“Done what? Made me lie for you?”

He sighed. “Not just that, the whole thing. The affair, breaking up the family like that. I know you think I’m just a selfish bastard, but it crushed me when your mother died. It felt like I was being punished for what I’d done. It hurt Jane, how long it took me to get over it, but she’d been my wife. You don’t forget that.”

“And Jane?”

“Benny, you think what you like about me-God knows I deserve it-but don’t keep blaming her. It’s not her fault.”

He took a gulp and sighed again. I didn’t know what to feel. Part of me thought it was a masterful performance from a man who was good at getting others to pity him-another of his manipulative ploys. But there was a kernel of something genuine in it. Even if it was just a show, I was grateful he’d cared enough to fly here to put it on. An awful lot of people fall apart and end up in therapy or in the psych ER, but thousands of others carry on with their lives. They just bear their burden of guilt or unhappiness as privately as they can. Maybe he’d been one and I hadn’t noticed. What kind of psychiatrist was I?

“You’re right. She doesn’t,” I said.

“Could we talk about something else now?” he said plaintively. “And don’t tell Jane what I just said, will you? Please?”

I put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. I felt better that I’d at least managed to voice the resentment I’d bottled up against him for years-it was as if I’d managed to seize back some power over our relationship.

“I’m glad you came, Dad,” I said.

“Of course,” he said, waving his hand magnanimously. “Tell me about this case of yours. What do you think happened?”

“Honestly?” I said. “I think Shapiro planned to kill Greene before I even saw him the first time. He played along with his wife when she found him with the gun because he knew he’d have an excuse if he looked crazy. Then he got himself discharged and did what he’d always planned to do. So now I’m his defense.”

“That’s clever, I’ve got to admit,” my father said, easing seamlessly back into the role of lawyer. “Why did he want to kill the guy in the first place?”

“I don’t know exactly. Something happened between them that I don’t understand, before Seligman got into trouble. It’s not just Greene he blamed. He had a thing about the Treasury and Rosenthal. Greene had worked there and so did Henderson, the Treasury secretary.”

“Those Rosenthal people do stick together. I’ve dealt with one or two of them in London. They’re like the Moonies. What’ll you do now?”

“I’m going to tell the Suffolk County ADA what Shapiro said to me and let him deal with it. There’s nothing else I can do.”

“You can’t give up like that,” my father cried, so loudly that the couple at the next table glanced worriedly at us. “You can’t just sit there. You have to find out what happened, why he did it. That’s your only hope.”

He sounded outraged. All the talk about Harry seemed to have revived him-either that or the two martinis. The color had returned to his cheeks and he talked as animatedly as if it were his own case. He must be tough to face on the stand, I thought. He was just as relentless as Baer.

“That’s not my job, Dad.”

“What the hell is your job, Ben?” he said indignantly. “You sit and listen to what people tell you, but if they feel like lying to you, you let them get away with it? That doesn’t sound very smart. Joe said you wouldn’t even tell him what you know because of a patient.”

“I can’t. You’re a lawyer. You know the rules.”

“I know rules are sometimes made to be broken.”

He drained his martini and glared at me as if only a coward would disagree. I didn’t reply because I was thinking of Anna and how similar their complaints about my profession had been. She didn’t have much faith in me, I thought. I remembered her final words as she’d walked away on the beach: Work it out for yourself. She had flung that at me not believing that I would.

It was time to prove her wrong.

Lauren’s house was beautiful. It must have been mid-nineteenth century, flat-fronted in red brick with what looked like the original brass knocker on a black-painted wooden door. It was off West Fourth Street in the middle of the West Village.

Peering through the windows, I saw wide-planked floors and marble fireplaces that stood out against the chalky walls. All of the furniture and fittings, from the chandeliers to the chairs, looked selected for the space. There was a yard at the back with a crab apple tree, from which a copper lantern hung. It looked almost too perfect-nothing was out of place. It reminded me of the way Nora had decorated the house in East Hampton. They had something of the same aura. Was that why Harry had fallen for both women? I wondered. They both provided some haven from his uncontrollable rage.

Lauren wasn’t home, and I retreated along the street to a cafe to await her return. I knew she’d be back-it was a warm Saturday morning and a copy of The Wall Street Journalrested on a table in the living room, still in its wrapper. She must have retrieved it before going out earlier. I’d called her once more since she’d failed to arrive for her session earlier that week, but there’d been no reply. Whatever she’d wanted from me had taken only two meetings and I knew I’d have to seek her out if I wanted to discover more. Her address was in my records, but I’d had to steel myself to follow my father’s advice.

It was four hours later, after lunchtime, when I saw her walk down the street in a pale overcoat. I let her go inside and gave her five minutes’ grace. Only when I’d climbed her stoop and was at the top about to knock did I have a feeling of hopelessness. I was once again chasing one of Harry’s women, knocking on a closed door. I’d already gone to Nora and Anna and gotten nowhere. It was a hopeless mission-Harry was the only one who knew why he had done it. I’d had one chance to get it from him, and I’d failed. Why am I here?I wondered. I felt like a stalker who can’t forget the object of his obsession.

When Lauren opened the door, something had changed. It wasn’t just her shock at seeing me and her frown of displeasure. It was something else. She wasn’t the same controlled woman who’d come to my office and told her story: she looked despairing and adrift. Her face was blank, like that of a distressed starlet caught by surprise in a paparazzi flashlight, and she hesitated before she could articulate her words.

“Dr. Cowper,” she said.

“Can we talk for a minute? It won’t take long.”

She paused, as if trying to reconcile my presence with what she’d been thinking of before, and looked dazed. Then she stood aside and ushered me through. She led me along the hallway into a living room dominated by a long oak table. Sunshine streamed through the rear windows, with frames that bowed at the top. I could hear the faint sound of traffic from the street outside, but it was a peaceful refuge.

“You’ve got something to say?” she asked.

We were still standing, since she hadn’t offered me a seat and showed no sign of doing so. She gave the impression that she wanted to get me out of there as fast as she could and resume pondering whatever had been on her mind.

“You didn’t keep our appointment,” I said.

“I decided I didn’t want to,” she said crisply, regaining some of her former poise. “I’m sorry I haven’t returned your call. I was intending to. Do you always chase your patients like this?”

“I don’t, but you’re an unusual patient.”

She arched her eyebrows. “How so?”

“You know what I mean. You didn’t pick me out of a list in a magazine. You came to me because I’d treated Mr. Shapiro. You wanted to make sure I couldn’t tell anyone about your relationship.”

“That sounds too clever for me,” she said.

“You’re an intelligent woman.”

“What do you want from me?” she said.