Jonathan Kellerman - Dr. Death

"How so?"

His laughter began somewhere in his belly. By the time it reached his mouth he was coughing. The paroxysm lasted too long to be trivial.

" 'Scuse me," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of a dimpled hand. "Like you don't know what I'm talking about."

He smiled again. I smiled back.

"Not poor, not horny, not drunk," he said, amused. "Just a rich coward."

"A coward because-"

"Because God grants you your particular share of years, you go and laugh in His face? She was like that, too." Pointing to the Monroe case. "Body like that and she wasted it on politicians and other scum. That bikini's worth something, you know. Big money, but no one around here appreciates memorabilia. I think I'm gonna get myself a computer, list it on the Internet."

"Did your son mention anyone with Ms. Doss?"

"Yeah, there was someone out in the car, waiting. Behind the wheel. Barnett never looked to see who it was. We look too hard, we don't get business, right?"

"Right," I said. "Was there anyone else here who might've noticed?"

"Maybe Maribel, the cleaning girl. The one who found it. She came on at eleven at night, was working till seven. Asked for night work because she had a day job over at the Best Western in Palmdale. But you guys already talked to her. She didn't tell you much, huh?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, she was a little…"

"She was sick is what she was," he said. "Pregnant, ready to drop. Already had a miscarriage. After she found… what she found, she wouldn't stop crying, I thought we were gonna have one of those real-life video situations right out there in the parking lot-ever deliver a baby?"

I shook my head. "She end up delivering okay?"

"Yup, a boy."

"Healthy?"

"Seems to be."

"Any idea where can I find her?"

He crooked a thumb. "Out back, Unit Six, she's working days now. Someone had a party last night in Six. Longhair types, Nevada plates, paid cash. Should've known better than to give pigs like that a room. Maribel'll be cleaning that one for a while."

I thanked him and headed for the door.

"Here's a little secret," he said.

I stopped, turned my head.

He winked. "Got the Monroe Playboy, too. Don't keep it in the case, 'cause it's too valuable. One price gets you all of it. Tell all your friends."

"Will do."

"Sure you will."

Maribel was young, short, frail-looking, in a pink-and-white uniform that seemed incongruously proper for the pitted lot and the splintering red doors. She was gloved to the elbows. Her hair was tied back, but loose strands were sweat-glued to her forehead. A wheeled cart pulled up to Unit Six was piled with cleaning solvents and frayed towels. The trash bag slung from the side overflowed with filthy linens, empty bottles and stink. She gave the badge a bit more attention than her boss had.

" L.A.?" she said, with the faintest accent. "Why're you coming out here?"

"The woman who killed herself. Joanne Doss-"

Her face closed up tight. "No, forget it, I don't wanna talk about that."

"Don't blame you," I said. "And I'm not interested in making you go through it again."

Her gloves slammed onto her hips. "Then what?"

"I'd like to know anything you can remember about before. Once Ms. Doss went in the room, did she ever come out? Did she ask for food, drinks, do anything that caught your attention?"

"Nope, nothing. They went in after I got here- around midnight, I already told them that. I didn't see them until… you know."

"Them," I said. "Two people."

"Yup."

"How long did the other person stay?"

"Don't know," she said. "Probably a while. I was up at the front desk, mostly, 'cause Barnett- Milton 's son- wanted to go out and party and not tell his dad."

"But the car wasn't there in the morning."

"Nope."

"Who was the other person?"

"Didn't get a good look."

"Tell me what you did see."

"Not much, I never saw the face." Her eyes filled with tears. "It was disgusting-it's not fair bringing all this up-"

"I'm sorry, Maribel. Just tell me what you saw and we'll be finished."

"I don't wanna get anyone in trouble-I don't wanna be on TV or nothing."

"You won't be."

She pulled at the finger of a glove.

Didn't speak. Then she did.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

JUST WOOL AGAIN.

My best blue suit, a blue-and-white-striped shirt, yellow-print tie, shiny shoes.

Dressed for court.

I pushed open the double doors to Division 12 and walked right in. More often than not, family sessions are closed, witnesses kept out in the corridor, but this morning I got lucky. Judy was hearing motions from a pair of reasonable-sounding attorneys, scheduling hearings, bantering with her bailiff, a man named Leonard Stickney, who knew me.

I sat in the back row, the only spectator. Leonard Stickney noticed me first and gave a small salute.

A second later, Judy saw me and her eyes opened wide. Black-robed and regal behind the bench, she turned away, got businesslike, ordering the lawyers to do something within thirty days' time.

I sat there and waited. Ten minutes later, she dismissed both attorneys, called for recess, and motioned Leonard over. Covering her mike with one hand, she whispered to him behind the other, stepped off the bench and exited through the door that led to her chambers.

Leonard marched up to me. "Doctor, Her Honor requests your presence."

Soft lighting, carved desk and credenza, overstaffed chairs, certificates and award plaques on the walls, family photos in sterling silver frames.

I concentrated on one particular snapshot. Judy's younger daughter, Becky. The girl who'd gotten too thin, needed therapy, tried to play therapist with Stacy.

Becky, who'd been tutored by Joanne. Whose grades had dropped after the tutoring had stopped.

Becky, who'd gotten too thin as Joanne grew obese. Had severed her relationship with Stacy.

Judy slipped out of her robe and hung it on a mahogany rack. Today's suit was banana yellow, form-fitting, trimmed with sand-colored braiding. Big pearl earrings, small diamond brooch. Every blond hair in place.

Shiny hair.

She reclined in her desk chair. Glittery things occupied a good portion of the leather desktop. The picture frames, a crystal bud vase, an assortment of tiny bronze cats, millefleur paperweights, a walnut gavel with a bronze plate on the handle. Her bony hands found a weight and rubbed it.

"Alex. What a surprise. We don't have any cases pending, do we?"

"No," I said. "Don't imagine we ever will."

She squinted past me. "Now, why would you say that?"

"Because I know," I said.

"Know what?"

I didn't answer, not out of any psychological calculation. I'd thought about being here, rehearsed it mentally, had gotten the first words out.

I know.

But the rest of it choked in my chest.

"What is this, riddle time?" she said, trying to smile but managing only a peevish twist of her lipstick.

"You were there," I said. "At the motel with Joanne. Someone saw you. They don't know who you are, but they described you perfectly."

What Maribel had really seen was hair. Short yellow hair.

A skinny woman, no butt on her. I only saw the back of her, she was getting into the car when I came out to fill the ice machine.

She had this hair-real light, real shiny, a really good color job. That hair was shiny from across the parking lot.

"Mate had nothing to do with it," I said. "It was just you and Joanne."

Judy reclined a bit more. "You're talking nonsense, my dear."

"One way to look at it," I said, "was you were helping a friend. Joanne had made her decision, needed someone to be there with her at the end. You'd always been a good friend to her. The only problem is, that friendship had cooled. For good reason."