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the chick?"
    I loathe being called a chick.
    Bobby laughed. "Oh God, I'm sorry. This is Kinsey. She's the private detective I told you about."
    "I should've figured as much," Her eyes came back to mine, her pupils so dilated I couldn't tell what color the irises were. "So how do you like our little sideshow? Bobby and I are the family freaks. What a pair, right?"
    This child was getting on my nerves. She wasn't smart enough or quick enough to pull off the tough air she was affecting, and the strain was evident, like watching a stand-up comic with second-rate gags,
    Bobby cut in smoothly. "Dr. Kleinert's downstairs."
    "Ah, Dr. Destructo. What did you think of him?" She took a drag of her cigarette, feigning nonchalance, but I sensed that she was genuinely curious about my response.
    "I didn't talk to him," I said. "Bobby wanted me to meet you first."
    She stared at me and I stared back. I remembered doing this sort of stuff in sixth grade with my mortal enemy, Tommy Jancko. I forget now why we disliked each other, but stare contests were definitely the weapons of choice.
    She looked back at Bobby. "He wants me hospitalized. D'I tell you that?"
    "You going?"
    "Hey, no twity! Get all those needles stuck in me? Uh-un, no thanks. I'm not interested." She swung her long legs over the side of the bed and got up. She crossed the room to a low dressing table with a gilt-edged mirror above it. She studied her face, glancing back at me. "You think I look thin?"
    "Very."
    "Really?" She seemed fascinated by the notion, turning slightly so she could see her own flat behind. She studied her face again, watching herself take a drag of her cigarette. She did a quick shrug. Everything looked fine to her.
    "Could we talk about this murder attempt?" I said.
    She padded back to the bed and flopped down again. "Somebody's after him. Definitely," she said. She stubbed out her^ cigarette, with a yawn.
    "What makes you say that?"
    "The vibes."
    "Aside from the vibes," I said.
    "Oh balls, you don't believe us either," she said. She turned sideways and settled against the pillows, folding an arm under her head.
    "Is someone after you too?"
    "Nun-un. I don't think so. Just him."
    "But why would someone do that? I'm not saying I don't believe you. I'm looking for a place to start and I want to hear what you have to say."
    "I'd have to think about it some," she said and then she was quiet.
    It took me a few minutes to realize she'd passed out. Jesus, what was she on?

Chapter 4
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    I waited in the hallway, shoes in hand, while Bobby covered her with a blanket and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door gently.
    "What's the story?" I said. "She's O.K. She was just up late last night."
    "What are you talking about? She's half dead!" He shifted uneasily. "You really think so?"
    "Bobby, would you look at her? She's a skeleton. She's doing drugs, alcohol, cigarettes. You know she's smoking dope on top of that. How's she going to survive?"
    "I don't know. I guess I didn't think she was that bad off" he said. He was not only young, he was naive, or maybe she'd been going under so gradually that he couldn't see the shape she was in.
    "How long has she been anoretic?"
    "Since Rick died, I guess. Maybe some before that. He was her boyfriend and she took it pretty hard."
    "Is that what Kleinert's seeing her for? The anorexia?"
    "I guess. I never really asked. She was a patient of his before I started seeing him."
    A voice cut in. "Is there some problem?" Derek Wenner was approaching from the gallery, highball in hand. He was a man who'd been good-looking once. Of medium height, fair-haired, his gray eyes magnified by glasses with steel-blue frames. He was in his late forties now, by a charitable estimate, a solid thirty pounds overweight. He had the puffy, florid complexion of a man who drinks too much and his hairline had receded in a wide U that left a runner of thinning hair down the center, clipped short and brushed to one side. The excess pounds had given