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romance between us.
That was just her fantasy—or her roommate's. Kirsty didn't really
want romance."
    "What did she want?"
    "A daddy. Someone to look after her, someone
with a little more spine than her old man. I mean that kid's need for
affection is tremendous."
    I said, "Empathy doesn't seem to be one of your
strong points either, Stein."
    His face flushed angrily. "Kirsty has a long
history of emotional trouble dating back to her childhood. There was
nothing I could do about her past except encourage her to write about
it. And that's exactly what I did."
    " What about her childhood?"
    "Her father didn't tell you?" he said,
looking surprised.
    "Kirsty's mother was schizophrenic. In and out
of mental wards all her life. When Kirsty was six, the mother killed
herself. Violently." The man ducked his head as if he was
embarrassed by his own avid gossip. "When you're carrying around
that kind of genetic baggage, there isn't a whole lot anyone can do
to help. I've tried to be a friend to her, but that's not always an
easy thing. Kids can . . . misinterpret."
    "Try somebody other than a kid."
    He didn't say anything.
    " When's the last time you saw Kirsten?" I
asked.
    "Last week. Thursday morning. She came over here
to talk."
    "About what?"
    Stein sat back in the sofa, clasping his hands behind
his head. He was tired of me and the conversation. "Her brother,
Ethan, came to town. He wanted to see Kirsty, but she wasn't sure she
should go."
    "Why would she have a problem seeing her
brother?"
    "Because he's crazier than she is. He drags her
back to the past, and that's a place Kirsty doesn't need to visit,
especially now."
    "You've talked to the brother?"
    "Once. When he came through Chicago last year. I
don't think I've ever met anyone that intense. But then writers
aren't exactly a relaxed bunch."
    "Ethan's a writer, too?"
    "Journalist. At least that's what he calls
himself. He looks like he's a step above homelessness to me. I think
his wife is the only thing that keeps him grounded. That and his
weird obsession with his mother. That's really all he and Kirsty
share—the mother. Neither one of them has been able to come to
terms with her suicide. If you ask me, they never will."
    There was a knock at the door. Looking relieved,
Stein stood up.
    " If you don't mind, I've got some company."
    I stood up, too. "What did you tell Kirsty to do
about Ethan?"
    "I told her not to see him. To go home to
Cincinnati. Apparently she didn't take my advice."
    " Did she tell you where her brother was
staying?"
    "Somewhere in town, I guess."
    "Can't you do better than that?"
    " I've answered enough questions," he said
sharply.
    Stein went over to the door and opened it. A pretty
girl was standing outside with a bottle of Chianti in her hand. She
cou1dn't have been more than nineteen or twenty.
    " C'mon in, Lucy. Mr. Stoner's just leaving."
    The girl smiled at me winningly as she came into the
room.
    I walked over to the door. "Stein, if you're
lying to me about Kirsty Pearson, I'm going to get your ass fired.
That's a promise."
    The girl gasped, as if she couldn't believe anyone
would speak to a professor like that.
    "Don't threaten me," Stein said, reddening
furiously. "If you come here again, I'll call the police."
    He slammed the door in my face.
    5
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    The trouble with a dramatic exit is that you can't go
back and ask to use the phone. I had to walk two blocks south on
Kenwood to find a booth. By then I was so cold that I figured it
would be worse to wait for a cab than to keep walking. So I pushed
down the icy, gaslit sidewalks, head ducked against the wind, until I
got to 56th Street.
    Arthur Heldman's house was on the comer of 56th and
Blackstone—a Prairie-style bungalow, L-shaped, parasol-roofed, with
dark, glistening curls of frozen ivy climbing its board-and-stone
walls. The front door was off to the side, down a driveway. The
windows were lighted on that side of the