“Myron Bolitar.”

The little face broke open in a smile nearly as radiant as the eyes. “I thought I recognized you. You’re the basketball star.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘star’ exactly.” Blush, blush.

“Please, Mr. Bolitar, don’t be so modest. First team all-American three years in a row. Two NCAA championships. One College Player of the Year. Eighth pick overall in the draft.”

“You’re a fan?”

“And so observant.” She leaned back. Like a small child in a big rocking chair. “As I recall, you made the cover of Sports Illustrated twice. Unusual for a college player. You were also a good student, an academic all-American, popular with the press, and considered quite handsome. Am I correct?”

“Yes,” Myron said. “Except maybe for that ‘considered’ part.”

She laughed. It was a nice laugh. Her whole body seemed to join in. “Now why don’t you tell me what this is all about, Mr. Bolitar.”

“Please call me Myron.”

“Fine. And you can call me Dr. Abramson. Now what seems to be the problem?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“I see.” She looked skeptical, but Myron sensed that the good doctor was having a little fun at his expense. “So you have a ‘friend’ with a problem. Tell me all about it.”

“My friend,” he said, “is Valerie Simpson.”

That got her attention. “What?”

“I want to talk to you about Valerie Simpson.”

The open face slammed shut. “You’re not a reporter, are you?”

“No.”

“I thought I read you were a sports agent.”

“I am. Valerie Simpson was about to become a client.”

“I see.”

“When was the last time you saw Valerie?” Myron asked.

Dr. Abramson shook her head. “I can neither confirm nor deny that Valerie Simpson was ever a patient of mine.”

“You don’t have to confirm or deny it. I know she was.”

“I repeat: I can neither confirm nor deny that Valerie Simpson was ever a patient of mine.” She studied him for a moment. “Perhaps you can tell me what your interest is in this.”

“Like I said before, I was going to represent her.”

“That doesn’t explain your visiting me incognito.”

“I’m investigating her murder.”

“Investigating?”

Myron nodded.

“Who hired you?”

“No one.”

“Then why are you investigating?”

“I have my reasons.”

She nodded. “What are those reasons, Myron? I’d like to hear about them.”

Psychiatrists. “You want me to also tell you about the time I walked in on Mommy and Daddy?”

“If you want.”

“I don’t want. What I want is to know what caused Valerie’s breakdown.”

Her response was rote. “I can neither confirm nor deny that Valerie Simpson was ever a patient of mine.”

“Doctor-patient privilege?”

“That’s right.”

“But Valerie is dead.”

“That doesn’t alter my obligation in the slightest.”

“She’s been murdered. Gunned down in cold blood.”

“I understand that. Dramatics will not alter my obligation either.”

“But you may know something helpful.”

“Helpful in what way?”

“In finding the killer.”

She folded the tiny hands in her lap. Like a little girl in church. “And that’s what you’re attempting to do? Find this woman’s killer?”

“Yes.”

“What about the police? I understood from news reports that they have a suspect.”

“I don’t trust authority types,” Myron said.

“Oh?”

“It’s one of the reasons I want to help.”

Dr. Abramson fixed him with the big eyes. “I don’t think so, Myron.”

“No?”

“You look more like the rescue-complex sort to me. The kind of man who likes to play hero all the time, who sees himself as a knight in shining armor. What do you think?”

“I think we should save my analysis for later.”

She shrugged her little shoulders. “Just giving my opinion. No extra charge.”

“Fine.” Extra charge? “I’m not so sure the police have the right man.”

“Why not?”

“I was hoping you could help me with that. Valerie must have talked about Roger Quincy’s stalking her. Did she think he was dangerous?”

“For the final time, I will neither confirm nor deny—”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking about Roger Quincy. You don’t have a relationship with him, do you?”

“I also don’t know him.”

“Then how about one of those quick opinions. Like you did with me.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no way I can convince you to talk to me?”

“About a possible patient? No.”

“Suppose I got parental consent.”

“You won’t.”

Myron waited, watched. She was better at this than him. Her face gave away nothing, but the words couldn’t be taken back. “How do you know that?” he asked.

She remained silent. Her eyes dropped to the floor. Myron wondered if the faux pas had been on purpose.

“They called you already, didn’t they?” Myron said.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss any communications between myself and—”

“The family called. They hushed you up.”

“I will neither confirm—”

“The body is barely cold and they’re already covering their tracks,” Myron went on. “You don’t see anything wrong with that?”

Dr. Abramson cleared her throat. “I do not know what you’re talking about, but I will say this: it is not unreasonable in situations such as the one you’ve described to me for parents to want to protect their daughter’s memory.”

“Protect her memory”—Myron rose, put on his best lawyer-in-summation glower—“or her murderer?” Mr. High Drama.

“Now you’re being silly,” she said. “You surely don’t suspect the young woman’s family.”

Myron sat back down. He gave his best anything’s-possible head tilt. “Helen Van Slyke’s daughter is killed. Within hours the grieving mother calls you to make sure you keep your mouth shut. You don’t find that a tad odd?”