The Murderer's Daughter (9 page)

A
ndrew Toner didn't call and by nightfall, back at home, Grace felt like jumping out of her skin. Mindless TV didn't help. Neither did music, exercise, wine, or the stack of journals. Finally, she slipped under the covers shortly after one a.m., stretching her body and relaxing her limbs, hoping her brain waves would conform to her posture.

She awoke at 2:15, 3:19, 4:37, 6:09 a.m.

Interrupted sleep wasn't foreign to Grace. Because of the way she'd grown up—a variety of rooms, beds, and roommates, including a fair share of kids who screamed in terror—her adult slumber often broke into two patterns. Most of the time, she'd sack out for eight refreshing hours, but every so often she was in and out, like a newborn. She'd come to terms with her episodic nights, as they didn't seem to connect to daytime events, nor did they pose a problem. She'd always found it easy to slip back into the void.

But the night after meeting Andrew Toner—the second time—was a sheet-twisting, pillow-contorting ordeal filled with taunts of drowsiness followed by stretches of wide-eyed arousal. No bad dreams, no residue of foul images. Just
up.

By the time the sun rose, she'd long given up on REM.

Welcome to the first day of vacation.

Or maybe not, there was still time for Andrew to ask for a retry, maybe he just needed time.

To deal with
moral parameters.
Whatever that meant.

Unable to hold down much breakfast, Grace phoned her service at nine a.m. Not a single message. She was astonished at her disappointment.

Feeling as if she'd been stood up.

Dressing in sweats, she went out on the deck and checked out the beach. Plenty of dry sand, so she took an hour run up and down the entire stretch of La Costa. Returning no more settled, she made coffee, tried the service again.

Nothing, Dr. Blades.

You don't write, you don't call.

She resolved to forget the whole unfortunate episode because guilt wasn't a big part of her makeup.

So. What, now?

A stab at breakfast? Maybe just getting away would tweak her appetite. The Beach Cafe in Paradise Cove? Or Neptune's Net, at the northwestern tip of Malibu?

Both sounded fine in the abstract but she just didn't feel like it.

Suppressing the urge to try her service a third time, she stripped to panties and bra and practiced some self-defense moves, imagining terrible men coming at her, the vicious things she'd do to their eyes and their genitals and the vulnerable spot beneath their noses.

Going through the motions but unable to put any passion into it.

If some psychopath broke in now, she'd be toast.

A long shower
filled a pitiable amount of time. Faced with two weeks of nothing, she still hadn't decided between hanging out at home or booking a random ticket to some pocket of luxury.

When she traveled, she nearly always found a man for a Leap.

Her stomach lurched.

No appetite for that, either.

She sat on the floor and tried to figure out what she actually
felt
like doing, ended up blank, small, hunched, a real nothing.

Not shattered; a piece of lint broken apart gradually and carried away by cruel, persistent wind.

Bad thinking, Grace. Erase erase erase, then replace.

What had she told so many patients? The key was to do
something.

She could drive out to the range in Sylmar and practice her shooting. Not that she needed the drill, her most recent session had been three weeks ago Sunday and she'd turned the target's bland, politically correct, Caucasian head into a sieve. Her marksmanship had elicited stunned silence followed by a “Whoa” from the guy in the adjoining stall, a shaved-head, tatted-out gangbanger-type who was trying to look tough with a .357 Magnum.

Grace ignored him and demolished a second target the same way and Gangbang muttered
“Mama loca”
with a combination of loathing and admiration, then proceeded to mess up his shooting in all kinds of humiliating ways.

When she packed up her guns and left the range, he was starting to do better.

Pretending he'd never met her.

Grace had taken
up shooting and serious self-defense training shortly after buying the house and the office. Finding herself alone and figuring that might be her status forever, she had no idea where to begin and had turned to Alex Delaware because she'd heard he was some sort of karate honcho, occasionally worked with the police.

She'd spotted him on campus, leaving Seeley Mudd, the psych building, in the company of two female grad students.

The three of them chatted and then the women left and Delaware kept walking, using a slow but long stride. Not an especially tall man but he moved like one. Dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans, wearing a backpack.

Grace moved into his line of vision and waved. He waved back, waited for her to reach him.

“Hi, Grace.”

“Have a second?”

“Sure. What's up?”

“I'm thinking of getting into martial arts, wondered if you had any advice.”

Delaware's eyes were a gray-blue that should've been cold but weren't. His pupils had dilated quickly. Serious interest but Grace didn't detect anything sexual, more like he was really thinking about the request.

He smiled. “Someone told you I'm a sensei?”

“Something like that.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, I just dabble, haven't done much in a while.”

“Whatever you know, I don't.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Are you looking for a good workout or an actual means of defending yourself?”

“Possibly both.”

A couple of undergrad girls in short-shorts passed, giggling. Both gave Delaware the once-over but he didn't notice. Guiding Grace to a shady bench across from Seeley, he said, “I don't want to pry, but I can't give you the best answer without knowing if you're concerned about a specific threat.”

“I'm not,” she said. “I'm living alone now and this is L.A.”

Everyone knew the reason Grace was alone. Grace was sick of hearing about it and hoped Delaware wouldn't get into it and, bless him, he stayed on point: “Here's the thing about karate or any other martial arts system: It's great for exercise and personal discipline but outside of movie fight scenes, it's pretty much useless against an armed thug. So if that's your primary goal, I'd suggest you get some training in deadly assault—similar to what the Israelis do with krav maga but even rougher.”

“Go-for-the-jugular stuff,” said Grace.

Delaware smiled again. “The carotid's an easier target. One of many.”

She said, “Sounds good. Got a referral?”

“One more thing: If you want to take it a step further, buy a gun and learn how to use it.”

“Do you own a firearm?”

“I don't. But not because I used to do karate.”

“You lost interest in it?”

“My teacher got old and died, I kept telling myself I'd find another dojo, finally realized I wouldn't. It's a fantastic workout, especially for balance, so one day I may get back to it. But up against a knife or a gun?” He shook his head.

“Where would I go for serious assault training?”

Removing his backpack, he took out a pad and pen, wrote down a name.

Shoshana Yaroslav.

“She's my teacher's daughter. Back when I was in training, she was just a kid. But she's grown up.”

“Does she know about guns?”

“Among other things.”

“Thanks, Alex.”

“Anything else?”

“No, that's it.”

“Hope you find what you're after,” he said. “Hope you never need it.”

B
y noon the serene beauty of the beach had frayed Grace's patience. An hour later, her composure was shredded, every roll of tide clenching her jaws, the tweets and snorts of shorebirds curling her hands into claws.

Locking up the house with no food in her belly and no desire to put any in there, she got in the Aston and drove north aimlessly. Speeding past Neptune's Net, she continued through the swath of state parkland dynamited decades ago to continue the highway—talk about forced entry.

As she passed the Thornhill Broome dune, an Everest of loose sand used by physical fitness types to test their endurance, she recalled something she'd seen last year: A baby seal had meandered onto the asphalt and been run over.

Maybe vacation was a bad idea; at this moment, she'd pay dearly to rescue anything.

She'd tackled the dune exactly once, avoiding small talk from the only other climber, a steroidal type who showed off by running up the near-vertical grade. Later, having completed the circuit and walking back to her car on PCH, Grace watched him slink behind his Jeep, doubled in agony as he retched and fought for breath.

The climb had winded her, too, but she had nothing to prove and that made for a nice, unruffled life.

In the end, no one cared about you.

Fifteen miles later,
the coast highway split: to the west, Rice Avenue and Oxnard's strawberry fields, storage depots, and gas stations; to the east, Las Posas Road, where Camarillo's agricultural table presaged that clean, bright town. Choosing the latter, she pumped the Aston to seventy, zipped past artichokes, peppers, and tomatoes. As she neared the Camarillo business district, she slowed because this was a spot cops used to fill their quotas.

Sure enough, just past a wooden shack was a cruiser.

Grace decelerated to five miles under the limit, passed a couple of intersections before coming upon the on-ramps to the 101.

Another choice: northbound or southbound. Randomly, she chose the latter.

Big lie, the decision had been anything but random. But it took her twenty miles to realize it.

An hour after leaving her home, she was back in her office.

In the absence
of human interaction, the entire cottage felt sterile and cold and that began to settle Grace down.

A safe place. Here, she determined the rules.

Here she could phone her service, yet again, and not be judged as neurotic because she was simply a responsible practitioner doing her job.

She waited an itchy five minutes before doing so, figuring she needed to test herself, the past day and a half had been…different.

Different required adaptation.

No message from Andrew Toner, nor from any other patient. But a Detective Henke had left a 213 number for callback.

“Did he say what it was about?” Grace asked the operator.

“No, Doctor. And he's a she.”

She Googled Henke,
found no Facebook, just a single citation in a three-year-old
Daily News
piece on a North Hollywood Division gang bust. Detective Elaine Henke termed the arrests “the culmination of extended teamwork on the parts of LAPD, the district attorney, and the county sheriffs.”

Henke had probably been chosen to talk to the press because she was dependable, media-friendly, knew how to speak bureaucratese.

Three years ago, she'd worked North Hollywood. Today, she'd left a downtown number.

Probably a referral. The only people Grace knew downtown were the occasional prosecutor or D.A.'s secretary who asked her to see patients.

Sorry, Detective, I'm on vacation.

Or not. Let's hear what Elaine has to say.

She called the number. A girlish pleasant voice said, “Detective Henke.”

“This is Dr. Grace Blades returning your call.”

“Doctor, thanks for getting back to me.” Suddenly serious.

“If this is a referral, I was planning to be out of the office for two weeks. But if it's an emergency—”

“Actually,” said Henke, “I called about a homicide that I picked up last night downtown—early morning, actually. The victim's a white male, early to midthirties with no identification, which is the worst thing for us. That's where I'm hoping you can help us, Doctor. When they got him to the morgue and undressed him they found one of your business cards in his left shoe.”

“His shoe,” said Grace, fighting to keep her voice even.

“Odd, no? Does that physical description mean anything to you?”

The queasy, vertiginous waves that had gnawed Grace since last night were replaced with new discomfort: a sudden, piercing stab of…despair?

Reality catching up with the signals her body had been giving her.

Fighting to sound unruffled, she said, “Can you tell me more than that?”

“Hmm, okay,” said Henke. “Hold on…brown hair, blue eyes, wearing a Harris Tweed sport coat and khaki pants…brown shoes. Kind of generic, Doctor, but I'm afraid that's it. If only everyone had tattoos.”

Grace said, “I can't be sure.”
Oh, yes, I can!
“He might be a patient I saw yesterday evening.”

“Name?”

“If it's not him, I'm bound by confidentiality.”

“Hmm,” said Henke. “I could email you a photo right now. I promise to pick one of the…easier ones. You can stay on the line. Up for that, Doctor?”

“Sure.” Grace gave her the address.

Moments later, the terrible truth flashed on her screen. Close-up of Andrew's handsome face, slackened and grayed by death. No blood, no obvious wounds, maybe the bad stuff was beneath his neckline.

She said, “The name he gave me was Andrew Toner. He said he was from San Antonio, Texas.”

“He said? You have reason to doubt him?”

Well, his real name could be Roger. Or Beano. Or Rumpelstiltskin.
“No…I'm just…thrown by this. I saw him last night at six p.m. He left around fifteen minutes later.”

“That's kind of a short session, no?” said Henke. “For a psychologist, I mean. Unless it was just to dole out medication—but no, you don't do that, that's for psychiatrists, right?”

“Mr. Toner left the session early.”

“May I ask why?”

“It was a first session, that kind of thing happens.”

“Did he make a second appointment?”

All business, Elaine.
“No.”

“From Texas,” said Henke. “That's pretty far to come for therapy.”

“It is.”

“What else can you tell me about Mr. Toner?”

“Unfortunately, that's it.”

“He's dead, Doctor, you don't need to worry about confidentiality.”

“It's not that,” said Grace. “As I said, I only met him once and not for very long.”

Twice, really, but no sense getting into that, Elaine.

Though cradled by her desk chair, Grace felt her balance give way. Her head wobbled, unmoored, like overripe fruit swaying on a flimsy stalk. She clamped one hand on her desktop to steady herself.

“Well,” said Henke, “at this point you're all I've got so would you mind if we chatted a bit further? I'm in the neighborhood.”

The murder had taken place downtown. Why would Henke be in West Hollywood? Unless she considered Grace—what did the police call it—a person of interest?

Last person to see Andrew alive. Of course she did.

Or was it something Grace had said? Hadn't said. Had her voice, despite her best efforts, betrayed the turmoil coursing through her?

Or maybe Henke was just thorough.

Grace said, “Sure, I could see you right now.”

“Um,” said Henke. “How about in an hour, Doctor?”

In the neighborhood, indeed.

As soon as
Henke hung up, Grace phoned the Beverly Opus and put on her own version of a chirpy Cal-Gal voice.

“Andrew Toner, please.”

The desk clerk clicked an unseen mouse. “Sorry, no one by that name is registered.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am, miss.”

“Oh, geez, how can that be? He said he'd be there—the Beverly Opus.”

“I don't know what to tell you, miss—”

“Wow,” she said. “Oh, yeah, sometimes Andy uses his nickname. Roger.”

“I searched using the surname, miss,” said the clerk. “It wouldn't make a difference.”

“This is weird. Did he maybe check in a few days ago and leave early for some reason? Why didn't he tell me? I'm supposed to pick him up for the reunion.”

“Hold on.” Click click. Muffled voices. “No one by that name has been here, miss.”

“Okay…there are other hotels near where you are, right?”

“This is Beverly Hills,” said the clerk and he hung up.

Andrew Roger Roger
Andrew.

Grace had assumed he was staying at the Opus but obviously he'd just dropped in to…have a drink? A confidence-building snort before tomorrow's therapy when he'd be dealing with
moral parameters
?

He'd ended up with much more than booze.

Roger, the engineer. If the name was false, the same could apply to the occupation. Ditto a flight from Texas.

Was anything he told her true? Who'd been played?

But she remembered his shock at seeing her in her office, no one could act that well. So the part about having a problem was likely valid. And the fact that he'd been spurred by the Jane X article clarified the problem: a criminally dangerous murderous relative.

Moral parameters…not a blast from the past, something ongoing. A tortured, internal debate about whether or not to go public.

And now he was dead.

Just to make sure he hadn't learned about her some other way, Grace did something she found abhorrent: Googled herself. All that came up were academic citations, not a single image, lending credence to at least part of Andrew's story.

She thought about the geography of his last living day.

Drinks in B.H., therapy in West Hollywood.

Death downtown. For as long as Grace could recall, the district underwent development that seemed to end up overly optimistic. Despite Staples Center, converted lofts, yuppie condos, and bars, huge swaths of downtown L.A. remained bleak and dangerous as soon as rush hour ended and the streets were commandeered by armies of homeless schizophrenics, criminal illegals, addicts, dealers, and the like.

Had Andrew, new to the city, simply wandered into the wrong area and come up against a psychotic obeying a command hallucination?

Pitiful, dingy way to die.

Or did his murder indeed relate to his moral quest, best intentions and all?

An eddy of curiosity whipped up in Grace's gut, displacing some of her anxiety.

If Henke made good on that one-hour prediction, fifty-one minutes remained before Grace met her first homicide detective.

Meanwhile…a bracing walk around the neighborhood would kill some time but she felt oddly disinclined to move. She tried catching up on journal articles but couldn't focus.

Andrew Toner.

Something about the name bothered her but she couldn't figure out what until her eyes drifted to her date book. The notation she'd made regarding his appointment, followed by the phone number he'd given her exchange.

A. Toner. Viewed as a collection of letters, the answer was obvious.

Atoner.

A man seeking expiation.

What Detective Elaine Henke would consider a clue.

Grace decided not to mention it to Henke. She'd come across weirdly over-involved, turn herself into a person of greater interest.

Atoner.

What was your sin, Andrew? Or have you taken on someone else's iniquity?

Given what we did in the parking lot, do I really want to know?

Ignorance could truly be bliss. But she called the number he'd left, anyway.

Not in service.