“At this point.”

“Well,” he said, “it’s really no big deal. You- meaning a cop, ’cause a civilian’s gonna have a hell of a time doing any of this- you follow the chain. The past is the best predictor of the future, right? So first link is the guy’s sheet. NCIC and local. You talk to any cops who knew him back in the bad old days. Preferably the ones who busted him. Next you eyeball the D.A.’s packet- there’ll be sentencing recommendations in there, shrink stuff, whatever. Step three is talk to the prison staff- find out what kind of time he served. Though the ones who’ll really know him best are the assholes who served it with him. If you’ve got a hook into any of them, you tug. Then check out his parole officer- problem there is caseload and turnover. Lot of what they do is rubber-stamping; the chance of getting anything meaningful is slim. Final step is locating some of his current K.A.’s- known associates- the scum he’s been socializing with since he’s been out. Finis. Nothing profound, just legwork. And in the end it won’t tell you much. So if you’ve got a patient who’s worried, I’d tell him or her to be careful. Buy a big gun and learn how to use it. Maybe a pit bull.”

“The trace you just described- could a private attorney do it?”

He eyed me over a taco. “Your average attorney? No. Not in any reasonable length of time. One with access to a good private eye could pull it off, but it would still take a private guy longer unless he’s got great police connections.”

“Like an ex-cop?”

He nodded. “Some of the private guys are vets. All of them bill by the hour and this kind of thing is going to build lots of hours. So having a rich client would help.”

“Sound like the kind of thing you’d be interested in?”

He put his taco down.

“What?”

“A little private consultation, Milo. A real hobby. Are you allowed to work while on suspension?”

“I’m Joe Citizen, can do whatever I want. But why the hell would I want?”

“Better than chasing blurs on crab grass.”

He grunted. Picked up his taco, finished it, and began unwrapping another.

“Hell,” he said, “I wouldn’t even know what to charge.”

“That mean you’re considering it?”

“Mulling. This patient of yours- is he or she the victim?”

“Victim’s daughter,” I said. “Eighteen years old. I treated her years ago, when she was a kid. She’s been accepted at a college out of town and isn’t sure about going, even though it’s probably the best thing for her.”

“Because of the scumbag being back?”

“There are other reasons for her to have doubts. But the scumbag’s presence makes it impossible to deal with any of those. I can’t encourage her to go away with this guy lurking in the background, Milo.”

He nodded and ate.

“The family’s got money,” I said. “That’s why I asked about attorneys- if they don’t already have a battalion on retainer, they could hire one. But with you doing it I’d have confidence it was being done properly.”

“Aw, shucks,” he said, and took a few more bites of taco. He pulled up his shirt collar and gave a furtive look. “Milo Marlowe, Milo Spade… which do you think is catchier?”

“What about Sherlock Sturgis?”

“What’s that make you? The New Age Watson? Sure, go ahead, tell the family if they want to go that route I’ll check him out.”

“Thanks.”

“No problema.” He picked his teeth and looked down at his sweat-stained clothes. “Wrong climate for a trench coat- any such thing as a trench shirt?”

“Go all the way,” I said. “L.A. Vice. Armani.”

We drained our drinks and polished off more food. On our way to the car, another of the panhandlers approached us- a heavy man of indeterminate race and creed, wearing a shit-eating grin while doing a palsied boogaloo. Milo glared at him, then reached into his pocket and came up with a handful of pocket change. Thrusting the money at the vagrant, he wiped his hands on his pants, turned his back on the man’s gibbered benedictions, and cursed as he reached for the door handle. But the epithets lacked conviction- I’d heard much better out of him.

Dr. Ursula Cunningham-Gabney had called back while I was gone, leaving a number where she could be reached for the rest of the evening. I dialed it, got a throaty, well-modulated female voice.

“Dr. Cunningham-Gabney?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Dr. Delaware. Thanks for returning my call, Dr. Gabney.”

“Is this by any chance Dr. Alexander Delaware?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Ah,” she said. “I’m familiar with your research-pavor nocturnus in children. My husband and I included it in a bibliography on anxiety-mediated disorders we compiled last year for The American Journal of Psychiatry. Very thought-provoking.”

“Thanks. I’m familiar with your work, too.”

“Where do you practice, Dr. Delaware? Children are outside of our bailiwick, so we do have occasion to make frequent referrals.”

“I’m on the west side, but I don’t do therapy. Just forensic work. Short-term consultations.”

“I see. The message I got said you were someone’s therapist.”

“Melissa Dickinson. I was her therapist years ago. I remain available for my old patients. She came in to see me recently.”

“Melissa,” she said. “Such a serious young woman.”

“She has a lot to be serious about.”

“Yes. Of course she does. The family pathology is deep-rooted. I’m glad she’s finally reached out for help.”

“Her main concern seems to be her mother,” I said. “Separation. How her mother will deal with her going away to Harvard.”

“Her mother is very proud of her. And eager for her to go to Boston.”

“Yes, Melissa’s told me that. But she’s still worried.”

“No doubt she is,” she said. “But those worries are Melissa’s alone.”

“So there’s no chance of her mother’s relapsing if Melissa goes away?”

“Hardly, Dr. Delaware. In fact, I’m sure Gina- Mrs. Ramp- would appreciate her newfound freedom. Melissa’s a bright girl and a devoted daughter, but she can get a bit… cloying.”

“Is that her mother’s term?”

“No, Mrs. Ramp would never say it that way. But she feels it. So I hope you’ll be able to confront Melissa’s ambivalence head-on and do it quickly enough for her to make the break. I understand there’s a deadline involved. Harvard tends to be impatient- I know from experience. So she’s going to have to commit. One would hate to see a technicality get in the way of forward movement.”

Thinking of McCloskey, I said, “Does Mrs. Ramp have any other worries that might be transmitting themselves to Melissa?”

“Transmitting? As in emotional contagion? No, I’d say it’s just the opposite- the risk is of Melissa’s anxiety transmitting itself to her mother. Mrs. Ramp presented as one of the most severely phobic patients we’ve ever treated, and we’ve treated many. But she’s made extraordinary progress and she’ll continue to do so. Given the chance.”

“Are you saying Melissa’s a threat to her progress?”

“Melissa means well, Dr. Delaware. I can certainly understand her concern. Growing up with an ineffectual mother would give her a stake in being hypermature. At some level, that would be adaptive. But things change, and at this point in time, her hovering serves only to reduce her mother’s self-confidence.”

“How does she hover?”

“She tends to make herself rather conspicuous during crucial therapeutic moments.”

“I’m still not sure I understand.”

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll spell it out. As you may know, treatment for agoraphobia needs to be in vivo- to take place out in the real world, where the anxiety-provoking stimuli are. Her mother and I literally take steps together. Out the front gate, around the block. It’s a slow but steady process, calibrated so that the patient experiences as little anxiety as possible. Melissa makes a point of being there during important moments. Watching. With her arms folded across her chest and this absolutely skeptical look on her face. It’s almost comical, but of course it’s a distraction. It’s gotten so I’ve scheduled things around her- aiming for breakthroughs when she’s at school. Now, however, she’s out of school and more… conspicuous.”