Dr. Death by Jonathan Kellerman

“But what?” I said.

“With all that pain, she kept eating—she used to have such a good figure. That was always a big thing in the house—her figure, my father’s physique. They both used

to wear the skimpiest bathing suits. It was embarrassing. I remember once, the Manitows were over for a swim party and Mom and Dad were in the pool. . . groping each other. And Dr. Manitow was just staring. Like, how tasteless—I guess that was good, though. Right? The fact that they were attracted to each other. My father would always talk about how they didn’t age as quickly as everyone else, they’d always be kids. And then Mom just… inflated herself.”

She took a step, put her foot down heavily, stopped again, fought back tears. “What’s the use of going on and on about it? She did it, it’s over, whatever…. I have to keep thinking of the good memories, don’t I? Because she was a good mother…. I know that.”

She edged closer to me. “Everyone talks about getting closure, moving on. But where do I go to, Dr. Delaware?”

“That’s what we need to find out. That’s why I’m here.”

“Yes. You are.” She surged forward, threw her arms around me. Her hands dug into my coat. Curly, shampooed hair—too-sweet shampoo, heavy with apricots— tickled my nose.

Someone watching from a distance would have thought, Romance on the beach.

The professional thing would be to pull away. I compromised, avoiding a full embrace by keeping one arm at my side. Patting her back lightly with the other.

What used to be called therapeutic touch, before the lawyers got involved.

I held her for the shortest possible period, then gently drew away.

She smiled. We resumed walking. Walked in step. I kept enough distance between us to avoid the accidental graze of hand against hand.

“College,” she said, laughing. “That’s what we were supposed to be talking about this morning.”

“College isn’t all of your future, but it’s part of it,” I said. “Part of where to go.”

“A small part. So no big deal, I’ll make Dad happy, apply to Stanford. If I get in, I’ll go. Why not? One place is the same as another. I’m not some spoiled brat. I know I’m lucky my dad can afford a place like that. But there are other things we need to talk about, right? If you trust me not to flake out, I can come in tomorrow—if you’ve got time.”

“I’ve got time. How about after school—five P.M.”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you so, so much…. I’d better get back home, see if Dad called, maybe he found Eric— he’ll probably just blow into the dorm and scream at my father for flying up.”

We turned around.

Back at the Mustang, she said, “And I meant what I said—please don’t stop working with the cops. Take care of yourself.”

Nice kid.

I watched her drive away, eased onto PCH feeling pretty good.

CHAPTER 16

WHEN I GOT home, Robin was in the kitchen stirring a pot—one of those big blue things flecked with white. Spike was off in a corner, making rapturous overtures to a delicious-looking bone.

“You look tired,” she said.

“Bad traffic.” I kissed her cheek and looked inside the pot. Chunks of lamb, carrots, prunes, onions. My nose filled with cumin and cinnamon and heat, and my eyes watered.

“Something new,” she said. “A tajine. Got the recipe from the guy who sells me maple.”

I dipped the spoon, blew, tasted. “Fantastic, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“No sleep, no food.” She sighed. “Bad traffic, where?”

I told her about having to meet a patient at the beach.

“Emergency?”

“Potentially, but it resolved.” I placed my arms under her rear, lifted her, deposited her on the counter.

“What is this?” she said. “Passion amid the pots and pans, one of those male-fantasy things?”

“Maybe later. If you behave yourself.” I went to the fridge, found some leftover white wine, sniffed the bottle, poured two glasses. “First we celebrate.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” I said. “That’s the point.”

The rest of the evening passed quietly. No calls from Milo or anyone else. I tried to imagine what life would be like without a phone. We ate too much lamb, drank enough wine to get silly. The idea of making love seemed remote, more of a scripted segment than passion; both of us seemed content just to be.