"I imagine it's like riding a bicycle."

"You can touch my breasts."

He slipped his hand inside her top. They barely existed, palm-sized areas of soft flesh, but the nipples were surprisingly large.

"That's nice," she said. "Maybe next time I'll bring my vibrator."

She went to work with that same businesslike competence, still wearing her glasses, occasionally raising her head to giggle at a joke from the tape. It was the first time Larrabee had ever heard her laugh.

The deep voice in the background was unsettling, like having another man in the room, and from time to time other voices chimed in. With the vibrator, it would be a full-fledged chorus.

But then, you could get used to just about anything.

"She sounds batshit," Larrabee said. He was speaking of Gwen Bricknell. Monks had told him about the phone conversation last night.

"I hate it when you sugarcoat things, Stover."

"She got some bad vibes from somebody, so she thinks they killed Eden?"

"That's what she said. I don't know." In the gray light of day, what had seemed eerily intense last night now seemed improbable, even silly.

Monks poured half a cup of coffee. It wouldn't quell his hangover, but it shoved it around some.

They were in Larrabee's kitchen, which, like the rest of his apartment, was technically not supposed to be in his office-only building. That showed. There was a single small counter with a stainless sink, a minimalist refrigerator and stove, and a few prefab cabinets hung on the walls. An over-under washer and dryer completed the utilitarian effect. But as with most kitchens, a lot of living got done there, and for Monks and Larrabee, a lot of their work. Two large windows let in north light and breeze, and the big old oak table was good for spreading out papers.

"You better go to that party – excuse me, event – and check it out," Larrabee said.

"I intend to."

"You just might be in for some very high-class affection. Soft spot, huh?" Larrabee grinned.

"Christ, she's not interested in somebody like me."

"Oh, no? She made a point of telling you she was almost naked."

"That wasn't quite how she put it."

"It's what she meant?'

"It was hot, that's all," Monks said.

"What, she can't afford air-conditioning?"

"She probably talks to every man like that. Maybe it's a model thing."

"Jesus, Carroll, give yourself a break. A lot of women would think you're a pretty good catch."

"There's one who doesn't."

Larrabee's face got serious. "Trouble on that front, huh?" Monks exhaled. "You know how it is. You take a turn somewhere back there. Somebody comes along who wants you to untake it, but there's no way."

"Martine's a very smart woman. Let her go shake loose a while; she'll come around. Face it, you've ruined her for anybody else."

"It'll help if I still have a job."

"If she really loves you, she'll support you," Larrabee declared. "Meantime, you don't have to be talking about a walk down the aisle with this Gwen babe. I'd guess she just wants a workout. She doesn't seem to be hooked up with anybody. She's through modeling, and she probably doesn't meet many guys at that clinic. Along you come. You're interesting. You're not bad looking, if the lights aren't up too high."

"You're a regular Dear Abby this morning."

"It's just one of those days when love's in the air, old buddy," Larrabee said expansively. "It's giving me a kinder, gentler feeling about the fact that we might be talking about more than one murder."

The phone number of the insurance complainant, Roberta Massey, had changed several times over the years, although the address, a trailer court in Redwood City, was the same. That usually meant a series of disconnects, for nonpayment of bills. The woman who answered had the husky voice of a smoker and a hopeful tone, as if every call might be the one about the winning lottery ticket.

"I'm calling for Roberta," Monks said.

"She's working, at the church. You want to leave a message?"

"I'm a doctor, Ms.-?"

"I'm Bobbie's mother," she said, sounding worried now. "I didn't know she'd been to a doctor."

"This is about something that happened a long time ago," Monks said. "With Dr. D'Anton. I'd like to know about the complaint Roberta filed against him."

Monks waited.

"She's tried to forget about that," Mrs. Massey eventually said.

"A young woman died in my care, Mrs. Massey. She'd been a patient of Dr. D'Anton's, too."

"Well, I'm sorry. But what's that got to do with us?"

"If he's been involved in any wrongdoing, your information could be very important."

"I wouldn't mind seeing somebody go after that Dr. D'Anton," she said, sounding tougher now. "He should at least pay Bobbie something, after what he did to her."

"You mean, he hurt her?" Monks said.

"Yeah," she said harshly. "And then weaseled out of it. The bastard."

Monks glanced at Larrabee, who was listening intently on the speakerphone. Larrabee gave him a nod.

"I can't promise anything, Mrs. Massey," Monks said. "But there is the possibility of legal action. I need to hear Roberta's story. When would be a good time?"

"She gets home about three. But I have to tell you, she might not want to talk about it. She's worked very hard on forgiving."

"I respect that," Monks said. "But she might be able to keep somebody else from getting hurt. Ask her to think about that, will you, Mrs. Massey?"

He thanked her and ended the connection. Larrabee sat back.

"Sounds like Roberta might be thinking about Jesus, but Mom's thinking about money," Larrabee said. "My guess is, you're going to get the story."

Redwood City was about a half-hour drive from San Francisco, down the peninsula. That left almost three hours to fill. Larrabee went into his office to take care of other business. Monks got a pack of index cards and returned to the kitchen table. Years ago, he had discovered a technique that was a great help in malpractice investigations. It worked well for criminal cases, too. It was a little bit like reading tarot cards, except that it was based on facts.

He started by writing down the major pieces of information they had so far, one point on each card, concentrating on what had started all this – Eden Hale's death.

Eden Hale dies in ER of DIC Roman Kasmarek suggests possibility of toxin Ray Dreyer propositioned by Coffee night of Eden's death

Then he started shifting the cards around, looking at different combinations, trying to read the past. Questions, contradictions, and lapses would stand out, and a part of his brain beneath the surface of consciousness would worry at them. Often – and often during sleep – the knots would start to dissolve.

He worked at it for more than an hour, stopped for a sandwich of cold cuts from Larrabee's refrigerator, then returned to put the information into a concise summary in his head.

Right off, there was the problem that they were trying to investigate a murder, even though they weren't sure that it was a murder. The main reason for suspecting so was Roman Kasmarek's bafflement at what had caused the DIC. Roman, a much-experienced pathologist, had suggested a toxin as the only thing he could think of that might have had that effect, but it was nothing that showed up on tests, or that he recognized.

If Eden had been poisoned, it was almost certainly intentional and carefully planned – not something she had taken accidentally. That was another problem. The substance could have been administered hours before she started to get sick, by someone she did not even notice.