Obsession Read online

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  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

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY JONATHAN KELLERMAN

  COPYRIGHT

  To Faye

  CHAPTER

  1

  Patty Bigelow hated surprises and did her best to avoid them.

  God had other ideas.

  Patty’s concept of a supreme being wavered between Ho-Ho-Ho Santa and a Fire-Eyed Odin thrusting thunderbolts.

  Either way, a white-bearded guy bunking down in the clouds. Depending on his mood, dispensing goodies or playing marbles with the planets.

  If pressed, Patty would’ve called herself an agnostic. But when life went haywire why not be like everyone else and blame A Greater Power?

  The night Lydia surprised her, Patty had been home for a couple of hours, trying to wind down after a tough day in the E.R. Mellowing out with a beer, then another, and when that didn’t work, giving in to The Urge.

  First, she straightened the apartment, doing stuff that didn’t need doing. She ended up using a toothbrush on the kitchen counter grout, cleaned the toothbrush with a wire brush that she washed under hot water and picked clean. Still tense, she saved the best for last: arranging her shoes—wiping each loafer, sneaker, and sandal clean with a chamois, sorting and re-sorting by color, making sure everything pointed outward at precisely the same angle.

  Time for blouses and sweaters…the doorbell rang.

  One twenty a.m. in Hollywood, who the heck would be dropping in?

  Patty got irritated, then nervous. Should’ve bought that gun. She took a carving knife to the door, made sure to use the peephole.

  Saw black sky, no one out there…oh, yes there was.

  When she realized what Lydia had done, she stood there, too stunned to blame anyone.

  Lydia Bigelow Nardulli Soames Biefenbach was Patty’s baby sister but she’d crammed a lot more living into her thirty-five years than Patty wanted to think about.

  Dropout years, groupie years, barmaid years, sitting-on-back-of-the-Harley years. Vegas, Miami, San Antonio, Fresno, Mexico, New Mexico, Wyoming, Montana. No time for postcards or sisterly calls, the only time Patty heard from Liddie had to do with money.

  Lydia was quick to point out that the arrests were chickenshit, nothing that ever stuck. Responding to Patty’s silence when she collect-called from some backcountry lockup and wheedled bail money.

  She always paid the money back, Patty granted her that. Always the same schedule: six months later, to the day.

  Liddie could be efficient when she wanted to, but not when it came to men. Before, in between, and after the three stupid marriages flowed an endless parade of pierced, inked, dirty-fingernailed, vacant-eyed losers who Liddie insisted on calling her “honeys.”

  All that fooling around, but miraculously only one kid.

  Three years ago, Lydia taking twenty-three hours to push the baby out, alone in some osteopathic hospital outside of Missoula. Tanya Marie, five pounds, six ounces. Liddie sent Patty a newborn picture and Patty sent money. Most newborns were red and monkeylike but this kid looked pretty cute. Two years later, Lydia and Tanya showed up at Patty’s door, dropping in on the way to Alaska.

  No talk about why Juneau, were they meeting anyone, was Liddie clean. No hints about who the father was. Patty wondered if Lydia even knew.

  Patty was no kid person and her neck got tight when she saw the toddler holding Liddie’s hand. Expecting some wild little brat, given the circumstances. Her niece turned out to be sweet and quiet, kind of pretty with wispy white-blond hair, searching green eyes that would’ve fit a middle-aged woman, and restless hands.

  “Drop-in” stretched to a ten-day stay. Patty ended up deciding Tanya was real cute, not much of a pain, if you didn’t count the stink of dirty diapers.

  Just as suddenly as she’d shown up, Liddie announced they were leaving.

  Patty was relieved but also disappointed. “You did okay, Lid, she’s a real little lady.” Standing in her front door, watching as Lydia dragged the kid out with one hand, toted a battered suitcase with the other. A Yellow Cab idled at the curb, belching smog. Noise rose from down on the boulevard. Across the street a bum slouched past.

  Lydia flipped her hair and grinned. Her once-gorgeous smile was insulted by two seriously chipped front teeth.

  “A lady? Meaning not like me, Pats?”

  “Oh, stop, take it for what it was,” said Patty.

  “Hey,” said Lydia, “I’m a slut and proud of it.” Shaking her chest and wiggling her butt. Laughing loud enough for the cabbie to turn his head.

  Tanya was two but she must’ve known Mommy was being inappropriate because she winced. Patty was sure of it.

  Patty wanted to protect her. “All I meant to say was she’s great, you can bring her anytime.” Smiling at Tanya but the kid was looking at the sidewalk.

  Liddie laughed. “Even with all those shitty diapers?”

  Now the kid stared off into the distance. Patty walked over to her and touched the top of her little head. Tanya started to recoil, then froze.

  Patty bent a bit and talked softly. “You’re a good girl, a real little lady.”

  Tanya laced her hands in front of her and mustered up the most painful little smile Patty had ever seen.

  As if some inner voice was coaching her in the fine points of niece-to-aunt etiquette.

  Lydia said, “Shitty diapers are okay? Cool, I’ll remember that, Pats, on the off chance we ever roll around here again.”

  “What’s in Juneau?”

  “Snow.” Lydia laughed and her boobs bounced, barely restrained by a hot-pink halter top. She had tattoos now, too many of them. Her hair looked dry and coarse, her eyes were getting grainy around the edges, and those long dancer’s legs were getting jiggly around the inner thighs. All that and the broken teeth shouted Racing Over the Hill! Patty wondered what would happen when all of Lydia’s looks went south.

  “Stay warm,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Lydia. “I got my ways for that.” Taking hold of the little girl’s wrist and pulling her toward the car.

  Patty went after them. Bent to get eye-level with the kid as Lydia handed the suitcase off to the cabbie. “Nice to meet you, little Tanya.”

  That sounded awkward. What did she know about kids?

  Tanya bit her lip, chewed hard.

  Now here it was, thirteen months later, a hot night in June, the air stinking of Patty didn’t know what, and the kid was back at her door, tiny as ever, wearing saggy jeans and a frayed white top, her hair curli
er, more yellow than white.

  Biting and gnawing exactly the same way. Holding a stuffed orca that was coming apart at the seams.

  This time, she stared straight up at Patty.

  A rumbling red Firebird was parked exactly where the cab had been. One of those souped-up numbers with a spoiler and fat tires and wire dealies clamping down the hood. The hood thumped like a fibrillating heart.

  As Patty hurried toward the car the Firebird peeled out, Lydia’s platinum shag barely visible through the tinted glass on the passenger side.

  Patty thought her sister had waved, but she was never really sure.

  The kid hadn’t moved.

  When Patty got back to her, Tanya reached in a pocket and held out a note.

  Cheap white paper, red letterhead from the Crazy Eight Motor Hotel, Holcomb, Nevada.

  Below that, Lydia’s handwriting, way too pretty for someone with only junior high. Lydia had never put any effort into learning penmanship or anything else during those nine years but things came easy to her.

  The kid started to whimper.

  Patty took her hand—cold and teeny and soft—and read the note.

  Dear Big Sis,

  You said she was a lady.

  Maybe with you she can really turn out to be one.

  Little Sis

  CHAPTER

  2

  Not a whodunit,” said Milo. “A did-it-even-happen?”

  I said, “You think it’s a waste of time.”

  “Don’t you?”

  I shrugged. We both drank.

  “We’re talking terminal illness, probably went to her brain,” he said. “That’s a mere layman’s theory.”

  He pulled his glass closer, churned little viscous waves with his stirrer. We were at a steak house a couple miles west of downtown, facing up to massive T-bones, salads bigger than some people’s lawns, icy Martinis.

  One thirty p.m., a cool Wednesday afternoon, celebrating the end of a monthlong lust-murder trial. The defendant, a woman whose artistic pretensions led her to a killing partnership, had surprised everyone by pleading guilty.

  When Milo slogged out of the courtroom, I asked him why she’d given up.

  “No reason given. Maybe she’s hoping for a shot at parole.”

  “Could that ever happen?”

  “You’d think not, but if the zeitgeist gets mushy, who the hell knows?”

  “Big words this early?” I said.

  “Ethos, social ambience, take your pick. What I’m saying is for the last few years everyone’s been big on wiping out crime. Then we do our job too well and John Q. gets complacent. The Times just ran one of their heartrending series about how a life sentence for murder actually means life and ain’t that tragic. More of that and we’re back to the sweet days of easy parole.”

  “That assumes people read the paper.”

  He huffed.

  I’d been subpoenaed as prosecution witness, had spent four weeks on call, three days sitting on a wooden bench in a long, gray corridor of the Criminal Court Building on Temple.

  At nine thirty a.m. I’d been working a crossword puzzle when Tanya Bigelow phoned to tell me her mother had died of cancer a month ago and she wanted a session.

  It had been years since I’d seen her or her mother. “I’m so sorry, Tanya. I can see you today.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Delaware.” Her voice caught.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me now?”

  “Not really—it’s not about grief. It’s something…I’m sure you’ll think it’s strange.”

  I waited. She told me some of it. “You probably think I’m obsessing.”

  “Not at all,” I said. Lying in the service of therapy.

  “I’m really not, Dr. Delaware. Mommy wouldn’t have—sorry, I have to run to class. Can you see me later this afternoon?”

  “How about five thirty?”

  “Thank you so much, Dr. Delaware. Mom always respected you.”

  Milo sawed along the bone, held up a wedge of meat for inspection. The lighting made his face a gravel yard. “This look like prime to you?”

  “Tastes fine,” I said. “I probably shouldn’t have told you about the call—confidentiality. But if it turns out to be anything serious, you know I’ll be back.”

  The steak disappeared between his lips. His jaws worked and the acne pits on his cheeks became dancing commas. He used his free hand to push a lick of black hair off a mottled forehead. Swallowing, he said, “Sad about Patty.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Used to see her in the E.R. when I dropped in on Rick. Hi, how’s it going, have a nice day.”

  “Did you know she was sick?”

  “Only way I’d know was if Rick told me and we’ve got a new rule: No business-talk after hours.”

  When cases are open, a homicide detective’s hours never end. Rick Silverman works the E.R. at Cedars for long stretches. The two of them talk about boundaries all the time but their plans die young.

  I said, “So you have no idea if she was still working with Rick?”

  “Same answer. Confessing some ‘terrible thing’ that she did, huh? Makes no sense, Alex. Why would the kid want to dredge stuff up about her mother?”

  Because the kid gets hold of something and doesn’t let go. “Good question.”

  “When did you treat her?”

  “First time was twelve years ago, she was seven.”

  “Twelve on the nose, not approximately,” he said.

  “Some cases you remember.”

  “Tough case?”

  “She did fine.”

  “Super-shrink scores again.”

  “Lucky,” I said.

  He stared at me. Ate more steak. Put his fork down. “This ain’t prime, at most it’s choice.”

  We left the restaurant and he returned downtown for a paper-clearing meeting at the D.A.’s office. I took Sixth Street to its western terminus at San Vicente, where a red light gave me time to phone the Cedars-Sinai emergency room. I asked for Dr. Richard Silverman and was still on hold when the light turned green. Hanging up, I continued north to La Cienega, then west on Gracie Allen into the sprawl of the hospital grounds.

  Patty Bigelow, dead at fifty-four. She’d always seemed so sturdy.

  Parking in a visitors lot, I walked toward the E.R. entrance, trying to recall the last time I’d spoken to Rick professionally since he’d sent Patty and Tanya my way.

  Never.

  My best friend was a gay homicide detective but that didn’t translate to frequent contact with the man he lived with. In the course of a year, I might chat with Rick half a dozen times when he picked up the phone at their house, the tone always light, neither of us wanting to prolong. Toss in a few dinners at celebratory times—Robin and I laughing and toasting with the two of them—and that was it.

  When I reached the sliding glass doors, I put on my best doctor swagger. I’d dressed for court in a blue pin-striped suit, white shirt, yellow tie, shiny shoes. The receptionist barely looked up.

  The E.R. was quiet, a few elderly patients languishing on gurneys, no electricity or tragedy in the air. As I approached the triage bay, I spotted Rick walking toward me, flanked by a couple of residents. All three of them wore blood-speckled scrubs, and Rick had on a long white coat. The residents wore badges. Rick didn’t; everyone knows who he is.

  When he saw me, he said something to the others that made them depart.

  Detouring to a sink, he scrubbed with Betadine, dried off, extended a hand. “Alex.”

  I’m always careful not to exert too much pressure on fingers that suture blood vessels. Rick’s grip was the usual combination of firm and tentative.

  His long, lean face was capped by tight gray curls. His military mustache held on to some brown but the tips had faded. Smart enough to know better, he still frequents tanning salons. Today’s bronze veneer looked fresh—maybe a noontime bake instead of lunch.

  Milo stands between six two and three, depend
ing on how his mood affects his posture. His weight fluctuates between two forty and way too high. Rick’s six feet even but sometimes he appears just as tall as “the Big Guy” because his back’s straight and he never tops one seventy.

  Today, I noticed a stoop I’d never seen before.

  He said, “What brings you here?”

  “I dropped in to see you.”

  “Me? What’s up?”

  “Patty Bigelow.”

  “Patty,” he said, eyeing the exit sign. “I could use some coffee.”

  We poured from the doctors’ urn and walked to an empty examining room that smelled of alcohol and methane. Rick sat in the doctor’s chair and I perched on the table.

  He noticed that the paper roll on the table needed changing, said, “Scoot up for a sec,” and ripped it free. Wadding and tossing, he washed his hands again. “So Tanya did call you. The last time I saw her was a few days after Patty died. She needed some help getting hold of Patty’s effects, was running into hospital bureaucracy, but even after I helped with that I got the feeling she wanted to talk about something. I asked her if there was anything else, she said no. Then about a week after that, she phoned, asked if you were still in practice or were you doing police work exclusively. I said from what I understood, you were always available to former patients. She thanked me but once again, I got the feeling she was holding back. I didn’t say anything to you in case she didn’t follow through. I’m glad she did. Poor kid.”

  I said, “What kind of cancer got Patty?”

  “Pancreatic. By the time she was diagnosed, it had eaten her liver. A couple of weeks before, I noticed her looking worn down, but Patty on two cylinders was better than most people on full-burn.”

  He blinked. “When I saw she was jaundiced, I insisted she get it checked out. Three weeks later she was gone.”

  “Oh, man.”

  “Nazi war criminals make it to ninety, she dies.” He massaged one hand with the other. “I always thought of Patty as one of those intrepid settler women who could hunt bison or whatever, skin, butcher, cook, turn the leftovers into useful objects.”

  He pulled at one eyelid. “All those years working with her and I couldn’t do a damn thing to change the outcome. I got her the best oncologist I know and made sure Joe Michelle—our chief of anesthesiology—managed her pain personally.”