The Murderer's Daughter (12 page)

“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.

S
eventy-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.”

“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.”

P
arting 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.

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.