"I think its called a cock tease, isn't it?"

It was my turn to laugh.

She said, "What? You mean not attribute it? Not quote you? That's called background."

"No. I mean not use it at all. You'll know it, but you won't print it."

"Ohhh. Deep background. We're getting sophisticated, are we? Sorry, I don't play that game."

The coffee arrived. Dorothy started into her cookies immediately. She ate them by breaking off small pieces and transferring them to the tip of her tongue as though they were communion offerings.

I announced, "Then I'm afraid this meeting is just going to be coffee." I sat back on my chair and lifted my coffee cup.

"Go ahead and write your story and start to smoke me out. I'll just have to live with the consequences." I inserted as much bravado into the words as I could muster.

She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck with the hand that wasn't breaking apart cookies.

"Don't be disappointed, Dorothy. I wasn't lying before. I really don't know anything that will be helpful to you."

"These are good." She pointed to the cookies.

"Want a bite?" She broke off a corner and handed it to me.

"A peace offering. I lied to you before. About not playing the deep-background game. I'll listen to what you say.

If I start having problems, I'll warn you. How's that?"

"You won't print anything?"

"Unless I come upon the same information independently. Then it's fair game.

But I still won't quote you."

"Are you trustworthy? You lied to me once."

"Hello. You've lied to me more than once. And whom are you going to ask if I'm trustworthy? My cats? My ex-husband? My editor? My shrink? Probably get a lot of different answers." "You're in therapy?" I asked.

"Don't get me started. So why did you meet with him?"

"This is deep background, right?"

She rolled her tantalizing eyes and nodded.

"Okay. I'm a clinical psychologist, right?"

"Yeah"

"So is he. Welle."

"Yeah. This is news?"

"I met with him because I needed to discuss one of his old psychotherapy cases with him."

"That's it? You're seeing one of his old patients and you wanted to compare notes?"

"Not exactly."

"Oh, here we go again. I smell the acrid odor of obfuscation. No more cookies for you." She slid the cookie plate far out of my reach and guarded it in the crook of her elbow.

"It's not one of my cases. It's a quasi-legal thing, actually. I've been asked to review some old therapy records."

"Ah! Malpractice? Is someone suing Welle? Cool. Not as good as a campaign violation, but cool enough."

"No, not like that. Nothing like that. I'm not sure I can tell you more without breaching confidentiality, but suffice it to say that I've been asked to review one of his old cases with him and he was gracious enough to do it." "But a lawyer asked you to do it?"

I thought for a moment. The request had actually come from A. J. Simes.

"No, another psychologist."

"Why didn't the other psychologist do it himself or herself?"

"The other psychologist isn't local. It wouldn't be… convenient."

She chewed on my answer for a moment.

"And that's what you did this morning?"

"Yes."

"In person? He met with you to review a case? I'm sorry, that doesn't make any sense to me. Couldn't that be done over the phone?"

"Could be, isn't always."

"Welle doesn't give away hours to just anybody. What he's doing now at the tennis house-raising money-that's how he spends his free time."

I made a face to indicate I was offended and shrugged my shoulders.

"I asked for a meeting. I was granted a meeting."

"No." She shook her head.

"No. Uh-uh. It's not that simple." She checked her watch.

"Time to go back to my stakeout. Have a couple more people to talk to at the old fundraiser."

"What do they do in there for all this time?"

"Never been to one? It's basically a meeting of rich white guys over forty-five.

Some of them bring wives or dates but over eighty percent of the donors are rich men with an agenda. It goes something like this:

Welle gives his stump speech about economic freedom and moral decay and the necessity for America to heal itself-blah, blah, blah-then there's a reception line where people who forked over enough dough get a formal picture with the candidate and the American flag. Patriotic music plays in the background. Backs get slapped. Lunch meetings get set"

"That's it?"

"Yessiree. That's our election process. What's so appalling isn't just that it's corrupt. It's also unimaginative. In my mind, there's no excuse for that.

None."

Her cell phone went off as soon as she got into the car. Neither of us could do anything to keep me from eavesdropping.

"Ohhh, Jesus. Whadya mean, where am I? I don't think I have to tell you that anymore, remember. Wasn't that the point of my asking you to leave?… No, you can't go checking the file cabinet for those papers. Your keys don't work in the apartment anymore, anyway. You'll have to wait until I get back… Not long, no. It's business. Business… Whadya mean am I sure? Of course I'm by myself… I'm not doing anything to you… Douglas, I'm sorry, it's just going to have to wait… I don't care; it'll have to wait until I'm back… You should have remembered about it when you packed the rest of your things…… Not my problem… No. I'll leave a message when I get home. Later."

She folded up her phone. I said, "Sorry."

"Not your fault. That was the aforementioned ex. Actually that's wishful thinking on my part. We're separated, not divorced. He's not happy with me.

Apparently I'm not as sweet with everybody as I have been with you."

"Hard to believe," I said.

"We've been separated three months and I feel much better about it when I'm out of the District. For a while I was pretty sure he was following me. I'd go to a bar, he'd show up there. I'd be out with a friend, we'd see him." She shivered.

"Is he a possessive guy?"

"You bet. Jealous. Waste of emotional energy as far as I'm concerned. As if I have any interest in other men. Any."

"Is he violent?"

"Douglas? We're both kind of hotheads. You know? Him no more than me, though.

Maybe less. Stuff gets said. Occasionally things were thrown around. You know."

She smiled but didn't look my way.

"He never actually hit me. And you-you're starting to sound like a goddamn shrink."

"Sorry, it's a reflex. Possessive exes worry me. It's an occupational hazard, I'm afraid."

"Is the air conditioner on high?"

"Yes."

She tugged at her collar and raised her chin.

"I have to admit that he worries me sometimes, too."

"Have you thought about changing your cell phone number so he can't track you down so easily?"

"My life? I need to change a lot of things." She looked out the window.

"And you know what? I think I've just decided what's going to be first." She undid her seat belt, raised her butt in the air, reached under her skirt, and started tugging down her panty hose. A moment later, the act completed, her bare toes wiggling on the dashboard, she said, "Dearest God, that feels good.

Don't you wish it was all that easy?"

The Bonnie Brac neighborhood is a maze of little curving streets. I got lost on the way back to Phipps from the restaurant. Dorothy Levin had no patience for my directional impairment.

"I can't be late, Doctor."

"I'm trying, Dorothy. This isn't my neighborhood."

On my third attempt at finding my way to the mansion, I chanced on the shingled round roof of the tennis house from the rear. I said, "Voila" Dorothy said, "Merde. Finalement." She had finished stuffing her panty hose into the big shoulder bag along with God knows what else. I pulled around to the edge of the driveway that led to a small parking area in front of the building. She climbed out of the car, leaned over, and asked, "You're being straight with me, right?" I should have just said, "Yes." Instead, occasionally forthright to a fault, I said, "I answered all your questions honestly."