frills. There was very little animation to her face. Her eyes were a penetrating brown, rather cold, and her manner, while not actually rude, was on the abrupt side of businesslike. We didn't waste a lot of time on pleasantries. I stood at the short counter and filled her in on the situation, keeping my account brief and to the point. She listened intently, without comment, and when I finished she picked up the telephone. She called the local hospital, Pioneers Memorial, and asked for the patient billing and accounting department, her voice wanning only slightly in her conversation with someone named Letty on the other end. She pulled a yellow legal pad closer and picked up a pencil sharpened to a perfect point. She made a note, her handwriting full of angular down-strokes. I was sure that, even at the age of twelve, she'd never been the type to make a little happy face when she dotted an i. She hung up the phone and used a straightedge to tear off the strip of paper on which she'd written an address.

"Agnes Grey was admitted to Pioneers on January 5, through emergency after the paramedics picked her up outside a downtown coffee shop where she collapsed. Diagnosis by the admitting physician was pneumonia, malnutrition, acute dehydration, and dementia. On March 2, she was transferred to Rio Vista Convalescent Hospital. This is the address. If you locate her, let us know. Otherwise you can come back in and fill out a missing persons report. We'll do what we can."

I glanced at the paper, then folded it and put it in my jeans pocket. "I appreciate your help." By the time I got the sentence out, she'd turned away, already back at work on the report she was typing. I used my proffered hand to scratch my nose, feeling the way you do when you wave back at someone who turns out to be waving happily at someone else.

On the way to my car, it occurred to me that the admissions officer at the convalescent home might be reluctant to give me information on Agnes Grey. If she was still a patient, I could probably get a room number and whip right in. If she'd been released, things might get trickier. Medical personnel aren't as chatty as they used to be. Too many lawsuits over the right to privacy. Best not blow my chances, I thought.