The color drained from Massengil’s face. Dobbs’s face froze. He picked up his watch fob and began rubbing it hard.

I turned my back on them and left.

Beth Bramble was outside the office, smoking a long, pink, silver-tipped cigarette.

“Everything go okay?” she said, smiling. Squeezing the laugh back in.

“Peachy keen.” My jaws ached from tension and my voice was hoarse.

She stopped smiling, looked back at the office door.

“Don’t worry. He’s all right,” I said. “Still beloved.”

Good show of cool, but as I walked to the Seville the anger hit me. I found a pay phone near the yogurt place and put in a call to Milo. He was out and I left a message to phone. I went inside, bought a cup of coffee, drank it, and took a refill while standing at the counter. Lots of ambient conversation about pulse rates. Mine was racing.

I got out of there and drove to the school, traveling slowly, trying to settle down, arriving a little before eleven, still keyed up and not ready to face the kids.

I parked, did a little deep breathing, and got out of the car. Both the school cop and the crossbearer were gone. As I walked toward the gate a car came tooling slowly down the street. Silver-gray compact. Honda Accord in need of a wash, the body dimpled and scarred, the finish not much shinier than primer. But a single display of Kalifornia-kustom flair caught my eye: gleaming blackened windows that wrapped around the car like electrician’s tape, making the lackluster paintwork appear even more tarnished. Windows that would have seemed more in place on a stretch limo.

The little gray car stopped to let me cross, lingered, and continued cruising for a block before turning left. I walked onto the school grounds.

Linda was in her office, behind a pile of paperwork. When she saw me she swiveled, stood, and smiled. She was wearing a blue oxford button-down shirt and khaki skirt, brown boots with sensible low heels. The bit of leg that showed was smooth and white. Her hair was swept back and fastened at the temples with tortoise-shell barrettes, revealing small, close-set ears adorned with tiny gold studs.

“Hi. You’re early,” she said, pushing aside some papers.

“Got thrown off my schedule.”

Deep breathing or not, there was still ire in my voice.

She said, “What is it?”

I told her about the confrontation with Massengil and Dobbs, leaving out the part about Milo’s sexuality.

“The bastards,” she said and sat back down. “Trying to profit from tragedy.”

I took a chair opposite her.

“That’s what you get for being a nice guy,” she said.

“I wasn’t such a nice guy half an hour ago. When Massengil started leaning on me, things got hot. Hope I didn’t make things worse for you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She sounded weary.

“How much damage can he do?”

“Nothing in the immediate, other than make more noise- which is unlikely after the shooting.” She thought for a moment. “I guess he could try to screw the school budget when it comes up next year in Sacramento. But it would be hard for him to target Hale specifically. So don’t worry about it. Just keep doing your thing.”

“He’s a strange one,” I said. “Really rough around the edges, not at all well-spoken.”

“What’d you expect? A statesman?”

“Some sophistication- polish. He’s been at it for twenty-eight years. On top of the crudeness, he’s got a nasty temper. Surprising he’s lasted this long.”

“He probably knows who to punch out and who to kiss up to- that’s the whole game, isn’t it? And over twenty-eight years he’s fixed plenty of potholes. Besides, being rough around the edges probably works well here- the whole cowboy thing.”

“He’s got to have something going,” I said. “Hasn’t had any opposition for the last two elections. I know, ’cause I’m a constituent. I keep leaving the space blank.”

“I’m a constituent too. I write in Alfred E. Newman.”

I smiled.

She said, “Might we be neighbors, sir?”

“I live up in Beverly Glen.”

“Beverly Glen and where?”

“North of Sunset, up toward Mulholland.”

“Mmm, real pretty up there,” she said. “Way out of my league. All I’ve got is a little hutch near Westwood and Pico.” Mischievous smile. “Guess neither of us loyal constituents has much chance of getting our potholes fixed.”

“Better learn to mix your own asphalt,” I said. “Or cozy up to Dr. Dobbs.”

“Speaking of which,” she said and took something off her desk and handed it to me.

It was a cassette tape, white plastic with black lettering that had smeared. The title was KEEPING A CLEAR MIND, AGES 5-10. Copyright 1985, Lance Dobbs, Ph.D. Cognitive-Spiritual Associates, Inc.

“This is what Little Miss Phony Doc was handing out before you aced her,” she said. “I confiscated all of them, took one home, and listened to it last night. Far as I can tell, what it comes down to is brainwashing. Literally. Dobbs goes on about how bad thoughts make children sad and angry. Then he tells them to imagine their mommies taking their brains out and scrubbing them hard with soap and water until they’re all clean, all the bad thoughts are gone, and what’s left are good, clean, sparkly thoughts. Sounds hokey to me. Is there any way something like that could be beneficial?”

“Doubtful,” I said. “Techniques like that have been used with chronically ill people- positive thinking, guided imagery, trying to get them to focus away from their discomfort. But generally those patients are screened and counseled first- encouraged to express their feelings before they try to clean their heads. That’s what our kids need right now. To unload.”

“So you’re saying this could hurt them- jam them up?”

“If they took it too seriously. It could also cause guilt problems if they started to view their fear and anger as ‘bad.’ To kids, bad means they’ve misbehaved.”

“Damn quacks,” she said, glaring at the cassette.

“Was there anything on the tape that would hold a child’s interest?”

“Not that I heard,” she said. “Just some ditsy music in the background and Dobbs droning on like some kind of oily guru. Real low budget.”

“Then there’s probably not much risk. The kids wouldn’t sit through it long enough to be damaged.”

“Hope so.”

“Low budget,” I said. “Just like Massengil’s interior decorating. I can see why that kind of thing would appeal to him- a quick fix, no mucking around with anything psychologically threatening. And outwardly cost-effective- two hundred kids treated at one time. Dobbs could probably rig up some computerized test showing the kids were doing great; then the two of them throw a press conference and end up heroes.”

I put the tape in my pocket. “I’ll take it home and give it a listen.”

She said, “What really burns me is the grief we go through trying to get mental health funds out of the legislature. They’re always demanding outcome studies, proof of efficacy, pages of statistics. Then a creep like Dobbs gets his mouth on the government tit with this kind of nonsense.”

“That’s because the creep has a special in.”

“What?”

“I can’t be certain but I’d be willing to bet he’s Massengil’s therapist.”

She lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows. “Old Blowhard in analysis? C’mon. You just said he wouldn’t go for anything psychologically threatening.”

“He wouldn’t. Dobbs probably couches it in nonthreatening- nontherapeutic terminology. Muscle-relaxation training, management efficiency. Or even something quasi-religious- one of the seminars had something to do with the soul.”

“Down on the old knees and emote?”

“Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure there’s something going on between them.” I told her what I’d seen of the interchange between Dobbs and Massengil, the cues and covert looks. “When I hinted at exposing the nature of their relationship, Massengil almost lost his cookies.”