Silent Partner Read online

  SILENT

  PARTNER

  Jonathan Kellerman

  BANTAM

  NEW YORK TORONTO LONDON SYDNEY AUCKLAND

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  About the Author

  By Jonathan Kellerman

  Preview of A Cold Heart

  Don't miss these thrilling suspense novels from Jonathan Kellerman

  Copyright Page

  This one's for Bob Elias.

  If the rich could hire the poor to die for them,

  the poor would make a very nice living.

  —Yiddish saying

  Special thanks to

  Steve Rubin, Beverly Lewis,

  Stuart Vener,

  David Aftergood, and Al Katz

  Chapter

  1

  I've always hated parties and, under normal circumstances, never would have attended the one on Saturday.

  But my life was a mess. I relaxed my standards. And stepped into a nightmare.

  Thursday morning I was the good doctor, focusing on my patients, determined not to let my own garbage get in the way of work.

  I kept my eye on the boy.

  He hadn't yet gotten to the part where he tore the heads off the dolls. I watched him pick up the toy cars again and advance them toward each other in inevitable collision.

  “Cah!”

  The ringing concussion of metal against metal blocked out the whine of the video camera before dying. He tossed the cars aside as if they burned his fingers. One of them flipped over and rocked on its roof like a trapped turtle. He poked at it, then looked up at me, seeking permission.

  I nodded and he snatched up the cars. Turning them over in his hands, he examined the shiny undercarriages, spun the wheels, simulated the sounds of revving engines.

  “Voom voom. Cah.”

  A little over two, big and husky for his age, with the kind of fluid coordination that foretold athletic heroism. Blond hair, pug features, raisin-colored eyes that made me think of snowmen, an amber splash of freckles across nose and chubby cheeks.

  A Norman Rockwell kid: the kind of son any red-blooded American father would be proud of.

  His father's blood was a rusty stain on the central divider somewhere along the Ventura Freeway.

  “Voom cah!”

  In six sessions, it was as close as he'd come to speaking. I wondered about it, wondered about a certain dullness in the eyes.

  The second collision was sudden, harder. His concentration was intense. The dolls would come soon.

  His mother looked up from her seat in the corner. For the past ten minutes she'd read the same page of a paperback entitled Will Yourself Successful! Any pretense of casualness was betrayed by her body language. She sat high and stiff in the chair, scratched her head, stretched her long dark hair as if it were yarn, and kept coiling and uncoiling it around her fingers. One of her feet tapped out a nonstop four-four beat, sending ripples that coursed upward through the soft flesh of a pale, unstockinged calf and disappeared under the hem of her sun dress.

  The third crash made her wince. She lowered the book and looked at me, blinking hard. Just short of pretty—the kind of looks that flower in high school and fade fast. I smiled. She snapped her head down and returned to her book.

  “Cah!” The boy grunted, took a car in each hand, smashed them together like cymbals, and let go upon impact. They careened across the carpet in opposite directions. Breathing hard, he toddled after them.

  “Cah!” He picked them up and threw them down hard. “Voom! Cah!”

  He went through the routine several more times, then abruptly flung the cars aside and began scanning the room with hungry, darting glances. Searching for the dolls, though I always left them in the same place.

  A memory problem or just denial? At that age, all you could do was infer.

  Which was what I'd told Mal Worthy when he'd described the case and asked for the consult.

  “You're not going to get hard proof.”

  “Not even trying for it, Alex. Just give me something I can work with.”

  “What about the mother?”

  “As you'd expect, a mess.”

  “Who's working with her?”

  “No one, for the moment, Alex. I tried to get her to see someone but she refused. In the meantime, just do your thing for Darren and if a little therapy for Mama takes place in the process, I won't raise an objection. God knows she needs it—something like that happening to someone her age.”

  “How'd you get involved in an injury case, anyway?”

  “Second marriage. Father was my handyman. I handled the divorce as a favor. She was the other woman and remembered me with fondness. Actually, I used to do lots of P.I. in the beginning. Feels good to get back into it. So tell me, how do you feel about working with one this young?”

  “I've had younger. How verbal is he?”

  “If he talks I haven't heard it. She claims before the accident he was putting a few words together, but I don't get the impression they were saving up tuition for Cal Tech. If you could prove IQ loss, Alex, I could translate it into dollars.”

  “Mal—”

  He laughed over the phone. “I know, I know, Mr.—excuse me, Dr. Conservative. Far be it from me to—”

  “Good talking to you, Mal. Have the mother call me to set up an appointment.”

  “—attempt to unduly influence an expert witness. However, while you're analyzing the situation, you might consider imagining what it's going to be like for her, raising a kid by herself, no training, no money. Living with those memories. I just got pictures of the crash—they almost made me lose my lunch. There are some deep pockets here, Alex, and they deserve being dipped into.”

  “Dah!” He'd found the dolls. Three men, a woman, a little boy. Small, soft plastic and pink, with bland, guileless faces, anatomically correct bodies, and detachable limbs. Next to them another pair of cars, larger than the first two, one red, one blue. A miniature child's car seat had been placed in the rear seat of the blue one.

  I stood, adjusted the video camera so that it was trained on the table, then sat on the floor next to him.

  He picked up the blue car and positioned the dolls using a familiar sequence: one man driving, another next to him, the woman behind the driver, the child in the car seat. The red car was empty. One male doll remained on the table.

  He flapped his arms and tugged his nose. Holding the blue car at arm's length, he looked away from it.

  I patted his shoulder. “It's all right, Darren.”

  He inhaled, blew out air, picked up the red car and placed both vehicles on the floor, two feet apart, grille to grille. Taking another deep breath, he puffed up his cheeks and let o
ut a scream, then smashed them together full force.

  The male passenger and the woman flew out and landed on the carpet. The boy doll slumped in its harness, head down.

  It was the driver doll that held his attention—lying across the front seat, its flight restrained by one foot caught in the steering wheel. Huffing, the boy struggled to pull it loose. Tugged and twisted, started to grunt with frustration, but finally managed to free it. He held it away from his body, examined its plastic face, and yanked its head off. Then he placed it next to the little boy.

  I heard a gasp from across the room and turned. Denise Burkhalter ducked back behind her book.

  Oblivious of her reaction, the boy dropped the headless body, picked up the female doll, hugged it, put it down. Then he returned to the male dolls—the decapitated driver and the front-seat passenger. Raising them over his head, he threw them against the wall, watched them hit, then fall.

  He looked at the child slumped in the seat and picked up the head next to it. After rolling it under his palm, he tossed it aside.

  He stepped toward the male doll that hadn't been moved—the driver of the other car—took another step, froze, then backed away.

  The room was silent except for the hum of the camera. A page turned. He stood still for several moments, then was overtaken by a burst of hyperactivity so fierce it electrified the room.

  Giggling, he rocked back and forth, wrung his hands and waved them in the air, sputtering and spitting. He ran from one side of the room to the other, kicking book-shelves, chairs, the desk, scuffing the baseboards, clawing the walls and leaving little greasy smudges on the plaster. His laughter rose in pitch before giving way to a croupy bark followed by a rush of tears. Throwing himself to the floor, he thrashed for a while, then curled fetally and lay there, sucking his thumb.

  His mother remained behind her book.

  I went to him and scooped him up in my arms.

  His body was tense and he was chewing hard on his thumb. I held him in my lap, told him everything was okay, he was a good boy. His eyes opened for an instant, then closed. Milk-sweet breath mingled with the not unpleasant odor of child sweat.

  “Do you want to go to Mommy?”

  Drowsy nod.

  She still hadn't moved. I said, “Denise.” Nothing. I repeated her name.

  She put the paperback in her purse, strung the purse over one shoulder, got up, and took him.

  We left the library and walked toward the front of the house. By the time we reached the door he was sleeping. I held the door open. Cool air blew in. A gentle summer that kept threatening to heat up. From the distance came the sound of a motorized lawnmower.

  “Any questions you want to ask me, Denise?”

  “Nope.”

  “How'd he sleep this week?”

  “The same.”

  “Six or seven nightmares?”

  “About. I didn't count—do I still have to?”

  “It would help to know what's going on.”

  No response.

  “The legal part of the evaluation is over, Denise. I have enough information for Mr. Worthy. But Darren's still struggling—totally normal for what he's been through.”

  No response.

  “He's come a long way,” I said, “but he hasn't been able to act out the role of the . . . other driver yet. There's plenty of fear and anger still in him. It would help him to express it. I'd like to see him some more.”

  She looked at the ceiling.

  “Those dolls,” she said.

  “I know. It's hard to watch.”

  She bit her lip.

  “But it's helpful for Darren, Denise. We can try having you wait outside next time. He's ready for it.”

  She said, “It's far, coming up here.”

  “Bad traffic?”

  “The pits.”

  “How long did it take you?”

  “Hour and three quarters.”

  Tujunga to Beverly Glen. A forty-minute freeway ride. If you could handle freeways.

  “Surface streets jammed?”

  “Uh huh. And you've got some curvy roads up here.”

  “I know. Sometimes when—”

  Suddenly she was backing away. “Why do you make yourself so hard to get to, living up here! If you want to help people, why do you make it so damned hard!”

  I waited a moment before answering. “I know it's been rough, Denise. If you'd rather meet in Mr. Worthy's—”

  “Oh, forget it!” And she was out the door.

  I watched her carry her son across the deck and down the stairs. His weight caused her to waddle. Her ungainliness made me want to rush down and help her. Instead, I stood there and watched her struggle. She finally made it to the rental car, worked hard at opening the rear door with one hand. Bending low, she managed to get Darren's limp body into the car seat. Slamming the door shut, she walked around to the driver's side and threw open the front door.

  Putting her key in the ignition, she lowered her head to the steering wheel and let it rest there. She sat that way for a while before turning on the engine.

  Back in the library I turned off the video camera, removed the cassette, tagged it, and began my report, working slowly, with even greater precision than usual.

  Trying to forestall the inevitable.

  Several hours later the damned thing was finished; evicted from the helper role, I was, once again, someone who needed help. Numbness rolled over me, as inevitable as the tide.

  I considered calling Robin, decided against it. Our last conversation had been anything but triumphant—tongue-biting civility finally sabotaged by depth charges of hurt and anger.

  “. . . freedom, space—I thought we were past that.”

  “Well, I never got past freedom, Alex.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I really don't.”

  “I'm just trying to figure out what you want, Robin.”

  “I've explained it over and over. What more can I say?”

  “If it's space you want, you've got two hundred miles of it between us. Feeling any more fulfilled?”

  “Fulfillment's not the issue.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Stop it, Alex. Please.”

  “Stop what? Wanting to work this out?”

  “Stop cross-examining me. You sound so hostile.”

  “How am I supposed to sound, a week stretched to a month? Where's the end point?”

  “I . . . I wish I could answer that, Alex.”

  “Terrific—the endless dangle. And what was my big sin? Getting too involved? Okay, I can change that. Believe me, I can be cool as ice. In training I learned how to detach. But if I pull away, ten to one I'll be accused of male indifference.”

  “Stop it, Alex! I was up all night with Aaron. I can't handle this right now.”

  “Handle what?”

  “All your words. They're coming at me like bullets.”

  “How're we supposed to work anything out without words?”

  “We're not going to work anything out right now, so let's put it aside. Goodbye.”

  “Robin—”

  “Say goodbye, Alex. Please. I don't want to hang up on you.”

  “Then don't.”

  Silence.

  “Goodbye, Robin.”

  “Goodbye, Alex. I still love you.”

  The shoemaker's children go barefoot.

  The shrink chokes on his words.

  The low mood gathered strength and hit me full force.

  Having someone to talk to would have helped. My list of confidants was damned short.

  Robin at the top.

  Then Milo.

  He was off with Rick, on a fishing trip in the Sierras. But even if his shoulder had been available I wouldn't have cried on it.

  Over the years, our friendship had taken on a certain rhythm: We talked about murder and madness over beer and pretzels, discussed the human condition with the aplomb of a pair of anthropologists observing a colony of sa
vage baboons.

  When the horrors piled up too high, Milo bitched and I listened. When he went off the wagon, I helped talk him back on it.

  Sad-sack cop, supportive shrink. I wasn't ready to reverse the roles.

  A week's worth of mail had piled up on the dining room table. I'd avoided opening it, dreading the superficial caresses of come-ons, coupons, and get-happy-quick schemes. But I needed, at that very moment, to keep my mind tethered to minutiae, free from the perils of introspection.

  I carried the stack into the bedroom, pulled a wastebasket to the side of the bed, sat down, and began sorting. At the bottom of the pile was a buff-colored envelope. Heavy linen stock, a Holmby Hills return address, embossed silver script on the back flap.

  Rich for my blood. An upscale sales pitch. I flipped the envelope over, expecting a computerized label, and saw my name and address printed in extravagant silver calligraphy. Someone had taken the time to do this one right.

  I checked the postmark—ten days old. Opened the envelope and pulled out a buff-colored invitation card, silver-bordered, more calligraphy:

  DEAR DOCTOR DELAWARE,

  YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO JOIN

  DISTINGUISHED ALUMNI AND MEMBERS OF THE

  UNIVERSITY COMMUNITY AT A GARDEN PARTY AND

  COCKTAIL RECEPTION HONORING

  DOCTOR PAUL PETER KRUSE,

  BLALOCK PROFESSOR OF PSYCHOLOGY AND

  HUMAN DEVELOPMENT.

  UPON HIS APPOINTMENT AS

  CHAIRMAN, THE DEPARTMENT OF PSYCHOLOGY

  SATURDAY, JUNE 13, 1987, FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON

  SKYLARK

  LA MAR ROAD

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90077

  RSVP, THE PSYCHOLOGY DEPARTMENT

  Kruse as chairman. An endowed chair, the ultimate reward for exceptional scholarship.

  It made no sense; the man was anything but a scholar. And though it had been years since I'd had anything to do with him, there was no reason to believe he'd changed and become a decent human being.

  Back in those days, he'd been an advice columnist and a darling of the talk-show circuit, armed with the requisite Beverly Hills practice and a repertoire of truisms couched in pseudoscientific jargon.