“Like Hope and Cruvic?”

Her laughter died.

“I understand your wanting privacy,” I said. “But in a case like this everything gets examined.”

“Then get a court order- look, what if they were doing each other three times a day on top of his desk? And I'm not saying they were. Who gives a shit? Mike didn't kill her, who cares who screws who? She got killed because she got famous and pissed off some pig to the extreme.”

“Any idea who the pig could be?”

“Too many out there to count. I shall reiterate: She was minimally involved here. I'm sorry when any woman's killed but there's nothing I can tell you about this woman.”

Rising with effort, she made her way around the desk to the door.

“Say hi to Mr. Legend. Tell him no matter what he does for his bosses, he'll never be anything to them but a queer.”

Back in the waiting room, neither girl was there, only the little blond's mother. She looked up from her reading as I passed. The magazine was Prevention.

I was back at my Seville when I saw her running toward me in a pinched trot. Short and slight, she had a high waist and a hunched upper body. Her lower lip was thin, its mate nonexistent. She wore baby-blue jeans, a white blouse, flesh-colored sneakers.

“The nurse told me you're a psychiatrist?”

“Psychologist.”

“I was just wondering…”

I smiled. “Yes?”

She came closer, but carefully, the way you approach a strange dog.

“I'm Dr. Delaware,” I said, extending a hand.

She looked back at the clinic. A roar sounded overhead and she jumped. A Cessna flying low, probably a takeoff from the private airport in Santa Monica. She watched it head out over the ocean. When the noise faded, she said, “I was just- are you by any chance gonna be working here?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Dejection. “Okay, sorry to bother you.”

She turned to go.

“Is there some way I can help you?” I said.

She stopped. One hand began twisting the other. “No, forget it, sorry.”

“Are you sure?” I said, touching her shoulder very lightly. “Is something the matter?”

“I just thought maybe they were finally gonna get a psychologist here.”

“For your daughter?”

Her hands kept working.

“Teenage problems?” I said.

She nodded. “Her name's Chenise,” she said, tentatively, as if prepared to spell it for some bureaucrat. “She's sixteen.”

She patted her breast pocket. “Quit smoking, keep forgetting- yeah, teenage problems. She drives me crazy. Always has. I- she's- I been all over with her- a million clinics, all the way to the County Hospital. They always gimme some student and they can't never handle her. Last time, she ended up in the guy's lap and he didn't know what to do. The schools won't do nothing. She's been on all kinds of medication since she's little, now it's gotten… Dr. Cruvic- he's the doctor here who operated on her- said she should see a psychologist and he brought one over. A lady. Real good, she had Chenise's number right away. Smart. So of course Chenise didn't like talking to her. But I made her go. Then…”- lowering her voice-“something happened to her- to the psychologist.” Shaking her head. “You don't want to know… Anyway, better be getting back, she's probably almost through with her checkup.”

“The psychologist Dr. Cruvic had her see, was that Dr. Devane?”

“Yes,” she said, breathlessly. “So you know what happened?”

“As a matter of fact, that's why I'm here, Mrs.-”

“Farney, Mary Farney.” Her eyes opened wide. Same blue as her daughter's. Pretty. Once she might have been, too. Now she had the trampled look of someone forced to remember every mistake.

“I don't understand,” she said.

“I'm a psychologist and I sometimes work with the police, Mrs. Farney. Right now I'm working on Dr. Devane's murder. Did you-”

Terror in the blue eyes. “They think it had something to do with this place?”

“No, we're just talking to everyone who knew Dr. Devane.”

“Well, we didn't really know her. Like I said, she only saw Chenise a few times. I liked her, she took the time to listen to me, understood Chenise's games… but that's it. I gotta get back.”

“What about Dr. Cruvic?”

“What about him?”

“Did he understand Chenise?”

“Sure, he's great. Haven't seen him since- in a while.”

“Since the operation.”

“No reason to, she's fine.”

“Who's checking Chenise out today?”

“Maribel- the nurse. Gotta go.”

“Would you mind giving me your address and phone number?”

“What for?”

“In case the police want to talk to you.”

“No way, forget it, I don't want to get involved.”

I held out my card.

“What's this for?”

“If you think of something.”

“I won't,” she said, but she put the card in her purse.

“Thanks. And if you need a referral for Chenise, I can find one.”

“Nah, what's the use? She wraps people around her finger. No one catches on.”

I drove away.

Surgery. Given Chenise Farney's promiscuity, it wasn't hard to imagine what kind.

Cruvic and Hope working together on abortions.

Cruvic calling for a psychological consult because he cared? Or another reason?

Promiscuous teenager with low intelligence. Minor patient below the age of consent. Maybe too dull to give informed consent? Cruvic covering his rear?

Cruvic and Hope…

Holly Bondurant had assumed the two of them had something going and Marge Showalsky's angry dismissal of the issue confirmed it.

I realized Cruvic had lied to us- implying he'd met Hope at the fund-raiser when Holly was certain they'd known each other previously.

Milo's hunch confirmed.

More than a business relationship.

But in light of Mandy Wright's murder, so what? The Vegas case pointed to a stranger homicide.

A psychopath, still out there, stalking, watching, planning. Waiting to perform a knife sonata under the cover of big, beautiful trees.

I was at Overland when I spotted a coffee shop with a lunch counter and pulled over. I bought a morning paper, read it while I had a hickoryburger and a Coke, then pulled out the list of students involved in the sexual-conduct board.

Might as well finish up.

Three who hadn't been interviewed yet- four, really, because the encounter with panicked Tessa Bowlby didn't qualify.

I called the number for Deborah Brittain in Sherman Oaks. A machine told me to wait for the beep. I decided not to.

Reed Muscadine had dropped out of school, so his class schedule was no longer relevant.

I called him. His tape said, “Hello, this is Reed. I'm either not here or I'm working out and unwilling to interrupt the burn. But I do want to talk to you, especially if you're my golden opportunity-pant pant. So please please please leave your name and number. Starving actors need love, too.”

Cheerful, mellow, modulated. The kind of voice that knew it sounded good.

If he was HIV-positive it hadn't dampened his spirit or his attempts to stay fit. Or he hadn't changed the tape.

Starving actor… even after getting the soap-opera job?

Had something gotten in the way of the job?

His address was on Fourth Street. If I was lucky, I'd catch him after the burn faded and learn about his health and his feelings about Hope Devane and the conduct committee.

If my luck really held, perhaps I could find out what was scaring the hell out of Tessa Bowlby.