“Why’s that?”
“Being a mother.”
The two of us began walking through the living room. White walls, beige carpet, brand-new furniture barely out of the rental warehouse. The kitchen was to the left. Straight ahead were sliding glass doors that had been left wide open. The backyard was a strip of Astroturfed patio followed by real grass, pale in comparison. An orange tree heavy with ripening fruit served as a centerpiece. At the rear was a scallop-topped redwood fence backed by phone wires and the roofline of the neighboring garage.
Cassie sat on the grass, sucking her fingers while inspecting a pink plastic doll. Doll clothes were strewn on the grass. Cindy sat nearby, cross-legged.
Vicki said, “Guess so.”
“What’s that?”
“Guess you’ve earned your stripes.”
“Guess we both have.”
“Yeah … You know I wasn’t too happy having to take that lie detector.”
“I can imagine.”
“Answering all those questions—being thought of like that.” She shook her head. “That was really hurtful.”
“The whole thing was hurtful,” I said. “He set it up that way.”
“Yeah … I guess he knocked us all around—using my bunnies. They should have capital punishment for people like that. I’m gonna enjoy getting up on the stand and telling the world about him. When do you think that’ll happen—the trial?”
“Probably within a few months.”
“Probably … Okay, have fun. Talk to you later.”
“Any time, Vicki.”
“Any time what?”
“Any time you want to talk.”
“I’ll bet.” She grinned. “I’ll just bet. You and me talky-talking—wouldn’t that be a hoot?”
She slapped me lightly on the back and turned around. I stepped out onto the patio.
Cassie looked at me, then returned to the naked doll. She was barefoot and had on red shorts and a pink T-shirt patterned with silver hearts. Her hair was topknotted and her face was grimy. She appeared to have gained a little weight.
Cindy uncrossed her legs and stood without effort. She wore shorts, too. The skimpy white ones I’d seen at her house, below a white T-shirt. Her hair was loose and brushed straight back from her forehead. She’d broken out a bit on her cheeks and chin, and tried to patch it with makeup.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.” I smiled and got down on the ground with Cassie. Cindy stood there for a moment, then walked into the house. Cassie turned to watch her, lifted her chin and opened her mouth.
“Mommy’ll be right back,” I said, and lifted her onto my lap.
She resisted for a moment. I let go. When she made no attempt to get off, I put one hand around her soft little waist and held her. She didn’t move for a while; then she said,
“Ho-ee.”
“Horsey ride?”
“Ho-ee.”
“Big horsey or little horsey?”
“Ho-ee.”
“Okay, here we go, little horsey.” I bounced her gently. “Giddyap.”
“Gi-ap.”
She bounced harder and I moved my knee a little faster. She giggled and threw her arms up into the air. Her topknot tickled my nose on each assent.
“Giii-ahp! Giii-ahhp!”
When we stopped, she laughed, scrambled off my lap, and toddled toward the house. I followed her into the kitchen. The room was half the size of the one on Dunbar Drive and furnished with tired-looking appliances. Vicki stood by the sink, one arm elbow-deep in a chromium coffeepot.
She said, “Well, look what the wind blew in.” The arm in the pot kept rotating.
Cassie ran to the refrigerator and tried to pull it open. She wasn’t successful and began to fuss.
Vicki put the pot down, along with a piece of scouring cloth, and placed her hands on her hips. “And what do you want, young lady?”
Cassie looked up at her and pointed to the fridge.
“We have to talk to get things around here, Miss Jonesy.”
Cassie pointed again.
“Sorry, I don’t understand pointy-language.”
“Eh!”
“What kind of eh? Potato or tomato?”
Cassie shook her head.
“Lamb or jam?” said Vicki. “Toast or roast, juice or moose?”
Giggle.
“Well, what is it? An ice cream or a sunbeam?”
“Eye-ee.”
“What’s that? Speak up.”
“Eye-ee!”
“I thought so.”
Vicki opened the freezer compartment and took out a quart container.
“Mint chip,” she said to me, frowning. “Frozen toothpaste, if you ask me, but she loves it—all the kids do. You want some?”
“No, thanks.”
Cassie danced a quick little two-step of anticipation.
“Let’s sit down at the table, young lady, and eat like a human being.”
Cassie toddled to the table. Vicki put her on a chair, then pulled a tablespoon out of a drawer and began to scoop ice cream.
“Sure you don’t want some?” she asked me.
“I’m sure, thanks.”
Cindy came in, drying her hands on a paper towel.
“Snack time, Mom,” said Vicki. “Probably ruin her dinner, but she did pretty good on lunch. Okay with you?”
“Sure,” said Cindy. She smiled at Cassie, kissed the top of her head.
“I cleaned out the coffeepot,” said Vicki. “Down to the dregs. Want some more?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Probably go out later to Von’s. Need anything?”
“No, I’m fine, Vicki. Thanks.”
Vicki set a bowl of ice cream in front of Cassie and pressed the round part of the spoon into the green, speckled mass.
“Let me soften this up—then you can go at it.”
Cassie licked her lips again and bounced in her chair. “Eye-ee!”
Cindy said, “Enjoy, sweetie-pie. I’ll be outside if you need me.”
Cassie waved bye-bye and turned to Vicki.
Vicki said, “Eat up. Enjoy yourself.”
I went back outside. Cindy was standing against the fence. Dirt was clumped up around the redwood slats and she imbedded her toes in it.
“God, it’s hot,” she said, brushing hair out of her eyes.
“Sure is. Any questions today?”
“No … not really. She seems to be fine.… I guess it’ll be … I guess when he’s on trial is when it’s going to be hard, right? All the attention.”
“Harder for you than her,” I said. “We’ll be able to keep her out of the limelight.”
“Yeah … I guess so.”
“Not that the press won’t try to get pictures of both of you. It may mean moving around a bit—more rented houses—but she can be shielded.”
“That’s okay—that’s all I care about. How’s Dr. Eves?”
“I spoke to her last night. She said she’d be coming by this evening.”
“When’s she leaving for Washington?”
“Couple of weeks.”
“Was moving something she planned or just …”
“You’d have to ask her that,” I said. “But I know it didn’t have anything directly to do with you.”
“Directly,” she said. “What does that mean?”
“Her moving was personal, Cindy. Nothing to do with you or Cassie.”
“She’s a nice lady—kind of … intense. But I liked her. I guess she’ll be coming back for the trial.”
“Yes, she will.”
A citrus smell drifted over from the orange tree. White blossoms dusted the grass at the tree’s base, fruit that would never be. She opened her mouth to speak, but shielded her lips with her hand instead.
I said, “You suspected him, didn’t you?”
“Me? I—Why do you say that?”
“The last couple of times we talked, before the arrest, I felt you wanted to tell me somet
hing but were holding back. You just had that same look now.”
“I—It really wasn’t suspicion. You just wonder—I started to wonder, that’s all.”
She stared at the dirt. Kicked it again.
“When did you start wondering?” I said.
“I don’t know—it’s hard to remember. You think you know someone and then things happen.… I don’t know.”
“You’re going to have to talk about all of it, eventually,” I said. “For lawyers and policemen.”
“I know, I know, and it scares me, believe me.”
I patted her shoulder. She moved away and hit the fence with her back. The boards vibrated.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just don’t want to think about that now. It’s just too …”
She looked down at the dirt again. It wasn’t until I saw the tears drip from her face and dot the soil that I realized she was crying.
I reached out and held her. She resisted, then relented, leaning her full weight against me.
“You think you know someone,” she said, between sobs. “You think you—You think someone loves you and they’re … and then … your whole world falls apart. Everything you thought was real is just … fake. Nothing—Everything’s wiped out. I … I …”
I could feel her shaking.
Pausing for breath, she said “I” again.
“What is it, Cindy?”
“I—It’s …” Shaking her head. Her hair brushing against my face.
“It’s okay, Cindy. Tell me.”
“I should have—It didn’t make sense!”
“What didn’t?”
“The time—He was … he was the one who found Chad. I was always the one who got up when Chad cried or was sick. I was the mother—that was my job. He never got up. But that night he did. I didn’t hear a thing. I couldn’t understand that. Why didn’t I hear a thing? Why? I always heard when my babies cried. I was always getting up all the time and letting him sleep, but this time I didn’t. I should have known!”
She punched my chest, growled, rubbed her head against my shirt as if trying to grind her pain away.
“I should’ve known it was wrong when he came to get me and told me Chad didn’t look good. Didn’t look good! He was blue! He was … I went in and found him lying there—just lying there, not moving. His color … it was … all … It was wrong! He never was the one to get up when they cried! It was wrong. It was wrong—I should have … I should have known from the beginning! I could have … I …”
“You couldn’t have,” I said. “No one could have known.”
“I’m the mother! I should have!”
Tearing away from me, she kicked the fence, hard.
Kicked it again, even harder. Began slapping the boards with the flats of her hands.
She said, “Ohhh! Oh, God, oh!” and kept striking out.
Redwood dust rained down on her.
She gave out a wail that pierced the heat. Pushed herself up against the fence, as if trying to force herself through it.
I stood there, smelling oranges. Planning my words and my pauses and my silences.
When I got back to the car, Robin had filled the board with designs and was studying them. I got behind the wheel and she put them back in her folio.
“You’re drenched,” she said, wiping sweat from my face. “Are you okay?”
“Hanging in. The heat.” I started the car.
“No progress?”
“Some. It’s going to be a marathon.”
“You’ll make it to the finish.”
“Thanks,” I said. Hanging a three-point turn, I drove away.
Halfway down the block I pulled over to the curb, jammed the transmission into PARK, leaned across the seat, and kissed her hard. She flung both arms around me and we held each other for a long time.
A loud “ahem” broke us apart.
We looked up and saw an old man watering his lawn with a dribbling hose. Watering and scowling and mumbling. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat with a ragged crown, shorts, rubber sandals. Bare-chested—his teats sagged like those of a woman wasted by famine. His upper arms were stringy and sunburnt. The hat shadowed a pouchy, sour face but couldn’t conceal his disgust.
Robin smiled at him.
He shook his head and the water from his hose arced and sprayed the sidewalk.
One of his hands gave a dismissive wave.
Robin stuck her head out the window and said, “Whatsamatter, don’t you approve of true love?”
“Goddam kids,” he said, turning his back on us.
We drove away without thanking him.
To my son, Jesse,
a gentleman and a scholar
Special thanks to Reuben Eagle,
Allan Marder, Yuki Novick,
Michael Samet, Dennis Payne,
and Harry Weisman, M.D.
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 1994 by Jonathan Kellerman.
Excerpt from Victims copyright © 2012 by Jonathan Kellerman
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
This edition published by arrangement with Random House, Inc.
This book contains an excerpt from Victims by Jonathan Kellerman. This excerpt has been set for this edition and may not reflect the final content of the book.
eISBN: 978-0-345-46375-3
v3.1_r1
Contents
Master - Table of Contents
Bad Love
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Dedication
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER
1
It came in a plain brown wrapper.
Padded envelope, book rate, book sized. I assumed it was an academic text I’d forgotten ordering.
It went on to the mail table, along with Monday’s bills and announcements of scholarly seminars in Hawaii and St. Croix. I returned to the library and tried to figure out what I was going to do in ten minutes when Tiffani and Chondra Wallace showed up for their second session.
A year ago their mother had been murdered by their father up on a ridge in the Angeles Crest Forest.
He told it as a crime of passion and maybe he was right, in the very worst sense. I’d learned from court documents that absence of passion had never been a problem for Ruthanne and Donald Dell Wallace. She’d never been a strong-willed woman, and despite the ugliness of their divorce, she had held on to “love feelings” for Donald Dell. So no one had been surprised when he cajoled her into taking a night ride with sweet words, the promise of a lobster dinner, and good marijuana.
Shortly after parking on a shaded crest overlooking the forest, the two of them got high, made love, talked, argued, fought, raged, and finally clawed at one another. Then Donald Dell to
ok his buck knife to the woman who still bore his name, slashed and stabbed her thirty-three times, and kicked her corpse out of his pickup, leaving behind an Indian-silver clip stuffed with cash and his membership card in the Iron Priests motorcycle club.
A docket-clearing plea bargain landed him in Folsom Prison on a five to ten for second-degree murder. There he was free to hang out in the yard with his meth-cooking Aryan Brotherhood bunkmates, take an auto mechanics course he could have taught, accrue good behavior brownie points in the chapel, and bench press until his pectorals threatened to explode.
Four months into his sentence, he was ready to see his daughters.
The law said his paternal rights had to be considered.
An L.A. family court judge named Stephen Huff—one of the better ones—asked me to evaluate. We met in his chambers on a September morning and he told me the details while drinking ginger ale and stroking his bald head. The room had beautiful old oak paneling and cheap country furniture. Pictures of his own children were all over the place.
“Just when does he plan on seeing them, Steve?”
“Up at the prison, twice a month.”
“That’s a plane ride.”
“Friends will chip in for the fare.”
“What kind of friends?”
“Some idiocy called The Donald Dell Wallace Defense Fund.”
“Biker buddies?”
“Vroom vroom.”
“Meaning it’s probably amphetamine money.”
His smile was weary and grudging. “Not the issue before us, Alex.”
“What’s next, Steve? Disability payments because he’s stressed out being a single parent?”
“So it smells. So what else is new? Talk to the poor kids a few times, write up a report saying visitation’s injurious to their psyches, and we’ll bury the issue.”
“For how long?”
He put down the ginger ale and watched the glass raise wet circles on his blotter. “I can kibosh it for at least a year.”
“Then what?”
“If he puts in another claim, the kids can be reevaluated and we’ll kibosh it again. Time’s on their side, right? They’ll be getting older and hopefully tougher.”
“In a year they’ll be ten and eleven, Steve.”
Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle Page 91
