"But Harvey must have told you something to make you suspect a connection to his death."

"No," she said sadly. "We really didn't suspect… we were just… grasping. Looking for anything out of the ordinary. So the police would see Harvey didn't… the whole thing was so… psychotic. Harvey in a stranger's apartment."

Remembered shame colored her face.

I said, "The owners of the apartment- the Rulerads. Harvey didn't know them?"

"They were mean people. Cold. I called the wife and begged her to let the private detective in to look. I even apologized- for what I don't know. She told me I was lucky she wasn't suing me for Harvey's break-in and hung up."

She closed her eyes for a long time and didn't move. I wondered if she'd fallen asleep.

Then she said, "Harvey was so affected… by this patient. That's what made me suspect. Cases never got to him. To be disillusioned… Andres? It doesn't make sense."

"De Bosch was his teacher, wasn't he? If Harvey learned something terrible about him, that could have disillusioned him."

Slow, sad nod.

I said, "How close was their relationship?"

"Teacher and student close. Harvey admired Andres, though he thought he was a little… authoritarian."

"Authoritarian in what way?"

"Dogmatic- when he was convinced he was right. Harvey thought it ironic, since Andres had fought so hard against the Nazis… wrote so passionately for democracy… yet his personal style could be so…"

"Dictatorial?"

"At times. But Harvey still admired him. For who he was, what he'd done. Saving those French children from the Vichy government, his work on child development. And he was a good teacher. Once in a while I sat in on seminars. Andres holding court- like a don. He could talk for hours and keep you interested… lots of jokes. Tying everything in with punchlines. Sometimes he brought children in from the wards. He had a gift- they opened up to him."

"What about Katarina?" I said. "Harvey told me she sat in, too."

"She did… just a child, herself- a teenager, but she spoke up as if she was a peer. And now she's… and those other people- how can this be!"

"Sometimes authoritarianism can go too far," I said.

Her cheeks shook. Then her mouth turned up in a tiny, disturbing smile. "Yes, I suppose nothing's what it seems, is it? Patients have been telling me that for thirty years and I've been nodding and saying, yes, I know… I really didn't know…"

"Did you ever go back into Harvey's files? To try to figure which patient had upset him?"

Long stare. Guilty nod.

"He kept tapes," she said. "He didn't like writing- arthritis- so he taped. I wouldn't let the police listen to them… protecting the patients. But later, I began playing them for myself… I gave myself an excuse. For their own good- I was responsible for them, until they found another permanent therapist. Had to call them, to notify them… so I needed to know them." Downcast eyes. "Flimsy… I listened anyway. Months of sessions, Harvey's voice… sometimes I couldn't stand it. But there was nothing that would have disillusioned him. All his patients were like old friends. He hadn't taken on any new ones for two years."

"None at all?"

She shook her head. "Harvey was an old-fashioned analyst. The couch, free association, long-term, intensive work. The same fifteen people, three to five times a week."

"Even an old patient might have told him something disillusioning."

"No," she said, "there was nothing like that in any of the sessions. And none of his old patients brought him to harm. They all loved him."

"What did you do with the tapes?"

Rather than answer, she said, "He was gentle, accepting. He helped those people. They were all crushed."

"Did you pick any of them up as patients?"

"No… I was in no shape to work. Not for a long time. Even my own patients…" She attempted another shrug. "Things fell apart for a while… so many people let down. That's why I didn't pursue his death. For my kids and for his patients- his extended family. For me. I couldn't have us dragged through the slime. Do you understand?"

"Of course." I asked her again what she'd done with the tapes.

"I destroyed them," she said, as if hearing the question for the first time. "Smashed the cassettes with a hammer… one by one… what a mess… threw it all away." She smiled. "Catharsis?"

I said, "Did Harvey attend any conventions just before his death? Any psychiatric meetings or seminars on child welfare?"

"No. Why?"

"Because professional meetings may set the killer off. Two of the other therapists were murdered at conventions. And the de Bosch symposium where I met Harvey may have triggered the killings in the first place."

"No," she said. "No, he didn't attend anything. He'd sworn off conventions. Sworn off academia. Gave up his appointment at NYU so he could concentrate on his patients and his family and getting in shape- his father had died young of a heart attack. Harvey had reached that age, confronted his own mortality. He was starting to work out. Trimming the fat from his diet and his life- that's a quote… He said he wanted to be around for me and the kids for a long, long time."

Grimacing, she lifted her hand, with effort, and let it drop upon mine. Her palm was soft and cold. Her eyes aimed at the fish tank and stayed there.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?" I said. "Anything at all?"

She thought for a long time. "No… I'm sorry, I wish there was."

"Thanks for seeing me," I said. Her hand weighed a ton.

"Please let me know," she said, keeping it there. "Whatever you find."

"I will."

"How long will you be in New York?"

"I think I'll try to head back this evening."

"If you need a place to stay, you're welcome here… if you don't mind a pull-out couch."

"That's very kind," I said, "but I need to be getting back."

"Your nice woman?"

"And my home." Whatever that meant.

Grimacing, she exerted barely tangible pressure upon my hand. Giving me comfort.

We heard the door close, then footsteps. Josh came in, holding Leo, the cat. He looked at our hands and his eyebrows dipped.

"You okay?" he said to his mother.

"Yes, honey. Dr. Delaware's been helpful. It's good you brought him."

"Helpful how?"

"He validated us… about Dad."

"Great," said Josh, putting the cat down. "Meanwhile, you're not getting enough rest."

Her lower lip dropped.

"Enough exertion, Mom," he said. "Please. You have to rest."

"I'm okay, honey. Really."

I felt a small tug atop my hand, not much more than a muscle twitch. Lifting her hand and placing it on the bedcovers, I stood.

Josh walked around the other side of the bed and began straightening the covers. "You really need to rest, Mom. The doctor said rest is the most important thing."

"I know… I'm sorry… I will, Josh."

"Good."

She made a gulping sound. Tears clouded the gentle blue eyes.

"Oh, Mom," he cried out, sounding ten years old.

"It's okay, honey."

"No, no, I'm being an asshole, I'm sorry, it's been a really tough day."

"Tell me about it, baby."

"Believe me, you don't want to hear it."

"Yes, I do. Tell me."

He sat down next to her. I slipped out the door and saw myself out of the apartment.