Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

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 means 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.”

Grace said, “My contacting you proves I’ll be okay.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Not only am I self-protective, I know how to ask for help.”

He scowled, drank. “I suppose I appreciate it.”

“Appreciate what?”

“Your coming to me. Because Lord knows I could’ve done a helluva lot more back when you were a kid.”

“Wayne, of all the people—”

He waved her off. “What did I really do for you other than delegate responsibility?”

“Ramona was—”

“The best alternative, granted. But as soon as I punted to her, I washed my hands. Of you, of everyone, of the entire system. Sure, I can rationalize it as burnout, but what does that say about my character?”

“I think your character is beyond—”

“When Ramona called to tell me she thought your IQ was through the roof, I kissed her off, darling. How did I know she’d take care of it optimally? How would it have hurt me to spend some time researching curricula? And please don’t tell me everything worked out fine. The issue isn’t outcome, Grace, it’s process.”