Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

“I’ll bear that in mind, Mike.”

“Good. Oh, yeah, I’ll send you some checks so you can withdraw whatever you want.”

“Thanks, Mike.”

“Whatever.”

Over the next year, Grace sold the house on June Street, consigning the more valuable antiques and objets d’art with a dealer in Pasadena and storing Malcolm and Sophie’s papers in a warehouse that specialized in document safety. One day, she might read them.

Using the proceeds from the house, she avoided capital gains tax with a 1031 exchange: snagging the house on La Costa Beach for a good price because it was tiny and unsuitable for more than one person and the Coastal Commission was balking at issuing building permits. Additional cash was spent on a cottage in West Hollywood that she converted to her new office.

The day after closing on both properties, she drove to a dealership in Beverly Hills, traded in the BMW, and bought the Aston Martin, black and barely used. The previous owner had discovered he was too large to fit comfortably in the cockpit. The Toyota station wagon, also barely used, was parked in a corner of the lot. It turned out to be owned by the salesman. She shocked him by making an offer, ended up bundling it into the deal as a practical fallback.

She’d known she wanted a sports car, had even considered a vintage T-Bird but decided that would be literal and stupid and trite.

The first month she owned the Aston, she put on two thousand miles. The combination of excessive speed and recklessness felt strangely redemptive.

Maybe one day she’d stop imagining the night they’d been taken from her.

She’d learned nothing about the accident. By choice. Had refrained from talking to Gardener or the highway patrol, requesting records, any sort of clarification.

She didn’t even know if the drunken waste of space who’d destroyed so much was male or female.

Despite everything she told her patients about open communication, she craved the balm of ignorance. She supposed that could change.

Meanwhile, she’d drive.

The morning after catching her first glimpse of Venom Boy as an adult, Grace set out for the Claremont district.

By seven a.m., she was sitting under a giant umbrella-shaped tree and studying the scant traffic traveling to and from Avalina Street. The tree, a species she couldn’t identify, was the largest of an old-growth copse that rimmed a patch of lawn claiming to be Monkey Island Park.

No simians in sight, no water, no island. Nothing at all but a third of an acre of grass surrounded by stout trunks and overarching branches heavy with chlorophyll.

Arriving here would be a giant letdown for a kid with visions of chimps in his head. Maybe that’s why the place was empty.

Making it perfect for Grace.

No contact lenses today; her eyes were concealed by sunglasses. She’d hazarded the blond wig, but combed it straight and free of creative waves and flips and gathered a foot of ponytail through the slip-hole of her unmarked black baseball cap. Warm morning so no jacket, just jeans and a tan cotton crewneck, athletic socks and lightweight sneakers. Everything else she needed was in her oversized bag.

She’d picked up a Daily Californian near her hotel, opened it, and pretended to care about campus life. A few people walked near the park but no one entered.

At eight forty-five a.m., Walter Sporn emerged from Avalina in a black Prius and headed north.

At nine thirty-two, Dion Larue did the same. Larue drove too fast for Grace to catch many details but in the daylight, his hair and beard flashed golden, with an almost metallic glint.

As if he’d gilded himself, a self-styled graven image.

Grace remembered a technique she’d learned about when consigning Malcolm and Sophie’s decorative objects: ormolu, a process where gold paint or leaf was applied to a baser metal like iron or bronze.

Basically, trying to make something more than what it was.

She closed her eyes and processed what she’d just seen. As Walter Sporn zipped by, he’d been frowning. Dion Larue’s handsome face had the same upward tilt of nose and jaw that she’d observed last night as he left his wife out in the dark.

Overweening arrogance and why not? No one had told him no for a very long time.

Grace readied herself for another look at the big brick house.

But give it more time, just to be sure. No reason to rush.

Twenty-two minutes later, two female pedestrians rounded the corner of Avalina and headed straight for her.

Both blond, the taller one pushing a baby stroller. As they got closer, the baby’s round, white disk of face came into view. Also fair-haired.

Grace’s wig made it an Aryan morning at Monkey Island Park.

The newcomers didn’t alter their trajectory but did stop well short of Grace, settling near the center of the lawn. The taller woman faced the stroller and began unstrapping the baby, as Grace watched, yards away, shielded by her sunglasses and her newspaper. She’d already registered a guess as to the stroller pusher’s identity and a turn of face confirmed it.

Subservient Azha, her hair a bit limp, center-parted, and held in place by a leather band that was pure hippie redux. She had on a black cotton shift cut slightly higher than the dress Grace had seen last night, this one just meeting her knees. On her feet were flat sandals. No jewelry, no watch.

In the daylight, her face was handsome, just short of pretty. But those cheekbones.

Grace visualized Dion Larue out to reshape his world, wielding one of those gauges favored by sculptors and carving away at his wife. Azha sitting immobile and mute throughout the process, wracked by exquisite agony, as the psychopath who dominated her scooped and contoured and bloodied her down to the bone.

Nice metaphor and all that but Grace stopped indulging herself, no time for fanciful bullshit.

For all she knew, the woman was one of those jellyfish who enjoyed having doors shut in their faces.

She raised her paper an inch higher, watched Azha remove a blanket from the back of the stroller and spread it on the grass. When satisfied with its smoothness, she removed the baby from the stroller, held it up to the sun and beamed.

Tiny little thing, well shy of a year, chubby legs kicking in glee. Dressed in a white onesie, thank God for no black. Lowering the baby and pressing it to her bosom, Azha folded herself carefully and settled on the blanket, crossing her legs in some sort of yoga pose.

Hugging the baby for a moment, she plopped it down next to her. The tyke bobbled and swayed and fought to remain upright, finally succumbed to gravity and began falling backward only to be saved by the flat of Azha’s hand on its back.

That level of balance suggested five, maybe six months old.

Smiling, Azha kept her hand in place, allowing the child to pretend it was sitting of its own accord. That lesson in false confidence worked: The baby laughed. Azha laughed back, said something and kissed the baby’s nose.

All this was happening too far out of earshot to make out content but the melodious quality of Azha’s voice floated across Monkey Island Park.

The baby reached for her and she allowed it to grip her finger, began rocking it gently in a new game of balance.

All the while, the shorter woman had stood by in silence.

As if realizing it, Azha turned and looked up at her and pointed to the grass.

Moving woodenly, the shorter woman sat.

She was about the same age as Azha, thicker-built and plain-faced. Her hair was tied in dual pigtails far too childish for her and her black dress appeared to be of the same light cotton as Azha’s but cut fuller, almost haphazardly, as if the tailor’s attention span had wandered by the time he’d gotten around to her.