I said, “Real or imagined. Hewitt was a paranoid schizophrenic. I don't know Gritz's diagnosis, but he may be delusional, as well. The two of them could have influenced each other's pathology.”

“Symbiotic psychosis?”

“Or at least shared delusions—playing on each other's paranoia.”

He blinked hard. “Tapes, calls . . . no, I haven't experienced anything like that. And the name of this person who giggled over the phone was Silk?”

I nodded.

“Hmm. And what role do you think the conference played?”

“It may have triggered something—I really don't know, but it's my only link to de Bosch. I felt an obligation to tell you because one of the other speakers—Dr. Stoumen—was killed last year, and I haven't been able to loca—”

“Grant?” he said, leaning forward close enough for me to smell the mint on his breath. “I heard he died in an auto accident.”

“A hit-and-run accident. While attending a conference. He stepped off the curb and was knocked down by a car. It was never solved, Dr. Harrison. The police put it down to Dr. Stoumen's old age—poor vision, faulty hearing.”

“A conference,” he said. “Poor Grant—he was a nice man.”

“Did he ever work at the school?”

“He did occasional consultations. Coming up summers for a week or two, combining vacation with business. Hit-and-run . . .” He shook his head.

“And as I was saying, I can't locate any of the other speakers or co-chairs.”

“You've located me.”

“You're the only one, Dr. Harrison.”

“Bert, please. Just out of curiosity, how did you find me?”

“From the Directory of Medical Specialists.”

“Oh. I suppose I forgot to cancel it.” He looked troubled.

“I didn't want to impose on your privacy, but—”

“No, no, that's fine. You're here for my own good . . . and, to tell the truth, I welcome visitors. After thirty years in practice, it's nice to talk to people rather than just listen.”

“Do you know where any of the others are? Katarina de Bosch, Mitchell Lerner, Harvey Rosenblatt.”

“Katarina is just up the coast, in Santa Barbara.”

“She's still there?”

“I haven't heard that she's moved.”

“Do you have her address?”

“And her phone number. Here, let me call it for you.”

He reached over, pulled a crimson rotary phone from the counter, and put it on the table. As he dialed I wrote down the number on the phone. Then he held the receiver to his ear for a while, before putting it down.

“No answer,” he said.

“When's the last time you saw her?”

He thought. “I suppose about a year or so. By coincidence. I was in a bookstore in Santa Barbara and ran into her, browsing.”

“Psychology?”

He smiled. “No, fiction, actually. She was in the science-fiction section. Would you like her address?”

“Please.”

He wrote it down and gave it to me. Shoreline Drive.

“The ocean side,” he said, “just up from the marina.”