I punched Ryan's arm.

"That's an assault."

"Arrest me."

"Now what?" Ryan asked.

"Cruikshank, Flynn, and Montague all tie in to that clinic, but Gullet doesn't want any wingtipped cowboys harassing the staff."

"I'm strictly a loafer man."

"He meant Pete."

"The cute little tyke."

Twenty minutes later we were back on the Peninsula, in a rundown section between the historic district and the Cooper River Bridge. The quartier quartier featured low brick and frame bungalows, sagging porches stacked with rusted appliances, here and there a plywood-boarded window or door. featured low brick and frame bungalows, sagging porches stacked with rusted appliances, here and there a plywood-boarded window or door.

Ryan spotted the redbrick building first. Pulling to the curb, he cut the engine.

The clinic was a plain box with rusty ACs jutting from the windows and abandoned lots on both sides. In keeping with the hood, there were no shutters, no signs, not an architectural frill of any kind. The interior blinds were closed, as on the day Cruikshank's photos were snapped.

As we watched, the front door opened, glinting late-afternoon sunlight from the tinted plate glass. An old woman emerged and began picking her way along the walk.

Shielding my eyes with one hand, I scanned up and down Nassau, following sight lines out from the clinic door. Half a block north was a bus shelter. Half a block south was a phone booth. Through the dingy glass I could see the receiver dangling by its cord.

"Pics were probably shot from the phone booth and the bus stop," I said.

Ryan agreed. We got out and crossed the street.

The building looked seedier on actual viewing than it had on the disc. I noticed a window crack patched with gray duct tape. The tape was curled at the edges, suggesting the patch had been there awhile.

Ryan held the door and we both entered. Inside, the air was warm and smelled of alcohol and sweat.

The reception area held rows of Kmart vinyl chairs, two of which were occupied. A woman with a black eye. A kid with one of those unfortunate goatee things on his chin. Both were coughing and sniffing. Neither bothered to look our way.

The receptionist did bother. She was about my age, tall and muscular, with mahogany skin and up-slicked frizz that was black at the roots and bronze at the tips. I assumed this was Berry, CEO of paperwork and supplies.

Running through Cruikshank's images, I spotted Berry in my mind's eye - JPEG 7. The tall black woman with the blond hair.

Seeing us, Berry straightened and set her jaw. Perhaps she'd already given last call. Perhaps our appearance suggested we weren't there for Pepto.

Ryan and I crossed to the reception desk. I smiled at Berry. Her face remained hard as a Hell's Angels logo. She wasn't fingering brass knuckles, but it was close.

I introduced myself. "I'm Dr. Brennan. This is Detective Ryan. We're working with the Charleston County Coroner's Office, investigating the possible death of a woman who may have been Unique Montague."

"Who?"

I repeated the name.

Berry's eyes were black-brown, the whites yellow as stale beer. I watched them rove down, then back up my body. The movement nudged the jittery little temper trigger in my brain.

"We have reason to believe Miss Montague was a patient at this clinic," I said.

"Do you?"

"Was she?" I tried but failed to keep the irritation from my voice.

"Was she what?"

I turned to Ryan. "Are my questions unclear, Detective? Maybe too ambiguous?"

"I don't think so," Ryan said.

I turned back to Berry. "Was Unique Montague a patient at this clinic?"

"I'm not saying she was, not saying she wasn't."

Again, I turned to Ryan. "Maybe it's my manner. Maybe Miss Berry doesn't like the way way I'm asking the questions." I'm asking the questions."

"You could try being more polite," Ryan said.

"Friendlier?"

Ryan shrugged.

Swinging back to Berry, I smiled the friendliest of smiles. "If it's not too inconvenient, would you mind sharing with us what you know about Miss Montague?"

Berry's eyes bore into mine. I definitely disliked what I saw in them. I also disliked the fact that she was right. Ryan and I had no official jurisdiction, and Berry had no reason to cooperate with us. Nevertheless, I maintained my bluff.

"Do you know what's really, really fun?" I gave Berry another big smile. "Visits to the police station. The officers give you free soft drinks, doughnuts if you're lucky, and a cozy little room all to yourself."

Flipping her pen onto her appointment book, Berry sighed dramatically. "Why do you want to know about this Montague person?"

"Her name has surfaced in connection with a police investigation concerning a dead body."

"Why her name?"

"I don't think that's relevant." To Ryan. "Do you think that's relevant, Detective?"

"I don't think so."

Leaning back, Berry crossed tree-trunk arms on a double-D chest. "You work for the coroner?"

"I do."

"Better haul out a body bag."

"Why is that?"

Berry looked to Ryan. "You two are such a scream I might die laughing right here in this chair."

"That's a very old line," I said.

"I'll hire new writers."

"Let's start over. Unique Montague may have come in with a cat on her chest."

"Lots of our patients have parasite problems."

Obviously, this wasn't working. Mention Helene Flynn? Noble Cruikshank? Bad idea. If a connection existed, such questions could raise the alert Gullet wished to avoid.

"I'd like to speak with Dr. Marshall," I said.

"He won't talk about patients." Realizing her mistake, Berry corrected herself. "If this Montague was was a patient, which I'm not saying she was." a patient, which I'm not saying she was."

"She was."

We all three swiveled toward the woman with the shiner.

25.

THE WOMAN WAS WATCHING US FROM UNDER HALF-MAST LIDS, one swollen and discolored. Her skin was sallow, her cropped black hair spiked out in clumps.

"You're acquainted with Unique Montague?" I asked.

The woman raised two palms. Her nails were chewed, her inner elbows welted with sinewy scars. "I said she come here. Nothing more."

"How do you know that?"

"I spend half my life waiting at this dump." The woman glared at Berry. "Don't matter if you're dying."

"You're not dying, Ronnie." Berry's tone was cold and unfeeling.

"I got the flu."

"You're a junkie."

I intervened. "You spoke to Unique Montague here at this clinic?"

"I don't waste no breath on whackos. Heard this whacko talking to a big brown cat. Called herself Unique."

"You're sure?"

"I heard you askin'. I laid down an answer."

"When was she here?"

One bony shoulder hitched.

"Do you know where she lives?"

"Whacko told the cat they was going to some shelter."

"Which shelter?"

"I look like a fucking social worker?"

"Language," Berry admonished.

Ronnie's mouth clamped into a thin, tight line. Kicking out her feet, she laced her fingers on her belly and lowered her eyes.

Goat-chin spoke without raising his head from the wall. "Someone gonna see me, or should I just go home and mail my snot to y'all in a baggie?"

Berry was about to respond when a door opened, footsteps clicked, and a man entered from a hallway to the right of her desk. The man held two charts.

"Rosario. Case."

Hearing his name, goat-chin asked, "You the doc?"

"No."

A smirk crossed the kid's face. "Nurse Nancy?"

"Daniels. Corey Daniels. You got a problem with male nurses?"

When goat-chin opened his eyes, the smirk evaporated. For good reason.

If Berry was big, Daniels was bigger. I'm not talking NBA tall and skinny. This guy looked like Sasquatch in scrubs. His hair was pulled back in a sumo knot, and a line of tattoos snaked from his biceps to his wrist.

"Sorry, man." Goat-chin lost all interest in eye contact. "I feel like shit."

"Uh-huh." Daniels shifted to Ronnie. "You living out another dose, sunflower?"

"I got a fever."

"Uh-huh. Both of you follow me."

"Mr. Daniels," I said, as Ronnie and goat-chin pushed to their feet.

"Yo." Surprised, as though noticing Ryan and me for the first time.