Killer by Jonathan Kellerman

attention to me so it felt more natural when he got all chummy. But you know Mom. Parenthood didn’t exactly rank high on her to-do list so when she started going on about all the things we should do together, just us two girls …”
    She shuddered. “I didn’t argue but ugh.”
    Untying her hair, she set loose a torrent of curls, brushed tendrils away from her face.
    “Eventually, they’d make up and have disturbingly noisy sex and I’d go outside and pretend I was living on Mars. Then he’d be back to showing me how to use a hand plane and she’d revert to her usual icy, selfish self. Terrible thing to say about the person who gave you life, huh? But you know Mom.”
    My mother had possessed the capacity for tenderness but for the most part she’d been passive, depressed, and unable—or unwilling—to shield me from my father’s alcoholic rages.
    I said, “We don’t pick our relatives.”
    She laughed. “That crazy woman’s sister sure knows that.”

CHAPTER
9
    For the next week and a half, life went on as usual except for the locked gate and the lights. And the part I didn’t tell Robin about: during my morning runs, looking for tree-shrouded spots where someone with a firearm could hide.
    To relax myself, I imagined Connie Sykes in combat fatigues and a mud-smeared face jumping out and playing Rambette. The image was ludicrous and my jaws eventually unclenched. By day seven, I didn’t need that bit of cognitive behavior therapy. By day ten, I was certain there was nothing to worry about and we could unlatch the gate.
    I was about to broach the topic with Robin when the buzzer to that very barrier sounded.
    Milo said, “Alex, it’s me.”
    I beeped him in.
    He’s always hounding me about being lax with security. No comment, now, about the extra precaution.
    Preoccupied? Probably a new whodunit.
    Dealing with someone else’s problems. Excellent; I was ready.
    As I waited out on the terrace, a black LTD drove up. The passenger door opened and Milo’s bulk emerged. He wore a navy wind-breaker, baggy brown slacks, scuffed desert boots, white shirt, skinny tie. Even from this distance the tie’s colors were an intrusion: orange-rind paisley over week-old vegetable clippings. His olive vinyl attaché case swung at his side.
    I said, “Morning, Big Guy.”
    His reply wave was minimal.
    Out of the driver’s side stepped a short, stocky woman in her thirties wearing a gunmetal-gray suit. Clipped dark hair, full face, excellent posture, as if she labored to stretch above five two. Clipped to the breast pocket of her jacket was a detective shield. She’d left the jacket unbuttoned, revealing a slice of white shirt and smidge of black—the strap of a nylon shoulder holster.
    She made eye contact immediately, but we’d never met and her eyes had nothing much to say.
    She let Milo lead the way as the two of them climbed the stairs.
    Just before they reached the top, he said, “This is Detective Millie Rivera, North Hollywood Division. Millie, Dr. Alex Delaware.”
    Rivera extended her hand. Her fingers were barely above child-sized, but her grip was solid—a pair of miniature pliers finding their mark and maintaining a hold. On top of that, she’d mastered that thumb-on-webbing trick women learn when they’ve had their hand squeezed too many times by macho fools.
    I said, “Pleased to meet you,” and she let go. “What’s up, Big Guy?”
    Milo said, “Let’s go inside.”
    Typically, he beelines to the kitchen and raids the fridge. Sometimes, when there’s an especially knotty puzzle on his mind, he heads for my office and either commandeers my computer or stretches out on the leather couch, where he proceeds to think out loud or gripe about the policeman’s lot.
    A few months ago I presented him with a gag invoice. Six-figure charge for “years of listening.” He looked at it, said, “Will a large pizza do as payment?”
    This morning he went no farther than the living room, picking the