Confidentiality protects patients. What it does to therapists’ personal relationships can be interesting. Private by nature, Robin’s never had a problem with my not discussing work in detail. Like most artists, she lives in her head, can do without people for long stretches of time, hates gossip.

We’ve had perfectly romantic dinners where neither of us uttered a word. Part of that’s her, but I tend to drift off and ruminate. Sometimes I feel she’s not with me, and I know there are instances when she views me as inhabiting another planet.

Mostly, we connect.

I called out a “Looocey, I’m home, babaloo!” and she shouted back, “Ricky!”

She was in jeans and a black tank top, everything filling nicely as she squatted to fill Spike’s feed bowl and sang along with the radio. Country station, Alison Krauss and Keith Whitley doing “When You Say Nothing at All.” Whitley’s rich baritone exhumed from the grave. Technology could resurrect sound waves, but it couldn’t dampen a mother’s grief.

Robin finished pouring kibble, stood, and stretched to her full, barefoot five-three. No bra beneath the tank top, and when I pressed her to me her breasts spread across my shirtfront. When I kissed her, her tongue tasted of coffee. Her auburn curls were loose and longer than usual – six inches past the middle of her back. When she gets her hair done, it’s a half-day, three-figure affair at a place in Beverly Hills that reeks of nail polish and people trying too hard. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent the time and money. Busy with a seemingly endless flow of guitar construction and repairs. “Better than the alternative” was her comment when I remarked on her long days. A few weeks ago she’d recorded a new phone message:

“Hi, this is Robin Castagna. I’m out in the studio carving and gluing, would love to talk to you, however it’s going to be a while before I can be polite. If you have an urgent message, please leave it in detail, but…”

We kissed some more, and Spike yelped in protest. He’s a French bulldog, twenty-five pounds of black brindle barrel, bat ears perked, and deceptively soft brown eyes. I’m the one who rescued him on a hot, arid summer day, but forget gratitude; the moment Robin smiled at him, I came to be viewed as an annoyance.

Keeping one hand on Robin’s bottom, I set my briefcase on the table. Spike nudged her shin. She said, “Hold on, handsome.”

“Sure,” I said. “Keep feeding his ego.”

She laughed. “You ain’t chopped liver either.”

Spike’s flat face pivoted, and he glared at me – I can swear he understands English. His attenuated larynx let out a strangled growl, and he pawed the floor.

“Tom Flews deigns to speak,” I said.

Grumble, grumble.

“Don’t feud, boys,” said Robin, bending to pet him. “Long day, sweetie?”

“Me or him?”

“You.”

I’d thought the cheer in my voice sounded authentic, wondered why she’d asked. “Long enough, but over.”

Spike sputtered. A twenty-one-inch neck quivered. Drool sprayed.

“I’m staying for the evening, pal. Deal with it.”

His eyes pinched at the corners as he let out a belly grunt. I kissed the back of Robin’s neck, as much out of spite as anything. Spike began bouncing higher than stumpy legs had any right to take him, and Robin added something from the fridge to his dinner and toted it to the service porch. His nose was buried before the dish hit the floor.

“Is that last night’s Stroganoff?” I said.

“I figured we’re finished with it.”

“We are now.”

She laughed, bent, picked up a stray bit of meat, hand-fed it to him. Breathing hard, he plunged his head back into the bowl. “Bon appétit, monsieur.”

“He’d prefer foie gras and a fine burgundy,” I said, “but he’ll condescend.”

She laced her arms around my neck. “So, what’s up?”

“What shall our dinner be?”

“Haven’t thought about it,” she said. “Any ideas?”

“How about his leftovers?”

“Now you’re being cranky.” She started to leave, but I held her back, stroked her neck, her shoulder blades, slipped my hands under the tank top and kneaded the knobs of her spine, cupped a breast -

“Food, first,” she said. “Then, maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

“Fun. If you behave yourself.”

“Define your terms.”

“I’ll define them as we go along. So what went wrong today?”

“Who says anything went wrong?”

“Your face. You’re all stressed around the edges.”

“Wrinkles,” I said. “The aging process.”

“Don’t think so.” Her small, fine-boned hand topped my knuckles.

“Look,” I said, stretching my lips with my thumbs and letting go. “Mr. Happy.”

She said nothing. I sat there and enjoyed her face. Another heart-shaped face. Olive-tinted, set upon a long, smooth stalk, framed by the mass of curls. Straight, assertive nose, full lips swelled by a hint of overbite, the faintest beginnings of crow’s-feet and laugh lines around almond eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Okay.” She played with her hair.

“How was your day?”

“No one bugged me, so I got more done than I’d planned.” Her hand finger-walked over to mine, and she began playing with my thumb. “Just tell me this, Alex: Is it one of your own cases or something Milo’s gotten you into?”

“The former,” I said.

“Got it,” she said, zipping a finger across her lips. “So nothing dangerous. Not that I’m harping.”

“Not remotely dangerous,” I said. Remembering the talk we’d had last year. After I’d role-played with a group of eugenic psychopaths and ended up too close to dead. The pledge I’d given her…

“Good,” she said. “’Cause when I see you… burdened, I start to wonder if maybe you’re feeling constrained.”

“It’s just a case from the past that I might’ve handled better. I need to make a few phone calls, and then we can figure out dinner, okay?”

“Sure,” she said.

And that’s where we left it.

I went into my office, poured the contents of my briefcase onto the desk, found the numbers Gene Dalby had given me for Professors Hall and de Maartens, and dialed. Two answering machines. I left messages. Next: Adam Green, the student journalist. Information had four Adam Greens listed in the 310 area code. No sense, at this stage of the game, trying to figure out which, if any, was the kid who’d covered the Shawna Yeager story. He’d spent three weeks of his life on the story a year ago. What could he possibly have to offer?

Arranging the photocopies I’d made of the Daily Cub microfiches, I retrieved the three phone numbers accompanying the want ads. The depression and phobia study listings were out of service, and the Orange County intimacy project – I’d saved the best for last – connected to a Newport Beach pizza parlor. In L.A. it’s not just the tectonic plates that shift.

Finally, I looked up hotels and motels in Malibu and made a dozen calls. If Lauren had checked into any of the establishments, she hadn’t used her real name.

One last call: Jane Abbot. That would wait till tomorrow.

No, it wouldn’t. I dialed the Valley number, planning to be vague but supportive, careful not to leech her hope. The phone rang four times, and I rehearsed the little speech I’d deliver to her robot guardian – ah, here he was: “No one can take your call but if you care to…”

Beep.

“Mrs. Abbot, this is Dr. Delaware. I’ve talked to a police detective about Lauren. Nothing really to report, but he’s been made aware of the details. I’ll stay on it, get back to you the moment I learn-”

A real man’s voice broke in, very soft, halting. “Yes?”

I identified myself.

Long silence.

I said, “Hello?”

“This is Mr. Abbot.” More of an announcement than an exchange.

“Mr. Abbot, your wife spoke to me recently-”

“Mrs. Abbot,” he said.