Dr. Death by Jonathan Kellerman

Maybe in real estate, as well. The world of distressed properties.

Milo had his prime witness and I had two toys. Still, the wounds fit. And Milo had asked me to study the files. You’re out of business, I’m in.

When we’d questioned Alice Zoghbie, we’d asked her about confederates, and she’d just about admitted they existed but refused to go further, pooh-poohed the chance anyone close to Mate could have savaged him.

Eldon was brilliant. He wouldn’t have trusted just anyone.

But Mate would’ve loved the idea of the MD sidekick. Another boost to his respectability—supervising an internship in cellular cessation.

Zoghbie was worth another try. She’d worshiped Mate, would want to punish his murderer. Now I had a name to throw her, a general physical description, could observe her reaction. What risk was there? I’d call her later this morning. Worst case, she’d tell me to go to hell.

Best case, I’d learn something, maybe make some progress revealing a new suspect.

Someone other than Richard. Anyone but Richard.

Stretching out on the old leather sofa, I covered myself with a woolen throw, stared up at the ceiling, knowing I’d never fall back asleep.

When I awoke, it was just after seven and Robin was standing over me.

“What a guy,” she said, “moves out to the couch even when he hasn’t misbehaved.” She sat perched on the edge of the cushion, smoothed my hair.

“Morning,” I said.

She looked at the file. “Cramming for the big test?”

“What can I say? Always been a grind.”

“And look where it’s gotten you.”

“Where?”

“Fame, fortune. Me. Rise and shine. Fix yourself up so I can take care of you—I seem to be doing that a lot, lately, don’t I?”

Showering and shaving provided a veneer of humanness, but my stomach recoiled at the idea of breakfast and I sat watching as Robin ate toast and eggs and grapefruit. We shared a pleasant half hour and I thought I pulled off amiable pretty well. When she left for the studio, it was eight and I turned on the morning news. Recap of the Doss story but no new facts.

At 8:20, I phoned Alice Zoghbie and heard the taped greeting from her machine. Just as I hung up, my service rang in.

“Morning, Dr. Delaware. I have a Joseph Safer on the phone.”

Richard’s lawyer. “Put him on.”

“Doctor? Joe Safer. I’m a criminal-defense attorney representing your patient Richard Doss.”

Mellow baritone. Slow pace but no faltering. The voice of an older man—deliberate, grandfatherly, comforting.

“How’s Richard doing?” I said.

“We-ell,” said Safer, “he’s still incarcerated, so I don’t imagine he’s doing too well. But that should be resolved by this afternoon.”

“Paperwork?”

“Not to be paranoid, Doctor, but I do wonder if the boys in blue haven’t slowed things down a bit.”

“God forbid.”

“Are you a religious man, Doctor?”

“Doesn’t everyone invoke God when times get rough?”

He chuckled. “How true. Anyway, the reason I’m calling is once Richard does get out, he would like to speak with you about his children. How to best get them through this.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Terrific. We’ll be in touch.” Cheerful. As if planning a picnic.

“What’s in store for him, Mr. Safer?”

“Call me Joe…. We-ell, that’s hard to say … we both enjoy the privilege of confidentiality here, so I’ll be a bit forthcoming. I don’t believe the police have anything one might judge as seriously incriminating. Unless something turns up during the search, and I don’t expect it will. .. Doctor, you’ve got more latitude than I in terms of your confidentiality.”

“What do you mean?”

“Unless your patient poses a Tarasoff risk, you’re not obligated to divulge anything. I, on the other hand . . . There are questions I don’t ask.”

Letting me know he didn’t want to know if his client was guilty. That I should keep my mouth shut if I knew.

“I understand,” I said.

“Splendid … Well, then talk about Stacy and Eric for a moment. They seem like nice children. Bright, extremely bright, that’s evident even under the circumstances. But troubled—they’d have to be. I’m glad you’re on board if therapy’s called for.”