Ann Elizabeth gestured toward the entrance. “Let’s go in, then. Usually guests sign our register, but I’m going to walk you by. We have our own little office politics here. Originally we were a teaching order, but in the fifties we expanded into other services.”

“Mental health,” Devlin said.

“Maryellen told me once that you think with your skin—that you were a much better cop than you realized.” She let him open the heavy wooden door. The comment about him was pure Maryellen, another way to keep herself in the spotlight: he knew how good a cop he was, and she knew it, too. A nun at a desk glanced up at him, then went back to her writing. “You don’t look like you’re drinking.”

“I celebrated my thirteenth anniversary in February. You’re Maryellen’s psychologist?”

“More or less.”

Everything about this place was heavy, unembellished, built to last centuries. When he was young, he used to wonder about women like Ann Elizabeth; now he knew they had their reasons. Life is a bitch, and then you die. Why couldn’t he ever believe it, when it was so obviously true?

In her tiny office, the telephone was ringing. She picked up and motioned to Devlin to sit down in the club chair facing the desk. Behind her were a pair of framed diplomas, a B.A. from Loyola Marymount, whatever that was, and a Ph.D. from the University of Wisconsin, dated 1972. Devlin looked at the B.A. again. It had been awarded to Veronica Koontz.

She said into the telephone, “The point of all this is, the question you have to ask yourself, is the relationship worth your pain and suffering? That’s right, you’re in a tailspin together. You’re facing that head-on, a big step. Now what? Is it worth it? Time to deal, lady. Whose problem is it?” She turned in her swivel chair to the window and its view of an enclosed garden beyond. After a moment, she giggled. Swinging back, she said, “Now you’re talking. Call me anytime. I’m proud of you and I love you.” When the telephone was cradled, she said to Devlin, “I get involved.”

“Veronica Koontz.”