“What's next, Steve? Disability payments because he's stressed out being a single parent?”

“So it smells. So what else is new? Talk to the poor kids a few times, write up a report saying visitation's injurious to their psyches, and we'll bury the issue.”

“For how long?”

He put down the ginger ale and watched the glass raise wet circles on his blotter. “I can kibosh it for at least a year.”

“Then what?”

“If he puts in another claim, the kids can be reevaluated and we'll kibosh it again. Time's on their side, right? They'll be getting older and hopefully tougher.”

“In a year they'll be ten and eleven, Steve.”

He picked at his tie. “What can I tell you, Alex? I don't want to see these kids screwed up, either. I'm asking you to evaluate because you're tough-minded—for a shrink.”

“Meaning someone else might recommend visitation?”

“It's possible. You should see some of the opinions your colleagues render. I had one the other day, said the fact that a mother was severely depressed was good for the kid—teach her the value of true emotions.”

“Okay,” I said. “But I want to do a real evaluation, not some rubber stamp. Something that may have some use for them in the future.”

“Therapy? Why not? Sure, do whatever you want. You are now shrink of record. Send your bill straight to me and I'll see you get paid within fifteen working days.”

“Who's paying, our leather-clad friends?”

“Don't worry, I'll make sure they pay up.”

“Just as long as they don't try to deliver the check in person.”

“I wouldn't worry about it, Alex. Those types shy away from insight.”

The girls arrived right on time, just as they had last week, linked, like suitcases, to the arms of their grandmother.

“Well, here they are,” Evelyn Rodriguez announced. She remained in the entry and pushed them forward.

“Morning,” I said. “Hi, girls.”

Tiffani smiled uneasily. Her older sister looked away.

“Have an easy ride?”

Evelyn shrugged, twisted her lips and untwisted them. Maintaining her grip on the girls, she backed away. The girls allowed themselves to be tugged, but unwillingly, like nonviolent protesters. Feeling the burden, Evelyn let go. Crossing her arms over her chest, she coughed and looked away from me.

Rodriguez was her fourth husband. She was Anglo, stout, bottom-heavy, an old fifty-eight, with dimpled elbows and knuckles, nicotine skin, and lips as thin and straight as a surgical incision. Talk came hard for her and I was pretty sure it was a character trait that preceded her daughter's murder.