He listened. “Five minutes,” he said. As he hung up, he shot me an apologetic smile as though embarrassed to have to hurry me out the door.

I lifted a finger. “You’re the one who called me.”

“Come again?”

“June or July. Somebody called me looking for R. T. Dace. I don’t know how my number came to light, but I had a brief conversation with a doctor somebody. I didn’t catch the name at the time, but I recognized your voice just now.”

He shook his head. “Don’t think so. Not that I recall. I don’t believe we ever had a contact number for him. It might have been someone in the lab.”

“Oh. Well, maybe so. It stuck in my mind, but I guess it could have been anyone.”

I got up and slung the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “I better let you get back to work. Thanks for your time.”

“I’m not sure how much comfort I’ve provided. If the family have any other questions, I’d encourage them to get in touch. For peace of mind if nothing else.” He stood and we shook hands across the desk. This time his grip was ice cold and his palm was damp. “Again, my condolences. I liked him.”

“I appreciate your saying so,” I replied. I held up the booklet. “Thanks for this.”

“My pleasure.”

He smiled and resumed his seat, probably already thinking about the call he’d be returning as soon as I was out of earshot.

It wasn’t until I reached the door that I hesitated. “One more question if you wouldn’t mind. I know this is out of line and if you can’t or don’t want to answer, please say so.”

He watched me and then made a little gesture, indicating his willingness.

“You said you checked on his medications. Was he taking Glucotace or the placebo?”

There was a silence during which he regarded me without expression. I didn’t think he’d answer and I could see him weigh the issue in his mind. Finally, he said, “I don’t see any harm in telling you. The placebo.”

In the corridor, I paused for a short debate. Instead of heading for the exit, I returned to the clinic office. No sign of Greta. I reached over and picked up the appointment book, leafing back through the weeks as though I had every right. August: nothing. Tuesday, July 12: Pete’s name was penned into the 1:00 P.M. slot.