She nodded and glanced into the big purse as if there were something inside it that she was hoping she wouldn’t have to show me, as if she had come here thinking I would just sort of know about her problem and be able to solve it. Maybe Marty Beale’s file said that I was so good I must be psychic.

I said, “Perhaps if you told me about your fiancé.”

She held the purse tighter. “It’s so hard.”

“I know it’s hard, Ms. Sheridan, but if you don’t tell me about him, I can’t help you. Do you see that?”

She nodded, but she still didn’t say anything.

I took out a yellow legal pad, a black SenseMatic pencil, and made as if I were poised to copy the rush of information she was about to provide.

She shifted her feet beneath the chair.

I made a couple of practice marks on the page. Subliminal prompting. “Okay. I’m ready. Fire away.”

She swallowed.

“Anytime.”

She stared at the floor.

I sighed, then put the pad on the desk and the pencil on the pad. I put my fingertips together and looked at Jennifer Sheridan through the steeple, and then I looked at the Pinocchio clock that I’ve got on my wall. It has eyes that swing from side to side as it tocks, and it’s always smiling. I like it that it’s always smiling. It was twelve twenty-two, and if I could get down to the deli fast enough, the turkey would still be moist and the rye would still be edible. Sometimes the quiet ones are so quiet that they tell you nothing and finally leave, keeping their problems to themselves. It works like that sometimes.

I stood up. “Maybe you should go to the police, Ms. Sheridan. If your fiancé is in danger, it is better to get in trouble with the police than it is to get hurt or killed.”

She clutched the purse even tighter, shook her head, and gave a miserable “I can’t do that.”

“I spread my hands. Twelve twenty-three.

She looked frightened. “My fiancé is the police.”

“Oh.” Now it was my turn. I sat down.

“You won’t tell, will you?”

“So far,” I said, “I don’t know anything to tell.”