“I’m a bad son.”

She laughed, finished with a gasp.

“You okay?” I said.

“As if you care.”

“Of course- ”

“I’m on my feet, darling. Which is a positive sign, considering. So how’s it going with Dr. Snow White?”

“Allison?”

“The ivory skin, the black hair, the soft voice, all that gorgeous? The analogy’s obvious. Am I overstepping boundaries, here?”

“Allison’s fine.”

“And Robin?”

“Robin’s in Seattle,” I said.

“Which begs the question.”

“Last time I spoke to her she was doing well, Olivia.”

“So that’s it?” she said.

I didn’t answer.

“I’m a terminal yenta, Alex. Slap my wrist. Seattle, eh? The Genius and I used to go there. Before the computers and the coffee. The Genius could row a boat pretty well, we used to go out on Lake Washington… Robin still with Voice-boy?”

“Yup.”

“Mr. Tra La La,” she said. “She brought him by a few months ago for Sunday brunch. Unlike other people who can’t find the time.”

“Allison and I took you to dinner at the Bel-Air.”

“Don’t quibble. What I’m getting to is that I didn’t care for him.”

“Robin does.”

“He’s too quiet,” she went on. “Aloof, if you ask me. Not that anyone has.”

“I’m always open to your wisdom, Olivia.”

“Ha. So what do you need to know?”

“How well does the state pay for foster care?”

“I was hoping for more of a challenge, darling. First of all, the state mandates foster care and sets up basic fees but each county distributes the funds. Counties also have the discretion to supplement the state. Traditionally, they’ve been tight with the purse strings. The rates vary but not much. Which county?”

“ L.A. ”

“The other thing you need to know is that, officially, foster parents aren’t paid. A stipulated amount is allocated per child and the custodial adult gets to disburse it.”

“Meaning foster parents are paid,” I said.

“Exactly. The basic rate varies with the age of the child. Four hundred twenty-five a month to five ninety-seven. Older kids get more.”

“I’d assume just the opposite,” I said. “Babies require more care.”

“You’d be thinking logically, darling. This is the government. No doubt some number cruncher set up a formula based on pounds of flesh.”

“What age group gets the max?”

“Over fifteen. Twelve through fourteen gets five forty-six, and so on down to the babies who get four twenty-five. Which doesn’t pay for a lot of formula and diapers. Quite often it’s family members who take the kid in and apply as kinship guardians. That what we’re talking about, here?”

“No, these are nonrelatives,” I said. “Can the basic rate be supplemented?”

“Wards with special needs get extra payments. Right now the max is a hundred seventy a month. That’s through Children’s Services, but there are other bureaucracies you can tap if you know how to play with paper. The system’s full of goodies.”

“Would kids with A.D.D. be considered special needs?”

“Absolutely. It’s a recognized disability. Is there any point in my asking you why you want to know all this?”

“There are some people under suspicion,” I said. “ Milo wants to know if they’re getting rich at the public trough.”

“Dear Milo. Has he lost weight?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Meaning no. Well, I haven’t either. You know what I say to constitutionally skinny people? Go away. Anyway, if you want you can give me names of these suspicious individuals, when I get back to the office I’ll run them through the computer.”

“Drew- probably Andrew- and Cherish Daney.” I spelled the surname and thanked her.

“Cherish as in I love you?”

“As in.”

“Except maybe she loves money too much?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Anything else you want to tell me?”

“How many foster children can one family care for?”

“Six.”

“These people have eight.”

“Then they’re being naughty. Not that anyone’s likely to notice. There’s a shortage of what the state feels are decent homes and very few caseworkers to look into details. If nothing terrible happens, no one pays attention.”

“What comprises a decent home?” I said.

“Two parents, middle class would be great but not necessary. No felony record. Optimally, someone’s working but there’s also someone in the home to supervise.”

“The Daneys fit the bill on all accounts,” I said. “Does the state pay for homeschooling?”

“Same answer: It depends on how you fill out the forms. There’s a clothing allowance, a supplemental clothing allowance, all sorts of health care surcharges that can be tapped. What’s up, darling? Another one of those scams?”

“It’s complicated, Olivia.”

She sighed. “With you it always is.”

Fulton Seminary offered one degree, a master of divinity. According to its website, the school’s curriculum emphasized “scriptural, ministerial, and public service aspects of professional evangelical training.” Students were allowed a range of “intellectual concentrations” including Christian Leadership, Evangelical Promotion, and Program Supervision.

Several paragraphs were devoted to the school’s philosophical underpinnings: God was perfect, faith in Jesus superseded all actions, humans were depraved until saved, worship and service were essential elements of fixing a world in dire need of repair.

The campus sat on three hilly acres on Glendale ’s northern rim. A fifteen-minute ride to the motel on Chevy Chase.

I scrolled through pages of photos. Small groups of clean-cut, smiling students, rolling lawns, the same glass-fronted sixties building in every shot. No mention of an on-site cemetery.

The faculty numbered seven ministers. The dean was Reverend Doctor Crandall Wascomb, D.Theol., Ph.D., LL.D. Crandall’s picture made him out to be around sixty, with a thin face above a high, smooth dome of brow, silver-white hair that covered the top of his ears, and crinkly eyes of the exact same hue as his powder blue jacket.

I called his extension. A woman’s taped voice told me Dr. Wascomb was out of the office but he really cared about what I had to say. “Please leave a detailed message of any length and repeat your name and phone number at least once. Thank you and God Bless and have a wonderful day.”

My message was short on details but I did toss in my police affiliation. There was a good chance I’d made it sound more official than it was, but Dr. Wascomb’s training prepared him for minor transgressions.

Repeating my name and number, I hung up, reflecting on human depravity.

Just after nine p.m., Dr. Crandall Wascomb called while I was out with Allison. My service operator said, “Such a nice man,” then she gave me the number. Different from his office. It was nearly eleven but I phoned anyway and a soft-voiced woman picked up.

“Dr. Wascomb, please?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Dr. Delaware. I’m a psychologist.”

“One second.”

Seconds later, Wascomb came on, greeting me as if we were old friends. His voice was a lively tenor that conjured a younger man. “Do I understand correctly that you’re a police psychologist?”

“I consult to the police, Dr. Wascomb.”

“I see. Is this about Baylord Patterman?”

“Pardon?”

A beat. “Never mind,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“Sorry to bother you so late, Doctor, but I’d like to talk to you about a Fulton alumna.”

“Alumna. A woman.”

“Cherish Daney.”

Pause. “Is Cherish all right?”

“So far.”

“So she’s not a victim of something terrible,” he said, sounding relieved.

“No. Is there some reason you’d think that?”

“The police aren’t generally messengers of hope. Why are you concerned about Cherish?”