“As a condition of his probation. The social work ethics committee demanded it, because it had affected his work—missed appointments, failure to submit insurance forms so his patients could recover. I'm afraid he acted the same way as a patient. Not showing up, very unreliable.”

“How long did you see him?”

“Obviously, not long enough.”

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER

21

There seemed little doubt that Myra Evans and Myra Paprock were the same person. And that her murder and the deaths of others were related to de Bosch and his school.

Silk. Merino.

The conference putting someone in touch with his problems . . . some sort of trauma.

Bad love.

Taken apart.

A child's voice chanting.

I felt a sudden stab of panic about leaving Robin alone, stopped in the center of Ojai, and called her from a pay phone. No answer. The Benedict number had been channeled through my answering service, and on the fifth ring an operator picked up.

I asked her if Robin had left word where she was going.

“No, she didn't, doctor. Would you like your messages?”

“Please.”

“Just one, actually, from a Mr. Sturgis. He called to say Van Nuys will be getting to your tape soon—got a broken stereo, Dr. Delaware?”

“Nothing that simple,” I said.

“Well, you know how it is, doctor. They keep making things more complicated so people have to feel stupid.”

I picked up 150 a few miles out of town and headed northwest on two curving lanes. Lake Casitas meandered parallel to the highway, massive and gray under a listless sun. The land side was mostly avocado groves, gold tipped with new growth. Halfway to Santa Barbara, the road reconnected with 101 and I traveled the last twelve miles at freeway speed.

I kept thinking about what Harrison had told me about de Bosch's racism and wondered what I'd tell Katarina when I found her, how I'd approach her.

I got off the highway without an answer, bought gas, and called the number Harrison had given me. No answer. Deciding to delay confrontation for a while, I looked through my Thomas Guide for the site where the Corrective School had once been. Near the border with Montecito, several miles closer than Shoreline Drive—an omen.

It turned out to be a straight, shady street lined with gated properties. The eucalyptus here grew huge, but the trees looked dried out, almost dessicated. Despite the fire risk, shake roofs were in abundance. So were Mercedes.

The exact address corresponded to a new-looking tract behind high stone walls. A sign advertised six custom homes. What I could see of them was massive and cream colored.

Across the way was a pink and brown Tudor mansion with a sign out in front that said THE BANCROFT SCHOOL. A semicircular gravel drive girdled the building. A black Lincoln was parked under a spreading live oak.