The Murderer's Daughter Read online

  A trial would’ve been torture but useful for Helen. She’d been cheated again by the monster, as he’d charged a phalanx of arresting officers with a screwdriver and ended up sieved by LAPD bullets.

  Case closed for everyone but Helen. She kept calling the district attorney’s office, only to break into sobs and apologetic confession that there was no reason for her to be phoning. Once or twice she forgot who she’d dialed. Eventually, the deputy D.A. in charge of the case stopped taking her calls. His secretary, far more insightful and caring, had suggested that Helen see Grace.

  A psychologist? I am not crazy!

  Of course not, ma’am. Dr. Blades is different.

  What do you mean?

  She really gets it.

  As was true of every patient she saw, Grace made Helen feel as if she were Grace’s sole focus. The key was always about finding the kernel of individuality within each human being, but the truth was, a commonality existed among the Haunted and over the years Grace had distilled her treatment paradigm: Do what it takes to establish rapport because without rapport, there’s no therapy. Be available 24/7 and when the time is right—and here the art of therapy took over—begin the process of rebuilding. With all that, it was important to set realistic goals: Pre-monster happiness was out of the question.

  Which wasn’t to say success was flimsy. Nearly everyone could be guided toward accepting pleasure, and pleasure was the nutrient of healing.

  The final principle applied to Grace: Take frequent vacations.

  —

  The process could take months, years, decades. Forever. Grace had patients who visited her on tenth and twentieth anniversaries. Reliving horror that had occurred when Grace was in grade school.

  Helen, now crumpled in Grace’s arms, might turn out to be one of those, no way to know. No way to know about people, period, which was what made Grace’s job so interesting.

  She felt Helen tighten up. Out came a hoarse, terrible growl of a sob.

  Grace held Helen tighter. Began rocking her like a baby. Helen whimpered, turned quiet, fell into a trance-like state that brought a serene smile to her lips. Grace had expected that, she was generally excellent at guessing her patients’ inner worlds. Despite that, she worked at staying humble, because the job had nothing to do with cure, one didn’t talk about cure.

  Still, nearly everyone got somewhat better, and how many endeavors could provide that level of satisfaction?

  This month, Grace had reached one of those nice lulls where the patient load had thinned and allowed her to schedule another vacation. Tomorrow would be her last day before she checked out for two weeks.

  Vacation was a loose concept. Sometimes she flew to faraway places and stayed at luxurious hotels and had adventures. Sometimes, she remained home and vegged out.

  The nice thing was, it was all up to her and as yet she had no specific plans for next week, could entertain possibilities from Malibu to Mongolia.

  When she worked, her appointment book was solid ink for months in advance, with spots opening up only when patients flew from the nest. She’d never engaged in any sort of self-promotion but word got around and judges and lawyers—more important, their perceptive assistants and secretaries—came to appreciate her work. But most of her business came from patients talking her up.

  Her fee was slightly above average and everyone paid by check or cash upon entering the treatment room, no sliding scale, no insurance forms, no billing. Making money wasn’t the point—she could have lived quite well without her practice. Being businesslike and ethical was, and that included avoiding patients building up mountains of debt.

  Treatment needed to be a partnership valued by both sides, meaning hard work for all concerned. Grace had never shirked anything in her life and by the time the Haunted came to her, they were ready to do whatever it took.

  God bless them.

  —

  Helen continued to cling to Grace. She was fifteen years older than Grace but today, in this quiet, pretty room, Grace was the mother and she was the child.

  Grace was younger than most of her patients but felt centuries older. She suspected none of them thought much about her age. Considered anything about her, other than her ability to help them. The way it should be.

  She’d turned thirty-four a month and a half ago, but could pass for early twenties when the situation called for it. A prodigy throughout her formal schooling, she’d earned a Ph.D. in clinical psychology at an unreasonably young age, compressing a six-year program to four, the second of only two doctoral candidates at USC to pull that off.

  The first was a man from whom Grace took the required seminar in child clinical. Not her cup of tea, working with the little ones, but Alex Delaware had made it sound as interesting as anyone could. He was obviously brilliant, quite likely compulsive, driven, and perfectionistic, not the easiest man to live with. But Grace appreciated his no-bullshit attitude, and his success at pushing his way through the academic bureaucracy spurred her to try it herself.

  Now, at an age when adulthood-deferring wimps were still “trying to figure it out,” Grace relished being a grown-up.

  She was comfortable with everything about maturity—her place in life, the luxuries she afforded herself, her rhythms and routines. Even her looks, without that translating to self-centered delusion.

  She’d been called beautiful by men but blew that off as post-orgasmic Y-chromosome myopia. She was, at best, attractive, occupying a body assembled of flat planes rather than curves. Too broad at the shoulders, too narrow at the hips, both of which served to de-emphasize her small waist, she was light-years from centerfold territory.

  Speaking of which, her breasts.

  At fourteen, she’d flattered herself by rating them perky, figuring at some point they’d blossom into lush. At more than double that age, she’d come to celebrate perky.

  Her eyes were wide-set but plain-wrap brown. She was especially amused when more than one man claimed to discover tiny flecks of gold floating near her pupils. Try as she might, she never found them.

  One tiresome would-be poet tagged her eyes “twin lodes of precious ore.” Fool’s gold was more like it and the face they occupied was too long for the perfect oval, though sheathed with smooth ivory skin stretched tight over fine bones. Sprinkles of butterscotch freckles sprouted in interesting spots all over her body. One man had designated the pointillist patches “dessert” and set about licking every one of them. Grace let him do his thing until she started to feel like a dog’s water bowl.

  Her hair was a plus, a bounty of chestnut silk that looked good no matter how it was cut. A few months ago, she’d allowed a Beverly Hills stylist to run riot, ending up with a loosely layered mop that terminated just above her shoulder blades and shook out easily.

  But the winner was…her chin, a firm, pointy thing, crisp and defined and strong.

  Not a hint of indecision.

  Therapeutic chin.

  —

  Helen drew away from the embrace and offered a face full of confidence. Accepting the scented tissue Grace offered, she sat back down in the patient chair. The session had run over significantly, something Grace tried to avoid. But you needed to be flexible and Helen was her final patient of the day and Grace had plenty of energy for what lay ahead tonight.

  She did, however, shift her head to the side so Helen had a clear view of the bronze art nouveau clock atop her mantel.

  Helen’s mouth formed an O. “I’m so sorry, Doctor—here, let me pay you extra.”

  “Not a chance, Helen.”

  “But Dr. Blades—”

  “It’s been wonderful seeing you, Helen. I’m proud of you.”

  “Really? Even though I freaked out?”

  The same question she asked on each anniversary.

  “Helen, what I saw tonight wasn’t freaking out, it was honesty.”

  Helen attempted a smile. “The best policy?”

  “Not always, Helen, but in this case, yes. You’re an
impressive person.”

  “Pardon?”

  Grace repeated the compliment. Helen blushed and looked down at her brand-new cowgirl boots, at odds with her dress, but pretty, nonetheless.

  She now lived on ranch land outside Bozeman with her new dream man, a large, concrete-thinking block of oak who liked to hunt and fish and opined that he’d have loved to get his hands on the bastard who’d…

  “Sometimes, Dr. Blades, I think honesty can be the worst thing.”

  “It can be, but look at it this way, Helen: Honesty is like one of Roy’s guns. Only someone with training can be trusted to use it properly.”

  Helen pondered that. “Oh…yes, I see…”

  “To my mind, Helen, you’re well on your way to becoming a crack shot.”

  “Oh…thank you, Dr. Blades…well, I’m catching an early flight tomorrow, better be shoving off.”

  “Have a great trip.”

  Another stifled smile. “I think I can, Dr. Blades. Like you always say, at some point we need to decide to be good to ourselves.”

  Grace stood and squeezed both of Helen’s hands, dropped the left gently after a second but held on to the right as she steered Helen out of the therapy room. Doing it smoothly, adroit as a tango champion, so that Helen felt guided, not dismissed. They walked silently through the bare, dim hallway that led to the waiting room, made it to the front door before Helen paused.

  “Doctor, may I…you know?”

  Another habitual question.

  Grace smiled. “Of course, e or snail. Or Pony Express, if that works for you.”

  The same answer Grace always provided. Both women laughed.

  “And, Helen, should you find yourself in L.A., don’t be a stranger. Even if it’s just to say hi.”

  Now Helen’s smile was warm and full, untrammeled by conflict. When they smiled like that, Grace knew she was in the right profession.

  “Never a stranger, Dr. Blades. Never.”

  Grace’s therapy room had once been the master bedroom of the country-English cottage that served as her professional headquarters. A cute little twenties thing, the house occupied a quiet corner on an obscure side street in West Hollywood, like many of its neighbors hidden behind tall hedges.

  The location was walkable from the flats of Beverly Hills but set well away from B.H. glitz and the frenetic activity of WeHo’s Boystown. The corner location was no accident: Grace had insisted on it, so patients could enter on one street and exit on another.

  On the surface, the people who came to her for help had much in common but they would never meet one another. A different therapist might question that, reasoning that post-traumatic patients could benefit from sharing common experiences.

  Maybe so, but in Grace’s mind that was outweighed by the need for depth probing, the magic of one-on-one. Sometimes she thought of herself as a one-woman emotional vaccine.

  She’d done the place up with soft seating, flattering lighting, inoffensive hues, the only feature hinting at herself, an array of framed diplomas, licenses, and honors, displayed behind her desk.

  The house had come with wainscoting, Greek-key moldings, decorative alcoves, a tile fireplace, and diamond-pane windows. The day Grace took ownership, she began painting and scrubbing, ended up polishing the oak floors on hands and knees. After teaching herself the rudiments of commercial sewing—plenty of trial, even more error—she created ecru silk drapes from remnants scored in a thrift shop, hung the finished product from antique brass rods she nabbed online.

  Proud of me, Malcolm?

  The result: a work environment that felt right.

  Now, with her workday over, she poured herself a glass of water and glided into the living room/waiting room. Parting two of the curtain panels, she gazed out on blackness.

  Starless: her favorite flavor of night.

  Double-bolting the front door and switching off the lights, she returned to the therapy room and unlocked the closet, a walk-in intended for a wardrobe that now held far less. Retrieving a small leather box, she plucked out a pair of nonprescription color contact lenses from a collection she’d assembled.

  Tonight: light blue, allowing some of her natural brown to peek through and create an intriguing sea green.

  Stepping out of oxblood flats, she unbuttoned her work blouse—one of the dozen white silk button-downs she’d had custom-tailored by a Hong Kong tailor who visited L.A. twice a year for trunk shows—and shed man-tailored black slacks, also purchased from Mr. Lam in a lot of twelve. Off came her bra and panties and on went tonight’s dress.

  She’d selected it yesterday, a long-sleeved, gray, cowl-necked cashmere sheath she’d christened One Piece Wonder. Silk lining eliminated the need for underwear. The gray was a medium shade that adored her chestnut hair, the hem ended an inch below her knees, promising an interesting journey, and the sleeves flattered her arms.

  No buttons, no zippers, no froufrou of any sort. Over the head, in with the arms, slithering down her body, liquid as a coat of lotion.

  Tonight’s shoes were maroon suede pumps handmade by a Barcelona cobbler who specialized in flamenco shoes. Add to that the chocolate-brown single-clasp briefcase and matching drawstring bag already hosting money, keys, lipstick, and a gray-matte .22 Beretta, and she was ready.

  Playtime.

  —

  It had been a while—months—since Grace had surrendered to The Leap. Abstention had nothing to do with self-doubt or restraint, it was simply a matter of professional responsibility: Busy time in her practice, her priority was the mental health of her flock.

  Which wasn’t to say she hadn’t taken a few small jumps.

  Driving home late at night on Pacific Coast Highway, making sure the road was clear then bearing down delicately on the Aston Martin’s accelerator.

  Pushing the car to seventy, eighty, ninety, a hundred and twenty.

  Holding that speed while clamping her eyes shut, hurtling forward, blind.

  The joy of weightlessness.

  A couple of Sundays ago, she’d woken at sunrise and hiked up a canyon on the land side of PCH, finding herself the sole explorer of a series of well-marked trails that snaked up into the Santa Monica Mountains. After two miles of following the rules, she’d stripped herself naked, balled her clothes and tucked them into her backpack, and veered off the trail, stepping randomly into brush.

  It didn’t take long for the foliage to turn dense, obscuring landmarks.

  Soon, Grace was giddy with disorientation.

  Losing herself.

  Nearing a grunt. Spying a flash of beige.

  Letting in the fear. Reprocessing it as arousal.

  Reaching deep into her core and reminding herself of all that she’d been through, everything she’d accomplished.

  The key was to survive. She walked on.

  It took a while, but eventually she found her way back to the Aston, scratched and bruised and dirty, a mountain lion’s warning reverberating in her head.

  Abrasions were easily touched up with cosmetics. The beast’s bravado remained a barb in her brain and that night she went to sleep imagining its rage and its bloodlust and slept wonderfully.

  Oh, you gorgeous killer.

  Maybe one day she’d return and look for the cat. Toting a slab of raw steak in her backpack.

  Naked Woman with Meat. Great title for a painting.

  Grace’s exit took her through the kitchen, out the rear patient door, and onto the impatiens-ringed, jacaranda-shaded lawn that served as the cottage’s backyard.

  A narrow door cut into the facing wall of the garage. Though tiny, the house had been built for L.A. and even in the twenties that meant Worship the Automobile and space for two vehicles.

  Waiting for her, side by side, were her twin chariots, both black, both spotless, both, in Grace’s mind, female.

  The Toyota Matrix S station wagon was logic and function, as obtrusive as a tree in a forest.

  The Aston Martin DB7 screamed irrationality.
/>   Tonight, the choice was obvious.

  Sliding into the low-slung beauty, she home-linked the garage door open, inserted the ignition key, pushed the red starter button, and brought four hundred fifteen snorting broncos roaring to life. Switching on her iPod, she called up Bach’s Sixth Brandenburg Concerto and backed the Aston out just past the garage door. Looking up and down the street, she idled, giving the car time for its rarefied organ system to reach optimal body temperature.

  Automotive foreplay; rush a girl and she could grow balky and cranky.

  When the Aston’s noises signaled readiness, Grace looked around again and pressed a maroon toe down on the gas.

  The car shot forward like the land-rocket it was. Grace raced a block or two before slowing to a cruise as she manipulated a maze of narrow streets and exited east onto Sunset.

  Heading in the opposite direction of her destination because she needed time to wind down, she turned up the volume on Bach and drove until her body grew cool and loose and itchy in that wonderful pre-Leap way. Hanging a left turn, she roared up several blocks of inky residential hillside, drove past a Dead End sign, and zipped around the curve of a cul-de-sac. Reversing direction in a quick swoop, she returned to Sunset, slid into light traffic, and floated west over the Beverly Hills border.

  As if she’d entered a new country, the scenery shifted from clubs and cafés and show-business office buildings to gated mansions graced with chlorophyll. Another half a mile of relative quiet passed before she headed south on broad, flat avenues, continued past both big and little Santa Monica boulevards, and entered the B.H. business district.

  At this hour, not much business going on; all but a few shops were dark. Rich folk had pools, tennis courts, home theaters, home spas, home everything. Why venture out to mingle with the yokels?

  Precious few yokels, as well, just a scatter of tourists and window-shoppers. Easing the Aston toward Wilshire, Grace caught an eyeful of her goal but stopped half a block shy.

  —

  The Beverly Opus was a ziggurat of pink limestone and smoked glass, introduced by a valet parking area paved in slate and centered by a palm-fringed fountain. High-end chrome was routinely displayed as proof of the hotel’s elite clientele but valets in top hats and tails were more than happy to park any decent vehicle out front for a twenty-dollar tip.