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into the case, but they were both unavailable on Sunday. Liz was undergoing a battery of tests, and her mother and husband wanted to stay close throughout the day. Bobbi promised to call Fina on Monday when they had a free moment, and in the meantime gave her the contact information for Thatcher Kinney. Given that he was a small-town lawyer, Thatcher Kinney wasn’t even answering his phone on Sunday, let alone scheduling meetings.
    It was hard to get work done on a Sunday, and Fina supposed if the Lord was allowed to rest, then so was she. Perhaps she took it a little far by not showering, dressing, or leaving the condo, but by Monday morning, she was ready to jump into the case.
    Savvy and powerful people often went out of their way to avoid speaking with a private investigator, which was why Fina was a fan of dropping by unannounced and planting herself in their waiting rooms. But if an interviewee didn’t fall into the savvy and powerful category, it was often better to schedule an appointment. The effort of calling ahead would be misconstrued as respect, and the subject wouldn’t know better than to agree to the meeting. It was a win-win as far as Fina was concerned, so she called Thatcher Kinney first thing on Monday and was told by his sunny secretary that he could see her at eleven A.M.
    The appointment time left her with a couple of hours to burn, so she threw on some workout clothes and headed down to the building’s fourth-floor gym. Fina didn’t enjoy working out, and her fast metabolism deemed it unnecessary in order to maintain her weight, despite her unorthodox diet. However, with each passing year and physical skirmish, she was increasingly aware that being fit wouldn’t always be a given, so she was trying to exercise more often. Her on-the-job pursuits weren’t consistent enough to qualify as cardio training.
    Fina logged a few miles on the treadmill, lifted some weights, and was back upstairs with enough time for a shower, breakfast, and a quick review of Thatcher Kinney’s bio. He didn’t have an online presence with the exception of a mention in the Roger Williams University School of Law alumni bulletin. Assuming he attended law school not long after graduating from college, he was probably in his midfifties. Thatcher Kinney didn’t seem to generate many headlines, which was great when discretion was required, but it rarely was in personal injury lawsuits.
    There was a backup on the Mass Pike, proving Fina’s theory that rush hour no longer existed; traffic was a reality of urban living that followed no tidy schedule or predictable pattern. She spent forty-five minutes cursing her fellow drivers and scanning the dial for anything that approximated music. The Top 40 station was repetitive, and the hip-hop option featured lots of moaning and “slap it here, girl,” “work that booty, baby.” Who said romance was dead?
    Natick Center, where Thatcher’s office was located, was a hybrid of the past and the present. The main street featured mom-and-pop businesses fighting the good fight against bank branches and chain coffee shops, but the newest additions to the area were large municipal buildings constructed to look old. The railroad tracks bisected the area, a testimony to the town’s role as a bedroom community for Boston’s professional workforce.
    Fina found a parking space next to the town common and fought to open her car door against a snowbank. She squeezed out of the car, only to have to climb the hillock of dirty snow that was blocking her path. With no time to spare, she dashed across the street to a Victorian-style house that was the home of Thatcher Kinney, Attorney at Law, as well as a dental practice and an independent insurance agency.
    Inside the front door was a small separate foyer with a row of mailboxes built into the right-hand wall. Fina stamped the slush off her boots and turned the doorknob leading into the hallway. A steep flight of stairs carpeted in