Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

The very qualities Venom Boy possessed in spades before he met the Wetters.

Senior takes Junior into the family business, tutors him in the fine points. Then Senior announces his retirement, he and Mom move to L.A. — pulling the rug out from under Junior?

Now you’re on your own, son.

Soon after, Mom and Dad experience the cold blue kiss of the ocean.

Head swimming, Grace pulled off at the next exit.

Sad little intersection housing two gas stations, an Arby’s, and a Pizza Hut. Nothing with WiFi. She drove farther east, spotted an even shabbier commercial block featuring mostly boarded-up storefronts but also a Wild Bill’s Motor Hotel decked out with a poorly painted sign of said lawman on a bucking bronco and smaller placards claiming satellite TV, massage beds, and Internet hookup.

She paid cash for a forty-three-dollar room, scrawled something illegible in the register, ignored the oh-sure smirk of the moron behind the desk.

Parking in front of the unit, she took her bag and her laptop to a room reeking of Lysol and hard-boiled eggs. Opening the drapes on a flyspecked window in order to keep the Escape in view, she sat on a mattress that felt stuffed with mixed nuts, tried to log on, failed, repeated, failed again.

On her fourth attempt, the Data Monster announced itself with an insipid chorus of beeps.

roger agnes wetter theodore jane van cortlandt rewarded her with three immediate hits.

Correction: one hit, reiterated twice.

Both couples had lent their names to the steering committee of a political fund-raiser. Big bash, nearly fifteen years ago, the Biltmore Hotel, downtown, championing the reelection of State Senator Selene McKinney. Old news cached on the site of the party-planning outfit that had set it up.

McKinney served the affluent Westside, including the Van Cortlandts’ upscale slice of Santa Monica. Her district didn’t include the Wetters’ abode in Encino but back then, the couple had lived in Northern California so there had to be more than constituency at play.

You didn’t need to be a constituent to benefit from a politician’s good graces.

Grace googled McKinney and got a Wikipedia bio. The legislator known as Ms. Moderate had won that election but eighteen months later, she was dead, victim of a heart attack.

Born to big money, McKinney’s decades of public service had earned her seniority and the plum positions that went along with it. At the time of her death she’d long chaired the Senate Standing Committee on Insurance. Which put her in charge of “indemnity, surety, and warranty agreements.”

A woman well worth supporting, if you were Roger Wetter Senior. She’d also served on the dental health licensing committee, which might have put her in contact with Dr. Van Cortlandt.

Grace continued to search, switching between her keyboard and eyeballing the rented SUV through the window. One time, she had to step out of the room, as two boys, fifteen or so, began slinking around, walking expensive ten-speed bikes up to the Escape and eyeing the rear hatch.

Cheap motel, low-rent district, but these two were well dressed, well fed, nicely tended. Couple of rich kids biking down from one of the horsey estates that rose above the tree line to the east?

A quick stare-down from Grace caused them to hightail. Softies. Grace returned to her laptop, pairing selene mckinney with roger wetter, alice wetter, alamo adjustments, insurance scam. When that brought up nothing, she plugged in a stream of additional bad deeds: bribery, extortion, con, deception, fraud.

Still, nothing.

She phoned Wayne Knutsen.

His voicemail message was curt, almost dismissive, you’d never associate it with the man who’d come through for her twice.

“It’s me. Did Selene McKinney have a daughter?”

She’d packed up when movement outside her room’s window caught her eye. The pair of adolescent reprobates had returned and one boy was leaning insolently against the SUV’s right-side headlight.

As if he owned the damn thing.

Grace flung her door open, strode to the driver’s door, tossed in her belongings, started up, revved hard, and peeled out in reverse, knocking the kid off balance and causing him to cry out.

She drove off the motel lot, glancing at her rearview mirror. The kid had remained on his feet but looked shaken, mouth agape, holding his hands up as if questioning the gods.

Unwilling to believe anyone could do that.

Shocked that not everyone cared about him.

Get used to reality, you spoiled little bastard.

Twelve-year-old Grace lived with two strangers in a big, beautiful house in Hancock Park.

Nice while it lasted. It wouldn’t, of course, she understood reality. A few years in one place, a few in another, you never knew what the next day would bring.

But she had to admit being taken in by Malcolm and Sophie was by far her best turn of luck. And she was determined to learn as much as she could until they got tired of her.

Apart from the house being big and beautiful and always smelling clean and fresh, apart from the room they let her use as her bedroom being huge and comforting and now, furnished graciously, Malcolm and Sophie were nicer than anyone she’d ever met.

They made it easy for Grace to hold on to herself and not be swallowed up by what they preferred. Maybe that was because Malcolm was a psychologist, an expert on kids. Even though he’d never had any.

Or maybe it was more than that; after a month or so, Grace couldn’t help thinking he and Sophie seemed to really care about her comfort, nutrition, and general state of happiness. But they never pretended they were her parents, never asked to be called Mom and Dad. Grace wasn’t sure how she’d feel if they had. She’d never called anyone Mom or Dad.

She thought about it and decided to go along with whatever they wanted that didn’t actually hurt her.

Anything to stay in this heaven.

A few months later, she was still calling them Malcolm and Sophie, and Sophie had taken to routinely calling her “dear.” Malcolm usually never called her anything except once in a while, Grace. Mostly he just talked to her without a label. As if there was always a conversation going on between them and no one needed to get formal.

Grace began to think of them as a pair of new friends. Or maybe “acquaintances” — she liked that word — it sounded exotic and French. Same for “compatriots.” “Associates,” too, though that was more official than exotic.

So now, she had acquaintances who were much older and smarter and had a lot to teach her. And rich, as well.

One day, Malcolm asked if she’d ever thought about going to school.

It made her afraid and a bit angry, as if he’d finally had enough and was thinking about sending her somewhere and when she said, “Never,” some of that anger came out in her voice. She had to hold on to her hands so they didn’t shake.

Malcolm just nodded, and rubbed his big chin the way he did when he was thinking about something puzzling. “Makes sense, be hard to find a peer group for you — for anyone as brilliant as you. Okay, fine, we’ll continue with home study. I must confess, I like it myself — finding material for you is a serious challenge. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting lonely.”

I’m my own best friend. I don’t know what lonely is.

She said, “I’m ready for the next lesson.”

Grace’s nearly thirteen years on the planet had told her trust didn’t mean much, except for trusting herself. But the funny thing was, Malcolm and Sophie seemed to trust her. Never forcing food on her that she didn’t like, never telling her when to go to bed or when to get up. Though to be honest, they didn’t have to, Grace rose before they did and read in bed, and when she was tired she told them so and returned to her room to read herself to sleep. After she first moved in, Sophie asked if she wanted to be tucked in.