I said, “The temptation to think Oedipally is darn near irresistible, Harvey.”

“For girls it's Elektra,” he said, wagging a finger with amusement. “Get your complexes straight.”

“She drives one, too.”

“What?”

“Her car's an Electra—a big Buick.”

He laughed. “There you go—now if that doesn't convert you to fervid belief in Freud, I don't know what will.”

“Anna Freud never married, either, did she?” I said. “Neither did Melanie Klein.”

“What, a neurotic pattern?” he said, still chuckling.

“Just presenting the data, Harvey. Draw your own conclusions.”

“Well, my daughter's damned boy crazy, so I wouldn't get ready to publish just yet.” He turned serious. “Though I'm sure the impact of such a powerful paternal—”

He stopped talking. I followed his gaze and saw Katarina heading toward us from the left side of the auditorium. Carrying a clipboard and marching forward while looking at her watch.

When she reached us, Rosenblatt stood.

“Katarina. How's everything going?” There was guilt in his voice—he'd make a very bad liar.

“Fine, Harvey,” she said, looking down at her board. “You're up in two minutes. Might as well take your place on stage.”

I never saw either of them again, and the events of that autumn soon faded from memory, sparked briefly, the following January, by a newspaper obituary of Andres de Bosch. Cause of death was suicide by overdose—prescription tranquilizers. The eighty-year-old analyst was described as despondent due to ill health. His professional achievements were listed in loving, inflated detail, and I knew who'd provided them.

Now, years later, another spark.

Good love/bad love. De Bosch's term for mothering gone bad. The psychic damage inflicted when a trusted figure betrays the innocent.

So Donald Dell Wallace probably wasn't behind it. Someone else had picked me—because of the conference?

Someone with a long, festering memory? Of what? Some transgression committed by de Bosch? In the name of de Boschian therapy?

My co-chairmanship made me seem like a disciple, but that was my only link.

Some kind of grievance? Was it even real, or just a delusion?

A psychotic sitting at the conference, listening, boiling . . .

I thought back to the seventy strangers in the auditorium. A collective blur.

And why had Becky Basille's murderer howled “bad love”?

Another madman?

Katarina might have the answer. But she hadn't had much use for me back in seventy-nine, and there was no reason to believe she'd talk to me now.

Unless she'd gotten a tape, too, and was frightened.

I punched 805 information. There was no Santa Barbara listing for either the de Bosch Institute or the Corrective School. Neither was there an office number for Katarina de Bosch, Ph.D. Before the operator could get away, I asked her to check for a home number. Zilch.