The Murderer's Daughter (14 page)

A
t ten a.m. Grace got back on the freeway and left Glendale, this time heading west. Linking to the 405 South, she drove toward LAX, located an off-site, indoor, long-term parking structure. Nosing the Aston into a corner slot, she looked around to check for security cameras or someone else's eyes before removing the box of .22 bullets she kept in a compartment concealed by the trunk deck—what had once housed a CD player. Into her purse went the ammunition, nestled alongside the little gun, along with her garage door openers, a Maglite, an old AAA map she hadn't consulted in years, Ray-Ban sunglasses, and a black baseball cap with no insignia that she kept for top-down beach drives.

After taking a tram to the car rental lots, she walked to the Enterprise lot and selected a black Jeep Grand Cherokee with a thousand miles on the odometer.

Her next stop was Macy's in Culver City where she bought running shoes, rubber-soled flats, underwear, black cargo pants and stretch jeans in that same color, same for T-shirts, cotton crewnecks, and mock turtles. A thin nylon jacket a size too large came outfitted with four generous pockets. Finally, a cheap but sturdy brown suitcase to house all that.

A stop at a discount food store on Sepulveda netted her all the trail mix on the shelves, caffeine-laced caramel chews, a case of bottled water, and two cheap disposable cellphones. She bought a third phone at a discount electronics shop run by a Persian guy, then beef and turkey jerky, corn chips, and dry salami at a deli near Washington Boulevard.

Now she was ready for fight or flight.

At ten p.m.,
she was back in WeHo. Darkness worked to her advantage as she rolled along the streets near her office. After an hour of surveillance she was satisfied the boxy sedan was nowhere in sight. She'd already convinced herself two enemies was a likely scenario, so a second car was a possibility. Another half hour of meandering and circling revealed none—and no one—out of place.

Her pursuer—Mr. Beefy—probably assumed this was the last place she'd return, especially after dark. That might make it the safest place in the city.

She parked a block away from the cottage, slipped on the lightweight jacket and the baseball hat, and dropped the Beretta into the lower right-hand pocket.

Taking a circuitous route, she arrived at her garden exit door, looked around before easing in, waited until the gate clicked behind her.

The alarm was still set. No sign of disturbance.

Keeping the house lights off, she used the Maglite to create a focused beam of guidance, proceeded to her office, and unlocked the massive five-drawer file cabinet she kept in the therapy room closet.

In the bottom drawer at the back, hidden behind personal papers, was a strongbox from which she took the Glock and a box of 9mm bullets, plus all the cash she'd stored there, which came to just over thirty-eight hundred dollars. After a bathroom break, she exited through the front of the cottage, took a different route back to the Jeep, drove for a quarter hour, returned, and parked with a view of both doors to the cottage.

Now she waited.

Nothing happened and
she left before daybreak. Sitting there watching, eating jerky and caffeine candy and sipping water, had given her ample time to order her thoughts.

She had no doubt that Andrew's visit, brief as it was, had put her in the crosshairs of people with a secret serious enough to kill for.

Atoner.
Something terrible in his past. Violent. Males created nine-tenths of the bloodshed so probably a brother nephew cousin. Even a dad.

So what to do?

A vacation—any type of flight—wouldn't solve anything. On the contrary, it would cut her off and leave her ill prepared and vulnerable when she returned.

Her pursuer knew where she worked. Maybe where she lived, as well, because let's face it, a fifth grader with computer skills could find anyone's legal address.

Nasty situation.

She searched for something positive, finally came up with one: the message her service would deliver to all callers: Dr. Blades is out of the office for two weeks.

Granting Grace fourteen days to get something done.

Another person would probably contact the police—in Grace's case, a brand-new cop contact.

Detective, this is Grace Blades. Someone followed me last night.

Really, Doctor? Who?

Someone in what I think was a Chrysler 300, I didn't get a good look.

Did you get the license plate?

No.

Where did this happen?

Pacific Coast Highway, Malibu.

That's sheriff turf. May I ask what were you doing there, Doctor?

Driving home. I'm concerned they know where I live.

They. We're talking more than one person?

They, he, I really don't know.

Did you call the sheriffs'?

No…

Every word Grace uttered would convince Henke of either duplicitousness or poor judgment. Or worse, mental instability, you know those shrinks.

Recontacting Henke, period, could reverse any progress Grace had made at no longer being a person of interest.

In the best of circumstances, the detective would believe Grace but have nothing to offer other than a mini-course on basic personal safety.

Do you have an alarm, Doctor? How about a dog?

So where to turn? Shoshana Yaroslav might conceivably be a source of wisdom, but two years ago she'd married an Israeli high-tech whiz and moved to Tel Aviv.

Delaware could hook her up with his police contact but the guy worked West L.A. homicide and would regard her tale as an out-of-jurisdiction annoyance.

The big question: What could anyone do for her?

The answer: What it had always been.

She was on her own. The way she liked it.

The way it had been before Malcolm came into her life.

The so-called formative years.

T
wo months into Grace's stay at Stagecoach Ranch, Ramona said, “He's coming today.”

“Who?”

“Professor Bluestone.”

They'd just sat down for breakfast, which was usually just Grace and Ramona because they got up earlier than everyone else.

Rollo and DeShawn were leaving in a few days, some aunt had agreed to adopt them, and a new ward, a five-year-old girl named Amber, had moved in but she cried at everything and didn't like to get out of bed. Bobby needed Ramona's help to get downstairs and sometimes he needed to stay on his oxygen all day, so Grace rarely saw him at all.

As she spread strawberry preserves on a piece of flat-tasting toast, Ramona repeated, “Professor Bluestone.” As if Grace had been expected to react.

Grace ate.

“You don't remember? That psychologist I told you about? I know it's been a while since I mentioned it, he's been off in Europe delivering lectures. Teaching other professors.”

Grace reached for the jam jar, found a whole strawberry, soggy and sure to be juicy-sweet, and impaled it on her knife.

Ramona said, “Anyway, he's coming today. Hopefully that'll enrich your education.”

During the two months, Grace had sped through the public school curriculum materials Ramona provided in weekly packets, finding everything super easy and pretty much boring but liking the fact that she could finish early and walk around the ranch and do her favorite thing, which was being by herself.

There was lots of land on the ranch, more than she'd ever seen, and if you squinted and blocked out the wire fences you could imagine you owned everything all the way to the mountains.

The fence didn't stop small animals from getting through and bugs were all around, including gnats and spiders and sometimes mosquitoes in Grace's room. Even when Ed came and sprayed horrible-smelling stuff, they stuck around. But she supposed the poison did a pretty good job of blocking larger animals like coyotes and the occasional mean-looking stray dog, which she only spotted prowling in the distance before sundown.

Once Ramona came out while she was watching a big male coyote and stood beside her and the two of them watched the creature slink along, slipping in and out of some gray bushes, before disappearing into the big black pointy shadows east by the mountains.

“Know why he's out now, Grace?”

“For food.”

“You bet, this is their dinnertime, they got a schedule just like us only they don't need a watch or a clock. Also, nobody serves them, they've got to earn everything that goes into their mouths. It makes them smart.”

Grace said, “I know.” Edging a few feet away from Ramona's still-working lips, she tried to crawl back into her private thoughts.

Sometimes Grace read
books from the living room bookcase, mostly paperbacks about crimes and detectives and people falling in love then breaking up then falling in love again. Most of the new words she came upon she could figure out. Those she couldn't, she looked up in Ramona's big Webster's dictionary. Sometimes she read the dictionary just to read it and discovered totally new words there. There was also TV. She could ask permission to watch but she rarely did because TV was almost as boring as the curriculum packets.

Outside, off to the left side of the big house, was a dry-dirt area with a wooden swing set, a slide, a seesaw, everything set on rubber mats under a huge tree that scattered leaves all the time.

Often Grace swung until Ramona called her in for a meal or something else, imagining she could fly. Occasionally she thought about letting go when she was at the top of her swing, wondering what it would feel like to fly and then crash, but she knew that was stupid so she forced herself to stop those ideas.

Farther back from the play set, behind what used to be the goat corral, gates still in place, was a big rectangular swimming pool that changed color with the heat, clotting with green slime when the temperatures rose no matter how many chemicals Ramona poured into it, muttering and turning grumpy.

Green water meant it was warm enough to swim and one day, when the desert had turned shiny with heat, almost like metal, Grace asked Ramona if she could go in.

“That pea soup? You kidding?”

Grace said, “No.”

“Yeah, right. I let you do that, the county could claim I endangered your health.”

“There's germs?”

“Well,” said Ramona, “probably not, just that gooky stuff, that's called algae, who knows what critters are breeding there.”

“Algae's a plant, ma'am.”

“So?”

“If it's not poisonous it can't hurt me.”

“It could be poisonous.”

“The poisonous ones are out in the ocean, they smell bad and they're red.”

Ramona stared at her. “You're an expert on algae?”

“It was in two-weeks-ago's packet. One-Celled Organisms.”

Ramona stared at her. “Good Lord, child.”

“So can I?”

“What?”

“Swim.”

“No way, not a chance. Take a look, it's got that skin on top, you can't see under the surface, something happens to you, I'd never know.”

Grace walked away.

Ramona called out, “You mad at me? I'm just doing my job, taking care of you.”

Grace stopped and turned, knowing she had to keep Ramona happy because this was the best place she'd ever been fostered at. No one bothered her, she could spend so much time alone. She said, “Of course not, Mrs. Stage. I understand.”

Ramona squinted at her, finally forced a smile. “Appreciate your understanding, Ms. Blades.”

The following day,
Ramona caught Grace as she was leaving the house after study-time. “You still want to swim? I did some research and you're right, there's no danger, it's just disgusting so if it doesn't bother you and you stay in the shallow end with me right there…”

“It doesn't.”

“Make no mistake, Grace, I'll have to watch you like a hawk and you'll have to stay on the surface every single second, I mean every. No deep-sea diving, no head under, not even for a second. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Ramona shrugged. “Fine, I don't get why you want to do it but it's your choice. Also, you're going to use an old rough towel with holes in it, no way I'm getting that gook on my good towels.”

Grace said, “The gray one?”

“Pardon?”

“The gray towel you keep in the linen closet and never use?”

“Matter of fact, yes,” said Ramona. “Gawd, you notice everything, don't you?”

“No.”

“What don't you notice?”

“If I don't notice it, I can't know.”

Ramona stared at her, toying with her long white hair. “A lawyer,” she said. “Things could get interesting around here.”

The professor didn't arrive that day, or the next. Or the next twenty.

Ramona said, “Sorry if I got your hopes up, he got called to do more travel.”

Grace said, “Okay.”

There were few things she cared about. None of them had to do with other people.

One morning, she
came down for breakfast and the biggest person Grace had ever seen was sitting next to Ramona at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. An oldish kind of man, younger than Ramona but not young. The fingers he used to hold his coffee mug were so thick and wide they covered the handle completely. Even his hair was big, a high pile of dark-gray waves that stuck out in all directions. When he stood, he blocked out a lot of the room and for a second Grace thought he might hit his head on the ceiling. Then she saw she was wrong, he was shorter than the ceiling. But still huge.

Ramona said, “Rise and shine, Grace, this is Professor Bluestone.”

Grace said, “Hello,” in her soft, agreeable voice, the one she'd learned to use a long time ago with strangers.

The man said, “Hello, Grace. I'm Malcolm. Sorry for surprising you.” He smiled.

Grace looked over at the table. Her usual toast and preserves and rubbery eggs were there, along with a stack of pancakes and store-bought maple syrup in a jar shaped like a bear. Seeing the jar made Grace realize that the huge man kind of looked like a bear, with thick, round features, big soft brown eyes, and long thick arms that swung loosely. Even his clothes were kind of bearish: a baggy, fuzzy brown sweater, super-baggy gray pants, brown shoes worn to tan at the toes.

What was different from a bear were his glasses, round and too small for his wide face, with frames like a turtle's shell. Grace chided herself for the silly thought—that only one thing was different. He wore clothes, he talked, he was human.

But still, kind of like a bear.

Ramona said, “Have some breakfast, young lady.”

Malcolm Bluestone returned to his chair, bumping a shoe against a table leg, like the world was too small for him. When Grace sat and reached for the toast and preserves, he was still smiling at her. When she stopped and looked at him, he speared two pancakes with his fork, soaked them with syrup, began eating really fast.

The way a bear would—even the syrup fit, kind of like the honey bears went crazy for when they came out of hibernation.

Lesson Twenty-Eight: Warm-Blooded Mammals and Temperature Adaptation.

For a while, no one talked. Then Malcolm Bluestone pointed to the pancakes. “Anyone else want these?”

Grace shook her head.

Ramona said, “All yours, m'boy.”

Which was a funny thing to call an old man. Then Grace realized he was Ramona's dead husband's younger brother, maybe to her he'd always be a kid.

Malcolm Bluestone polished off the pancakes, wiped his lips, poured more coffee.

Ramona stood. “I've got to see about Bobby and that poor little Amber—the one I told you about, Mal, you're the expert but she looks kind of…down.”

Malcolm Bluestone said, “I'll have a look at her, later.”

“Thanks.” Ramona left.

Grace nibbled toast she really wasn't hungry for.

Malcolm Bluestone said, “I know Ramona told you about me but if you have questions, I'm happy to answer them.”

Grace shook her head.

“No questions, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Do you understand why I'm here?”

“You're Steve Stage's brother and a psychologist and you're here to give me tests.”

He laughed. “That just about covers it. So you know what a psychologist is.”

“A doctor you talk to if something's bothering you,” said Grace. “And who gives tests.”

Malcolm Bluestone wiped his lips with a napkin. A glossy bit of syrup remained on the skin above his upper lip. “Have you ever met a psychologist?”

“No.”

“Are you okay with being tested?”

“Yes.”

“You understand why you're being tested.”

“Yes.”

“Don't want to bug you but could you please tell me what you understand? Just so I can be sure.”

Grace sighed and put her toast down.

Malcolm Bluestone said, “I am bugging you. Sorry.”

No grown-up had ever apologized to Grace. First it shook her but then it passed through her like air. She said, “The homeschool curriculum packets are easy so Ramona wants you to find out what more I can have to study.”

Dr. Bluestone nodded. “That's excellent, Grace. But these tests, they're not like the ones you've had in school. You won't be getting a grade and the questions are structured—they're made up so no one can get all the answers. You okay with that?”

“Yes.”

“You don't mind getting some answers wrong?”

“Everyone gets things wrong.”

Malcolm Bluestone blinked and righted his glasses. “Well, that's certainly true. Okay, Grace, soon as you're ready, we'll go into the living room and begin. Mrs. Stage promises to keep it quiet for us.”