When the Bough Breaks

When the Bough Breaks by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

Book: When the Bough Breaks by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
Tags: Fiction, psychological thriller
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with razor-happy fingers from the computer and plod through it. Go through Handler’s files. The whole thing was iffy in the first place, a seven-year-old kid.”
    “She could have turned out to be a good witness.”
    “Is it ever that easy?” He started up the engine, after three attempts. “Sorry for ruining your night.”
    “You didn’t. He did.”
    “Forget him, Alex. Assholes are like weeds—a bitch to get rid of and when you do, another one grows back in the same place. That’s what I’ve been doing for eight years—pouring weed-killer and watching them grow back faster than I can clear them away.”
    He sounded weary and looked old.
    I got out of the car and leaned in through the window.
    “See you tomorrow.”
    “What?”
    “The files. We have to go through Handler’s files. I’ll be able to tell faster than you will which ones were dangerous.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Nope. I’m carrying around a huge Zeigarnik.”
    “A what?”
    “Zeigarnik. She was a Russian psychologist who discovered that people develop tension for unfinished business. They named it after her. The Zeigarnik effect. Like most overachievers I’ve got a big one.”
    He looked at me like I was talking nonsense.
    “Uh-huh. Right. And this Zeigarnik is big enough for you to let it intrude upon the mellow life?”
    “What the hell, life was getting boring.” I slapped him on the back.
    “Suit yourself.” He shrugged. “Regards to Robin.”
    “You give regards to your doctor.”
    “If he’s still there when I get back. This middle-of-the-night stuff is testing that relationship.” He scratched at the corner of his eye and scowled.
    “I’m sure he’ll put up with it, Milo.”
    “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
    “If he’s crazy enough to go for you in the first place, he’s crazy enough to stick with you.”
    “That’s very reassuring, pal.” He ground the Fiat into first and sped away.

9
    A T THE TIME of his murder, Morton Handler had been in practice as a psychiatrist for a little under fifteen years. During that period he had consulted on or treated over two thousand patients. The records of these individuals were stored in manila folders and packed, one hundred and fifty to a box, in cardboard cartons that were taped shut and stamped with the L.A.P.D. seal.
    Milo brought these boxes to my house, assisted by a slight, balding, black detective named Delano Hardy. Huffing and wheezing, they loaded the cartons in my dining room. Soon it looked as if I was either moving in or moving out.
    “It’s not as bad as it seems,” Milo assured me. “You won’t have to go through all of them. Right, Del?”
    Hardy lit a cigarette and nodded assent.
    “We’ve done some preliminary screening,” he said. “We eliminated anyone known to be deceased. We figured they’d be low probability suspects.”
    The two of them laughed. Dark detective laughs.
    “And the coroner’s report,” he continued, “says Handler and the girl were cut by someone with a lot of muscle. The throat wound on him went clear back to the spine on the first try.”
    “Which means,” I interrupted, “a man.”
    “Could be one hell of a tough lady,” laughed Hardy, “but we’re betting on a male.”
    “There are six hundred male patients,” added Milo. “Those four boxes over there.”
    “Also,” said Hardy, “we brought you a little present.”
    He gave me a small package wrapped in green and red Christmaspaper with a bugle and holly wreath pattern on it. It was tied with red ribbon.
    “Couldn’t find any other paper,” Hardy explained.
    “We hope you like it,” added Milo. I began to feel as if I were the audience for a salt-and-pepper comedy team. A curious transformation had come over Milo. In the presence of another detective he had distanced himself from me and adopted the tough-wiseacre banter of the veteran cop.
    I unwrapped the box and opened it. Inside, on a bed of cotton, was a plastic-coated L.A.P.D. identification

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