Jonathan Kellerman: The Murderer's Daughter

“Roger?”

His eyes fluttered, struggled to stay open. A faint, loopy smile took hold of his mouth. He exhaled and Grace smelled herself streaming out of him.

“Thank you, Roger. Now I really do need to go.”

“Your car—”

A finger on his lips silenced him. Kissing the tip of his nose lightly, she took hold of his shoulders and pointed him toward the stairwell, a window dresser positioning a mannequin.

He said, “Helen?” Hoarse voice. Plaintive.

“It was really nice meeting you, Roger. Good luck with your project.”

He flinched again. Dreading whatever business had brought him to L.A.? Nudging him forward gently, she watched as he took a few rocky steps.

He stopped. Looked back at Grace.

“Good night, Roger.”

Salvaging pride, he strode across the parking tier, taking extra-long strides, flung the stairwell door open and was gone.

Concealed in the shadows, Grace waited a few moments before making her way up the ramp to the Aston. As she got into the car, her head filled with power and joy, the most delicious variety of déjà vu: triumph revisited.

Her days were spent nurturing others, she deserved to feel this good. To feel herself — a discrete person, separated from the universe by her skin, her mental boundaries, delectable spikes of sensation and pleasure.

Random Leaps into bottomless pits of possibility.

She drove out of the lot, listening to Bach and smiling.

Chalk another one up to intuition. In all the time she’d been Leaping she’d only felt threatened twice.

The first time, the target had turned out to be a heavy-handed oaf, a banker in a three-thousand-dollar suit who’d played football in college and believed he was still an irresistible wall of meat. He started off easygoing but got overly enthusiastic, eyes turning piggy, thick hands approaching Grace’s neck.

The bigger they are, the harder...

Grace had left him writhing on the ground.

The second one, the really bad one that had shaken her confidence, was a Hungarian diplomatic attaché, a slender, long-haired, bruised-poet type she’d met at the Warwick Hotel in New York who’d managed to eye-signal an unseen pal without Grace noticing. When said friend had materialized in the back alley and tried to turn the one-on-one into a team effort and wouldn’t take no for an answer, Grace found herself uncharacteristically frightened.

A not totally unpleasant sensation. But...

Close call, that one, but it had worked out okay and Grace integrated the experience as a learning opportunity. Neither of the Hungarians would walk normally for a while and she relished the damage she’d wrought.

She found another target soon after. Get right back on the horse.

So only two negatives among all those pluses and when you got down to it uncertainty was the thing that fueled her excitement. Psychosexual question marks squelched by the afterglow of certainty, a state not unlike nirvana that left Grace feeling controlled and controlling.

As she watched men leave, she felt smug as a religious fanatic, secure in her faith that the earth rotated and revolved and swiveled precisely the way she desired.

Now, cruising west on Wilshire, she appeared to be just another pretty, spoiled young woman, glimpsed briefly through the tinted window of an impractical, frightfully expensive black car.

Heading to a house on the sand and the most wonderful night of sleep anyone could imagine.

Twenty-eight minutes after passing through Beverly Hills, the Aston was gliding along Pacific Coast Highway, the ocean to the west a series of gray-cresting waves on black satin, the mountains to the east an endless chocolate bar.

Grace kept her eyes open, and didn’t push much above the speed limit. At this hour, the highway was thinly traveled and the DB7 had no problem drawing a straight line to Grace’s wood-and-glass box on La Costa Beach.

For all its good-life notoriety, Malibu was a hick town that retired early and the only vehicles Grace encountered were the occasional semi hauling produce down from Oxnard, a car here and there, a highway patrol hotshot who tailgated Grace for half a mile before swerving in front of her and speeding away.

Fool in a uniform showing off. Once he was out of sight, Grace maroon-pumped more speed, letting the car do its natural thing. Her iPod had been running on shuffle since she’d eased out of the parking lot and she continued to be entertained by a random mix of sound: Stevie Ray Vaughan’s “Crossroads” followed by Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” followed by the Staple Singers’ “I’ll Take You There.” As she neared home, a blast from the fifties came on, the Diamonds riffing on “Little Darlin’.”

One of Malcolm’s favorites. Like Grace, his musical tastes had been eclectic.

Malcolm... her eyes grew tight as her house came into view and she hooked across PCH, remote-clicked her garage door open, and headed in.

Switching off the Aston’s engine, she shut the door and sat out the rest of the ditty.

Half-century-old doo-wop spoof by a bunch of clean-cut Canadians that had turned into their only monster hit. Way before her time, she knew all that because Malcolm had told her. A lesson, Grace realized, years later.

Life could only be predicted to a point.

“Plus,” he’d told her, “when the basso does that talking bit, it’s funny as hell.”

The song ended with cha-cha-cha finality and Grace got out of the car humming off-key. Even to her own ears her singing was annoying!

Chuckling, she retrieved her bag and her briefcase from the trunk, exited the garage dancing along the five feet of walkway that led to her front door.

Key-turn, disable the alarm, home sweet home.

As always, she’d left the house dark except for the single weak bulb that yellowed the deck girding the house’s ocean side. Sagging planks of redwood hovered ten feet above sand, supported by creosote-swabbed pilings. The feeble glow highlighted the water beyond, showcasing the wondrous fact that Grace was living at the edge of a continent. Just enough light for her to wind her way toward the space she’d designated as her sleeping area.

Along the way, she disrobed, reached her bed naked, chilled, cheered by a day lived to the fullest.

Instant sleep would’ve been easy but she followed routine and called her service for messages. They always mattered.

Nothing. Terrific. She reminded the operator that next week, the office would be closed.

“Got that right here, Dr. Blades. You have a nice time.”

“You, as well.”

“Thanks for saying that, Dr. Blades,” said the operator. “You’re always thoughtful.”

Slipping on her yellow silk kimono, Grace managed something approaching a short ponytail from her new hairdo, stretched for a few minutes, and did forty girl push-ups. Brushing her teeth she made a circuit of her house. Quick trip, the place was a six-hundred-twenty-square-foot box on a thirty-foot lot, dwarfed by every other home on La Costa. But Grace was one of the few full-time residents; for the most part the trophies all around her remained empty.

In a past life, the house had served as servants’ quarters for a vast estate. A minimal assemblage of wood and glass, it sat on now-precious Malibu silica, arbitrarily divided into sitting area, kitchenette, a slot for her narrow bed. Only one walled-off area: a fiberglass booth that contained Grace’s bathroom, barely large enough for the clawfoot-tub/hand-shower combo she’d installed soon after taking ownership.

Beyond that, she’d done little to the place, opting for white on white on white because choosing a color scheme was a needless hassle and any other hues seemed intrusive when a blue ocean filled your windows. Even the floor was white, covered with remnant carpeting she’d installed herself, way too plush to be fashionable but she liked the way it kissed her ankles.