“What is?”

“Getting philosophical and abandoning real science. I’ve seen other guys go through it when they hit menopause. Gotta tell my students if I ever start doing it, take me out and shoot me.”

We traded pleasantries for a few more minutes, then said goodbye. When the line was clear, I called the GALA Banner. A recording informed me that the paper’s office was closed. No beep for messages. I dialed Boston Information and tried to get a home number for the editor, Bridget McWilliams. A B. L. McWilliams was listed on Cedar in Roxbury, but the voice that answered there was male, sleepy, tinged with a Caribbean accent, and certain he had no relation named Bridget.

By six-forty, I’d been alone in the restaurant for over two hours and had grown to hate the place. I found some writing paper behind the bar, along with a portable radio. KKGO was no longer playing jazz, so I made do with soft rock. I kept thinking about missed connections.

Seven o’clock. Scratch marks on paper. Still no sign of Bethel or Noel. I decided to stick around until Milo reached Sacramento, then call him and beg off the assignment. Go home, attend to my fish eggs, maybe even call Robin… I phoned my exchange again, left a message for Milo in case I was out when he called.

The operator recorded it dutifully, then said, “There’s one for you, if you want it, Doctor.”

“From whom?”

“Someone named Sally Etheridge.”

“Did she say what it was about?”

“Just her name and number. It’s long distance- another six-one-seven area code. What is that, Boston?”

“Yes,” I said. “Give me the number. Please.”

“Important, huh?”

“Maybe.”

A human being answered, “Uh-huh.” Female. Music in the background. I switched off my radio. The music on the other end took shape: rhythm and blues, lots of horns. James Brown, maybe.

“Ms. Etheridge?”

“Speaking.”

“Dr. Alex Delaware calling from Los Angeles.”

Silence. “I was wondering if you’d call back.” Hoarse and husky, Southie accent.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m not the one asking.”

“Did Bridget McWilliams give you my number?”

“Bingo,” she said.

“Are you a reporter on the Banner?”

“Oh, yeah, right. I interview circuit breakers. I’m an electrician, mister.”

“But you do know Kathy- Kate Moriarty?”

“These questions are coming awfully fast,” she said. Talking slowly- deliberate slowness. Small laugh at the end of the sentence. I thought I detected an alcohol slur. But maybe being with Ramp all this time had biased my perceptions.

“Kate’s been gone for over a month,” I said. “Her family-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that tune. Got it from Bridge. Tell the family not to get bent out of shape. Kate disappears a lot- that’s her thing.”

“This time it may not be routine.”

“Think so?”

“I do.”

“Well,” she said, “you’re entitled.”

“If you’re not worried, why’d you bother to call?”

Pause. “Good question… I don’t even know you. So why don’t we cut our losses and make bye-bye-”

“Hold on,” I said. “Please.”

“A polite one, huh?” Laugh. “Okay, you got a minute.”

“I’m a psychologist. The message I left for Bridget explained how I could be-”

“Yeah, yeah, I got all that, too. So you’re a shrink. So excuse me if that’s not real comforting.”

“You’ve had bad experiences with shrinks?”

Silence. “I like myself just fine.”

I said, “Eileen Wagner. That’s why you called.”

Long silence. For a moment I thought she’d left the line.

Then: “You knew Eileen?”

“I met her when she was a pediatrician out here. She referred a patient to me, but when I tried to get in touch with her to talk about it, she never got back to me. Guess she’d left town by then. Went overseas.”

“Guess so.”

“Were she and Kate friends?”

Laughter. “No.”

“But Kate was interested in Eileen’s death- I found a clipping she’d put in her scrapbook. Boston Globe, no byline. Was Kate free-lancing for the Globe at that time?”

“I don’t know,” she said harshly. “Why the hell should I care what the hell she was doing and who the hell she was working for?”

Definite booze slur.

More silence.

I said, “I’m sorry if this is upsetting you.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

That caught me off guard, and before I found my answer, she said, “You don’t know me from Eve- why the hell should you care how I feel?”

“Okay,” I said. “It’s not compassion for you specifically. It’s force of habit. I like making people happy- maybe it’s partly an ego trip. I went to school to be a yea-sayer.”

“Yea-sayer. Yeah, I like that. Yea, yea, yea- you and the Beatles. John, Paul, Whatsisname, and Ringo. And Shrink. Psyching the crowd… I wanna hold your gland.”

Brittle laughter. In the background, James Brown was begging for something. Love or mercy.

I said, “Eileen was also a yea-sayer. I’m not surprised she went into psychiatry.”

Four more beats of Brown.

“Ms. Etheridge?”

Nothing.

“Sally?”

“Yeah, I’m here. God knows why.”

“Tell me about Eileen.”

Eight bars. I held my tongue.

Finally she said, “I’ve got nothing to tell. It was a waste. A fucking waste.”

“Why’d she do it, Sally?”

“Why do you think? ’Cause she didn’t wanna be what she was… after all the…”

“All the what?”

“The fucking time! The hours and hours of bullshit-rapping. With shrinks, counselors, whatever. I thought we’d put that fucking shit behind us. I fucking thought she was happy. I fucking thought she was fucking convinced she was okay the way God in Her infinite mercy made her. God damn her!”

“Maybe someone told her the opposite. Maybe someone tried to change her.”

Ten bars of Brown. The song title popped into my head: “Baby, Please Don’t Go.”

She said, “Maybe. I don’t fucking know.”

“Kate Moriarty thought so, Sally. She found out something about Eileen’s therapists, didn’t she? That’s what brought her all the way out to California.”

“I don’t know,” she repeated. “I don’t know. All she ever did was ask questions. She never talked much about what she was doing, thought I was obligated to talk to her because she was gay.”

“How’d she get in contact with you?”

“GALA. I did all the wiring on their goddam offices. Opened my mouth and told her about… Eileen. She lit up like a Christmas tree. All of a sudden we were sisters in arms. But she never talked, only asked. She had all these rules- what she could talk about, what she couldn’t… I thought we were- But she- Oh, fuck this! Fuck this whole thing. It’s been too fucking long and I’m not putting myself through it again, so fucking forget it and fuck you!”

Dead air. No music.

I waited a moment, called back. Busy signal. Tried five minutes later, same result.

I sat there putting it together. Seeing things in another light. Another context that caused everything to make sense.

Time to ring another number.

Different area code.

This one was listed. Surname and first initial only. I copied, dialed, waited five rings until someone picked up and said, “Hello.”

I hung up without returning the greeting. No air blowing through the vents, but the room felt even colder. After draping a second cloth around Ramp’s shoulders, I left.