"Why do you ask that?" she said on a risingnote. "Do you suspect Laura?"

"I wouldn't go that far. But you haven't answeredmy question."

"She couldn't possibly be the same woman. She's awholly different type."

"What about her basic physicalcharacteristics?"

"I suppose there is someresemblance," she said dubiously. "Roy has always been attracted towomen who are obviously mammals."

And obviously mother figures, I thought. "I haveto ask you one other question, a more personal question."

"Yes?" She seemed to be bracing herself fora blow.

"I suppose you're aware that Roy was Dr. Godwin'spatient."

"Dr. Godwin's patient? I don'tbelieve it. He wouldn't go behind my back." For all her half-cynicalinsight into his na ture, she seemed to know very little about him.

"Dr. Godwin says he did, apparentlyfor scme years."

"There must be a mistake. Roy hasnothing the matter with his mind." There was a vibrating silence."Has he?"

"I was going to ask you, but I'msorry I brought it up. Take it easy, Mrs. Bradshaw."

"How can I, with my boy injeopardy?"

She wanted to hold me on the line,siphoning comfort into her frightened old ears, but I said good night and hungup. One suspect had been eliminated: Madge Gerhardi: the description didn't fither and never could have. Laura was still in the running.

It wouldn't make sense, of course, forBradshaw to divorce her and remarry her immediately. But I had only Bradshaw'sword for his recent marriage to Laura. I was gradually realizing that his wordstretched like an elastic band, and was as easily broken. I looked up Laura'saddress—she lived in College Heights—and was copying it into my notebook whenthe phone rang.

It was Jerry Marks. McGee denied havingtold the woman Tish or anyone else about the affair between Bradshaw and hiswife. The only one he had discussed the subject with was Bradshaw.

"Bradshaw may have told the woman himself,"I said. "Or possibly the woman overheard McGee."

"Possibly, but hardly likely. McGee says hisconversation with Bradshaw took place in Bradshaw's house."

"He could have had the woman there while hismother was away."

"You think she lives around here?"

"Somewhere in Southern California,anyway. I believe Bradshaw's been leading a split-level life with her, and thatshe's responsible for both the McGee and the Haggerty killings. I just got animproved description of her from Bradshaw's mother. Better pass it along to thepolice. Do you have something to write on?"

"Yes. I'm sitting at the Sheriff's desk."

I recited Lelitia Macready's description,but I didn't say anything about Laura Sutherland. I wanted to talk to hermyself.

College Heights was a detached suburb onthe far side of the campus from the city. It was a hodgepodge of tract housesand fraternity houses, duplexes and apartment buildings, interspersed withvacant lots sprouting for-sale signs. A boy with a guitar in one of the lightedfraternity houses was singing that this land belongs to you and me.

Laura lived in one of the better apartments,a garden apartment built around an open court with a swimming pool. Ashirt-sleeved man slapping mosquitoes in a deck chair by the pooi pointed outher door to me and mentioned with some complacency that he owned the place.

"Is anybody with her?"

"I don't think so. She did have a visitor, but hewent home."

"Who was he?"

The man peered up at my face. "That's her privatebusiness, mister."

"I expect it was Dean Bradshaw, from thecollege."

"If you know, why ask?"

I walked to the back of the court and knockedon her door. She opened it on a chain. Her face had lost a good deal of itsrosy beauty. She had on a dark suit, as if she was in mourning.

"What do you want? It's late."

"Too late for us to have a talk, Mrs.Bradshaw?"

"I'm not Mrs. Bradshaw," she said withoutmuch conviction. "I'm not married."

"Roy said you were last night. Which one of youis lying?"

"Please, my landlord's outthere." She unchained the door and stepped back out of the widening light."Come inside if you must."

She closed the door and chained it behindme. I was looking at her instead of the room, but I had the impression of atastefully decorated place where shaded lights gleamed peacefully on wooden andceramic surfaces. I was searching her face for traces of a past wholly differentfrom her present. There were no visible traces, no cruel lines or pouches ofdissipation. But she hadn't much peace in her. She was watching me as though Iwas a burglar.

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid," she said in a

© Alexander Sviyash, 2009