The Ditto List by Stephen Greenleaf Page B

twenty years.”
    â€œDivorced?”
    â€œSince 1965.”
    â€œSo what does that have to do with anything?”
    A sound emerged that D.T. eventually decided was from the grinding of Miss Holloway’s strong white teeth. “Her ex-husband is a doctor. He’s a well-known gynecologist, in the most visibly prosperous medical group in town. They’re in the new Health Sciences building over on Crestwood, maybe you’ve seen it.”
    D.T. nodded. “Quite a building.”
    â€œThe doctors own it themselves; that is, Dr. Preston’s group does. They then lease to other doctors, laboratories, pharmacies, and what have you. They also own two nursing homes. They’re even building their own hospital, I hear. All very fancy taxwise, you can be sure.”
    â€œOh, I’m sure of that, Miss Holloway. What I’m not sure of is what you want from me.”
    â€œMay I have another drink?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œDo you get mean when you drink, Mr. Jones? Or depressed? Or hostile?”
    Her questions seemed sincere, but he lacked answers that would match. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no, and sometimes when I get any of those it’s an improvement.”
    â€œThen why don’t you have another one, too?”
    He fixed the drinks, making hers a light one. There were things inside Miss Holloway that he guessed should stay there.
    â€œIt’s like I told you,” Rita Holloway said after her first sip. “Mrs. Preston needs money or she’ll end up in a state institution. The only place I can see it coming from is her ex-husband. I want you to figure out how to get some from him.”
    â€œThey were divorced, right?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œDid she instigate it or did he?”
    â€œHe did.”
    â€œThey had a property settlement agreement, right?”
    â€œI suppose so. Yes, I think she mentioned it.”
    â€œAnd he paid everything he was supposed to pay, right? As far as you know?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAre there any children?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAnd Mrs. Preston doesn’t claim the doctor owes her anything, does she?”
    â€œI—”
    â€œDoes she?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAnd in fact he doesn’t owe her anything, does he?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHe’s just a deep pocket. Isn’t that about it? Mrs. Preston needs money and he’s got some and you think he ought to give some to his ex-wife out of the goodness of his heart or, failing that, out of an order from some benignant court. Isn’t that about it, Miss Holloway?”
    â€œI’m not a child, Mr. Jones. You needn’t speak to me that way.” She placed her half-empty glass on the desk.
    â€œI admire your gall, Miss Holloway. That’s about all I can say.”
    â€œHe’s a millionaire , Mr. Jones. A society physician who makes a fortune peeking into velvet-lined vaginas. Is it right that he should live like that and his wife should wither away in an institution?”
    D.T. sighed. “She’s his ex -wife, first of all. And second of all, what I do doesn’t have anything to do with right , it has to do with law . The concepts meld only occasionally. So far you haven’t told me anything that would give Mrs. Preston a legal basis for glomming onto her husband’s money.”
    â€œBut there must be some way. A loophole? An exception? Aren’t lawyers always coming up with things like that?”
    â€œTax lawyers are. Divorce lawyers do well to file in the right court and show up on the right day. And to recognize their clients when they do.” D.T. stood up and walked to his golf bag and pulled out his wedge.
    â€œAnother urge, Mr. Jones?” Her words nipped at him like rats.
    â€œI’d like to help you, Miss Holloway,” he said, taking his stance, beginning his waggle. “But this isn’t a Legal Aid office or a charitable foundation. So far I don’t