Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

Going through the motions, Grace thought, but not feeling it.

Larue agreed; he kicked her harder.

Lily bent nearly double, face in the grass, and that seemed to be the proper response because Larue turned his back on all of them and pranced across Monkey Island Park, creepily effete.

Heading in the opposite direction from where Grace sat and now she spotted the faint gleam of sunlight on black automotive paint, peeking through foliage in random triangles and rectangles.

His Prius parked at the periphery. She hadn’t seen him drive up.

She needed to be more careful.

Grace watched for two more days, was rewarded with a pattern.

Both mornings, Walter Sporn and Dion Larue continued the same approximate routine: separate Priuses driving north from Avalina, Sporn first. The first morning, only ten minutes separated their departures and Grace followed Larue, unsurprised to see him head to the construction site on Center and park illegally behind Sporn.

Sporn waited for the boss before getting out and unbolting the padlock on the chain link. Both of them passed through and then, as before, Sporn relocked. Walking around the right side of the gutted structure, the two men didn’t show themselves until twenty-four minutes later. During that time a Berkeley parking nazi gave tickets to a couple of other cars but let the Priuses be.

The prince was connected.

Larue emerged first, jaunty as always, walking ahead of Sporn who carried a cheap-looking briefcase. They separated, Larue heading back in the direction of Avalina, Sporn east. Grace made a quick decision and followed Sporn.

He didn’t drive far, just a few blocks into a neighborhood of shabby apartments. Idling by the curb, he got on his phone. Moments later, a kid who might’ve been a student or just one of those campus hangers-on appeared from a three-story blue stucco dump with a sign out front advertising weekly, monthly, and yearly rates.

Early twenties, Caucasian, with dreadlocks ranging from bronze to black, the new arrival wore red skater shorts, a baggy green Free Palestine T-shirt, and sockless black high-tops. Nervous dude, looking both ways three times before crossing a street devoid of traffic. Scratching himself, jumpy eyes darting randomly.

Grace, half a block up, watched as Sporn handed Dreadlocks the briefcase. Words were exchanged. Dread slipped something into Sporn’s meaty palm.

Well, well, alternative financing for Larue’s wheels and deals. The long-delayed construction site a perfect place to stash controlled substances. Or weapons. Or both.

Not only had Larue boondoggled the geniuses who ran the city with the sale of the property and subsequent contract to rebuild, he’d snagged himself free storage.

Having his minion do a dope deal in full daylight. Talk about confidence.

Sporn drove away, leaving Dread to pick at his face, bounce on his toes, and scratch his scalp as he held the briefcase the way Azha and Lily had held the baby. Finally, he ran across the street and back into the blue building.

Tweaker by habit, dealer by necessity. Maybe some of the meth would reach his clients.

The second morning, Grace remained parked in the Escape with an oblique view of Avalina as the Priuses did their thing, this time fifteen minutes apart.

From what she’d seen so far, no one else lived in the big brick house — Larue’s cult still in its formative stages? — but she couldn’t be sure.

If she hadn’t observed the scene at Monkey Island Park, she’d never have learned about the women and the baby, so theoretically, Larue could have a harem stashed in there. But a full day of observation convinced her it was probably just him, Sporn, Azha, and Lily.

And the poor little kid.

The men came and went but since Larue’s tantrum in the park, the women hadn’t shown themselves.

Grace found herself thinking about the baby more than she could afford. How quickly Larue’s presence had transformed it from cheerful to terrified. What lay in store for... no sense speculating, there was work to be done.

That night, she watched the house while on foot. Same minimal illumination from the top-floor window.

No movement at all from Sporn but Larue drove away just before ten p.m. and Grace followed with her headlights off until he hit Claremont Boulevard, where she could interpose a couple of vehicles between them.

Larue continued toward the Claremont Hotel and crossed the border between Berkeley and Oakland. Sailing through the initially stylish streets of the other Bay city, he kept going until the symptoms of a neighborhood gone bad grew flagrant: busted streetlamps, trash on the sidewalks, neon blink of all-night liquor stores, check-cashing outlets, bail bonders, pawnshops. The few pedestrians in sight were obvious night-crawlers, including plodding women in halters, shorts not much more than belts, and five-inch heels.

Larue stopped just shy of all that, pulling to the curb on a block of now-dark thrift shops. The Prius’s lights blinked and switched off and one of the streetwalkers headed its way. Younger than the others, petite and shapely, she wore white lace that could’ve been underwear and hot-pink patent-leather shoes. Despite her youth, her gait was stiff and painful. Maybe the shoes but Grace suspected there was more: She’d lived too quickly, turned her bones brittle and old.

The hooker arrived at the Prius’s passenger door. No conversation, she just got in. She remained inside for just short of ten minutes, tottered out wiping her mouth with her bare arm.

Larue swung a quick U and drove off before she had a chance to leave.

Once parked in front of his big brick house, Larue bypassed the front door and walked around the left side of the massive, darkened structure.

Grace waited until all was still and silent and shadowed his path. The front drive widened as it girded the house — cracked asphalt now broad enough for a car and a half, leading to a generous backyard that appeared overwhelmed by foliage. The rear of the house, as dark as the front, first impression would’ve been no one home.

But weak light fluttered and flickered through the heavy branches of conifers and sycamores and unruly shrubs.

Coming from the rear of the property. A second structure back there.

Larue’s permit application to redo the Krauss House flashed in Grace’s head.

...replacement of drainage gutters blah blah blah on the carriage house addition.

A building once used to house vehicles would explain the width of the drive but now access was completely blocked by vegetation.

Still, that light... Grace froze as, above her, a window began cranking open on the house’s second story.

New sound: a man scolding a woman.

He goes out and gets head from a hooker, comes home and finds fault with her?

Another sound: the sharp report of skin on skin. Then: male laughter. Followed by a protracted, theatrical yawn.

I’m so bored with you.

Crank crank; the window opened wider.

His nibs liked fresh air.

Grace, still motionless, holding her breath, wondered why lights had been left on in the carriage house when Larue, en famille, was ensconced in the manse.

Nothing happened for a long time.

Then: snoring through the open window.

She got the hell out of there.

The following night, she was prepared.

Black cotton tee, black stretch jeans, black silent walking shoes, the jacket with ample storage.

In one upper pocket, Grace placed latex gloves purchased at a pharmacy on Telegraph, in another the eyeholed black ski mask. The lower pockets were already doing their bit.

Driving through silent Berkeley streets, she parked four blocks away. That distance came with a risk: Getting away would be prolonged. But keeping her SUV out of view from immediate neighbors tipped the balance.