“He knew her, that’s it?” she said. “Or are you saying he’s your suspect?”

“Would that make a difference, in terms of how much you’re going to tell us, Doctor?”

Manlow tapped a foot. Pulled a thread from her sweater, frowned as she coiled it around her fingers. “Let’s talk in my office.”

The black security door opened to a narrow hallway that terminated in a transparent window laced with steel mesh.

A red No Admittance Without Authorization sign hung below the uppermost of two deadbolts. Just in case you missed that, a white placard read Personnel and Inpatients Only Beyond This Point.

Manlow’s office was just inside the door. As we entered, I glanced through the mesh, caught a glimpse of another, longer corridor paneled in knotty pine. A woman sat on the floor reading. Another woman worked a crossword puzzle. At the far end, a man stretched, touched his toes, rotated his neck.

Everyone in street clothes, nothing clinical about the ambience. But something about the way the three of them moved—slow, measured, mechanical—said frivolity had long been left behind.

Manlow’s office was modestly proportioned, walled with bookshelves, file cabinets, and a collection of mounted diplomas. Elizabeth Emma Allison Manlow had earned a B.A. from Cornell when she was still Elizabeth Emma Allison, an M.D. from UC San Francisco, and a Ph.D. in neuropharmacology from Stanford. Internship and psychiatry residency had both been served at Massachusetts General. A fellowship certificate in cognitive behavior therapy had been granted by an institute in Philadelphia.

She’d finished her training six years ago. This was her first and only job.

No family photos. I liked that. With a true pro it’s all about the patient.

Milo said, “What kinds of conditions do you treat here?”

“Substance abuse, exclusively.”

“Not gambling?”

“Pardon?”

“Being so close to the track.” Milo repeated his line about fish and fishing.

Beth Manlow smiled. “Maybe we should develop a program for that. No, we concentrate on addictive chemicals. And that doesn’t include overactive sex hormones, either, because sex addiction, in my opinion, is a monumental crock.”

“Tell us about Steven Muhrmann.”

Manlow’s smile chilled. “Are you familiar with rehab programs?”

Milo said, “Not really.”

“Most of them suck.”

He laughed. “Don’t hold back, Doc.”

Beth Manlow said, “Look, one thing this work has taught me is that to be effective, you have to grasp reality firmly. This is a very tough business and success rates, as defined by five years with no relapse, are all over the place—from two percent to seventy-five.”

He whistled.

“Precisely, Lieutenant.”

“No one really knows what works.”