The Murderer's Daughter

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “It won’t be much by way of square footage,” said the advisor, an ectomorphic grad student in literature named Pavel. “Not much more than a closet, really.”

  “No problem,” said Grace. “A closet will help with my hang-ups.”

  Pavel squinted. “Pardon—oh, heh, good one. Yes, yes, good. Heh.”

  —

  With that out of the way, Grace was free to continue acing every course and by the end of her sophomore year, she’d begun to kiss up to specific psych profs in order to lay the groundwork for nabbing a research job in her junior year. Though Malcolm and Sophie had introduced her to alcohol in an optimal way—allowing her to taste fine wines, avoiding power struggles—she’d decided early on to avoid any mind-altering substances and stuck to that.

  Not boozing or doping wasn’t easy in a libertine environment if you lacked spine or got too social. In addition to the expected overindulgence in weed, Grace had observed plenty of coke sniffing and hallucinogenic dabbling. Even some heroin use, mostly by self-tortured theater students.

  But the big drug at Harvard was alcohol. On many a Friday afternoon, beer trucks pulled up to the eating clubs that were Harvard’s version of fraternities, and unloaded cases of cheap brew. The college had no official Greek life but it was only a matter of nomenclature. Like much at Harvard, entry to the clubs was by invitation only and males dominated. Of course, girls were needed for the parties and feminism blew out the door when beer and fun beckoned and more than once Grace had been beckoned by a drunk preppie as she walked past a club.

  As her college career progressed, she watched lithe vixens grow beer bellies and the reek of vomit in dorms and houses was eau de Monday.

  Grace found herself a different form of recreation: hunting appropriate males with whom she could have pleasurable, unemotional sex.

  “Appropriate” meant no jocks or elitists, nor anyone too gregarious because none of those could be trusted to keep their mouth shut. The same went for letch professors and horny grad students, anyone who might conceivably be able to wield power over her. The final group she eliminated were the blue-collar townies who trolled for Ivy League pussy in the bars that littered Cambridge. Too much potential for class envy.

  That left a select group of targets, shy boys, loners, like herself, but no schizoids whose avoidance of others was rooted in deep, crazed hostility. One Unabomber was enough.

  Over the three and a half years Grace spent at Harvard, she slept with twenty-three young men from Harvard, Tufts, BU, BC, and Emerson. Pleasant lads lacking self-confidence and experience who were thrilled to have Grace educate them.

  She had her own definition of “special needs.”

  In the process of grooming and snagging, she learned about herself as well—what bored her, what turned her on quickest. How it needed to be more than the thrill and release of orgasm; she had to take control. What one slightly built but energetic lad studying the history of American film had termed “you like doing the director’s cut.”

  When he’d said it, Grace had been riding him and she stopped and panic tightened his face. “Uh…sorry…”

  “Is that a problem, Brendan?”

  “No, no, no, no, no—”

  She winked, offered the merest pelvic twitch. “You’re sure I’m not being too bossy?”

  “No, no, no, I love it. Please don’t stop.”

  “Okay, just as long as we’re in agreement.” Laughing, she planted his hands on her breasts, showed him how to softly twist her nipples, and resumed rocking and rolling. Beginning slowly for her own benefit, then picking up speed. Brendan came seconds later. Stayed hard until she finished and came a second time.

  “Excellent,” she told him, figuring he’d be good for another couple of romps. Five times with anyone was her max, more often she broke it off after one or two. No sense getting them too attached. Plus she bored easily.

  She was up-front about breaking things off but refused to explain. For the most part, flattery and her best blow job took care of any transitional issues.

  —

  As Grace neared her twentieth birthday, she’d amassed enough credits to graduate a semester early and had produced a sixty-seven-page honors paper on cognitive processing that earned her a departmental distinction and a summa on her diploma. One of her psych profs, a gentle, thoughtful woman named Carol Berk who’d spent her professional life studying minuscule correlates of family structure, guided her to join the psych honor society, Psi Chi, nominated her successfully for Phi Beta Kappa, and suggested Grace remain at Harvard for grad school.

  Grace thanked her and lied. “I really appreciate the vote of confidence, Professor Berk, maybe I will.”

  But she’d had it with cold weather and self-importance and the tendency to politicize everything from breakfast cereal to reading material. She’d also lost patience with having to explain why she preferred not to attend social gatherings. Had overheard one too many of her alleged peers refer to her as “different” or “weird” or “asocial” or “autistic.”

  On top of all that, she was beginning to tire of the shy boys, had found herself working harder to come.

  But none of that really mattered.

  She’d known all along what her next step would be.

  As her junior year drew to a close, she phoned Malcolm and told him she’d be coming home for the summer. He and Sophie had seen her a month before, the second of their twice-yearly visits, and she’d hadn’t mentioned anything about returning.

  He said, “No summer school this time?”

  “No need, I’m finished.”

  “Finished with your research?”

  “With nearly everything. I’ll be graduating a semester early.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope,” she said. “Done, kaput. I’d like to talk to you about doing some research in L.A., and about grad school.”

  “So you’ve definitely decided?”

  “I have.”

  A beat. “That’s terrific, Grace. Clinical or cognitive?”

  “Clinical and I want to do it at SC.”

  “I see…”

  “Is that a problem, Malcolm?”

  “Of course not, Grace. Not in terms of your qualifications, that is. With everything you’ve accomplished and the kind of GRE score you’re bound to get, any school will be happy to have you.”

  “Including SC?”

  Another pause. “Yes, of course, the department would certainly be pleased.”

  “Interesting grammar,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Not they will be, Malcolm. They would be. It’s conditional on something?”

  “Well…Grace, do I need to spell it out?”

  “If it’s something other than the obvious,” she said. “E.g., you and me, nepotism blah blah blah.”

  “I’m afraid that’s it, Grace.”

  “Are you saying your presence will disqualify me?”

  “I’d hope not.” He laughed. “There I go with more conditional…I must admit, you’ve surprised me with this, Grace.”

  “Why?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Why the surprise?” she said. “There’s no one whose work I admire more than yours.”

  “Well,” he said. “That—that’s extremely gracious…you’re saying not only do you want to study at SC, you’re planning to be my student?”

  “If it’s possible.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “I have to say, it’s not the kind of thing that comes up in departmental meetings.”

  Grace laughed. “Paradigm shift. You always say that they can be useful.”

  He laughed back. “So I do, Grace. So I do.”

  —

  She wasn’t sure what he had to go through, but a month later, she had her answer. Formally, she’d be required to apply like everyone else. But Malcolm’s tenure and status and “other factors” made her acceptance inevitable.

  Grace had a notion of what other factors meant: He wasn’t
her biological father. So, officially, no nepotism.

  That, she confessed, did tighten her chest a bit and make her eyes hurt.

  But on balance, everything was working out just as she’d planned.

  Grace’s catnap lasted the perfect twenty minutes. Reinserting the bright-blue contacts and re-donning the fluffed-up brunette wig, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, dabbed on extra deodorant, and reassured herself that she was Sarah Muller, Educational Consultant, with expertise in psychometric testing.

  All that, and two guns in her oversized bag.

  Leaving the hotel via the back door, she drove down Center Street, again passing the construction site. Still no activity and her psychotic pal was nowhere in sight. But a few high school kids were loitering in the park, for the most part tough-looking boys. Maybe they’d driven away the homeless men.

  She drove to Lawrence Hall, arriving seventy minutes prior to her appointment with Amy Chan. That gave her time to find an ideal parking spot near the entrance to the lot across the street from the museum. Perfect for making a quick exit, plenty of time to scope out the front plaza.

  The day was gorgeous and clear, cool air wafting gently under a stunning sky that matched her contacts. Off to the west, the Golden Gate Bridge was a flash of rust-colored brilliance. San Francisco Bay was a roiling pewter broth, chop whipped up by wind, frigid water frothing like freshly beaten meringue. Tugs and tourist boats and a few fishing craft rocked and rolled. On one of her visits, Grace had toured Alcatraz, wondered what it would be like to bunk down in a cell if you knew you could get out.

  The plaza was spotless and nearly empty, just a couple of young shapely women who could be moms or au pairs, standing by as ebullient toddlers ran and jumped and cavorted across the open space.

  Grace knew she’d never have children but, from a distance, she found kids pleasing and agreeable, not yet fucked up by life. In grad school, opportunities had come up to learn child therapy and she’d been required to spend three weeks observing at a preschool but had never opted to go beyond that. What she’d learned was that kids, even toddlers, were damn good at solving their own problems if so-called grown-ups didn’t intervene and impose their will.

  She proceeded to the center of the plaza, was nearly butted by one of the little boys, a stocky mini-elf with a mane of long red hair, racing blindly and whooping with joy.

  She smiled and sidestepped and one of the young women yelled, “Cheyenne!” The boy sped on, unheedingly.

  Grace murmured, “Good for you, kiddo.”

  Reversing direction, she exited the plaza, crossed the street, took a lovely walk up a pathway that snaked into the green hills of Berkeley.

  —

  She returned at one fifty-five. Professor Amy Chan was already there, wearing an outfit not unlike Grace’s: blouse, sweater, slacks, all in a monotone of navy blue.

  Chan sat on a bench that faced the Bay, head down, engrossed in a book. Grace made sure to approach in a way that wouldn’t startle her, pacing a wide conspicuous arc that would give Chan plenty of time to take Grace in.

  Despite that, Chan didn’t glance up until Grace was ten yards away. Her face was unreadable.

  Grace gave a friendly little wave and Chan waved back and put down her book. Hardcover novel called The Genius. Something Chan could relate to?

  Chan slipped the volume into her purse and stood. Her tote was a macramé thing even larger than Grace’s. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if she was also packing?

  “Hi, I’m Sarah. Thanks so much for meeting with me.”

  “Amy.” The two of them shook hands. Chan’s grip was gentle and soft. Five six or so, she was slim and leggy, long hair drawn back in a ponytail. No makeup, no perfume. Patting the bench, she waited for Grace to settle then positioned herself to Grace’s right.

  The spot she’d chosen offered both of them a glorious view of the Bay. It also made avoiding eye contact easy as both of them stared straight ahead.

  Amy Chan said, “You’re in education, Sarah?”

  “Used to teach, now I consult to private schools—anxious kids and highly anxious parents.”

  “Know what you mean,” said Chan. Grace’s sidelong glance caught a split-second wince on Chan’s face. Hints of a childhood not devoid of pressure? Grace resisted the temptation to continue interpreting; Amy Chan’s issues were no concern of hers unless they involved Andrew Van Cortlandt.

  Figuring a physical scientist wouldn’t appreciate dilly-dallying, Grace got right to it. “As I mentioned over the phone, I’m concerned about Andrew.”

  Amy Chan didn’t respond. Her hands rested on her knees but her fingers curled upward, as if repelled by the touch of her own trousers. “You found my name on some of Andrew’s articles?”

  “I did. In fact, I couldn’t find anyone else Andrew published with.”

  “For you to seek me out, Andrew must be important to you.”

  “I admire him.”

  “Understandable,” said Amy Chan. She turned sharply. “Please be frank: Do you suspect he’s in danger? Or worse?”

  “I don’t know,” Grace lied. “But there’s a good chance of it. As I said, he’s been looking extremely tense—I’d even say frightened and for the past few weeks I haven’t been able to reach him. I had to travel up here, anyway, so when your name came up…”

  “Andrew and I haven’t been in touch for a while,” said Chan. “We were just friends. In grad school.” She blinked four times. One of her hands had balled into a fist. “Any hint what’s been on his mind?”

  Grace exhaled. “I tried to find out but that seemed to bother him. He did drop one thing: It related to his family. Which I don’t know much about, until that point I’d thought he didn’t have much in the way of family, being adopted, no sibs.”

  “His family,” said Chan. “That’s it?”

  “He wouldn’t go into details, Dr. Chan. The truth is, though I like Andrew a lot, I realize now that I never knew much about him. He was kind of, I don’t know—secretive?”

  “Reticent,” said Chan.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “How long have you known him, Sarah?”

  “A year or so. You go back longer so I thought you might know more.”

  “Actually, I haven’t talked to Andrew in a couple of years,” said Chan. “Slightly longer—maybe two and a half years when he was in San Francisco on business and phoned me and we had dinner.”

  Chan craned and looked straight at Grace. “Were you and Andrew an…” She smiled. “The only phrase that comes to mind is ‘an item.’ As stilted as that sounds. And if that’s being too nosy, forgive me.”

  Grace smiled back. “No, we weren’t, Dr. Cha—”

  “Amy’s fine.”

  “We weren’t an item, Amy. Just friends, as well. Just like you.”

  Chan said, “Interesting, no?”

  “What is?” said Grace.

  “Two women who admired him but no romance. Are we sensing a pattern here?”

  Grace pretended to ponder. “I guess so.”

  “Did you ever wonder about Andrew?”

  “About what in particular?”

  “His sexuality in particular, Sarah.”

  “You thought he might be gay?” Think again, girl.

  “At some point that’s exactly what I wondered,” said Amy Chan. “Because I’d never known him to have a romantic relationship with a woman…I’m not saying he never did, just that I never saw it.” A beat. “He certainly didn’t come on to me. Which, I must confess, was a bit of a self-esteem assault, initially. Not that I’d fixed on him as a mate, I’ve had boyfriends and currently I’m engaged.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Yes, I’m quite happy…anyway, Andrew was intelligent, considerate, attentive, and courteous. Just about the perfect man, no? We spent lots of time together in the lab as well as working on our publications. But there wasn’t an ounce of chemistry and not once did he try to take it further.”

  “
I understand totally,” said Grace. “I guess I’ve had the same experience with him.”

  “Where’d you meet him, Sarah?”

  Grace thought: Keep your lies close to the truth. Less stretch means having to remember less.

  She said, “I hate to admit it, but in a bar. Not a dive, a nice place, the lounge of a hotel in L.A., both of us were traveling on business. I thought he was attractive right from the get-go and he was easy to talk to. We ended up having dinner but that’s where it ended, it was as if he needed to rush away. A couple of days later we ran into each other again and did some touring. He told me he grew up in L.A. It was nice having someone who knew the city show me around.”

  Faint pink spots dotted Amy Chan’s delicate jawline. “And after that you met other times?”

  “Just a few. When our travels coincided…I believe it was four times over the next year. I welcomed it as a nice friendship. Travel can be so lonely, port in a storm and all that.”

  “That’s how I feel about conventions, Sarah. So he never took it to the next level.”

  “Never.”

  Amy Chan seemed pleased by that. Not as detached as she’d claimed?

  Grace said, “I guess I’d gotten used to it, Andrew’s thing was friendship. I guess in a way I found it comforting—pleasant company, no pressure. Still, I found myself caring about him and when he started to act differently—the last couple of times I saw him—it troubled me. Then he stopped responding to emails and I found myself wondering.”

  “Something related to his family.”

  “He had told me he was adopted, so I wondered if it had something to do with that—one of those roots things, gone wrong, I’ve seen it in a couple of my students. I know he was close to his adoptive parents, he told me he was devastated by their deaths. Maybe with them gone, he’d decided to search.”

  Grace shook her head. “This is probably silly, I’m getting involved where I shouldn’t.”

  Chan sat silently. Then: “I wish I could tell you your concerns are unfounded. But the last time I saw Andrew, something did happen that I found curious.”

  She turned back toward the stormy water. “We went to dinner. I chose the restaurant, a place called Café Lotus, it’s since closed down. I’m a vegetarian and though Andrew wasn’t, he was fine with that, of course. You know how agreeable he is.”