Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

Grace said, “I can’t be sure.” Oh, yes, I can! “He might be a patient I saw yesterday evening.”

“Name?”

“If it’s not him, I’m bound by confidentiality.”

“Hmm,” said Henke. “I could email you a photo right now. I promise to pick one of the... easier ones. You can stay on the line. Up for that, Doctor?”

“Sure.” Grace gave her the address.

Moments later, the terrible truth flashed on her screen. Close-up of Andrew’s handsome face, slackened and grayed by death. No blood, no obvious wounds, maybe the bad stuff was beneath his neckline.

She said, “The name he gave me was Andrew Toner. He said he was from San Antonio, Texas.”

“He said? You have reason to doubt him?”

Well, his real name could be Roger. Or Beano. Or Rumpelstiltskin. “No... I’m just... thrown by this. I saw him last night at six p.m. He left around fifteen minutes later.”

“That’s kind of a short session, no?” said Henke. “For a psychologist, I mean. Unless it was just to dole out medication — but no, you don’t do that, that’s for psychiatrists, right?”

“Mr. Toner left the session early.”

“May I ask why?”

“It was a first session, that kind of thing happens.”

“Did he make a second appointment?”

All business, Elaine. “No.”

“From Texas,” said Henke. “That’s pretty far to come for therapy.”

“It is.”

“What else can you tell me about Mr. Toner?”

“Unfortunately, that’s it.”

“He’s dead, Doctor, you don’t need to worry about confidentiality.”

“It’s not that,” said Grace. “As I said, I only met him once and not for very long.”

Twice, really, but no sense getting into that, Elaine.

Though cradled by her desk chair, Grace felt her balance give way. Her head wobbled, unmoored, like overripe fruit swaying on a flimsy stalk. She clamped one hand on her desktop to steady herself.

“Well,” said Henke, “at this point you’re all I’ve got so would you mind if we chatted a bit further? I’m in the neighborhood.”

The murder had taken place downtown. Why would Henke be in West Hollywood? Unless she considered Grace — what did the police call it — a person of interest?

Last person to see Andrew alive. Of course she did.

Or was it something Grace had said? Hadn’t said. Had her voice, despite her best efforts, betrayed the turmoil coursing through her?

Or maybe Henke was just thorough.

Grace said, “Sure, I could see you right now.”

“Um,” said Henke. “How about in an hour, Doctor?”

In the neighborhood, indeed.

As soon as Henke hung up, Grace phoned the Beverly Opus and put on her own version of a chirpy Cal-Gal voice.

“Andrew Toner, please.”

The desk clerk clicked an unseen mouse. “Sorry, no one by that name is registered.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am, miss.”

“Oh, geez, how can that be? He said he’d be there — the Beverly Opus.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, miss—”

“Wow,” she said. “Oh, yeah, sometimes Andy uses his nickname. Roger.”

“I searched using the surname, miss,” said the clerk. “It wouldn’t make a difference.”

“This is weird. Did he maybe check in a few days ago and leave early for some reason? Why didn’t he tell me? I’m supposed to pick him up for the reunion.”

“Hold on.” Click click. Muffled voices. “No one by that name has been here, miss.”

“Okay... there are other hotels near where you are, right?”

“This is Beverly Hills,” said the clerk and he hung up.

Andrew Roger Roger Andrew.

Grace had assumed he was staying at the Opus but obviously he’d just dropped in to... have a drink? A confidence-building snort before tomorrow’s therapy when he’d be dealing with moral parameters ?

He’d ended up with much more than booze.

Roger, the engineer. If the name was false, the same could apply to the occupation. Ditto a flight from Texas.

Was anything he told her true? Who’d been played?

But she remembered his shock at seeing her in her office, no one could act that well. So the part about having a problem was likely valid. And the fact that he’d been spurred by the Jane X article clarified the problem: a criminally dangerous murderous relative.

Moral parameters... not a blast from the past, something ongoing. A tortured, internal debate about whether or not to go public.

And now he was dead.

Just to make sure he hadn’t learned about her some other way, Grace did something she found abhorrent: Googled herself. All that came up were academic citations, not a single image, lending credence to at least part of Andrew’s story.

She thought about the geography of his last living day.

Drinks in B.H., therapy in West Hollywood.

Death downtown. For as long as Grace could recall, the district underwent development that seemed to end up overly optimistic. Despite Staples Center, converted lofts, yuppie condos, and bars, huge swaths of downtown L.A. remained bleak and dangerous as soon as rush hour ended and the streets were commandeered by armies of homeless schizophrenics, criminal illegals, addicts, dealers, and the like.

Had Andrew, new to the city, simply wandered into the wrong area and come up against a psychotic obeying a command hallucination?

Pitiful, dingy way to die.

Or did his murder indeed relate to his moral quest, best intentions and all?

An eddy of curiosity whipped up in Grace’s gut, displacing some of her anxiety.

If Henke made good on that one-hour prediction, fifty-one minutes remained before Grace met her first homicide detective.

Meanwhile... a bracing walk around the neighborhood would kill some time but she felt oddly disinclined to move. She tried catching up on journal articles but couldn’t focus.

Andrew Toner.

Something about the name bothered her but she couldn’t figure out what until her eyes drifted to her date book. The notation she’d made regarding his appointment, followed by the phone number he’d given her exchange.

A. Toner. Viewed as a collection of letters, the answer was obvious.

Atoner.

A man seeking expiation.

What Detective Elaine Henke would consider a clue.

Grace decided not to mention it to Henke. She’d come across weirdly over-involved, turn herself into a person of greater interest.

Atoner.

What was your sin, Andrew? Or have you taken on someone else’s iniquity?

Given what we did in the parking lot, do I really want to know?

Ignorance could truly be bliss. But she called the number he’d left, anyway.

Not in service.

By the time Grace’s meager belongings were packed in Wayne the caseworker’s car, the sun was sinking and graying the Valley, making everything look heavy, almost liquid.

He started up the engine and looked back at her. “You okay?”

Grace nodded.

“Can’t hear you, kid.”

“M’okay.”

When Grace got moved from foster to foster, the trip was usually short — bounces from one small nondescript house to another. This time Wayne got on the freeway and drove for a long time.

Grace hoped that didn’t mean a big change, some sort of special place. All she wanted was people feeding her and leaving her alone so she could think and read and imagine.

She was still hoping for all that when Wayne got off the freeway and she read the exit sign and a pain started high up in her belly. It had been a long time but the sign shone through the enveloping darkness and she remembered: The few times Dodie or Ardis had taken her out of the single-wide, this was the way they’d come back home.