“That's the private one, right? Comsac. At least the police were a lot more . . . direct. Talisiani told me if we made waves Harvey's name would be dragged through the slime. The whole family would be permanently coated with “slime.' He seemed offended that we didn't want him to close the case. As if we were criminals. Everyone made us feel that way . . . and now you're coming and telling me we were right.”

She managed to press her palms together. “Thank you.”

She slumped back on the pillow and breathed hard through dry lips. Tears filled her eyes, overflowed, and began draining down her cheeks. I wiped them with a tissue. Her lower body still hadn't moved.

“I'm so sad,” she whispered. “Thinking about it, again . . . picturing it. But I'm glad you've come. You've . . . validated me—us. I'm only sorry you have to go through this pain. You really think it's something to do with Andres?”

“I do.”

“Harvey never said anything.”

I said, “The upsetting case Josh told Detective Jackson about—”

“A few weeks before . . .” Two deep breaths. “We were lunching, Harvey and I. We had lunch almost every day. He was upset. He was rarely upset—such an even man . . . he said it was a case. A patient he'd just talked to, he'd found it very disillusioning.”

She turned toward me and her face was quaking.

“Disillusioned about Andres?” I said.

“He didn't mention Andres's name . . . didn't give me any details.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Harvey and I never talked about cases. We made that rule right at the beginning of our marriage . . . two therapists . . . it's so easy to slip. You tell yourself it's . . . okay, it's professional consultation. And then you let loose more details than you need to. And then names slip out . . . and then you're talking about patients to your therapist friends at cocktail parties.” She shook her head. “Rules are best.”

“But Harvey must have told you something to make you suspect a connection to his death.”

“No,” she said sadly. “We really didn't suspect . . . we were just . . . grasping. Looking for anything out of the ordinary. So the police would see Harvey didn't . . . the whole thing was so . . . psychotic. Harvey in a stranger's apartment.”

Remembered shame colored her face.

I said, “The owners of the apartment—the Rulerads. Harvey didn't know them?”

“They were mean people. Cold. I called the wife and begged her to let the private detective in to look. I even apologized—for what I don't know. She told me I was lucky she wasn't suing me for Harvey's break-in and hung up.”

She closed her eyes for a long time and didn't move. I wondered if she'd fallen asleep.

Then she said, “Harvey was so affected . . . by this patient. That's what made me suspect. Cases never got to him. To be disillusioned . . . Andres? It doesn't make sense.”

“De Bosch was his teacher, wasn't he? If Harvey learned something terrible about him, that could have disillusioned him.”

Slow, sad nod.