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Dr. David Hawkins. A white wicker swing looked cool and elegant against the slatted railing at the far end of the gargantuan porch, making me feel even grittier by comparison.
    “Chrissy,” David said, stepping outside and pulling me into a hug. “Don’t be ridiculous.” His chiding tone was fatherly as he held my arms and leaned back to take a look at me. My mascara was smeary and my hair was wind-fried, but I was pretty sure my nose had stopped running. I was practically at the top of my game. “Come in.”
    I did, though I still felt shaky and disoriented. It had been a hell of a day, starting with Rivera’s visit and persisting with a dozen ragged phone calls from various unwelcome sources. Elaine had canceled my appointments. I didn’t quite feel up to discussing someone’s reoccurring dream about mayonnaise when my own tended to include a hard-on and a corpse.
    Instead, I had called David.
Psychology Today
had named him one of the leading therapists of our time. His house, a stately edifice, complete with stained glass and a triple garage, was nestled up against the San Rafael Hills, surrounded by wealth and good breeding. My own modest abode was some thirty miles and five social steps to the northwest. It was the approximate size of David’s Jacuzzi. But I couldn’t quite be jealous of him. He was like the psychiatrist I’d never had.
    “Sit down,” he said when we’d finally trekked the plush, endless hallway to his study. I took a seat on the leather davenport and laced my fingers atop my knees to keep them occupied. In the past I’d had a tendency to chew my nails in high stress situations, and in my experience, tight ends with postmortem erections tend to raise the stress level like nobody’s business. “Tell me,” David said as he settled into the chair opposite me.
    Classical music played from some distant room. The airy sound of a flute wafted quietly through the house. I didn’t play the flute, but I’d been hell on wheels with the tuba.
    I shook my head, feeling stupid and hot. Whoever said L.A. has idyllic weather hasn’t spent a day with malfunctioning AC in late August. I’d rolled the Saturn’s windows down in self-defense as I’d trundled west on I-210, and the smog had saturated my wind-smacked hair like so much London soot. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, for lack of a better segue. “I’m sure you’ve heard enough problems today already.” And every day. David’s clientele was both extensive and legendary. It was rumored he had once counseled Rush Limbaugh concerning his weight problem, but I guess even geniuses strike out sometimes.
    “Nonsense.” He leaned forward and took my hands between his own. “The day I’m too busy for a friend is the day I’m no friend at all.”
    Despite everything—the corpse, the lack of sleep, the electrocuted hair—I felt myself relax a smidgen. David had that effect on people. Maybe it was his voice—rich and soothing like French vanilla. Or maybe it had something to do with his age. He was a mature man, both physically and emotionally, which gave me some hope for the remainder of the male populace. His hair was silver, his face lightly tanned, and gentle lines marked his forehead and cheeks. But they were nice lines, the kind that make a face look comfortable.
    “I just . . .” I exhaled carefully, holding onto my control by my, as of yet, unmolested fingernails. I couldn’t help noticing that I’d now lost three acrylics. Damn it all, a dead body and now this. “It all happened so fast.” I’d told him a pared-down version of my troubles on the phone. He had insisted that I come over straight away.
    “What did the coroner say?” he asked, cutting to the proverbial chase.
    “He died from a preexisting heart condition.” I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to think of a way to soften the next words. Nothing clever came to mind. “Which was exacerbated by an overdose of Viagra.”
    “What?” He sat up straighter.