Before I could answer, she kissed me full on the lips, sat back suddenly.

“On the other hand,” she said, “analyzing is what they sent us to school for. Gotta go. Call me soon.”

Dr. Leonard Singh was tall and slightly stooped, with nutmeg skin and clear, amber eyes. He wore an exquisite Italian suit- navy blue overlaid with a faint red windowpane check- a yellow spread-collar shirt, a glistening red tie with matching pocket foulard, and a jet-black turban. His beard was full and gray, his mustache Kiplingesque.

He was surprised to see me in his waiting room, even more surprised when I told him why I was there. But no guardedness; he invited me into the cramped, green space that served as his hospital office. Three spotless white coats hung from a wooden rack. A glass jar of peppermint sticks was wedged between two stacks of medical charts. His medical degree was from Yale, his accent by way of Texas.

“Dr. Gull,” he said. “No, I don’t really know him.”

“You referred Gavin Quick to him.”

Singh smiled and crossed his legs. “Here’s the way that happened. The boy came to me through the ER. I was one of two neurologists on call, just about to go off service, but someone I’ve worked with asked me to do the consult.”

Jerome Quick had given me a name. The family doctor, a golfing buddy…

“Dr. Silver,” I said.

“That’s right,” said Singh. “So I saw the boy, agreed to follow him, did what I could. Given the situation.”

“Closed-head injury, nothing obvious on the CAT scan.”

Singh nodded and reached for the candy jar. “Care for some late-afternoon sucrose?”

“No thanks.”

“Suit yourself, they’re good.” He pulled out a peppermint stick, bit off a section, crunched, chewed slowly. “Cases like that, you’re almost hoping for something blatant on the CAT. You’re don’t actually want to see tissue damage, because those situations are usually more severe. It’s just you want to know what the insult to the brain is, want to have something to tell the family.”

“Gavin’s situation was ambiguous,” I said.

“The problem with a case like Gavin’s is you just know he’s going to have problems, but you can’t tell the family exactly what’s going to happen or if it’s going to be permanent. When I found out he’d been murdered, I thought, ‘Oh my, there’s a tragedy.’ I called and left a message with his folks, but no one’s returned it.”

“They’re pretty torn up. Any thoughts about the murder?”

“Thoughts? As in who mighta done it? No.”

“Gavin’s symptoms had persisted for ten months,” I said.

“Not a good sign,” said Singh. “On top of that, all his symptoms were behavioral. Psychiatric stuff. We cellular types prefer something concrete- a nice solid ataxia, something edematous that we can shrink down and feel heroic about. Once we veer off into your field, we start to feel at loose ends.”

He took another bite of peppermint stick. “I did what I could for the boy. Which consisted of monitoring him to make sure I wasn’t missing something, then I prescribed a little occupational therapy.”

“He had fine motor problems?”

“Nope,” said Singh. “This was more supportive in nature. We knew he’d experienced some cognitive loss and personality change. I thought some sort of psychological support was called for, but when I suggested a psych consult to the parents, they didn’t want to hear about it. Neither did Gavin. So I backed off and offered O.T., figuring maybe that would be more palatable to them. It was, but unfortunately… you know about Gavin’s experiences with his therapist.”

“Beth Gallegos.”

“Nice gal. He tormented her.”

“Have you seen that before in CHI cases?”

“You can certainly have obsessive changes, but no, I can’t say I’ve seen anyone turn into a stalker.” Singh nibbled the broken edge of the peppermint stick.

“So the family was resistant to psychotherapy,” I said.

“Highly resistant.” Singh smiled, sadly. “I got the impression this was a family big on appearances. Dr. Silver said so, too. Though he didn’t know them well.”

“Really,” I said. “I got the impression he was a family friend.”

“Barry? No, not at all. Barry’s an OB-GYN, he’d only recently started treating the mother for premenopausal symptoms.”

Jerome Quick had lied about Silver being a golfing buddy. A small lie, but why?

I said, “So what was your connection to Dr. Gull?”

“I don’t have one,” said Singh. “After Gavin got into trouble because of what he did to Beth, the father called me, saying the boy had been arrested and that the court down in Santa Ana was going to lock him up unless they could show sort of mitigating circumstances. What he wanted from me was a letter stating that the boy’s behavior was a clear result of his accident. If that wasn’t enough, he wanted me to testify for Gavin.”

Singh finished the peppermint stick. “I have to tell you, I was of two minds on that. I hate going to court, I didn’t know that I could say all that and be truthful. Beth Gallegos was one of our best O.T.s, a really super gal, and I felt terrible about what happened to her. I had to wonder if letting Gavin off the hook completely was the best thing for anyone. The boy clearly had serious problems, so maybe he needed to learn a lesson. On the other hand, this was jail we were talking about and he had experienced a cerebral insult and he was my patient. I decided to call the district attorney who was prosecuting the case, and she told me it being a first offense, they weren’t gonna throw the book at him. She said if I referred him to a psychiatrist or a psychologist, that would work for her. I asked a couple of the psych guys who attend here, but they all felt it would be a conflict of interest because they knew Beth. Before I could make more calls, Mr. Quick phoned me and said he’d found a good psychologist, right there in Beverly Hills, real close to the house. He said that was important because he didn’t want Gavin going too far afield.”

“Mr. Quick asked to be referred to Dr. Gull,” I said.

“He asked to be referred to Dr. Koppel, but she punted and sent him to Dr. Gull. I had my secretary call up and check Dr. Gull’s credentials, and everything was in order. I called Dr. Gull, and he seemed like a nice fellow, so I wrote the letter.”

He smoothed his tie. The amber eyes were sharp. “So tell me, was there some problem with that? ’Cause my name’s on that referral letter, and if there are going to be problems, I’d sure like to know.”

“I can’t think of anything that would reflect on you.”

Singh said, “That sounds upsettingly vague.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but it’s too soon to be more specific. I’ll be sure to let you know if that changes.”

Singh touched his turban. “Much obliged.”

“Were you aware that Gavin didn’t stick with Gull?”

“Really?” said Singh.

“No one told you.”

“The only communication I got was from Gull. A week in, he called, thanked me, said everything was going fine. Never heard from him again. What happened?”

“Gavin didn’t get along with Gull and was transferred to Dr. Koppel.”

“Guess she found time for him. Poor Gavin. Whatever he did to Beth, the boy had it rough. Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ve got a ton of paperwork.”

He walked me out.

I thanked him for his time, and said, “Dallas?”

“Houston. Born and bred; my daddy was a heart transplant surgeon on Denton Cooley’s team.” He smiled. “Cowboys and Indians, and all that good stuff.”