Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

At the front of the building was a glassed-in reception desk. The clerk was no older than a sophomore, Indian or Pakistani or Bengali, and like his compadre down in the photocopy shop, he couldn’t have cared less about Grace’s arrival, choosing instead to continue texting manically.

When Grace informed him, plaintively, that her wallet had been stolen along with her credit cards, would he please accept her business card for I.D. and cash as payment, his thumbs barely faltered as he muttered, “Uh-huh.”

“What’s the rate for a room?”

Click click click click. “Fifty a night, five extra for cleanup service. We only have some a floor up.”

“Fine, and no need for cleanup,” said Grace, forking over two hundred dollars.

The kid ignored the fresh new card. “What’s your name?”

“Sarah Muller.”

“Write it down, okay?” Sliding the log book toward her.

She scrawled, he handed her a key attached to a miniature white-plastic milk bottle. “You want orange juice in the morning? We don’t serve breakfast but I can tell them to leave you juice but it’s not fresh or anything, just bottled.”

“Also not necessary. Any coffee?”

The kid aimed world-weary eyes at the front steps while continuing to click away. “Peets, Local 123, Café Yesterday, Guerrilla Café. Want me to keep going?”

“Thanks,” said Grace. “May I assume you’ve got WiFi?”

“Down here it’s okay,” said the kid. “Up where you’ll be it sometimes sucks.” His fingers moved faster. He paused to read a return text. Laughed weirdly.

Grace inspected the milk bottle for a room number: 420.

The kid said, “It’s just Forty-Two, I don’t know why they add a zero.”

“Top floor?”

“There’s only this and one more.” He typed some more. Said, “Clown,” then “Loser,” then “Asshole.”

The room was surprisingly large, smelling of Lysol and stale pizza, with a pair of twin beds covered in garish floral spreads separated by a particleboard nightstand. A Gideon Bible with most of the pages gone filled the stand’s drawer. Two beds but only one pillow, on the right-hand mattress, lumpy as a skin rash, tossed haphazardly.

The walls were stippled green plaster. Floral drapes that matched the bedspreads failed to close completely over a cracked, yellow window shade. Despite that, no annoying light or noise. The window faced the parking lot, shielding Grace from the din on University.

One dresser, of the same flimsy fake wood. Dead silverfish in the top drawer, the others were clean and lined with butcher paper.

The bathroom was cramped, tiled in cracked white hexagons splotched with gray and yellow and rust. A skimpy white towel was embroidered OH. The tub would accommodate a toddler. The shower sputtered brown until it finally diluted to a clear trickle. The lidless toilet hissed.

Perfect.

Grace went to sleep.

She was up at seven thirty the following morning, feeling amazingly refreshed. Trying her laptop, she found the WiFi deficient as advertised. Enduring a lukewarm shower, she dressed in jeans, rubber-soled low-heeled boots, and a charcoal-colored cotton sweater, leaving her wigs in her luggage. Stuffing her little Beretta and its ammo into the center of her suitcase, she swathed both in layers of clothes.

Far from burglar-proof but a lowlife would have to be looking.

The Glock and the laptop ended up at the bottom of her bag.

Time for nourishment.

Nippy morning, University was already filled with foot traffic.

One thing about college kids and self-styled rebels: They loved to eat. The choice of cuisines was staggering and Grace finally settled for a Parma ham, Bermuda onion, and Anaheim chili omelet, thick slabs of sourdough bread imported from across the Bay in San Francisco, a glass of fresh-squeezed mandarin juice replete with pulp and seeds, and decent coffee at a café that claimed to be local, organic, sustainable, and opposed to any form of military activity.

Sustained gastronomically, she checked out the used-clothing store near her hotel, found a navy peacoat that didn’t smell too bad for thirty bucks. Shifting to a bin of hats, she found the odor test tougher to pass but finally came up with an oversized, soft wool gray ski cap that had bypassed mold and must. Her nose did pick up the faintest nuance of hairspray, and she hoped her predecessor had been a stylish, meticulous girl. Inspecting the interior nap for nits or anything else remotely disturbing, she found nothing untoward and bargained the cashier down to five bucks.

The cap slipped over her head, totally concealing her cropped hair. Devoid of makeup and newly clad, she was Berkeley Anonymous.

Leaving the Escape in the hotel lot, she picked up the Examiner from a street stand and walked to Center Street. In daylight, the park across from the condemned building wasn’t half bad, the grass greener than she’d expected, the trees at the periphery huge and lush and decently shaped. In the background, kids streamed near the high school, making predictable adolescent noises.

No activity behind the chain-link fence. Grace took a close look at the construction notice. The building had been condemned and permits had been granted for a project titled Municipal Green WorkSpace. Lots of official stamps, city, county, and state. Handwritten additions in blue marker listed the contractor as DRL-Earthmove. Date of completion was eighteen months in the future but given the lack of progress that seemed fanciful.

Modifications included “seismic retrofitting.” Like a too-easy punch line, the irony was unsatisfying.

Grace crossed the street to the park. Only three benches in the entire acreage: a pair under the trees now occupied by snoozing homeless men, and one, unused, with a slightly oblique view of the building site.

She sat down, hid behind the newspaper, took occasional, unfruitful peeks.

Nearly an hour passed and she was about to leave, fixing to return later in the afternoon, when a voice behind her said, “Help a friend?”

She turned slowly. The man hovering behind the bench was dressed shabbily and his skin bore the rare-steak glaze that typified life on the street.

His hand was out, no subtlety there. But not the lurcher who’d scored her dollar last night, returning for an encore.

This guy was much shorter, maybe five three or four, and slightly hunchbacked with cottony white chin whiskers, equally skimpy muttonchops, and a milky left eye.

Grace gave him a buck.

He looked at the bill. “Thank you profoundly, daughter, but that won’t even purchase coffee in this foodie burg.”

Grace tried to stare him down. He smiled, did a little jig. Winked with his good eye. Surprisingly acute eye, the color of a clear Malibu sky. On closer inspection, she saw that his frayed, baggy outfit had once been high-quality: gray herringbone jacket, brown Shetland sweater vest, white-on-white shirt, droopy olive twill pants, cuffs dragging in the dirt. Even this close, no booze reek.

And his nails were clean.

He stopped dancing. “Not sufficiently impressive? Care for a tango?” Bending low, he dipped an imaginary partner and, despite herself, Grace smiled. He was the first person to entertain her since... in a long time.

She gave him a ten.

He said, “Indeed! For that, I’ll fetch both of us coffee!”

“I’m fine, treat yourself.”

He took a deep bow. “Thank you, daughter.”

Grace watched him scurry off and decided to stick it out on the bench for a while. As if the old tramp had revved up her endurance.

After another thirty-five minutes with nothing to show for her patience, she was folding up her paper and making sure her Glock hadn’t shifted awkwardly in her bag when Little Mr. One-Eye returned and thrust something at her.