Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

Grace realized she was staring. Realized the cousins weren’t.

She looked away, too.

The new boy — Bobby — gave a raspy laugh. Once again, it was hard to call that happy.

Ramona Stage said, “Bobby, this is Grace, she’s eight and a half, so you’re still the oldest.” She patted Bobby’s head. He smiled again, swayed more violently, let out a single loud cough, then bent double as a coughing fit overtook him.

Rollo and DeShawn stared down at their plates.

Ramona said, “Poor Bobby had a rough night, even with the oxygen.”

Rollo said something.

“What’s that, dear?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For...”

“Him being sick.”

“Well, that’s kind of you, darling. And gentlemanly, Rollo, I’m extremely proud of you.”

Rollo bobbed his head.

Grace thought of the hiss when Ramona had peeked in on Bobby. Oxygen. So he had some kind of breathing problem, but he looked like that wasn’t all of his problems.

She studied Bobby’s eyes. His irises were a strange yellow-brown and they seemed coated with something waxy.

She smiled.

He smiled back. This time, he seemed kind of happy.

Seventy-three minutes after her phone call from Detective Elaine Henke, the green light in the therapy room lit up.

Grace waited a couple of minutes before cracking the waiting room door. She kept an assortment of periodicals in a wall rack, covering topics from fashion to home renovation and she found it interesting, sometimes instructive, to note what patients chose to read.

The woman in the corner armchair had opted for Car and Driver. The new Corvettes.

“Doctor? Eileen Henke.” She got up and placed the magazine in the rack. Firm dry handshake.

Forty-five or so, the detective was short and wide, packed tight like a gymnast easing into middle age. Her complexion was clear, a rosy backdrop for unremarkable features. An ash-blond bob did a decent job of firming her jawbone, lending a roundish face some definition. Her pantsuit was beige, her shoes were black, her purse a patchwork of both those colors.

A gold badge was clipped to the breast pocket of her jacket. The garment had been tailored loosely, probably to hide the bulge of the gun holstered near her left breast. Nice try but not quite. Or maybe cops liked reminding you they were armed.

Too-curious almost-hazel brown eyes pretended not to surveil; Grace knew when she was being x-rayed.

“Please come in, Detective.”

“Elaine’s really okay.”

Only if we’re buddies. I don’t have buddies.

Henke said, “Never been in a psychologist’s office before.”

She’d settled in the chair facing Grace’s desk, was taking in Grace’s degrees and certificates.

“Always a first time, Detective.”

Henke chuckled. “Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice.”

“Of course. This is a terrible thing. Do you have any idea who killed Mr. Toner?”

“Unfortunately no, Doctor. And Andrew Toner may not be his real name.”

That was quick. “Really?”

“Well,” said Henke, “he told you he was from San Antonio but we haven’t been able to find anyone by that name in San Antonio. We did find some Andrew Toners in other Texan cities but they have no connection to him.”

Grace said, “I don’t know why he’d give me a false name.”

“You’re sure about San Antonio.”

“He contacted me through my service and they’re generally accurate. More than that, he gave this number for callback.” She handed Henke the ten digits she’d punched three-quarters of an hour ago.

“Two-ten area code,” said Henke.

“It’s San Antonio, all right,” said Grace. “Unfortunately, it’s out of service.”

“You tried it?”

“I was curious.”

Henke’s eyes washed over Grace’s impassive face. Producing a cellphone, she tried the number, frowned, clicked off. “Well, thanks anyway, Doctor. I might be able to trace it back to something useful.”

She slipped the paper into a jacket pocket. “Okay, back to what I asked you before: traveling a distance for therapy, you didn’t find that strange?”

“Not typical but not strange. In my practice it occurs more than you might think.”

“Why is that, Doctor?”

“I treat victims of trauma and their loved ones. That can draw people from a wide area.”

Henke smiled. “Because you’re the best?”

“I’d love to see it that way, but it’s probably because I specialize. And many of my cases are short-term, so travel becomes less of an issue.”

“You get them over the rough spots quickly.”

“I do my best.”

“Trauma,” said Henke. “Are we talking like PTSD?”

“That can be part of it, Detective.”

“What’s the rest of it?”

“Obviously I can’t get into specific patients, but often they’re crime victims or relatives of victims, people who’ve been in devastating accidents, lost loved ones to diseases.”

“Sounds pretty intense,” said Henke.

“I’m sure that also applies to your job, Detective.”

“True. So, Mr. Toner — let’s call him that until we know different — went through something really hairy or knew someone who did and maybe flew all the way from Texas to get therapy. Be nice to know what his trauma was.”

Grace said, “I might be able to help you a bit with that. Years ago I published a paper on the psychological effects of being related to a murderer. Based on a patient I knew. Andrew Toner cited that article when he showed up. Unfortunately, when I probed for specifics, he aborted the session.”

“Aborted?”

“He grew anxious and left.”

“Anxious about what, Doctor?”

“I wish I could tell you.”

Henke ticked her fingers. “Flew in, freaked out, flew the coop.”

“ ‘Freaked out’ is too strong,” said Grace. “He grew uncomfortable.”

“That happen a lot with your patients? People change their minds?”

“In my business, anything can happen.”

Henke digested that. “How long was he actually here?”

“Just a few minutes — I’d estimate ten, fifteen.”

“Long enough for you to remember what he was wearing.”

“I try to be observant.”

“Well, that’s good. So what else did you observe about him?”

“He seemed like a nice man with something on his mind.”

Henke slid a bit lower in her chair. Making herself comfortable, as if settling down for the long haul. “Any idea why he’d keep your business card in his shoe?”

“None. Sounds like he was hiding the fact that he was seeking therapy.”

“Like from someone he was traveling with? He mention traveling with anyone?”

Grace shook her head.

Henke said, “And you have no idea what specifically made him anxious?”

When he recognized me as the chick he’d...

“No, I’m sorry.”

“He got defensive and flew the coop,” said Henke.

Persistent woman. Good trait for a detective. Unpleasant when you were the object of her snooping.

Grace said, “I wish I could tell you more.”

Henke reached into her patchwork bag and pulled out a notepad. Flipping a page, then another, she said, “Don’t want to take up too much of your time but it’s the details you miss that end up coming back to bite you.”

“I understand.”

Henke read some more, closed the pad. “I keep coming back to that card in the shoe. Never seen that before, I mean that’s pretty cloak and dagger, no?”

“It is.”

“And now you’re telling me this guy might be a relative of some murderer — do you have that paper you wrote, by the way? Sounds interesting.”