“My name is Alex Delaware. I'm a clinical psychologist from Los Angeles and I wondered if I could talk to you about Andres de Bosch and “bad love.' ”

The eyes didn't change shape or hue, but they became more focused.

He said, “I know you. We've met somewhere.”

“Nineteen seventy-nine,” I said. “There was a conference at Western Pediatric Medical Center on de Bosch's work. You presented a paper and I was a co-chair, but we never actually met.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “You were there as the hospital's representative, but your heart wasn't in it.”

“You remember that?”

“Distinctly. The entire conference had that flavor—ambivalence all around. You were very young—you wore a beard then, didn't you?”

“Yes,” I said, amazed.

“The beginnings of old age,” he said, still smiling. “Distant memories become clearer, but I can't remember where I put my keys.”

“I'm still impressed, doctor.”

“I remember the beard vividly, perhaps because I have trouble growing one. And your voice. Full of stress. Just as it is right now. Well, come in, let's take care of it. Coffee or tea?”

There was a small kitchen beyond the living room and a door that led to a single bedroom. The little I could see of the sleeping chamber was purple and book-lined.

The kitchen table was birch, not more than four feet long. The counters were old white tile trimmed with purple-red bullnoses.

He fixed instant coffee for both of us and we sat. The scale of the table put us close together, elbows nearly touching.

“In answer to your unasked question,” he said, whitening his coffee with lots of cream, then adding three spoonfuls of sugar, “it's the only color I can see. A rare genetic condition. Everything else in my world is gray, so I do what I can to brighten it.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“Now that that's out of the way, tell me what's on your mind concerning Andres and “bad love'—that was the title of the conference, wasn't it.”

“Yes. You don't seem surprised that I just popped in.”

“Oh, I am. But I like surprises—anything that breaks up routine has the ability to freshen our lives.”

“This may not be a pleasant surprise, Dr. Harrison. You may be in danger.”

His expression didn't change. “How so?”

I told him about the “bad love” tape, my revenge theory, the possible links to Dorsey Hewitt and Lyle Gritz.

“And you think one of these men may have been a former patient of Andres's?”

“It's possible. Hewitt was thirty-three when he died, and Gritz is a year older, so either of them could have been his patient as a child. Hewitt killed one psychotherapist, perhaps under Gritz's influence, and Gritz is still out there, possibly still trying to even scores.”

“What would he be trying to avenge?”

“Some kind of mistreatment—by de Bosch himself or a disciple. Something had happened at the school.”

No response.