Jonathan Kellerman - Dr. Death

Case after case of brass-framed, mirror-backed, glassed-in etageres, custom-fit to the crown molding. Glass shelves so clear they were rendered nearly invisible. What rested upon them appeared suspended in midair, just as Milo had described.

Hundreds of bowls, chargers, ewers, jars, shapes I couldn't identify, each piece spotlit and gleaming. One side wall of more blue and white, the other filled with simple-looking gray-green pieces, the widest expanse populated by a porcelain bestiary: horses and camels and dogs and fantastic, bat-eared creatures that resembled the spawn of a dragon with a monkey, all dappled in beautifully dripping mixtures of blue, green and chartreuse. Human figurines rode some of the horses. On a seven-foot coffee table sat what looked like a miniature temple glazed with the same multicolored splotch.

"Something, eh?" said Safer. "Richard informs me that those animals are all Tang dynasty. Over a thousand years old. They pull them up out of graves in China, beautifully preserved. Quite remarkable, wouldn't you say?"

"Quite brave keeping them here," I said, "given the seismic risks."

Safer stroked his beard and pushed his yarmulke back on his head. His hair was an iron gray crew cut specked with red. I still couldn't get rid of the rabbinical image. Remembered his comment about the death of his gay son. His diagnosis sped my learning curve. His eyes were gray-green, borderline warm. Like many tall men, he stooped.

"Richard's a courageous man," he said. "The children are courageous. Let's go see them."

We continued through the center hallway. Black carpeting muffled our steps as we passed more brass cases. Monochrome bowls of every color, the mirror backs reflecting Chinese inscriptions on white bases, tiny mud-colored figurines, shelves of potters' creations in white and cream and gray, more of that pale, clean green that I decided I liked best. A row of closed doors, two more at the rear. Safer beckoned me through the one that was open.

Cathedral ceiling, black leather sofas and chairs, black grand piano filling a corner. Through a wall of french doors, an aqua pool and green-lit foliage. Beyond the chlorinated water, palm fringes and the hint of ocean. The seating faced rosewood bookshelves filled with hardcovers, a Bang & Olufsen stereo system, a seventy-inch TV, laser-disc machine, other amusements. On an upper shelf, four family photos. Three of Richard and the kids, a single portrait of Joanne as a smiling young woman.

Richard sat upright on the largest of the sofas, unshaven, sleeves rolled to the elbows, kinky hair ragged- pulled-at, as if birds had attacked, seeking nesting material. He wore the usual all-black and blended so thoroughly with the couch that his body contours were obscured. It made him seem very small-like a growth that had sprouted from the upholstery.

"You're here," he said, sounding half asleep. "Thanks."

I took an armchair and Richard gazed up at Joe Safer.

Safer said, "I'll go see how the kids are doing," and left. Richard picked something out of the corner of his mouth. Sweat beads ringed his hairline.

When Safer's footsteps had faded completely, he said, "They say he's the best." Staring past me. "This is our family room."

"Beautiful house," I said.

"So I've been told."

"What happened?" I said. Any way he took that would be fine.

He didn't answer, kept his gaze above me-focused on the blank TV. As if waiting for the set to come on by itself and feed him some form of enlightenment.

"So," he said, finally. "Here we are."

"What can I do for you, Richard?"

"Safer says anything I tell you is confidential, unless you think I'm a direct threat to someone else."

"That's true."

"I'm no threat to anyone."

"Good."

He jammed his fingers in his hair, tugged at the wiry strands. "Still, let's keep it hypothetical. For the sake of all concerned."

"Keep what hypothetical?" I said.

"The situation. Say a person-a man, by no means a stupid man but not infallible-say he falls prey to an impulse and does something stupid."

"What impulse?"

"The drive to attain closure. Not a smart move, in fact it's the single stupidest, most insane thing he's ever done in his life, but he's not in his right mind because events have… changed him. In the past, he's lived a life full of expectations. That's not to say he's wedded to optimism. Of all people, he knows things don't always work out according to plan. He's earned a living understanding that. But still, after all these years of building, establishing, he's done very well, gotten sucked in by the trap of rising expectations. Feels he has a right to some degree of comfort. Then he learns differently." He shrugged. "What's done is done."

"His acting on impulse," I said.

He sucked in breath, gave a sick smile. "He's not in his right mind, let's leave it at that."

Crossing his legs, he sat back, as if giving me time to digest. I had a pretty good idea what he was up to. Working on a diminished-capacity defense. Safer's advice or his own idea?

"Temporary insanity," I said.

"If it comes to that. The only problem is, because he's so screwed up, in the process he may have upset his kids. His own peccadilloes, he can deal with. But his kids, he needs help with that."

Murder-for-hire as a peccadillo.

I said, "Do the kids know what he's done?"

"He hasn't told them, but they're smart kids, they may have figured it out."

"May have."

He nodded.

I said, "Does he intend to tell them?"

"He doesn't see the point of that."

"So he wants someone else to tell them."

"No," he said, suddenly raising his voice. A splash of rose seeped from under his shirt collar and climbed to his earlobes, vivid as a port-wine stain. "He definitely does not want that, that is not the issue. Helping them through the process is. I-he needs someone to tide them over until things settle down."

"He expects things to settle down," I said.

He smiled. "Circumstances dictate optimism. So, do we have an understanding of the issues at hand?"

"No knowledge provided to the kids, holding their hands until their father is out of trouble. Sounds like high-priced baby-sitting."

The flush darkened his entire face, his chest heaved and his eyes began to bulge. The surge of color made me draw back defensively. It's the kind of thing you see in people who have a serious problem with anger. I thought of Eric's outburst in the victims' room at the station.

New side of Richard. Before this, he'd been unfailingly contentious, sometimes irritable, but always cool.

He worked at cooling off now, placing one hand on the arm of the sofa, cupping a knee with the other, as if hastening self-restraint. Ticking off the seconds with his index finger. Ten ticks later, he said, "All right," in the tone you'd use with a slow learner. "We'll call it babysitting. Well-trained, well-paid baby-sitting. The main thing is the kids get what they need."

"Until things settle down."

"Don't worry," he said. "They will. The funny thing is, despite his poor judgment, he didn't actually do anything."

"Soliciting murder's not nothing-hypothetically speaking."

His eyelids drooped. He got up, stepped closer to my chair. I smelled mint on his breath, cologne, putrid sweat. "Nothing happened."

"Okay," I said.

"Nothing. This person learned from his mistake."

"And didn't try again."

He aimed a finger gun down at me. "Bingo." Easy tone, but the flush had lingered. He stood there, finally returned to the sofa. "Okay then, we have a meeting of the minds."

"What exactly do you want me to tell your kids, Richard?"

"That everything's going to be fine." Making no attempt to steer it back to third-person theoretical. "That I may be… indisposed for a while. But only temporarily. They need to know that. I'm the only parent they have left. They need me, and I need you to facilitate."