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up.
    “Hello?” The voice on the other end of the line was male, slightly tentative, but not the just-out-of-high-school or really-in-another-country type of voice that shows up when your caller is trying to sell you insurance or tell you about “your credit card account” despite not knowing which credit card might be in question.
    “Yes?” I said. It might be a reader—it’s really not that hard for them to find out your hometown and look up the phone number—so I had to be polite, at least. “What the hell do you want?” would probably have been a little too aggressive.
    “Is this Rachel Goldman?” the voice asked.
    You can’t be too careful. “Who may I say is calling?” I asked in my best impression of Paula. She provides a great role model. And mentally, I decided that no matter who this person was, I wasn’t spending more than twenty dollars on whatever he was selling.
    “Um . . . this is Duffy Madison,” the voice said.
    Okay, maybe twenty-five.

Chapter 2
    Now, it’s not absolutely out of the question to get a phone call from someone claiming to be your books’ protagonist. Authors—even lesser known ones like me—are sort of public figures, and there will always be some nut who wants to connect with you or just wants to play a joke. It happens every once in a great while, although usually via e-mail. There are also probably just a few people in the country whose parents were cruel enough to name them Duffy Madison. I’ve heard from one or two, usually with the flattering comment, “I’ve never heard of you, but my friend says you have a character with my name.”
    So I breathed in a little, wondered exactly why I still have a landline that appears in the phone book, and said, “Can I help you?”
    “ Is this Ms. Goldman?” the man asked again. I had not, after all, admitted to being me.
    “It is,” I allowed. “What can I do for you, Mr. Madison?”
    There was a noticeable hesitation on his part. “I believe . . . that is, I think I might be . . .” His voice trailed off and then came back, with a more authoritative, professional tone to it. The kind of voice I’ve always heard when I write Duffy’s dialogue for him. “I’m consulting with the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office and have a matter of some importance I’d like to ask you about. Is it possible we could meet?”
    Well, that was a new approach. Usually, they just want an autographed bookplate. “That’s very nice,” I said, my tone suggesting some admiration. “But you know, in the books, Duffy consults with the Morris County prosecutor.”
    “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I’ve never read any of your novels.”
    Huh?
    “Duffy” didn’t give me any time to consider that idea. “This matter is of some considerable urgency, Ms. Goldman. Can we meet?”
    Paula walked in carrying a bag marked “Cold Cow” with the logo of hoofprints leading to a frosty sundae (hey, it’s a local independent store; give them a break) and saw I was on the phone. Before I could gesture to her that I had a nut on the line, she turned around and headed toward the kitchen, presumably to stash our treats in the freezer until I could ditch the call and get to what was really important.
    So I was, at least theoretically, alone with this guy.
    “I’m really not at liberty to meet,” I said, not really sure where “at liberty” had come from. This was a problem, as I use words for a living. “In fact, I really should be going now.”I made a mental note to get the landline deactivated, or at least to change to an unpublished number.
    “Ms. Goldman,” the man said, “I’m aware that you write novels in which a character with my name is a consultant on missing persons cases. I’m aware that my calling you must sound incredibly odd. But I assure you, my business truly is terribly important.”
    Okay, now I was sure this guy was crazy. Or worse, wily: Sometimes people think they can get an author’s attention