The Murderer's Daughter

by Jonathan Kellerman

  It wasn’t thrift that led Grace to enter a public lot charging a flat fee of three bucks after eight p.m., providing you had a credit card to feed the robotic entry machine.

  Preparation was all.

  Driving straight up to the top level, she searched for the darkest, most remote corner she could find, one blocked from easy view by a pillar.

  She nailed it easily, tucked in the southeast corner, a grease-spotted slot flanked by two pillars.

  The kind of space self-defense manuals warned women to avoid.

  Perfect.

  —

  The Beverly Opus was three years old and rumors of its closure had circulated since its opening. Maybe that would finally come true—there were, she noticed, fewer glitz-mobiles than the last time she’d been here, half a year ago.

  No paparazzi glomming from the sidewalk, another bad sign.

  There was never a shortage of camera-demons at the nail salon on Camden Drive where Grace got her weekly mani-pedi, but the Opus had been abandoned.

  Tsk.

  She continued past the valets and the doormen. Six months ago she’d arrived with a different hairstyle, different dress, different makeup, different stride. But even if she hadn’t varied her appearance for tonight, no one would notice another slim youngish woman toting a briefcase.

  Business traveler, synonym for invisible.

  Sure enough, the three clerks at the reception desk didn’t look up as she passed.

  She strode across the marble lobby, past an oversized pietra dura center table graced with a flower arrangement that could’ve supplied a month of funerals. Continuing up a long hall lined with still-open but customer-less gift shops peddling cashmere and silk and velour leisure wear, she found her way to the lounge, a cavernous place made larger by a thirty-foot coffered ceiling, and set up with nebulous seating areas, potted orchids, and a burnt-orange grand piano currently unoccupied.

  The room was two-thirds empty, every drinker scoring plenty of personal space. Taped smooth jazz competed with the clink of glasses and the draggy murmur of obligatory chitchat.

  Selecting a two-person loveseat that faced the piano but was well distant from it and from the bar beyond, Grace settled, placed the snakeskin briefcase next to her, the bag on the sofa. Crossing her legs, she dangled a shoe, appeared to grow contemplative. Then, as if coming to a conclusion, she unclasped the case and drew out a packet of investment mailers from a cold-call fool angling for her business—boring crap she stockpiled for nights like this one. Pulling out a jargon-ridden pamphlet on emerging markets, she pretended to be fascinated by charts and graphs and dishonest attempts to prognosticate.

  It didn’t take long for a Spanish-accented voice to say, “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  Looking up, Grace smiled at a small, thick waiter in his fifties. Miguel engraved on a little brass badge.

  “Negroni on the rocks, please. Hendrick’s Gin, if you have it.”

  “Sure we have, ma’am.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “Something to eat, ma’am?”

  “Hmm…do you still have cheese toast?”

  “We do, sure.”

  “Cheese toast with the Negroni, then.” Favoring Miguel with another smile, she returned to her financial miseducation. A few minutes later, the drink and the snack were placed near her right hand and she nodded and thanked Miguel without laying it on too thick.

  Sip, nibble, sip some more.

  The bitterness of Campari was perfect, cutting through all the financial pie-in-the-sky, and the cucumber nuance of the Scottish gin was an additional pleasure. Last year, Grace had gifted herself with a week in Florence, staying in a far-too-large suite at the Four Seasons. The bar had served up something called a Valentino, riffing on the classic Negroni with more cucumber and other stuff Grace couldn’t identify. She’d promised herself to learn the recipe, hadn’t so far.

  Such a busy girl.

  Continuing to fake-read the financial b.s., she thought about Florence, mind flashing like a fast-shutter camera.

  The Leap she’d taken there.

  Just after midnight, the hotel’s perfect Tuscan gardens.

  A lovely man in his late forties named Anthony, British, a banker, reserved and polite, not at all handsome. Beautifully surprised when she responded to him in the bar with a cool upturn of lip and flash of black-brown eyes.

  Then the rest of it, the poor fool crying out that he loved her as he came.

  Figuring he’d try to find her the following morning, she’d checked out early, drove to the Tuscan outlets, and scored some budget Prada. Then on to Rome, where she ate salt cod and fettuccine with dried beef in the old Jewish ghetto and girded herself for the eleven-hour flight back to home sweet home.

  The Haunted needed her. Anthony would cope.

  —

  Drinking and nibbling and reading in the Opus lounge for precisely five minutes, Grace looked up, pretended to stifle a yawn, kept her head and eyes as immobile as possible, and scoped out the room.

  Near the piano were four useless multiples: three triads of business-types and a quartet of nerdy-looking weeds who were probably computer wizards and a whole lot richer than their inept fashion suggested.

  To her right sat two solo females: a sixtyish but still foxy blonde, maybe even an experienced hooker with way-off-the-charts boobs, a pre-melanoma tan, and a platinum dye-job that seemed to provide its own illumination. All that came packaged in a minimal sleeveless black thing that showed off slim but age-hardened legs and overbaked, sun-puckered cleavage.

  The woman’s demeanor shouted Someone fuck me, already! and Grace figured she’d eventually get her way.

  The second woman was plain, dressed in a brown suit that wasn’t her friend. Like Grace she was reading what appeared to be business papers. Unlike Grace, she was probably serious about it.

  Last but not least, to Grace’s left, two possible targets.

  Solo males.

  The first was an extremely tall black guy with stilt-legs who might be a retired athlete, drinking Diet Coke. His eyes met Grace’s with momentary interest, then shifted abruptly to the right as he got up to greet the gorgeous wife and ten-year-old daughter who’d suddenly materialized. Final swig of soda and Happy Family was off.

  The second solo Y-chromo was at least eighty. Grace had no bias against well-mellowed types—years ago, at a convention in New York, she’d captured a French surgeon twice her age, found him gentle, considerate, much smarter than any young man she’d met. But patience and tenderness and little blue pills weren’t what she craved tonight.

  Assuming a target showed up.

  —

  Over the next twenty-two minutes, none did, and as Grace nursed her drink and moved on to a second brochure, she began to wonder if she’d have to shift locales. Maybe back to WeHo, one of the obnoxiously hip hotels that lined Sunset. If that didn’t work, she might have to settle for a painfully retro cocktail lounge catering to trust-fund slackers.

  Or be content with nothing.

  A bit more time passed and she was resigning herself to nothing when she looked up and there he was.

  He drifted into the lounge looking a bit disoriented, took a while to select his place, finally opted for an armchair diagonal to Grace’s stakeout position.

  Grace’s age or slightly older, he was of medium height, pleasant looking, with a thatch of black hair worn at a length that suggested neglect of barbering rather than design. His clothes were consistent with that: tweed sport coat far too heavy for L.A., pale-blue button-down shirt, rumpled khakis, brown loafers.

  The coat was boxy. The khakis sagged over the shoes. But none of that calculated rumpled preppy thing you saw in pretenders. This was not someone who spent time in front of the mirror.

  Things were looking up.

  Grace continued to read, sneaking peeks above her brochure, watched him accept a bar menu from a server—Miguel had gone off shift, replaced by a mini-skirted chicklet whose body posture
said she was an ace at flirting for tips.

  Wasted effort with this guy; he didn’t bother to look up.

  Nothing like a challenge.

  Scanning the menu, he put it aside, slouched lower in the chair, squinted at nothing in particular, closed his eyes and appeared to be initiating a nap.

  Chicklet returned with a beer, still working her bod. This time, he made eye contact and smiled briefly and paid up front—letting her know he wouldn’t be ordering more, didn’t want to be pestered?

  Maybe because after one sip, his eyes closed again.

  A few moments later, he took another sip as Grace watched from behind her brochure. When his eyes remained open and he seemed to grow restless, she lowered the pages, sipped her Negroni, recrossed her legs, exposing a foot of ivory calf and an inch of thigh.

  The maroon pump dangled and swung, a suede pendulum.

  Grace widened the arc, allowed the gray dress to ride up just a bit. The movement caught Tweed’s eye. He watched briefly, turned away. Returned to eyeing Grace who pretended to be back in the world of derivatives.

  He’d been nursing his beer, now he took a generous swig. Wiped foam from his lips with a finger. Stared at the finger and dried it on a paper cocktail napkin.

  Grace flipped a page, fake-sipped her Negroni, and turned her head, catching him looking away hurriedly. The next time, her eyes nabbed him before he could escape. She held his gaze then pretended she hadn’t been and proceeded to ignore him. Recrossing her legs.

  Sitting up straighter and arching her back just a tad, cashmere stretching tautly over her body.

  He drank away and now his beer glass was empty. Pushing hair off his forehead, he repeated the gesture when the mop fell back into place.

  Grace read while dangling her other shoe. Rotated her head gently so that her hair cascaded. Smoothing the chestnut tsunami, she swiveled away from the target.

  Then toward him.

  Their eyes met again.

  This time she held the stare without breaking, lips positioned neutrally. He looked appalled at being caught.

  Grace smiled.

  Grateful, he smiled back. Picked up his glass. Realized it was empty and looked at Grace again and shrugged.

  She laughed.

  She couldn’t carry a tune but she did have a lovely speaking voice, half a tone into alto, smooth as flan. That same appeal extended to her Leap-laugh, a throaty burst of amusement men found beguiling.

  She made sure her laughter floated above the conversational buzz, drained her own glass and lofted it and grinned warmly.

  We’re in this together, friend.

  His turn to laugh. Too softly to be audible but it spread his mouth in a nice way.

  Well-formed mouth. Grace bet his lips were soft.

  And now that she could take a better look at him, she realized this one was actually handsome. Not that it mattered. Anthony in Florence had a face like a toad but he’d made Grace’s body scream.

  The target turned shy suddenly and looked away.

  Endearing.

  Definitely a looker. Not in that craggy, hyper-Y, heavy-jaw, brow-ridge way. More like…nothing remarkable about any single feature but taken as a whole, a fine composition. Symmetrical. And at the core, attractiveness boiled down to symmetry.

  Boyish, she supposed some women would label him. Some women went for boyish.

  For the next four minutes, she alternated between jots of eye contact, some followed by warm smiles, others by neutral looks.

  The target’s hand began drumming a lamp table and he started rocking his head ever so slightly.

  The dance had begun.

  Then, darn her, Chicklet was back, asking if he wanted a refill. He began to shake his head no, then looked past the waitress at Grace.

  Grace lofted her glass, pointed at his, rotated her free hand palms up.

  What the heck, let’s both go for it.

  He said something to Chicklet, paid for both drinks, and pointed. Chicklet turned around, saw Grace, frowned and left.

  Now he was clearly fixed on Grace, not even pretending to be cool. Grace summoned him over with a curled index finger.

  He pointed to his chest.

  Who, me?

  By the time he arrived, he was breathing fast.

  She patted the cushion next to her.

  He sat down and said, “Thank you.”

  Nice voice, mellow, soft. A bit shaky—no big stud accustomed to this.

  Grace couldn’t have custom-ordered it better.

  Grace’s lies were perfectly prepared.

  Her name was Helen, she worked “in finance,” was in L.A. for a conference. When he asked about the topic, she grinned and said, “Trust me, you don’t want to know. Unless it’s instant sleep you’re after.”

  He laughed. “Guess I’d rather be awake.”

  She tossed her hair. “Okay, your turn.”

  He said, “Talk about boring.”

  Grace’s smile was blinding. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  —

  His name was Roger, he was a civil engineer in L.A. for meetings concerning “a corporate project—trust me, you don’t want to know.”

  Aiming for easygoing rapport but he’d turned grave.

  Grace said, “Tough project?”

  His face tightened up and the smile he struggled to keep in place was uneasy. “No, it’s fine, the usual.”

  Grace waited.

  He drank beer. “Guess I’m a little off—jet lag. Sorry.”

  “Long flight?”

  “Aren’t they all, nowadays?”

  “Don’t like plastic food and being treated like a criminal, huh? Picky, picky.” Grace pointed a finger-gun at him. Then, dropping her arm, she allowed her fingertips to graze his khakis, touching the outer curve of his kneecap. Less than a second of contact but he felt it and his eyes shot downward.

  Grace picked up her drink. The look on her face was pure innocence. His shoulders had bunched and his lips had dried.

  He downed more beer. Let his eyes flit to her legs then forced himself away from the view. Grace slipped the financial nonsense back in her briefcase, pretended to discover how much bare skin she’d been exposing and, again, tugged the dress down. Her breasts mounded through the soft fabric of the dress. Her nipples were fully inflated and couldn’t be missed.

  Roger the Engineer’s Adam’s apple rose and fell twice. His blue eyes made it easy to nail the nonverbal message: wildly dilated pupils. Serious interest.

  Mission accomplished.

  He cleared his throat. “So…thanks for the company, Helen.”

  “Ditto, Roger.”

  “This is a bit…” He shook his head.

  “What, Roger?”

  He shrugged. “This is nice.”

  “It is nice but that wasn’t what you were going to say.”

  He looked away.

  Grace touched his shoulder briefly. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Really. Refill?”

  Grace hadn’t touched her second Negroni. She pointed to her glass and smiled.

  Roger blushed. “Mr. Observant…what I was about to say—this feels—okay, I guess I’m feeling a bit out of my league.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “No, I mean it.”

  “What league do you play in, Roger?”

  “Frankly, none,” he said. He shook his head. “I’m not making sense, am I?” He put his glass down. “This is going to sound inane but I don’t do this as a matter of course.”

  Strange, almost archaic phrasing. This time Grace’s smile was unplanned amusement. “You don’t do what?”

  “Talk to strange women—oh, crap, sorry, that came out wrong—talk to…unfamiliar…” His fingers fluttered, almost effeminately. “I’m not good at this.”

  Grace lowered her hand over his, let it rest lightly. Her touch made him jump. She said, “There’s nothing to be good at, we’re just talking.”

  He bit his lip and Grace thou
ght he’d draw away. She’d overvamped and blown it?

  But he relaxed. Retrieved his glass and raised it. “Cheers, Helen.”

  Grace freed his hand from hers. He drank; she pretended to. They sat there, side by side, not listening to the piped-in music, unaware of anyone else in the room. Finally, Grace ingested a few drops of Negroni.

  Thinking of that Valentino in Florence. Thinking of all of them. Lovely.

  Roger drained his glass. Suppressed a burp. Grimaced and murmured, “Smooth. Geez, this is…”

  “I abhor smooth, Roger.”

  “You do?” Bit of slur in his speech, now. “Why’s that?”

  “Because smooth is just another form of phony, Roger. Like charisma. And what’s worse than charisma?”

  He flinched. Looked upward. “Agreed, charisma sucks.” His voice had deepened. As if Grace’s comments had supercharged him.

  “It does, indeed, Roger. Are you a political person?”

  “God forbid,” he said, with sudden vehemence. “I try to avoid politics.”

  “Unaffiliated?”

  “Pardon?”

  “No major commitments?”

  “Nothing. Political or personal.”

  “Same here, Roger.” Showing him her hands, free of rings. “That way I’m assured of pleasant company after a tedious workday.”

  He laughed. “Hope I haven’t disrupted that.”

  Grace let a moment pass before answering. “You apologize a lot, Roger.”

  “I do? Sor—” He gaped. Cracked up.

  Grace brushed his knee with her nails again, moved her hand atop his, squeezed his fingers gently. His tongue glided over his lower lip. A pulse had begun to pound in his carotid, let’s hear it for that paragon of honesty: the autonomic nervous system.

  Grace let some silence sink in before half whispering, “Roger?”

  He leaned forward. No aftershave, just a nice soap-and-water lightness. “Yes?”

  “Would you be so kind as to walk me to my car?”