"Did I say something?" she asked.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," I said. "I really appreciate your help."

I drove back to Elaine Boldt's neighborhood and circled the block, looking for Dr. Pickett's office on Arbol. I'd seen it before; one of those one-story clapboard cottages once so prevalent in the neighborhood. Most of them had been converted into branch offices for real-estate companies and antiques stores that looked like someone's tiny, crowded living space with a sign hung out front.

Dr. Pickett had paved over some flowerbeds to create a little parking lot. There was only one car out back: a 1972 Buick with a vanity plate that read: FALS TTH. I pulled in beside it and locked my car, moving around the front and up to the porch. The sign on the door said PLEASE WALK IN, so I did.

The interior felt distinctly like my old grade school: varnished wood floors and the smell of vegetable soup. I could hear someone clattering around out in the kitchen. There was a radio on out there, tuned to a country-music station. A scarred wooden desk was angled across the entry hall with a little bell and a sign that said PLEASE RING FOR SERVICE. I tapped on the bell.

To my right was a waiting room with Danish-modern plastic couches and low tables done in wood laminate. The magazines were lined up precisely, but I suspected the subscriptions had run out. I spotted an issue of Life with "Starlet Janice Rule" on the front. A partition had been put up between the reception area and Dr. Pickett's examining room. Through the open door, I caught sight of an old-fashioned dental chair with a black plastic seat and a white porcelain spitting sink. The instrument tray was round and apparently swiveled on a metal arm. The surface was protected with white paper, like a placemat, and the instruments were lined up on it like something out of a dental museum. I was certainly thrilled that I didn't need my teeth cleaned right then.

To my left, along the wall, were some battered wooden file cabinets. Unattended. I could hear the devil call out to me. Dutifully, I rang the bell again, the country music wailed right on. I knew the tune and the lyrics routinely broke my heart.