“I tried to supervise her. I made appointments, but she broke more than she kept. Still, I could have clamped down further—I should've. If I'd had any idea . . . she never gave a hint. Always had a smile on her face, like one of those kids who works at Disneyland.”

“She was happy,” I said. “She thought she was curing him.”

“Yup. What a mess . . . I probably showed it to you because you were sympathetic and I'm still so uptight over what happened . . . I thought I could talk to you.”

“You can.”

“I appreciate that,” she said wearily, “but let's be honest. What good will more talking do? Becky's dead and I'm going to have to live with the fact that I might have been able to prevent it.”

“I don't see it that way. You did all you could.”

“You're sweet.” She looked at my hand, as if ready to touch it again. But she didn't move and her eyes shifted to her salad.

“Happy lunch,” she said glumly.

“Jean, it's possible the notes might be relevant to Detective Sturgis.”

“How?”

“ 'G' may not be a woman.”

“You know who it is?” This time her hand did move. Covering mine, taking hold of my fingers. Ice cold.

“That lawyer whose card you gave me—Andrew Coburg? I went over to see him and he told me Hewitt had a friend named Gritz. Lyle Edward Gritz.”

No reaction.

I said, “Gritz is a heavy drinker, and he has a criminal record. He and Hewitt hung out together, and now no one can find him. A week or two ago, Gritz told some street people he expected to get rich, then he disappeared.”

“Get rich? How?”

“He didn't say, though in the past he'd talked about becoming a recording star. For all I know, it was drunk talk and has nothing to do with Becky. But if “G' does refer to him, it indicates tension between him and Becky.”

“Gritz,” she said. “I assumed G was a woman. Are you saying Hewitt and this Gritz had something homosexual going on and Becky stepped in the middle of it? Oh, God, it just keeps getting worse, doesn't it?”

“Maybe there was nothing sexual between Gritz and Hewitt. Just a close friendship that Becky intruded upon.”

“Maybe . . .” She pulled out the envelope, removed the notes, ran her finger down the page, and read. “Yes, I see what you mean. Once you think of G as a man you don't have to see it that way at all. Just friendship. . . . But whatever the reason, Becky felt G was hostile to her.”

“She was getting between them,” I said. “The whole therapy process was challenging whatever Hewitt had with Gritz. How did Becky phrase it in that last note?”