I taped a note under Kruse’s nameplate, leaving my name and number, and asking him to get in touch as soon as possible re: S.R. Then I drove up to the house on Jalmia again.

The oil stain in the carport was dry, the foliage wilting. The mailbox was crammed with at least a week’s worth of correspondence. I skimmed the return addresses on the envelopes. All junk. Nothing indicating where she’d gone.

The following morning, before heading for the hospital, I went back to the psych department and got Kruse’s home address out of the faculty files. Pacific Palisades. I drove there that evening and sat waiting for him.

The tail end of November, just before Thanksgiving. L.A.’s best time of year. The sky had just deepened from El Greco blue to a glowing pewter, swelling with rain clouds and sweet with electricity.

Kruse’s house was big, pink, and Spanish, on a private road off Mandeville Canyon, just a short drive down to the coast highway and the high, battering tides of autumn. The street was narrow and quiet, the nearby properties estate-sized, but Kruse’s layout was open, no high walls or gates.

Psychology had been good to him. The house was graceful, with two hundred feet of landscaped garden on each side, adorned with verandas, Monterey roofs, hand-turned wooden grillwork, leaded windows. Shading the south side of the lawn was a beautifully warped black pine- giant bonsai. A pair of Brazilian orchid trees had sprinkled the freshly sown rye grass with violet blossoms. A semicircular driveway inlaid with Moorish tile cut an inverted U through the grass.

At twilight, colored outdoor lights came on and high-lighted the landscaping. No cars, not a sound. More canyon seclusion. Sitting there, I was reminded of the house on Jalmia- the master’s influence?- thought about Sharon’s inheritance story and wondered again if Kruse had set her up.

I wondered, too, about what had happened to the other little girl in the photo.

He showed up shortly after eight, driving a black, gold pin-striped Mercedes two-seater with the top down. He gunned up the driveway. Instead of opening the door, he swung his legs over it. His long yellow hair was perfectly windblown; a pair of mirrored sunglasses dangled from a gold chain around his neck. He carried no briefcase, just a small, purselike calfskin shoulder bag that matched his boots. He wore a gray cashmere sport coat, white silk turtleneck, and black slacks. A black silk handkerchief trimmed with scarlet spilled out of his breast pocket.

As he headed toward his front door I got out of the Rambler. The sound of my door slamming made him turn. He stared. I jogged toward him and stepped into the artificial light.

“Dr. Kruse, I’m Alex Delaware.”

Despite all the messages, my name evoked no sign of recognition.

“I’m a friend of Sharon Ransom.”

“Hello, Alex. I’m Paul.” Half-smile. His voice was low, from the chest, modulated like that of a disc jockey.

“I’m trying to locate her,” I said.

He nodded but didn’t answer. The silence lengthened. I felt obligated to speak.

“She hasn’t been home for over two weeks, Dr. Kruse. I was wondering if you knew where she is.”

“You care about her,” he said, as if answering a question I hadn’t asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“Alex Delaware,” he said.

“I’ve called you several times. Left messages at your office.”

Big smile. He gave his head a toss. The yellow hair whipped back, then settled across his forehead. He took his keys out of his purse.

“I’d love to help you, Alex, but I can’t.” He began walking to the door.

“Please, Dr. Kruse…”

He stopped, turned, looked over his shoulder, flicked his eyes at me, and smiled again. But it came out as a sour twist of his lips, as if the sight of me made him ill.

Paul likes you… He likes what I’ve told him about you.

“Where is she, Dr. Kruse?”

“The fact that she didn’t tell you implies something, doesn’t it?”

“Just tell me if she’s okay. Is she coming back to L.A. or gone for good.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t talk to you about anything. Therapeutic confidentiality.”

“You’re her therapist?”

“I’m her supervisor. Inherent in the supervisory relationship is more than a little psychotherapy.”

“Telling me if she’s all right won’t violate confidentiality.”

He shook his head. Then something odd happened to his face.

The upper half remained all hard scrutiny- heavy blond brows and pale-brown eyes flecked with green that bored into mine with Svengali-like intensity. But from the nose down he’d gone slack, the mouth curling into a foolish, almost clownish leer.

Two personalities sharing one face. Freaky as a carny show and twice as unsettling because there was hostility behind it, the desire to ridicule. To dominate.

“Tell her I care about her,” I said. “Tell her whatever she does, that I still care.”

“Have a good evening,” he said. Then he went into his house.

An hour later, back in my apartment, I was furious, determined to flush her and her bullshit out of my life. A month later I’d settled down to solitude and a crushing workload, was managing to fake contentment well enough to believe it myself, when she called. Eleven P.M. I’d just gotten home, dog-tired and hungry. When I heard her voice, my resolve melted like old slush under a new sun.

“I’m back. I’m sorry- I’ll explain everything,” she told me. “Meet me at my house in an hour. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

I showered, put on fresh clothes, drove to Nichols Canyon prepared to ask hard questions. She was waiting for me at the door in a flame-red low-cut jersey dress that barely contained her. In her hand was a snifter of something pink and redolent of strawberries. It obscured her perfume- no spring flowers.

The house was brightly lit. Before I could speak she pulled me inside and pressed her mouth against mine, worming her tongue between my teeth and keeping us fastened by pressing one hand hard to the back of my head. Her breath was sharp with alcohol. It was the first time I’d seen her drink anything other than 7-Up. When I commented on it, she laughed and hurled the glass at the fireplace. It shattered and left pink snail-tracks on the wall.

“Strawberry daiquiri, darling. I guess I’m in a tropical mood.” Her voice was husky, inebriated. She kissed me again, harder, began undulating against me. I closed my eyes, sank into the boozy sweetness of the kiss. She moved away from me. I opened my eyes, saw her peeling out of the red dress, shimmying and licking her lips. The silk caught on her hips, gave way after a tug, then fell to the floor, just a flimsy orange ribbon. She stepped away from me, gave me a look at her: braless, in black garter belt, mesh stockings, and high-heeled shoes.

She ran her hands over her body.

In the abstract it was X-rated comedy, Frederick’s of Hollywood, a lampoon. But she was anything but abstract and I stood there, transfixed.

I let her strip me down in a practiced manner that excited and frightened me.

Too nimble.

Too professional.

How many other times?

How many other men? Who’d taught her-

To hell with that. I didn’t care- I wanted her. She had me out, in her hand, kneading, nibbling.

We embraced again, naked. Her fingers traveled over my body, scratching, raising welts. She put my hand between her legs, rode my fingers, engulfed them.

“Yum,” she said, stepping back once more, pirouetting and exhibiting herself.

I reached for the light switch. She said, “No. Keep it bright. I want to see it, see everything.”

I realized that the drapes were open. We were standing before the wall of glass, top-lit, giving a free show to Hollywood.

I turned the light off.

“Party pooper,” she said and kneeled before me, grinning. I put my fingers in her hair, was engulfed, spun backward into a vortex of pleasure. She pulled away to catch her breath, said, “C’mon, the lights. I want to see it.”