Jonathan Kellerman: The Murderer's Daughter

The second solo Y-chromo was at least eighty. Grace had no bias against well-mellowed types — years ago, at a convention in New York, she’d captured a French surgeon twice her age, found him gentle, considerate, much smarter than any young man she’d met. But patience and tenderness and little blue pills weren’t what she craved tonight.

Assuming a target showed up.

Over the next twenty-two minutes, none did, and as Grace nursed her drink and moved on to a second brochure, she began to wonder if she’d have to shift locales. Maybe back to WeHo, one of the obnoxiously hip hotels that lined Sunset. If that didn’t work, she might have to settle for a painfully retro cocktail lounge catering to trust-fund slackers.

Or be content with nothing.

A bit more time passed and she was resigning herself to nothing when she looked up and there he was.

He drifted into the lounge looking a bit disoriented, took a while to select his place, finally opted for an armchair diagonal to Grace’s stakeout position.

Grace’s age or slightly older, he was of medium height, pleasant looking, with a thatch of black hair worn at a length that suggested neglect of barbering rather than design. His clothes were consistent with that: tweed sport coat far too heavy for L.A., pale-blue button-down shirt, rumpled khakis, brown loafers.

The coat was boxy. The khakis sagged over the shoes. But none of that calculated rumpled preppy thing you saw in pretenders. This was not someone who spent time in front of the mirror.

Things were looking up.

Grace continued to read, sneaking peeks above her brochure, watched him accept a bar menu from a server — Miguel had gone off shift, replaced by a mini-skirted chicklet whose body posture said she was an ace at flirting for tips.

Wasted effort with this guy; he didn’t bother to look up.

Nothing like a challenge.

Scanning the menu, he put it aside, slouched lower in the chair, squinted at nothing in particular, closed his eyes and appeared to be initiating a nap.

Chicklet returned with a beer, still working her bod. This time, he made eye contact and smiled briefly and paid up front — letting her know he wouldn’t be ordering more, didn’t want to be pestered?

Maybe because after one sip, his eyes closed again.

A few moments later, he took another sip as Grace watched from behind her brochure. When his eyes remained open and he seemed to grow restless, she lowered the pages, sipped her Negroni, recrossed her legs, exposing a foot of ivory calf and an inch of thigh.

The maroon pump dangled and swung, a suede pendulum.

Grace widened the arc, allowed the gray dress to ride up just a bit. The movement caught Tweed’s eye. He watched briefly, turned away. Returned to eyeing Grace who pretended to be back in the world of derivatives.

He’d been nursing his beer, now he took a generous swig. Wiped foam from his lips with a finger. Stared at the finger and dried it on a paper cocktail napkin.

Grace flipped a page, fake-sipped her Negroni, and turned her head, catching him looking away hurriedly. The next time, her eyes nabbed him before he could escape. She held his gaze then pretended she hadn’t been and proceeded to ignore him. Recrossing her legs.

Sitting up straighter and arching her back just a tad, cashmere stretching tautly over her body.

He drank away and now his beer glass was empty. Pushing hair off his forehead, he repeated the gesture when the mop fell back into place.

Grace read while dangling her other shoe. Rotated her head gently so that her hair cascaded. Smoothing the chestnut tsunami, she swiveled away from the target.

Then toward him.

Their eyes met again.

This time she held the stare without breaking, lips positioned neutrally. He looked appalled at being caught.

Grace smiled.

Grateful, he smiled back. Picked up his glass. Realized it was empty and looked at Grace again and shrugged.

She laughed.

She couldn’t carry a tune but she did have a lovely speaking voice, half a tone into alto, smooth as flan. That same appeal extended to her Leap-laugh, a throaty burst of amusement men found beguiling.

She made sure her laughter floated above the conversational buzz, drained her own glass and lofted it and grinned warmly.

We’re in this together, friend.

His turn to laugh. Too softly to be audible but it spread his mouth in a nice way.

Well-formed mouth. Grace bet his lips were soft.

And now that she could take a better look at him, she realized this one was actually handsome. Not that it mattered. Anthony in Florence had a face like a toad but he’d made Grace’s body scream.

The target turned shy suddenly and looked away.

Endearing.

Definitely a looker. Not in that craggy, hyper-Y, heavy-jaw, brow-ridge way. More like... nothing remarkable about any single feature but taken as a whole, a fine composition. Symmetrical. And at the core, attractiveness boiled down to symmetry.

Boyish, she supposed some women would label him. Some women went for boyish.

For the next four minutes, she alternated between jots of eye contact, some followed by warm smiles, others by neutral looks.

The target’s hand began drumming a lamp table and he started rocking his head ever so slightly.

The dance had begun.

Then, darn her, Chicklet was back, asking if he wanted a refill. He began to shake his head no, then looked past the waitress at Grace.

Grace lofted her glass, pointed at his, rotated her free hand palms up.

What the heck, let’s both go for it.

He said something to Chicklet, paid for both drinks, and pointed. Chicklet turned around, saw Grace, frowned and left.

Now he was clearly fixed on Grace, not even pretending to be cool. Grace summoned him over with a curled index finger.

He pointed to his chest.

Who, me?

By the time he arrived, he was breathing fast.

She patted the cushion next to her.

He sat down and said, “Thank you.”

Nice voice, mellow, soft. A bit shaky — no big stud accustomed to this.

Grace couldn’t have custom-ordered it better.

Grace’s lies were perfectly prepared.

Her name was Helen, she worked “in finance,” was in L.A. for a conference. When he asked about the topic, she grinned and said, “Trust me, you don’t want to know. Unless it’s instant sleep you’re after.”

He laughed. “Guess I’d rather be awake.”

She tossed her hair. “Okay, your turn.”

He said, “Talk about boring.”

Grace’s smile was blinding. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

His name was Roger, he was a civil engineer in L.A. for meetings concerning “a corporate project — trust me, you don’t want to know.”

Aiming for easygoing rapport but he’d turned grave.

Grace said, “Tough project?”

His face tightened up and the smile he struggled to keep in place was uneasy. “No, it’s fine, the usual.”

Grace waited.

He drank beer. “Guess I’m a little off — jet lag. Sorry.”

“Long flight?”

“Aren’t they all, nowadays?”

“Don’t like plastic food and being treated like a criminal, huh? Picky, picky.” Grace pointed a finger-gun at him. Then, dropping her arm, she allowed her fingertips to graze his khakis, touching the outer curve of his kneecap. Less than a second of contact but he felt it and his eyes shot downward.

Grace picked up her drink. The look on her face was pure innocence. His shoulders had bunched and his lips had dried.

He downed more beer. Let his eyes flit to her legs then forced himself away from the view. Grace slipped the financial nonsense back in her briefcase, pretended to discover how much bare skin she’d been exposing and, again, tugged the dress down. Her breasts mounded through the soft fabric of the dress. Her nipples were fully inflated and couldn’t be missed.