conference room. I was invited to sit, which I did. I tried crossing my legs, but that didn't feel right.
"Can someone tell me what's going on?" I asked.
White-Pin Carlson took the lead. "Can we get you something?" he asked. "We make the world's worst coffee, if you're interested."
That explained all the designer cups. He smiled at me. I smiled back. "Tempting, but no thanks."
"How about a soft drink? We have soft drinks, Tom?"
"Sure, Nick. Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, whatever the doctor here wants."
They smiled some more. "I'm fine, thanks," I said.
"Snapple?" Stone tried. He once again hitched up his pants. His stomach was the kind of round that made it hard to find a spot where the waistband wouldn't slide. "We got a bunch of different varieties here."
I almost said yes so that they'd get on with it, but I just gently shook him off. The table, some sort of Formica mix, was bare except for a large manila envelope. I wasn't sure what to do with my hands, so I put them on the table. Stone waddled to the side and stood there. Carlson, still taking the lead, sat on the corner of the table and swiveled to look down at me.
"What can you tell us about Sarah Goodhart?" Carlson asked.
I wasn't sure how to answer. I kept trying to figure out the angles, but nothing was coming to me.
"Doc?"
I looked up at him. "Why do you want to know?"
Carlson and Stone exchanged a quick glance. "The name Sarah Goodhart has surfaced in connection with an ongoing investigation," Carlson said.
"What investigation?" I asked.
"We'd rather not say."
"I don't understand. How am I connected into this?"
Carlson let loose a sigh, taking his time on the exhale. He looked over at his rotund partner and suddenly all smiles were gone. "Am I asking a complicated question here, Tom?"
"No, Nick, I don't think so."
"Me neither." Carlson turned his eyes back at me. "Maybe you object to the form of the question, Doc. That it?"
"That's what they always do on The Practice, Nick," Stone chimed in. "Object to the form of the question."
"That they do, Tom, that they do. And then they say, 'I'll rephrase', right? Something like that."
"Something like that, yeah."
Carlson looked me down. "So let me rephrase: Does the name Sarah Goodhart mean anything to you?"
I didn't like this. I didn't like their attitude or the fact that they had taken over for Lowell or the way I was getting grilled in this conference room. They had to know what the name meant. It wasn't that difficult. All you had to do was casually glance at Elizabeth's name and address. I decided to tread gently.
"My wife's middle name is Sarah," I said.
"My wife's middle name is Gertrude," Carlson said.
"Christ, Nick, that's awful."
"What's your wife's middle name, Tom?"
"McDowd. It's a family name."
"I like when they do that. Use a family name as a middle name. Honor the ancestors like that."
"Me too, Nick."
Both men swung their gazes back in my direction.
"What's your middle name, Doc?"
"Craig," I said.
"Craig," Carlson repeated. "Okay, so if I asked you if the name, say" -he waved his arms theatrically- "Craig Dipwad meant anything to you, would you chirp up, 'Hey, my middle name is Craig'?"
Carlson flashed me the hard eyes again.
"I guess not," I said.
"I guess not. So let's try it again: Have you heard the name Sarah Goodhart, yes or no?"
"You mean ever?"
Stone said, "Jesus Christ."
Carlson's face reddened. "You playing semantic games with us now, Doc?"
He was right. I was being stupid. I was flying blind, and that last line of the email -Tell no one- kept flashing in my head like something in neon. Confusion took over. They had to know about Sarah Goodhart. This was all a test to see if I was going to cooperate or not. That was it. Maybe. And cooperate about what?
"My wife grew up on Goodhart Road," I said. They both moved back a little, giving me room, folding their arms. They led me to a pool of silence and I foolishly dived in. "See, that's why I said Sarah was my wife's middle name. The Goodhart made me think of her."
"Because she grew up on Goodhart Road?" Carlson said.
"Yes."
"Like the word Goodhart was a catalyst or something?"
"Yes," I said again.
"That makes sense to me." Carlson looked at his partner. "That make sense to you, Tom?"
"Sure," Stone agreed, patting his stomach. "He wasn't being evasive or anything. The word Goodhart was a catalyst."
"Right. That's what got him thinking about his wife."
They