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tapes into the envelope and started for the door. As he opened it he paused to turn back, asking once again for an answer. When the house remained silent, he shut and locked the door carefully behind him.

SIX
    C ruising at thirty-five thousand feet on his way back to New York, Lash inserted his credit card into the seatback slot, plucked the air-to-ground phone from its handset, and stared at it a moment.
What does an expert do when something makes no sense?
he thought.
Simple. You ask another expert
.
    His first call was to directory information; the second to a number in Putnam County, New York.
    “Weisenbaum Center,” came a clipped, efficient voice.
    “Dr. Goodkind, please.”
    “Who may I say is calling?”
    “Christopher Lash.”
    “Just a minute.”
    Among private psychologists, the Norman J. Weisenbaum Center for Biomedical Research was both revered and envied for the quality of its neurochemical studies. As Lash waited through ethereal, New Age music, he tried to picture the center in his mind. He knew it was located on the Hudson River about forty-five minutes north of Manhattan. No doubt beautiful, with impeccable architecture: the center was a darling of both hospitals and pharmaceutical companies, and was lavishly funded.
    “Chris!” came Goodkind’s cheery voice. “I can’t believe it. I haven’t heard from you in, what, six years?”
    “Must be that long.”
    “How are you enjoying private practice?”
    “The hours are better.”
    “I’ll bet. I always wondered when you’d give up riding with the cavalry, settle down in some nice, lucrative town. You’re practicing in Fairfield, right?”
    “Stamford.”
    “Yes, of course. Close to Greenwich, Southport, New Canaan. All full of rich, dysfunctional couples, no doubt. Excellent choice.” Old U. Penn classmates like Goodkind had been divided in their opinions on Lash joining the FBI. Some seemed envious. Others shook their heads, unable to comprehend why he’d willingly take on such a stressful, physically demanding, potentially dangerous job when his doctorate entitled him to something a lot cushier. When he did leave the FBI, he’d been careful to let them believe greed was the motivating factor—rather than the tragedy that so abruptly ended both his law enforcement career and his marriage.
    “You hear much from Shirley?” Goodkind asked.
    “Nope.”
    “Shame you two split up. It didn’t have to do with, what, that Edmund Wyre business, did it? I read about that in the paper.”
    Lash was careful to keep his voice from betraying the pain that, even three years later, mention of that name could evoke. “No, nothing like that.”
    “Horrible. Horrible. Must’ve been rough on you.”
    “Wasn’t easy.” Lash began to feel sorry he’d called. How could he have forgotten Goodkind’s curiosity, his love of prying into the personal affairs of others?
    “I picked up that book of yours,” Goodkind said. “
Congruency
. Excellent stuff, though of course you were writing for the unwashed.”
    “I wanted to sell more than a dozen copies.”
    “And?”
    “Sold two dozen, at least.”
    Goodkind laughed.
    “I read your recent article, too,” Lash went on. “In the
American Journal of Neurobiology
. ‘Cognitive Reappraisal and Agenerative Suicide.’ Nicely argued.”
    “One thing about my position here at the center is I can specialize in the research of my choice.”
    “I was also interested in some of your other recent papers. ‘Reuptake Inhibitors and Elder Suicide,’ for example.”
    “Really?” Goodkind sounded surprised. “I had no idea you were keeping such close tabs.”
    “I infer from the articles that, in addition to the lab research, you’ve interviewed quite a number of suicide attempters?”
    “Well, I haven’t had a chance to talk with too many suicide
completers
.” Goodkind chuckled at his little joke.
    “Including survivors of double suicides?”
    “Of course.”
    “Then there’s something I’m