Killer by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page A

Rambla no matter what. Luckily Winky was there—he’s a friend—and I handed Rambla to him and held up my fists.”
    She demonstrated, face flushed, breathing rapid. “I said you just try it, this isn’t like when we were kids, I’ll beat your ass. That freaked her out, she didn’t know what to say, meanwhile Winky’s putting Rambla in the car—in the car seat—and starting up the engine and I make a move on Connie and she steps back and that’s when I jump in, myself, and off we go.”
    “What an ordeal.”
    “Just to get my own baby, yeah, but I figured that was it. Finito. Couple months later, some guy pretending to be a meter reader comes to the door and serves me with papers—does that tell you what I’m dealing with? My lying rich-bitch lying sister and her lying rich-bitch Beverly Hills looow-yer. I know you’re gonna help me, Doctor—so when’s Connie coming in to see you?”
    “Soon enough.”
    “You won’t tell me?”
    “Is there a reason for you to know, Ree?”
    “No, guess not,” she said. “Actually, yes. There’s a reason. So I can know what’s going on so I don’t have to wake up in the middle of the night with my heart going boomp boomp and I’m thinking terrible things and I can’t go back to sleep.”
    “The uncertainty’s tough.”
    “That’s the worst. Almost worse than …” She shook her head. Another sudden smile. Soft—seductive. “You could fix all that, Doctor. A word from you and there’s a happy ending.”
    I stood.
    “I understand,” she said. “You can’t tell me. But I’m hoping. What’s she like? The judge.”
    Same question I’d answered before. “She seems like a nice person.”
    “Sure as hell hope so—’cause you’re right, Doc, you’re a hundred percent right, it’s the uncertainty that’s the hell. Not worse than losing, though. And I’m
not
gonna lose. Myron told me in the eyes of the law I’ve got the winning side.”
    She studied me for confirmation.
    I said, “So next Thursday. Looking forward to meeting Rambla.”
    She sprang up. “Yeah, sure, I gotta go home. Rambla needs me.”
    “Who’s taking care of her?”
    “My friend Winky. Not that he’s got to do anything, I put Rambla down for a nap. But she’ll be getting up soon, don’t want my baby waking up and not seeing her mama. She needs to see me all the time, otherwise she gets to crying.”
    She ran from the office, was out of the house before I reached the front door.
    The following day, I called Connie Sykes’s office to set up an appointment.
    The receptionist said, “Dr. Connie’s been waiting for you. I’ll read you her openings.”
    I said, “How about we start with my openings.”
    “Oh … well, she’s a really busy person.”
    “No doubt.” I gave her two options. She said, “Well, I’m not sure about those.”
    “That’s what I’ve got.”
    “Well, that could be a problem.”
    “Call me back and let me know which works better.”
    “Hold on—one second please.
Doctor
.”
    Forty seconds of dead air was followed by the same voice, softer, tighter. “Dr. Connie says the sooner the better, she’ll take that one tomorrow.”
    “See her then.”
    “Have a nice day, sir.” The ice in her voice shoved that way past insincerity.
    Next morning, my bell rang ten minutes early.
    I opened the door on two women. A medium-sized, fortyish, square-faced blonde with her hair done up in waves that recalled decades past had to be Dr. Connie. Similar facial structure to her sister but none of the hard-living veneer. She wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses, wine-colored pants and jacket and matching suede loafers, dangled a calfskin briefcase from one unadorned hand.
    The right loafer tapped the landing as the woman standing slightly in front of her moved closer to me.
    She was younger, late twenties to early thirties. Sixty-three inches of silky-haired brunette with a tiny waist, an assertive bust, and muscular legs, all of that showcased by a sleeveless,