"You and Frankie grew up together?"
"She's seven years younger than me. We married soon as she graduated high school."
"And had a daughter. You don't see Abby?"
"Had to give up my rights, to stay out of prison. Three strikes."
"Was she sick?"
"Frankie?"
"Abby."
"No, Abby wasn't sick."
"You got any photos of her?"
"You want photos of Abby?"
"No. Frankie."
"Oh. Burned 'em all. So I'd forget her." He paused and stared at the engine. "Didn't work."
"She have any relatives still living here, other than her mother?"
"Frankie was an only child. Sean, he kept getting Colleen pregnant, but she kept miscarrying. Finally had to yank out her plumbing."
"Is she at home?"
"Always."
"She know where Frankie's living?"
"Hell, Colleen don't know where she's living. She's got that Alzheimer's. She takes a walk, can't find her way back home. I gotta go looking for her two, three times a week." He pointed again. "Hand me that socket drive."
Andy handed the tool to him.
"Mickey, you think Frankie's dead?"
"Nope."
"Why not?"
" 'Cause she calls Colleen every day."
"How do you know?"
"Colleen tells me, when I check on her."
"You check on your ex-mother-in-law?"
"Every morning. Make sure she ain't hurt herself."
"Mickey, you been trying to find Frankie?"
Mickey stopped working the socket drive. He rested his weight on the car frame. He didn't look at Andy.
"Why would I do that?"
"Because you want her back."
"Look, I'd take Frankie back, but she don't want me back. Hell, she put a restraining order on me. I go near her or Abby, I go to prison."
"Anyone else who might be looking for her?"
"You." He now faced Andy. "Why are you looking for her?"
"I can't say. What's Frankie's birthday?"
"July seven. Nineteen eighty."
"What's her social security number?"
"I can't say."
"I'll double the cash."
"I can't say 'cause I don't know. And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. I don't know you from Adam. You come in here asking questions, I don't know what you're up to." He gestured at the $100 bills. "Can I have the cash now?"
Andy nodded, and Mickey grabbed the green. Andy handed his business card to him.
"That's my cell phone number. Call me if you think of anything, where she might be, okay? It's important."
Mickey took the card and stared at it.
"Traffic tickets and finding people… must pay good."
"Better than you'd think."
Mickey stuck the card in his shirt pocket and ducked back under the hood.
Andy called Hollis McCloskey and gave him Frankie's date of birth. Then he drove downtown to the Suffolk County Courthouse. He found the clerk's office and asked for the divorce file for Frankie Doyle vs. Michael Doyle from three years before. The clerk checked her computer.
"That file's been sent to archives. You can put in an order, come back next week."
"Do you show the attorney for Frankie Doyle?"
"Marty O'Connor."
She gave him the lawyer's phone number. Andy stepped outside and called O'Connor on his cell phone. When he was put through to the lawyer, Andy identified himself and explained that he was trying to locate Frankie.
"For what purpose?" O'Connor said.
"That's confidential, Marty."
"Well, so is what I know about Frankie."
"Do you know where she's living?"
"No. But I wouldn't tell you if I did. Look, Andy, do her a favor, and leave her alone. She's been through enough."
"With Mickey?"
O'Connor hesitated then said, "Yeah, with Mickey."
"My client wants to help her."
"No, he doesn't. Just leave her alone, Andy."
They hung up. Andy went to the tax office and checked the tax records; Frankie Doyle owned no real property in Suffolk County. He checked the Department of Motor Vehicles; no car in Massachusetts was registered to Frankie Doyle.
Andy drove back to Colleen O'Hara's residence and knocked on the door; an old woman answered.
"Mrs. O'Hara?"
"Who?"
"Ma'am, are you Frankie's mother?"
"Where's Frankie?"
"I don't know, ma'am. I'm trying to find her."
"I want to see my baby."
"May I come in and talk?"
She smiled. "Okay."
Andy stepped through the door and into 1955. The carpet was shag, the upholstery brocade, and the room dimly lit by a few old lamps. He counted five cats lounging around. The television was on to the soaps. Mrs. O'Hara sat in a thick chair directly in front of the TV. Andy looked around. A dozen framed black-and-white drawings by "F. Doyle" hung on the walls. All were stark and desolate landscapes. They reminded Andy of West Texas and New Mexico.
"Frankie's an artist."
"Yes, ma'am, she is. Mrs. O'Hara, do you have a photo of Frankie?"
She reached over to the end table next to her chair and picked up a framed picture. She held it out to him. It was a photo of a pretty young woman and a cute girl in thick snow. They were wearing parkas with the hoods snug around their faces. They were happy. And alive.
Andy considered stealing the photo, but just the thought made him feel like a creep-stealing from an old lady with Alzheimer's. So he tried to memorize Frankie Doyle's image. Hers was not a hard face to look at. Her hair was tucked inside the hood of her parka; he assumed a girl named O'Hara would have red hair-or perhaps it was just wishful thinking, given his thing for redheads-but there was something about her that made him want to find her. To see her in real life.
Mrs. O'Hara was focused on the soaps, so Andy walked into the adjacent kitchen. On the small table was a short stack of bills. He thumbed through them and saw a telephone bill.
"Mrs. O'Hara, does Frankie call you?"
"Frankie's on the phone?"
"Uh, no, ma'am."
Andy removed the telephone bill and scanned down the numbers listed for the calls that came daily. All were incoming but no location was noted; the numbers were all 888 prefixes. Hollis was right; Frankie was smart. She was using a prepaid phone card to call her mother. She could be calling from New York or L.A.; there was no way to know.
Andy couldn't think of anything else he might learn from Colleen O'Hara, so he went back into the front room and said goodbye then handed the framed photo back to her.
"Mrs. O'Hara, where was this photo taken?"
She put on her reading glasses and looked at the photo.
"That's Frankie… and Abby."
"Yes, ma'am. Where were they in this photo?"
"In the snow."
"What state?"
She gazed off as if trying to find the answer written on the ceiling. Andy thought of his father, how his memory had deteriorated as a result of his liver disease. His forgetfulness frustrated the hell out of Paul Prescott; at least Colleen O'Hara didn't know to be frustrated.
"Thanks, Mrs. O'Hara." He gave her his business card. "When Frankie calls, ask her to call me. It's important."
She smiled.
"I'll let myself out."
He was almost out the door when she said, "Montana."
Benny had said that Frankie Doyle had never traveled farther than fifty miles from Boston, so the Montana photo must have been taken after she had left Boston three years ago. Frankie Doyle had moved to Montana.
Where Andy Prescott now was.
Billings was in eastern Montana and the largest city in the state with a population of 100,000. Hollis McCloskey had said Frankie Doyle might have moved to a small county in a state out west to change her name. So Andy tried to think like Frankie Doyle. There was usually a statutory period to establish residency, typically six months, so Frankie would have to live in the county for at least that long before she could change her name. So she would find a small county near a bigger city. Billings wasn't Boston, but it would have some amenities. That's what he would do; maybe that's what she had done.