He shook his head joyfully. “Clever little Alex. Mrs. Lyndon would be so proud. . . . Mummy and Evil were in Europe, so I decided to crash at the old homestead. Rosenblatt's office two blocks away . . . karma. Eight floors up, have a nice flight.”

Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm J. Rulerad. Cold people, Shirley Rosenblatt had said. Unwilling to let a private investigator search their place. Guarding more than privacy? How much had they known?

“You left burglar tools behind,” I said. “Did you need them to get in, or were you just setting it up as another East Side burglary?”

He tried to mask his surprise with a slow, languid smile. “My, my, we have been busy. No, I had a key. One keeps looking for home sweet home. The big Brady Bunch in the sky . . .”

“Stoumen and Lerner,” I said. “Did they meet with you?”

“No,” he said, suddenly angry again. “Stoumen's excuse was that he was retired. Another flunky shutting me out, did I want to speak to the doctor on call—you people really don't know how to delegate authority properly. And Lerner made an appointment but didn't show up, the rude bastard.”

The unreliability Harrison had spoken of: it had affected his work—missed appointments.

“So you tracked them down at conferences—how'd you get hold of the membership lists?”

“Some of us are thorough—Mrs. Lyndon would have liked me, too—what a kindly old bag, all that midwestern salt-of-the-earth friendliness. Research is such fun, maybe I'll visit her in person someday.”

“Did Meredith help you get the lists?” I said. “Was she doing publicity for the conventions?”

Pursed lips. Tense brow. The hand wavered. “Meredith . . . ah, yes, dear Meredith. She's been a great help—now, stop asking stupid questions and get down on your knees—keep those hands up—keep them up!”

Moving as slowly as I could, I got off the couch and kneeled, trying to keep a fix on the gun.

Silence, then another impact that shook the glass.

“The dog's definitely chops and steaks,” he said.

The gun touched the crown of my head. He ruffled my hair with the barrel and I knew he was remembering.

The weapon pressed down on me, harder, as if boring into my skull. All I could see were his shoes, the bottoms of his jeans. A grout seam between two marble tiles.

“Say you're sorry,” he said.

“Sorry.”

“Louder.”

“Sorry.”

“Personalize it—“I'm sorry, Andrew.' ”

“I'm sorry, Andrew.”

“More sincerity.”

“I'm sorry, Andrew.”

He made me repeat it six times, then he sighed. “I guess that's as good as it's going to get. How are you feeling right now?”

“I've been better.”

Chuckle. “I'll bet you have—stand up slowly—slowly. Slo-o-o-wly. Keep those hands up—hands on head—Simon says.”