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I hadn't met Alan, but I didn't need anyone to explain who Paul was.

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Probably very little.”

He opened his folder and pulled out a photocopied sheet.

“A call was placed last Thursday from a number registered to this building. I'm trying to establish whether Mr. Ellsworth made the call himself, whether someone acting on his behalf used the line, or whether the number was recorded incorrectly.”

He slid the paper across the counter where I could see that the telephone number near the top was ours.

I looked at the date. Thursday afternoon at three twenty-seven.

I tried to remember what had been happening then. Brian had worked part of the day. Alice had covered for an hour while I met upstairs with a guy selling shelving from a store that had closed on University Avenue, and customers used our phone occasionally if they asked, especially before the payphone down the block had been repaired.

“Who did they call?”

Vale shook his head slightly. “I can't give you that.”

I handed the sheet back. “Then I don't know how much help I can be.”

Brian looked up from the floor. “What kind of business matter?”

I turned toward him as he held out his hands. “I'm counting Fleetwood Mac, but couldn’t help overhearing.”

Martin didn't seem bothered by the question.

“Financial,” he said, returning his attention to me. “That's about as specific as I can reasonably be.”

There was nothing threatening about him. He wasn't trying to scare anybody into talking, and he didn't seem interested in pretending he had information he hadn't shared. If anything, he looked faintly apologetic about interrupting us.

“I don’t know Paul Ellsworth,” I said.

That wasn't completely true. I'd seen him once outside after closing, waiting while Lorrie finished her shift, but he’d never bothered to come inside.

“And his father, Alan?”

“Never met him, either.”

Martin nodded. “Would anybody here know how to reach either of them?”

Lorrie's name came immediately to mind, but I didn't say it.

“Don’t think so.”

He studied me for barely a second, then closed the folder.

“All right.”

That was apparently enough for him. No pressure followed, no suggestion that failing to help him would end in handcuffs or federal agents descending on State Street. He slid his card another inch across the counter.

“If you happen to hear anything about the call, or either name comes up, I'd appreciate hearing from you.”

“What exactly are you investigating?”

“I can't discuss my client.”

“I didn't ask who your client was.”