We swayed together, belly-to-belly, tongue-to-tongue. When the music ended she took my hand and led me through a short foyer into her bedroom.

More bleached, glass-topped furniture, a pole lamp, a low, wide bed with a square, bleached headboard. Above it, two narrow, high windows.

She removed her shoes. As I kicked off mine I noticed something on the walls: crude, childish drawings of apples. Pencil and crayon on oatmeal-colored pulp paper. But glass-framed and expensively matted.

Odd, but I didn’t spend much time wondering about it. She’d drawn blackout drapes across the windows, plunged the room into darkness. I smelled her perfume, felt her hand cupping my groin.

“Come,” she said- a disembodied voice- and her hands settled upon my shoulders with surprising strength. She bore down on me and lowered me to the bed, got on top of me, and kissed me hard.

We embraced and rolled, made love fully clothed. She, sitting, with her back against the headboard, legs spread and drawn up sharply, her hands clasping her knees. I, kneeling before her, as if in prayer, impaling her while gripping the top rim of the headboard.

A cramped, backseat position. When it was over she slid out from under me and said, “Now, I’ll explain. I’m an orphan. Both of my parents died last year.”

My heart was still pounding. I said, “I’m sorry-”

“They were wonderful people, Alex. Very glamorous, very gracious and courant.”

A dispassionate way to talk about one’s dead parents, but grief could take many forms. The important thing was that she was talking, opening up.

“Daddy was an art director for one of the big publishing houses in New York,” she said. “Mummy was an interior designer. We lived in Manhattan, on Park Avenue, and had a place in Palm Beach and another on Long Island- Southampton. I was their only little girl.”

The last sentence was uttered with special solemnity, as if lacking siblings were an honor of the first rank.

“They were active people, traveled a lot by themselves. But it didn’t bother me because I knew they loved me very much. Last year they were in Spain, on holiday near Majorca. They were driving home from a party when their car went off a cliff.”

I took her in my arms. She felt loose and relaxed, could have been talking about the weather. Unable to read her face in the darkness, I listened for a catch in her voice, rapid breathing, some evidence of sorrow. Nothing.

“I’m so sorry for you, Sharon.”

“Thank you. It’s been very hard. That’s why I didn’t want to talk about them- it was just too much to handle. Intellectually, I know that’s not the optimal way to deal with it, that keeping it bottled up only leads to pathological grief and raises the risk of all kinds of symptoms. But affectively, I just couldn’t talk about it. Every time I tried, I just couldn’t.”

“Don’t pressure yourself. Everyone goes at their own pace.”

“Yes. Yes, that’s true. I’m just explaining to you why I didn’t want to talk about them. Why I really still don’t, Alex.”

“I understand.”

“I know you do.” Deep kiss. “You’re so right for me, Alex.”

I thought of the constricted way we’d just made love. “Am I?”

“Oh, God, yes. Paul-” She stopped.

“Paul what?”

“Nothing.”

“Paul approves of me?”

“It’s not like that, Alex. But, yes. Yes, he does. I always talk about how wonderful you are and he says he’s glad I’ve found someone so good for me. He likes you.”

“We’ve never met.”

Pause.

“He likes what I’ve told him about you.”

“I see.”

“What’s the matter, Alex?”

“Sounds like you and Paul have lots to talk about.”

I felt her hand reach around and take hold of me. She squeezed gently, kneaded. This time I didn’t respond and she lowered her fingers, let them rest upon my scrotum.

“He’s my faculty adviser, Alex. He supervises my cases. That means we have to talk.” Gentle stroking. “Let’s not discuss him or anyone else anymore, okay?”

“Okay. But I’m still curious about where the house came from.”

“The house?” she said, surprised. “Oh. The house. Inheritance, of course. It belonged to them. My parents. They were both born in California, lived here before moving back East- before I was born. I was their only little girl, so it’s mine now. It took time for the estate to clear, there was so much paperwork. That’s the reason I couldn’t go with you to San Francisco- I had to clear everything up. Anyway, now I have a house and some money- there’s a trust fund, administered back East. That’s how I got the Alfa. I know it’s a little showy, but I thought it was cute. What do you think?”

“It’s adorable.”

She went on for a while, talking about the car, the places we could go in it.

But all I could think about was: a house. We could live here together. I was earning good money now, could pay the utilities- pay all the expenses.

“You’ve got a lot more room now,” I said, nibbling her ear. “Enough for two.”

“Oh, yes. After the dorm room, I’m looking forward to being able to stretch. And you can visit me up here, any time you want. We’ll have fun, Alex.”

“… good-sized, especially by today’s standards.”

Mickey Mehrabian was hitting her stride.

“Tremendous decorator potential, fabulous flow, and the price includes all the furnishings. Some of these pieces are really deco classics- you could keep them or sell them. Everything’s tiptop. The place is really a gem, Doctor.”

We toured the kitchen and walked through the short foyer that led to the bedrooms. The first door was closed. She passed it by. I opened it and went in.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “This was the master bedroom.”

The shampoo/disinfectant smell was stronger here, mixed with other industrial scents: the ammonia of glass cleaner, the malathion bite of insecticide, lye soap. A toxic cocktail. The drapes had been removed; only a tangle of cords and pulleys remained. All the furniture was gone. The carpet had been pulled up, revealing hardwood flooring marred by tacks. The two high windows revealed a view of tree-tops and power lines. But no breeze, no dilution of the chemical bath.

No apple drawings.

I heard a buzz. She heard it too. Both of us looked around for the source, found it immediately:

A swarm of gnats circling the center of the room, an animate cloud, its borders shifting amoebically.

Pinpointing the spot.

Despite the attempts to wash away the aura of death, the insects knew- had sensed with their primitive little gnat brains- exactly what had taken place in this room. On that spot.

I remembered something Milo had told me. Women kill in the kitchen and die in the bedroom.

Mickey Mehrabian saw the look on my face and mistook it for squeamishness.

“The open windows, this time of year,” she said. “No problem taking care of it. There’s a motivated seller, extremely flexible. I’m sure you’ll have no problem including any repairs or adjustments as contingencies during escrow, Doctor.”

“Why is he or she selling?”

The wide smile reappeared. “No he or she- an it, really. A corporation. They own lots of properties, turn them over regularly.”

“Speculators?”

The smile froze. “That’s a naughty word, Doctor. Investors.”

“Who lives here now?”

“No one. The tenant moved out recently.”

“And took the bed.”

“Yes. Only the bedroom furniture belonged to her- I believe it was a woman.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know L.A., people coming and going. Now, let’s take a look at the other bedrooms.”

We left the death room. She asked, “Do you live alone, Dr. Delaware?”

I had to think before answering. “Yes.”

“Then you can use one of the bedrooms for a study, or even to see your patients.”