Because the kid gets hold of something and doesn’t let go. “Good question.”

“When did you treat her?”

“First time was twelve years ago, she was seven.”

“Twelve on the nose, not approximately,” he said.

“Some cases you remember.”

“Tough case?”

“She did fine.”

“Super-shrink scores again.”

“Lucky,” I said.

He stared at me. Ate more steak. Put his fork down. “This ain’t prime, at most it’s choice.”

We left the restaurant and he returned downtown for a paper-clearing meeting at the D.A.’s office. I took Sixth Street to its western terminus at San Vicente, where a red light gave me time to phone the Cedars-Sinai emergency room. I asked for Dr. Richard Silverman and was still on hold when the light turned green. Hanging up, I continued north to La Cienega, then west on Gracie Allen into the sprawl of the hospital grounds.

Patty Bigelow, dead at fifty-four. She’d always seemed so sturdy.

Parking in a visitors lot, I walked toward the E.R. entrance, trying to recall the last time I’d spoken to Rick professionally since he’d sent Patty and Tanya my way.

Never.

My best friend was a gay homicide detective but that didn’t translate to frequent contact with the man he lived with. In the course of a year, I might chat with Rick half a dozen times when he picked up the phone at their house, the tone always light, neither of us wanting to prolong. Toss in a few dinners at celebratory times-Robin and I laughing and toasting with the two of them-and that was it.

When I reached the sliding glass doors, I put on my best doctor swagger. I’d dressed for court in a blue pin-striped suit, white shirt, yellow tie, shiny shoes. The receptionist barely looked up.

The E.R. was quiet, a few elderly patients languishing on gurneys, no electricity or tragedy in the air. As I approached the triage bay, I spotted Rick walking toward me, flanked by a couple of residents. All three of them wore blood-speckled scrubs, and Rick had on a long white coat. The residents wore badges. Rick didn’t; everyone knows who he is.