His half second hesitation belied his answer. “I wish I had something not to tell, Alex—look, I appreciate your effort but we can go over theories till the Second Coming, and it won’t move me any closer to solving Janie.”

“What will?”

“Like I said, I need to do some thinking.”

“Alone.”

“Sometimes,” he said, “alone helps.”

I drove away wondering what he was keeping from me, peeved at being shut out. Thinking about what didn’t await me at home turned irritation to dread, and before I knew it I was hunched over the wheel, driving too fast—going nowhere fast.

Nothing worse than a big house when you’re alone. And I had no one to blame but myself.

I’d screwed things up, royally, despite Bert Harrison’s wise counsel. Like most expert therapists, the old man wasn’t one for offering unsolicited advice, but during my visit he’d made a point of warning me off the paranoia trail when it came to Robin.

“Sounds like small things have been amplified . . . this is the girl for you.”

Had he sensed something—sniffed out nuances of my impending stupidity? Why the hell hadn’t I listened to him?

A blast of honks jolted me. I’d been sitting at the green light at Walden and Sunset for who knew how long and the cute young woman in the VW Golf behind me thought that justified a snarl and a stiff finger.

I waved at her and sped off. She passed me, stopped talking on her cell phone long enough to flip me off again, nearly collided with the curb as her VW struggled with the winding road.

I wished her well and returned to thoughts of Bert Harrison. The other opinions the old man voiced that day—outwardly casual remarks tossed out at the tail end of my visit.

Coincidence or the old therapist’s trick of harnessing the power of the parting word? I’d used it myself hundreds of times.

Bert’s parting shot had been to bring up Caroline Cossack. Out of context—well after we’d stopped discussing the Ingalls case.

“That girl. So monstrous, Alex. If it’s true.”

“You seem skeptical.”

“I do find it hard to believe that a young female would be capable of such savagery.”

Then Bert had gone on to express doubts about Willie Burns as a lust murderer.

“A junkie in the strict sense? Heroin? Opiates are the great pacifiers . . . I’ve certainly never heard of a junkie acting out in such a sexually violent manner.”

Now it looked as if Bert had been right on.

Was all that the intuition of an exceptionally insightful man?

Or did Bert know?

Had Schwinn continued to work the Ingalls case for years after leaving the department? Had he told Bert about what he’d unearthed?

Bert had admitted knowing Schwinn but claimed the relationship was casual. Chance meetings in theater lobbies.