Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

Same for the Beverly Carlton, the Beverly Carlyle, the Beverly Dumont, and fourteen other establishments.

But eighty minutes later, a man with a middle European accent at the St. Germain on the 400 block of North Maple Drive laughed unpleasantly.

“Funny you should ask, miss. Your Mr. Toner paid for two days then asked for a third day. When the maid went to clean his room this morning, he was gone, along with his belongings. We accepted cash as a courtesy. Where might we find him, miss?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Hmph. Well, if you see him, let him know this is wrong.”

Leaving the Aston in the garage and opting for the Toyota because conspicuous was the last thing she wanted to be, she drove south on Doheny Drive.

Maple between Civic Center and Alden was inaccessible from the north due to a long-dormant fenced-off area deeded to the Southern Pacific Railroad. Entry from Third Street to the south led Grace to a dark, quiet neighborhood zoned residential on the west side but hosting massive office buildings across the street.

Not where you’d expect a hotel and nothing looked like a hotel but the rationale hit her: close to her office. An easy walk if you knew how to sidle along the railyard and emerge at the psychotic interchange linking Melrose Avenue and Santa Monica Boulevard.

GPS could turn anyone into a navigator.

Grace cruised up the block, found the address painted on the curb, double-checked her notes to confirm. Driving on, she U-turned and came back, positioning herself across the street and up a bit.

The building was a Georgian Revival from the twenties, just another two-story apartment structure on a block filled with similar, nothing identifying a commercial enterprise. Whiskey-colored glow from a ground-floor window clarified when Grace parked and had a look from the sidewalk: light leaking through the slightly askew slats of old-fashioned Venetian blinds.

One way in: a dark-painted door, but there had to be a rear exit that led to a garden. An escutcheon-like plaque staked midway along a curving cement walkway was barely decipherable.

Hanging below that, a smaller sign.

Grace hazarded a couple of steps closer. Over the door:

Not exactly warm and welcoming, but perfect if you wanted to remain obscure.

The Internet ratings she’d read were mixed: decent, clean lodgings but no restaurant, no lounge, no room service.

Just as she’d hypothesized: A guy could get thirsty, hungry, lonely. Go out exploring.

She got back in the station wagon and drove away thinking about Andrew’s likely trajectory that first night. Heading north would earn him a chain-link barrier but south — southwest — would lead him smack into the Beverly Hills business district and, once there, the Opus would be a conspicuous beacon of promise.

You go in, settle in a comfortable chair, order a drink.

You see a woman.

She sees you back.

Everything changes.

Nothing like success to settle one’s stomach. Finally hungry, Grace drove to an Indian place in WeHo that she knew to be busy at lunch but thinly patronized for dinner.

Tonight, the clientele consisted of three tattooed hipsters eating sullenly and an older, well-dressed couple holding hands. The turbaned Sikh owner smiled gently and guided Grace to a quiet corner where she waved off a menu and ordered the shrimp special and chai. Nibbling namak pare crackers, she pondered when to favor Henke with her discovery.

Double gift: Not only had she learned where Andrew had stayed, the fact that he’d checked in three days ago could help the detective if she wanted to search travel schedules.

The owner brought her the milky tea along with assurance that her food would follow shortly, everything was prepared fresh.

Should she tell the detective about the hotel? If so, not tonight, maybe tomorrow morning. Late morning because that would imply curiosity but not an obsessive all-nighter quest.

She worked on her story: About to embark on a vacation, she’d been distracted by the horror of Andrew’s death, had taken the time to investigate so she could feel she was doing something.

Too mushy? Should she frame it as intellectual curiosity, softened by empathy? She’d figure it out.

Be grateful, Detective Henke. Show your thanks by forgetting about me.

Then she thought of a possible hitch: Henke was sure to visit the St. Germain, where the grumpy night man would likely tell her about Grace’s worried-cousin ruse. Would that retweak the detective’s suspicions?

So be up front about it, maybe get Henke to laugh it off as an eccentric therapist playing girl detective — weren’t shrinks all a bit off?

Partial honesty’s the best policy... Grace’s food arrived. Delicious. She seemed to be digesting well. Things were looking up.

She drove back to her office to pick up the Aston, and as long as she was at it, checked her service because that’s what a responsible healer did.

The operator said, “Just one, Dr. Blades. An Elaine Henke. She said phone anytime, she’ll be up late.”

Ten thirty-three p.m. and the woman was still at her desk. “Have you thought of anything else, Dr. Blades?”

“Actually,” said Grace. “I just did something a little different. But it might help you.”

Henke listened, said, “Wow. That’s impressive, Doctor. I like the cousin thing, sounds like something I might be able to use one day.”

Grace laughed. “Have a nice night.”

“The St. Germain,” said Henke. “Never heard of it.”

“Same here.”

“Fake name, paying cash, maybe he was shady — you pick that up?”

Grace, feeling oddly defensive about Andrew, said, “Not at all.”

“Guess not after such a brief — oh, I forgot to tell you, Doctor. I came up with something, myself. I was staring at the name, because something about it bothered me, I couldn’t figure it out. Then I did. Because luckily I’d written his initial — A — instead of his name. A. Toner. Get it?”

Grace said, “Not really.”

“A. Toner. Atoner, Doctor. If that’s it, no surprise he doesn’t show up under that name.”

“But you said other people in Texas do.”

“True,” said Henke, sounding disappointed. “Maybe you’re right... Still, they haven’t shown up murdered and he has. Plus you told me about that article he mentioned, maybe having a criminal family. And that out-of-service number looks like it traces to a throwaway — a disposable cell, drug dealers love them. So all in all I’m getting a shady feeling.”

“Sounds like it.”

“It’s usually that way, Doctor. People making mistakes, paying for them. Anyway, thanks for finding the hotel, it gives me something to work with.”

“My pleasure.”

“You said he got jumpy and left,” said Henke. “Drugs can make you jumpy. Cocaine, amphetamines. Did you happen to notice his pupils?”

The night before, I sure did, Elaine. Dilated to the max, ripe with interest.

“I didn’t,” said Grace, “but there were no obvious indications of intoxication.”

“And you’d know,” said Henke. “Okay, thanks again, I’ll check out that hotel first thing. You earned your vacation, enjoy — decided where to go, yet?”

The lie was easy. “Maybe it will be Hawaii.”

“Back when I was married, my husband and I used to go regularly.”

What was this, girlish chitchat?

Grace said, “Any recommendations?”

“I like the Big Island — oh yeah, one more thing. Did you happen to notice that Mr. Atoner colored his hair?”