I returned the folder to Marjorie. “I have a question. I believe someone came in making a similar request for information about this guy. This would have been a woman in her forties. Tall, thin, masses of red-brown hair, a beaky nose—the sort of face you’d see in a snooty magazine ad.”

“I’d remember someone of that description. Of course, I was out on vacation over Christmas, and she could have come in then,” she said. “I can ask around, if you like. Someone might remember her. We don’t get much business up here these days. One day soon newspapers will be a thing of the past.”

“That can’t be true. You think? I mean, people want to know what’s going on in the world. A television broadcast is never going to take the place of hard news.”

“All I know is there was a time when a newspaper was the heartbeat of the city. Now, not so much. It’s like the lifeblood is draining out.”

“Well, that’s depressing.”

“Try looking at it from where I stand,” she said.

13

I walked back to the office and retrieved my car. I had time for one more stop before I headed home. I checked my index cards to verify Taryn Sizemore’s address. I cruised up State and turned right onto a side street, approaching a bar and grill called Sneaky Pete’s, which had closed and reopened under a new name some years before. Despite the new moniker, it was still referred to as Sneaky Pete’s. What loomed large in my mind’s eye was the vision of the specialty of the house: a sandwich made with spicy salami and melted pepper jack cheese, topped with a fried egg, the whole of it served on a Kaiser roll that dripped with butter as you ate. I would have pursued that fantasy, but I spotted Taryn Sizemore’s office address directly across the street. I had to make a hasty turn at the next corner and swing back around. It was well after five by then, and many of the area businesses were closed for the day, which made street parking a breeze.

I locked my car and entered the renovated Victorian structure, which apparently now housed an entire complex of psychologists’ offices. From this, I cleverly deduced that Taryn’s PhD must be in marriage and family therapy, counseling, or social work. She’d probably had years of professional training in how to feign interest in what others had to say. This might work to my advantage until she realized I wasn’t in the market for a shrink.

Hers was suite 100 on the ground floor. I went in and found myself in a small, comfortably furnished waiting room complete with an apartment-size, chintz-covered love seat and two small easy chairs. The color scheme was a soothing blend of blues and greens, probably designed to calm clients whose emotional tendencies ran to upset and agitation. There were no windows and only one other door, which I assumed opened into her office proper.