“What?” said Skidmore.

“Is the mattress yours or hers?”

“Hers. What’s going on?”

“Looks like someone’s been curious. Or maybe she was hiding something inside. Did she have a TV or stereo?”

“Just a radio. That’s gone, too! But this isn’t about burglary, is it?”

“Hard to tell.”

“But you suspect nasty, don’t you? That’s why you came here in the first place, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know enough to suspect anything, Richard. Is there something you know about her that makes you think nasty?”

“No,” he said in a loud, tight voice. “She was a lonely dyke who kept to herself- I don’t know what else you expect me to tell you!”

“Nothing, Richard,” I said. “You’ve been a big help. I appreciate the time.”

“Yeah. Sure. Now can I close up? Gotta go call a locksmith, put on a new bolt.”

We left the garage. Once outside, he pointed to the driveway and said, “That’ll take you out.”

I thanked him again and wished him luck on his private-eye essay.

He said, “Cancel that one,” and went inside the house.

The first pay phone I found was at a mall on Santa Monica Boulevard. The shopping center was brand-new- empty storefronts, the lot freshly tarred. But the booth had a lived-in smell. Gum clots and cigarette butts littered the floor. The directory had been ripped off its chain.

I called Boston Information and asked for the number of the GALA Banner. There was no listing for the paper, but the Gay and Lesbian Alliance had one that I dialed.

A man answered, “GALA.” I heard voices in the background.

“I’d like to speak to someone on the Banner, please.”

“Advertising or editorial?”

“Editorial. Someone who knows Kathy- Kate Moriarty.”

“Kate doesn’t work here anymore.”

“I know that. She’s living in L.A., which is where I’m calling from.”

Pause. “What’s this about?”

“I’m an acquaintance of Kate’s and she’s been missing for over a month. Her family’s concerned, so am I, and I thought someone in Boston might be able to help us out.”

“She’s not here, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’d really like to talk to someone on the staff who knows her.”

Another pause. “I’d better take your name and number.”

I gave him both and said, “That’s an answering service. I’m a clinical psychologist- you can check me out in an American Psychological Association directory. You can also call Professor Seth Fiacre over at Boston U.’s psych department. I’d appreciate hearing back as quickly as possible.”

“Well,” he said, “it may not be that quick. You’ll need to talk to the Banner’s editor. That’s Bridget McWilliams and she’s out of the city for the rest of the day.”

“Where can she be reached?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Please try to contact her. Tell her Kate’s safety may be at stake.” When he didn’t respond to that, I said, “Mention Eileen Wagner’s name, too.”

“Wagner,” he said, and I heard the sound of scrawling. “As in the composer- No, guess that would be Vahgner.”

“Guess so.”

I’d forgotten about Seth Fiacre’s move to Boston until his name had popped into my head as a reference. The social psychologist had left UCLA for the East last year, when an endowed chair in Group Process had been thrown at him. Seth’s specialty was mind control and cults, and the Forbes 400 father of a sixteen-year-old girl rescued from a neo-Hindu apocalyptic sect living in subterranean bunkers in New Mexico had consulted Seth on deprogramming. Shortly after, the money for the chair had come available.

Back to Boston Information. I got the number for B.U.’s psych department and dialed it, was informed by the receptionist that Professor Fiacre’s office was at the Applied Social Science Center. A receptionist there took my name and put me on hold. Seth’s voice came on a moment later.

“Alex, long time.”

“Hi, Seth. How’s Boston?”

“Boston is wonderful, a real city. Hadn’t been back for any length of time since graduation- kind of a nice homecoming. How about yourself? Do any teaching like you were thinking of?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s hard to return,” he said. “Once you get out in the real world.”

“Whatever that means.”

He laughed. “I forgot I was speaking to a clinician. What’ve you been up to?”

“Doing some consulting, trying to put out a monograph.”

“Sounds admirably well-rounded. So, what can I do for you? Another bunch of true believers to check out? My pleasure. Last time I gave you data I got two abstracts and a paper in JPSP out of it.”

“The Touch,” I said, remembering.

“They put the touch on lots of suckers. So who’re the loony tunes this time?”

“No cults,” I said. “What I’m looking for is some information on a colleague. Former faculty at your alma mater.”

“The H place? Who?”

“Leo Gabney. And wife.”

“Dr. Prolific? Yeah, I seem to have heard he was living out there.”

“Know anything about him?”

“Not personally. But we’re not exactly paddling the backwaters, are we? I remember having to immerse myself in everything he’d written for my Advanced Learning Theory course. The guy was a factory. I used to curse him for turning out so much data, but most of it was pretty solid. He must be- what? Sixty-five, seventy? Little old for mischief. Why’re you checking him out?”

“He’s a little younger than that- sixty or so. And a long way from the glue factory. He and his wife have a clinic in San Labrador specializing in phobia therapy. For the rich.” I quoted him the Gabneys’ fee schedule.

“How depressing,” he said. “Here I was, thinking this endowment was serious money, and you’ve gone and made me feel poor again.” He repeated the numbers out loud, then said, “Oh, well… What do you want to know about them, and why?”

“They’ve been treating the mother of one of my patients, and some strange things have come up- nothing I can get into, Seth. Sorry, but you understand.”

“Sure. You’re interested in his libidinal history, and related matters, when he was back at H.”

“That,” I said, “and any financial indiscretions.”

“Ah… that can of worms. Now I’m intrigued.”

“If you could find out why the two of them left Boston and what kinds of work they were doing during the year or so before they left, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Do what I can, though people around here don’t like to talk about money- because they lust after it so much. Also, those folks at That Place Uptown don’t always condescend to talk to the rest of us.”

“Even alumni?”

“Even alumni who stray too far south of Cambridge. But I’ll churn the chowder, see what bobs to the surface. What’s the wife’s name?”

“Ursula Cunningham. She hyphenates it now, with Gabney. She’s a Ph.D.-M.D. Gabney was her adviser in grad school and sent her on to med school. Her faculty appointment was at the med school, Department of Psychiatry. His may have been, too, as a matter of fact.”

“You just raised the hurdle a little higher, Alex. The med school’s an entity unto itself. Only one I know there is my kid’s pediatrician, and he’s only clinical faculty.”

“Anything you can learn would be helpful, Seth.”

“We’re talking ASAP, of course.”

“The quicker the better.”

“Except in matters of wine, cheese, and carnal pleasure. Okay, I’ll see what I can do. And think about paying a visit some day, Alex. You can take me out to Legal Seafoods for untrammeled lobster gluttony.”

My last call was to Milo. I expected a machine but Rick answered with a “Dr. Silverman” that sounded rushed.