Silent Partner by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page A

corrugated with deep seams. Narrow, pale eyes, brush-cut hair the color of iron filings.
    Well-built, despite his age, and perfectly turned out in double-breasted blue blazer and gray flannel slacks.
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    Oddly boyish—one of those youthful older men who populate the better clubs and resorts and are able to bed younger women without incurring snickers.
    Her lover?
    What business was that of mine?
    I kept staring. Romance didn't seem to be what was fueling her attention. The two of them were off in one corner and she was arguing with him, trying to convince him of something. Barely moving her lips and straining to look casual. He just stood there, listening.
    Sharon at a party: it didn't fit. She'd hated them as much as I had.
    But that had been a long time ago. People change. Lord knew that applied to her.
    I raised my glass to my lips, watched her tug on one earlobe—some things stayed the same.
    I edged closer, bumped into a matron's padded haunch and received a glare. Mumbling apologies, I pressed forward. The crush of drinkers was unyielding. I wedged my way through, seeking a voyeur's vantage— deliciously close but safely out of view. Telling myself it was just curiosity.
    Suddenly she turned her head and saw me. She pink-ened with recognition and her lips parted.
    We locked in on each other. As if dancing.
    Dancing on a terrace. A nest of lights in the distance. Weightless, formless...
    I felt dizzy, bumped into someone else. More apologies.
    Sharon kept looking straight at me. The brush-cut man was facing the other way, looking contemplative.
    I retreated further, was swallowed by the crowd, and returned to the table short of breath, clutching my glass so tightly my fingers hurt. I counted blades of grass until Larry returned.
    "The call was about the baby," he said. "She and her little playmate got into a fight. She's tantrumming and insisting on being taken home. The other girl's mother says they're both hysterical—overtired. I've got to go pick her up, D. Sorry."
    "No problem. I'm ready to leave myself." "Yeah, turned out to be pretty turgid, didn't it? But at least I got a look at La Grande Maison's entry hall—big
    enough to skate in. We're in the wrong business, D."
    "What's the right business?"
    "Marry it young, spend the rest of your life pissing it away."
    He looked back at the mansion, cast his eyes over the grounds. "Listen Alex, it was good seeing you—little male pair-bonding, hostility release. How about we get together in a couple of weeks, Page 31

    shoot some pool at the Faculty Club, ingest some cholesterol?"
    "Sounds great."
    "Terrific. I'll call you."
    "Look forward to it, Larry."
    Buttressed by our lies, we left the party.
    He was eager to get going but offered to drive me home. I said I'd rather walk, waited with him while the bearded valet fetched his keys. The Chevy station wagon had been repositioned for quick exit. And washed. The valet held the door open and expectorated a mouthful of "sirs" as he waited for Larry to get comfortable. When Larry put the key in the ignition, the valet shut the door gently and held his palm out smiling.
    Larry looked over at me. I winked. Larry grinned, rolled up the window and started the engine. I strolled past the cars, heard the wheeze of the Chevy's engine followed by curses muttered in some Mediterranean language. Then, a clatter and squeal as the wagon accelerated. Larry zipped past, stuck out his left hand and waved.
    I'd walked several yards when I heard someone calling. Thinking nothing of it, I didn't break step.
    Then the call took on volume and clarity.
    "Alex!"
    I looked over my shoulder. Navy-blue dress. Swirl of black hair. Long white legs running.
    She caught up with me, breasts heaving, upper lip pearled with sweat.
    "Alex! It really is you. I can't believe it!"
    "Hello, Sharon. How've you been?" Dr. Witty.
    "Just fine." She touched her ear, shook her head. "No, you're one person to whom I don't have to pretend. No, I haven't been