I resumed walking. The door at the end had a slide-in that said JEAN JEFFERS, MSW, LCSW. DIRECTOR.
Inside was a five-by-five secretarial area occupied by a young, full-faced, Asian woman. Her desk was barely big enough to hold a PC and a blotter. The wall behind her was so narrow that a dark, mock wood door almost filled it. A radio on an end table played soft rock almost inaudibly. A nameplate in front of the computer said MARY CHIN.
She said, “Dr. Delaware? Go right in, jean will see you.”
“Thank you.”
She began to open the door. A woman caught it from the other side and pulled it all the way back. Forty-five or so, tall and blond. She wore a crimson shirtdress gathered at the waist by a wide, white belt.
“Doctor? I’m Jean.” She held out her hand. Almost as big as mine, lanolin soft. The left one bore a ruby solitaire ring over a broad, gold wedding band.
More white in her teardrop earrings and a mock ivory bracelet around one wrist. A sensible-looking watch encircled the other.
She had a strong frame and carried no extra fat. The belt showed off a firm waist. Her face was long, lightly tanned, with soft, generous features.
Only her upper lip had been skimped upon by nature-not much more than a pencil line. Its mate was full and glossed. Dark blue eyes studied me from under black lashes. Gold-framed half-glasses hung from a white cord around her neck.
Her hair was frosted almost white at the tips, clipped short in back and layered back at the sides. Pure utility except for a thick, Veronica Lake flap in front. It swooped to the right, almost hiding her right eye. A handsome woman.
She flipped her hair and smiled.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I said.
“Of course, doctor. Please have a seat.”
Her office was the standard twelve-by-twelve setup, with a real wood desk, two upholstered armchairs, a three-drawer double file, a nearly empty bookcase, and some paintings of seagulls. On the desk were a pen, a memo pad, and a short stack of file folders.
A photo in a standup frame was centered on one of the shelves-she and a nice-looking, heavyset man about her age, the two of them in Hawaiian shirts and bedecked with leis. Social work diplomas made out to Jean Marie LaPorte were propped on another shelf, all from California colleges. I scanned the dates. If she’d graduated college at twenty-two, she was exactly forty-five.
“You’re a clinical psychologist, right?” she said, sitting behind the desk.
I took one of the chairs. “Yes.”
“You know, when Detective Sturgis mentioned your name I thought I recognized it, though I still can’t figure out from where.”
She smiled again. I returned it.
She said, “How does a psychologist come to be a police consultant?”
“By accident, really. Several years ago I was treating some children who’d been abused at a day-care center. I ended up testifying in court and getting involved in the legal system. One thing led to another.”
L5AL) LUVE 1/@ “Day-care center-the man who took pictures? The one involved with that horrible molesters’ club?”
I nodded.
“Well, that must be where I remember your name from. You were quite a hero, weren’t you?”
“Not really. I did my job.”
“Well,” she said, sitting forward and pushing hair out of her eyes, “I’m sure you’re being modest. Child abuse is so-to tell you the truth, I couldn’t work with it myself. Which may sound funny considering what we deal with here.
But children-” She shook her head. “It would be too hard for me to find any sympathy for the abusers even if they were once victims themselves.”
“I know what you mean.”
“To me that’s the lowest-violating a child’s trust. How do you manage to deal with it?”
“It wasn’t easy,” I said. “I saw myself as the child’s ally and tried to do whatever helped.”
“Tried? You don’t do abuse work anymore?”
“Occasionally, when it comes up as part of a custody case. Mostly I consult the court on trauma and divorce issues.”
“Do you do any therapy at all?”
“Not much.”