Bad Love (Alex Delaware Series #8)by Jonathan Kellerman
It came in a plain brown wrapper, no return address - an audiocassette recording of a horrifying, soul-lacerating scream, followed by the sound of a childlike voice delivering the enigmatic and haunting message:. "Bad love. Bad love. Don't give me the bad love..." For Alex Delaware, the chant, repeated over and over like a twisted nursery rhyme, is the first… See more details below
It came in a plain brown wrapper, no return address - an audiocassette recording of a horrifying, soul-lacerating scream, followed by the sound of a childlike voice delivering the enigmatic and haunting message:. "Bad love. Bad love. Don't give me the bad love..." For Alex Delaware, the chant, repeated over and over like a twisted nursery rhyme, is the first intimation that he is about to enter a living nightmare. Others soon follow: disquieting laughter echoing over a phone line that suddenly goes dead, a chilling trespass outside his home in the middle of the night, a sickening act of vandalism. He has becoine the target of a carefully orchestrated campaign of vague threats and intimidation rapidly building to a crescendo as harassment turns to terror, mischief to madness. Searching his memory for the phrase "bad love," Alex recalls a symposium he attended over a decade ago commemorating the work of Dr. Andres de Bosch, the celebrated child psychologist who ran a clinic for troubled adolescents. With the help of his friend LAPD detective Milo Sturgis, Alex discovers a seemingly random series of violent deaths - a hit-and-run, a "suicidal" leap from a high rise, and a brutal mutilation-murder - that may somehow be related to de Bosch. As he delves deeper into the history of the clinic, the escalating pattern of violence becomes inescapably clear. And if Alex fails to decipher the twisted logic of the stalker's mind games, he will be the next to die. Taut, penetrating, terrifying, Bad Love is vintage Kellerman.
“By the end I was fairly racing through the pages.”—Los Angeles Times
Read an Excerpt
It came in a plain brown wrapper.
Padded envelope, book rate, book-sized. I assumed it was an academic text I’d forgotten ordering.
It went on to the mail table, along with Monday’s bills and announcements of scholarly seminars in Hawaii and St. Croix. I returned to the library and tried to figure out what I was going to do in ten minutes when Tiffani and Chondra Wallace showed up for their second session.
A year ago their mother had been murdered by their father up on a ridge in the Angeles Crest Forest.
He told it as a crime of passion and maybe he was right, in the very worst sense. I’d learned from court documents that absence of passion had never been a problem for Ruthanne and Donald Dell Wallace. She’d never been a strong-willed woman, and despite the ugliness of their divorce, she had held on to “love feelings” for Donald Dell. So no one had been surprised when he cajoled her into taking a night ride with sweet words, the promise of a lobster dinner, and good marijuana.
Shortly after parking on a shaded crest overlooking the forest, the two of them got high, made love, talked, argued, fought, raged, and finally clawed at one another. Then Donald Dell took his buck knife to the woman who still bore his name, slashed and stabbed her thirty-three times, and kicked her corpse out of his pickup, leaving behind an Indian-silver clip stuffed with cash and his membership card in the Iron Priests motorcycle club.
A docket-clearing plea bargain landed him in Folsom Prison on a five to ten for second-degree murder. There he was free to hang out in the yard with his meth-cooking Aryan Brotherhood bunkmates, take an auto mechanics course he could have taught, accrue good behavior brownie points in the chapel, and bench press until his pectorals threatened to explode.
Four months into his sentence, he was ready to see his daughters.
The law said his paternal rights had to be considered.
An L.A. family court judge named Stephen Huff—one of the better ones—asked me to evaluate. We met in his chambers on a September morning and he told me the details while drinking ginger ale and stroking his bald head. The room had beautiful old oak paneling and cheap country furniture. Pictures of his own children were all over the place.
“Just when does he plan on seeing them, Steve?”
“Up at the prison, twice a month.”
“That’s a plane ride.”
“Friends will chip in for the fare.”
“What kind of friends?”
“Some idiocy called The Donald Dell Wallace Defense Fund.”
“Meaning it’s probably amphetamine money.”
His smile was weary and grudging. “Not the issue before us, Alex.”
“What’s next, Steve? Disability payments because he’s stressed out being a single parent?”
“So it smells. So what else is new? Talk to the poor kids a few times, write up a report saying visitation’s injurious to their psyches, and we’ll bury the issue.”
“For how long?”
He put down the ginger ale and watched the glass raise wet circles on his blotter. “I can kibosh it for at least a year.”
“If he puts in another claim, the kids can be reevaluated and we’ll kibosh it again. Time’s on their side, right? They’ll be getting older and hopefully tougher.”
“In a year they’ll be ten and eleven, Steve.”
He picked at his tie. “What can I tell you, Alex? I don’t want to see these kids screwed up, either. I’m asking you to evaluate because you’re tough-minded—for a shrink.”
“Meaning someone else might recommend visitation?”
“It’s possible. You should see some of the opinions your colleagues render. I had one the other day, said the fact that a mother was severely depressed was good for the kid—teach her the value of true emotions.”
“Okay,” I said. “But I want to do a real evaluation, not some rubber stamp. Something that may have some use for them in the future.”
“Therapy? Why not? Sure, do whatever you want. You are now shrink of record. Send your bill straight to me and I’ll see you get paid within fifteen working days.”
“Who’s paying, our leather-clad friends?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they pay up.”
“Just as long as they don’t try to deliver the check in person.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Alex. Those types shy away from insight.”
The girls arrived right on time, just as they had last week, linked, like suitcases, to the arms of their grandmother.
“Well, here they are,” Evelyn Rodriguez announced. She remained in the entry and pushed them forward.
“Morning,” I said. “Hi, girls.”
Tiffani smiled uneasily. Her older sister looked away.
“Have an easy ride?”
Evelyn shrugged, twisted her lips and untwisted them. Maintaining her grip on the girls, she backed away. The girls allowed themselves to be tugged, but unwillingly, like nonviolent protesters. Feeling the burden, Evelyn let go. Crossing her arms over her chest, she coughed and looked away from me.
Rodriguez was her fourth husband. She was Anglo, stout, bottom-heavy, an old fifty-eight, with dimpled elbows and knuckles, nicotine skin, and lips as thin and straight as a surgical incision. Talk came hard for her and I was pretty sure it was a character trait that preceded her daughter’s murder.
This morning she wore a sleeveless, formless blouse—a faded mauve and powder blue floral print that reminded me of a decorative tissue box. It billowed, untucked, over black stretch jeans piped with red. Her blue tennis shoes were speckled with bleach spots. Her hair was short and wavy, corn colored above dark roots. Earring slits creased her lobes but she wore no jewelry. Behind bifocals, her eyes continued to reject mine.
She patted Chondra’s head, and the girl pressed her face against a thick, soft arm. Tiffani had walked into the living room and was staring at a picture on the wall, tapping one foot fast.
Evelyn Rodriguez said, “Okay, then, I’ll just wait down in the car.”
“If it gets too hot, feel free to come up.”
“The heat don’t bother me.” She raised a forearm and glanced at a too-small wristwatch. “How long we talking about this time?”
“Let’s aim for an hour, give or take.”
“Last time was twenty minutes.”
“I’d like to try for a little longer today.”
She frowned. “Okay . . . can I smoke down there?”
“Outside the house? Sure.”
She muttered something.
“Anything you’d like to tell me?” I said.
“Me?” She freed one finger, poked a breast, and smiled. “Nah. Be good, girlies.”
Stepping out on the terrace, she closed the door. Tiffani kept examining the picture. Chondra touched the doorknob and licked her lips. She had on a white Snoopy T-shirt, red shorts, and sandals with no socks. A paper-wrapped Fruit Roll-Up extended from one pocket of the shorts. Her arms and legs were pasty and chubby, her face broad and puggish, topped by white-blond hair drawn into very long, very tight pigtails. The hair gleamed, almost metallic, incongruous above the plain face. Puberty might turn her pretty. I wondered what else it might bring.
She nibbled her lower lip. My smile went unnoticed or unbelieved.
“How are you, Chondra?”
She shrugged again, kept her shoulders up, and looked at the floor. Ten months her sister’s senior, she was an inch shorter and seemed less mature. During the first session, she hadn’t said a word, content to sit with her hands in her lap as Tiffani talked on.
“Do anything fun this week?”
She shook her head. I placed a hand on her shoulder and she went rigid until I removed it. The reaction made me wonder about some kind of abuse. How many layers of this family would I be able to peel back?
The file on my nightstand was my preliminary research. Before-bed reading for the strong stomached.
Legal jargon, police prose, unspeakable snapshots. Perfectly typed transcripts with impeccable margins.
Ruthanne Wallace reduced to a coroner’s afternoon.
Wound depths, bone rills . . .
Donald Dell’s mug shot, wild-eyed, black-bearded, sweaty.
“And then she got mean on me—she knew I didn’t handle mean but that didn’t stop her, no way. And then I just—you know—lost it. It shouldn’ta happened. What can I say?”
I said, “Do you like to draw, Chondra?”
“Well, maybe we’ll find something you like in the playroom.”
She shrugged and looked down at the carpet.
Tiffani was fingering the frame of the picture. A George Bellows boxing print. I’d bought it, impulsively, in the company of a woman I no longer saw.
“Like the drawing?” I said.
She turned around and nodded, all cheekbones and nose and chin. Her mouth was very narrow and crowded with big, misaligned teeth that forced it open and made her look perpetually confused. Her hair was dishwater, cut institutionally short, the bangs hacked crookedly. Some kind of food stain specked her upper lip. Her nails were dirty, her eyes an unremarkable brown. Then she smiled and the look of confusion vanished. At that moment she could have modeled, sold anything.
“Yeah, it’s cool.”
“What do you especially like about it?”
“Yeah,” she said, punching air. “Action. Like WWA.”
“WWA,” I said. “World Wrestling?”
She pantomimed an uppercut. “Pow poom.” Then she looked at her sister and scowled, as if expecting support.
Chondra didn’t move.
“Pow poom,” said Tiffani, advancing toward her. “Welcome to WWA fighting, I’m Crusher Creeper and this is the Red Viper in a grudge match of the century. Ding!” Bell-pull pantomime.
She laughed, nervously. Chondra chewed her lip and tried to smile.
“Aar,” said Tiffani, coming closer. She pulled the imaginary cord again. “Ding. Pow poom.” Hooking her hands, she lurched forward with Frankenstein-monster unsteadiness. “Die, Viper! Aaar!”
She grabbed Chondra and began tickling her arms. The older girl giggled and tickled back, clumsily. Tiffani broke free and began circling, punching air. Chondra started chewing her lip, again.
I said, “C’mon, guys,” and took them to the library. Chondra sat immediately at the play table. Tiffani paced and shadowboxed, hugging the periphery of the room like a toy on a track, muttering and jabbing.
Chondra watched her, then plucked a sheet of paper off the top of a stack and picked up a crayon. I waited for her to draw, but she put the crayon down and watched her sister.
“Do you guys watch wrestling at home?” I said.
“Roddy does,” said Tiffani, without breaking step.
“Roddy’s your grandmother’s husband?”
Nod. Jab. “He’s not our grampa. He’s Mexican.”
“He likes wrestling?”
“Uh-huh. Pow poom.”
I turned to Chondra. She hadn’t moved. “Do you watch wrestling on TV, too?”
Shake of the head.
“She likes Surfriders,” said Tiffani. “I do, too, sometimes. And Millionaire’s Row.”
Chondra bit her lip.
“Millionaire’s Row,” I said. “Is that the one where rich people have all sorts of problems?”
“They die,” said Tiffani. “Sometimes. It’s really for real.” She put her arms down and stopped circling. Coming over to us, she said, “They die because money and materials are the roots of sins and when you lay down with Satan, your rest is never peaceful.”
“Do the rich people on Millionaire’s Row lay down with Satan?”
“Sometimes.” She resumed her circuit, striking out at unseen enemies.
“How’s school?” I asked Chondra.
She shook her head and looked away.
“We didn’t start yet,” said Tiffani.
“Gramma said we didn’t have to.”
“Do you miss seeing your friends?”
“Can I talk to Gramma about that?”
She looked at Chondra. The older girl was peeling the paper wrapper off a crayon.
Tiffani nodded. Then: “Don’t do that. They’re his.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
“You shouldn’t destroy other people’s stuff.”
“True,” I said. “But some things are meant to be used up. Like crayons. And these crayons are here for you.”
“Who bought them?” said Tiffani.
“Destroying’s Satan’s work,” said Tiffani, spreading her arms and rotating them in wide circles.
I said, “Did you hear that in church?”
She didn’t seem to hear. Punched the air. “He laid down with Satan.”
Chondra’s mouth dropped open. “Stop,” she said, very softly.
Tiffani came over and dropped her arm over her sister’s shoulder. “It’s okay. He’s not our dad anymore, remember? Satan turned him into a bad spirit and he got all his sins wrapped up like one. Like a big burrito.”
Chondra turned away from her.
“Come on,” said Tiffani, rubbing her sister’s back. “Don’t worry.”
“Wrapped up?” I said.
“Like one,” she explained to me. “The Lord counts up all your good deeds and your sins and wraps them up. So when you die, He can look right away and know if you go up or down. He’s going down. When he gets there, the angels’ll look at the package and know all he done. And then he’ll burn.”
She shrugged. “That’s the truth.”
Chondra’s eyes pooled with tears. She tried to remove Tiffani’s arm from her shoulder, but the younger girl held fast.
“It’s okay,” said Tiffani. “You got to talk about the truth.”
“Stop,” said Chondra.
“It’s okay,” Tiffani insisted. “You got to talk to him.” She looked at me. “So he’ll write a good book for the judge and he’ll never get out.”
Chondra looked at me.
I said, “Actually, what I write won’t change how much time he spends in jail.”
“Maybe,” insisted Tiffani. “If your book tells the judge how evil he is, then maybe he could put him in longer.”
“Was he ever evil to you?”
Chondra shook her head.
Tiffani said, “He hit us.”
“With his hand or something else?”
“Never a stick or a belt or something else?”
Another headshake from Chondra. Tiffani’s was slower, reluctant.
“Not a lot, but sometimes,” I said.
“When we were bad.”
“Making a mess—going near his bike—he hit Mom more. Right?” Prodding Chondra. “He did.”
Chondra gave a tiny nod, grabbed the crayon, and started peeling again. Tiffani watched but didn’t stop her.
“That’s why we left him,” she said. “He hit her all the time. And then he came after her with lust and sin in his heart and killed her—tell the judge that, you’re rich, he’ll listen to you!”
Chondra began crying. Tiffani patted her and said, “It’s okay, we got to.”
I got a tissue box. Tiffani took it from me and wiped her sister’s eyes. Chondra pressed the crayon to her lips.
“Don’t eat it,” said Tiffani. “It’s poison.”
Chondra let go and the crayon flew out of her hand and landed on the floor. Tiffani retrieved it and placed it neatly alongside the box.
Chondra was licking her lips. Her eyes were closed and one soft hand was fisted.
“Actually,” I said, “it’s not poisonous, just wax with color in it. But it probably doesn’t taste too good.”
Chondra opened her eyes. I smiled and she tried to smile, producing only a small rise in one corner of her mouth.
Tiffani said, “Well, it’s not food.”
“No, it isn’t.”
She paced some more. Boxed and muttered.
I said, “Let me go over what I told you last week. You’re here because your father wants you to visit him in jail. My job is to find out how you feel about that, so I can tell the judge.”
“Why doesn’t the judge ask us?”
“He will,” I said. “He’ll be talking to you, but first he wants me to—”
“Because that’s my job—talking to kids about their feelings. Finding out how they really—”
“We don’t want to see him,” said Tiffani. “He’s an insument of Satan.”
“An insument! He laid all down with Satan and became a sinful spirit. When he dies, he’s going to burn in hell, that’s for sure.”
Chondra’s hands flew to her face.
“Stop!” said Tiffani. She rushed over to her sister, but before she got there, Chondra stood and let out a single, deep sob. Then she ran for the door, swinging it open so hard it almost threw her off balance.
She caught it, then she was out.
Tiffani watched her go, looking tiny and helpless.
“You got to tell the truth,” she said.
I said, “Absolutely. But sometimes it’s hard.”
She nodded. Now her eyes were wet.
She paced some more.
I said, “Your sister’s older but it looks like you take care of her.”
She stopped, faced me, gave a defiant stare, but seemed comforted.
“You take good care of her,” I said.
“That must get hard sometimes.”
Her eyes flickered. She put her hands on her hips and jutted her chin.
“It’s okay,” she said.
“She’s my sister.” She stood there, knocking her hands against her legs.
I patted her shoulder.
She sniffed, then walked away.
“You got to tell the truth,” she said.
“Yes, you do.”
Punch, jab. “Pow poom . . . I wanna go home.”
Meet the Author
Jonathan Kellerman is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than three dozen bestselling crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series, The Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club, Twisted, and True Detectives. With his wife, bestselling novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored Double Homicide and Capital Crimes. With his son, bestselling novelist Jesse Kellerman, he co-authored the first book of a new series, The Golem of Hollywood. He is also the author of two children’s books and numerous nonfiction works, including Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children and With Strings Attached: The Art and Beauty of Vintage Guitars. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California, New Mexico, and New York.
- Beverly Hills, California
- Date of Birth:
- August 9, 1949
- Place of Birth:
- New York, New York
- B.A. in psychology, University of California-Los Angeles; Ph.D., University of Southern California, 1974
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This is a Dr. Alex Delaware and Detective Milo Sturgis mystery and is always a fantastic combination. Kellerman brings together a straight doctor and a gay cop. They eventually form a bond between them that proves to be an important part of both of their lives. There is no sexual connection with these two men but there is an understanding of what each of them require in order to live a normal life. They also are able to work on cases together, within reason. Some of Alex's and some of Milo's. They compliment each other and very often, depend on the other to solve crimes as in this story. Each character applies their own expertise to each situation and together, they are able to put together a much more vivid picture of what actually took place at a crime scene. It's an exiciting read and if you've never read the Dr. Alex Delaware series, start with the first book in the series and you will soon be looking to start the next book in the series. You will become a part of this exiting crime fighting team and see how together, they get involved in some unbelievable situations and also, solve some hideous crimes. This is an amazing series and this book, BAD LOVE, does not disappoint me and won't disappoint you.
I am SOOO disgusted with your "story" and I WILL TELL YOU THAT THAT IS NOT APPRECIATED AT ALL!!!!!!! GO TAKE YOUR SICKNESS AND LEAVE!!!!!!! I am sorry that I am yelling at you but is not an excuse. It is just so vile, no one will ever appreciate it in the long run.
You are a an unkind person. Do you really think other people want to her those nasty words. It hurts feelings. It makes them discouraged. Please dont do that. What if you worked on a story writeing it and thinking hard. Then you post it and somebody on there says super nasty words(You) and gets really mean(You) and discourages them(You) and makes them feel bad(You again). You would be really depressed. Think twice before you say something. And if you think thats so horrible why dont you write one yourself. Eight pages or more. Huh? Huh? Seriously./ Ignore that person. For He/She does not know what she/he is doing. Your story is great. Write another please. I check here every day you know.
It was a dark night when I returned home. I had just finished studying with Zack at his house. When I went in I saw that the sliding glass door was open. I went to the closet and saw that my shot gun wasn't there anymore. So I took the pepper spray out of my pocket and went to investigate. As I was on the last step to go upstairs, I heard my bed squeaking. I held my spray ready and went into my room. What I saw was my gun on the floor and my boyfriend, Jake, with a girl I had never seen before. I watched in horror as Jake was humping her. "What the he.ll do you think you're doing?" I yelled at him. He looked up and didn't say anything. The girl answered for him. "What does it look like? We're having s.ex," she said. I just stood there untill Jake offered me to join in. "Why the he.ll would I?" I asked still pis.sed that he had brought her into my house, much less my room and was having s.x with a stranger. "I just thought...." He trailed off. I stood there for a minute then stri.pped down untill I was na.ked. He smiled and moved over for me. I went over and layed down. The girl said, "My name's Lilly." I smiled and said, "I'm Samantha. And next time you two plan on having s.ex without me I will take the gun to both of your heads." I warned. Jake and Lilly both smiled at the threat. Lilly then began to finger my pu.ssy while Jake began to hump Lilly. I fingered Lilly as well. We kept at this for an hour. When we were done we sat there talking, my pu.ssy begining to throb. Then Jake turned to me and kissed me and we layed down, he shoved his 11 inch co.ck into me. Lilly came over and kissed me as well, we fingered each other while Jake kept humping. Then Lilly went down and licked Jake's di.ck each time he pulled out. Again we went at it for an hour. At that time Lilly had to go home. So she got up, got dressed and went home. That left me and Jake alone again. We smiled at each other then he asked, "Do you want to go to a str.ip club?" "Sounds like fun, why not?" I replied. (Please leave comments and suggestions on how to improve it for the next one, and possibly a name for the story.)
I liked the part where Alex sent Robin to stay with Rick and Miol until the issues with the previous case was resolved.
I LOVE THE BOOK
Bad Love was a terrific read and book. I really recommend it. It is a very detailed and riveting story of love and betrayal with many surprises and turns!! Ferdinand Starbuck
I thoroughly enjoyed this,my first novel by this author, which makes me want to read as many of his other novels and his non-fiction as well. I liked the complexity and development of the plot and characters. I felt I got to know the 2 main characters well without having read any of the author's previous works.