When the Bough Breaks by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page B

time tomorrow and spend a little more time with Melody.”
    She eyed me suspiciously, chewed on the cigarette, then shrugged.
    “You’re the doctor.”
    We rejoined Milo and the child. He was kneeling on one leg and showing her his detective’s badge. Her eyes were wide.
    “Melody, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to come by tomorrow and play with you some more.”
    She looked up at her mother and began sucking her thumb again.
    “It’s fine with me,” Bonita Quinn said curtly. “Now run along.”
    Melody sprang for her room. She stopped in the doorway and gave me a tentative look. I waved, she waved back and then she disappeared. A second later the TV began blaring.
    “One more thing, Mrs. Quinn. I’ll need to talk to Dr. Towle before I do any hypnosis with Melody.”
    “That’s okay.”
    “I’ll need your permission to talk with Dr. Towle about the case. You realize he’s professionally bound to keep this confidential, just as I am.”
    “That’s okay. I trust Dr. Towle.”
    “And I may ask him to take her off her medicine for a couple of days.”
    “Oh all right, all right.” She waved her hand, exasperated.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Quinn.”
    We left her standing in front of her apartment, smoking frantically, taking the towel off her head and shaking her hair loose in the midday sun.
    I took the wheel of the Seville and drove slowly up toward Sunset.
    “Stop smirking, Milo.”
    “What’s that?” He was looking out the passenger window, his hair flapping like duck wings.
    “You know you’ve got me hooked, don’t you? A kid like that, those big eyes like something out of a Keene painting.”
    “If you want to quit right now, it wouldn’t make me happy, Alex. But I wouldn’t stop you. There’s still time for gnocchi.”
    “The hell with gnocchi. Let’s talk with Dr. Towle.”
    The Seville was consuming fuel with customary gluttony. I pulled into a Chevron self-serve at Bundy. While Milo pumped gas I got Towle’s number from information and dialed it. I used my title and got through to the doctor in a half-minute. I gave him a brief explanation of why I needed to talk with him and told him we could chat now over the phone.
    “No,” he said. “I’ve got an office full of kids.” His voice was smoothand reassuring, the kind of voice a parent would want to hear at two in the morning when the baby was turning blue.
    “When would be a good time to call you?”
    He didn’t answer. I could hear the bustle of activity in the background, then muffled voices. He came back on the line.
    “How about dropping by at four-thirty? I’ve got a lull around then.”
    “I appreciate your time, Doctor.”
    “No bother.” And he hung up.
    I left the phone booth. Milo was removing the nozzle from the rear of the Seville, holding it at arm’s length to avoid getting gasoline on his suit.
    I settled in the driver’s seat and stuck my head out the window.
    “Catch the windshield for me, son.”
    He made a gargoyle face—not much of an effort—and gave me the finger. Then he went to work with paper towels.
    It was two-forty and we were only fifteen minutes from Towle’s office. That left over an hour to kill. Neither of us was in a good enough mood to want first-rate food, so we drove back to West L.A. and went to Angela’s.
    Milo ordered something called a San Francisco Deluxe Omelette. It turned out to be a bright yellow horror stuffed with spinach, tomatoes, ground beef, chilies, onions and marinated eggplant. He dug into it with relish while I contented myself with a steak sandwich and a Coors. In between bites he talked about the Handler murder.
    “It’s a puzzler, Alex. You’ve got all the signs of a psychotic thrill killer—both of them trussed up in the bedroom, like animals ready for the slaughter. And stuck about five dozen times. The girl looked like she ran into Jack the Ripper with her—”
    “Spare me.” I pointed to my food.
    “Sorry. I forget when I’m talking to a civilian.