The Murderer's Daughter

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “And when you do?”

  “Once I gather enough facts, you can talk to the police chief or any other big-shot contacts. Until then, without sufficient facts, I’ll only be putting myself in the crosshairs.”

  Wayne thought for a while, rational, deliberative, the way a good lawyer should be. He pulled a pen out of a desk drawer. Gold-plated, a Montblanc that had to cost four figures. “And how, exactly, am I supposed to find out this little monster’s real name?”

  “I don’t know,” said Grace. “But you’re all I’ve got.”

  Actually, she had plenty of suggestions. You were part of the damn system so work it, turn those years into something positive.

  But the old joke was true:

  How many shrinks does it take to change a lightbulb?

  Only one but the bulb has to want to change.

  Better he should come to the conclusion himself.

  Still, on the off chance he didn’t, Grace would do her damnedest to lead him there.

  The throne swiveled. Wayne leaned back and half reclined. Crossed his ankles. Rolled the pen between chubby fingers.

  “Twenty-three years ago,” he said. “Social service records were as confidential then as they are now.”

  “Officially,” said Grace. “We both know how that works.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Officially,” she said, “foster homes were loving places straight out of G-rated sitcoms, run by caring, compassionate guardian angels. Officially, endings were happy.”

  His head lowered. Studying the leather top of his desk.

  “Besides, Wayne, there’s no such thing as privacy in the Internet age.”

  Several more moments of silent contemplation followed. “All right, no promises, Grace, I’ll see what I can dig up. I suppose it’s the least I can do by way of expiation.”

  He had nothing to make up for. But let him think he did.

  —

  He walked her to the door, asked her if she needed anything else.

  “Names will be a good start.”

  “In the unlikely event I actually come up with something, where can I reach you?”

  She’d come prepared with the number of one of the disposable cells on a small, pink Post-it.

  He glanced at it. “Your office?”

  “My office is closed until future notice.”

  His face fell. “This really is serious.”

  “I wouldn’t be here otherwise, Wayne.”

  “Yes, yes, of course…all right, I’ll do my best. Either way, you’ll hear from me in—say two, three days. By then I should know if it’s possible.”

  “Thank you, Wayne.” Grace kissed his cheek.

  He touched the spot, reverently. “Thank you. For becoming the person you are.”

  —

  Watchful, ever watchful, Grace left the office building, retrieved the Jeep, and drove back to the Valley, pleased with congested traffic that gave her time to think.

  By the time she reached her room at the Hilton, she was tired and hungry. Plenty of jerky remained in her provision stash and the dry salami hadn’t been touched. But hazarding a real meal seemed low-risk so she took the stairs down, checked out the lobby, continued to the hotel restaurant.

  Seated at a corner table with a wide view of the entire room, she ordered soup, salad, a ten-ounce rib eye, medium rare, and iced tea.

  The waitress said, “We’re pouring passion fruit tonight.”

  “Passion is fine.”

  —

  Decent-enough grub but the generic room was thinly populated. Mostly business types, trios and quartets, pretending to talk to one another but really focused on phones and tablets and personal agendas.

  One solo: a thin-haired and slightly puffy but strangely handsome, fortyish man in a dark-blue shirt and gray slacks reading the Times and drinking a beer in a nearby booth. Handsome enough to draw forth extra-helpful smiles from the waitress. He reacted politely before returning to the sports pages.

  Between Grace’s soup and salad, her eyes met his. Brief smiles were exchanged. Friendly but mildly conspiratorial?

  Grace knew that look.

  Perfect setting, a hotel that catered to out-of-towners.

  Not tonight, dear.

  Moments later, Grace’s suppositions were shaken by the appearance of a cute blonde wearing a big diamond on her left ring finger.

  Kisses and smiles all around. Hubby finished his beer and the couple left, her hand tapping his butt a couple of times.

  Was she slipping? No, he’d definitely given her the eye. Blondie had no idea what lay ahead of her.

  Grace ate her steak too quickly to taste much, went back to her room and double-bolted the door.

  She fell asleep almost immediately, with barely enough time for self-instruction:

  Tonight: no dreams.

  —

  Successfully blank and reasonably refreshed, she awoke at six a.m., ready to work.

  No message from Wayne, no surprise. Way too early for him to try to worm his way into social service records. Assuming he wouldn’t change his mind.

  A bleeding heart, Ramona had called him, and Grace hoped his cardiac muscles remained mushy. But he might balk at wading into a mess. Or simply change his mind. So Grace had to consider reneging a possibility.

  With or without him, she’d keep going.

  The way it always had been, always would be.

  Using another prepaid phone, she checked her service for messages.

  Three new possible patients. They’d have to wait until Dr. Blades got her house in order. But the cry for help from a former patient, a woman named Leona who’d lost an arm five years ago after being set ablaze by a lunatic boyfriend, required immediate attention.

  She reached the woman at home in San Diego. The crisis was an attack flashback, the first in three years, and you didn’t need to be a master therapist to figure out why: Leona had met a new man and allowed herself to hope, only to experience him drunk and verbally aggressive.

  “I thought, Dr. Blades, that he was going to attack me. He claims he’d never do it but I don’t know.”

  You sure as hell don’t.

  Grace said, “You did the right thing by calling.”

  “Really? I’m a little…ashamed. I didn’t want to bother you. Make you think I was falling apart.”

  “Just the opposite, Leona. Asking for help is a sign of strength.”

  “Oh. Okay. Yes, I know you’ve told me that but until now I didn’t need help.”

  Things change, honey.

  “True,” said Grace. “Now you do and I’m here for you and you acted accordingly. That’s flexibility, Leona. That’s why you’ve adjusted so well and will continue to do so. How about starting at the beginning…”

  —

  You did need to be a master therapist to take care of a crisis long-distance while sitting in a generic hotel room, worried about your own survival.

  Grace spent eighty minutes on the phone and Leona hung up sounding reasonably mended. Well enough not to ask for a face-to-face. Grace would’ve despised having to put her off.

  Free of professional responsibility for the moment, she took a long hot bath, toweled off, and subjected her clothes to the sniff test. No stale aroma, she’d never been an odoriferous girl. At least another day of use.

  She found what she was looking for on the Internet, packed everything up, and settled her hotel bill. Gassing the Jeep at a nearby filling station, she checked the oil and tires and used a squeegee to clean the windows.

  At the nearest Staples she headed for the self-service machines. The neck-tattooed stoner behind the counter didn’t look up when she paid cash.

  Back in the Jeep, she removed five cards from a neat stack of fifty and placed them in her purse. The rest she stashed in the glove compartment.

  The stiff, polished beige paper she’d selected had a nice feel to it. Bold embossed lettering implied confidence.

  M. S. Bluestone-Muller
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  Commercial and Industrial Security

  Risk Assessment

  In the lower left corner of the card was a random P.O.B. that claimed to be situated in Fresno. In the lower right, Grace had listed a phone number that connected to a seldom-answered landline in a basement psych lab at Harvard. An extension phone grad students had stashed in a drawer years ago so they could ignore it and sleep off hangovers.

  Starting up the Jeep, she tuned the satellite radio to light classical and caught the beginning of the fourth Bach cello suite, Yo-Yo Ma at his best.

  Nothing like being in the company of genius on a road trip.

  The three hundred and eighty miles between L.A. and Berkeley could be covered in one adrenalized day. But between having to stick to speed limits and bathroom and food breaks, Grace figured she wouldn’t arrive until late afternoon or early evening.

  Too late to learn anything about Alamo Adjustments.

  There was also the fatigue factor to consider: A pumped-up sympathetic nervous system would mask her body’s natural tendency to slow down. She wouldn’t be at her best.

  So a two-day trip it would be, taking the inland route and spending the night near the halfway mark—Fresno or its environs. Up early tomorrow, she’d arrive at the university town well before noon, have plenty of time to find her bearings.

  She drove to a 7-Eleven, stocked up on more snacks, and sat in the parking lot reviewing the mental ledger she’d already gone over twice after deciding to take the trip.

  If Mr. Beef was still looking for her—quite likely—being away from her home and her office would make her vulnerable to break-ins.

  On the other hand, there was nothing in either location that could benefit the enemy and stuff was replaceable.

  She wasn’t.

  Then there was the matter of payoff: Merely checking out a neighborhood where a defunct business once sat could very well prove futile. Worse, she’d come up empty on Alamo Adjustments and if the enemy lived nearby, risk giving herself away.

  The enemy; time to put a face on her quarry.

  She imagined him: a tall, glib, probably still attractive man of thirty-seven or thirty-eight. A charmer with secrets worth killing for and, if he wasn’t as smart as he thought he was, possibly a criminal record.

  If he was smart, he’d coasted for over two decades, maybe living a respectable life but definitely wreaking havoc on the sly.

  If he’d attained public respectability, his secrets were well worth killing for.

  —

  Grace had passed through Santa Barbara, was nearing Solvang, still with no word from Wayne. He’d said to give him two or three days but she figured that was just a hedge and her faith in his follow-through diminished with each freeway exit. Because let’s face it, it was a simple matter of calling the right person. Either he could or he couldn’t, would or wouldn’t.

  She turned up the music, checked the tripometer. Two hundred ninety miles to go at sixty-five per. Her foot itched to exert more force on the gas but she’d already spotted three highway patrol cars. Still, she was feeling energized, chipper, maybe she would pull off a one-day trek. Find an appropriately bland business hotel in the good part of Oakland that bordered Berkeley, spend a quiet night, be up early to hunt.

  As she neared Lompoc, Wayne called.

  Grace said, “You found something.”

  “Of a fashion.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Hey,” he said, suddenly jocular. “ ’S great to hear from my favorite niece…meetings all day? Tsk, I sympathize, dear…sure, that would be great, let me write it down…the Red Heifer…Santa Monica…six-ish work for you?”

  Surprised by someone entering his office? Fast on the uptake; Grace was glad she had him on her side.

  The ride back was two and a half hours, minimum, longer if rush-hour traffic got ugly. But even with that, plenty of squeeze room.

  She said, “See you soon, Uncle Wayne.”

  He hung up without laughing.

  —

  The restaurant was old-school: commodious vaulted dining room, green-flocked wallpaper, dim lighting, olive leather booths, noise-damping faux-Persian carpeting. The art was a mix of Flemish still-life prints, goofy cartoons about wine, and a huge butcher’s chart to the left of the bar that segmented a pitifully oblivious steer into steaks, chops, and roasts.

  Grace arrived ten minutes early but Wayne was already there, half his rotund form visible, the rest hidden by the shadows of a remote corner booth. Despite brisk dinner business, the banquette next to his was unoccupied. A martini in which three toothpicked olives floated looked untouched. He nibbled on bread, barely acknowledged Grace as she slid in beside him.

  Today he was dressed to impress, in a soft-shouldered tan suit, a pale-orange shirt, and the same aggressive blue tie as in his official headshot. He remained stoic but took Grace’s hand and gave it a brief squeeze.

  “Uncle,” she said. “Thanks for taking the time.”

  He smiled weakly. “Family is family.”

  A white-jacketed waiter came over. “Still no food, Mr. Knutsen?”

  “Nope, just drinks, Xavier.” Turning to Grace: “Katie?”

  Grace said, “A Coke, Uncle Wayne.”

  “Coming up,” said the waiter. Wayne pressed a bill into his hand. The waiter’s eyes rounded. “You already gave me, sir.”

  “Consider it a bonus, Xavier.”

  “Thank you so much.” He scurried off.

  Grace said, “Bonus for the empty booth next door?”

  Wayne stared at her, sighed, turned away and pretended to study a framed drawing of a dead rabbit dangling amid fruit, flowers, and herbs.

  Grace’s soda arrived, borne by a racewalking Xavier. She sipped. Wayne didn’t touch his martini. She waited as he worked his way through the entire basket of bread. Munching and flicking crumbs from his sleeve, he muttered, “Last thing I need, carbs.”

  Xavier jogged over with a fresh basket, filled water glasses, asked if everything was okay.

  “Perfect,” said Wayne.

  When they were alone again, Grace said, “You’re a regular.”

  “I try to get here when I’m on the Westside. I live in San Marino.”

  He’d driven cross-town in serious traffic, intent on keeping this away from his home base. But he was comfortable enough to show her to the waiter. So this was a place he used for pleasure, not business.

  Grace said, “Well, I appreciate your taking the time—”

  “But of course, you’re my client.” He reached for his martini, took a long swallow, ate one of the olives. Chewing more than was necessary, he looked around the room, sat inert for another half a minute, reached into an inner suit pocket and drew out an envelope.

  Small packet, something that might be used to mail back an RSVP. Grace concealed her disappointment. She’d hoped for a meaty packet of confidential documents.

  Wayne dropped his hand and handed her the envelope under the table. The damn thing was light enough to be empty.

  A hundred-thirty-mile backtrack for…?

  He said, “Put it away, you can examine it later.”

  “Of course. That was quick. Impressive, thanks.”

  “I wish I could attribute it to my virtue but quite the opposite.”

  Puzzled, Grace studied him.

  He said, “I acquired it through lack of virtue, dear. More than that, sin. Of the deadly variety.”

  Grace scrolled through the classic septet.

  “Greed,” she said.

  Wayne rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “You always were quick, Dr. Blades. Yes, the old filth and lucre. Speaking of iniquity, I couldn’t find anything on those Fortress nuts. Including court records.”

  Grace said, “There was no prosecution because everyone died in the shoot-out.”

  He fished out another olive. “And you know that because…”

  She realized she didn’t know. One of Sophia’s old jokes came to mind: Assume m
eans make an ass out of u and me.

  Grace frowned.

  Wayne said, “I raise the issue because one maniac leader and three acolytes doesn’t make for much of a cult.”

  She shrugged, still warding off shame at her muddled thinking.

  Wayne said, “On the other hand, perhaps it was a mini-cult.”

  The two of them laughed. Hard to say who was straining harder for levity.

  Grace drank soda. Wayne finished his martini and waved for another. After Xavier delivered it, she said, “If there were others, why weren’t they arrested? Why wasn’t anyone else mentioned in the article?”

  “Why, indeed, Grace, so you’re probably right. What surprised me, though, was the utter lack of coverage after the shoot-out. Generally, the press loves that kind of thing—psychological autopsies and such.” Another finger rub.

  Grace said, “Someone had the clout to keep it quiet?”

  “The possibility comes to mind.”

  Grace thought about that. “Makes sense—maybe to get a family member off the hook. But not Roi, he was a prison guard, no connection. So one or more of the women.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Wayne. “And my mind conjured a rich, stupid girl probably with drug issues. I see it all the time, working with wills and trusts.”

  Another long swallow. “The implication, of course, is dire, Grace.”

  “More rocks to turn over.”

  He turned and stared. “Rocks that don’t want to be turned over.”

  Grace shrugged. “On the other other hand, perhaps there were only four of them and that made them puny media-fodder in the post-Manson-and-Jim-Jones age.”

  “Anything’s possible,” said Wayne. “The hell of it is we simply don’t know, do we, dear?”

  Grace didn’t answer.

  He returned to his drink, stirring, staring into a tiny crystalline universe. “You step back into my life and I’m more anxious than I’ve been in a long time.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Not your fault, it is what it is—sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Grace touched his hand. “Wayne, I deeply appreciate everything you’re doing but there’s no need for concern. All I need is information.”

  He laughed. “There you go, I feel so much better knowing you’re off tilting at who-knows-what.”