“Back then it was just called mashing and groping. Despite her age, the girl was a clearheaded feminist way ahead of her time, complained to the board of directors, who promptly gave her the boot. She talked to me about pursuing it—she was really traumatized—and I offered to back her up if she wanted to take it further, but in the end she decided not to. She knew it was his word against hers, he was the respected health administrator, and she was a good-looking teenager who wore her skirts too short. I supported the decision. What would she have gained other than a mess?”

“Was there ever any suggestion the director was molesting students?”

“Not that I heard.”

“Remember his name?”

“Alex, I really don’t want my mentoree drawn into it.”

“I promise she won’t be.”

“Larner. Michael Larner.”

“Psychologist or psychiatrist?”

“Business type—administrator.”

“Are you still in touch with the mentoree?”

“Occasionally. Mostly for cross-referrals. She stayed on track, graduated summa, got her Ph.D. at Penn, did a fellowship at Michigan, moved back here. She’s got a nice Westside practice.”

“Is there any way to ask her if she’d talk to me?”

Silence. “You think this is important.”

“Honestly, I don’t know, Larry. If asking her will put you in a difficult position, forget it.”

“Let me think about it,” he said. “I’ll let you know.”

“That would be great.”

“Great?” he said.

“Extremely helpful.”

“You know,” he said, “right as we speak, I’ve got my feet up and my belt loosened and I’m looking out at miles of clean white sand. Just finished a plate of chile rellenos con mucho cerveza. Just let out a sonic-boom belch and no one’s around to give me a funny look. To me, that’s great.”

I heard from him an hour later. “Her name’s Allison Gwynn, and you can call her. But she definitely doesn’t want to get involved in any police business.”

“No problem,” I said.

“So,” he said. “How’s everything else?”

“Everything’s fine.”

“We should get together for dinner. With the women. Next time we come into town.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Call me, Larry. Thanks.”

“Everything’s really okay?”

“Sure. Why do you ask?”

“Don’t know . . . you sound a bit . . . tentative. But maybe it’s just that I haven’t talked to you in a while.”

I called Dr. Allison Gwynn at her Santa Monica exchange.

A you-have-reached-the-office tape answered, but when I mentioned my name, a soft-around-the-edges female voice broke in.

“This is Allison. It’s funny, Larry calling out of the blue and asking if I’d talk to you. I’ve been reading some articles on pain control, and a couple were yours. I do some work at St. Agnes Hospice.”

“Those articles are ancient history.”