“That's not exactly standard operating shrink procedure, is it? Was Rosenblatt some kind of avant-garde guy, believed in on-the-scene treatment?”

“His wife said he was an orthodox analyst.”

“Those guys never leave the office, right? Need their couches and their little notebooks.”

“True, but she also said he'd been very upset by something that had happened in a session recently. Disillusioned. It's a reasonable bet it had something to do with de Bosch. Something that shook him up enough to meet the killer out of the office. He could have believed he was going to the killer's home—the killer could have given him a good rationale for meeting there. Like a disability that kept him homebound— maybe even bedridden. The window Rosenblatt went out of was in a bedroom.”

“Phony cripple,” he said, nodding. “Then Rosenblatt goes to the window and the bad guy jumps up, shoves him out . . . very cold. And the wife had no idea what disillusioned him enough to make a house call?”

“She tried to find out. Broke her own rules and listened to his therapy tapes. But there was nothing out of the ordinary in them.”

“This disillusioning thing definitely happened during a session?”

“That's what he told her.”

“So maybe the session where he died wasn't the first with the killer. So why wasn't the first session on tape?”

“Maybe Rosenblatt didn't take his recorder with him. Or the patient requested no taping. Rosenblatt would have complied. Or maybe the session was recorded and the tape got destroyed.”

“A stranger's bedroom—that has almost a sexual flavor to it, don't you think?”

I nodded. “The ritual.”

“Who owned the place?”

“A couple named Rulerad. They said they'd never heard of Harvey Rosenblatt. Shirley said they were pretty hostile to her. Refused access to the private detective and threatened to sue her.”

“Can't really blame them, can you? Come home and find out someone broke into your place and used it for a swan dive. Was Rosenblatt the type to be a soft touch for a sob story?”

“Definitely. He probably got the same kind of call Bert Harrison did and responded to it. And died because of it.”

Milo said, “So why did the killer keep his appointment with Rosenblatt but not with Harrison? Why, now that I'm thinking about it, was Harrison let off the hook completely? He worked for de Bosch, he spoke at that goddamn conference, too. So how come everyone else in that boat is sunk or sinking and he's on shore drinking piÑa coladas?”

“I don't know.”

“I mean, that's funny, don't you think, Alex? That break in the pattern—maybe I should learn a little more about Harrison.”

“Maybe,” I said, feeling sick. “Wouldn't that be something. There I was, sitting across the table from him—trying to protect him . . . he treated Mitch Lerner. He knew where Katarina lived . . . hard to believe. He seemed like such a sweet guy.”

“Any idea where he's gone?”