Killer (8 page)

“You were encouraged.”

“I’m not saying that excuses it. Staying away from my baby-love so long. And yeah, I wasn’t being totally honest with you, Rambla didn’t jump into my arms, at first she looked scared and my heart just dropped to my feet, like
Girl, you really screwed up, this time. One thing in your life that you love and now you screwed it up
. More like she accepted me but she was quiet. But it didn’t take long and she was like melting against me just like she’s doing now.”

Her eyes lowered to her shoulder. “Touching my braid just like she’s doing now. It’s like the flame needed to be turned on but once it was, it just kept burning.”

She kissed a plump cheek. “I just love you, I love love love you.”

Rambla stirred. Opened her eyes. Smiled lazily at her mother.

Spotting me, she gripped Ree tighter. Began whimpering.

Appropriate attachment. Expected separation anxiety for the age
.

Ree said, “I usually give her a snack when she wakes up.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

I sat there and watched Rambla eat, keeping my distance, careful not to intrude. Ree broke the food up into tiny pieces while delivering an ongoing commentary. (“Organic, Dr. Delaware, no preservatives.”) Eventually, Rambla permitted herself several glances in my direction.

I smiled.

The fourth time she smiled back. I got up, crouched low within inches of her face.

She yelped and gripped her mother.

I retreated.

Ree Sykes said, “It’s okay, baby—I’m sorry, Dr. Delaware, she must be still half asleep.”

Appropriate, appropriate, appropriate
.

The great yeah-sayer.

Rambla quieted but avoided eye contact.

Five minutes later, she allowed me to show her the picture I’d drawn. Smiling face, bright colors.

She beamed. Giggled. Snatched the paper and crumpled it and threw it to the floor and thought that was just hilarious.

For the next ten minutes, I sat next to her high chair and we giggled together.

When I got up, she waved.

I blew a kiss. She imitated.

I said, “Bye bye.”

“Bah bah.” Plump hand to mouth, flamboyant wave.

I headed toward the front room.

“Now what?” said Ree.

“Nothing,” I said, “I’ve seen enough.”

I gave her hand a squeeze and left.

That night I wrote my report. Shortest draft I’ve ever sent a judge.

The first sentence read, “This well-nourished, well-functioning sixteen-month-old female child is the object of a guardianship dispute between her birth mother and her maternal aunt.”

The final sentence read: “There appears to be no reason, based on either psychological factors or legal standards, to alter the child’s status. A strong recommendation is made to reject Dr. Constance Sykes’s request.”

A few paragraphs in between. Nothing that required a Ph.D., but education’s what they pay me for.

A week after I sent my findings to Nancy Maestro, I returned home after a run and found Connie Sykes out on my front terrace, sitting in one of the wicker chairs Robin and I leave there when we want to catch sunrise over the trees.

Warm morning; I was sweaty, breathing hard, wearing a sleeveless tee and shorts.

She said, “Nice muscles, Doctor.”

“What can I do for you, Connie?”

“Obviously, I’m pretty crushed.”

“I’m sorry—”

“I understand,” she said, in a softer voice than I’d ever heard. But still, that strange, digital spacing. As if every word needed to be measured prior to delivery. “I knew at the outset that it was a long shot. May I come in?”

I hesitated.

“Just for a little support? You are a psychologist.”

I glanced at my watch.

“I won’t take up much of your time. I just need to … integrate. To talk about my own plans. Maybe adopting a child of my own?”

“Was that something you’d thought about before?”

Her shoulders heaved. “Can we talk? Please? Just briefly but I’ll pay you for a full session.”

“No payment necessary,” I said. “Come on in.”

This time she allowed me to lead. Settled in a different spot on the couch. Placed her leather purse to her right and her hands in her lap.

I said, “Morning.”

She smiled. “I guess things work out the way they’re supposed to. Though I wish I could be more confident about the poor child.”

“Rambla.”

“She really is in danger, Doctor. You may not be convinced of it, the court may not be convinced of it. I’m not even sure my own lawyer was convinced of it. But I’ve got superior analytic powers. Always have. I can see things—sense things—that elude other people.”

Gone was the soft voice.

Something new in her eyes. A sputter of … irrationality?

“So,” I said, “you’re considering adopting.”

She laughed. “Why would I do that? Why would I assume the risk
of ending up with something genetically inferior? No, that was just … I suppose you’d call it an icebreaker. Gaining rapport in order to build up trust, so you’d let me in. That’s your thing, right? Rapport. You sure pulled a fast one on me. Convinced me you understood me and then you went and wrote that I had absolutely no case. Very ethical, Doctor.”

“Connie—”

“Dr. Sykes to you,” she snapped. “You’re ‘Doctor,’ I’m ‘Doctor.’ Okay? It’s the least you can do. Show me some
respect
.”

“Fair enough,” I said, keeping my eye on her every movement. “Dr. Sykes, I never—”

“You never, you never, you never,” she snapped. “You’re
Doctor
Never. And now that poor child is destined to never lead the life she deserves.”

Smoothing black gabardine slacks, she lifted her right hand, stroked the purse’s fine, whiskey-colored leather.

“I’m not going to shoot you, Dr. Delaware. Even though I should.”

Tapping the bag, she ran her finger over a swell in the leather and smiled wider and waited.

Master-of-timing comedian, pausing to see if the audience got it.

When I didn’t respond, she tapped the bag harder. Something beneath the leather gave off a dull thud.

Something hard and dense. Implying she’d come with a weapon.

If she had and decided to use it, I was too far away to stop her, blocked by the desk.

Bad situation; I’d let down my guard, broken every rule, allowed her to catch me off guard.

No way to predict something like this.

Lots of victims probably thought that. No excuse for me; the whole point of my training was expecting the unexpected. I’d always figured myself pretty good at that.

The worst kind of assumption: blithe and arrogant.

I studied the flat-eyed, weird woman sitting across from me.

Serene stare from her. Icy contentment. She’d evoked fear, knew it. Had gotten what she’d come for.

The threat was the first time she’d used my name.

A new form of intimacy.

I kept silent.

Connie Sykes laughed. Then she got up and left the office and continued up the hall and I scurried to lock myself in, feeling like nothing but prey.

My true love is a gorgeous, thoughtful, intense woman who cherishes solitude and makes her living transforming wood into guitars and mandolins of great beauty. Sequestered in her studio, she plays her own ensemble of instruments: routers, chisels, gauges and knives, band saw, jigsaw. A roaring table saw that rips through rosewood and ebony like a hungry predator.

Soft flesh versus razor-edged metal. A single slip can lead to horror and Robin lives with hazard every day. But it’s my work that has led us to danger.

I sat at my desk, wondering what to tell her about Connie Sykes.

We’ve been together for a long time and how much I divulge about the terrible things has always been an issue. Robin knows better than to ask about therapy patients. But the other stuff—court work, the murders Milo brings like bloody gifts—is open territory and I fight the urge to overprotect.

I’ve finally figured out an approach that seems to work: assess how
receptive she really is, divulge no more than she wants to know, temper the details.

Working with power tools and avoiding people doesn’t mean you lack insight and sometimes she offers an opinion that leads to a solution.

That’s the way it is, now.

Years ago, a psychopath burned our house down. After the shock wore off, Robin recouped quickly, the way she always does, designing and supervising the building of the eye-filling white structure we eventually learned to call home.

Connie Sykes’s visit marked the first time, since then, that I’d felt personally threatened by someone sitting on my battered leather sofa.

I’m not going to shoot you
.

Technically, a non-threat.

Massaging the bulge in her purse.

Subtle.

Connie Sykes had shown herself eager to use the legal system as a weapon, so maybe the visit was a ploy. Enticing me to accuse her of something, so she could file a spite lawsuit.

A weapon? Ridiculous. I keep tissues, cosmetics, and a cell phone in there. This is defamation and harassment, this man is clearly unfit for the job with which he’s been entrusted
.

If she tried that, she’d lose. Again. But that wouldn’t stop her from convincing herself she had a chance of winning. Because if Connie Sykes believed it, it had to be true.

I could call Milo but drawing him into the mess would just add complication.

I imagined a fine-print complaint against him hand-messengered to the LAPD brass. Parker Center was Cover-Your-Ass Central. Milo, always an official irritant operating beyond his official boundaries, would be vulnerable.

Medea Wright, not my biggest fan, would enjoy the process.

Gun in a purse? The complainant is a physician, not a criminal, and this
alleged
mental health expert is showing himself to be rather delusional and paranoid, leading to serious questions about his professional competence and qualifications for state licensure. Furthermore, his exploitation of personal connections to the police department in order to exert vengeful damage to the complainant is nothing short of venal
.

If you couldn’t get the outcome you wanted, torture ’em with process.

The more I thought about it, the better it explained Connie showing up on my terrace. Bested in court, she itched to squeeze out a few drops of control.

To Connie Sykes, everything was
about
control. That’s why she’d tried to confiscate her sister’s child in the first place.

To Connie Sykes, winning meant someone had to lose.

Dr. Zero-Sum. I decided the best response to her stunt was none at all. Give her time to cool down.

Even if she forgot about me, she was likely to regroup for
Connie v. Ree, Chapter II
. Because she had the means and the opportunity and the system was receptive to second, third, fourth, millionth chances.

So forget about telling Milo, keep the bear in his den. But I’d let Robin know because the invaded territory was as much hers as mine.

Steeling myself for the walk through the garden to the studio, I poured coffee in the kitchen, drank some but found it bitter, organized my desk, checked files that didn’t require inspection, ran out of delay tactics.

Just as I was about to leave the office, I thought of someone else who needed to know.

If Connie Sykes could muster that level of rage against me, what was she feeling about the judge?

I phoned Nancy Maestro. A hard, wary male voice answered, “Chambers.”

Familiar voice; the deputy I’d met with the bronze-lensed eyeglasses. H. Nebe.

I said, “Hi, it’s Dr. Delaware.”

“Her Honor’s unavailable. You have a message you want to leave?”

More of the protective attitude I’d seen in court. Not a bad idea, as it turned out. I told him about Connie Sykes.

He said, “Well, that’s pretty insane. She do anything else crazy?”

“No.”

“
Not
going to shoot you, huh?” said H. Nebe. “Sounds like she got you pretty scared.”

“No, just wary.”

“Meaning?”

“Watchful. I figured the judge should know.”

“Okay, Doc. I’ll handle it from this end.”

“Meaning?”

“That nutcase shows up again, lock your door and call 911.”

I filled a second mug with coffee, carried it down the back stairs to the garden, paused by the pond to listen to the waterfall and feed the koi, continued up the stone path to Robin’s studio.

Quiet day, no machine noise. I found her standing over her workbench, face-masked, auburn curls topknotted, wearing red overalls over a black T-shirt and looking sexy. Vials of varnish and oil and stain flanked her. A HEPA filter whirred at high speed.

Her hand gripped a soft wad of cotton, moved in small, concentric circles. French-polishing the quilted maple back of a seventeenth-century French guitar. One of those petite parlor instruments, high on decoration but low on sound. What used to be called women’s guitars, back when women were deemed incapable of making serious music. This one was owned by a man, a collector who couldn’t play a note but demanded that everything in his world—including his third wife—be pretty and shiny.

Robin continued working as Blanche, our little blond French bulldog, snored at her feet.

I cleared my throat. Removing the mask and putting down her polishing cloth, Robin smiled and Blanche’s eyes began fluttering open.

“The prince brings caffeine. Perfect timing, how’d you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

By the time she kissed me and took the mug, Blanche had padded over. Robin retrieved a stick of beef jerky from a jar on a shelf, kneeled to Blanche’s level. Blanche took the treat with a soft mouth and held it there until Robin said, “Nosh-time.”

Waddling to a corner, Blanche settled and chomped with delicate lust.

I felt a gentle tug. Robin’s finger under my collar. “What’s wrong?”

No sense asking how she knew anything was wrong, she always did. I told her.

She said, “What a nasty, vindictive person. Obviously, you were right to keep the kid out of her grasp.”