wants to release it-invasion of privacy laws.'
'You were with the FBI, maybe your buddies could get it… or pull her tax return.'
Hollis shook his head. 'That's jail time, Andy. We've got privacy laws in the U.S., even if the government forgets sometimes. I told you, Andy, I go by the book.'
'The book needs another chapter.'
'Andy, some PIs have arrangements with data brokers who cross the line. I don't.'
'Why not?'
'Because I don't want to go to prison like that PI-to-the-stars out in Hollywood. He got fifteen years in federal prison, for crossing the line.'
'I'll pay you a thousand an hour.'
'Andy, I spent twenty-five years putting people in jail. I'm not about to join them now, not for any amount of money. You want me to continue with the other women?'
Andy nodded. 'Give me what you've got on Frankie Doyle.'
That afternoon Andy flew first class to Boston.
He had called Russell Reeves to report back about his conversation with McCloskey.
'Go to Boston, Andy,' Russell had said. 'Find her.'
Andy read her file on the flight. Hollis had compiled Frankie Doyle's life history from birth until three years ago. Then her life went blank. Andy was betting she was dead.
He arrived late, rented a BMW, and booked a $500-a-night suite at the Boston Grand Hotel in downtown, the same hotel where Frankie had worked. After checking in, he went into the bar and ordered a beer. Benny was on duty. He was maybe forty, a bald guy, big but not menacing like Darrell. Andy introduced himself and told him he was trying to find Frankie Doyle.
'Got a call a few days ago, Irish PI in Austin named McCloskey, asking about Frankie.'
'He works for me. I'm a lawyer.'
'So why do you want to find Frankie?'
'To help her.'
'What's wrong with her?'
'To help her child, actually.'
'Abby? What's wrong with her?'
'I don't know yet.'
Benny gave him an odd look. 'Well, like I told your man McCloskey, I haven't seen or heard from Frankie in three years. She didn't show for her shift one night, after seven years.' He paused. 'You don't think she's dead?'
'I don't know. Maybe.'
That seemed to take the air out of Benny.
'She was a good Irish girl married to a lousy Irish mug.'
'Mickey?'
Benny nodded. 'He hit her.'
'So I've heard.'
'When she divorced him, I asked her to marry me.'
'Did y'all see each other?'
'Frankie Doyle cheat? No way. Catholic girl, lifetime of guilt, all that.' He shrugged. 'I still loved her. But she just wanted to get the hell away from Mickey.'
'Any idea where?'
He shook his head. 'She'd never been more than fifty miles from home, but she used to talk about moving to Montana or Texas, having horses. I told her she was a city girl, wouldn't know what to do in the country.'
Benny stepped away to serve a customer at the other end of the bar. Andy drank his beer and tried to imagine Frankie Doyle working there. It was a sports bar, but a classy place with an elegant wood bar and tables and leather chairs, a mirror behind the bar, and a flat-screen TV on the wall along with framed sports memorabilia- signed jerseys from the Patriots, Red Sox, Celtics, and Bruins-and sports-themed art. The only real art hung behind the bar, a black-and-white pencil drawing of Benny. Andy leaned over to read the artist's name: 'F. Doyle.'
'Frankie sketched that. One day, we weren't busy.'
Benny had returned.
'She wanted to be an artist.'
'She was.'
Benny stared at his image.
'I hope she still is.'
Andy said goodnight and went up to his room. He ordered room service, drank three more beers, and watched a movie on pay-per-view.
The next morning, Andy found Frankie Doyle's last-known address in a working-class neighborhood in South Boston. It was a brick row house situated among blocks of identical structures. He parked, went to the door, and knocked. No one answered.
'You looking for Mickey?'
The next-door neighbor, an old guy, was standing on the other side of a waist-high hedge.
'You know where I can find him?'
He pointed down the street.
'Doyle's Garage, two blocks down.'
'Thanks.' Andy stepped to the hedge. 'Did you know Frankie?'
'Sure. She's been gone three years now, since she divorced Mickey. He hit her. When he drank, which was every day. Guess she got tired of it. Took the girl and left the bastard.'
'Was the girl sick?'
'Abby? Not that I knew. She was a real tomboy, that one.'
Finally, a woman without a sick kid. Maybe it was just odds, like Russell said. But that was three years ago.
'Any idea where they went?'
The old man shook his head.
'Where does Frankie's mother live?'
The man nodded down the street.
'Three houses down.'
Andy said thanks and drove to Doyle's Garage. It was a small place, not much bigger than a two-car garage, with a dozen cars parked outside. Inside, Andy found the smell of oil and grease and a man ducked under the hood of a car.
'Mickey Doyle?'
From under the hood: 'Who's asking?'
'Andy Prescott. I'm a lawyer from Texas.'
The man came out now. He had closely-cropped red hair; he looked to be a few years older than Andy. He was built like a boxer with a nose that had been broken more than once. His hands were black with grease. He didn't seem happy to see Andy.
'Go away.'
Andy pulled out his wallet and removed ten $100 bills. He placed the cash on the car.
'I need some information.'
The man eyed the cash then Andy.
'What do you want to know?'
'You're Mickey Doyle?'
'Yeah.'
'I'm trying to find Frankie.'
'Did she come into money?'
'Not yet.'
'Well, I ain't seen or heard from Frankie since the day she divorced me. Three years ago.'
