“Conservative,” I said.

“Staid,” he said. “Theatrically sad. One of those women fighting the future with mascara and matching shoes and tiny sandwiches with the crust trimmed.”

“Doesn't sound like Lauren.”

“Hardly. Lauren is très natural. Unaffected.” The washcloth was wadded once more. “I'm sure she's fine. She has to be fine.” He sighed, massaged the tattoo some more.

I said, “So the time you met Mrs. Abbot, she and Lauren went out to lunch.”

“Long lunch— must've been three hours. Lo came back alone, and she didn't look as if she'd had fun.”

“Upset?”

“Upset and distracted— as if she'd been hit on the head. I suspected something emotional had gone on, so I fixed her a gimlet the way she likes it and asked if she wanted to talk about it. She kissed me here”— he touched a rosy cheek—“said it wasn't important. But then she drank every drop of that gimlet and I just sat there emitting that I'm-ready-to-listen vibe— it's what I do, after all— and she—” He stopped. “Should I be telling you this?”

“I'm beyond discreet,” I said. “Because of what I do.”

“I suppose. And Lauren did say she liked you. . . . All right, it's nothing sordid, anyway. She simply told me she'd spent her childhood fighting not to be controlled, had made her own way in the world, and now her mother was trying to do the same old thing, again.”

“Control her.”

He nodded.

“Did she say how?”

“No— I'm sorry, Doctor, I'm just not comfortable flapping my trap. There's nothing more to say, anyway. That's the entire kit and caboodle.”

I smiled at him. Didn't budge.

He said, “Really, I've told you everything— and only because I know Lo liked you. She came across your name in the paper, some kind of police case, said, ‘Hey, Andrew, I knew this guy. He tried to straighten me out.’ I made some remark— how it obviously hadn't taken. She thought that was funny, said maybe it was patients like her who'd driven you to quit doing therapy and work with the cops. I”— his cheeks flamed—“I made some crack about shrinks being more screwed up than their patients, asked if you were . . . like that. She said no, you seemed pretty . . . I think conventional was the word she used. I said how boring, and she said no, sometimes conventional was exactly what you needed. That she'd screwed up, not making good use of her therapy, but looking back it had all been a setup anyway.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“She realized that her parents had set her up to rebel. Tried to use you as a weapon against her, but you hadn't gotten sucked into their game, you had integrity— You're sure I can't get you a drink?”

My throat had gone dry. “A Coke would be fine.”

He laughed. “The soft stuff? Recovering juice fiend?”

“No, it's just a bit early for me.”