Jonathan Kellerman - Dr. Death

He didn't seem to notice as Safer and I approached, but when we got within two feet of the case, he turned slowly and held Eric tighter. Eric's body flopped. The boy's eyes remained shut.

"He's tired," said Richard. "I need to put him to bed. I used to do that when he was little. Tell him stories and put him to bed."

Safer gave a start. Remembering his own son?

"Do that," he said. "Take care of him. I'm bringing Stacy to my house."

Richard's eyebrows arched. "Your house? Why?"

"To keep things simple, Richard. I promise to take good care of her. I'll get her to school on time tomorrow and she'll spend the weekend with us. Or with friends, if she so prefers."

Not the Manitows, I thought.

Richard said, "She wants to go?"

"My idea," said Safer. "She agreed."

Richard licked his lips, turned to me.

I nodded.

"Okay," he said. "I guess. Tell her to come in before she leaves. Let me give her a kiss."

I CLIMBED THE stairs, nursing my jaw. Stacy sat on her bed. Her voice came out small and wounded. "I'm tired, please don't make me talk."

I stayed with her for a while. When I returned to the kitchen, Joe Safer was talking on the phone, elbow resting on the counter near a black-and-chrome coffee machine from Germany. I found a jar of espresso in one of the refrigerators, packed enough for six cups, and sat listening to the drip and thinking about what guilt and expiation really meant to Eric. Safer left the room and kept talking. I drank by myself. A while later, the doorbell rang and Safer came back in the kitchen accompanied by a tall, husky young man with wavy blond hair and a briefcase.

"This is Byron. He'll be staying here tonight."

Byron winked and inspected the appliances. He wore a blue oxford shirt, khakis and penny loafers, had hyphens for eyes and facial muscles that looked paralyzed. When we shook hands, his felt like a bone carving. Safer went upstairs. Byron and I didn't talk.

No sound from the living room. The entire house was too damn quiet. Then I heard footsteps from above and a few seconds later Stacy entered, followed by the lawyer.

Safer was carrying a small floral overnight bag. Stacy looked tiny, shriveled, much too old.

I followed the two of them outside and watched him help her into his Cadillac. Byron remained in the doorway, hands on hips.

"What is he, exactly?" I said.

"Someone who helps me. Richard and Eric seem calm, but just in case."

"Were you an oldest child, Joe?"

"Oldest of seven. Why?"

"You like to take care of things."

His smile was weary. "Don't think I'm paying for that bit of analysis."

He drove away and I watched the Cadillac's taillights disappear. Down the block, the unmarked hadn't moved. The night had turned dank, redolent of fermenting seaweed. My jaw ached and my clothes had sweated through. I trudged to the Seville. Instead of turning around and heading south, I drove farther north till I found it.

Six houses up. Big Tudor thing behind brick walls and iron gates, vines encircling the brick, the tip-off: Judy's white Lexus visible through the rails. Another vanity plate: HCDJ.

Here Come Da Judge. The first time I'd seen it was when I'd accompanied her from her courtroom to her parking space. One of the many times we'd worked together.

All those referrals. This would be the last, wouldn't it?

I stopped in front of her house, looking for… what?

Light glowed behind a couple of curtained mullioned windows. Movement flashed on the second story- central window. Just a smudge of a silhouette, shifting, then freezing, then moving again. Human, but that's about all I could say.

Hooking a three-pointer, my headlights aimed through the Manitow gate, I paused, half hoping someone would notice and show themselves. No one did and I headed back toward Sunset, passing the unmarked. Movement there, too, but the drab sedan remained in place.

I drove east, trying not to think about anything. On the way home I stopped at a twenty-four-hour drugstore in Brentwood and bought the strongest Advil I could find.

Friday morning, I woke up before Robin, just as the sun whitened the curtains. My jaw felt tender, but the swelling wasn't too bad. I drew the covers over my face, pretended to sleep, waited till Robin had risen, showered and left. Not wanting to explain. Eventually, I'd have to.

Using the bedroom phone, I called Safer's office.

"Good morning, Doctor. How's your battle wound?"

"Healing. How's Stacy?"

"She slept soundly," he said. "I had to wake her to get her to school on time. Lovely girl. She even tried to make breakfast for my wife and me. I hope she survives her family. Psychologically speaking."

I thought about Stacy's little speech about self-determination, wondered if it would stick.

"What she needs," I said, "is to separate from her family. Achieve her own identity. Richard expects her to go to Stanford because he and Joanne did. She should‹go anywhere but there."

"And Eric's at Stanford," he said.

"Exactly."

"The boy hasn't separated adequately?"

"Don't know," I said. "Don't know enough about him to pontificate." Don't want to know if he sat by a bed in a cheap motel and inserted a needle into his mother's vein. "If you have any influence with Richard, you might guide him toward allowing Stacy some choice."

"Makes sense," he said, but he sounded distracted. "I understand the boy's not your primary patient, but he continues to bother me. That level of anger. Any new thoughts on why he'd explode like that?"

"None. How was he last night?"

"Byron reports that father and son cleaned up, then went to sleep. Eric's still sleeping."

"And Richard?"

"Richard's up. Richard's full of ideas."

"I'll bet he is. Listen, Joe, I need to take a look at Joanne Doss's medical records."

"Why's that?"

"To try to understand her death. If I'm going to help Stacy, I need as much information as possible. The medical tests were conducted at St. Michael's. Richard said you've got power of attorney, so please sign a release and fax it over to their Medical Records office."

"Done. Of course, you'll notify me if you learn something I should know."

"Such as?" I said.

"Such as anything I should know." His voice had hardened. "Agreed?"

I thought of all I hadn't told him. Knew there was plenty he hadn't told me.

"Sure, Joe," I said. "No problem."

Popping more Advil, I iced my jaw, took a short run, cleaned up, walked over to Robin's studio, stuck my head in and got an earful of noise. My beloved, suited and goggled, standing behind the plastic walls of the spray booth as she wielded a lacquer gun. Knowing she couldn't be interrupted and doubting she could see me, I waved and left for St. Michael's Medical Center.

Sunset to Barrington, Barrington to Wilshire. Driving too fast to Santa Monica. No reason to hurry. My reason for checking out the hospital was to look for Michael Ferris Burke, or whatever he was calling himself now. But my fresh suspicions about Eric dimmed any prospects of finding a Michael Burke connection to Joanne's final trip.

Not an evil stranger. Family.

But what else was there for me to do?

And maybe I would find something.

That made me laugh out loud. Shrink's denial. I wanted anyone in that motel room other than Eric.

The boy's rage came back to me in a bitter surge, and the facts spat in my face.

Helen, the dog. Guilt and expiation.

That level of anger.

The noblest thing he'd ever done.

Mate's death had stirred up Eric's guilt. Richard's attempt at vengeance had fueled it further.

Eric knowing an innocent man had been targeted, because Mate hadn't brought about Joanne's death. Wondering what his father would have done to him, had he known. Then reversing the anger-turning it on his father. Because Richard had caused it all by not forgiving. Blaming. Like father…