The Murderer's Daughter

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Texas.”

  “Good guess, dear. And totally wrong. New York City. Turns out the hunk of desperado I knew as Steve Stage was really Sidney Bluestone. What do you think of that?”

  Grace shrugged.

  Ramona said, “He figured—rightly so—that Sidney Bluestone wouldn’t find much employment in oaters, so off to court he went and voilà, Steve Stage. When I wanted to kid him, I’d call him Sid from Brooklyn. He was good-natured about it but it wasn’t his favorite thing. Remembering can be hard.”

  She looked at Grace.

  Grace didn’t feel like smiling but she did.

  “Anyway, let’s talk about your schooling,” said Ramona. “Wayne Knutsen told me your history, moving around but mostly going to the same school because all those other people lived close to each other. Unfortunately, we got a problem: You’re too far from that school now. From any school, period, because the city bus won’t come out here and the county’s not ponying up for private transportation. I’d drive and pick you up but it’s just me and Maria-Luz, that’s the woman who cleans, and we both need to be here. Top of that, she doesn’t drive, her husband drops her off and picks her up. If you were a little younger, we’d be okay. There’s a preschool over in Desert Dreams, a trailer park, which is where the two boys go, but it’s basically some woman, nothing educational. So we have a problem. You like school?”

  When no one bothers me and I can learn.

  Not wanting Ramona Stage to feel bad, Grace said, “It’s okay.”

  “So no big deal. Your IQ, you’re most likely way ahead of grade anyway, most of what you learned you probably taught yourself. Am I right?”

  Now Grace’s smile was real. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So what I’m thinking is we go for homeschooling. I already applied and it was no big deal. Basically we get books and lesson plans and do it ourselves. I went to college, got a degree from Cal State, so I figure I can handle fourth-, fifth-grade material, even math, though I kind of taper off at algebra. What do you think?”

  Books and being alone; it sounded like heaven. Unable to believe it, Grace said, “I just read?”

  “A lot of it will be reading but you’ll also have to do exercises and take tests just like if you were in a real school and I have to grade everything. I’m not going to cheat, you get what you earn. You up for that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I figure it’ll be easy once I know your level. To do that, I’m bringing in an expert to test you. A kind of doctor, but not the kind who gives shots or touches your body or anything like that, he’ll just ask you questions.”

  “A psychologist.”

  Ramona’s white eyebrows rose, clouds lofted by a breeze. “You know about psychologists?”

  Grace nodded.

  “Might I ask how?”

  “Sometimes kids would have problems—in the other fosters—and they’d get sent to the psychologist.”

  “You’re making it sound like punishment.”

  The kids who’d talked about it made it sound that way.

  Grace was silent.

  Ramona said, “Other kids.”

  Grace knew what she was getting at. “I never got sent.”

  “You have any other notions about psychologists?”

  “No.”

  “Well this one, he’s not going to be like punishment. I’m not talking through my hat, I know him as a person, not just a doctor. He’s my husband’s baby brother but that’s not why I picked him. He’s a professor, Grace. That means he teaches people to be psychologists, so we’re talking a top-of-the-line expert.”

  Ramona waited.

  Grace nodded.

  “His name is Dr. Malcolm Bluestone, Ph.D., and let me tell you, he’s smart.”

  Ramona flashed another easy smile. “Maybe even as smart as you, young lady.”

  —

  Soon after she’d finished her toast, Grace met the two boys who shared one room. Both were black and she knew they were five years old because Ramona had told her.

  “They look alike but they’re cousins, not brothers, have had hard lives, you don’t want to know, I’m hoping their adoption goes through.”

  Grace couldn’t see any resemblance between the boys. Rollo was much taller than DeShawn and his skin was lighter. Both entered the kitchen appearing sleepy. Rollo held on to a ragged blue blanket. DeShawn looked as if he would’ve liked something to hold.

  “Rise and shine, troopers,” said Ramona. She made the introductions. The cousins nodded absently at Grace and took chairs at the table. DeShawn managed a shy smile and Grace pretended she hadn’t seen it.

  The boys spread napkins on their laps and waited as Ramona set out scrambled eggs, sausage patties and links. They ate silently, began to wake up.

  Ramona said, “You three are okay down here, right? Time to see how Bobby’s doing.”

  The mention of Bobby’s name caused Rollo and DeShawn to exchange a quick, nervous look. Ramona left and the kitchen turned silent. Grace had nothing to do so she just sat there. The boys ignored her and continued to eat, slowly but without pause, like robots. The eggs looked stiff and rubbery and Grace already knew what Ramona’s toast tasted like. None of that gave the cousins pause and Grace wondered if they’d never gotten over feeling hungry.

  It had been a while since she’d been hungry but you didn’t forget that kind of thing.

  She turned away from the cousins and looked up through the kitchen window over the sink. One of those roundish trees with the small leaves stood a few feet away from the glass.

  Grace got up to have a closer look.

  To her back, Ramona’s voice, “California oak, water them too much, they die.”

  She hadn’t heard the old woman enter, felt as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.

  Turning, she saw Ramona holding the hand of a different-looking boy.

  Small—no taller than DeShawn—he had the face of an older child, maybe even a teenager, with pimples and a large jaw and a shelf-like forehead that shadowed squinty eyes set crookedly, one a good quarter inch higher than the other. Curly red hair was thin in spots, like that of an old man. His mouth hung open in some kind of smile but Grace wasn’t sure that meant he was happy. Widely spaced yellow teeth were separated by an oversized tongue. His body—sunken and bowed—swayed, as if he needed to move to stop from falling. Even though Ramona held his hand tightly.

  Grace realized she was staring. Realized the cousins weren’t.

  She looked away, too.

  The new boy—Bobby—gave a raspy laugh. Once again, it was hard to call that happy.

  Ramona Stage said, “Bobby, this is Grace, she’s eight and a half, so you’re still the oldest.” She patted Bobby’s head. He smiled again, swayed more violently, let out a single loud cough, then bent double as a coughing fit overtook him.

  Rollo and DeShawn stared down at their plates.

  Ramona said, “Poor Bobby had a rough night, even with the oxygen.”

  Rollo said something.

  “What’s that, dear?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For…”

  “Him being sick.”

  “Well, that’s kind of you, darling. And gentlemanly, Rollo, I’m extremely proud of you.”

  Rollo bobbed his head.

  Grace thought of the hiss when Ramona had peeked in on Bobby. Oxygen. So he had some kind of breathing problem, but he looked like that wasn’t all of his problems.

  She studied Bobby’s eyes. His irises were a strange yellow-brown and they seemed coated with something waxy.

  She smiled.

  He smiled back. This time, he seemed kind of happy.

  Seventy-three minutes after her phone call from Detective Elaine Henke, the green light in the therapy room lit up.

  Grace waited a couple of minutes before cracking the waiting room door. She kept an assortment of periodicals in a wall rack, covering topics from fashion to home renovation and she found it interesting
, sometimes instructive, to note what patients chose to read.

  The woman in the corner armchair had opted for Car and Driver. The new Corvettes.

  “Doctor? Eileen Henke.” She got up and placed the magazine in the rack. Firm dry handshake.

  Forty-five or so, the detective was short and wide, packed tight like a gymnast easing into middle age. Her complexion was clear, a rosy backdrop for unremarkable features. An ash-blond bob did a decent job of firming her jawbone, lending a roundish face some definition. Her pantsuit was beige, her shoes were black, her purse a patchwork of both those colors.

  A gold badge was clipped to the breast pocket of her jacket. The garment had been tailored loosely, probably to hide the bulge of the gun holstered near her left breast. Nice try but not quite. Or maybe cops liked reminding you they were armed.

  Too-curious almost-hazel brown eyes pretended not to surveil; Grace knew when she was being x-rayed.

  “Please come in, Detective.”

  “Elaine’s really okay.”

  Only if we’re buddies. I don’t have buddies.

  —

  Henke said, “Never been in a psychologist’s office before.”

  She’d settled in the chair facing Grace’s desk, was taking in Grace’s degrees and certificates.

  “Always a first time, Detective.”

  Henke chuckled. “Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice.”

  “Of course. This is a terrible thing. Do you have any idea who killed Mr. Toner?”

  “Unfortunately no, Doctor. And Andrew Toner may not be his real name.”

  That was quick. “Really?”

  “Well,” said Henke, “he told you he was from San Antonio but we haven’t been able to find anyone by that name in San Antonio. We did find some Andrew Toners in other Texan cities but they have no connection to him.”

  Grace said, “I don’t know why he’d give me a false name.”

  “You’re sure about San Antonio.”

  “He contacted me through my service and they’re generally accurate. More than that, he gave this number for callback.” She handed Henke the ten digits she’d punched three-quarters of an hour ago.

  “Two-ten area code,” said Henke.

  “It’s San Antonio, all right,” said Grace. “Unfortunately, it’s out of service.”

  “You tried it?”

  “I was curious.”

  Henke’s eyes washed over Grace’s impassive face. Producing a cellphone, she tried the number, frowned, clicked off. “Well, thanks anyway, Doctor. I might be able to trace it back to something useful.”

  She slipped the paper into a jacket pocket. “Okay, back to what I asked you before: traveling a distance for therapy, you didn’t find that strange?”

  “Not typical but not strange. In my practice it occurs more than you might think.”

  “Why is that, Doctor?”

  “I treat victims of trauma and their loved ones. That can draw people from a wide area.”

  Henke smiled. “Because you’re the best?”

  “I’d love to see it that way, but it’s probably because I specialize. And many of my cases are short-term, so travel becomes less of an issue.”

  “You get them over the rough spots quickly.”

  “I do my best.”

  “Trauma,” said Henke. “Are we talking like PTSD?”

  “That can be part of it, Detective.”

  “What’s the rest of it?”

  “Obviously I can’t get into specific patients, but often they’re crime victims or relatives of victims, people who’ve been in devastating accidents, lost loved ones to diseases.”

  “Sounds pretty intense,” said Henke.

  “I’m sure that also applies to your job, Detective.”

  “True. So, Mr. Toner—let’s call him that until we know different—went through something really hairy or knew someone who did and maybe flew all the way from Texas to get therapy. Be nice to know what his trauma was.”

  Grace said, “I might be able to help you a bit with that. Years ago I published a paper on the psychological effects of being related to a murderer. Based on a patient I knew. Andrew Toner cited that article when he showed up. Unfortunately, when I probed for specifics, he aborted the session.”

  “Aborted?”

  “He grew anxious and left.”

  “Anxious about what, Doctor?”

  “I wish I could tell you.”

  Henke ticked her fingers. “Flew in, freaked out, flew the coop.”

  “ ‘Freaked out’ is too strong,” said Grace. “He grew uncomfortable.”

  “That happen a lot with your patients? People change their minds?”

  “In my business, anything can happen.”

  Henke digested that. “How long was he actually here?”

  “Just a few minutes—I’d estimate ten, fifteen.”

  “Long enough for you to remember what he was wearing.”

  “I try to be observant.”

  “Well, that’s good. So what else did you observe about him?”

  “He seemed like a nice man with something on his mind.”

  Henke slid a bit lower in her chair. Making herself comfortable, as if settling down for the long haul. “Any idea why he’d keep your business card in his shoe?”

  “None. Sounds like he was hiding the fact that he was seeking therapy.”

  “Like from someone he was traveling with? He mention traveling with anyone?”

  Grace shook her head.

  Henke said, “And you have no idea what specifically made him anxious?”

  When he recognized me as the chick he’d…

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “He got defensive and flew the coop,” said Henke.

  Persistent woman. Good trait for a detective. Unpleasant when you were the object of her snooping.

  Grace said, “I wish I could tell you more.”

  Henke reached into her patchwork bag and pulled out a notepad. Flipping a page, then another, she said, “Don’t want to take up too much of your time but it’s the details you miss that end up coming back to bite you.”

  “I understand.”

  Henke read some more, closed the pad. “I keep coming back to that card in the shoe. Never seen that before, I mean that’s pretty cloak and dagger, no?”

  “It is.”

  “And now you’re telling me this guy might be a relative of some murderer—do you have that paper you wrote, by the way? Sounds interesting.”

  “Not at hand, but here’s the reference.” Grace recited and Henke copied.

  Grace said, “May I ask a question about the murder?”

  Henke looked up. “If it’s something I can answer, I will.”

  “On the photo you showed me, there were no wounds.”

  “How did he die? Multiple stabbing to the body. That’s one reason what you told me sounds interesting—some low-life relative. Because this was what we call overkill. More wounds than necessary to effect death.”

  “Something personal,” said Grace.

  “Exactly, Doctor.” But Henke’s eyes had hardened and Grace figured she might’ve overstepped. “If Mr. Toner really was related to a serious bad guy, overkill could make sense. Especially if Mr. Toner was considering ratting him out.”

  Trying to put distance between himself and the object of his dread. Good reason to fly in from another city.

  Grace said, “Poor man.”

  Henke shifted her pad from hand to hand, scanned several more pages. “Or I’m barking up the wrong tree and poor Mr. Andrew Toner was in the wrong place at the wrong time…you mentioned being gone for a couple of weeks.”

  “Vacation.”

  “Planned a while ago?”

  “No specific plans, I just try to take off in order to recharge the batteries.”

  “Where you planning to recharge?”

  Grace smiled. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Hmm,” said Henke. “I like Hawaii.”
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  “I’ll consider it.”

  “So no plans yet, but the office will be closed.”

  “It will.”

  “Mr. Toner knew that but still made an appointment.”

  “He was informed but still wanted to come in.”

  “That says to me he might’ve intended it to be a one-shot deal.”

  “Good point.”

  “Is there anything else you can recall about him, Doctor? The slightest detail.”

  Grace pretended to ponder. Shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Nasty business,” said Henke. “The homeless guy who found him was pretty freaked out—oh, did you happen to see what Mr. Toner was driving?”

  “I didn’t walk him out to the street.”

  “Why would you?” Henke returned the pad to her bag and stood. “I’m just grasping, Doctor. Thanks again for your time. If you think of anything, even if it seems minor, please call me.”

  I’ve thought of plenty. “Atoner,” for starts. Would Henke figure it out? Grace imagined the detective’s reaction if Grace revealed the discovery.

  Really, Doctor. You figured that out. Impressive.

  A woman paid to see the worst in everyone would view any gift with suspicion.

  Grace walked Henke to the mouth of the waiting room, hung back and let her reach the door by herself.

  “Good luck, Detective—Elaine.”

  Henke said, “Doctor, I’m gonna need it.”

  Parting the drapes an inch, Grace watched Henke drive away in a white Taurus, then returned to the therapy room. The space felt different, no longer trustworthy, as if a security code had been breached.

  In a sense, it had: This was the first time she’d sat behind her desk, backed by her diplomas and certificates, and been treated as anything other than an expert.

  More than that: She had no idea if the meeting with Henke had freed her of this…this…mess. Did the detective still consider her “of interest”?

  Had she made matters worse? Planned vacation but no plans? Objectively, it sounded odd. How could anyone, let alone a cop, understand the way she lived?

  The big risk was Henke somehow finding out that a dark-haired man wearing tweed and khakis had left the Opus lounge arm in arm with a slim, chestnut-haired woman.