Lucy rides one of her souped-up V-Rods north on A1A, hitting every red light on her way to Fred Quincy’s house.

He runs his Web design business out of hisHollywoodhome. He isn’t expecting her, but she knows he’s in, or at least he was when she called half an hour ago to sell him a subscription toThe Miami Herald. He was polite, far more polite than Lucy would be if some solicitor dared to get her on the phone. His address is two blocks west of the beach, and he must have money. His home is two stories of pale-green stucco and black wrought iron, and the driveway is gated. Lucy stops her bike at an intercom and presses the button.

“May I help you?” a male voice answers.

“Police,” Lucy says.

“I didn’t call the police.”

“I’m here to talk to you about your mother and sister.”

“What police department?” the voice sounds suspicious.

“Broward sheriff’s.”

She slips out her wallet and holds up her bogus credentials, holds the wallet and its badge in front of the closed-circuit video camera. A tone sounds, and the wrought-iron gate begins to slide open. She kicks her bike in gear and bumps over granite pavers, parking in front of a big black door that opens the instant she turns off the engine.

“That’s quite a bike,” the man she assumes is Fred says.

He is of average height with narrow shoulders and a slender build. His hair is dark blond, his eyes bluish-gray. He is quite handsome in a delicate sort of way.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen a Harley quite like this,” he says, walking around her bike.

“You ride?” she asks.

“Nope. I leave the dangerous stuff to other people.”

“You must be Fred.” Lucy shakes his hand. “Mind if I come in?”

She follows him across the marble tile foyer into a living room that overlooks a narrow, murky canal.

“What about my mother and Helen? Have you found out something?”

He says it as if he means it the way he should. He isn’t just curious or paranoid. Pain fills his eyes, and there is an eagerness, a faint ring of hope.

“Fred,” she says. “I’m not with the Broward County Sheriff’s Department. I have private investigators and laboratories and we’ve been asked to help.”

“So you misrepresented yourself at my gate,” he says, his eyes turning unfriendly. “That wasn’t a very nice thing to do. Bet you’re the one who called, too, saying you’re theHerald. To see if I was home.”

“Right on both counts.”

“And I’m supposed to talk to you?”

“I’m sorry,” Lucy says. “It was a lot to explain over an intercom.”

“What’s happened to make this of interest again? Why now?”

“I’m afraid I need to be the one asking the questions,” she says.

Uncle Samis pointing his finger at YOU and saying I WANT YOUR CITRUS.”

Dr. Self pauses dramatically. She looks comfortable and confident in a leather chair on the set ofTalk It Out. In this segment she has no guests. She doesn’t need them. She has a telephone centered on the table next to her chair, and cameras catch her from different angles as she punches buttons and says, “This is Dr. Self. You’re on the air.”

“So how about that?” she goes on. “Is the USDA stomping on our Fourth Amendment rights?”

It is an easy set-up, and she can’t wait to jump right down the throat of the fool who just called in. She glances at the monitor, satisfied the lighting and angles are catching her favorably.

“They sure are,” the fool says over speakerphone.

“What’s your name again?Sandy?”

“Yeah, I…”

“Stop before you chop,Sandy?”

“Ah, what…?”

“Uncle Sam with an ax? Isn’t that the image the public has?”

“We’re being screwed. It’s a conspiracy.”

“So that’s how you think of it? Good Old Uncle Sam cutting down all your trees. Chop, chop.”

She catches the cameramen, her producer smiling.

“The bastards came into my yard without permission, and next thing I know, all my trees are going to be cut down…”

“And you live where,Sandy?”

“CooperCity. I don’t blame people for wanting to shoot them or siccing their dogs on…”

“Here’s the thing about it,Sandy.” She leans into the point she’s about to make, the cameras zooming in. “You people don’t pay attention to the facts. Have you attended meetings? Have you written your legislators? Have you bothered to ask questions point-blank and consider that maybe, just maybe, the explanations offered by the Department of Agriculture might make sense?”

It is her style to take whatever side the other person isn’t on. She’s known for it.

“Well, the stuff about hurricanes is [bleep],” the fool snaps, and Dr. Self suspected it wouldn’t be long before the profanity started.

“It’s not bleep, ” she mimics him. “There’s nothing bleep about it. The fact is”-she faces the camera-“we had four major hurricanes last fall, and it is a fact that citrus canker is a bacterial disease carried by the wind. When we come back, we’re going to explore the reality of this dreaded blight and talk it out with a very special guest. Stay with me.”

“We’re off,” a cameraman says.

Dr. Self reaches for her bottle of water. She takes a sip through a straw so she doesn’t smear her lipstick and waits for the makeup person to touch up her forehead and nose, impatient when the makeup person is slow getting to her, impatient when the makeup person is slow to hurry up and finish.

“All right. Okay. That’s enough,” Dr. Self holds up a hand, shooing off the makeup person. “This is going well,” she says to her producer.

“I think in the next segment, we need to really focus on the psychology. That’s why people tune in to you, Marilyn. It’s not the politics, it’s their problems with their girlfriends, bosses, mothers, fathers.”

“I don’t need coaching.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“Listen, what makes my shows unique is the blend of current affairs and our emotional responses.”

“Absolutely.”

“Three, two, one.”

“And we’re back.” Dr. Self smiles into the camera.