“Thanks, but I'm not looking for a publicist.”

“Oh?”

“Ms. Bork, I'm sorry to bother you, but what I'm after is some information about Andres de Bosch and the Corrective School, in Santa Barbara.”

Silence.

“Ms. Bork?”

“This is for real?”

“Some suspicions have come up about mistreatment at the school. Things that happened during the early seventies. An accident involving a boy named Delmar Parker.”

No answer.

“May, nineteen seventy-three,” I said. “Delmar Parker went off a mountain road and died. Do you remember hearing anything about him? Or anything about mistreatment?”

“This is too much,” she said. “Why the fuck is this any of your business?”

“I work as a consultant to the police.”

“The police are investigating the school?”

“They're doing a preliminary investigation.”

Harsh laughter. “You're putting me on.”

“No.” I gave her Milo as a reference.

She said, “Okay, so? What makes you think I even went to this school?”

“I worked at Western Pediatric Medical Center when your father was chief of staff and—”

“Word got around. Oh, I'll just bet it did. Jesus.”

“Ms. Bork, I'm really sorry—”

“I'll just bet it did . . . the Corrective School.” Another angry laugh. “Finally.”

Silence.

“After all these years. What a trip . . . the Corrective School. For bad little children in need of correction. Yeah, I was corrected, all right. I was corrected up the ying-yang.”

“Were you mistreated?”

“Mistreated?” Peals of laughter so loud I backed away from the receiver. “How delicately put, doctor. Are you a delicate man? One of those sensitive guys really tuned in to people's feelings?”

“I try.”

“Well, goody for you—I'm sorry, this is serious, isn't it. My problem—always was. Not taking things seriously. Not being mature. Being mature's a drag, isn't it, doc? I fucking refuse. That's why I work in entertainment. Nobody in entertainment's grown up. Why do you do what you do?”

“Fame and fortune,” I said.

She laughed, harder and louder. “Psychologists, psychiatrists, I've known a shitload of them . . . how do I know you're for real—hey, this isn't some gag, is it? Did Ron put you up to this?”

“Who's Ron?”

“Another sensitive guy.”

“Don't know him.”

“I'll bet.”

“I'd be happy to show you credentials.”

“Sure, slip them through the phone.”

“Want me to fax them?”

“Nah . . . what's the diff? So what do you really want?”

“Just to talk to you a bit about the school.”

“Good old school. School days, cruel days . . . hold on . . .” Click. Silence. Click. “Where are you calling from?”

“Not far from your office.”

“What, the pay phone downstairs, like in the movies?”

“Mile away. I can be there in five minutes.”

“How convenient. No, I don't want to bring my personal shit into the office. Meet me at Cafe Mocha in an hour, or forget it. Know where it is?”

“No.”