I knew he was twenty-seven, but he looked like a college student. His face was long and grave under dark, wavy hair, nose narrow and full, his chin strong and dimpled. He wore a pinstriped charcoal suit, white tab shirt, and red and pearl tie. Pearl pocket handkerchief, quadruple pointed, tassled black loafers, gold Phi Beta Kappa pin in his lapel. Intense brown eyes and a golf tan. If law started to bore him, he could always pose for the Brooks Brothers catalogue.

“Dr. Delaware, Josh Rosenblatt.”

No smile. One arm out. Bone-crusher handshake.

I followed him through a quarter acre of secretaries, file cabinets, and computers to a broad wall of doors. His was just off to the left. His name in brass, on polished oak.

His office wasn't much bigger than my hotel cubicle, but one wall was glass and it offered a falcon's lair view of the city. On the wall were two degrees from Columbia, his Phi Beta Kappa certificate, and a lacrosse stick mounted diagonally. A gym bag sat in one corner. Documents were piled up everywhere, including on one of the straight-backed side chairs facing the desk. I took the empty chair. He removed his jacket and tossed it on the desk. Very broad shoulders, powerful chest, outsize hands.

He sat down amid the clutter, shuffled papers while studying me.

“What kind of law do you practice?” I said.

“Business.”

“Do you litigate?”

“Only when I need to get a taxi—no, I'm one of the behind-the-scenes guys. Mole in a suit.”

He drummed the desk with his palm a few times. Kept staring at me. Put his hands down flat.

“Same face as your picture,” he said. “I'd expected someone older—closer to . . . Dad's age.”

“I appreciate your taking the time. Having someone you love murdered—”

“He wasn't murdered,” he said, almost barking. “Not officially, anyway. Officially, he committed suicide, though the rabbi filed it as an accident so he could be buried with his parents.”

“Suicide?”

“You met my dad—did he seem like an unhappy person?”

“On the contrary.”

“Damn right on the contrary.” His face reddened. “He loved life—really knew how to have fun. We used to kid him that he never really grew up. That's what made him a good psychiatrist. He was such a happy guy, other psychiatrists used to make jokes about it. Harvey Rosenblatt, the only well-adjusted shrink in New York.”

He got up, looked down on me.