Jonathan Kellerman - Dr. Death

"He's sure got one of those, doesn't he?" she said. "I'm still trying to figure out where it came from."

"If you knew, you could sell it."

"And do something else for a living."

"Such as? "I said.

She laughed. "Such as nothing. I love my job."

Saturday morning I awoke thinking about Eric as a murderer. It stayed on my mind during the breakfast that Robin and I shared out near the pond. Then I looked around, saw how beautiful the world was and wondered if I was just letting my imagination run wild because I couldn't stand nice. After all, not a shred of evidence pointed to the boy-or his mother-even talking to Mate.

Mate's records might shed some light on that. And I was certain that records existed, because Mate had regarded his work as historically significant, would have wanted every detail recorded for posterity.

Milo had guessed Roy Haiselden had them, and he might be right. Now that he had Richard as a suspect, and Haiselden's motive for disappearing had become clear, he was unlikely to pursue the attorney.

No criminal charges had been lodged against Haiselden yet, but domestic violence and child-abuse allegations meant that other detectives would be looking for him, meaning someone might get a warrant. But the Breckenham civil suit had been filed in Baldwin Park, sheriffs jurisdiction. My only sheriffs contact was Ron Banks, a downtown homicide investigator and Petra Connor's boyfriend. I'd met him once, not exactly foundation for a favor.

After we cleaned up, Robin and I went shopping for groceries, then walked in the hills with the pooch. Then she retired for a nap and I went into my office, ignited the computer and gave the Internet another try. Nothing new on Mate except for a couple of cybergossips in a right-to-die chat room exercising their constitutional right to be paranoid.

Am I being too imaginative, wondered whiteknight, to suggest that following the death of Dr. Mate further attempts are being made to silence those with the courage to face off against The Powers That Be?

Not at all, responded funnigirl. I've heard the police from various cities have gotten together to create a task-force on euthanasia. The plan is to kill people then make it look as if the right-to-die folks are behind it. Shades of Grassy Knoll.

Screenplays were everywhere. I logged off.

Mate's records… Time to give the ever-amiable Alice Zoghbie another try? For all I knew, Haiselden had never had the files, they'd been stored at the pretty little vanilla house on Glenmont.

No reason for her to be any more forthcoming.

Unless I pointed out the discrepancies between Jo-anne's assisted suicide and Mate's other travelers. Suggested Mate hadn't helped Joanne, that Richard had killed Zoghbie's mentor for nothing-had turned Mate into the sacrificial lamb she'd claimed.

If she knew that already, hearing about Richard's arrest would have sent her reeling, she might even be contemplating coming forth. If so, maybe I could tip the scales-turn her grief to my advantage.

Manipulative, but she was someone who believed the infirm should be encouraged not to exist.

At worst, she'd slam the door in my face. Nothing lost; as things stood, I was pretty useless.

I made the drive to Glendale in thirty-five minutes. In the morning light, Alice Zoghbie's house was even cuter, flower beds crayon bright, the copper rooster weather vane vibrating in a breeze I couldn't feel. The same white Audi sat in the cobblestone driveway. Dust on the windshield.

A bit more humanity on the street this time. An old man sweeping his front porch, a young couple pulling out of their carport.

I tapped the goat's-head knocker lightly. No answer. My second attempt, more energetic, was also met with silence.

Making my way back to the driveway, I walked past the Audi to a green wooden gate. Bees buzzed, butterflies fluttered. I called out, "Hello?" then Alice Zoghbie's name, got no reply. Flowers kissed the side of the house. Lights on in the kitchen.

The gate was latched but not locked. I reached around, popped it open, continued along a cobblestone path shaded by the arthritic boughs of an old, scarred sycamore. A small stoop led up to the kitchen door. Four panes of glass gave me something to look through. Lights on, but unoccupied. Dishes in the sink. A carton of milk and half an orange on the counter. The fruit, slightly withered. I knocked. Nothing. Climbing down the stoop, I moved along the side of the house, peeking in windows, listening. Just the bee buzz.

The backyard was small, charmingly landscaped, with hedges of Italian cypress on two sides that blocked the neighbors' views, and a tall wooden fence at the back. Victorian lawn furniture, more flower beds. The kind of flowers that bloom in shade. A dark yard, shrouded by a second sycamore, even larger, stout branches supporting a macrame hammock.

Trunk as thick as two people.

Two people propped against the trunk.

The buzzing, louder-not bees, flies, a storm of flies.

Both of the bodies were tied to the tree with thick rope, fastened tight at chest level and around the waist. The hemp was crusted maroon and brown and black.

Barefoot corpses, insects reconnoitering between fingers and toes. The woman slumped to the right. She had on a blue floral housedress with an elastic neckband. The elastic had allowed the garment to be yanked down without ripping, exposing what had once been her breasts. The killer had hiked it above her waist, too, raised her knees, spread her legs. Wounds everywhere, that same red-black splotching her skin and her clothing, running down her thighs, filthying the grass. Her flesh was green-tinged where the blood hadn't settled.

Triangles sliced into her abdomen, three of them. Her head drooped to her chest, so that I couldn't see her face. A black gaping necklace was visible along her jawline. A helmet of white hair, sparkling where it wasn't fly-crowded, said she'd once been Alice Zoghbie.

The man's khaki shorts had been removed and folded next to his left thigh. His blue polo shirt remained on but had been rolled up to his nipples. Big man, heavy, flabby. Stiff, reddish toupee-a hairpiece I'd seen on TV.

Triangles danced along the swell of Roy Haiselden's abdomen, too, distorted by his paunch. His head lolled to the right. Toward Alice Zoghbie, as if straining to listen to some secret she was imparting.

Not much remained of his face. His genitals had been removed and placed on the grass between his legs. They'd shriveled and shrunk and bugs congregated there with special enthusiasm.

The fingers of his left hand were entwined with Alice Zoghbie's.

The two of them, holding hands.

I'd broken into frosty sweat, wasn't breathing, but my brain was racing. My eyes shifted from the bodies to something else, off to the left, a few feet away. A wicker picnic basket. Propped against it, a tall green bottle, foil-topped. Champagne. Atop the basket, a pair of tiny, gold-lidded jars.

Too far for me to read the labels and I knew better than to disturb the crime scene.

Red jar, black jar. Caviar?

Champagne and caviar, an upscale picnic. Bare feet and her housedress said Alice and the man had no intention of going anywhere.

Posed.

The irony.

A bluebottle fly alighted on Alice Zoghbie's left breast, scuttled, paused, explored some more before taking off in flight-heading toward me.

I backed away. Retreated through the gate, knowing my prints were on the handle, it wouldn't be long before someone would want to talk to me. Leaving it open, I retraced my steps down the driveway, past the Audi, to the curb.

The old man had gone inside. The street had reverted to torpor. So many perfect lawns. Sparrows skittered. How long before the vultures arrived?

Inside the Seville, I breathed.