"Any address?"

"No. Why? You want to dig up another one?"

"No," I said. "I don't want to dig up anything, believe me. I'm just grasping, Milo."

Silence. "Okay, I'll try, but don't count on it. It was a long time ago. People move. People die."

• • •

I pretended everything was normal. Robin and I ate lunch out by the pool. The sky was clear and beautiful, bracing itself for a smog cloud heading over from the east.

Lifestyles of the rich and fearful.

Terror and anger still gnawed at my spine, but I thought of the people under the freeway and knew I had it damned good.

The phone rang. My service operator said, "There's a long-distance call for you, Dr. Delaware. From New York, a Mr. Rosenblatt."

"Mister, not doctor?"

"Mister's what he said."

"Okay," I said. "Put him on."

She did, but no one answered my hello. A few seconds later a young woman with an all-business voice clicked in and said, "Schechter, Mohl, and Trimmer. Who are you holding for?"

"Mr. Rosenblatt."

"One moment."

A few seconds later a young voice said, "This is Mr. Rosenblatt."

"This is Dr. Delaware."

Throat clear. "Dr. Delaware, my name is Joshua Rosenblatt, I'm a practicing attorney here in New York and I'm calling to ask you to stop phoning my mother, Dr. Shirley Rosenblatt."

"I've been phoning because I was concerned about your father-"

"Then you have nothing to be concerned about."

"He's all right?"

Silence.

I said, "Is he all right?"

"No. I wouldn't say that." Pause. "My father's deceased."

I felt myself deflate. "I'm sorry."

"Be that as it may, Dr. Delaware-"

"When did it happen? Was it four years ago?"

Long silence. Throat clear. "I really don't want to get into this, doctor."

"Was it made to look like an accident?" I said. "Some kind of fall? Something to do with a vehicle? Were the words "bad love' left anywhere at his death scene?"

"Doctor," he began, but his voice broke on the second syllable and he blurted: "We've been through enough, already. At this point, there's no need to rake it up."

"I'm in danger," I said. "Maybe from the same person who killed your father."

"What!"

"I called because I was trying to warn your father and I'm so sorry it's too late. I only met him once, but I liked him. He seemed like a really decent guy."

Long pause. "When did you meet him?" he said, softly.

"In nineteen seventy-nine, here in Los Angeles. He and I co-chaired a mental health symposium called "Good Love/Bad Love, Strategies in a Changing World.' A tribute to a teacher of your father's named Andres de Bosch."

No response.

"Mr. Rosenblatt?"

"None of this makes any sense."

"You were with him on that trip," I said. "Don't you remember?"

"I went on lots of trips with my father."

"I know," I said. "He told me. He talked about you quite a bit. Said you were his youngest. You liked hot dogs and video games- he wanted to take you to Disneyland, but the park closed early in the fall, so I suggested he take you to the Santa Monica pier. Did you go?"

"Hot dogs." His voice sounded weak. "So what? What's the point?"

"I think that trip had something to do with his death."

"No, no, that's crazy- no. Back in seventy-nine?"

"Some kind of long-term revenge plot," I said. "Something to do with Andres de Bosch. The person who murdered your father has killed other people. At least five others, maybe more."

I gave him names, dates, places.

He said, "I don't know any of those people. This is crazy. This is really insane."

"Yes, it is, but it's all true. And I may be next. I need to talk to your mother. The killer may have presented himself to your father as a patient- lured him that way. If she's still got your father's old appointment books, it could-"

"No, she has nothing. Leave her out of this."

"My life's at stake. Why won't your mother just talk to me? Why'd she have you call me instead of calling herself?"

"Because she can't," he said angrily. "Can't talk to anyone. She had a stroke a month ago and her speech was severely affected. It just came back a few weeks ago, but she's still weak."

"I'm sorry, but-"

"Listen, I'm sorry, too. For what you're going through. But at this point, I just don't see what I can do for you."

"Your mother's talking now."

"Yes, but she's weak. Really weak. And to have her talk about my father… She just started rehab and she's making progress, Dr. Delaware. I can't have her interrogated."

"You never told her I called?"

"I'm taking care of her. It calls for decisions."

"I understand," I said. "But I don't want to interrogate her, I just want to talk to her. A few questions. At her pace- I can fly out to New York, if that'll help, and do it face-to-face. As many sessions as she needs. Go as slowly as she needs."

"You'd do that? Fly out here?"

"What choice do I have?"

I heard him blow out breath. "Even so," he said. "Her talking about Dad- no, it's too risky. I'm sorry, but I have to hold firm."

"I'll work with her doctors, Mr. Rosenblatt. Clear my questions with them and with you. I've done hospital work for years. I understand illness and recovery."

"What makes you think she knows anything that could help you?"

"At this point she's my last hope, Mr. Rosenblatt. The creep who's after me is picking up his pace. He murdered someone in Santa Barbara yesterday- de Bosch's daughter. She was pregnant. He cut her up, made it a point to go after the fetus."

"Oh, God."

"He's stalking me," I said. "To tell the truth, I'd be safer in New York than here. One way or the other, I may come out."

Another exhalation. "I doubt she can help you, but I'll ask."

"I really apprecia-"

"Don't thank me yet. I'm not promising anything. And fax your credentials to me, so I can check them out. Include two verifiable references."

"No problem," I said. "And if your mother won't speak to me, please ask her if she knows anything about the term "bad love.' And did your father report anything unusual about the nineteen seventy-nine conference. You can also throw out some names: Lyle Gritz, Dorsey Hewitt, Silk, Merino."

"Who're they?"

"Hewitt's a definite killer- murdered a therapist out here and was shot by the police. Gritz was his friend, may have been an accomplice. He may also be the one who killed your father. Silk and Merino are possible aliases."

"Fake names?" he said. "This is so bizarre."

"One more thing," I said. "There's an LAPD detective working the case out here, named Milo Sturgis. I'm going to inform him of your father's murder and he'll be contacting the New York police and asking for records."

"That won't help you," he said. "Believe me."