“Take care,” I said, closing the door. “See you tomorrow.”

“Listen,” she said, “I’m heading out for some dinner- nothing fancy, but I wouldn’t mind some company.”

She blushed, looked away, jammed the key into the ignition and turned it. The Escort’s engine came to life with a poorly tuned sputter, belched, and finally caught. When it had settled to an idle, I said, “I wouldn’t mind some company either.”

She blushed deeper. “Uh, just one thing- you’re not married or anything, are you?”

“No,” I said. “Neither married nor anything.”

“That probably sounds weird to you, my asking.”

Before I could answer, she said, “It’s just that I like to keep things straight, give a wide berth to trouble.”

“Okay,” I said.

Her laugh was brittle. “Not that it’s worked too well so far.”

I followed her to a place of her choosing, on Broadway in Santa Monica. All-you-can-eat salad bar with enough produce to stock a county fair exhibit, seafood on a grill, lots of woodsmoke, lazy fly fans, Alphonse Mucha reproductions on paneled walls, sawdust on the floor. Nothing really good or really bad, budget prices.

We constructed our salads and took them to a back booth. Linda ate with enthusiasm, went back for a refill. When she finished the second bowl, she sat back, wiped her mouth, and looked sheepish.

“Good metabolism,” she said.

“Do you exercise a lot?”

“Not a fig- Lord knows my hips could use it.”

I thought her hips looked fine, but kept it to myself. “Count your blessings.”

The entrees came and we ate without talking, comfortable with the silence, as if we were old friends, using the silence to decompress. After a few minutes she said, “What do you think of the sniper- being a girl and all.”

“It took me by surprise. By the way, one of your teachers- Mrs. Ferguson- told me she knew her. Had taught her in sixth grade.”

“Taught her at Hale?”

I nodded.

“Good old Esme. She didn’t say a thing to me- par for the course. But if anyone would remember, it would be her. She’s been around for years and she’s a local. All the rest of us are recent transfers. Or carpetbaggers, as we’ve been called. What else did she have to say about her?”

“Just that she was odd. Her family was odd.”

“Odd in what way?”

“She didn’t get more specific. Didn’t want to talk about it.”

“The Ferg tends to get overwhelmed- a little Vic-torian,” she said. “To her, odd could mean anything… using the wrong fork at dinner. But I’ll have a talk with her, see what I can learn.”

“What about transcripts?” I said. “Can you look them up?”

“There may be some old records, but I’m not sure. Before we started busing the East Side kids in, the place was cleaned up. Most of the files were moved downtown. I’ll check tomorrow.”

“How long have you been working at Hale?”

“Since last year- they brought me in with the buses. First assignment out of postdoctoral probation. I think they sensed I was trouble, wanted to get rid of me quickly and thought a few months at Hale would do it.”

I said, “It is a hell of a way to start.”

She grinned. “Fooled ’em and stuck it out. Too young and too dumb to know better.”

“Same thing happened to me when I started out,” I said. “I was offered a very tough job right out of fellowship- working with kids with cancer. By the time I was twenty-seven I was directing a program for two thousand patients, overseeing a staff of a dozen. Trial by ordeal, but looking back, I’m glad I did it.”

“Cancer. How depressing.”

“It was, at times. But also uplifting. Lots of the kids went into remission. Some were cured- more and more each year. We ended up doing a lot of rehab- helping families cope, pain reduction, sibling counseling- clinical research that could be applied almost immediately. That was satisfying: seeing your theories come to life. Being useful in the short term. I really felt I was doing some good, making an impact.”

“Twenty-seven. God. How old were you when you got your Ph.D.?”

“Twenty-four.”

She gave a low whistle. “Whiz kid, huh?”

“Nah, just obsessive. I started college at sixteen, kept pushing.”

“Sounds like false modesty to me,” she said: “Actually, I was sixteen when I started, too. But in my case it really was no big deal. Small school back in Texas- anyone with fluent English and half a brain skipped.”

“Where in Texas?”

“San Antonio.”

I said, “Nice town. I was there about ten years ago, consulting to the med school. Took a river ride, ate grits for the first time, picked up a pair of boots.”

“Remember the Alamo,” she said, gripping her coffee cup hard.

More chill. Time to veer onto a different road.

I said, “So here we are, couple of precocious kids. Enjoying the fruits of success.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, still tense. “Ain’t that a hoot.”

“What made you decide to stop teaching and go back for your doctorate?”

“I could give you all these highfalutin explanations, but truth be told, I wasn’t a very good teacher- not enough patience. I found it hard to deal with the ones who weren’t bright. I mean, I could sympathize with them in the abstract. But I’d grind my teeth waiting for them to come up with the right answer.” Shrug. “Not too compassionate, huh?”

“Compassionate enough to shift gears.”

“What choice did I have?” she said. “It was either that or become a witch and go home hating myself each night. You, on the other hand, must have tons of patience.”

“With kids, yes. Not always with the rest of the world.”

“So how come you don’t do therapy anymore? Detective Sturgis told me you’re retired. I was expecting an old guy.”

“I stopped a few years ago, haven’t gotten back yet- long story.”

“I’d like to hear it,” she said.

I gave her an abridged version of the last five years: Casa de Los Niños, death and degradation. Getting overdosed on human misery, dropping out, living on real estate investments made during the California boom of the late seventies. Then redemption: missing the joys of altruism, but reluctant to commit to long-term therapy, making a compromise- limiting myself to time-limited consultations, forensic referrals from lawyers and judges.

“And cops,” she said.

“Just one cop. Milo and I are old friends.”

“I can understand that- you both have that… heat. Intensity. Wanting to do more than just coast by.” She laughed, sheepish again. “How’s that for sidewalk psychoanalysis, Doc?”

“I’ll take my compliments any way I can get ’em.”

She laughed, said, “Real estate investments, huh? Lucky you. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have to work. I mean, sometimes I really despise my job. Maybe I’d opt for Club Med full time.”

“Your present job can’t be too easy on the old patience.”

“True,” she said, “but at least now I can close my door, get ticked off, scream my head off, throw something- Carla’s tolerant. I just didn’t want to be losing it in front of the kids- taking it out on them. Also, what you were talking about, the chance to do something, to be effective- on a large-scale basis- is appealing. I mean, if I can institute something systemic, something that really works, I’m affecting a couple of hundred kids at one time. But what I really hate is knowing what has to be done, knowing how to go about doing it, and having all these stupid roadblocks thrown in my way.”

She shook her head, said, “I really hate bureaucrats. Then some days I sit back, look at all the crap on my desk, and realize I am one.”

“Ever think of doing something else?”

“What, and go back to school? Nosir. I’m twenty-nine already. Comes a time you have to just settle down and bite the bit.”

I wiped my brow. “Twenty-nine? Whew. Ready for the old porch rocker.”