After Renquist left, Nash began to lock up. His office was on Seventy-first and Park, his apartment on the twentieth floor of the same building. He went out through the door that led to the lobby.

The new tenant in 20B, a blonde in her early thirties, was waiting for the elevator. He fought down irritation at the prospect of riding up with her. The undisguised interest in her eyes was a nuisance, as were her almost inevitable invitations to drop in for a drink.

Michael Nash had the same problem with a number of his women patients. He could read their minds. Nice-looking guy, divorced, no children, mid-to-late thirties, available. A diffident reserve had become second nature to him. At least tonight the new neighbor did not repeat the invitation. Maybe she was learning. When they stepped from the elevator, he murmured, “Good night.” His apartment reflected the precise care he took with everything in his life. Ivory flax upholstery on the twin sofas in the living room was repeated on the dining room chairs surrounding the round oak table. That table had been a find at an antique auction in Bucks County. The area carpets had muted geometric patterns on an ivory background. A wall of bookcases, plants on the windowsills, a Colonial dry sink which served as a bar, bric-a-brac he’d gathered on trips abroad, good paintings. A comfortable, handsome room. The kitchen and study were to the left of the living room, the bedroom suite and bath to the right. A pleasant apartment and an attractive complement to the big place in Bridgewater that had been his parents’ pride and joy. Nash was often tempted to sell it, but knew he’d miss riding on weekends. He took off his jacket and debated between watching the tail end of the six o’clock news or listening to his new compact disc, a Mozart symphony.