The Murderer's Daughter

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Remote probability, but not zero. Because lacking a real lead, someone like Henke—probably competent but not brilliant, choosing police work in the first place because she liked structure—could be counted on to develop tunnel vision and keep poking at what she had.

  One positive: The details of what had taken place in the parking lot would never come to light.

  Unless Andrew had told someone…

  No reason to think he had, but if Henke somehow managed to connect him to the hotel—face flashed on the news, a newspaper article with accompanying photo—Grace had to face the possibility that someone—Chicklet, another drinker—could cause problems.

  The mere fact that Grace had failed to mention the previous meeting would be damning.

  Worst-case scenario: a Kafkaesque nightmare.

  Best case: career damage.

  Had she been overly confident?

  Grace felt her gut begin to knot up again. Early-warning sign, like a prodrome before a seizure. She deep-breathed, ran through two circuits of muscle relaxation exercises, achieved mild parasympathetic stimulation, at best.

  Forget all that mind-body crap. Keep the brain busy.

  Focus.

  Two cups of strong tea and the activity it took to brew them helped. So did imagining herself restored to expert status. Sitting in this chair behind this desk in this room.

  Her room.

  Her world: helping others.

  One stupid mistake shouldn’t disrupt that.

  So think. How to minimize risk?

  She washed her teacup, returned to her desk, closed her eyes, and created a mental list of strategies.

  Dismissing all but one. The only plan that made sense was steering Henke away from the Opus with an alternative: Andrew’s actual lodgings.

  And for that, microanalyzing Andrew’s behavior might be the key.

  He hadn’t stayed at the Opus but he had chosen it for bar snacks and a cocktail. Because his accommodations lacked atmosphere? Perks?

  Was his own place limited to cheap booze from a coin-op mini-bar?

  Or maybe he was staying somewhere perfectly nice and just felt like a change of scenery.

  Either way, the weather had been mild and a young, healthy male from out of town, possibly just off the plane, might crave a pleasant walk.

  Then again, he’d been knifed to death downtown. Did that mean his hotel room was in that area?

  A cross-city slog didn’t make sense if you were trying to mellow out. So maybe the poor guy had been driven there and dispatched precisely to hinder identification.

  His murderer not counting on a card in a shoe.

  Why had Andrew done that?

  Seeking out Grace’s help but knowing it was dangerous?

  She cast that aside and concentrated on the immediate task: find out where and start by keeping it local.

  Using the Opus as a hub, she fanned outward and searched for other seats of hospitality. The Internet yielded a list of candidates within four miles of the hotel. The yellow pages filled in missing establishments and soon Grace had compiled a handwritten alphabetic list, pushing aside a flood of intrusive what-ifs.

  What if there was no hotel and he’d bunked down with a friend or relative?

  What if the pleasant-stroll hypothesis was bunk and he wasn’t weary from air travel because he lived right here in L.A.?

  Atoner.

  Roger. To Grace’s Helen.

  She’d called herself that because a patient by that name was the last person she’d spoken to before embarking. At the time, a cute little in-joke. Now it seemed tawdry. What if Andrew had employed a similar ruse? Something that might help identify him.

  Could he have been that devious? Grace’s bullshit detector was exquisitely tuned but he hadn’t set it off. Was she slipping? Or would Andrew turn out to simply be a decent man seeking help?

  Murderer’s son/brother/cousin inspired by the tale of a murderer’s daughter.

  No sense wondering. She had a job to do.

  —

  Using the same airhead persona she’d presented to the Opus clerk, she began calling.

  The Alastair, a “six-star guesthouse” on Burton Way, was fronted by a warm-voiced man. Regretfully, that establishment hadn’t accommodated Andrew Toner nor anyone named Roger.

  Same for the Beverly Carlton, the Beverly Carlyle, the Beverly Dumont, and fourteen other establishments.

  But eighty minutes later, a man with a middle European accent at the St. Germain on the 400 block of North Maple Drive laughed unpleasantly.

  “Funny you should ask, miss. Your Mr. Toner paid for two days then asked for a third day. When the maid went to clean his room this morning, he was gone, along with his belongings. We accepted cash as a courtesy. Where might we find him, miss?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Hmph. Well, if you see him, let him know this is wrong.”

  —

  Leaving the Aston in the garage and opting for the Toyota because conspicuous was the last thing she wanted to be, she drove south on Doheny Drive.

  Maple between Civic Center and Alden was inaccessible from the north due to a long-dormant fenced-off area deeded to the Southern Pacific Railroad. Entry from Third Street to the south led Grace to a dark, quiet neighborhood zoned residential on the west side but hosting massive office buildings across the street.

  Not where you’d expect a hotel and nothing looked like a hotel but the rationale hit her: close to her office. An easy walk if you knew how to sidle along the railyard and emerge at the psychotic interchange linking Melrose Avenue and Santa Monica Boulevard.

  GPS could turn anyone into a navigator.

  Grace cruised up the block, found the address painted on the curb, double-checked her notes to confirm. Driving on, she U-turned and came back, positioning herself across the street and up a bit.

  The building was a Georgian Revival from the twenties, just another two-story apartment structure on a block filled with similar, nothing identifying a commercial enterprise. Whiskey-colored glow from a ground-floor window clarified when Grace parked and had a look from the sidewalk: light leaking through the slightly askew slats of old-fashioned Venetian blinds.

  One way in: a dark-painted door, but there had to be a rear exit that led to a garden. An escutcheon-like plaque staked midway along a curving cement walkway was barely decipherable.

  The St. Germain

  Hanging below that, a smaller sign.

  Vacancy

  Grace hazarded a couple of steps closer. Over the door:

  Reception. Ring In.

  Not exactly warm and welcoming, but perfect if you wanted to remain obscure.

  The Internet ratings she’d read were mixed: decent, clean lodgings but no restaurant, no lounge, no room service.

  Just as she’d hypothesized: A guy could get thirsty, hungry, lonely. Go out exploring.

  She got back in the station wagon and drove away thinking about Andrew’s likely trajectory that first night. Heading north would earn him a chain-link barrier but south—southwest—would lead him smack into the Beverly Hills business district and, once there, the Opus would be a conspicuous beacon of promise.

  You go in, settle in a comfortable chair, order a drink.

  You see a woman.

  She sees you back.

  Everything changes.

  Nothing like success to settle one’s stomach. Finally hungry, Grace drove to an Indian place in WeHo that she knew to be busy at lunch but thinly patronized for dinner.

  Tonight, the clientele consisted of three tattooed hipsters eating sullenly and an older, well-dressed couple holding hands. The turbaned Sikh owner smiled gently and guided Grace to a quiet corner where she waved off a menu and ordered the shrimp special and chai. Nibbling namak pare crackers, she pondered when to favor Henke with her discovery.

  Double gift: Not only had she learned where Andrew had stayed, the fact that he’d checked in three days ago could help the detective
if she wanted to search travel schedules.

  The owner brought her the milky tea along with assurance that her food would follow shortly, everything was prepared fresh.

  Should she tell the detective about the hotel? If so, not tonight, maybe tomorrow morning. Late morning because that would imply curiosity but not an obsessive all-nighter quest.

  She worked on her story: About to embark on a vacation, she’d been distracted by the horror of Andrew’s death, had taken the time to investigate so she could feel she was doing something.

  Too mushy? Should she frame it as intellectual curiosity, softened by empathy? She’d figure it out.

  Be grateful, Detective Henke. Show your thanks by forgetting about me.

  Then she thought of a possible hitch: Henke was sure to visit the St. Germain, where the grumpy night man would likely tell her about Grace’s worried-cousin ruse. Would that retweak the detective’s suspicions?

  So be up front about it, maybe get Henke to laugh it off as an eccentric therapist playing girl detective—weren’t shrinks all a bit off?

  Partial honesty’s the best policy…Grace’s food arrived. Delicious. She seemed to be digesting well. Things were looking up.

  —

  She drove back to her office to pick up the Aston, and as long as she was at it, checked her service because that’s what a responsible healer did.

  The operator said, “Just one, Dr. Blades. An Elaine Henke. She said phone anytime, she’ll be up late.”

  —

  Ten thirty-three p.m. and the woman was still at her desk. “Have you thought of anything else, Dr. Blades?”

  “Actually,” said Grace. “I just did something a little different. But it might help you.”

  Henke listened, said, “Wow. That’s impressive, Doctor. I like the cousin thing, sounds like something I might be able to use one day.”

  Grace laughed. “Have a nice night.”

  “The St. Germain,” said Henke. “Never heard of it.”

  “Same here.”

  “Fake name, paying cash, maybe he was shady—you pick that up?”

  Grace, feeling oddly defensive about Andrew, said, “Not at all.”

  “Guess not after such a brief—oh, I forgot to tell you, Doctor. I came up with something, myself. I was staring at the name, because something about it bothered me, I couldn’t figure it out. Then I did. Because luckily I’d written his initial—A—instead of his name. A. Toner. Get it?”

  Grace said, “Not really.”

  “A. Toner. Atoner, Doctor. If that’s it, no surprise he doesn’t show up under that name.”

  “But you said other people in Texas do.”

  “True,” said Henke, sounding disappointed. “Maybe you’re right…Still, they haven’t shown up murdered and he has. Plus you told me about that article he mentioned, maybe having a criminal family. And that out-of-service number looks like it traces to a throwaway—a disposable cell, drug dealers love them. So all in all I’m getting a shady feeling.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “It’s usually that way, Doctor. People making mistakes, paying for them. Anyway, thanks for finding the hotel, it gives me something to work with.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “You said he got jumpy and left,” said Henke. “Drugs can make you jumpy. Cocaine, amphetamines. Did you happen to notice his pupils?”

  The night before, I sure did, Elaine. Dilated to the max, ripe with interest.

  “I didn’t,” said Grace, “but there were no obvious indications of intoxication.”

  “And you’d know,” said Henke. “Okay, thanks again, I’ll check out that hotel first thing. You earned your vacation, enjoy—decided where to go, yet?”

  The lie was easy. “Maybe it will be Hawaii.”

  “Back when I was married, my husband and I used to go regularly.”

  What was this, girlish chitchat?

  Grace said, “Any recommendations?”

  “I like the Big Island—oh yeah, one more thing. Did you happen to notice that Mr. Atoner colored his hair?”

  “No,” Grace said, with genuine surprise.

  “The coroner noticed light roots, confirmed it. His natural color appears to be sandy brown. What do you think of that?”

  “Men do it, now.”

  “If he was an old guy, covering gray, I’d say sure, vanity. But just darkening the brown, what’s the point unless you’re trying to disguise yourself? I’m definitely getting a feeling for this guy. Meanwhile, aloha.”

  Grace lingered at her desk, thinking about the behaviors that led Henke to see Andrew as suspicious. All of it, she knew, could be taken a whole other way: He’d embarked on a dangerous journey—a quest for atonement—and was trying to protect himself.

  In the case of Grace’s business card in his shoe, protecting her, as well?

  No other reason she could think of.

  My hero?

  Her eyes began aching, every joint in her body had tightened up. Suddenly, she craved escape—from the office, the city. Her thoughts. Everything.

  Maybe she would try the Big Island, again. Or Costa Rica, the rain forests sounded interesting.

  Locking up, she hurried to the garage and got in the DB7. She’d take Sunset to Malibu, extending the journey a bit, she could use the decompression.

  The car treated her like the smooth lover it was, working curves at far too high a speed. Maintaining control as she kept pushing the limits of her skill was first-rate distraction and by the time Grace reached the coast, she’d begun to feel just fine.

  It took a while—passing through Las Tunas Beach—before she realized she was being followed.

  —

  Grace made a point of being watchful when driving alone. Tonight she hadn’t.

  Big-time screwup?

  Or was she imagining the intrusion? A pair of bouncing headlights—a vehicle with spongy suspension—for the last few miles?

  She worked the rearview mirror. The lights were still there, shimmery amber moons.

  Then they diminished as another vehicle slipped between them. And another.

  Nothing to that? Or had she just seen what Shoshana Yaroslav had taught her: evasive driving? If the goal was to avoid detection, it accomplished the opposite; now Grace couldn’t stop checking.

  She sped up; the car with the bouncing lights moved up. Receded. Second time that had happened in five miles. Far too much movement given the sparse nighttime traffic on PCH.

  She recalled the boxy sedan she’d spotted the night of Andrew’s appointment. Rolling toward her from up the street and setting off her internal alarm, only to reverse direction and slip away. If someone really was following her, had the hunt commenced as she’d left West Hollywood?

  Could this be the same car? The span between the headlights fit but that’s all she could make out.

  She switched to the slow lane.

  Ninety seconds later, the bouncing car did the same and now it was unshielded.

  Definitely not a compact or a truck, so maybe…Grace lowered her speed abruptly, caught the car unawares, and earned a closer look.

  Sedan. Boxy? Probably.

  The first time she’d seen it, it had been parked near her office well after Andrew’s departure. Sometime that night, Andrew had been stalked, ending up human trash, dumped in a cold, dark place.

  The timing didn’t work. So maybe she was letting her mind run away with—unless there were two people involved.

  One for Andrew, one to clean up Andrew’s mess.

  If he’d been tracked to her office, finding out why wouldn’t be a challenge, her nameplate—small, bronze, discreet—graced the front door.

  Talking to a shrink, the ultimate sin? First Andrew had been punished and now Grace needed to be taken care of? The sedan crept up on her, she put on speed, the sedan hung back, too dark to ascertain the make and model…now it had allowed a smaller car to get in front of it.

  Grace shifted lanes again.

  Th
is time the sedan took its time getting directly behind her, but there it was, following closer than ever. Grace slowed down, forcing it to brake. The sedan recovered, slowing itself, allowing a pickup to cut in front.

  For all Grace knew the truck was part of a team.

  But she couldn’t afford to let fear take hold, so she worked hard at building up anger. The nerve of these bastards…La Costa Beach was approaching, time to think clearly.

  Going home was obviously out of the question. Once she entered her front door she’d be as vulnerable as a shooting range target. But the only escapes along PCH were dark, twisting roads snaking to canyons and dead ends.

  So only one choice: keep going. But that provided no long-term solution because once she was past the Colony and the rolling hills fronting Pepperdine University, the traffic would thin further and the highway would darken and she’d be vulnerable to a bump or a swipe that ran her off the road.

  A weapon aimed out of a window.

  Unless she was wrong. She hoped she was but when the sedan moved up on her again and she had to push the Aston way past the speed limit, that hope died.

  She knew.

  Why had she let her guard down? The reason to consider that question wasn’t to beat herself up, it was to prevent recurrence of stupidity.

  The obvious answer: what the Brits called brain fag. The motor neurons in her brain had been preoccupied with Andrew. Then thinking about anything but Andrew.

  All that mental energy had overloaded her circuits and caused her to neglect Shoshana Yaroslav’s First Commandment: I don’t care how tough and liberated you think you are, you’re a woman, always vulnerable. So pay attention to your surroundings.

  Commandment Two was: Do whatever it takes. Unless you believe in reincarnation and enjoy the thought of coming back as a bug.

  No need for eight more.

  Shifting slightly to the right so she could catch a better glimpse of the slow lane, Grace found it empty. Suddenly, she pushed the Aston’s throttle to the floor, reaching eighty ninety a hundred in seconds. Leaving the pickup and the dancing car and everyone else far behind.