The Clinic by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page B

lucre,” he said, “but by department standards it’sSupermarket Sweep. ”
    “How’d you pull this off?”
    “Lied and told the loo I’d heard radical-feminist-butch-lesbian grumblings about the slow progress of the case. If we didn’t make it look like we were doing all we could, we might end up being called before the Police Commission. Told him radical-fem-butch-lesbo types liked shrinks, would take your involvement as proof of expanded sensitivity.”
    “Very creative.”
    “I asked him for a new computer, too, but you were cheaper. You on?”
    “Fifty hours,” I said. “Does that include feeding you?”
    “What do you think?”
    Returning to the fridge, he came back with a slab of brownie.
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    “Despite your suspicions of Seacrest,” I said, “I still think you have to seriously consider a delusional stranger.”
    “Why?”
    “There’s a cold craziness to that wound pattern. Someone with a deep hatred for women. And we know from the way she set up the committee that Hope could be heavy-handed, so who knows who she offended? In real life or on the screen. Have you checked for murders with similar wound patterns?”
    “I’ve gone through three years of Westside cuttings and nothing matches. Tomorrow I try Wilshire Division and whoever else I can finagle into remembering. I also sent out teletypes to other jurisdictions, but so did Paz and Fellows and that brought in nothing. So are you up for meeting Seacrest, tonight? That is, if you and the little woman don’t have plans—speaking of which, let me pop back and say hi to her and the pooch. I am neither sexist nor speciesist.”

CHAPTER
4
    As we walked through the garden to the shop, Milo stopped to look at the fish in the pond, then trudged on. His back was bowed and his arms dangled heavily. I wondered when he’d last slept well.
    Robin was at her bench shaping the rosewood sides of a flattop guitar. The new maple floors were spotless except for a pile of shavings swept into one corner. Spike had been sleeping at her feet and he looked up and cocked his broad, flat head.
    Milo gave him a mock-hostile look. Spike came over for a rub.
    Robin held up a finger and continued clamping the sides to a mold. A dozen other instruments in various stages of repair were arranged around the room, but the project she was working on had nothing to do with business. The fire had destroyed my old Martin dreadnought along with a beautiful parlor guitar she’d built for me years ago. I bought another Martin from Mandolin Brothers in Staten Island. Replicating Robin’s was her New Year’s resolution.
    One last clamp and she was done. Wiping her hands, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed Milo’s cheek, then mine. Under her apron she wore a black T-shirt and jeans and her hair was wrapped in a red bandanna. Safety goggles and a mask dangled from her neck, both coated with dust.
    Spike started baying like a hound and rolled over. I kneeled and scratched his tummy and he snorted in entitlement. French bulldogs are miniature versions of the English variety but with upright bat ears, a more athletic disposition, and delusions of big-dog grandeur. The best way to describe Spike physically is a Boston terrier on steroids, but his personality’s more chimp than dog. He waddled into our lives one day and stayed, deciding quickly that Robin was worth knowing and I was expendable. When he’s unhappy about something he pretends to choke. Milo pretends to despise him and always brings treats.
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    Now he fished a sandwich bag out of his sportcoat. Dried liver.
    “CanapÉ time, pancake-face.”
    Spike sat motionless, Milo tossed a nugget, and the dog caught it midair, chewed, and swallowed. The two of them glared at each other. Milo rubbed his face. Spike barked. Milo muttered and gave him more liver.
    “Go away and digest.”
    Spike head-butted Milo’s foot. Rolling his eyes and grumbling, Milo bent and petted him.
    More barking and butting and feeding.