A Fine Line Read Online Free

about parking illegally under a “Residents Only” sign on Beacon Hill—or not finding a space at all.
    Julie was shutting down the office machines when I went out to the reception area. She looked at me and arched her eyebrows. “Going fishing? That your worm-digging outfit?”
    “You know I fish with flies,” I said. “Evie and I are having a picnic. I’m supposed to meet her at Walden in—” I glanced at my watch “—in a little less than two hours. First I’ve got to go see Walt Duffy.”
    “Why?”
    “Why what?”
    “Why are you seeing Mr. Duffy if you’ve got a date?” The only thing that Julie considered more important than accruing billable hours was getting me married and settled down. She had high hopes for Evie and me.
    “It’s your fault,” I said. “You’re the one who insisted I take his call.”
    “Sure,” she said. “Blame me if you’re late.”
    “That’s why I pay you all that money,” I said. “To take the blame whenever there’s blame to be taken.”
    “Well, don’t stand around here talking to me. Go take care of Mr. Duffy, and make it snappy. We women don’t like to be kept waiting.”
    “Don’t I know it,” I said.

    It was another spectacular June afternoon—cloudless skies and warm sun, with a soft salty easterly breeze puffing in off the ocean. As I strolled down Boylston Street, I was acutely aware of what Julie called my “worm-digging” attire as I passed women in high heels and short skirts and men in their summer-weight suits and ties.
    I cut through the Public Garden and across the footbridge over the duck pond, crossed Beacon onto Charles, climbed Mt. Vernon Street, and banged the brass knocker on the door to Walt Duffy’s townhouse around five-thirty.
    I’d give Walt a half hour, max. Time for just one drink. Then I’d walk back to Copley Square and rescue my car, and with any luck I’d only be a few minutes late for my picnic with Evie.
    I waited, hit the knocker again, and when there was no response, I headed around to the back alley. Ethan was probably out walking Henry, and Walt couldn’t answer the door even if he heard me knock.
    The alley behind Walt’s townhouse was barely the width of an average driveway. It was lined on both sides by ten-foot brick walls with wooden doorways cut into them. Walt’s was the fifth door on the left. I called his name, and when he didn’t answer, I checked the door. He’d left it open a crack for me.
    When I stepped inside, a gang of sparrows flew off in a panicky whir of wings.
    Walt was not sitting on his chaise, and it took me a moment to see that he was sprawled on the brick patio on the other side of the table from where I stood.
    “Hey, Walt,” I said. “You okay?”
    He didn’t answer.
    I went over and knelt beside him.
    He was sprawled on his back. His crutches lay on either side of him, as if he’d been using them and somehow lost his balance, fallen backward, and hit his head on the bricks.
    A dribble of wet blood ran from one nostril halfway down his cheek. His eyes were half-closed and he was gasping in rapid, shallow breaths that barely moved his chest. A little puddle of blood was pooling under his head.
    “Oh, Jesus,” I muttered.
    I hurried inside, found the telephone, and dialed 911. I gave Walt’s address and my name and told the woman that Walt had apparently fallen and hit his head on the brick patio.
    “Is he conscious?”
    “No.”
    “Is he breathing?”
    “Yes. Rapid, shallow breaths.”
    “When did this happen?”
    “I don’t know. I just got here. Recently, I think. The blood is wet.”
    “They’re on their way, sir. Please wait there. Cover him with a blanket, but don’t try to move him.”
    “Right,” I said.
    I found a blanket folded up on Walt’s sofa, took it out to the patio, and spread it over him.
    “Hey,” I said. “Hey, Walt.”
    His eyelids fluttered.
    “What happened, man? Talk to me.”
    His lips moved.
    I bent closer to him, put my ear near