“Some kind of long-term revenge plot,” I said. “Something to do with Andres de Bosch. The person who murdered your father has killed other people. At least five others, maybe more.”

I gave him names, dates, places.

He said, “I don't know any of those people. This is crazy. This is really insane.”

“Yes, it is, but it's all true. And I may be next. I need to talk to your mother. The killer may have presented himself to your father as a patient—lured him that way. If she's still got your father's old appointment books, it could—”

“No, she has nothing. Leave her out of this.”

“My life's at stake. Why won't your mother just talk to me? Why'd she have you call me instead of calling herself?”

“Because she can't,” he said angrily. “Can't talk to anyone. She had a stroke a month ago and her speech was severely affected. It just came back a few weeks ago, but she's still weak.”

“I'm sorry, but—”

“Listen, I'm sorry, too. For what you're going through. But at this point, I just don't see what I can do for you.”

“Your mother's talking now.”

“Yes, but she's weak. Really weak. And to have her talk about my father. . . . She just started rehab and she's making progress, Dr. Delaware. I can't have her interrogated.”

“You never told her I called?”

“I'm taking care of her. It calls for decisions.”

“I understand,” I said. “But I don't want to interrogate her, I just want to talk to her. A few questions. At her pace—I can fly out to New York, if that'll help, and do it face-to-face. As many sessions as she needs. Go as slowly as she needs.”

“You'd do that? Fly out here?”

“What choice do I have?”

I heard him blow out breath. “Even so,” he said. “Her talking about Dad—no, it's too risky. I'm sorry, but I have to hold firm.”

“I'll work with her doctors, Mr. Rosenblatt. Clear my questions with them and with you. I've done hospital work for years. I understand illness and recovery.”

“What makes you think she knows anything that could help you?”

“At this point she's my last hope, Mr. Rosenblatt. The creep who's after me is picking up his pace. He murdered someone in Santa Barbara yesterday—de Bosch's daughter. She was pregnant. He cut her up, made it a point to go after the fetus.”

“Oh, God.”

“He's stalking me,” I said. “To tell the truth, I'd be safer in New York than here. One way or the other, I may come out.”

Another exhalation. “I doubt she can help you, but I'll ask.”

“I really apprecia—”

“Don't thank me yet. I'm not promising anything. And fax your credentials to me, so I can check them out. Include two verifiable references.”