“I don't understand. Why's a psychologist calling— that's what you said you were, right? Psychologist, psychiatrist?”

“Psychologist.”

“If there's murders involved, why aren't the police calling?”

“It's not an official investigation, yet.”

Pause. “Okay, who are you, buster? Some sleazy tabloid writer? I've already been through that, and let me tell you what you can—”

“I'm not a reporter,” I said. “I'm who I said I was, Mrs. Basille. If you'd like to verify it, you can call Detective Milo Sturgis at West L.A. detectives. He gave me your name—”

“Sturgis,” she said.

“He handled the investigation of Becky's case.”

“Which one was that—oh yeah, the big one . . . yeah, he tried to be nice. But where does he come off giving you my name? What are you doing, some kind of psychological study? Want to make me a guinea pig?”

“No, nothing like that—”

“What, then?”

There seemed no choice. “My involvement's a lot more personal, Mrs. Basille. I'm a potential victim.”

“A vic—of who, this Gritch?”

“Gritz. Lyle Edward Gritz. Or Silk or—”

“Never heard of any of those.”

“There's evidence he's been murdering psychotherapists—several of them over a five-year period.”

“Oh, no.”

“The latest occurred yesterday, in Santa Barbara. A woman named Katarina de Bosch.”

“Yester—oh, goodness.” Her voice changed—lower, softer, still perplexed. “And now you think he's out for you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He may have a thing against psychotherapists. He leaves a message at the crime scene. The words “bad love'—”

“That's the same thing that scum yelled out!”

“That's why we think there may be a connection. Last week, I received a tape with someone chanting “bad love.' As well as a sample of Hewitt screaming. Shortly after that, I got a crank phone call, then someone snuck onto my property and did damage.”

“What are you saying? That Rebecca was part of something?”

“I really don't know, Mrs. Basille.”

“But maybe that's what it was? Someone else was involved in my Becky's . . .”

A loud bang percussed in my ear. A few seconds later: “Dropped the phone, you still there?”

“Yes.”

“So what're you saying? This Gritz could have been involved in hurting my baby?”

“I wish I could tell you, Mrs. Basille. Gritz and Hewitt were friends, so it's possible Gritz had some influence on Hewitt. But there's no evidence—”

“Bad love,” she said. “No one was ever able to explain to me what it meant.”

“It's a psychological term coined by Katarina de Bosch's father—Dr. Andres de Bosch.”

“Debauch?”

“De Bosch. He was a psychologist who ran a remedial school up in Santa Barbara.”

No reaction.

I said, “Lyle Gritz may have been a patient there. For all I know, Hewitt may have been also. Did Rebecca ever mention anything related to any of this?”

“No . . . God in heaven . . . I think I'm going to be sick.”

“I'm truly sorry, Mrs.—”

“What'd you say your name was?”

“Alex Delaware.”

“Give me your phone number.”

I did.