Holdenfield gave him a look that was half assessing, half combative. They were sitting at a small patio table on a veranda overlooking a manicured lawn, dotted with boxwood shrubs. The sun was shining, and the lake beyond the lawn was as blue as the sky. She was wearing a beige silk suit and a white silk blouse. She had no makeup on, no jewelry—with the exception of a pricey-looking gold watch. Her auburn hair was loosely arranged, neither long nor short. Her dark brown eyes were studying him. “You showed up quite early,” she said.

“Might as well learn as much as I can.”

“About philosophical psychology?”

“About you and the way you think.”

“The way I think?”

“I’m curious about how you reach your conclusions.”

“In general? Or do you have a specific question you’re not asking?”

He laughed. “How’ve you been?”

“What?”

“You look great. How have you been?”

“Okay, I guess. Busy. Very busy, in fact.”

“Seems to be paying off.”

“What do you mean?”

“Fame. Respect. Applause. Books. Articles. Speeches.” She nodded, cocked her head, watched him, waited. “So?”

He looked out over the lawn at the shimmering lake. “I’m just remarking on what a remarkable career you’ve put together. First a big name in forensic psychology, now a big name in philosophical psychology. The Holdenfield brand is growing and glowing. I’m impressed.”

“No you’re not. You’re not that impressionable. What do you want?”

He shrugged. “I need some help understanding the Good Shepherd case.”

“Why is that?”

“Long story.”

“Give me the short version.”

“The daughter of an old acquaintance is producing a TV documentary about the families of the Good Shepherd’s victims. Wants me to look over her shoulder, act as sort of a police sounding board for her, et cetera.” Even now, as Gurney was speaking, the ill-defined “et cetera” part was eating at him.

“What do you need to know?”

“A lot. Hard to decide where to start.”

There was a restless twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Anywhere would be better than nowhere.”

“Pattern resonance.”

She blinked. “What?”

“It’s a term you used in your presentation today. You also used it as the title of a journal article you wrote nine years ago. What does it mean?”

“You read that article?”

“I was intimidated by the long title and figured the rest of it would be over my head.”

“God, you’re such a bullshit artist.” She made it sound like a compliment.

“So tell me about pattern resonance.”

She glanced again at her watch. “I’m not sure I have enough time.”

“Try.”

“It refers to the transfer of energy between mental constructs.”

“In the vocabulary of a humble retired detective, born in the Bronx, that would mean …?”