I looked inquiringly at Joe, who was studying the nails on his right hand. “Absolutely fine,” he said, still looking down.

“All right, we’re in the preliminary stages of the case, as Mr. Solomon will have told you, Doctor. It will be several months before we get to court. Mr. Shapiro’s attorney has indicated that he will plead guilty to the killing but offer a defense of mitigation, that Shapiro was emotionally disturbed.”

“I’m familiar with it,” I said.

“Very good. So you’ll know this involves evidence as to the defendant’s state of mind at the time of the killing. We take a look at the medical records, and we appoint a forensic psychiatrist to examine Mr. Shapiro. We’d usually expect you to be called by the defense since you treated him.”

“Often doesn’t happen,” Joe interjected.

“Well, there are exceptions. Anyway, it’s not happening in this case. In fact, seems the defense are hiring a forensic psychiatrist to examine Shapiro rather than you. That makes me wonder what it is they don’t want you to say on the stand. I guess the most likely is that you think Mr. Shapiro knew what he was doing, isn’t it?”

Baer’s expression was mild and inquisitive, and the way he phrased it made it sound as if he were interested in untangling a mystery, but he had homed in on the awkward truth without pause-he moved faster verbally than in the flesh.

“I believe I can save some time here by making clear Dr. Cowper’s position,” Joe interjected. “He feels bound by doctor-patient privilege and does not want to disclose details of his treatment of Mr. Shapiro.”

“But privilege no longer applies here, given this defense. It’s been waived,” Baer said mildly.

“Well, two points,” Joe said, sitting up. “First, we haven’t been notified by the defense that it is waiving privilege, and we’d need that in writing. But second, even if we were, Dr. Cowper wouldn’t want to discuss it on ethical grounds.”

“That’s right,” I confirmed obediently, although ethics didn’t have much to do with it. I wanted to keep as far away from the limelight as possible.

“That’s his privilege, so to speak. As I said, we’re only having a conversation. But when I call him to give evidence, he’ll be under oath and he’ll have to talk to the jury no matter what he thinks. I plan to do that,” Baer said.

“That’s yourprivilege. But until then, we can’t help you,” Joe said.

“This is a shame,” Baer said. “A great shame. It’s a long way for you gentlemen to come to tell me that. I’d hoped we could find a way for Dr. Cowper to avoid getting into any more trouble than he’s already in.”

“Very kind, but Ben’s not in any trouble since he didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Joe said, standing up to bring the interview to a close.

Baer watched us for a few seconds before he rose himself. He looked thoughtful but less friendly, as if moving me from one category-“potential ally”-to that of “hostile witness.” Then he emerged from behind his desk to guide us to the door, where Pagonis gave me a disgusted glare.

“What did you make of that?” I asked Joe as we escaped Baer’s inquisition and left the building only half an hour after we’d arrived.

“Smarter than he looks.”

“He said he’s going to call me as a witness.”

He shook his head. “It’s a bluff. He’s not going to do that unless he knows what you’d say. Too risky. The defense will find a forensic psych to testify that Shapiro was unbalanced and he should have stayed in the hospital. Baer’s going to get a psych of his own to say the opposite. The guy’s as sane as you and I and he cooked the whole thing up.”

It sounded pretty cynical, but I had colleagues who worked as forensic psychs and they usually found a way to give the diagnosis that whoever had hired them wanted. Nothing is cut-and-dried about the human psyche, which leaves room to improvise.

“What do youthink?” Joe said, halting with one foot on the bottom step and another on the parking lot and swinging around to face me. He wore his usual amiable expression, but he scanned my face attentively.

“I really don’t know,” I said.

In the psych ER, I’d been sure that Harry was, at worst, suicidal-he’d seemed like a classic case of midlife depression. But our meeting in jail had left me wondering whether he’d deceived me all of that time. We walked past a woman dragging two children toward the court, no doubt going to see their father getting jailed. Not much of a start in life, I thought.

“Is that it, then?” I asked.

“I hope so,” Joe said, and he clambered back into his Lexus.

He waved cheerfully as he cruised out of the lot and turned left back toward the highway. I waited until he’d driven out of sight before walking to my car, keys in hand, but just before I reached it I heard a shout and saw Pagonis approaching. She’d timed her arrival so that my lawyer wasn’t by my side.

“Who attacked you?” she said as she got to me.

“I’ve no idea.”

“You know a lot about Shapiro you’re not telling us, don’t you?” she said, hardly pausing after getting me off my guard before moving to the next question. “We’re going to find out what you’re hiding.”

I felt my face redden with embarrassment, and I turned toward my car door to hide it from her, pulling out my keys. I can’t tell my lawyer and I’m sure as hell not telling you, I thought.

“You’re wasting your time, Detective,” I said.

“I don’t think so, Doctor.”

She spat out the last word as if she didn’t believe in the notion of medical expertise and walked away. I climbed into my car and sat for a couple of minutes to calm down, then drove steadily out of the parking lot and turned south.

Mist was blowing off the sea when I reached the Shapiros’ house, half covering the houses lined up on the dune. In the far distance, the fields and ponds beyond the house looked flat and bleak. It was my first visit alone-the last time I’d been chauffeured along the lane by Anna. As I came to the willow trees and the entrance to the gravel path, I tried to imitate the way she’d smoothly driven up, but I didn’t get the speed right and the wheels spun in the gravel near the top.

Nora was in the garden behind the house, crouching by the flower beds in a gardening smock and clipping some blooms, and as I climbed out of my car, she looked over her shoulder. She walked toward me but halted a few feet away rather than embracing me again.

“Your face,” she said worriedly, as if she couldn’t take any more bad news.

“Just an accident. Nothing serious.”

We were standing by the conservatory at the rear of the house, and I could see white sheets covering the sofas in the living room. The floor was bare, with the geometric rug that had covered it-on which Greene’s bloody corpse had lain-removed. Lines were still marked on the wooden boards, along with some dark stains, the last traces of murder.

Nora had called me the day after my attack, as I was resting at home-I had a feeling that the hospital liked having me out of the way. She’d just talked to Duncan, she’d said, and had something to discuss.

“I’m trying to get the garden under control,” she said. “It grows so fast and the men haven’t been for a while. The police shut the house for a long time. Anna’s coming down here to redecorate soon. I don’t know if we’ll stay.”

“Take your time. Don’t make any big decisions.”

That was what we always advised people who were depressed-don’t do anything while they were unstable that they might regret later. I wasn’t sure how much sense that made, though. Not doing something is an act in itself.

The ocean breeze was blowing her hair over her eyes, and she brushed the strands away to look at me. “You’re a good man, Dr. Cowper. I’m so sorry about this. Let’s go and talk, shall we?”

She guided me away from the conservatory along the rear of the house and we went into the building through a door by the bedrooms, then along a hallway into what seemed to be her study. There was an ornate French desk by one window, with a vase of flowers resting on it. She sat in an antique chair near four miniature oil portraits.