“It’s Friday night. I think we should go over to the Women’s Clinic and act as if we own the place. I wore my white coat over here just to try it. No one questioned me. I walked right in as if I were on the staff.”

“How soon do you want to do this?” Wendy asked.

“When are you off?” Marissa asked.

“I can leave anytime now,” Wendy answered.

“Get a white coat and pens and a stethoscope,” Marissa said.

“The more medical paraphernalia, the better.”

Half an hour later, Marissa and Wendy slowly drove beneath the overhead walkway and past the opening into the courtyard of the Women’s Clinic. They had started out the drive with excited chatter, but now, within sight of the clinic, they had fallen silent. Both felt nervous, tense, and a little fearful. Although Marissa tried not to think about it, Robert’s comments concerning the felonious nature of what they were about to attempt were preying on her mind.

“The place is still hopping,” Wendy said.

“You’re right,” Marissa agreed. People were entering and exiting. The windows were ablaze with lights.

“I suggest we go someplace and cool our heels for a couple of hours,” Wendy said. “How about a bar?”

“I wish we could drink,” Marissa said. “A glass of wine might calm me down. That reminds me, when do you have your blood test?”

“Tomorrow,” Wendy said.

“You must be nervous about that too,” Marissa said.

“I’m a wreck,” Wendy agreed.

Paul Abrums rummaged in his right front pocket for a dime. It was still one of the bargains of Boston that if you could find an ATT phone, a local call was still only ten cents.

He let the coin drop into the slot and dialed Robert’s office. It was before eight, and he was confident Robert would be there. Robert had told him earlier in the day that he’d be in his office until nine. Then he’d be at home after that. He’d given Paul both numbers.

As the phone rang, Paul turned to keep his eye on the Viceroy Indian Restaurant in Central Square. Marissa had entered with her companion over an hour ago. If she happened to come out, Paul wanted to know.

“Hello,” Robert answered. He was the only one in the office.

“Paul Abrums here,” Paul said.

“Is there a problem?” Robert asked, somewhat alarmed.

“Not a big problem,” Paul said. He spoke slowly and deliberately. “Your wife is with a short blonde woman who must also be a doctor.”

“That’s Wendy Wilson,” Robert said.

“They’re eating at an Indian restaurant as we speak,” Paul said. “They drove past the Women’s Clinic. I thought they were about to stop but they didn’t.”

“That’s odd,” Robert said.