Free Killer: An Alex Delaware Novel by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

and I fight the urge to overprotect.
    I’ve finally figured out an approach that seems to work: assess howreceptive she really is, divulge no more than she wants to know, temper the details.
    Working with power tools and avoiding people doesn’t mean you lack insight and sometimes she offers an opinion that leads to a solution.
    That’s the way it is, now.
    Years ago, a psychopath burned our house down. After the shock wore off, Robin recouped quickly, the way she always does, designing and supervising the building of the eye-filling white structure we eventually learned to call home.
    Connie Sykes’s visit marked the first time, since then, that I’d felt personally threatened by someone sitting on my battered leather sofa.
    I’m not going to shoot you
.
    Technically, a non-threat.
    Massaging the bulge in her purse.
    Subtle.
    Connie Sykes had shown herself eager to use the legal system as a weapon, so maybe the visit was a ploy. Enticing me to accuse her of something, so she could file a spite lawsuit.
    A weapon? Ridiculous. I keep tissues, cosmetics, and a cell phone in there. This is defamation and harassment, this man is clearly unfit for the job with which he’s been entrusted
.
    If she tried that, she’d lose. Again. But that wouldn’t stop her from convincing herself she had a chance of winning. Because if Connie Sykes believed it, it had to be true.
    I could call Milo but drawing him into the mess would just add complication.
    I imagined a fine-print complaint against him hand-messengered to the LAPD brass. Parker Center was Cover-Your-Ass Central. Milo, always an official irritant operating beyond his official boundaries, would be vulnerable.
    Medea Wright, not my biggest fan, would enjoy the process.
    Gun in a purse? The complainant is a physician, not a criminal, and this
alleged
mental health expert is showing himself to be rather delusional and paranoid, leading to serious questions about his professional competence and qualifications for state licensure. Furthermore, his exploitation of personal connections to the police department in order to exert vengeful damage to the complainant is nothing short of venal
.
    If you couldn’t get the outcome you wanted, torture ’em with process.
    The more I thought about it, the better it explained Connie showing up on my terrace. Bested in court, she itched to squeeze out a few drops of control.
    To Connie Sykes, everything was
about
control. That’s why she’d tried to confiscate her sister’s child in the first place.
    To Connie Sykes, winning meant someone had to lose.
    Dr. Zero-Sum. I decided the best response to her stunt was none at all. Give her time to cool down.
    Even if she forgot about me, she was likely to regroup for
Connie v. Ree, Chapter II
. Because she had the means and the opportunity and the system was receptive to second, third, fourth, millionth chances.
    So forget about telling Milo, keep the bear in his den. But I’d let Robin know because the invaded territory was as much hers as mine.
    Steeling myself for the walk through the garden to the studio, I poured coffee in the kitchen, drank some but found it bitter, organized my desk, checked files that didn’t require inspection, ran out of delay tactics.
    Just as I was about to leave the office, I thought of someone else who needed to know.
    If Connie Sykes could muster that level of rage against me, what was she feeling about the judge?
    I phoned Nancy Maestro. A hard, wary male voice answered, “Chambers.”
    Familiar voice; the deputy I’d met with the bronze-lensed eyeglasses. H. Nebe.
    I said, “Hi, it’s Dr. Delaware.”
    “Her Honor’s unavailable. You have a message you want to leave?”
    More of the protective attitude I’d seen in court. Not a bad idea, as it turned out. I told him about Connie Sykes.
    He said, “Well, that’s pretty insane. She do anything else crazy?”
    “No.”
    “
Not
going to shoot you, huh?” said H. Nebe. “Sounds like she got you pretty