"Not yet." Yale slid a business card across the table. "This is my pager number. Only talk to me."

"My preference." Still no pact, but it seemed they were making headway. "How did he get into Dr. Trace's apartment?"

"She's listed. There are two Traces in the area, and the other one's not Doctor. The front door of her complex is a simple bar lock, can be picked with half a brain and a tilted credit card. Used a regular pick set on her apartment door. No prints, smudges consistent with latex gloves. SID couldn't even find a partial. We found he dropped a couple extra doctored capsules in her Tylenol bottle, in case she popped a few of those first." Yale chewed his lip, his features softening. "It seems we all underestimated this guy."

Chapter 48

DAVID stood at the counter in Medical Records, staring down at Clyde Slade's file. He'd spent about an hour at the station, filling in Yale but withholding the theories he wanted to flesh out more in his own mind. And of course, he'd made no mention of Ed. On the drive home, he'd received a page from Medical Records, informing him Clyde's file had arrived.

Again, the clerk was listening to the Dodgers game, staring at the radio as though that would enhance the experience. He broke off his intent focus to glance at the skimpy file. "Not much there, huh?" he said.

David flipped open the file, revealing a single sheet. The note at the top: Admitted 8/13/73 for NPI study under Dr. J. P. Connolly.

A tingling swept across David's body: the feeling of nailing a difficult diagnosis.

August 13. The day of Nancy's attack. Clyde had been admitted for the study twenty-eight years before-to the day. He would have been ten years old. The study was a likely source of his fear of the Neuropsychiatric Institute and of Dash as its representative. Maybe the date had been an unconscious trigger, a precipitating event for Clyde's assaults. Psychologists refer to the phenomenon as the anniversary syndrome-people entering depressions on the anniversaries of the deaths of their loved ones, post-traumatic stress victims feeling their anxiety escalate on the anniversaries of the original trauma.

The study's lead researcher, Dr. J. P. Connolly, had been a world-renowned psychologist. A close friend of David's parents, he had grown somewhat cantankerous in the final years of his life. He'd passed away about a decade ago.

David glanced down the page. The only other note indicated a respiratory infection Clyde had sustained in September of '73-the reason for the file's existence in Medical Records as opposed to the NPI's.

David picked up the phone and reached Dash at the office. He took a few steps away from the counter, lowering his voice, though the desk clerk seemed immersed in the ball game. "Hi, Dash. Did you look for that NPI file I asked you about?"

"Despite my better judgment. Nothing came up under either name."

"I found a peds file for Clyde Slade. Shows he was entered in a study run out of the NPI by Connolly in August of '73."

"That's odd. There's nothing here under Slade-I did a thorough search. Hang on a sec, I'm logged on right now." The sound of keyboard strokes. "Nothing about a Connolly study in August either. Of any kind."

"Why would files be missing?"

"I don't know. Restricted, maybe. Or Connolly could have kept his files at home. He did have funding from a variety of sources."

"But shouldn't there at least be copies at the NPI?"

"Yes. And the journal in which the study was published. But there's nothing."

"All right. Thanks for your help." David hung up, his enthusiasm undercut by the nagging sense of something askew.

The walkway was as David remembered it as a child, a thin path twisting through gardens to the front door. The gardens themselves, however, were hardly recognizable, so overgrown were they with weeds and patches of sourgrass. The trademark marigolds drooped in limp clusters, baked brown by the heat.

David had not been to the Connollys' house in over twenty-five years. He recalled dark leather furniture, thick carpeting, and the pervasive, comforting smell of a pipe. When he knocked on the front door, a distant, warbling voice sounded from within. "Just a minute, please."

Mrs. Connolly's estimate was overly ambitious; it took her nearly two minutes to get to the door. Clutching a tissue that had been worried to shreds, she gazed up at David. Old and quite frail, she wore a heavy cotton nightgown decorated with flowers. The skin of her arms draped in wrinkled sheets over her bones. "Yes?"

"Hello, I'm David. Janet Spier's son." David realized too late that he'd neglected to mention his father.

"Oh my goodness." The woman's eyes grew watery. Her hand described a fretful arc in the air with the tissue. "David, I haven't seen you since God knows. I just can't believe it. How handsome you are." She reached out and stroked the front of his white coat once, reverently.

"It's good to see you, Mrs. Connolly."