The hair fell away. Her eyes were very still. “Oh . . . well, that's okay by me, pal. Was it long and painful, by any chance?”

“He killed himself. He'd been sick for a while. Multiple strokes.”

“Killed himself how?”

“Pills.”

“When?”

“Nineteen-eighty.”

The eyes tightened. “Eighty? So what's all this b.s. about an investigation?”

Her arm shot forward and she grabbed my wrist. Big, strong woman. “Fess up, psych-man: Who are you and what's all this really about?”

A few heads turned. She let go of my arm.

I pulled out ID, showed it to her, and said, “I've told you the truth, and what it's about is revenge.”

I summarized the “bad love” murders, throwing out names of victims.

When I finished, she was smiling.

“Well, I'm sorry for those others, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Bad love,” she said. “Turning his own crap against him. I like that.”

“Bad love was something he did?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, through clenched jaws. “Bad love meant you were a worthless piece of shit who deserved to be mistreated. Bad love for bad little children—like psychological acupuncture, these tiny little needles, jabbing, twisting.”

Her wrists rotated. Jewelry flashed. “But no scars. No, we didn't want to leave any marks on the beautiful little children.”

“What did he actually do?”

“He bounced us. Good love one day, bad love the next. Publicly—when we were all together, in the lunch room, at an assembly—he was Joe Jolly. When visitors came, too. Joe Jolly. Laughing, telling jokes, lots of jokes. Tousling our hair, joining in our games—he was old but athletic. Used to like to play tether ball. When someone hurt their hand on the knob, he'd make a big show of cuddling them and kissing the boo-boo. Mister Compassionate—Doctor Compassionate. Telling us we were the most beautiful children in the world, the school was the most beautiful school, the teachers the most beautiful teachers. The goddamn vegetable garden was beautiful, even though the stuff we planted always came out stringy and we had to eat it anyway. We were one big happy, global family, a real sixties kind of thing—sometimes he even wore these puka shells around his neck, over his pukey tie.”

“That was good love,” I said.

She nodded and gave a small, ugly laugh. “One big family—but if you got on his bad side—if you acted out, then he gave you a private session. And all of a sudden you weren't beautiful anymore, all of a sudden the world turned real ugly.”

She sniffed and used her napkin to wipe her nose. Thinking of her Colombian coffee comment, I wondered if she'd fortified herself for our appointment. She cut me off midthought: