Mystery

hree days after the arrest, Robin and Milo and Rick and I went to dinner. The same family-run Italian place on Little Santa Monica.

Milo said, “Sir Alex Olivier. You poured it on heavy, amigo. Cops are idiots, huh?”

“I sacrifice for my art.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I can see the pain.”

Rick said, “Idiots? That could be one of your lines, Big Guy. When you’re in that mood.”

“Better believe it,” said Milo. “Anyway, thanks for figuring it out, Dottore. Chief says this time you’ll get some serious consulting dough. Soon as he figures out a way to make it kosher.”

“Sorry,” I said, “but I turn blue.”

“What?”

“When I’m holding my breath.”

Everyone laughed. My head was elsewhere but I was pretty sure I’d done a decent job of faking sociable.

As our glasses clinked, my cell beeped.

Robin said, “You didn’t turn it off?”

I held the phone to my ear, did a few “Uh-huhs,” clicked off, and stood and squeezed Robin’s hand. “Sorry, genuine emergency.”

“That hasn’t happened in a while.”

“All the more reason I need to respond.”

She gazed up at me. “Any idea when you’ll be through?”

“Not for a while—enjoy, guys.”

“Least it’s not another acting gig,” said Milo.

“No, this is honest labor.”

Bunny Rodriguez met me in the hospital lobby. We rode silently up to the ICU.

She said, “I didn’t want to bother you but it happened quickly. She just …”

Fighting tears.

I squeezed her hand.

“There’s nothing here for a kid,” she said. “Nothing age-appropriate, I mean. The nurses were nice enough to unlock a side room off the waiting area. My husband’s with him, at least he had the presence of mind to bring a couple of books and the drawing materials. But it’s pretty bleak.”

“What’s Chad’s understanding of what’s happening?”

“I was going to ask you that. Developmentally, I mean. How he actually feels, I can’t tell you. It was so sudden, I wasn’t paying attention to Chad. Talk about dereliction of duty.”

“Your mind was on Gretchen.”

“Even though she told me it shouldn’t be. Yesterday. When we were discussing Chad’s schooling up in the Bay Area and I stopped to ask her how she was feeling. She nearly took my head off. Barked that I should mind my own fucking business and follow instructions.”

“That sounds about right,” I said.

“Feisty to the end … the almost-end. One moment she was sleeping peacefully, actually looked better. The next moment the hospice nurse came in and told us her breathing had stopped, she’d gotten it restarted but it was weak, what to do next was up to me. I know Gretchen wouldn’t want to suffer but I forgot about that, it went right out the window because what I wanted to do was save my sister. As if. I hope I didn’t create a mess.”

“Have the doctors told you anything?”

“They don’t expect her to last the night.” Throwing up her free hand. “So maybe it won’t be a mess.”

The hand I held turned clammy. “You did right, Bunny.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It came from the right place.”

“Road to hell and all that? No offense, but that’s meager comfort.”

“One way or the other, it’s going to end,” I said. “She won’t suffer needlessly.”

“I want to believe you.” Gripping my biceps. “You come across believable, that probably works well for you.”

In all sorts of situations.

We walked toward the main entry to the unit. She pointed to a closed, unmarked door.

“In there. I’d better go see Gretchen.”

Chad Stengel sat facing a wall, arms crossed, legs splayed straight out, in a too-high chair pushed into a far corner. Books and drawing pad and markers were stacked neatly in an opposite corner. A white-bearded man in a plaid shirt and cords stood near the stack.

A casual onlooker might assume the boy was being punished for something.

The man muttered, “Finally.” Then: “Dr. Delaware? Leonard Rodriguez.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“You’ll take it from here?” Moving toward the door without waiting for an answer.

I said, “Sure.”

Rodriguez said, “You’ll be fine, Chad. The doctor’s going to help you.”

He left.

I brought a chair within five feet of Chad’s.

We sat there for a long time. Or maybe it wasn’t that long. I didn’t time it. It didn’t matter.

Eventually, he said, “She’s real sick.”

“Yes, she is.”

“She’s real sick.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to see her.”

“That’s up to you.”

“Not dead,” he said. “I want to see her good.”

I kept quiet.

“Dead is bad.”

“Bad and sad.”

“A lot bad,” he said. “You’re her friend? That’s what she said.”

“It’s true.”

“You’re a doctor but you’re her friend.”

“Your friend, too.”

“She’s not mad.”

“No.”

“Not at me,” he said. “Never at me.”

“Never.”

“She’s a little mad at Bunny.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know … she’s good.”

The small round face looked up at me. Clear-eyed, solemn. “Not healthy good. Good.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Your mom did some real good things.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JONATHAN KELLERMAN is one of the world’s most popular authors. He has brought his expertise as a clinical psychologist to more than thirty bestselling crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series, The Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club, Twisted, and True Detectives. With his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored the bestsellers