“No . . . I was in no shape to work. Not for a long time. Even my own patients . . .” She attempted another shrug. “Things fell apart for a while . . . so many people let down. That's why I didn't pursue his death. For my kids and for his patients—his extended family. For me. I couldn't have us dragged through the slime. Do you understand?”

“Of course.” I asked her again what she'd done with the tapes.

“I destroyed them,” she said, as if hearing the question for the first time. “Smashed the cassettes with a hammer . . . one by one . . . what a mess . . . threw it all away.” She smiled. “Catharsis?”

I said, “Did Harvey attend any conventions just before his death? Any psychiatric meetings or seminars on child welfare?”

“No. Why?”

“Because professional meetings may set the killer off. Two of the other therapists were murdered at conventions. And the de Bosch symposium where I met Harvey may have triggered the killings in the first place.”

“No,” she said. “No, he didn't attend anything. He'd sworn off conventions. Sworn off academia. Gave up his appointment at NYU so he could concentrate on his patients and his family and getting in shape—his father had died young of a heart attack. Harvey had reached that age, confronted his own mortality. He was starting to work out. Trimming the fat from his diet and his life—that's a quote. . . . He said he wanted to be around for me and the kids for a long, long time.”

Grimacing, she lifted her hand, with effort, and let it drop upon mine. Her palm was soft and cold. Her eyes aimed at the fish tank and stayed there.

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” I said. “Anything at all?”

She thought for a long time. “No . . . I'm sorry, I wish there was.”

“Thanks for seeing me,” I said. Her hand weighed a ton.

“Please let me know,” she said, keeping it there. “Whatever you find.”

“I will.”

“How long will you be in New York?”

“I think I'll try to head back this evening.”

“If you need a place to stay, you're welcome here . . . if you don't mind a pull-out couch.”

“That's very kind,” I said, “but I need to be getting back.”

“Your nice woman?”

“And my home.” Whatever that meant.

Grimacing, she exerted barely tangible pressure upon my hand. Giving me comfort.

We heard the door close, then footsteps. Josh came in, holding Leo, the cat. He looked at our hands and his eyebrows dipped.

“You okay?” he said to his mother.

“Yes, honey. Dr. Delaware's been helpful. It's good you brought him.”

“Helpful how?”

“He validated us . . . about Dad.”

“Great,” said Josh, putting the cat down. “Meanwhile, you're not getting enough rest.”

Her lower lip dropped.

“Enough exertion, Mom,” he said. “Please. You have to rest.”

“I'm okay, honey. Really.”