Rage by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page A

parking
garage and slipped me cold, dry fingers.
    Sydney
Weider said, “Doctor, I’m sure you’d like to talk to Ms. Hannabee.”
    “Absolutely.
Let’s set it up.”
    “How
about now?”
    Taking
control.
    I smiled
at her and she smiled back.
    “You do have time for Troy’s mother, Doctor.”
    “Of
course,” I said.
    Weider
turned to the other two people. “Thanks for bringing her.”
    “Anytime,”
said the man. He was in his late twenties, solidly built, with thick, wavy dark
hair that reminded me of an overripe artichoke. Broad, pleasant face, meaty
shoulders, a wrestler’s flaring neck. He wore a corduroy suit the color of
peanut butter, black boots, a navy blue shirt with long collar points, and a
baby blue tie.
    His
white-gold wedding band was speckled with tiny blue stones and matched the one
on the hand of the woman next to him.
    She
was around his age, slightly heavy, and extremely pretty with long, teased hair
bleached nearly white and swept back at the sides. A white linen dress flared
under a soft pink cardigan. A thin silver chain and crucifix circled her neck.
Her skin was bronze and flawless.
    The
man stepped forward and blocked her face from view. “Drew Daney, sir.” Thick
fingers but a gentle grip.
    Sydney
Weider said, “Doctor, these are some supporters of Troy.”
    That
made it sound as if the kid were running for office. Maybe the analogy wasn’t
that far off: This was going to be a campaign.
    Drew
Daney said, “This is my wife, Cherish.”
    The
blond woman said, “I can’t see anything, honey.” Drew Daney retreated and
Cherish Daney’s smile came into view.
    “Troy’s
supporters,” I said.
    “Spiritual
advisers,” said Cherish Daney.
    “Ministers?”
    “Not
yet,” said Drew. “We’re theology students, at Fulton Seminary. Doctor, thanks
so much for being there for Troy. He needs all the support he can get.”
    I
said, “Are you ministering to Rand Duchay as well?”
    “We
will if we’re asked. Wherever we’re needed— ”
    Sydney
Weider said “Let’s get going” and gripped Jane Hannabee harder. Hannabee winced
and started to shake. Maternal anguish or some sort of dope jones? I told
myself that was wrongheaded thinking. Give her a chance.
    Cherish
Daney said, “We’d better get going to see Troy.”
    Her
husband looked at his sports watch. “Oh, boy, we’d better.”
    Cherish
moved toward Jane Hannabee, as if to embrace the woman, but changed her mind
and gave a small wave and said, “God bless you, Jane. Be well.”
    Hannabee
hung her head.
    Drew
Daney said, “Good to meet you, Doctor. Good luck.”
    The
two of them walked off toward the jail’s electric gate, keeping up a brisk
pace, arm in arm.
    Sydney
Weider watched them for a few seconds, expressionless, then she turned to me.
“Getting another interview room in the jail is going to be a hassle. How about
I let you guys talk in my car?”
    * * *
    Jane
Hannabee sat behind the wheel of Weider’s BMW and looked as if she’d been
abducted by aliens. I took the passenger seat. Sydney Weider was a few yards
away, pacing and smoking and talking on her cell phone.
    “Is
there anything you want to tell me, Ms. Hannabee?”
    She
didn’t answer.
    “Ma’am?”
    Staring
at the instrument panel, she said, “Don’t let them kill Troy.”
    Flat
voice, slight twang. A plea, but no passion.
    “Them,”
I said.
    She
scratched her arm through her sleeve, rolled up the fabric, and worked on bare,
flaccid skin. More tattoos embroidered her forearm, crude and dark and gothic.
Weider had probably bought her the fresh clothes, dressed her up with an eye
toward camouflage.
    “In
prison,” she said. “When they send him up, he’s gonna have a bad name. It’s
gonna be cool to hurt him.”
    “What
kind of bad name?”
    “Baby
killer,” she said. “Even though he didn’t do it. The niggers and the Mexicans
will say it’s cool to get him.”
    “Troy
didn’t kill Kristal,” I said, “but his reputation will