Jonathan Kellerman: The Murderer's Daughter

Roger the Engineer’s Adam’s apple rose and fell twice. His blue eyes made it easy to nail the nonverbal message: wildly dilated pupils. Serious interest.

Mission accomplished.

He cleared his throat. “So... thanks for the company, Helen.”

“Ditto, Roger.”

“This is a bit...” He shook his head.

“What, Roger?”

He shrugged. “This is nice.”

“It is nice but that wasn’t what you were going to say.”

He looked away.

Grace touched his shoulder briefly. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Really. Refill?”

Grace hadn’t touched her second Negroni. She pointed to her glass and smiled.

Roger blushed. “Mr. Observant... what I was about to say — this feels — okay, I guess I’m feeling a bit out of my league.”

“That’s sweet.”

“No, I mean it.”

“What league do you play in, Roger?”

“Frankly, none,” he said. He shook his head. “I’m not making sense, am I?” He put his glass down. “This is going to sound inane but I don’t do this as a matter of course.”

Strange, almost archaic phrasing. This time Grace’s smile was unplanned amusement. “You don’t do what?”

“Talk to strange women — oh, crap, sorry, that came out wrong — talk to... unfamiliar...” His fingers fluttered, almost effeminately. “I’m not good at this.”

Grace lowered her hand over his, let it rest lightly. Her touch made him jump. She said, “There’s nothing to be good at, we’re just talking.”

He bit his lip and Grace thought he’d draw away. She’d overvamped and blown it?

But he relaxed. Retrieved his glass and raised it. “Cheers, Helen.”

Grace freed his hand from hers. He drank; she pretended to. They sat there, side by side, not listening to the piped-in music, unaware of anyone else in the room. Finally, Grace ingested a few drops of Negroni.

Thinking of that Valentino in Florence. Thinking of all of them. Lovely.

Roger drained his glass. Suppressed a burp. Grimaced and murmured, “Smooth. Geez, this is...”

“I abhor smooth, Roger.”

“You do?” Bit of slur in his speech, now. “Why’s that?”

“Because smooth is just another form of phony, Roger. Like charisma. And what’s worse than charisma?”

He flinched. Looked upward. “Agreed, charisma sucks.” His voice had deepened. As if Grace’s comments had supercharged him.

“It does, indeed, Roger. Are you a political person?”

“God forbid,” he said, with sudden vehemence. “I try to avoid politics.”

“Unaffiliated?”

“Pardon?”

“No major commitments?”

“Nothing. Political or personal.”

“Same here, Roger.” Showing him her hands, free of rings. “That way I’m assured of pleasant company after a tedious workday.”

He laughed. “Hope I haven’t disrupted that.”

Grace let a moment pass before answering. “You apologize a lot, Roger.”

“I do? Sor—” He gaped. Cracked up.

Grace brushed his knee with her nails again, moved her hand atop his, squeezed his fingers gently. His tongue glided over his lower lip. A pulse had begun to pound in his carotid, let’s hear it for that paragon of honesty: the autonomic nervous system.

Grace let some silence sink in before half whispering, “Roger?”

He leaned forward. No aftershave, just a nice soap-and-water lightness. “Yes?”

“Would you be so kind as to walk me to my car?”

“Pardon—”

Grace squeezed again. “It’s been a long day. Would you walk me?”

She stood, took hold of her purse and her briefcase. Roger remained on the love seat, staring up at her, his face a pitiable mask of disappointment.

Crushed and adolescently charming. Grace almost felt sorry for him.

“If it’s too much of a hassle, Roger—”

“No, no, sure, no problem.” But he continued to sit there.

“I’m not talking a hike, Roger. Just half a block, a girl can’t be too careful.”

He shot to his feet. Teetered for an instant, threw back his shoulders and drew himself up. “Absolutely. My pleasure. Let’s do it.”

Grace took his arm. A shiver ran up his biceps. Nice muscles, stronger than he looked.

They left the lounge together.

No one noticed.

The brief stroll was spent without talking. Roger was baffled, worked at hiding it, sneaking quick looks at Grace, trying to understand her behavior. But he took care to match Grace’s stride. She tested that, slowing down, speeding up, slowing again.

He might hesitate for a sec but he always got back on track. A good one.

Roger, if you don’t know how to dance you can be taught quickly.

As they approached the city lot, Grace firmed up her grip on his arm. He flinched, stumbled half a step, recovered fairly gracefully but his balance remained a mite off as they entered the structure.

A quick downward glance and an even quicker upturn of his eyes suggested the reason.

Khakis, as it turned out, were an inadequate shield for that lovely bulge. Grace slowed down further, savoring.

Once inside the lot, she continued toward the elevator. “I’m at the top. Would you mind walking me up, Roger?”

“Sure, no problem.”

Bypassing the elevator, she led him to the stairwell, clung to his arm as they climbed. “Here’s my stop.” One level short of where the Aston waited.

Guiding him across the tier to the farthest, darkest unoccupied corner, she pulled him into the empty space, pressed her back against the wall, shook her hair so that it fanned beautifully across her face before parting to reveal the heat in her eyes.

She knew the parking lot well. Every space came equipped with a cement stop. Perfect perch for her right foot. She hoisted it, bending her leg nearly perpendicular to its mate.

Geometrical Woman. On the face of it, a strange stance.

Roger’s nice blue eyes darted around. Absolutely addled.

Grace said, “Thank you so much for being a gentleman.”

“There’s no car here—”

Taking his face in both of her hands she kissed him softly, then harder. He resisted for an instant, then surrendered. Insinuating her tongue between his lips, she worked her way in easily.

He yielded like meringue. Placed a tentative hand on her shoulder then moved it to her breast. She pressed down gently, letting him know he was on the right track.

He kneaded gently.

Nice subtle touch, Roger. You really are turning out to be a winner.

Unzipping his fly, she freed his cock, stroked slowly. His breath caught. His eyes clamped shut as he groped for the front of the gray dress. But she’d gotten there before him, hiking cashmere above her hips, keeping the right leg bent and the left leg straight and thrusting her pelvis forward as his fingers made contact.

She offered herself to his touch, guided him into her. His eyes shot open, rounded and bright as those of a frightened child.

True blue; no lenses for Roger.

Grace set the rhythm, starting slowly, quickening gradually, one hand around his neck.

He said, “Oh, God,” and shut his eyes. Grace held him fast and sped up.

“Oh... God.” Weak, panting voice, baffled, frightened, ecstatic.

He seemed to teeter again.

She braced him with a hand on his ass.

“Go for it, Roger,” she whispered into his ear.

He obeyed. They always did.

Lovely Leap into molten gold as he trembled and let out a sound that was part gratitude, part triumphant war whoop, and Grace kissed him hungrily, maintained capture with both sets of lips and gave him time to finish completely.

Basic etiquette. She had no further need for him, had finished earlier, within seconds.

When Roger’s breathing eased and Grace felt him grow soft, she moved away from their embrace, kissed his cheek, and zipped him up. His eyes remained shut. Tugging the gray dress back into place, she took his hand and held it until his pulse had slowed sufficiently.