“Does your wife know how many times you spoke with Tinsley over the last three months?”
“Of course she does,” he said. “Most of the time when Tinsley called, Guni was either sitting next to me or in the same room. My friendship with Tinsley was completely open and innocent.”
“And it never struck you as a little odd or too coincidental that one of your wife’s needier patients was also coming to you for an artistic apprenticeship?”
“When Tinsley bought that painting, she had no idea that I was Guni’s husband,” he said. “We go by different last names. And besides, my wife’s practice has nothing to do with what I do or with whom I socialize.” He stood and demonstrably buttoned his crisp white coat.
I stood with him. Something about his manner and his answers just wasn’t ringing true with me. He seemed above it all, as if he were too important to field questions like this from someone who didn’t have a PhD at the end of their name. Usually this meant a person was hiding something.
“And what about that late-night call to your house the night Tinsley disappeared?” I said. “The seventy-fifth and last call.”
Weems’s body language visibly changed. It was a question he knew was coming but definitely didn’t want to answer.
“She’d had an argument with a friend that night,” Weems finally said. “She was very upset and calling me to vent.”
Finally, a little fruit from the tree.
“An anesthesiologist, artiste, and relationship counselor,” I said. “You’re one helluva Renaissance man.”
Dr. Weems rolled his eyes in disgust and left me breathing in the smoke of the inveterate lung patient, who with trembling hands but determined eyes lit another cigarette while the other was still in his mouth.
16
IT WAS A SUNNY late afternoon, and I was feeling well exercised and ravenous. After my meeting with Dr. Weems, I’d hit eighteen holes on a short but hilly course in Flossmoor, where I shot a respectable eighty-two. The ravenous part was being handled with a piece of grilled salmon on a bed of cucumbers and succotash and a smattering of fresh tarragon sauce. It was also being handled with an unobstructed view of Carolina Espinoza, who was seated across from me in all her splendor, delicately picking at a tuna Nicoise salad.
The ambience at the Ralph Lauren Restaurant was its typical haughty self.
“Your dining choices never seem to disappoint,” Carolina said. “You move easily from Mexican street food to a place like this. That’s another check mark in my book.”
I looked around the bustling room full of khaki suits, bow ties, and light-colored dresses. Urbane preppy was definitely the dress code. I was defiant in black sweatpants and a long-sleeve White Sox T-shirt. There had been quite a few disapproving stares when I walked in, and I had enjoyed every one of them.
“Despite the unabashedly carnal thoughts going through my mind right now, this would be considered official business,” I said, squeezing some lemon into my glass of still water. “Goes against the expense account.”
“Official business,” Carolina sighed. “And I thought you were asking me out for lunch because you wanted to see me.”
“That’s always the case.” I smiled.
“Your romance cases could use a little help from all those skills you put to use in your investigative cases. You were too willing to do this over the phone had I not protested.”
I nodded. “I had to be sure you were interested in me and not my extraordinary wealth.”
“If it was the money, I certainly wouldn’t be settling for just any old lunch on Michigan Avenue. My mother taught me a lot better than that.”
“Smarts and a phenomenal gene pool. Your mother should be canonized.”
Carolina reached into her tote bag and handed me a large padded envelope. The only thing that had been written on it was a series of numbers and letters. Very official. She slid it across the table. “Your justification for taking this lunch out of your expense account.”
I opened the envelope. Both the small piece of cardboard and the brush were there in separate plastic evidence bags.
“I have three things for you,” she said, putting her fork down. “Let’s start with the fingerprints.”
“Let’s do that,” I said, taking a healthy bite of salmon, cucumbers, and tarragon sauce all at once. Who said gastronomic perfection could be found only on the narrow streets of Paris?
“Only one set of prints,” she said. “The one on the cardboard matches the ones on the brush. Tinsley Gerrigan.”
“Check mark.”
“Next, we have the issue of the words No Brand. This took a little work, but the lab techs nailed it. What’s missing are the words that follow—is more accurate.”
“Doesn’t sound like the most creative advertising slogan.”
“Creativity is not exactly their goal. It’s part of the packaging for the Clearblue home pregnancy test.”
That got my attention rather quickly.
“So Tinsley thinks she’s pregnant and takes a test in her bathroom,” I said. “She removed the box so no one would find it but missed this small piece.”
“Not too uncommon for a twenty-five-year-old with a boyfriend,” Carolina said. “Things happen.”
“Yeah, even if you don’t want them to.”
Carolina cut a bite-size piece of tuna in half. Now it was microscopic. She softly jabbed it with her fork. Even the way her fingers held the fork was something divine.
“There’s more,” Carolina said, after disposing of the speck of tuna. “Just to be sure, I went back over the phone records and checked everything again. This time I focused on the earlier calls, and something grabbed my attention.” She slid a piece of paper to me that had a phone number on it and the name Calderone & Calderone next to it.
“A law firm,” I said.
“Not a bad guess,” she said. “I thought the same thing when I first saw it. Try again.”
I rubbed my chin intellectually. “Got it,” I said. “A solo practicing attorney who has a really bad stuttering problem.”
Carolina smiled,
