Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

“At this point, everything’s conjecture.”

“I’m okay with conjecture, Grace.”

Grace tried to sort out her answer. Wayne didn’t wait. “All right, then, do you have a moment to listen to my conjecture? You’re thinking the girl could be the mother of those cult children, one of the lunatics who died in the showdown.” A beat. “How am I doing, Dr. Blades?”

“Very well.”

“What led you there, Grace?”

“The only link I can find between the boys’ adoptive parents is Selene.”

“What link is that?”

“Both couples attended her reelection fund-raiser.”

“The boys but not the girl.”

“From the sequence you gave me I’m assuming the girl was adopted first.”

“That’s correct.”

“You couldn’t obtain exact dates—”

“It was all I could do to produce what I did.”

“Right,” said Grace. “Highly appreciated. Anyway, Lily was adopted by a working-class family but the boys ended up in affluent homes. I figured they might’ve knocked around the system for a while, being high-risk adoptees, but now you’ve brought up the boarding school theory, perhaps they got farmed out that way. Either way, the time came when they needed homes and Selene cashed in IOUs.”

“All that,” said Wayne, “because of a fund-raiser?”

“Conjecture,” Grace reminded him, “but the time line fits. And think about it: How often do high-risk male fosters end up on Easy Street?”

The same went for high-risk female fosters. Sophie’s face flew into Grace’s head, then Malcolm’s. Both smiling, encouraging. Proud.

Wayne said, “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“It sounded like you gasped and then you didn’t reply when I said something.”

Not good, girl. “Sorry, got the sniffles, Wayne. Anyway, that’s my working theory but I’m a ways from proving it. You’ve been a peach, thanks again.”

Wayne sighed. “I hope I’ve actually helped you.”

“Of course you have.”

“I wish I could be as certain as you, Grace.”

“You’re worried about me. I appreciate that but don’t be.”

“Easy for you to say, Grace. I’m more than worried, I’m frightened. Especially if you are right. What you’ve told me about the older one — Samael — has really sunk in, I can’t stop thinking about poor Ramona, that crippled boy. Top that off with someone who’d do that to his own brother ? You’re the psychologist, you know the kind of pathology that implies.”

“I do, Wayne. That’s why I’m careful.”

“With all due respect, you may not be the best judge of your own precautions, Grace — now, don’t be angry at what I’m going to say but I need to say it. No doubt the notion of running away from anything offends your sensibilities. But sometimes avoidance is a good strategy.”

And she hadn’t even told him about the parricides.

The Escape bucked again; she’d edged back up to eighty. Focus, focus. She slowed.

“I agree, Wayne. I have nothing against any strategy, per se.”

“But...”

“I need to collect data so I can make intelligent decisions.”

Wayne sighed.

“I promise to be careful,” she said.

Wayne said, “Oh, boy.” His voice caught. “Oh, Grace, the things that revisit us. Is there ever an end to them?”

On the verge of tears.

Think of him as a patient.

She said, “You’re a wonderful person. You saved me and I’d never abuse your trust by placing myself in danger.”

Beyond that, my friend, I adore myself. Hence a dead man bump-bumping into a ravine.

Wayne said, “All I did was what I was supposed to. Take care, Grace.”

Click.

Grace placed the phone on the passenger seat, reached for a water bottle, and settled in. Moments later, she caught color and movement in the rearview mirror.

Flashing blue and red lights.

Brief squirt of siren. Black-and-white riding her tail.

She pulled onto the shoulder of the highway.

The cop car was an aggressive little supercharged Mustang, the cop it discharged, a highway patrolman no older than Grace and probably younger. Medium height, solidly built, approaching with the usual swagger.

The suspicious cop-squint that verged on paranoia.

As he reached her driver’s window, she compiled more visual data: Hispanic, dark hair gelled, nice golden complexion but for a diagonal scar across the bridge of his nose. A badge that read M. Lopez.

By the time he arrived, Grace had fine-tuned the optimal smile: minimal, slightly intimidated but not antsy.

M. Lopez’s eyes were blocked by mirrored shades. His mouth was small, almost prissy. “License, registration, insurance.”

Grace obliged. “This is a rental, would you like my personal insurance?”

Instead of answering, he inspected the license. “Malibu. You’re a ways from home.”

“Road trip,” she said.

“All by yourself, ma’am?”

“Meeting friends in Carmel.”

“Nice place.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Hmm... you know why I stopped you.”

“Sorry, I don’t.”

“I spotted you talking on a cellphone. Followed you and watched you continue the conversation for a prolonged period of time.”

Not prolonged enough to spot me hauling at eighty per. And swerving. He’d watched her for only a few moments — the tail end of her conversation — but that was enough.

Grace said, “Oh. Yes, I was, Officer. Darn. I asked the rental agency for hands-off, they didn’t have it.”

“That doesn’t excuse you, ma’am. What you did was extremely dangerous,” said M. Lopez. He leaned in closer. “Driver distraction is one of the most frequent causes of fatal accidents.”

“I know, I feel like a total idiot. My only excuse was that it was a patient emergency.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Psychologist.”

He studied her. “You can prove that.”

Grace showed him her state license.

M. Lopez said, “Well... it’s still dangerous, Doctor. Don’t imagine your patient would appreciate having her therapist smashed to bits.”

Her. Assuming women talked to women.

Grace allowed her smile to widen. “No, that wouldn’t be helpful for her.”

Her attempt at wit fell flat; M. Lopez just stared at her. Grace pretended his eyes were warming up behind the shades and that helped her maintain her cool.

She said, “Collision therapy, that would be a first.”

His lips twitched. Fighting not to smile back. He lost the battle, permitted himself a partial grin.

They always lost.

As he began to feel more friendly, the rest of his body agreed, posture relaxing. Removing his shades, he revealed big, soft brown eyes. “Patient emergency, huh? Like what?”

“I can’t tell you that, Officer. Strict confidentiality.”

That seemed to please him. With cops, you were always passing tests. With anyone.

M. Lopez said, “You won’t say even if it means you get a citation?”

“Even so,” said Grace. “Guilty as charged, I’ll take my medicine.”

M. Lopez’s little mouth screwed up like a pig’s tail. The radio on his belt squawked. He picked up and listened and barked, “Ten-four.” To Grace: “Gotta run, Doctor. Big crash back a few miles. Ambulances and all. Maybe due to driver distraction. Someone else’s disaster is your lucky day.”

“Thank you, Officer.”

M. Lopez waved her papers before returning them. “But let’s not count on any more luck, okay? No more cellphone, even with a patient emergency. You exit in a safe place and commence, okay, ma’am?”