“The maid,” she said. “No one talks about her.”

“That’s ’cause she’s expendable, Maura. No money, no connections- human garbage, straight to the compost heap.”

“That’s crude.”

“This is no teenage sleuth fantasy.”

She tapped her foot, chewed a thumbnail.

“Put it in writing?” she said.

“Put what in writing?”

“That we have a deal? A contract? I have first dibs on your info?”

“I thought you were a journalist, not an attorney.”

“Rule one: cover your ass.”

“Wrong, Maura. Rule one is never leave tracks.”

I carried the tray into the kitchen. The phone rang. Before I could get to it, she’d picked up the living room extension. When I came back she was holding the phone and smiling. “She hung up.”

“Who’s ‘she’?”

“A woman. I told her to hold on, I’d get you. She said forget it, sounded angry.” Cute smile. “Jealous.” Shrug. “Sorry.”

“Very classy, Maura. Is total lack of manners part of your job training?”

“Sorry,” she said, looking, this time, as if she meant it.

A woman. I pointed to the door. “Goodbye, Ms. Bannon.”

“Listen, that really was rude. I am sorry.”

I went to the door and held it open.

“I said I was sorry.” Pause. “Okay. Forget about the contract. I mean if I can’t trust you, a piece of paper would be worthless, wouldn’t it? So I’ll trust you.”

“I’m touched.” I turned the doorknob.

“I’m saying I’ll go along.”

I said, “Back-scratching time?”

“Okay, okay, what do you want in return?”

“Three things. First, a promise to back off.”

“For how long?”

“Until I tell you it’s safe.”

“Unacceptable.”

“Have a nice day, Maura.”

“Shit! What do you want!”

“Before we go on, let’s be clear,” I said. “No drop-ins, no eavesdropping, no cute stuff.”

“I got it the first time.”

“Who’s your contact at the coroner’s? The person who told you about the missing file.”

She was shocked. “What makes you think he- or she- is at the coroner’s?”

“You mentioned forensic data.”

“Don’t assume too much from that,” she said, struggling to look enigmatic. “Anyway, no way will I divulge my sources.”

“Just make sure he- or she- cools it. For personal safety.”

“Fine.”

“Promise?”

“Yes! Was that Two?”

“One-B. Two is tell me everything you’ve learned about the connection between Ransom and Kruse.”

“Just what I’ve told you. The dissertation. He was her supervisor. They had an office together in Beverly Hills.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I studied her long enough to decide I believed her.

She asked, “What’s Three?”

“What was the dissertation about?”

“I told you I’ve only skimmed it.”

“From what you’ve skimmed.”

“It was something on twins- twins and multiple personalities and, I think it was, ego integrity. She used a lot of jargon.”

“Three is make me a photocopy.”

“No way. I’m not your secretary.”

“Fair enough. Return it where you found it- probably the ed-psych library at the University- and I’ll make my own copy.”

She threw up a hand. “Oh, what the hell, I’ll drop off a Xerox tomorrow.”

“No drop-ins,” I reminded her. “Mail it- express it.”

I wrote down my Fed-Ex number and gave it to her. She stuck it between the pages of the Wambaugh book.

“Shit,” she said. “Are you this authoritarian with your patients?”

I said, “That’s it. We’re in business.”

“At least you are. I haven’t gotten a damned thing but promises.”

She scrunched up her face. “You’d better come through for me, Dr. Delaware. Because one way or the other, I’m going to get a story.”

“When I learn something reportable, you’ll be the first person I call.”

“And one more thing,” she said, half out the door. “I’m no damned teenager. I’m twenty-one. As of yesterday.”

“Happy birthday,” I said. “And many more.”

After she drove off I called San Luis Obispo. Robin answered.

“Hi, it’s me,” I said. “Was that you a few minutes ago?”

“How’d you ever guess?”

“The person who picked up said there was an angry woman on the other line.”

“The person?”

“Some kid reporter who’s bugging me about an interview.”

“Kid as in twelve?”

“Kid as in twenty-one. Buckteeth, freckles, a lisp.”

“Why do I believe you?”

“Because I’m saintly. It’s great to hear from you. I wanted to call- each time I hang up I regret the way the conversation turned out. Think of all the right things to say, but it’s too late.”

“That’s the way I feel, too, Alex. Talking to you has been like walking a mine field. As if we’re lethal ingredients- can’t mix without exploding.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’ve got to believe it doesn’t have to be that way. It wasn’t always that way.”

She said nothing.

“Come on, Robin, it used to be good.”

“Of course it did- a lot was wonderful. But there were always problems. Maybe they were all mine- I kept it all inside. I’m sorry.”

“Blame is useless. I want to make it better, Robin. I’m willing to work at it.”

Silence.

Then she said, “I went into Daddy’s shop yesterday. Mom has it preserved just the way it was at the time he died. Not a tool out of place, like a museum. The Joseph Castagna Memorial. She’s that way- never lets go, never deals with anything. I locked myself in, just sat there for hours, smelling the varnish and the sawdust, thinking of him. Then of you. How similar the two of you are: well-meaning, warm, but dominant- so strong you take over. Alex, he would have liked you. There would have been conflict- two bulls scratching and snorting- but eventually the two of you would have been able to laugh together.”

She laughed herself, then cried.

“Sitting there, I realized that part of what attracted me to you was that similarity- how much you were like Daddy. Even physically: the curly hair, the blue eyes. When he was younger he was handsome, the same type of good looks as yours. Pretty profound insight, huh?”

“Sometimes it’s hard to see that kind of thing. God knows I’ve missed plenty of obvious things.”

“Guess so. But I can’t help feeling stupid. I mean, here I’ve been going on and on about independence and establishing my identity, resentful of you for being strong and dominating, and all along I’ve wanted to be taken care of, wanted to be daddied… God, I miss him so much, Alex, and I miss you, too, and it’s all meshing into one big hurt.”

“Come back home,” I said. “We can work it out.”

“I want to but I don’t. I’m afraid everything will go back to being just like it was before.”

“We’ll make it different.”

She didn’t answer.

A week ago I would have pushed. Now, with ghosts tugging at my heels, I said, “I want you back right now, but you’ve got to do what’s right for yourself. Take your time.”

“I really appreciate your saying that, Alex. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

I heard a creak, turned and saw Milo. He saluted and retreated hastily from the kitchen.

“Alex?” she said. “Are you still there?”

“Someone just walked in.”

“Little Miss Buckteeth?”

“Big Mr. Sturgis.”

“Give him my love. And tell him to keep you out of trouble.”

“Will do. Be well.”

“You too, Alex. I mean it. I’ll call soon. ’Bye.”

“’Bye.”

He was in the library, thumbing through my psych books, pretending to be interested.

“Hello, Sergeant.”

“Major league oops,” he said. “Sorry, but the goddamned door was open. How-many-times-have-I-told-you-about-that.”

He resembled an old sheepdog that had wet the rug. Suddenly all I wanted to do was alleviate his embarrassment.

“No secret,” I said. “Temporary separation. She’s up in San Luis Obispo. We’ll work it out. Anyway, you probably figured it out, right?”