y intentions were noble.

As opposed to?

Melissa had reacted to the bond between her mother and Ursula with growing suspicion.

She's cold. Ifeel she wants to shut me out.

Reactions discounted by everyone, including me, because Melissa was a high-strung kid, dealing with dependency and separation and threatened by anyone who got close to her mother.

Little girl who cried wolf?

Was any of it relevant to Gina's fate?

Another visit to the clinic seemed in order, though I wasn't sure how I'd approach the Gabneys.

Picking up Gina's chart-saving them the price of postage?

In the neighborhood, decided to stop by.

And then what?

God only knew.

Today was Sunday. It would have to wait.

Meanwhile, there were lamb chops to deal with. A meal I was willing to bet would be first-rate. Too bad my appetite had waned.

I restored Arthur Dickinson's hideaway to its original condition and went downstairs.

I ate by myself in the big dark dining room, feeling more like hired help than lord of the manor. When I left the house at one-fifty, Melissa and Noel were still up in the bedroom, talking in low, earnest tones.

I intended to head for home but found myself driving past the Gabney Clinic. A gunmetal-gray Lincoln and a wood-sided Mercury station wagon were parked in front. Ursula's Saab sat at the mouth of the driveway.

Gina's therapy group, one day early? Emergency session to deal with her death? Or another group led by the dedicated doctor?

Two o'clock. If the one-to-three schedule was adhered to, the session would be over in an hour. I decided to keep an eye on the building, call Milo while I was waiting.

I looked for a phone. Directly across the street were houses.

Farther to the south, the neighborhood was completely residential.

But cater-cornered a block north stood a row of storefronts: a prewar golden brick building with limestone insets and domed brown awnings over each shop. I cruised past slowly. The first establishment was a restaurant. Then a real estate office, a candy shop, and an antique gallery with hall trees and odd tables out on the sidewalk.

Beyond that, another couple of commercial blocks, then apartments.

The restaurant was my best bet. I turned around, pulled up in front of it.

Cute little bistro affair. LA MYSTIQUE in frosted script on the windows. Art nouveau letters surrounded by a garland. Peppermint and white petunias in a box under the window. A banner over the flowers announced Brunch.

Inside were eight tables covered with blue-and-white checkered cloths, sprigs of daisies and lavender in blue glass vases, white chairs and walls, European travel posters, an open kitchen behind a low Plexiglas partition in which a Hispanic man wearing a chef's toque labored. Two of the tables were occupied, both by pairs of conservatively dressed middle-aged women. What was on their plates tended toward the green and leafy. They paused to look up as I entered, then resumed playing with their food.

A conspicuously busty, fair-haired woman of around thirty came forward, holding a menu. She had a full, friendly face not quite brightened by a nervous smile. Her hair was tied in a bun and bound with a black ribbon, and she wore a knee-length black knit dress that emphasized her chest but failed, otherwise, to flatter. As she came toward me I could see an undertow of anxiety tugging at the smile.

Brand-new-business anxiety?

Still-in-the-red anxiety?

She said, "Hello. Please sit anywhere you'd like."

I looked around, noticed that the two window tables offered an oblique but clear view of the clinic.

"How about there," I said. "And do you have a pay phone I could use?"

"Right through the back." She pointed to Dutch doors to the left of the kitchen.

The phone was mounted on the wall between the bathrooms.

After two rings, Milo's new businesslike message kicked in. I told him I had a few things I wanted to discuss, said I'd probably be back at Melissa's house by four. Then I dialed an art gallery in Beverly Hills that I'd dealt with before and asked for the owner.

"Eugene De Long speaking."

"Eugene, it's Alex Delaware."

"Hello, Alex. Nothing on the Marsh yet. We're still looking for one in acceptable condition."

"Thanks. Actually I'm calling to find out if you can give me an evaluation of a piece or two pieces really, same artist. Nothing formal, just an approximation."

"Certainly, if it's something I know about."

"Cassatt color print."

Moment of silence. "I didn't know you were in the market for that kind of thing."

"Wish I were. It's for a friend."

"Is your friend buying or selling?"

"Maybe selling."

"I see," he said. "Which particular color prints?"

I told him.

He said, "Just one second," and put me on hold for several minutes. He came back saying, "I've got the most recent auction figures for comparable works right here. As you know, with works on paper, condition is everything, so without inspecting it I can't be sure.

However, Cassatt's print runs tended to be low she was a perfectionist, had no compunctions about burnishing down her initial impressions and reworking the plates so any decent piece would be interesting.

Especially color. If you've indeed got the final states in excellent condition full margins, no stains-you've got a couple of jewels. I could get a quarter of a million from the right client. Maybe more."

"Both or each?"

"Oh, each. Especially in the current climate. The Japanese are crazy for Impressionism and Cassatt's at the top of their American list. I expect her important paintings to be fetching solid seven figures very shortly. The prints actually reflect a blending of Western and Asian sensibilities-she was highly influenced by Japanese printmaking that appeals to them. Even three hundred wouldn't be out of the question for a really fine impression."

"Thanks, Eugene."

"My pleasure. Tell your friend he or she's got a blue chip investment, but in all honesty the major appreciation probably hasn't taken place.

However, if he or she does want to sell, there's no need to go to New York."

"I'll pass it along."

"Bonsoir; Alex."

I closed my eyes and pictured zeros for a while. Then I dialed my service and found out Robin had called.

I called her studio. When she picked up I said, "Hi. It's me."

"Hi. Just wanted to see how you were doing."

"Pretty well. Still out here on a case."

"And here is?"

"Pasadena. San Labrador."

"Ah," she said. "Old money, old secrets."

"If you only knew how right you were."

"ESP" she said. "If the world ever stops strumming, I'll get into tea leaves."

"Or stock trading."

"No, not that! Jail isn't my thing."

I laughed.

"Anyway," she said.

"How're you doing?"

"Fine."

"How's Mr. Panic's guitar?"

"Just a scratch, really. It wasn't even close to an emergency. I think he's finally going off the deep end too much sobriety."

I laughed again. "I'd like to see you again, when things ease up."

"Sure," she said. "When things ease up."

Silence.

"Soon," I said, though I had nothing to back that up.

"That's even better."

I went back into the restaurant. There was a basket of bread and a glass of ice water on the table. Two of the lunching women had left; the other two were settling their check, with a pocket calculator and furrowed brows.

The bread smelled fresh-slices of whole wheat and baguettes tinged with anise but Madeleine's "light" meal had stuffed me and I pushed it aside. The woman who had seated me noticed and I thought I saw her flinch. I picked up the menu. The two customers left. The woman picked up their credit slip, glanced at it, and shook her head. After wiping the table, she came over to me, pencil at the ready. I ordered the most expensive coffee listed-triple espresso with a dash of Napoleon brandy-and a bowl of jumbo strawberries.

She brought the berries first-truth in advertising, they were as big as peaches-the coffee a few minutes later, still foaming.

I smiled at her. She looked worried.

"Everything okay, sir?"

"Great-terrific berries."

"We get them from Carpenteria. Would you like some fresh cream?"

"No, thanks." I smiled and let my eyes drift across the street.

Wondering what was going on behind the Craftsman facade. Calculating the hours of therapy necessary to buy a quarter-of-a-milliondollar piece of paper. Trying to figure out how I'd deal with the Gabneys.

When the proprietress came back a few minutes later, the level of coffee in my cup was one third lower and only two strawberries were gone.

"Something the matter, sir?"

"Not at all-everything's fine." I sipped to prove it, then speared the most gargantuan of the strawberries on my fork.

"We import all our coffee," she said. "Simpson and Veroni buy from exactly the same source but they charge twice as much."

I had no idea who Simpson and Veroni were, but I smiled and shook my head and said, "Figures." The empathy didn't impress her.

If this was her usual interpersonal style, I could see why the public wasn't beating a path to her door.

I took another swallow and began working on the berry.

She lingered for a second, went into the kitchen, and began conferring with the chef.

I resumed looking out the window. Glanced at my watch: 2:35.

Less than half an hour till show time. What would I say to Ursula Gabney?

The busty woman came out from the kitchen with the Sunday paper under one arm, sat down at one of the tables, and began reading. As she put aside the front section and picked up the Metro, our eyes met. She pulled away quickly. I gulped down the rest of my coffee.

Without rising, she said, "Anything else?"

"No, thanks."

She brought me the check. I handed her a credit card. She took it, stared at it, returned with a slip, and said, "You're a doctor?"

I realized then how I must have appeared to her: clothes I'd slept in, unshaven.

I said, "I'm a psychologist. There's a clinic across the street. I'm on my way over there to talk to one of the doctors."

"Uh-huh," she said, looking doubtful.

"Don't worry," I said, putting on my best smile. "I'm not one of the patients. Been working a long shift-emergency case."

That seemed to spook her, so I produced my license and med school faculty card. "Scout's honor."

She relaxed a bit, said, "What kind of things do they do over there?"

"Don't really know," I said. "Had any problems because of them?"

"Oh, no. It's just that you don't see too many people going in and out. And there's no sign telling anyone what kind of place it is. I wouldn't have even known what it was except one of my customers told me. It just made me wonder what they do in there."

"I don't know much about it myself. My specialty is working with children. One of my patients is the child of a woman who used to be treated there-maybe you noticed her. She used to come in an old Rdls I Royce-black and gray."

She nodded. "I did see a car like that a couple of times, but I never noticed who drove it."

"The woman who owned it disappeared a few days ago. It's been pretty hard on the child. I came over to learn what I could."

"Disappeared? What do you mean?"

"She set out for the clinic, never showed up, and hasn't been seen. nothing to do with "Oh." A new kind of anxiety, one that had balance sheets.

I looked up at her, fingered the credit slip.

"You know.. "she said, then shook her head.

"What is it?"

"Nothing... It's probably nothing. I shouldn't mix in, in things that don't concern me.

"If you know anything-" "No," she said emphatically. "It's not about your patient's mother. Another one of their patients the customer I mentioned.

The one who told me what kind of place it was. She used to come in here, didn't seem as if there was anything wrong with her. She said she used to be afraid of going places-phobic that's why she was going for treatment, but she'd gotten a lot better. You would have thought she'd like the place the clinic be grateful. But she didn't seem to not that you should quote me on that. I really don't need any headaches."

She touched the credit slip. "You still need to total and sign."

I did, adding a 25 percent tip.

"Thank you," she said.

"My pleasure. What made you think this woman didn't like the clinic?"

"Just the way she talked asking lots of questions. About them."

Glancing across the street. "Not right away. After she'd been coming for a while."

"What kinds of questions?"

"How long they'd been here. I had no idea, just moved in myself.

Did the doctors or any of the other patients ever come in here that was an easy one. Not even once. Except Kathy-that was her name.

She didn't seem afraid of anything. Kind of aggressive, actually. But I liked her she was friendly, liked my food. And she came in all the time. I really liked the idea ofhaving a regular. Then one day, out of the blue, she just stopped." Snapping her fingers. "Just like that. I thought it was strange. Especially because she hadn't mentioned anything about being finished with her treatment. So when you said this other woman disappeared, it kind of reminded me of that.

Though Kathy didn't really disappear-she just stopped showing up.

"How long ago was this?"

She thought. "About a month ago. First I thought it was something to do with the food, but she stopped going over there, too. I knew her car. She'd been on a regular schedule: Monday and Thursday afternoon, like clockwork. At three-fifteen she'd be in here for angel hair pasta or scallops, cappuccino royale, and a raisin croissant. I appreciated it because, to tell the truth, business has not been booming yet-we're still establishing our presence. My husband has been I-told-you-soing for three months. I started Sunday brunch last week, but it hasn't exactly raised the dead."

I clucked my tongue in sympathy.

She smiled. "I called this place La Mystique, for mystery. He says the only mystery is when I'm going to fold-so I've got to prove him wrong. That's why I especially appreciated Kathy's patronage. I still wonder what happened to her."

"Do you remember her last name?"

"Why?"

"I'm just trying to contact everyone who knew my patient's mother. You never know what little detail might tell us something."

She hesitated, then: "One sec."

She pocketed the credit slip, went back into the kitchen. As I waited, I looked over at the clinic building. No one entered or exited.

Not a hint of life behind the windows.

She returned with a square of yellow message paper.

"This is Kathy's sister's address. She gave her as a reference at the beginning, because she used to pay by check and her own checks were out-of-state. I actually thought of giving a call, but never got around to it. If you speak to her, give her my best-tell her Joyce said hi."

I took the paper and read it. Neatly printed letters in red felt-tip marker: KATHY MORIARTY c/O ROBBINS 2012 ASHBOURNE DR.

5. PAS.

A 795 phone number.

I put it in my wallet, got up, and said, "Thanks. Everything was great.

"All you had was berries and coffee. Come back sometime when you're hungry. We're good-we really are."

She walked back to her table and the newspaper.

I got up, looked out the window, saw movement. A statelylooking gray-haired woman getting into the Lincoln. The station wagon already pulling away from the curb.

Time for a chat with Dr. Ursula.

But I was disabused of that notion as I reached the sidewalk. The Saab shot backwards out of the driveway, came to a short stop, and sped northward. So fast, I barely had a glimpse of the driver's tense, beautiful face.

By the time I got behind the wheel of the Seville, she was out of sight.

I sat for a while, wondering what had drawn her away. Opened the glove compartment, took out my Thomas Guide, and looked up Ashbourne Drive.

The house was a generously proportioned used-brick Tudor on a wide, ungated lot shaded by maples and firs. A Plymouth van in the driveway shadowed a scattered collection of toy bikes and wagons.

Three brick steps and a porch led to the front entrance. The door featured a tiny brass replica of itself set at eye level.

A bell-ring, the tiny door creaked open, and a pair of dark eyes peered out. A TV cartoon soundtrack blared from within. The eyes narrowed.

"Dr. Delaware to see Mrs. Robbins, please."

"Wan meen'."

I waited, straightening my clothes and finger-combing my hair.

Hoping my dress shirt and tie would make the stubble look like intentional hip.

West-side hip. Wrong neighborhood.

The little door opened again. Blue eyes. Pupils contracting.

"Yes?" Young voice, slightly nasal.

"Mrs. Robbins?"

"What can I do for you?"

"My name is Dr. Alex Delaware. I'm trying to locate your sister Kathy."

"Are you a friend of Kathy's?"

"No, not actually. But we have a mutual acquaintance."

"What kind of doctor are you?"

Mi "Clinical psychologist. I'm sorry to bust in on you like this, and I'll be happy to show you identification and some professional credentials."

"Yes, why don't you do that."

I pulled the appropriate snips of paper out of my wallet and held them up, one by one.

She said, "Who do you and Kathy both know?"

"It's something I really need to discuss with her personally, Mrs. Robbins. If you're not comfortable giving me her number, I'll give you mine and she can call me."

The blue eyes moved back and forth. The little door slammed shut again and the big one opened. A woman in her late thirties came out onto the front porch. Five six, trim, strawberry-blond hair cut in a bob. The blue eyes deep-set in a long, freckled face. Full lips, pointed chin, slightly protruding ears that the short hair flaunted. She wore a short-sleeved, boatneck top with horizontal red-and-white stripes, white canvas pants, and tennies without socks. Tiny diamonds in her ears. She could have been one of Las Labradoras.

"Jan Robbins," she said, looking me over. Her nails were long but unpolished. "It's best that we talk out here."

"Sure," I said, conscious of every wrinkle in my suit.

She waited until I'd backed away a bit before closing the front door behind her. "So why are you looking for Kathy?"

I considered how much to say. Had Kathy Moriarty's sessions at the clinic been something she'd withheld from her sister? She'd talked openly to Joyce at the restaurant, but strangers were often seen as the safest repositories of confidences.

"It's complicated," I said. "It would really be best if I talked to your sister directly, Mrs. Robbins."

"I'm sure it would, Doctor. I'd like to speak with her directly myself, but I haven't heard from her in over a month."

Before I could reply, she said, "Not that it's the first time, given the way she lives her career."

"What career is that?"

"Journalism. Writing. She used to work for the Boston Globe and the Manchester Union Leader; but now she's on her own. Freelancing.

Trying to get her own books published-she actually had one out a few years ago. On pesticides The Bad Earth?"

I said nothing.

She smiled-with some satisfaction, I thought. "It wasn't exactly a best-seller."

"Is she from New England originally?"

"No, originally she's from here-California. We both grew up in Fresno.

But she went back east after college, said she considered the West Coast a cultural wasteland."

She gave a quick look at the van and the toy bikes and frowned.

"Did she come back out on a writing project?" I said.

"I assume so. She never told me-never talked about her work at all.

Confidential sources, of course."

"You don't have any idea what she was doing?"

"No, not in the least. We're not- We're very different. She didn't spend much time here."

She stopped, folded her arms across her chest. "Now that I think about it, how did you find out I was her sister?"

"She used you as a reference in order to cash an out-of-state check at a restaurant. The owner gave me your address."

"Great," she said. "Figures. Thank God the check didn't bounce.

"She have a problem with money?"

"Not with spending it. Look, I've really got to get inside. I'm sorry I can't help you.

She started to turn away.

I said, "So her being gone for a month doesn't concern you?"

She pivoted sharply. "For her pesticide book, she traveled all over the country for more than a year. We never heard from her unless she ran short of cash. Instead of repaying what she'd borrowed, we got a signed copy of the book. My husband's a corporate attorney, handles chemical accounts. You can imagine how much he appreciated that.

A few years before that, she went to El Salvador-some sort of investigative thing, very cloak-and-dagger. Six months she was gone, not a call, not even a postcard. My mother was scared out of her mind and we never even saw a story come out of that one. So no, it doesn't concern me. She's out chasing another intrigue."

"What kind of intrigue generally interests her?"

"Anything with a hint of conspiracy she fancies herself an investigative reporter, still thinks the Kennedy assassination makes for fascinating dinner table conversation."

Pause. Cartoon sounds, from inside the house. She gave a hard swipe at her hair. "This is ridiculous. I don't even know you. I shouldn't be talking to you.... In the unlikely event I hear from her soon, I'll tell her you want to talk to her. Where's your office?"

"West side," I said. "Do you have a recent address for her?"

She thought for a moment. "Sure, why not? If she can give out mine, I can give out hers."

I pulled out a pen and, using my knee for a table, wrote on the back of a business card as she reeled off an address on Hilldale Avenue.

"That's West Hollywood," she said. "Closer to your part of town.

Standing there, as if expecting me to answer some challenge.

I said, "Thanks. Sorry to bother you."

"Sure," she said, looking at the van again. "I know I sound hardhearted, but it's just that I've tried for a long time to... help her. But she goes her own way no matter who " She touched her mouth, as if forcefully hushing it. "We're very different, that's all.

Vive Ia difference you psychologists believe in that, right?"

I got back to Sussex Knoll by four-fifteen. Noel's Celica was parked in front, along with a brown Mercedes two-seater with a DODGER BLUE sticker on the rear bumper and a cellular antenna on the rear deck.

Madeleine opened the door for me.

"How is she?"

She said, "Upstairs, monsieur doctor. She eats a little soup.

"Has Mr. Sturgis called?"

"Non. But others..." She cocked her head toward the front room and curled her lips in scorn. A conspiratorial gesture; I was an insider now.

She said, "They wait."

"For whom?"

She shrugged.

The two of us crossed the entry. When we got to the room, she veered and kept walking toward the back of the house.

Glenn Anger and a heavyset bald man in his fifties were sitting in the overstuffed chairs, legs crossed, looking clubby. Both wore dark blue sack suits, white shirts and pocket squares, foulard ties.

Anger's cravat was a pink mini-print, the other man's yellow.

When I was a few feet away they stood and buttoned their j4/ jackets.

The bald man was six feet tall, with a power-lifter's build gone slightly to seed. His face was square and beefy above an eighteen-inch neck, his tan every bit as good as Anger's and the one Don Ramp had sported before life had ground him pale. The little hair he had was wispy and colored an insipid brown-gray. Most of it ran around the sides of his head and looked as thin as a greasepaint smear. A tiny, teased puff topped his crown.

"Well," said Anger, "I suppose your work here is at an end."

Looking grimly satisfied. To the bald man: "This is one of the detectives hired to search for Gina, Jim."

"Not exactly," I said. "My name is Alex Delaware. I'm Melissa's psychologist."

Anger looked baffled. Then peeved.

I said, "Mr. Sturgis-the detective-is a friend of mine. I referred the family to him. I happened to be with him when we went to your office."

"I see. Well, that's-" "Sorry for not clarifying, but given the urgency at the time, it didn't seem important."

"Well," said Anger, "I suppose it wasn't."

The bald man cleared his throat.

Anger said, "Doctor-it is Doctor Delaware?"

I nodded.

"Doctor, meet Jim Douse, Gina's attorney."

One side of Douse's mouth smiled. He shook my hand, exposing a monogrammed cuff. His hand was big and padded and surprisingly rough-weekends spent away from the desk-and he curled his fingers in a way that prevented much contact between our palms. Reserving judgment on how friendly he wanted to get, or the special care very strong men sometimes exercise so as not to inflict pain.

He said, "Doctor," in a smoker's rasp. The tips of two cigars protruded from behind his pocket square. "Psychologist? I use them from time to time in court."

I nodded, wondering if that was an icebreaker or a threat.

He said, "How's our little girl doing?"

"Last time I saw her she was resting. I'm on my way up there to check."

"Cliff Chickering told me the terrible news," said Anger. "This morning, in church. Jim and I came by to see if I there was anything we could do. What a stinking thing I never actually believed it would come to this."

Douse looked at him as if introspection were a felony, then shook his head in a delayed show of sympathy.

I said, "Has the search been called off?"

Anger nodded. "Cliff said they stopped looking a few hours ago. He's convinced she's at the bottom of that dam."

"He's also convinced she put herself there," I said.

Anger looked uncomfortable.

Douse said, "I've suggested to Mr. Chickering that any further theorizing should be backed up with fact." Lifting his chin, he ran a finger around the interior of his shirt collar.

Anger said, "Damned accident is what it was, that's obvious.

She shouldn't have been out there driving in the first place."

I said, "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I'm going to see Melissa."

"Give her our condolences, Doctor," said Anger. "If she'd like us to come up, we will. If not, we'll be available whenever she's ready to tackle the transition just let us know."

"What transition is that?"

"Transfer of status," said Douse. "There's never a good time for it, but it needs to be done as quickly as possible. Routine procedures, paperwork. The government giving itself something to do.

Everything's got to be followed to the letter or Uncle Sam gets his dander up."

Anger said, "She's too young to deal with it. The sooner we get everything squared away, the better."

"Too young to deal with paperwork?" I said.

"Too young to deal with the mechanics," said Anger. "The burden of management.

"She should be doing other things with her life," said Douse.

"Wouldn't you say that-psychologically speaking?"

Feeling as if I'd been beamed down to a Senate subcommittee meeting, I said, "You're saying she shouldn't manage her own money.

Silence dropped like a theater curtain.

"It's complicated," said Douse. "Lots of inane regulations."

"Because of the size of the estate?"

Anger pursed his lips and busied himself with a jumpy-eyed appraisal of the Old Masters on the walls.

Douse said, "Unless it can be shown to me that you'll have an extended role in the matter, I'm not able to go into details with you, Doctor.

But speaking generally, let me say this: Without concrete proof of an actual act of decession, it will take substantial time to establish the validity of the heir's tenancy and rights and subsequent transfer of ownership of those rights and the concomitant property."

He stopped and watched me. When I didn't move, he went on: "When I say substantial time, I mean just that. What we're dealing with, here, is multiple jurisdictions. Everything from local up to federal-because of the dynamics of the tax code. And that's just in terms of basic transfer. It doesn't even start to consider the whole issue of guardianship-guarding her rights. There are matters of proxy ownership, various fine points of estate law. And, of course, the IRS always steps in and tries to plunder whatever it can, though with the trusts that have been established, we're on solid ground regarding that can of worms."

"Guardianship?" I said. "Melissa's reached her majority why would she need a guardian?"

Anger looked at Douse. Douse looked back at him.

Ocular tennis match. The ball finally landed in the banker's court.

"Majority," he said, "is one thing. Competence is another."

"You're suggesting Melissa's incompetent to run her own affairs?"

Anger returned his attention to the paintings.

Affairs,' " said Douse, "doesn't even begin to describe it." He swept an arm around the room. "How many eighteen-year-olds would be competent to manage something of this magnitude? I know mine sure wouldn't."

"Mine neither," said Anger. "Add to that the emotional stress.

The family history." He turned to me. "You'd have a good handle on that."

It sounded like an invitation. I didn't RSVP.

Douse touched his bald head. "From where I'm sitting," he said, "both as her attorney and as a parent, my educated judgment is that her resources would be put to optimal use just trying to grow up.

God knows it's going to be hard enough, considering."

"That's for sure," said Anger. "I've got four at home, Doctor. All teens or tweens we're going through the wringer. Major-league hormone alert. Give an adolescent lots of money, might as well hand them a loaded gun."

"Do you have kids of your own, Doctor?" said Douse.

"No," Isaid.

Both of them gave knowing smiles.

"Well," said Douse, playing with a jacket button, "as I said, that's about all I'm free to divulge, barring an extended role for you.

"What kind of role?"

"Should you choose to commit yourself to an extended course of psychological consultation-coordinating the management of Melissa's emotional affairs in sync with Glenn's and my stewardship of the financial aspects of her life, I'd be sure to see that your views were considered at all critical junctures. And well compensated."

"Let me get this straight," I said. "You'd like me to help you certify Melissa psychologically incapable of handling her own affairs so that a guardian can be appointed to manage her money.

Anger winced.

"Wrong," said Douse. "We don't want anything. Our welfare isn't what's at stake here we're only thinking of hers. As longtime friends of the family, and as parents and professional managers. And we're in no way attempting to influence your judgment or opinion.

This conversation which I might remind you originated spontaneously simply reflects a discussion of issues that have acquired a certain sense of urgency due to unforeseen events. Plainly put, Doctor, we need to square things away damned quickly."

"One thing you should be clear on, Doctor," said Anger, "is that the money's not Melissa's yet. Not in a legal sense. She'd have a heck of a time getting hold of it before the process completes itselo And as Jim said, the wheels of bureaucracy grind slowly. The process will take a long time months. Or even longer. In the meantime, her needs have to be met the running of this household, salaries, repairs. Not to mention marshaling investments through a web of regulations. Things need to progress smoothly. As far as I can see, a guardian's clearly the best way to go."

"Who'd be the guardian? Don Ramp?"

Douse cleared his throat and shook his head.

"No," he said. "That would contravene the spirit, if not the letter, of Arthur Dickinson's will."

"Who, then?"

More dead air. Footsteps thumped somewhere in the big house.

A vacuum whined. The phone rang once.

"My firm," said Douse, "has been of long service to this family.

There's a certain logic to seeing that continue."

I said nothing. He unbuttoned his jacket, pulled out a small crocodile case, removed a white business card, and gave it to me gravely, as if it were something of value.

J. MADISON DOUSE, JR.

ATTORNEY AT LAW WRESTING, DOUSE, AND COSNER 820 5. FLOWER STREET LOS ANGELES, CA 90017

Douse said, "The founding partner was Chief Justice Douse."

Leaving out the "my uncle" part. Confusing conspicuous discretion with class.

Anger blew it by saying, "Jim's uncle."

Douse cleared his throat without opening his mouth. The end result was a deep, bullish snort.

Anger hastened to repair: "The Douse and Dickinson families ave been bonded by many years of implicit trust and goodwill.

Arthur entrusted his affairs to Jim's dad, back in the days when those affairs were even more complex than they are now. It's in your patient's best interests that she be taken care of by the best, Doctor."

"Right now," I said, "it's in my patient's best interests to marshal her emotional defenses in order to deal with losing her mother."

"Exactly," said Anger. "That's exactly the reason Jim and I would like to see everything squared away as soon as possible."

"The problem," said Douse, "is one of procedural transfer establishing continuity. Every step of the process as it currently operates was contingent upon Mrs. Ramp's approval. Even though it At nC to a interm's a management role, legally-procedurally-we were required to interface with her.

Now that she's... no longer available, we're obligated to "Deal with her heir?" I said. "Must be a hell of an inconvenience."

Douse buttoned his jacket and leaned forward. His forehead puckered and wrinkled and he sniffed like a tackle out for a quarterback. "I sense a... combativeness here, Dr. Delaware, that's wholly unwarranted by the facts at hand."

"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe I just don't like the idea of being asked to lie professionally. Even if your intentions are good. Melissa's not incompetent nowhere near it. She hasn't a trace of thought disorder or any other mental disturbance that would impair her judgment. As to whether or not she's mature enough to handle forty million dollars, who knows? Howard Hughes and Leland Belding weren't much older when they took over their parents' estates, and neither of them did too badly. And banks and law firms have been known to screw up handily, haven't they? What're the latest figures on the S-and-L mess?"

"That," said Anger, coloring, "has nothing to do with "Whatever," I said. "The bottom line is, any decision to delegate management of Melissa's money will have to be Melissa's. And it will have to be voluntary.

Douse pressed his fingertips together, withdrew them, repeated the gesture several times. It might have been a parody of applause.

His eyes were steady and small.

He said, "Well, there's obviously no need for you to assume the burden of assessment, Doctor. Given your reluctance."

"What does that mean? Bring in the hired-gun expert witnesses?"

His face remained blank as he showed his cuff monogram and consulted a gold-and-rivet Cartier that looked much too small for his wrist.

"Nice meeting you, Doctor." To Anger: "This clearly isn't a good time to be visiting, Glenn. We'll come back when she's feeling more up to it."

Anger nodded but he looked off-balance. None of his trophies had been for Overt Conflict.

Douse touched his elbow, and the two of them walked past me, heading for the entry. And came face-to-face with Melissa, who stepped out from behind a tall bookcase. Her hair was tied in a ponytail. She had on a black blouse over a knee-length khaki skirt, no stockings, black sandals. Something pink was clenched in her right hand-a balled tissue.

"Melissa," said Anger, switching on a loan-denial sad-face. "I'm so sorry about your mother, lion. You know Mr. Douse."

Douse held out his hand.

Melissa opened her palm and showed the tissue. Douse dropped his arm.

"Mr. Douse," she said. "I know who you are, but we've never met, have we?"

"Sorry it has to be under these circumstances," said the attorney.

"Yes. How kind of you to come. And on a Sunday."

"Days don't matter when it comes to something like this," said Anger.

"We came by to see how you were doing, but Dr. Delaware told us you were resting and we were just on our way out."

"Mr. Douse," she said, ignoring him and stepping closer to the attorney. "Mr. Douse, Mr. Douse. Please douse any ideas of ripping me off, okay, Mr. Douse? No, don't even say a word-just leave. Right now-both of you-out. My new attorneys and my new bankers will be contacting you shortly."

After they were gone, she cried out in rage and collapsed against me, weeping.

Noel came running down the stairs, looking scared and confused and eager to comfort. He saw her pressed to my chest and stopped midway down the flight.

I motioned him forward with a small backward movement of my head.

He stepped very close to her and said, "Melissa?"

She kept crying, pushed her head into my sternum so hard it hurt. I patted her back. It seemed inadequate.

Finally she pulled away, red-eyed, face blazing.

"Oh!" she said. "Oh, the bastards! How could they! How could they have the- She's not even... oh!"

Choking on her words. She wheeled, ran to a wall, hit it hard with her fists.

Noel looked to me for counsel. I nodded and he went to her. She allowed him to guide her into the front room. The three of us sat down.

Madeleine came in, looking angry but smug, as if her worst assumptions about mankind had been confirmed. Once again. I wondered how much she'd heard.

More footsteps.

The other two maids appeared behind Madeleine. She said something, and they hurried off.

Madeleine walked over and touched Melissa's head. Melissa looked up and pushed a smile through her tears.

Madeleine said, "I bring you to drink?"

Melissa didn't answer.

I said, "Please. Tea, for all of us."

Madeleine lumbered ofo Melissa sat hunched under Noel's protective forearm, jaw clenched, tearing the tissue to shreds and letting them fall to the floor.

Madeleine returned with tea, honey, and milk on a silver tray.

She served, handing a cup to Noel, who guided it toward Melissa's lips.

Melissa drank, choked, sputtered.

All three of us hurried to attend to her. The resulting flurry of arms was Keystonish; it might have been comical under different circumstances.

When the dust cleared, Noel again held the cup to Melissa's lips. She took a sip, started to gag, put her hand to her chest, and managed to hold it down. When she'd finished a third of the cup, Madeleine nodded in approval and left.

Melissa touched Noel's hand and said, "Enough. Thanks."

He put the cup down.

She said, "The bastards. Unbelievable."

"Who?" said Noel.

"My banker and my lawyer," she said. "Trying to rip me off." To me: "Thanks-thanks so much for sticking up for me, Dr. Delaware.

I know who my true friends are."

Noel remained confused. I gave him a brief replay of the interchange with Anger and Douse. Each word seemed to inflate his own anger.

"Assholes," he said. "Better get yourself some new ones fast."

"Oh, yeah," she said. "I made it sound as if I already had someone hired you should have seen the looks on their faces."

Brief smile. Noel remained serious.

Melissa said, "Do you know any good lawyers, Dr. Delaware?"

"Most of the ones I know practice family law. But I should be able to get you a referral for an estate lawyer."

"Please. I'd really appreciate it. And a banker, too."

"The estate lawyer should be able to refer you to a banker."

"Good," she said. "The sooner the better, before those two worms try anything. For all I know they've already been filing some kind of papers against me." Insight widened her eyes. "I'll have Milo check them out. He'll be able to find out what they're up to. They've probably ripped me off already, wouldn't you say?"

"Who knows?"

"Well," she said, "they haven't exactly shown themselves to be honorable. For all I know they've been ripping off Mother all these years Closing her eyes.

Noel hugged her tighter. She allowed it but didn't relax.

Her eyes opened suddenly. "Maybe Don was in it with them all of them scheming "No," said Noel, "Don wouldn't-" She cut him off with a slashing diagonal movement of one arm.

"You see one side of him, I see another."

Noel was silent.

Melissa's eyes got huge. "Oh, God!"

"What is it?" I said.

"Maybe they even had something to do with... with... what happened. Maybe they wanted her money and She shot to her feet, throwing Noel off balance. Dry-eyed, hands fisted. One fist rose to eye level and shook.

"I'll get them," she said. "The bastards. Anyone who hurt her will pay!"

Noel stood. She held him at arm's length. "No. It's all right. I'll be all right. I know where I stand now."

She began walking around the room. Circling, sticking close to the walls, like a novice skater. Taking wide steps and speeding her pace till it was nearly a jog. Scowling and extending her lower jaw and punching her hand with a fist.

Sleeping Beauty roused by the malignant kiss of suspicion.

Anger replacing fear. Incompatible with fear.

I'd treated an entire school that way the previous fall. Had taught her the same lesson years ago.

This child's anger white-hot. The look on her face almost savage.

I watched and could think of nothing but a hungry animal in a cage.

Psychological progress, I guessed.

Milo showed up shortly after, wearing a brown suit and carrying a shiny black briefcase. Melissa latched onto him and told him what had happened.

"Get them," she said.

"I'll check it out," he said. "But it'll take some time. In the meantime, get yourself a lawyer."

"Whatever it takes. Please. Who knows what they've been up to.

"At least," he said, "they're on notice. If they've been up to something larcenous, they'll probably quit for the moment."

Noel said, "True."

Milo said to Melissa: "How are you doing, otherwise?"

"Better... I'm going to get through it. I have to.. if there's something you need me to do, I can do it."

"What you can do, for the time being, is take care of yourselfo" She started to object.

Milo said, "No, I'm not brushing you ofo I mean it. Just in case they decide to keep pushing."

"What do you mean?" she said.

"These guys are obviously out to run the show. If they can convince a judge you're screwed up, they've got a shot at it. I may get dirt on them or I may not. While I'm digging, they'll be stockpiling ammunition. The better you look-physically and psychologically the less ammunition they're gonna have. So take care of yourself" He looked over at me. "If you have to scream, scream at him that's his job."

She let Noel take her upstairs. Milo said, "Did it happen the way she said?"

I nodded. "They were a couple of real sweethearts. Came on concerned, then eased into the Grand Plan. Kind of stupid, though, showing their cards like that."

"Not necessarily," he said. "In most cases it would work, because the average eighteen-year-old would be intimidated and agree to let a couple of suits handle everything. And plenty of shrinks would go along with what they offered you. For the right compensation." He scratched his nose. "Be interesting to know what they're really after."

"I'd say filthy lucre's a good guess."

"Question is how much lucre. Are they out to totally drain the estate or just maintain managerial control so they can beef up their fees a couple of percent. People who live off the rich get into a rut start thinking they have a right to it."

"Or maybe," I said, "they made some bad investments and want to keep it quiet."

"Wouldn't be the first time," he said. "But the thing we've got to consider is, despite all these maybes, do they still have a valid point one that would look good to a judge. Can she handle that kind of dough, Alex? How's she really doing emotionally?"

"I'm not sure. She's gone from drowsy to enraged awfully quickly. But nothing pathological when you consider what she's been through."

"Say it in court that way, and she's finished." "Forty million dollars would be tough for anyone, Milo. If I were King of the World, I wouldn't give any kid that much. But no, there's no psychological justification for declaring her incompetent. I could back her up."

"Anyway," he said, "what's the worst thing that could happen?

She pisses it away, has to start from scratch. She's smart enoughcould do something useful with her life. Maybe it would be the best thing ever happened to her."

"Financial collapse as a therapeutic technique? Good excuse for doctors' raising their fees."

He smiled. "In the meantime, I'll do what I can to check out Anger and the other guy. Though it's gonna be damned hard to pierce that kind of armor quickly. She really needs legal help."

"I thought I'd call someone on that."

"Good." He lifted his briefcase.

"That new?" I said.

"Picked it up today. Got an image to uphold. This private-eye business is heady stuff."

"Did you get the message I left with your machine a couple of hours ago?"

"Several things to talk about'? Sure, but I've been a busy little private bee, scooping up honeycombs of information. How about a share-fest ?"

I motioned to one of the overstuffed chairs.

"No," he said. "Let's get the hell out of here, breathe some normal air if it's okay for you to leave."

"Let me check."

I climbed the stairs, went to Melissa's room. The door was partially open. As I raised my hand to knock, I looked through the crack and saw Melissa and Noel, stretched out on the bed, fully clothed, entwined.

Her fingers in his hair. His arm around her waist, rubbing the small of her back. Bare feet, toes touching.

Before they noticed me, I tiptoed away.

Milo was in the entry hall, refusing a plate of food from Madeleine.

"Full," he said, patting his belly. "Thanks anyway."

She regarded him as if he were a wayward son.

We smiled and left.

Once outside, he said, "I lied. Actually, I'm hungry as hell and her stuff's probably tastier than anything we're gonna get somewhere else.

But the place gets to me after a while, I OD on being taken care of" "Me, too," I said, getting into the car. "Think how Melissa feels."

"Yeah," he said, starting up the engine. "Well, now she'll be on her own. Any suggestions, cuisine-wise?"

"As a matter of fact, I have just the place."

Start of the dinner hour. La Mystique was empty. As I pulled up in front, Milo said, "Gee. Are we gonna have to wait at the bar?"

I said, "That's the Gabney Clinic," and pointed to the big brown house.

The windows were dark and the driveway was empty.

"Ah," said Milo, squinting. "Little spooky." He turned back to the restaurant. "So what's this place, your lookout post?"

"Just a warm, kind resting spot for the weary sojourner."

Joyce was startled to see me again, but she welcomed me as if I were long-lost kin and offered the same front table. Sitting there at this hour would have turned us into a window display, so I asked to be seated at the back.

She took our drink orders and came back with two Grolsches. As she poured, she said, "We've got poached striped bass and veal vino for specials," and launched into a detailed speech about the preparation for each.

I said, "I'll have the bass."

Milo scanned the menu. "How's the entrecjte?"

"Excellent, sir."

"That's what I'll have. Bloody rare, with double potatoes."

She stepped behind the partition into the kitchen and began cooking.

We touched glasses and drank beer.

I said, "According to Anger, Chickering said the search for Gina is over."

"Not surprised. Last time I checked with the Sheriffs was onethirty this afternoon. They were pretty much winding down not a trace of her anywhere in the park."

"Lady in the lake, huh?"

"Looks that way." He ran his hand over his face. "Okay. Time to share. Who first?"

"Go ahead."

"Basically," he said, "it's been hooray for Hollywood. Spent most of my day talking to movie people and ex-movie people and associated hangers-on."

"Crotty?"

"No, Crotty's gone. Died a couple of months ago."

"Oh," I said, thinking of the scrawny old vice cop turned gay activist.

"I thought the AZT was working."

"We all did. Unfortunately, he didn't. Sat on the porch of that little farm he had up in the hills and ate a gun."

"Sorry."

"Yeah. In the end, he did it like a cop Anyway, what I learned in cinemaville: Apparently Gina and Ramp and McCloskey were all pretty chummy back in the good old days. There was this group of contract players at Apex Studios during the mid- to late sixties. McCloskey wasn't exactly part of it, but he hung out with them, started his modeling agency by getting the others photo gigs pretty faces, both sexes. From everything I hear, they were a wild bunch, lots of boozing and doping and partying, though no one has anything bad to say about Gina specifically. So if she sinned, she did it quietly. Most of them never went anywhere, career-wise. Gina was the most likely to succeed, but the acid thing kiboshed that. The studio knew it was a buyer's market, lots of fresh flesh bused in daily from Iowa. So it gave these kids shoestring contracts, used them for walk-ons, various ancillary services, then ditched them when the wrinkles started showing."

"Ramp never mentioned knowing McCloskey more than casually."

"He knew him all right, though from what I hear they weren't good buddies."

Milo raised his briefcase to his lap, opened it, searched, and came up with a brown marbled-paper folder. Inside was a black-and white photograph with the Apex Studios snowy-mountain logo on the lower-right margin. The shot had been taken at some kind of nightclub or maybe it was just a set. Fluted leather booth, mirrored wall, white-linened table, silver service, crystal ashtrays and cigarette boxes. Half a dozen good-looking people in their early twenties wearing stylish evening clothes. Smiling photogenically and smoking and raising glasses in a toast.

Gina Prince nee Paddock sat dead center, blond and beautiful, in an off-the-shoulder gown that photographed gray, and a pearl choker that emphasized the length and smoothness of her neck. The resemblance to Melissa was striking.

Don Ramp next to her, husky and tan and healthy-looking, sans mustache.

Joel McCloskey on her other side, slick-haired and handsome-almost pretty. His smile was different from those of the others. Outsider's uncertain grin. A cigarette between his fingers was burned down nearly to the filter.

Two other faces a man and a woman that I didn't recognize.

And one, at the far end, that I did.

"This," I said, pointing to a sharp-featured brunette in a dangerously low-cut black dress, "is Bethel Drucker. Noel's mother. She's blond now, but this is her-I just met her today. She works for Ramp as a waitress at his restaurant. She and Noel live upstairs."

"My, my," said Milo. "One big happy family." He pulled another piece of paper out of the briefcase. "Let's see, she must be Becky Dupont.

Nom du cinema." Leaning forward, he took hold of a corner of the photo. "Good-looking woman. Voluptuous."

"She still is."

"Good-looking or voluptuous?"

"Both. Though she shows some wear.

He looked toward the kitchen, where Joyce was working next to the chef "Must be the day for voluptuous. Tell you one thing, old Becky/Bethel liked her dope. Downers and Quaaludes, according to my sources. Not that you need sources-look at those eyes.

I peered closely at the finely wrought face and saw what he meant.

Wide, dark eyes half-closed, the lids sagging. The bit of iris visible, dull and dreamy and distant. Unlike McCloskey's, her smile reflected genuine bliss. But the amusement had nothing to do with the party at hand.

"It fits," I said, "with something Noel said to me today. About always knowing drugs were bad. He started to explain, then changed his mind and said he'd read about it. He's a really intense kid, very straitlaced and self-directed almost too good to be true. If he grew up seeing what wild living did to his mom, that could explain it.

Something about him got my antennae buzzing-maybe that was it."

I gave him back the photo. Before he put it away, he took another look. "So. Looks like everyone knows everyone knows everyone, and Hollywood has sunk its fangs into San Labrador."

"What about the other two people in the picture?"

"The guy is one of my sources, to remain unnamed. The girl is a would-be starlet named Stacey Brooks. Deceased-car crash, 1971, probable Dill. Like I said, a wild bunch."

"Those ancillary services they provided to the studio," I said.

"That mean the casting couch?"

"That and related stuff-crowd scenes at various parties, dating potential backers and other pooh-bahs. Basically being available to satisfy a variety of appetites. Ramp was especially versatilehandsome escort for the ladies, sub rosa amusement for the gentlemen. He was a cooperative fellow, did what he was told. The studio rewarded him with a few parts-mostly minor roles in westerns and cop flicks."

"What about McCloskey?"

"My sources remember him as a swaggering tough-guy type.

Bargain-basement Brando, toothpick in the mouth, always hinting at pals in New Joisey, but never really fooling anyone. Also, he hated gays, didn't hesitate to say so without being asked. Maybe it was real, maybe he was latent and protesting too much. No one seems to have a clear handle on who he went to bed with other than Gina. What they do remember are his obnoxious personality and his heavy dopingspeed, coke, grass, pills. For a while, when his business was failing, he got into dealing. Supplying people at the studio. Then trading modeling services for dope-that finished his agency off. The models wanted to get paid in cash and he didn't have any."

"Did he ever get busted for dealing?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"I was just wondering if Gina might have had something to do with getting him in trouble with the law. Or if he thought she had. It would have been a reason to have her burned."

"Yeah, it sure would, but no dope record-no previous arrests of any kind before the attack."

Joyce brought bread. When she left, I said, "How about this, then: His homophobia was a cover for his being gay. Gina found out and they had some kind of confrontation over it. Maybe she even threatened to blow his tough-guy cover. It set McCloskey off and he hired Findlay to get her. It would explain why he refused to talk about his motives. It would have humiliated him."

"Could be," he said. "But then why wouldn't she have let the cat out?"

"Good question."

"Maybe," he said, "it was something a lot more simple: McCloskey and Gina and Ramp got involved in a triangle and McCloskey eventually freaked out. Remember the way they were sitting in the picture? She's the meat in the sandwich. In any event, it's probably ancient history.

Probably has nothing to do with her disappearance, other than telling us something about Mr. R."

"Prosperous businessman trying to forget about providing ancillary services."

"Yeah. Even when we were looking for his wife, and McCloskey was a potential suspect, he didn't talk about the bad old days. Even though he was the one pointing a finger at McCloskey. You'd think he'd want to tell us anything that could help find her."

"Unless there was nothing to tell," I said. "If Gina never knew why McCloskey burned her, why would Ramp?"

"Maybe," he said. "What is clear is that Gina had to be aware of Ramp's sexuality when she married him. Bi guys aren't considered prime matrimonial material nowadays the physical risk on top of the social.

But that didn't stop her."

"Separate bedrooms," I said. "No risk."

"Yeah, but what's his allure for her?"

"He's a nice guy. Tolerant of her lifestyle, so she puts up with his.

And he does appear to be a softie-taking in an old friend like Bethel, paying for Noel's college. Maybe after all the brutality Gina experienced, she wanted compassion more than sex."

"Old friend," he said. "Wonder how Bethel feels about hopping tables while her former buddies live in the Peach Palace."

"Noel hinted that he and his mom had been through some really hard times. Hopping tables might very well be a big step up.

"Suppose so, he said, taking a piece of bread.

I said, "You keep coming back to Ramp."

"I went down to the beach today to talk to Nyquist, and the place was cleaned out. Neighbor said Nyquist packed his van last night and eaded out for parts unknown. The Brentwood Country Club says he didn't show up for some tennis lessons he was supposed to give today, didn't bother to call in."

"Ramp's folding his tent, too. Asked Noel to pack him a bag.

Maybe it's the trauma of losing Gina-he's tired of all the pretense.

But it'll be interesting to see if he eventually files a claim against the will or cashes in on some insurance policy no one knew existed.

Not to mention the missing two million who'd be in a better position to siphon that off than the husband?"

"Melissa's suspicions validated," he said.

"Out of the mouths of babes. Ramp's presence is accounted for the day Gina disappeared. But what about Todd? Maybe he seduced her to get closer to the two million. In any event, he's someone she would have picked up if his car broke down near the house and she saw him thumbing. And now he and Ramp are both on the move."

"Ramp's still around. I drove by his restaurant before I stopped by the house. His Mercedes was in the lot and I peeked my head in.

He was out cold-stinking drunk, Bethel clucking over him like a mama hen. I left and parked across the street, observed the place for a while. No sign of Nyquist."

"One thing, Milo. If Ramp's planning an escape, why would he tell me and telegraph it?"

"No," he said. "That wasn't telegraphing that was covering.

Giving himself a plausible motive for leaving: overwhelmed with grief, the poor sucker left with nothing. So no one'll suspect Tahiti with Todd. Not that anyone's likely to suspect him, anyway. Officially, no crime's been committed. And as a one-man shop, I'm spread too thin to check him out while looking for Nyquist and doing the number Melissa wants me to do on Anger and Douse. I can't justify telling her Ramp's a higher priority than Anger and Douse, because I've got nothing to back me up, and those two are alre"'dy moving against her. Also, it would most likely freak her out even further, and I don't see that being constructive right now, do you?"

"No."

He thought for a while. "What I'm gonna do is make a call.

Someone I know who happens to have a real private-eye's license but doesn't use it much. Not too brilliant or creative. But patient. He can keep an eye on Big Don while I hit the financial trail."

"What about Nyquist?"

"Nyquist is unlikely to make a move without Ramp."

The food came. Milo cut, chewed, said, "They sure know how to do their tri-G's."

We ate for a few minutes.

"My turn," Isaid.

"One sec," he said. "Got a couple more tidbits-related to Gina's first husband, Dickinson. Remember Anger's crack about off the-rack suits?

Turns out the reason Dickinson couldn't wear one is he was a dwarf" "I know. I found a picture of him."

Surprise brightened his eyes. "Where?"

"At the house. Up in the third-floor attic."

"Little freelance archaeology? Good for you," he said. "I couldn't find any pictures of him at all. What'd he look like?"

I described Arthur Dickinson and Gina as a mummy bride.

"Weird," he said. "First hubby an old gnome, second one fullsized but interested in boys. All in all, I'd say the lady wasn't oriented toward the physical."

"Agoraphobia," I said. "The classical Freudian explanation says it's a symptom of sexual repression.

"You buy that?"

"Not in all cases, but maybe this one. It supports my theory of Gina's marrying Ramp because of a need for friendship. The fact that they used to know each other helped their rapport along-once Melissa put them in touch with each other. Old friends reattaching, mutual needs happens all the time."

"I've got more," he said, "on Arthur. Seems, in addition to making a fortune with the strut, he also dabbled in the movies. From the financial end. And some of the deals he did were with Apex Studios.

So far I haven't been able to connect him to any film Gina or Ramp or any of the other pretty faces worked on, or find proof that he knew them prior to McCloskey's trial. But I'd say it's a decent possibility."

"The old Chief Justice Rag," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"Jim Douse's uncle was Chief Justice Douse."

"Hammerin' Harmon?" said Milo. "Yeah, I remember Anger saying that.

So what?"

"Didn't he sit on the court when McCloskey came to trial?"

He thought. "When was that "69? No, Harmon was gone by then. The soft-hearted guys were already taking over. When Harmon ran things, the apple-green room was real busy."

"Even so," I said, "as chief justice emeritus, he'd have plenty of residual clout. And Arthur Dickinson was a client of his firm. What ifJacob Dutchy's being chosen for the McCloskey jury wasn't coincidence?"

"What if," he said, then repeated it. "You do love your conspiracies, lad."

"Life's robbed me of my innocence."

He smiled and cut more steak. "So what does any of it have to do with our lady in the lake?"

"Maybe nothing. But why don't you ask McCloskey? Given what we know, maybe you can open him up. Maybe he needs opening up. Despite all our theories about complex financial motives, maybe what happened to Gina just boils down to simple revenge. McCloskey let his anger stew for nineteen years, finally reverted to type and paid someone to get her."

"I don't know," he said. "I do believe the guy's pretty much of a zero, mentally. And from what I've been able to find out, he has no known associates just hangs out at the mission and plays penitent."

"Suppose the operative word is plays. Even bad actors can improve over time."

"True. Okay, yeah, I'll give him another chance at confession.

Tonight. Can't do the financial thing anyway till the banks open."

Joyce came over to see how we were doing. Our compliments made her glow. At least someone's day had been made. She brought us coffee and dessert on the house. Milo forked a piece of double turned incandescent.

When she finally left us, he said, "Okay, your turn.

I told him the value of the Cassatt.

"Two-fifty," he said. "Hell of a transference-that what you guys call it?"

I nodded. "It smells bad. And I'm probably not the only one who suspects the Gabneys of something fishy."

I recounted what I'd learned about Kathy Moriarty.

"A reporter, huh?"

"An investigative reporter. According to her sister, she really loved conspiracies, spent her life chasing them down. And she's from New England-worked in Boston, the Gabneys' old stamping grounds. Which leads me to suspect she learned about something they did back there and came to L.A. to check it out. Passed herselfoffas an agoraphobic and joined the group in order to spy and collect dirt."

"Sounds reasonable," he said, "but they're ultra high-priced.

Who paid Moriarty's therapy bills?"

"Her sister said Kathy was always hitting her up for money.

"That kind of money?"

"I don't know. Maybe she had someone behind her, a newspaper or a publisher she's written a book. Meanwhile, she hasn't been heard from in over a month. That makes two out of four group members gone.

Though in Kathy's case, the sister says that's typical.

But one thing's for certain-she was no agoraphobic. She had to be spying on the Gabneys."

"What you're setting up," he said, "is financial scam number two. The Gabneys looting Gina, just like Anger and the lawyer."

"Three, if you include Ramp and Nyquist."

"Step right up," he said. "Jab a needle into the rich lady's vein.

"Forty million dollars," I said, "equals pretty big veins. Even the two million would have been enough to get the gears turning. I especially like the Gabneys, because of the Kathy Moriarty angle.

Their move from Boston to L.A. maybe it was out of necessity, avoiding a scandal."

"Harvard avoiding a scandal."

I nodded. "Even more reason to cover it up. But Kathy Moriarty picked up the trail somehow and decided to follow it."

Milo ate some more cake, licked his lips, said, "From what you told me, the Gabneys were pretty well regarded professionally."

"Very well regarded. Leo Gabney would probably be on any psychologist's list of the top ten living behavioral experts. And as a Ph.D. -M.D Ursula could write her own ticket. But even a successful therapist's earning power is limited. You're selling time, and there are just so many billable hours. Even at what they charge, it would take a hell of a lot of hours to earn a Cassatt. Also, Leo struck me as a bitter man. The first time I met him he spoke of losing his son in a fire. The wound had clearly never healed. He blamed it on the judge giving custody to his wife. On the entire legal system.

Maybe he deals with his anger by defying that system."

"Crime as personal vengeance," he said. "The thrill sure, why not.

What about Ursula she have some axe to grind?"

"Ursula's his protege-from what I've observed, she does what he tells her. Though Gina's death seems to have really shaken her up, so perhaps she's the weak link. I intended to talk to her today, but she left before I had a chance."

"Protegee, huh? But the print ended up in her office."

"Maybe the print was just the tip of the iceberg."

"Art for her, cash for both of them? Course at these prices, a million or two wouldn't buy that much art, would it?"

"We have only Glenn Anger's word on how much Gina received every month.

He could have programmed his computer to read any way he wanted."

"Why would Gina give the Gabneys dough?"

"Gratitude, dependency same reasons cult members give everything to the guru."

"Could have been a loan."

"Could have been, but she's not around to collect, is she?"

He frowned and pushed his cake aside. "Ramp and Nyquist, the button-down boys, now her goddam shrinks. Suspect h