"That's a stretch," Anton commented, pushing aside stacks of papers to clear a spot for the file on Barrett's desk and then sitting down.

"Stretch or no, Werther told me that I was to cease-and-desist any and all contact with Jimmy Martin. I think his exact words were, 'this may be bulls.h.i.t, but bulls.h.i.t plus a $500-an-hour attorney equals years of litigation h.e.l.l'. Which is why this surprised me."

Barrett dragged the chart toward her and opened it. She looked at Anton. "And how did he ever get hooked up with Morris Kravitz? I didn't think forensic work was his bag."

Anton chuckled, "I shouldn't say this, because Morris was a great guy, but he'd go wherever the money was, and as you're about to find out, Jimmy Martin can afford the best."

"I'm surprised the forensic review board would have allowed Kravitz to be his psychiatrist. He's not trained to handle the monitoring part."

Anton shifted position and looked out through Barrett's single grime-smeared window at a pair of pigeons roosting on the ledge. "Maybe they couldn't get anyone else."

"Please," Barrett replied sarcastically, "with his kind of money? I'm surprised they weren't lined up. And Anton ..."

"Yes?"

"I appreciate your throwing my name in like this. I don't really want to talk about it, but ... it looks like Ralph and I ... s.h.i.t!"

"What?"

"It's not good," she admitted, finding the words hard to get out.

"I'm sorry."

"Me too," she forced the corners of her lips into a smile. "He's staying at his mom's till we figure things out. Anyway, thanks for thinking of me. Because I'm going to need the money."

"Don't mention it," he stood.

Barrett looked up at him, she considered Anton a friend, but even so it felt odd telling him about Ralph. The worst part though, had been last Sunday dinner at her mother's apartment over what used to be Sophie and Max's used bookstore-but was now a Korean deli-on the Bowery. Up till then, she hadn't even told Justine. So when Ruth had innocently asked, "Where's Ralph?" the whole mess had tumbled out.

"So how did Kravitz get to work with Martin?" she asked, wanting to change the subject.

"I don't know."

"It's just odd ... do you know how he died?"

"Hypoglycemic shock, he was diabetic."

"He wasn't that old, was he?"

"Fifties."

"And it just happened."

"Sat.u.r.day, I think."

"Interesting," she flipped through the chart until she came to a copy of James Cyrus Martin IV's conditional release agreement. She turned to the page of stipulations and ran her finger down the bulleted terms that outlined the do's-and-don'ts for his return to the community.

"Anyway, I'll leave you to it," Anton commented.

"Right," she said, not looking up, and barely registering the sound of her office door closing behind him.

She found what she was looking for halfway down the second page. Under the heading of "Psychiatric Supervision," it stated, "Releasee is to meet at least weekly with a board-appointed psychiatrist." Farther down it spelled out the responsibilities for the psychiatrist that included monthly reports back to the forensic review board, random drug screens, oversight of medication, and appropriate monitoring of same.

She leaned back and watched as a mottled pigeon awkwardly flapped its wings and banked up against the guano-stained brick of the adjacent building. Anton had approached her on Tuesday morning-the day after Charlie Rohr shot himself-with taking over Martin's case. When he'd told her that she could pretty much name her fee, it had felt like a gift. Amazing how quickly it all happened. She'd see Jimmy tomorrow-Thursday-and by her doing that, his chart would reflect total compliance; he wouldn't miss a single week of meeting with a psychiatrist.

She worked her way backward through the conditional release agreement. Most of it was boilerplate legalese that she'd read a thousand times before, a laundry list of all the rules that Jimmy Martin had to follow if he wanted to stay out of the maximum-security hospital-required at all times to wear an electronic monitoring device and if he intended to travel farther than a quarter-mile radius from his home, he needed written permission. All his medications were to be supervised and any "significant changes" in his drug regimen had to be approved by the review board.

The main thing that struck her as odd was that Kravitz had gone to the patient's home for their sessions. Barrett provided psychiatric coverage for other releasees in mid-Manhattan, but they all came to her office-usually in the company of their parole officer or case manager, This would be a first and it didn't sit right. She'd told Anton that the only way she'd take the case was if Martin agreed to a police escort. Apparently, that was no big deal. She'd gotten an affirmative response in under half an hour.

She flipped to the front of the chart and fanned the pages in search of a typed summary. She pictured the obese and twitching blond man she'd interviewed when she was still in training. Scanning through the doc.u.ments, she remembered why she'd found his case intriguing. Jimmy Martin had spent well over a decade at Croton following his arrest at age eighteen in the apartment of a young violinist from South Carolina, Nicole Foster. Ms. Foster, along with her ba.s.s player fiance, had been brutally and s.a.d.i.s.tically butchered. Immediately following Jimmy's arrest he had a psychotic break and was deemed incompetent to stand trial, and eventually found not guilty by reason of insanity. Beyond that was the curious twist that the murders were actually committed by a second man, Mason Carter, who subsequently hung himself in prison prior to being tried. Also odd was Jimmy's consistent a.s.sertion that he'd never touched the murder victims, which was corroborated by a lack of physical evidence linking him to the mutilated bodies. What was clear, however, was that Jimmy had been fixated on Nicole Foster, and had been stalking her. The prosecution also had strong evidence that money had pa.s.sed between him and the murderer. At his arraignment, Carter had alleged that he'd been hired by Martin to scare away Ms. Foster's fiance, and that in the heat of the moment, things had gotten out of control. Key pieces of that were never confirmed, and within days Carter was found slumped down in his cell with a sheet knotted around his neck.

For the next half hour Barrett gleaned whatever she could from the forensic center's records. It was a creepy case, but she found a comfort in the work, not having to think about Ralph or Charlie Rohr. She scanned Kravitz's weekly notes. Clearly, he was no forensic psychiatrist and she found little insight into Jimmy Martin's internal world. Still, it felt good to be immersed in the unknown of a new case.

The phone rang. Without looking up, she picked up.

"Dr. Conyors?" her secretary's breathy voice asked.

"Yes, Marla."

"There's an Ellen Martin on the phone for you."

"Is something wrong, Marla?" Barrett asked, noting a tremor in her voice.

"No. Do you want to take it? Or should I tell her you're not in?"

"Put her through." Barrett listened as the line clicked, and wondered if her lucrative gig might be about to disappear.

"h.e.l.lo, Dr. Conyors?" The voice was husky, the syllables crisp.

"Yes."

"I understand you've agreed to work with my brother; I was hoping we could have a chance to chat first. I suppose I should start by letting you know that I'm Jimmy's conservator, so you won't need a release to talk with me."

"Of course," Barrett said, having already scanned the paperwork giving Ellen Martin responsibility for handling Jimmy's finances and treatment.

"Did you know that I met your brother one time before?" Barrett asked.

There was a slight hesitation, "Yes, I'm aware of that, and I suppose I should explain why I didn't want you interviewing my brother back then."

"No need."

"No, it's actually pretty complicated. Is there any way I could get an hour or two of your time? This may be presumptuous, but I know you have to see him tomorrow ... could I buy you dinner?"

"Tonight?"

"If you're able, there's a lot to tell."

Barrett weighed the pros and cons. Ellen Martin, as Jimmy's conservator, could be a powerful ally in the treatment. Beyond that, it was clear from the record that Ellen had been instrumental in securing Jimmy's release. But it was unusual, and a bit beyond the norm to have a meal with a patient's family, still ... she'd get a lot more insight out of the sister than Kravitz's bone-dry notes. "What time?"

"Fantastic, how's seven?"

FOUR.

It was dusk, the air warm and spring sweet as Barrett cut through Bryant Park and headed west. Since Ellen Martin's call, she'd plowed through her work, and realized that several things about this case had her intrigued. The fact that she'd be getting $750 a pop for meeting with Jimmy Martin didn't hurt. Beyond the money, she was hooked, loving the challenge of the unsolved mystery. Of the four people in that b.l.o.o.d.y apartment eighteen years ago, only Jimmy was still alive. In reading through the chart, the impression the Croton doctors had was that Jimmy was a victim. Sure, he'd been stalking the girl, but the actual murders had been committed by Mason Carter-a previously convicted s.e.x offender. Their conclusion had been that Jimmy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Something about that didn't jibe-starting with Carter's allegation that Jimmy had paid him. Admittedly, Carter would say all sorts of things if he thought it would lessen his sentence, but why was he there? It seemed statistically unlikely that Nicole Foster-a talented violinist from Charleston-would be the object of two stalkers. Plus, the detectives and the prosecution had built an argument that traced twenty thousand in cash found on Carter back to a series of withdrawals made by Jimmy Martin. If Martin hadn't wound up at Croton-declared too crazy to stand trial-he would have faced accessory to murder, possibly more. As it was, the whole case and definitive investigation got short-circuited by Carter's suicide and Jimmy's not guilty by reason of insanity plea.

Mulling this over, she arrived at Siam Garden, the Chelsea restaurant Ellen Martin had suggested. She pushed through the dark gla.s.s outer door, and scanned the mostly empty, candle-lit interior.

A smiling Asian hostess in a turquoise silk sheath dress approached. "Dr. Conyors?"

"Yes."

"Your party is waiting. This way, please." The hostess led Ellen back toward a curtained alcove. The hostess pulled back a richly embroidered drape covered with gilt elephants and monkeys, and led Barrett into a cozy private dining room, the walls and ceiling hung with garnet-colored silk. In the center stood a carved teak table with two leather club chairs, one of them occupied by a tall blond woman in a beautifully draped black suit, holding a martini gla.s.s.

The woman stood as Barrett entered. "Dr. Conyors, thank you for meeting at such short notice."

"Don't mention it," she said, taking Ellen Martin's extended and perfectly manicured hand.

"What are you drinking?"

Barrett's first response was to say nothing, but between the openness of Ellen Martin's china-white smile, and the nest-like comfort of the room , she was lulled. "What are you having?"

"Grey-Goose martini with Jalapeno-stuffed olives."

"Sounds good," she said to the hostess, who stood by silently.

"Another for me," Ellen said. "So, come, sit ... you must be wondering what the h.e.l.l you've gotten yourself into."

Barrett smiled as she sank into the glove-soft chair. She looked at Ellen, with her symmetrical blond hairdo that cut off crisply beneath her ears, and was sculpted around the back of her head, like a high-fashion helmet. Her skin was flawless and glowed pink in the reflected light from the candles and the hanging silks. She was striking, but the squareness of her jaw gave a masculine cast to her features. "Have we met before?" Barrett asked, finding something both familiar and forgotten in Ellen's clear blue eyes.

Ellen looked back. "I don't think so," she said slowly. "But now that you mention it, you do look familiar ... odd."

"It'll come to us," Barrett said.

"You're not from around here, though, are you?" Ellen asked. "There's something in your voice ..."

"No," Barrett admitted. "Late in the day I sound more like my mother's Georgia."

"So is this very strange?" Ellen asked. "Meeting like this with a family member?"

"Yes and no. As your brother's conservator it's not so strange. I think it's a good idea that we try to stay on the same page."

"I'm so glad to hear you say that." Ellen looked up as a waitress entered with their drinks and menus.

Barrett took a first sip of the icy c.o.c.ktail, and savored the tang of pepper and the cool bite of vodka.

"How adventuresome are you?" Ellen asked.

"Excuse me?"

"With food?"

"Pretty much anything."

"This place does a wonderful banquet, they just keep bringing things until you can't move, sound good?"

"Sounds wonderful," Barrett agreed, letting Ellen order.

Once the waitress was out of earshot, Ellen leaned forward. A gold and topaz necklace dangled and refracted the candlelight. "I feel like there's so much I need to tell you. I almost don't know where to start."

"Does your brother know we're meeting?"

"I haven't told Jimmy yet, but it won't matter to him. He's so used to my arranging things that it wouldn't surprise him." She took a long sip of her drink, "Sometimes I think half my life is spent trying to keep my brother out of trouble."

"You arranged his release from Croton."

"Yes, but not without a lot of effort ... and expense. To be honest, I think that's what finally tipped things, the fact that we're paying for everything."

Barrett kept quiet, while making a series of observations about the woman, from the absence of a wedding ring, to her poise and ease in what might have been an uncomfortable meeting. She wondered why someone as attractive and articulate as Ellen was single and what it was that caused her to spend so much time advocating for her brother. And she couldn't help but admire the subdued richness of the woman's clothing and jewelry. Her own seasons' past, off-the-rack navy Donna Karan suit felt graceless in comparison. "They were reluctant to release him." Barrett finally commented.

"That's putting it mildly, all of which made no sense, considering they never actually proved my brother had done anything. The breaking and entering was the only thing solid, everything else was circ.u.mstantial. If I'd known what I now know, I would never have let my parents do that to him. If he'd gone to trial he'd have gotten what, a few months? Maybe less, but not eighteen years. It was so unfair."

"You were young." Barrett offered, not wanting to argue that the charges might have gone all the way to murder one.

"We were eighteen. My brother was only eighteen when they put him in that h.e.l.l hole!"

The curtain slid back and the waitress deftly slid platters of an a.s.sortment of steamed, roasted, and fried dumplings onto the center of the table. Pointing to each, she described the fillings, identified three varieties of dipping sauce, poured green tea, and left.

Barrett skewered a roast-pork-and-water-chestnut dumpling with her fork, and while savoring the crunch and soothing peanut flavor, tried to draw Ellen out. "In reading the chart," she said, "it sounds like your brother had a psychotic break at the time of the arrest."

"He did, but even so, he could have gone to trial. My parents were dead set against that."

"Because?"

"Publicity." She fished an olive from her drink. "They didn't want the Martin name dragged through the press. The papers did a number on him anyway. But as time went on ..." She shook her head, and took a deep breath.

To Barrett, it appeared that Ellen was close to tears. "What is it?"

"I thought this was going to be easier, but I guess if you're going to be working with Jimmy you'll find all this stuff out sooner or later. Our parents were not good people," she stated bluntly. "As an adult, I can sit back and say they should never have had children ... I hold them directly responsible for what happened to Jimmy."