Dr. Death by Jonathan Kellerman

Not a coincidence. Couldn’t be a coincidence.

Fusco had left me his beeper number and his local exchange, but both were back home in the Burke file. I pushed the Seville up to ninety.

I unlocked my front door. Robin’s truck was gone— prayers answered. I raced to my office, feeling guilty about being quite so pleased.

I tried Milo again, got no answer, decided sooner was better than later and phoned Fusco’s beeper and routing number. No callback from him, either. I was starting to feel like the last man on Earth. After another futile attempt to reach Milo, I punched in FBI headquarters at the Federal Building in Westwood and asked for Special Agent Fusco. The receptionist put me on hold, then transferred me to another woman with the throaty voice of a lounge singer who took my name and number.

“May I tell him what this is about, sir?”

“He’ll know.”

“He’s out of the office. I’ll give him the message.”

I pulled out the big black accordion file, flung it open, stared at pictures of corpses against trees, geometrical wounds, the parallels inescapable.

All my theories about family breakdown, the Dosses, the Manitows, and it had come down to just another psychopath. I paged through police reports, found the Seattle cases, the data on Marissa Bonpaine, was halfway through the small print when the doorbell rang.

Leaving the file on the desk, I trotted to the front door. The peephole offered a fish-eye view of two people—a man and a woman, white, early thirties, expressionless.

Clean-cut duo. Missionaries? I could use some faith but was in no mood to be preached to.

“Yes?” I said, through the door.

I watched the woman’s mouth move. “Dr. Delaware? FBI. May we please speak with you.”

Throaty voice of a lounge singer.

Before I could answer, a badge filled the peephole. I opened the door.

The woman’s lips were turned upward, but the smile appeared painful. Her badge was still out. “Special Agent Mary Donovan. This is Special Agent Mark Bratz. May we please come in, Dr. Delaware?”

Donovan was five-six or so with short light-brown hair, a strong jaw and a firm, busty, low-waisted body packed into a charcoal gray suit. Rosy complexion, an aura of confidence. Bratz was a half head taller with dark hair starting to thin, sleepy eyes and a round, vulnerable face. The skin around his jowls was raw, and a small Band-Aid was stuck under one ear. He wore a navy blue suit, white shirt, gray-and-navy tie.

I stepped back to let them enter. They stood in the entry hall, checking out the house, until I invited them to sit.

“Thanks for your time, Doctor,” said Donovan, still smiling as she took the most comfortable chair. She carried a huge black cloth purse, which she placed on the floor.

Bratz waited until I’d settled, then positioned himself so the two of them flanked me. I tried to look casual, thinking about the open file on the desk, trying not to think about what I’d just seen in Glendale.

“Nice house,” said Bratz. “Bright.”

“Thanks. May I ask what this is about?”

“Very nice,” said Donovan. “Care to guess, Doctor?”

“Something to do with Agent Fusco.”

“Something to do with Mr. Fusco.”

“He’s not with the FBI?”

“Not any longer,” said Bratz. His voice was high, tentative, like that of a bashful kid asking for a date. “Mr. Fusco retired from the Bureau a while back—was asked to retire.”

“Because of personal issues,” said Donovan. She took a pad and a Sony minirecorder out of her bag, set them on the coffee table. “Mind if I record?”

“Record what?”

“Your impressions of Mr. Fusco, sir.”

“You’re saying he was mustered out because of personal issues?” I said. “Are we talking criminal issues? Is he dangerous?”

Donovan glanced at Bratz. “May I record, sir?”

“After you tell me what’s going on, maybe.”

Donovan’s fingernails tapped the Sony. Surprisingly long nails. French tips. Her lipstick was subtle. Her expression wasn’t. She had no use for civilians who didn’t fall in line.

“Sir,” she said. “It’s in your best interests—”

“I need to know. Is Fusco a criminal suspect?” As in multiple murder.

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