"Trust Federal, over in Encino. She was a loan officer-that's how I met her. We used to channel our car loans through there and one day I went down there on a big fleet sale and she was at the loan desk."

Milo took out his notepad and wrote.

"She would have probably made vice president," said Paprock. "She was smart. But she wanted to work for herself, had enough of bureaucracies. So she studied for her broker's license at night, then quit. Was doing real well, lots of sales ..."

He looked off to one side, fixing his gaze on a poster. Two perfect-looking, tennis-clad people getting into a turquoise Coupe de Ville with diamond-bright wire wheels. Behind the car, the marble-and-glass facade of a resort hotel. Crystal chandelier. Perfect-looking doorman smiling at them.

"Bureaucracies," said Milo. "Did she deal with any others before the bank?"

"Yeah," said Paprock, still turned away. "She taught school-but that was before I met her."

"Here in L.A.?"

"No, up near Santa Barbara-Goleta."

"Goleta," said Milo. "Do you remember the name of the school?"

Paprock faced us again. "Some public school-why? What does her work have to do with anything?"

"Maybe nothing, sir, but please bear with me. Did she ever teach in L.A.?"

"Not to my knowledge. By the time she moved down here, she was fed up with teaching."

"Why's that?"

"The whole situation-kids not interested in learning, lousy pay-what's to like about it?"

"A public school," I said.

"Yeah."

Milo said, "What subjects did she teach?"

"All of them, I guess. She taught fifth grade, or maybe it was fourth, I dunno. In elementary school, you teach all the subjects, right? We never really had any detailed discussions about it."

"Did she teach anywhere before Goleta?" said Milo.

"Not as far as I know. I think that was her first job out of school."

"When would that be?"

"Let's see, she graduated at twenty-two, she'd be forty this May." He winced. "So that would have been, what, eighteen years ago. I think she taught maybe four or five years, then she switched to banking."

He looked at the poster again and wiped his forehead.

Milo closed his pad. The sound made Paprock jump. His eyes met Milo's. Milo gave as gentle a smile as I'd ever seen him muster. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Paprock. Is there anything else you want to tell us?"

"Sure," said Paprock. "I want to tell you to find the filthy fuck who killed my wife and put me in a room with him." He rubbed his eyes. Made two fists and opened them and gave a sick smile. "Fat chance."

Milo and I stood. A second later, Paprock rose, too. He was medium-sized, slightly round-backed, almost dainty.

He patted his chest, removed the aspirin bottle from his breast pocket and passed it from hand to hand. Walking around the desk, he pushed the door open and held it for us. No sign of John Allbright or anyone else. Paprock walked us through the showroom, touching the flanks of a gold Eldorado in passing.

"Whyncha buy a car, as long as you're here?" he said. Then he colored through his tan and stopped.

Milo held out his hand.

Paprock shook it, then mine.

We thanked him again for his time.

"Look," he said, "what I said before-about not wanting to know? That was bullshit. I still think about her. I got married again, it lasted three months, my kids hated the bitch. Myra was ... special. The kids, someday they're gonna have to know. I'll handle it. I can handle it. You find something, you tell me, okay? You find anything, you tell me."

I headed for Coldwater Canyon and the drive back to the city.

"Public school near Santa Barbara," I said. "Lousy pay, so maybe she moonlighted at a local private place."

"A reasonable assumption," said Milo. He lowered the Seville's passenger window, lit up a bad cigar, and blew smoke out at the hot valley air. The city was digging up Ventura Boulevard and sawhorses blocked one lane. Bad traffic usually made Milo curse. This time he kept quiet, puffing and thinking.

I said, "Shipler was a school janitor. Maybe he worked at de Bosch's school, too. That could be our connection: they were both staffers, not patients."

"Twenty years ago.... Wonder how long the school district keeps records. I'll check, see if Shipler transferred down from Santa Barbara."

"More reasons for me to drive up there," I said.

"When are you doing it?"

"Tomorrow. Robin can't make it-all for the best. Between trying to find remnants of the school and looking for Wilbert Harrison in Ojai, it won't be a pleasure trip."

"Those other guys-the therapists at the symposium-they worked at the school, too, right?"

"Harrison and Lerner did. But not Rosenblatt-he trained with de Bosch in England. I'm not sure about Stoumen, but he was a contemporary of de Bosch, and Katarina asked him to speak, so there was probably some kind of relationship."

"So, one way or the other, it all boils down to de Bosch.... Anyone seen as being close to him is fair game for this nut.... Bad love-destroying a kid's sense of trust, huh?"

"That's the concept."

I reached Coldwater and started the climb. He drew on his cigar and said, "Paprock was right about his wife. You saw the pictures-she was taken apart."

"Poor guy," I said. "Walking wounded."

"What I told him, about her being dead when she was raped? True. But she suffered, Alex. Sixty-four stab wounds and plenty of them landed before she died. That kind of revenge-rage? Someone must have gotten fucked up big-time."

CHAPTER.

19.

I made it to Beverly Hills with five minutes to spare for my one o'clock with Jean Jeffers. Parking was a problem and I had to use a city lot two blocks down from Amanda's, waiting at the curb as a contemplative valet decided whether or not to put up the FULL sign.

He finally let me in, and I arrived at the restaurant five minutes late. The place was jammed and it reeked of Parmesan cheese. A hostess was calling out names from a clipboarded list and walking the chosen across a deliberately cracked white marble floor. The tables were marble, too, and a gray faux-marble treatment had been given to the walls. The crypt look, nice and cold, but the room was hot with impatience and I had to elbow my way through a cranky crowd.

I looked around and saw Jean already seated at a table near the back, next to the south wall of the restaurant. She waved. The man next to her looked at me but didn't move.

I recalled him as the heavyset fellow from the photo in her office, a little heavier, a little grayer. In the picture, he and Jean had been wearing leis and matching Hawaiian shirts. Today, they'd kept the Bobbsey twins thing going with a white linen dress for her, white linen shirt for him, and matching yellow golf sweaters.

I waved back and went over. They had half-empty coffee cups in front of them and pieces of buttered olive bread on their bread plates. The man had an executive haircut and an executive face. Great shave, sunburnt neck, blue eyes, the skin around them slightly bagged.

Jean rose a little as I sat down. He didn't, though his expression was friendly enough.

"This is my husband, Dick Jeffers. Dick, Dr. Alex Delaware."

"Doctor."

"Mr. Jeffers."

He smiled as he shot out his arm. "Dick."

"Alex."

"Fair enough."

I sat down across from them. Both their yellow sweaters had crossed tennis-racquet logos. His bore a small, gold Masonic pin.

"Well," said Jean, "some crowd. Hope the food's good."

"Beverly Hills," said her husband. "The good life."

She smiled at him, looked down at her lap. A large, white purse sat there and one of her arms was around it.

Dick Jeffers said, "Guess I'll be going, Jeanie. Nice to meet you, doctor."

"Same here."

"Okay, honey," said Jean.

Cheek pecks, then Jeffers stood. He seemed to lose balance for a second, caught himself by resting one palm on the table. Jean looked away from him as he straightened. He shoved the chair back with the rear of his thighs and gave me a wink. Then he walked off, limping noticeably.

Jean said, "He has one leg, just got a brand new prosthesis and it's taking a while getting used to." It sounded like something she'd said many times before.

I said, "That can be tough. Years ago, I worked with children with missing limbs."

"Did you?" she said. "Well, Dick lost his in an auto accident."

Pain in her eyes. I said, "Recently?"

"Oh, no, several years ago. Before anyone really appreciated the value of seat belts. He was driving a convertible, was unbelted, got hit from behind and thrown out. Another car ran over his leg."

"Terrible."

"Thank God he wasn't killed. I met him when he was in rehab. I was doing a rotation at Rancho Los Amigos and he was there for a couple of months. He made a great adjustment to his appliance-always had until it started bothering him a few months ago. He'll get used to the new one. He's a good guy, very determined."

I smiled.

"So," she said, "how are you?"

"Fine. And intrigued."

"By?"

"Your call."

"Oh." The sheet of hair fell over her eye. She let it stay there. "Well, I didn't mean to be overly dramatic, it's just-" She looked around. "Why don't we order first, and then we can talk about it."

We read the menu. Someone in the kitchen had a thing for balsamic vinegar.

When she said, "Well, I know what I want," I waved over a waiter. Asian kid, around nineteen, with a waist-length ponytail and ten stud earrings rimming the outer cartilage of his left ear. It hurt to look at him and I stared at the table as Jean ordered an insalata something or other. I asked for linguine marinara and an iced tea. Ruined Ear came back quickly with the drink and a refill of her coffee.

When he left, she said, "So you live pretty close to here?"

"Not far."

"For a while Dick and I thought about moving over the hill, but then prices started to go crazy."

"They've slid quite a bit recently."

"Not enough." She smiled. "Not that I'm complaining. Dick's an aerospace engineer and he does well, but you never know when the government's going to cancel a project. The place we've got in Studio City is really pretty nice." She looked at her watch. "He's probably over at Rudnicks now. He likes to shop there for sweaters."

"He's not having lunch?"

"What I need to talk to you about is confidential. Dick understands that. So why did I bring him with me, right? To be honest, it's because I'm still shaky. Still haven't gotten used to being alone."

"I don't blame you."

"Don't you think I should be past it by now?"

"I probably wouldn't be."