'Seventy-nine.'
'De Bosch- the child analyst?'
'Did you know him?'
'No, child analysis is outside of my… purview.'
'Did Dr. Stoumen ever talk about de Bosch- or this particular conference?'
'Not to my recollection. Nor did he mention any… annoying mail?'
'Maybe 'annoying' is too mild,' I said. 'It's fairly nasty stuff.'
'Uh-hm.' He didn't sound convinced.
I said, 'Last night it went a little further. Someone trespassed on my property. I have a fish pond. They took a fish out, killed it, and left it for me to see.'
'Hmm. How… bizarre. And you think this symposium's the link?'
'I don't know, but it's all I've got so far. I'm trying to contact anyone who appeared on the dais, to see if they've been harassed. So far everyone I've tried to reach has moved out of town. Do you happen to know a psychiatrist named Wilbert Harrison or a social worker named Mitchell Lerner?'
'No.'
'They also delivered papers. The co-chairs were de Bosch's daughter, Katarina, and a New York analyst named Harvey Rosenblatt.'
'I see… Well, as I mentioned I'm not a child analyst. And unfortunately, Grant's no longer with us, so I'm afraid-'
'Where did his accident take place?'
'Seattle,' he said, with sudden strength in his voice. 'At a conference, as a matter of fact. And it wasn't a simple accident. It was a hit-and-run. Grant was heading out for a late-night walk; he stepped off the curb in front of his hotel and was struck down.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Yes, it was terrible.'
'What was the topic of the conference?'
'Something to do with child welfare- the Northwest Symposium on Child Welfare, I believe. Grant was always an advocate for children.'
'Terrible,' I said. 'And this was in May?'
'Early June. Grant was on in years- his eyesight and hearing weren't too good. We prefer to think he never saw it or heard it coming.'
'How old was he?'
'Eighty-nine.'
'Was he still in practice?'
'A few old patients stopped by from time to time, and he kept an office in the suite and insisted on paying his share of the rent. But mostly he traveled. Art exhibitions, concerts. And conferences.'
'His age made him a contemporary of Andres de Bosch,' I said. 'Did he ever mention him?'
'If he did, I don't recall it. Grant knew lots of people. He was in practice for almost sixty years.'
'Did he treat especially disturbed or violent patients?'
'You know I can't discuss his cases, Dr. Delaware.'
'I'm not asking about specific cases, just the general tenor of his practice.'
'The little that I saw was pretty conventional- children with adjustment problems.'
'Okay, thanks. Is there anyone else who could talk to me about him?'
'Just Dr. Langenbaum, and he knows about as much as I do.'
'Did Dr. Stoumen leave a widow?'
'His wife died several years ago and they had no children. Now I really do have to get going.'
'Thanks for your time, Dr. Wolf.'
'Yes… hmm. Good luck on… working this through.'
• • •
I got my car keys, left a lot of lights on in the house, and turned on the stereo to loud jazz. The dog was sleeping noisily on his towel bed, but he roused himself and followed me to the door.
'Stay and guard the home front,' I said, and he harrumphed, stared for a moment, finally sat down.
I walked out, closed the door, listened for a protest, and when I didn't hear any, went down to the carport. The night had cooled, massaged by sea current. The waterfall seemed deafening and I drove away listening to it diminish.
As I coasted down toward the Glen, a sense of dread dropped over me, dark and smothering, like a condemned man's hood.
I paused at the bottom of the road, looking at black treetops and slate sky. A faint bit of light from a distant house blinked through the foliage like an earthbound star.
No way to gauge its distance. I had no real neighbors because an acre-wide strip of county land, unbuildable due to a quirky water table, cut through this section of the Glen. Mine was the only buildable site on the plot plan.
Years ago the isolation had been just what I wanted. Now a nosy streetmate didn't seem half bad.
A car sped down the Glen from the north, appearing suddenly around a blind curve, going too fast, its engine flatulent with power.
I tensed as it passed, took another look backward, and hooked right, toward the Sunset on-ramp of the 405 south. By the time I got on the freeway, I was thinking of Robin's smile and pretending nothing else mattered.
• • •
Slow night at the airport. Cabbies circled the terminals and skycaps looked at their watches. I found a space in the passenger loading zone and managed to stay there until Robin came out, toting her carry-on.
I kissed her and hugged her, took the suitcase, and put it in the trunk of the Seville. A man in a Hawaiian shirt was looking at her over cigarette smoke. So were a couple of kids with backpacks and surfer hair.
She had on a black silk T-shirt and black jeans, and over that a purple and red kimono-type shirt tied around her waist. The jeans were tucked into black boots with tooled silver toes. Her hair was loose and longer than ever- well past her shoulder blades, the auburn curls bronzed by the light from the baggage claim area. Her skin gleamed and her dark eyes were clear and peaceful. It had been five days since I'd seen her, but it seemed like a long separation.
She touched my cheek and smiled. I leaned in for a longer kiss.
'Whoa,' she said, when we stopped, 'I'll go away more often.'
'Not necessary,' I said. 'Sometimes there is gain without pain.'
She laughed and hugged me and put her arm around my waist. I held the door open as she got in the car. The man in the Hawaiian shirt had turned his back on us.
As I drove away she put her hand on my knee and looked over at the back seat. 'Where's the dog?'
'Guarding hearth and home. How was your talk?'
'Fine. Plus I may have sold that archtop guitar I did last summer- the one Joey Shah defaulted on. I met a jazz musician from Dublin who wants it.'
'Great,' I said. 'You put a lot of time into that one.'
'Five hundred hours, but who's counting.'
She stifled a yawn and put her head on my shoulder. I drove all the way to Sunset before she woke up, shaking her curls. 'Boy… must have hit me all of a sudden.' Sitting up, she blinked at the streets of Bel Air.
'Home sweet home,' she said softly.
I waited until she'd roused herself before telling her the bad news.
• • •
She took it well.
'Okay,' she said, 'I guess it goes with the territory. Maybe we should move out for a while and stay at the shop.'
'Move out?'
'At least till you know what's going on.'
I thought of her studio, separated from the mean streets of Venice by a thin veneer of white windows and
