Free Killer by Jonathan Kellerman

thought about before?”
    Her shoulders heaved. “Can we talk? Please? Just briefly but I’ll pay you for a full session.”
    “No payment necessary,” I said. “Come on in.”
    This time she allowed me to lead. Settled in a different spot on the couch. Placed her leather purse to her right and her hands in her lap.
    I said, “Morning.”
    She smiled. “I guess things work out the way they’re supposed to. Though I wish I could be more confident about the poor child.”
    “Rambla.”
    “She really is in danger, Doctor. You may not be convinced of it, the court may not be convinced of it. I’m not even sure my own lawyer was convinced of it. But I’ve got superior analytic powers. Always have. I can see things—sense things—that elude other people.”
    Gone was the soft voice.
    Something new in her eyes. A sputter of … irrationality?
    “So,” I said, “you’re considering adopting.”
    She laughed. “Why would I do that? Why would I assume the riskof ending up with something genetically inferior? No, that was just … I suppose you’d call it an icebreaker. Gaining rapport in order to build up trust, so you’d let me in. That’s your thing, right? Rapport. You sure pulled a fast one on me. Convinced me you understood me and then you went and wrote that I had absolutely no case. Very ethical, Doctor.”
    “Connie—”
    “Dr. Sykes to you,” she snapped. “You’re ‘Doctor,’ I’m ‘Doctor.’ Okay? It’s the least you can do. Show me some
respect
.”
    “Fair enough,” I said, keeping my eye on her every movement. “Dr. Sykes, I never—”
    “You never, you never, you never,” she snapped. “You’re
Doctor
Never. And now that poor child is destined to never lead the life she deserves.”
    Smoothing black gabardine slacks, she lifted her right hand, stroked the purse’s fine, whiskey-colored leather.
    “I’m not going to shoot you, Dr. Delaware. Even though I should.”
    Tapping the bag, she ran her finger over a swell in the leather and smiled wider and waited.
    Master-of-timing comedian, pausing to see if the audience got it.
    When I didn’t respond, she tapped the bag harder. Something beneath the leather gave off a dull thud.
    Something hard and dense. Implying she’d come with a weapon.
    If she had and decided to use it, I was too far away to stop her, blocked by the desk.
    Bad situation; I’d let down my guard, broken every rule, allowed her to catch me off guard.
    No way to predict something like this.
    Lots of victims probably thought that. No excuse for me; the whole point of my training was expecting the unexpected. I’d always figured myself pretty good at that.
    The worst kind of assumption: blithe and arrogant.
    I studied the flat-eyed, weird woman sitting across from me.
    Serene stare from her. Icy contentment. She’d evoked fear, knew it. Had gotten what she’d come for.
    The threat was the first time she’d used my name.
    A new form of intimacy.
    I kept silent.
    Connie Sykes laughed. Then she got up and left the office and continued up the hall and I scurried to lock myself in, feeling like nothing but prey.

CHAPTER
8
    My true love is a gorgeous, thoughtful, intense woman who cherishes solitude and makes her living transforming wood into guitars and mandolins of great beauty. Sequestered in her studio, she plays her own ensemble of instruments: routers, chisels, gauges and knives, band saw, jigsaw. A roaring table saw that rips through rosewood and ebony like a hungry predator.
    Soft flesh versus razor-edged metal. A single slip can lead to horror and Robin lives with hazard every day. But it’s my work that has led us to danger.
    I sat at my desk, wondering what to tell her about Connie Sykes.
    We’ve been together for a long time and how much I divulge about the terrible things has always been an issue. Robin knows better than to ask about therapy patients. But the other stuff—court work, the murders Milo brings like bloody gifts—is open territory