Dr. Death by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page A

face-to-face."
     
    "I've found it to be the best way."
     
    "And if I don't agree?"
     
    "Then I'm sorry, but I won't be able to see your daughter."
     
    His chuckle was flat, percussive. I thought of a mechanical noisemaker. "You must be busy to afford to be that cavalier, Doctor. Congratulations."
     
    Neither of us talked for several seconds and I wondered if I'd erred. The man had been through hell, why not be flexible? But something in his manner had gotten to me— the truth was, he'd pushed, so I'd pushed back. Amateur hour, Delaware. I should've known better.
     
    I was about to back off when he said, "All right, I admire a man with spine. I'll see you once. But not this week, I'm out of town. . . . Let me check my calendar . . . hold on."
     
    Click. On hold again. More pop music, belch-tone synthesizer syrup in waltz-time. "Tuesday at six is my only window this week, Doctor."
     
    "Fine."
     
    "Not that busy, eh? Give me your address."
     
    I did.
     
    "That's residential," he said.
     
    "I work out of my house."
     
    "Makes sense, keep the overhead down. Okay, see you Tuesday. In the meantime, you can begin with Stacy on Monday. She'll be available anytime after school—"
     
    "I'll see her after we've spoken, Richard."
     
    "What a tough sonofabitch you are, Doctor. Should've gone into my business. The money's a helluva lot better and you could still work out of your house."
     

5
    AN ALIBI.
     
    Richard's call made me want to get out of the house. I filled a cup for Robin and carried it, along with mine, out through the house and into the garden. Passing the perennial bed Robin had laid down last winter, crossing the footbridge to the pond, the rock waterfall. Placing the coffee on a stone bench, I paused to toss pellets to the koi. The fish darted toward me before the food hit the water, coalescing in a frothy swirl at the rim. Iron skies bore down, dyeing the water charcoal, playing on metallic scales. The air was cool, odorless, just as stagnant as up at the murder site, but greenery and water burble blunted the sense of lifelessness.
     
    Up in the hills, September haze can be romanticized as fog. Our property's not large, but it's secluded because of an unbuildable western border, and surrounded by old-growth pines and lemon gums that create the illu- sion of solitude. This morning the treetops were capped with gray.
     
    I crouched, allowing one of the larger carp to nibble my fingers. Reminding myself, as I sometimes did, that life was transitory and I was lucky to be living amid beauty and relative quiet. My father destroyed himself with alcohol and my mother was heroic but habitually sad. No whining, the past isn't a straitjacket. But for people breast-fed on misery, it can be an awfully tight sweater.
     
    No sounds from the studio, then the chip-chip of Robin's chisel. The building's a single-story miniature of the house, with high windows and an old, burnished pine door rescued by Robin from a downtown demolition. I pushed the door open, heard music playing softly— Ry Cooder on slide. Robin was at her workbench, hair tied up in a red silk scarf, wearing gray denim overalls over a black T-shirt. Hunched in a way that would cause her shoulders to ache by nightfall. She didn't hear me enter. Smooth, slender arms worked the chisel on a guitar-shaped piece of Alaskan spruce. Wood shavings curled at her feet, creating a cozy bed for Spike. His bulldog bulk had sunk into the scrap, and he snored away, flews flapping.
     
    I watched for a while as Robin continued to tune the soundboard, tapping, chiseling, tapping again, running her fingers along the inner edges, pausing to reflect before resuming. Her wrists were child-size, seemed too fragile to manipulate steel, but she handled the tool as if it were a chopstick.
     
    Biting her lower lip, then licking it, as her back humped more acutely. A stray bit of auburn curl sprang loose from the kerchief and she tucked it back impatiently. Oblivious to my