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Louise.”
    “Actually, it’s more than a guess, Dr. Delaware, it’s intuition. I’ve been doing this a long time.”
    “We all sound alike?”
    “Actually you kind of do,” she said. “No offense, I mean that in a good way. You guys tend to be calm and patient. Surgeons don’t sound like that. Anyway, he seemed like a nice guy. Have a good day, Dr. Delaware.”
    A pleasant, boyish voice said, “Bern Shacker.”
    “Alex Delaware, thanks for calling back.”
    “No problem,” he said. “You said this was about Vita. Does that mean you’re the lucky guy treating her now?”
    “I’m afraid no one’s treating her.”
    “Oh?”
    “She’s been murdered.”
    “My God. What happened?”
    I gave him the basics.
    He said, “That’s dreadful, absolutely dreadful. Murdered … and you’re calling me because …”
    Because Vita had labeled him a quack. I said, “She had your card in her apartment.”
    “Did she … her apartment? I’m a little—you said you were a psychologist. Why would you be in her apartment? And why, for that matter, are you following up on a murder?”
    “I consult to the police and the detective in charge asked me to call you. One shrink to another.”
    “Shrink,” he said. “Unfortunate term … well, I don’t really—I didn’t exactly engage in long-term therapy with Vita—this is a bit complicated. I need to make a call or two before we go any further.”
    “Death and confidentiality,” I said. “The rules change every year.”
    “True, but it’s not only that,” said Shacker. “Vita wasn’t a typical therapy patient. I’m not trying to be mysterious but I can’t say more until I get clearance. If I do, we can chat.”
    “Appreciate it, Dr. Shacker.”
    “Murder,” he said. “Unbelievable. Where are you located?”
    “The Westside.”
    “I’m in Beverly Hills. If we do talk, would you mind it being face-to-face? So I can document the conversation?”
    “That would be fine.”
    “I’ll get back to you.”
    Forty-three minutes later, he was true to his word. “Alex? This is Bern. The insurance attorneys have cleared me and so did my personal attorney. I’ve got an opening at six. Does that work for you?”
    “Perfectly.”
    “Perfectly,” he echoed. “You sound like a positive person.”
    As if he’d just uncovered a character flaw.
    “I try.”
    “Try,” said Shacker, “is all we can do.”

CHAPTER
7
    S hacker’s building was three stories of lime and brick in the midst of Beverly Hills’ business district. Glossy navy carpeting smothered footsteps. Walls were paneled in bleached oak. A pharmacy calling itself a Dispensing Apothecarie and designed to look Victorian took up a quarter of the ground floor. The rest of the tenants were M.D.’s, D.D.S.’s, a few other psychologists.
    B. Shacker, Ph.D., Suite 207 .
    His waiting room was tiny, white, and set up with three friendly chairs and a wall-stack of magazines. Soft new-age music played from somewhere. A two-bulb panel sat to the left of the inner door. Red for In Session , green for free. Red was illuminated but moments after I sat down, it went dark.
    The door opened. An arm extended. “Alex? Bern Shacker.”
    The body attached to the arm was five six, thin, narrow-shouldered. The handshake offered was firm, dry, solid.
    Shacker looked around fifty. A fine-boned, rosy-cheeked face wastopped by thinning chestnut hair laced with silver and styled in a not-too-bad comb-over. Prominent ears and a slightly crooked pug nose gave him an elfin look. His eyes were soft, hazel, vaguely rueful. He wore a gray V-neck sweater over a black shirt, charcoal slacks, black loafers. The sleeves of the sweater were pushed to his elbows. Black shirt-cuffs overlapped the edges.
    “Thanks for taking the time, Bern.”
    “Please, come in.”
    The treatment room was painted pale aqua, carpeted in a darker variant of the same hue, dimmed by brown silk drapes shielding the window that looked out to Bedford