When The Bough Breaks

The robe fell open. She kneeled above me, letting it slide down her shoulders. Backlit by the glow of the fire, she looked like a piece of glorious, golden statuary.

"Come on sweetie," she coaxed, "get out of those clothes." And she took the matter into her own hands.

"I do love you," she said later. "Even if you are catatonic."

I refused to budge, and lay spreadeagled on the floor.

"I'm cold."

She covered me, stood and stretched, and laughed with pleasure.

"How can you jump around afterwards?" I groaned.

"Women are stronger than men," she said gaily, and proceeded to dance around the room, humming, stretching more so that the muscles of her calves ascended in the slender columns of her legs like bubbles rising in a carpenter's level. Her eyes reflected orange Halloween light. When she moved a shudder went through me.

"Keep jiggling like that and I'll show you who's stronger."

"Later, big boy." She teased me with her foot and leaped away from my grabbing paws with fluid agility.

By the time the steaks were ready Mrs. Gutierrez's cuisine was a vague memory and I ate with gusto. We sat side by side in the breakfast nook, looking out through leaded glass as lights went on in the hills like the beacons of a distant search party. She rested her head on my shoulder. My arm went around her, my fingertips blindly traced the contours of her face. We took turns drinking from a single glass of wine.

"I love you," I said.

"I love you too." She kissed the underside of my chin. After several more sips:

"You were investigating those murders today, weren't you?"

"Yes."

She fortified herself with a large swallow and refilled the glass.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'm not going to hassle you about it. I can't pretend I like it, but I won't try to control you."

I hugged her by way of thanks.

"I mean, I wouldn't want you treating me that way, so I won't do it to you." She was giving liberation the old school try, but worry remained suspended in her voice like a fly in amber.

"I'm watching out for myself."

"I know you are," she said, too quickly. "You're a bright man. You can take care of yourself."

She handed me the wine.

"If you want to talk about it, Alex, I'll listen."

I hesitated.

"Tell me. I want to know what's going on."

I gave her a rehash of the last two days, ending it with the confrontation with Andy Gutierrez, leaving out the ten turbulent minutes with Raquel.

She listened, troubled and attentive, digested it, and told me, "I can see why you can't drop it. So many suspicious things, no connecting thread."

She was right. It was reverse Gestalt, the whole so much less than the sum of its parts. A random assortment of musicians, sawing, blowing, thumping, yearning for a conductor. But who the hell was I to play Ormandy?

"When are you going to tell Milo?"

"I'm not. I spoke to him this morning and he basically told me to mind my own business, stay out of it." "But it's his job, Alex. He'll know what to do."

"Honey, Milo will get bent out of shape if I tell him I visited La Casa."

"But that poor child, the retarded one, isn't there something he could do about it?"

I shook my head.

"It's not enough. There'd be an explanation for it. Mile's got his suspicions - I'll bet they're stronger than he let on to me - but he's hemmed in by rules and procedures."

"And you're not," she said softly.

"Don't worry."

"Don't worry, yourself. I'm not going to try to stop you. I meant what I said."

I drank more wine. My throat had constricted and the cool liquid was astringently soothing.

She got up and stood behind me, putting her arms over my shoulders. It was a gesture of support not dissimilar from the one I'd offered Raquel just a few hours earlier. She reached down and played with the ridge of hair that vertically bisected my abdomen.

"I'm here for you, Alex, if you need me."

"I always need you. But not to get involved in crap like this."

"Whatever you need me for, I'm here."

I rose out of the chair and drew her to me, kissing her neck, her ears, her eyes. She threw back her head and put my lips on the warm pulse at the base of her throat.

"Let's get into bed and snuggle," she said.

I turned on the radio and tuned it to KKGO. Sonny Rollins was extracting a liquid sonata from his horn. I switched on a dim light and drew back the covers.

The second surprise of the evening lay there, a plain white envelope, business - size, unmarked and partially covered by the pillow.

"Was this here when you arrived?"

She'd taken off her robe. Now she held it to her breasts, seeking cover, as if the envelope were a living, breathing intruder.

"Could have been. I didn't go in the bedroom."

I slit it open with my thumbnail and took out the single sheet of white paper folded inside. The page was devoid of date, address or any distinguishing logo. Just a white rectangle filled with lines of handwriting that slanted pessimistically downward. The penmanship, cramped and spidery, was familiar. I sat down on the edge of the bed and read.

Dear Doctor: