"No one."
"Not Becky's therapist?"
"No, Becky and I agreed she could get help without getting into it. And don't tell me I was wrong, because I wasn't. She's fine now. Planning to go to community college. Study psychology. We're back to where we were before, Alex. Becky will take strength from it— develop a higher level of empathy out of this. Be a
great
psychologist."
I turned toward the door.
"You don't know, either, Alex. This conversation never took place."
I reached for the doorknob.
"You're right," she said. "I don't ever want to see or hear from you again."
38
TWO WEEKS BEFORE Christmas, I called FBI headquarters at the Federal Building and, not expecting any success, asked to speak with Special Agent Mary Donovan.
I was transferred to her immediately.
"Hello, Doctor. What can I do for you?"
"I was just wondering if you've had any success with Dr. Fusco."
"Success," she said. "As measured by?"
"Finding him. Helping him."
"You're serious."
"About what?"
"Helping him. As if we're a clinic or something."
"Well," I said, "there's always the issue of collegiality. And respect for what he once was. No sign of him, at all?"
Long silence.
She said, "Look, I took your call because I thought you might've changed your mind, but this is a waste of time."
"Changed my mind in what way?"
"Being willing to cooperate. Helping us find him."
"Helping you?" I said. "As if I'm a clinic or something."
Another silence.
"I guess my question's been answered," I said.
"Have a nice day, Doctor."
Click.
I sat there holding the phone. Thinking about Alice Zoghbie's claim of being audited by the IRS because she'd rubbed important noses the wrong way. Probably a lie, covering for a call from Roy Haiselden.
But you never knew.
39
A WEEK BEFORE Christmas, Stacy called.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "It was rude not answering, but things got really busy and . . ."
"Don't worry about it. How's everything going?"
"Actually, much better. Did pretty well on a bunch of A.P. exams, and I just found out I got in early to Cornell. I know it's far away and it gets cold, but they've got a veterinary school and I think I might want to do that."
"Congratulations, Stacy."
"Architecture seemed too . . . impersonal. Anyway, thanks for all your help. That's it."
"How's Eric?"
"He's okay. Dad's fine, too, busy all the time. He doesn't like visiting that probation officer, complains about it constantly, but he's lucky that's all he got, right? Eric changed his major. Psychology. So maybe you had an influence on him— I'm sorry about the way he treated you."
"That's okay."
She laughed. "That's what he says. Taking abuse is part of your job. Guilt's not a big part of Eric's life."
"Ah," I said, knowing how wrong she was.
"Did you hear about the Manitows?" she said.
"What about them?"
"They put their house up for sale and moved out of the Palisades. They're renting a place down in La Jolla. Judge Manitow's quitting and Dr. Manitow's trying to see if he can find work down there."
"No, I hadn't heard."
"They didn't exactly advertise it," she said. "One day I was seeing Dr. Manitow drive off to work, the next day the sign was up and the moving vans were there. Becky's moving with them. Going to some junior college in San Diego. Everyone else can't wait to get out of the house, but she's staying with her parents. Someone told me Becky said that she needs to stay close to home."
"Some people do need that," I said.
"Guess so. Anyway, thanks for all your help. Maybe one day I'll get my DVM and I'll get a chance to work with that cute little bulldog of yours. Pay you back."
"Maybe," I said.
She laughed. "That would be cool."
The End