I spent the next couple of hours preparing for the deposition, was interrupted by the phone.

“Dr. Delaware? Maura Bannon? L.A. Times?”

She sounded around thirteen, had a high voice with a slight lisp and a New England accent and turned her statements into questions.

“Hello, Ms. Bannon.”

“Ned Biondi gave me your number? I’m so glad I caught you- I wonder if we could meet?”

“For what purpose?”

“You knew Dr. Ransom, right? I thought maybe you could give me some background on her?”

“I don’t think I can help you.”

“Oh?” She sounded crestfallen.

“I haven’t seen Dr. Ransom in years.”

“Oh. I just thought… Well, you know, I’m trying to give a well-rounded picture, establish some context? For the profile? It’s such a strange thing, a psychologist killing herself like that- man bites dog, you know? People would be interested in finding out why.”

“Have you learned anything more than what you put in your first article?”

“No, I haven’t, Dr. Delaware. Is there anything more to find out? Because if there is, I’d surely appreciate knowing about it. I think the police have been holding back on me. I’ve put several calls in to them, but no one’s returned them.” Pause. “I don’t think they’re taking me seriously.”

Privacy, the ultimate luxury.

“I’d like to help you,” I said, “but I really have nothing to add.”

“Mr. Biondi said-”

“If I led Mr. Biondi to believe any different, I’m sorry, Ms. Bannon.”

“Okay,” she said. “But if you find out anything, please let me know?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks, Dr. Delaware.”

I sat back, stared out the window, and felt the loneliness coming on.

Misery loves company- the bigger the other guy’s misery, the better the company. I called Newhall information and asked for a number on D.J. Rasmussen. No listing. Thinking of my only other connection to the young drunk, I phoned Dr. Leslie Weingarden’s office.

“I was just about to call you,” said the receptionist. “Doctor can see you after her last patient, around six.”

“I really don’t need an appointment. Just wanted to talk to her over the phone.”

“I’m telling you what she told me, Mr. Delaware.”

“Six will be fine.”

10

Leslie Weingarden’s building was a three-story, red brick Federal structure with limestone cornice and forest-green awnings, situated in the heart of Beverly Hills’ medical district. The interior was golden-oak raised paneling, green-and-rose carpeting. The directory listed several dozen tenants: M.D.’s, dentists, a handful of Ph.D.’s.

One of the Ph.D.’s caught my eye: KRUSE, P.P. SUITE 300. Made sense- this was couch row. But years before he’d had another address.

Leslie Weingarden’s office was on the ground floor, toward the rear of the building. Her nameplate listed her specialties as Internal Medicine and Women’s Health Issues. Her waiting room was small and decorated in budget good-cheer- white-and-gray miniprint paper, overstuffed white cotton chairs and Danish-modern tables, a scattering of art prints, a potted schefflera in a straw basket. No patients, but the remnants of the day’s traffic were apparent: gum wrappers, an empty aspirin bottle and a used emery board on the coffee table, magazines splayed open on the chairs.

I knocked on the glass partition, waited several seconds before it slid open. A Hispanic woman in her fifties looked out. “Can I help you?”

“Dr. Delaware. I have an appointment with Dr. Weingarden.”

“I’ll let her know you’re here.”

I waited for half an hour, leafing through magazines, wondering if any of them had carried Paul Kruse’s column. At six-thirty, the door to the inner office opened and a good-looking woman around thirty came out.

She was petite, very slender, with frosted short hair and a lean, alert face. She wore dangling silver earrings, a white silk blouse, pleated dove-gray gabardine slacks, and gray suede pumps. A stethoscope hung from around her neck. Under it was a heavy gold chain. Her features were delicate and regular, her eyes almond-shaped and dark brown. Like Robin’s. She wore little makeup. Didn’t have to.

I stood up.

“Mr. Delaware? I’m Dr. Weingarden.” She held out her hand and I shook it. Her bones were tiny; her grip, firm and dry. She placed both hands on her hips. “What can I do for you?”

“You referred patients to a psychologist named Sharon Ransom. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but she’s dead, committed suicide on Sunday. I wanted to talk to you about her. About getting in touch with those patients.”

No trace of shock. “Yes, I read the paper. What’s your involvement with her and her patients?”

“Mostly personal, somewhat professional.” I handed her my card.

She examined it. “You’re a psychologist too. Then it’s Dr. Delaware. Bea told me Mr.” She put the card in her pocket. “Were you her therapist?”

The question surprised me. “No.”

“Because she sure needed one.” Frown. “Why all the concern about her patients?”

“I ran into one of them today. D.J. Rasmussen. He gave me your name.”

That made her flinch but she said nothing.

“He was drunk,” I said. “Stoned drunk, really out of it. My hunch is that he was unbalanced to begin with, and is now at risk for some kind of breakdown. Maybe violence. Losing a therapist can be like losing a parent. I’ve been wondering how many of her other-”

“Yes, yes, of course. I understand all of that. But what I still don’t get is your concern. What’s your involvement in all of this?”

I thought about the best way to answer. “Some of it’s probably guilt. Sharon and I knew each other well- back in graduate school. I hadn’t seen her for years, ran into her by chance at a party last Saturday. She seemed upset about something, asked if she could talk to me. We made a date. I had second thoughts and canceled the next day. That night, she killed herself. I guess I’m still wondering if I could have stopped it. I’d like to prevent any more grief, if I can.”

She fingered her stethoscope and stared at me. “This is for real, isn’t it? You don’t work for some shyster lawyer, do you?”

“Why would I?”

She smiled. “So you want me to contact any patients I might have referred to her?”

“And tell me about any other referral sources you’re familiar with.”

The smile got cold. “That would be difficult, Dr. Delaware. Not a good idea at all- not that there were that many referrals, anyway. And I have no idea who else referred to her. Though I sure feel sorry for them.”

She stopped, seemed to be searching for words. “Sharon Ransom was a… She and I… Well, you tell me first. Why’d you break your date with her?”

“I didn’t want to get involved with her. She’s… She was a complicated woman.”

“She sure was.” She looked at her watch, removed the stethoscope. “All right, I’m going to make a call and check on you. If you’re who you say you are, we’ll talk. But I’ve got to eat first.”

She left me in the waiting room, came back several moments later, and said, “Okay,” without looking at me.

We walked a block to a coffee shop on Brighton. She ordered a tuna sandwich on rye and herb tea. I pushed rubbery scrambled eggs around on my plate.

She ate quickly, unceremoniously. Ordered a hot fudge sundae for dessert and finished half of it before pushing the dish away.

After wiping her mouth she said, “When they told me someone was calling about Sharon, frankly, I was uptight. She caused problems for me. We haven’t worked together for a long time.”

“What kinds of problems?”

“One second.” She called the waitress over and asked for a refill of tea. I ordered coffee. The check came with the drinks.

I took it. “On me.”

“Buying information?”

I smiled. “You were talking about the problems she caused.”