I thought about that. “Yeah, she could have made enemies—a real sourpuss. But if she's the target of someone's resentment, why would I be? My only link to her was the conference.”

He waved the brochure. “Reading this, someone could believe you were esteemed colleagues. She hemmed you in, huh?”

“Expertly. She had clout with the medical director of the hospital. My guess was that it was because she'd treated one of his daughters—a kid with problems—and called in a marker. But it could have been something else completely.”

He put his beer bottle down on the coffee table. The dog looked up, then lowered his chin to the floor.

“The kid's voice on the tape,” I said. “How does that figure in? And the guy who killed Becky Basille—”

“Hewitt. Dorsey Hewitt. Yeah, I know—what does he have to do with it?”

“Maybe he was treated by the de Bosches, too. Maybe “bad love' was a phrase they used in therapy. But what does that mean? A whole slew of therapy graduates freaking out—getting back at their doctors?”

“Wait a second,” said Milo. “I'm sorry about your tape and your nut-call, but that's a far cry from murder.” He handed the brochure back to me. “Wonder if Donald Wallace was ever treated by the de Bosches—still waiting for more info from the prison. How're those girls doing?”

“The kinds of problems you'd expect. Documenting a good case against visitation shouldn't be a problem. The grandmother's opening up a bit, too. I went out to the house this afternoon. Her latest husband looks like a retired cholo—lots of homemade tattoos.” I described Rodriguez's skin art.

“Dealing with the elite,” he said. “You and me both.” He crossed his legs and glanced down at the dog: “C'mere, Rove.”

The dog ignored him.

“Good dog,” he said, and drank his beer.

He left at ten-thirty. I decided to put off installing the dog door till the next day. Robin called at ten-fifty and told me she'd decided, definitely, to come home early—tomorrow evening at nine. I wrote down her flight number and said I'd be at LAX to pick her up, told her I loved her, and went to sleep.

I was dreaming about something pleasantly sexual when the dog woke me just after three in the morning, growling and pawing the dust ruffle.

I groaned. My eyes felt glued shut.

He pawed some more.

“What?”

Silence.

Scratch scratch.

I sat up. “What is it?”

He did the old-man-choking bit.

Ingress and egress . . .

Cursing myself for not installing the door, I forced myself out of bed and made my way, blindly, through the dark house to the kitchen. When I opened the service porch door, the dog raced down the stairs. I waited, yawning and groggy, muttering, “Make it fast.”

Instead of stopping to squat near the bushes, he kept going and was soon out of sight.