MILO AND I stayed in the booth.

The waitress was leaning protectively over the old woman. He waved for her. She held up a finger.

He said, "Just like the Feds-we get stuck for the check."

"He liked the brisket, but didn't eat much of it," I said. "Maybe his gut's full of something else."

"Like what?"

"Frustration. He's been on this for a while-got a bit touchy when I called Burke his project. Sometimes that can lead to tunnel vision. On the other hand, there's a lot that seems to match."

"What-'geometry'?"

"A killer with a medical background and artistic interests, the combination of 'euthanasia' and lust-murder. And he was awfully close when he described the details of Mate's murder, down to the blitz attack and the cleanup."

"That he could've gotten from a departmental leak."

The waitress came over. "It's been taken care of, sir. The white-haired gentleman."

"And a gentleman he is." Milo handed her a ten.

"The tip's also been taken care of," she said.

"Now it's been taken care of twice."

She beamed. "Thanks."

When she was gone, I said, "See, you judged him too harshly."

"Force of habit… Okay, so some of my income tax came back to me… Yeah, there are similarities, there often are with psycho killers, right? Limited repertoire: you bludgeon, you shoot, you cut. But it's far from a perfect match. Starting with the basics: Mate's not a young girl and he wasn't tied against a tree. Fusco can fudge all he wants, but, PhD or not, in the end it comes down to his feelings. And where does making Burke a suspect lead me? Trying to chase down some phantom the Bureau hasn't been able to snag for three years? I've already got prospects close to home."

His hand grazed the file folder. "If I don't cooperate eventually, he'll call the brass and I'll be stuck with task-force bullshit. For the moment, he's trying cop-to-cop."

A couple of multiple-pierced kids dressed in black entered the deli and took a booth at the front. Lots of laughter. I heard the word "pastrami" used as if it was a punch line.

"Nitrites for the night crawlers," Milo muttered. "Wanna do me a big favor? One that won't put you in conflict of interest?" Tapping the file. "Go over this for me. You come up with something juicy, I take it more seriously… Artistic. Burke draws, he doesn't paint. We've already got a good idea who did that masterpiece… So, you mind?"

"Not at all."

"Thanks. That frees me up for the fun stuff."

"Which is?"

"Scrounging through putrid squats in Venice. Cop's day at the beach."

He hoisted himself out of the booth.

"Feds with PhDs," he said. "Bad guys with MDs. And mot with a lowly master's-it's not pretty, being outclassed."

I brought the file home just after three. Robin's truck was gone and the day's mail was still in the box. I collected the stack, made coffee, drank a cup and a half, brought the file to my office and called my service.

Richard Doss's secretary had phoned to let me know Eric would be a half hour early for his four o'clock appointment. The boy had been examined by Dr. Robert Manitow; if I had time, please call the doctor.

She'd left Manitow's number and I punched it. His receptionist sounded harried and my name evoked no recognition. She put me on hold for a long time. No music. Good.

I'd never met Bob or talked to him, knew him only from silver-framed family photos on a carved credenza in Judy's chambers.

A clipped voice said, "Dr. Manitow. Who's this?"

"Dr. Delaware."

"What can I do for you?" Curt. Had his wife never mentioned working with me?

"I'm a psychologist-"

"I know who you are. Eric's on his way over to see you."

"How's he doing physically?"

"He's doing fine. It was your idea to have me check him out, wasn't it?" Each word sounded as if it had been dragged over broken glass. No mistaking the accusatory tone.

I said, "I thought it would be a good idea, seeing what he's gone through."

"What exactly is he supposed to have gone through?"

"Beyond the long-term effects of losing his mom, his behavior was unusual, according to his father. Disappearing without explanation, refusing to talk-"

"He talks fine," said Manitow. "He just talked to me. Told me this whole thing was bullshit, and I heartily concur. He's a college student, for God's sake. They leave home and do all kinds of crazy things-didn't you?"

"His roommate was concerned enough to-"

"So the kid decided not to be perfect, for once. Of all people, I thought you'd evaluate the source before getting sucked into all this hysteria."

"The source?"

"Richard," he said. "Everything in Richard's life is one big goddamn production. The whole family's like that-nothing's casual, everything's a big goddamn deal."

"You're saying they overdramatize-"

"Don't do that," he said. "Don't bounce my words back to me like I'm on the couch. Hell yes, they over-dramatize. When they built that house of theirs, they should've included an amphitheater."

"I'm sure you know them well," I said, "but given what happened to Joanne-"

"What happened to Joanne was hell for those poor kids. But the truth is, she was screwed up psychologically. Pure and simple. Not a damn thing wrong with her other than she chose to drop out of life and eat herself to death. She discarded her good sense. That's why she called that quack to finish the job. Nothing more than depression. I'm no shrink, and I could diagnose it. I told her to get psychiatric help, she refused. If Richard had listened to me in the first place and had her committed, they could've put her on a good tricyclic and she might be alive today and the kids could've been spared all the shit they went through."

He wasn't talking loud but I found myself holding the phone away from my ear.

He said, "Good luck with the kid. I've got to run."

Click. His anger hung in the air, bitter as September smog.

Yesterday, after viewing Stacy's pain as we walked along the beach, I'd decided not to call Judy, wondering about entanglements between the Manitows and the Dosses, something that went beyond Mommy and Me, country-club tennis, Laura Ashley bedrooms. Now my curiosity took off in a whole new direction.

Her Eric, my Allison, then Stacy and Becky…

Becky having trouble in school-tutored by Joanne, then dropping back down to D's when Joanne could no longer see her… Was Bob's anger a reaction to perceived rejection?

Becky getting too skinny, entering therapy, trying to play therapist with Stacy, then cooling off.

Eric dumping Allison. Yet another rejection?

Bob Manitow smarting at his daughter's broken heart? No, it had to be more than that. And his resentment of the Dosses' problems wasn't shared by his wife. Judy had referred Stacy to me because she cared about the girl… Just another case of male impatience versus female empathy? Or had Bob's empathy been trashed by his inability to rouse Joanne from what he saw as "nothing more than depression"? Sometimes physicians get angry at psychosomatic illness… or maybe this physician was just having a really bad day.

I thought of something else: Stacy's tale of how Bob had stared with distaste as Richard and Joanne groped each other in the pool.

A prudish man, offended? Perhaps his resentment at having to confront the Dosses' tribulations was emotional prudishness. I'd seen that most often in those running from their own despair, what a professor of mine had called baloney fleeing the slicer.

No sense speculating, the Manitows weren't the issue; I'd allowed Bob Manitow's anger to take me too far afield. Still, his reaction had been so intense-so out of proportion-that I had trouble letting go of it, and as I waited for Eric my thoughts kept drifting back to Judy.