by Torre, A. R.
She couldn’t catch it. It was too low. Quiet. Almost a whisper. Scott never whispered. He blared loud music, crowed out his sentences, whooped and hollered when he leveled up or won some game, but he never whispered.
She knocked quietly on the door, and he fell silent. “Scott?” she called out.
There was the shuffle of items, steps on the wood floor, then he was opening the door and peering at her through the thin crack. “Yeah?”
“Are you okay? I thought I heard someone talking.”
“It’s just videos I’m watching on my phone.” He gave her a shy smile. “It’s late, Mom. Go to bed.”
He was right. It was almost two. A couple of weeks ago, she’d have taken a sleeping pill and be drooling on her pillow, her body tucked against George’s. But in this new reality, with her son back, she couldn’t sleep until his light was off, the sounds of quiet snores coming from underneath his door, and that didn’t seem to happen until three or four in the morning.
“Okay,” she said reluctantly, wishing he would open the door and let her in. Since when did he crack the door like this? What was he hiding in there? Normally she would have suspected it was a girl, but ever since he got home, none of the girls had been around. Neither, come to think about it, had any of his friends. He used to have so many friends.
Maybe that’s why the house still felt empty. She kept waiting for it to come back to life. It used to be so full of activity and noise. She would trip over Scott’s baseball bag, left carelessly in the kitchen. Grumble over his books on the counter, the empty soda cans littering every surface in the media room, and the open bags of chips attracting ants in the pantry. And, oh, the kids. It had been normal for her to wake up on Sunday morning to find a half dozen of them zonked out in her living room. That Ralph kid had spent two months in their guest room, and the entire football and baseball teams seemed to have their gate code and the green light to help themselves to anything in their fridge, including the beer.
Where had they all gone? Those first few days, they had all called and stopped by, but Scott had begged off seeing them. He’d said he was busy, and tired, and she had let it go because of course he wouldn’t feel like seeing anyone right after all that—but what about now? It had been two weeks, and Scott felt fine enough to go in front of TV cameras, or chat with new followers on social media, yet he hadn’t returned a single message from his real friends.
George kept telling her to mind her own business, and maybe he was right. So what if Scott was being distant? He was home and he was safe. She was looking for problems instead of counting her blessings.
She said good night and headed down the stairs to the bedroom she shared with George, vowing not to think about it anymore. But Scott had been talking to someone. She knew it. Even with the heavy door between them, even with his voice muffled, she would swear that he’d been begging someone to call him back.
CHAPTER 17
In my last decade of counseling, I’d given out over a thousand business cards. Never had any been such a pain as this one. I stared down at the business card from John Abbott’s wallet, which had made it back onto my desk, still in its evidence bag. Underneath it, and without a protective sleeve, was the one thing I really hated to see. A warrant.
“What’s with the coffee? It got mint in it?” Detective Saxe peered down into a pale-blue mug, which must have been poured by Jacob.
“If it’s from the lobby, yes. You can dump it out if you don’t like it.” I flipped over the top page of the warrant and scanned the appropriate sections, hoping for a miracle in the short and precise descriptions. According to the warrant, I was required to answer questions about Mr. Abbott’s state of mind and any criminal activity I was aware of, but I didn’t have to surrender his client file. Thank God.
“Nah. It’s fine. Not bad, actually.” He pulled one of my chairs loose of its cluster and faced it toward my desk. “You can keep that warrant. It’s your copy.”
“Thanks,” I said smartly.
He sat down and opened his notepad. “We’ve been looking a little more closely into John Abbott.” He glanced at me. “Interesting guy.”
“In what way?”
He grinned. “Come on now, Doc. Let’s not play games. I got your warrant. Now let’s talk openly, okay? I got a lot of bad guys out there I still need to catch.”
Yes, and I had a business I needed to protect. If Brooke Abbott’s family sued me for negligence, I could be ruined, both financially and professionally.
“I don’t want to play games,” I said. “But you can’t make a random observation and just expect me to gush information. Ask me a question and I’ll answer it.”
His expression soured. “We have three Peeping Tom reports that were filed against Mr. Abbott. What can you tell me about his sexual perversions?”
“What?” If it was possible for a jaw to drop open, mine did. Twelve months of sessions, and this was an absolute surprise. “Who was he spying on?”
“Various wealthy women. Was caught on security cameras most of the time. Are you telling me you didn’t know anything about this?”
I raised my hands in innocence. “I’d swear to it in court. And to be honest, it shocks me. I—” I paused, not wanting to violate John’s privacy any more than I had to.
“What?”
“Are you certain it was him?”
“Three separate reports from three different women over seven years?” He nodded. “Yeah. Why?”
I grimaced. “It just doesn’t match his personality type. John was a very precise, organized individual. He thought things through, sometimes obsessively. And sexually? First of all, this warrant is focused on the deaths of Brooke and John Abbott, so I don’t see how an outside sexual obsession or deviance would be relevant, but I don’t mind answering the question, because the answer is simple. John Abbott didn’t have sexual perversions, as you put it. At least, none that he shared with me.”
“Never hit on you? Said anything inappropriate? Made you feel uncomfortable?”
I shook my head. “I’m shocked that he was stalking women. If anything, his focus was completely on his wife. He was practically asexual toward me.”
“Did you ever feel unsafe around him? Get the sense he was taking an unnatural interest in your personal life?”
“Absolutely not.”
“So, no sexual perversions.” He eyed me as if he didn’t believe it.
I spread my hands in ignorance. “Not that I had any knowledge or hint of.” I kept my voice mild and the rest of my opinion to myself. In John’s continual suspicions of his wife and other men, I’d often suspected a latent homo- or bisexuality. But that was pure speculation on my part, and would never hold up in court. It would be both easy and reckless to say that a man who wanted to kill his wife was doing so out of a growing frustration of his own inability to be attracted to or sexually perform with her. To share that hypothesis now would do a disservice to John, as well as Detective Saxe’s investigation, which still seemed muddy in scope and focus.
I dipped a toe into dangerous waters. “What exactly are you investigating?”
He studied me. “I’m not entirely sure. Something’s off. With the scene in the kitchen, with him receiving psychological treatment . . . and then the other stuff.”
I frowned. “What other stuff?”
He shrugged, and it was his turn to skirt the question. “I’ve got one last question, at least for now.”
Here it was. The moment it would all fall apart. The beginning of the end. I forced myself not to stiffen or flinch.
“Last time I was here, I asked if I should look at this as anything other than a suicide.” He glanced at me. “And you said, and I quote, ‘Not that I’m aware of.’”
I nodded. “Right.”
“You’d still stand by that statement?”
“Of course.” Was he still hung up on this? Questioning John Abbott’s death and ignoring Brooke’s supposed heart attack?
“Let me chan
ge the question a bit. If I told you that John Abbott was found dead of a knife wound, would you have suspected a suicide?”
Well, that was an interesting question. I smiled at him, enjoying the mental game. “His wife was dead beside him, right?”
“Ignoring that.”
I scoffed. “You can’t exactly ignore that.”
“Most husbands, when their wife dies of a heart attack, don’t kill themselves.”
Excellent point. “To clarify,” I countered, “most emotionally stable husbands don’t kill themselves when their wife dies.” Unless he was the one who killed her. “But John Abbott wasn’t emotionally stable. I’m not saying he was a sexual predator,” I hastened to clarify, “but he wasn’t emotionally . . .” I paused. “Maybe stable isn’t the right word. Let me return to your question. If you told me that John Abbott was found dead of a knife wound, my first inclination would be what anyone’s would be—that someone stabbed him.” I leaned forward. “But if you told me that Brooke Abbott died first, I would immediately suspect suicide. One hundred percent, without hesitation.”
I leaned forward and put my forearms on my desk, appreciating the hypothetical exercise. “For one, because what scenario could exist? Brooke died and then a random person showed up and murdered John?” I made a skeptical face. “Not likely. But also, and what you should really care about”—I chose my next words carefully—“is that John had an unhealthy emotional connection with Brooke. Her death would affect him differently than a normal husband. I agree, the standard response for a husband wouldn’t be to kill himself. But with John?” I sat back in the chair. “Absolutely likely.”
“Huh.”
All that brilliant insight, that complex chess game of words and delivery, and he responded with a word that was one step above a grunt. Not that I expected a standing ovation and a round of cheers, but come on.
“Let me toss something crazy in your lap.” He set down the coffee cup.
I waited, my pulse spiking.
“Brooke kills John, then has a heart attack.”
I let out an awkward laugh. “No.”
“No?” He raised one dark brow.
“No.” I shook my head, then paused, making sure that the knee-jerk reaction was valid. Was it possible that John told her about his dark fantasies, or he tried to kill her and she fought back and killed him in self-defense?
It was a mild possibility, but faint in the face of the much more certain truth—John had poisoned her and then killed himself. And there was no way I would allow them to drag a dead Brooke Abbott’s name through the mud. I’d break John’s confidence and risk my own reputation if need be. I shook my head. “Absolutely not.”
“Okay.” He rose. “Like I said, it was just a crazy theory. Thanks. I’ll be back in touch if I have any more questions.”
I plucked up my business card, still in the plastic baggie, and held it out to him. “Here.”
He took it, then extended his hand. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Moore.”
“Anytime.”
I watched him exit and silently begged him not to come back.
CHAPTER 18
“Something’s different about you.” Meredith studied me over the Thai-restaurant menu.
“I cut my hair.” I flipped the giant laminated board over. “I don’t even know what half of this stuff is.”
“Just get the shrimp fried rice.” She sat back as a bowl of steamed pork dumplings was delivered, then rattled off her order to the waitress.
I followed suit, then watched as the waitress retreated. “I wanted to get bangs but chickened out and did something different with the layers.”
“It’s not your hair that’s different. It’s your aura.”
I swallowed the urge to tell her what I thought of her New Age bullshit. That might work on Calabasas housewives, but if I told any of my clients to rub a positivity rock, I’d get laughed out of practice in a week.
“I’m serious. What’s wrong?”
“I’m a little stressed,” I managed.
“Over your dead wife killer?” She tapped a trio of faux sweetener packets against her palm.
I glanced around the outdoor courtyard, making sure no one was in earshot. “Easy, Meredith.”
“No one’s listening.” She waved off my concern. “Talk to me. Are you still feeling guilt over the suicide?”
“Yes, but that’s not the main source of it.” I watched a couple rise from their seats. “I’m doing a psych profile for a new client.”
She plucked up a dumpling and dipped it into the sauce. “Prosecution or defense?”
“Defense.” I walked her through Robert’s initial request of my services, leaving out our drunken night of passion.
Meredith’s eyes widened as I moved through the story. “Hold up.” She quickly swallowed the full mouthful before speaking. “He hires you, gives you the file, and you haven’t talked to him since?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I left a message for him at his office, but he hasn’t called me back.”
“I saw a news story on this guy . . . ,” she said slowly. “His son was one of the BH Killer’s victims, right? Like, number five?”
“Six,” I confirmed.
Her eyes widened as she connected the pieces. “And he’s hot, right?”
“He is very good-looking,” I allowed.
“NO,” she argued. “He’s smoking hot. You need to push aside the doom and gloom and saddle him up like a prize stallion.”
I struggled to maintain a casual air. “Anyway, I’m—”
“Oh, this just gets better and better.” She pushed the dumplings away and hunched forward, her green eyes glowing with interest. “You already did, didn’t you?”
“I did not saddle him up and ride him like a prize stallion,” I said wryly. “It was more like an arthritic grandma on the Tilt-A-Whirl.”
She crowed with laughter and clapped her hands together. “Oh my word, you dirty slut.”
I blushed despite myself. This had been, after all, my crowning sexual achievement of the decade. I couldn’t believe I’d kept it to myself this long. Meredith normally sniffed out an indiscretion the minute someone’s panties hit the ground.
“So it’s not stress,” she said, picking her chopsticks back up. “It’s the glow of sexual satisfaction. Unless it was a disappointment?” She glanced at me for confirmation.
I colored, trying not to think of the sexual peaks the night had delivered. “Very satisfying,” I assured her. “But I think it’s still stress. I haven’t had a solid night’s sleep in weeks.”
Her response was cut off by her phone. As she answered the call, I lifted the teakettle and poured myself a small cup.
It was a little annoying that I hadn’t heard from Robert. Our sex history aside, I’d been hired for a job and was waiting on the rest of the victim files he had promised me. Granted, in the last five days, he had retained the most high-profile killer in California history. His office must be flooded with press calls, discovery requests, and prehearing prep. My voice mail was probably buried in a mountain of other messages.
“So, what’s in the file?” Meredith ended her call and moved on from my sexual exploits as easily as she did the dumplings. “Have you started the psychological profile yet?”
“I don’t have enough to go on. I need to see all the victims’ files, which I should be able to get.” No wonder he’d been so confident about getting them. He’d have a mountain of information if he’d secured Randall Thompson as a client.
“Girl, that’s like gold for you. The Bloody Heart files?”
“I know. Six murders.” I smiled.
“Try not to look so gleeful about it.”
I shrugged. It was exciting, especially since he was behind bars. I said as much, and she nodded slowly, something clearly on her mind.
“Why do you think he’s representing him? I mean, I watched the news bit. You believe what he says, that he thinks Rand
all is innocent?”
It was the question of the hour, and I sighed. “I don’t know. If someone killed my child, I couldn’t be in the same room without clawing their eyes out, so that part of me says that he must believe in Thompson’s innocence. But then again, how would he know?”
“Unless he’s the real killer,” she pointed out.
“He killed his own son?” I shook my head. A decade of studying habitual killers had taught me that they didn’t get around to their own children on the sixth victim, then continue on.
“Don’t look at me like that. First off, people kill their kids. And Robert could be the BH Killer and not kill his son. Maybe Gavin—”
“Gabe,” I corrected her.
“Gabe died some other way. And everyone assumed it was the BH Killer because the kid was a hot young stud, and his dad disposed of his body in the same way.”
I pulled my gaze off a couple who had entered the restaurant, the man’s hand clamped on his girlfriend’s shoulder. She was going to have a problem with him, if she didn’t already. I mused over Meredith’s hypothesis, which could have legs. “That’s a stretch.”
She shrugged. “Why? Because he was good in bed? Trust me, the better the motion, the more screwed up the ocean.”
I laughed. “Okay,” I mused, going down her path of reasoning. “So you’re saying that Gabe Kavin dies from some other cause. And Robert Kavin is the real BH Killer, but Scott Harden points the finger at Randall Thompson for some reason, and then Robert Kavin defends him because he may kill teenagers for a hobby, but he has a conscience and doesn’t want an innocent man to go down for his crimes.”
“Or, he killed his son, staged it to look like the BH Killer, though that would have required him to hold him prisoner for over a month . . .” She frowned. “Okay, so there are a few gaps in the logic,” she allowed.
“Lots of gaps in the logic. Pretty much no logic at all.” I moved my tea to the side as our entrées arrived.
For the next half hour, we ate, discussed bad TV and industry politics, and didn’t mention dead teenagers at all.
It was a nice reprieve—one that ended as soon as I stepped from the restaurant and glanced at my phone.