A Cold Heart

by Jonathan Kellerman

  He’s a year younger than me, but I like to think he looks older because he’s losing his hair. The strands that remain are fine and caramel-colored and too long— obvious overcompensation. There’s gray in his beard. Soulful, those eyes.

  Then, there’s the voice. The smoothest, most sonorous basso profundo you’ll ever hear. Every word rounded and plummy and cadenced. Walking advertisement for his craft.

  He’s a vocal coach, one of the best, works with opera singers and rock stars and high-priced public speakers, travels around a lot. Robin met him at a recording session a month after we separated. He’d been called in to help a diva whose larynx had frozen up, and he and Robin had started talking. She was there on an emergency call, too— several instruments knocked off kilter in transit.

  I thought of the kind of emergencies the two of them faced. The two of them lived in a different world from mine.

  From what I’d seen, Tim was easygoing, patient, rarely spoke unless he was spoken to. Divorced from another vocal coach, he had a twenty-year-old daughter studying at Juilliard who adored him.

  A week after Robin met him, she called me up. Once we got past the hemming and hawing, I realized she was asking my permission.

  I told her she didn’t need it, wished her the best, hung up. Then I sank low. Within a month, she and Tim were living together.

  • • •

  “So,” he said. The Voice making it sound profound. Maybe he was born with those pipes, but it set my teeth on edge.

  “How’s it going, Tim?”

  “Well. With you?”

  “Ditto.”

  He leaned against the doorjamb. “I’m on my way out, actually.”

  “On the road, again?”

  “Indeed. The road to Burbank— sounds like a Hope and Crosby movie.”

  “Have fun.”

  He didn’t budge. “You’re here to . . .”

  “See Spike.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “He’s at the vet. Having his teeth cleaned.”

  “Ah. There’s also something I need to talk to Robin about.”

  No movement for a second, then he stepped aside.

  I walked past him, through the small, dim living room furnished with his solid oak furniture and the few things Robin had taken with her. An old closet in the hallway had been turned into a passageway between the units. Through the door, I could hear the roar of a table saw.

  “Alex?”

  I stopped and turned. Tim remained in the doorway. “Please don’t upset her.”

  “I wasn’t intending to.”

  “I know— look, I’ll be frank with you. The last time she spoke to you she was really upset.”

  “The last time she spoke to me was volitional. She dropped in on me.”

  He showed me his palms in a pacific gesture. “I know that, Alex. She wanted to talk to you about Baby Boy Lee. I thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Listening to her.”

  “Yet you think I upset her.”

  “No— look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just that . . .”

  I waited.

  He said, “Forget it,” and turned to leave.

  I said, “Did you know Baby Boy?”

  The sudden change of topic made him flinch. “I knew of him.”

  “Ever work with him?”

  “Never.”

  “What about China Maranga?”

  “That name I don’t know.”

  “She was a singer,” I said. “More of a screamer, actually. Which is why I figured she might’ve consulted you.”

  “The screamers seldom do. Why are you asking about her?”

  “She’s dead. Murdered, like Baby Boy.”

  “That’s what you’re here for? Alex, I really don’t think Robin should be exposed to any more—”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I continued toward the connecting door.

  “Fine,” he called after me. “You’re tough-minded. I concede. Now how about thinking of Robin, this time?”

  This time. Dangling the bait. I swam by.

  • • •

  I stepped into the heat of machinery and the smell of hardwood. The floor was coated with sawdust. Several projects— guitars and mandolins in various stages of completion— hung on the wall. Robin’s back was to me as she guided a block of rosewood through the whirring blade. Her hair was gathered under one of those bandanas she collects. She wore goggles, a dust mask, had on a tight, white tank top, loose black cotton yoga pants, white tennis shoes. The dark wood hissed and threw off what looked like chocolate chips. Startling her would be dangerous, so I stood there and watched and waited until she’d flipped the switch and stepped away from the saw and the roar died to a growl.

  “Hi,” I said.

  She flipped around, stared at me through the goggles, pulled down the mask, laid the trimmed piece of rosewood on the bench.

  “Hi.” She wiped her hands on a rag.

  “Just saw Tim on the way out. He’s worried I’m going to upset you.”

  “Are you?”

  “Maybe.”

  Flipping the mask over her back, she said, “C’mon, I’m thirsty.”

  I followed her into the tiny, old kitchen at the rear of the duplex. Old, white appliances, yellow tiles, several of them mended. The room was one-third the size of the spiffy new kitchen we’d designed together. But as in that room, all was spotless, everything in its place.

  She got a pitcher of iced tea and poured two glasses and brought them to the Formica table that barely fit the room. Space for two chairs, only. Guess they didn’t entertain much. Probably busy entertaining each other. . . .

  “Cheers,” she said, looking anything but cheerful.

  We drank tea. She glanced at her watch.

  I said, “If you’re busy—”

  “No, I’m tired. Been at it since six, ready for my nap.”

  In the old days, I’d have suggested a mutual nap. “I’ll go,” I said.

  “No. What’s on your mind, Alex?”

  “China Maranga.”

  “What about her?”

  “I was thinking,” I said. “She and Baby Boy. There could be similarities.”

  “China? In what way?”

  I told her, added the bare facts of Juliet Kipper’s murder.

  She got pale. “I guess— but really, there are so many differences.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said.

  “You could say China’s career was taking off,” she said. “Her records were selling better than anyone expected. But, still . . . Alex, I hope you’re wrong. That would be hideous.”

  “Murdering art?”

  “Murdering artists because they’re on the way up.” Her color hadn’t returned.

  “Here I go again,” I said, “bringing the bad stuff into your life.” I stood. “I was wrong. Tim was right.”

  “About what?”

  “The last time you saw me you were upset. I should know better.”

  She frowned. “Tim tries to protect me. . . . I was upset. But not by anything you did.”

  “What, then?”

  “Everything. The state of the world— all this change. I know we did the right thing, but . . . then Baby Boy. One day I’m talking to him, the next day he no longer exists. At the time I guess I was especially vulnerable. I’m better now. Talking to you helped.”

  “Till now.”

  “Even now.”

  She took hold of my wrist. “You were there for me.”

  “For a change.”

  She let go and shook her head. “With all our history, you still need to fish for compliments?”

  The spot where she’d touched me itched.

  “Sit down,” she said. “Please. Have more tea. We can be civilized.”

  I took a seat.

  “Baby Boy was my friend,” she said. “I had no relationship with China. My only contact with her was that one job, and she wasn’t happy with it. Remember how s
he flipped me off?”

  “Flipped us off,” I said. “I think it was me she didn’t care for. She kept calling me Mr. Yuppie.”

  “She was obnoxious . . . there’s something she didn’t have in common with Baby. He was the sweetest guy in the world. Another difference is that he had real talent. And her body was buried— no, I don’t see it, Alex. My bet is she allowed herself to get picked up by the wrong person, maybe shot off her mouth and paid for it.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “She left the session angry. What about her band? Any of them ever display aggressive tendencies?”

  “Those guys?” she said. “Hardly. They were like China. College kids playing naughty. And why would they kill China? When she died, so did the band. What does Milo think?”

  “I haven’t asked him, yet.”

  “You came here, first?”

  “You’re a lot better-looking.”

  “I guess that would depend on who you ask.”

  “No,” I said. “Even Rick would say you’re cuter.” I got up again. “Thanks and sorry if I upset your biorhythm. Have a good nap.”

  I began walking toward the front of the house.

  “They’re hard, aren’t they?” she called after me.

  “What?”

  “Changes in biorhythm. Tim’s wonderful to me, but sometimes I still find myself starting to say something to you . . . are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “She’s treating you well?”

  “Yes. How’s Spike?”

  “Too bad he’s not here,” she said. “Periodontal work.”

  “Ouch.”

  “They’re keeping him overnight. You can visit. Call to make sure someone’s here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Okay,” she said, standing. “Let me walk you out.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Not necessary but polite. Mama raised me right.”

  • • •

  She accompanied me to the curb. “I’ll think more about China, ask around. If I come up with anything, I’ll let you know.” Big grin. “Hey, look at me: girl detective.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said.

  She took my hand in both of hers. “Alex, what I said before is true. You didn’t upset me. Not then, and not now.”

  “Big tough girl?”

  She looked up at me and smiled. “I’m still pretty small.”

  Once upon a time, you took up a big corner of my heart.

  “Not to me,” I said.

  “You could always do that,” she said. “Make me feel important. I’m not sure I did that for you.”

  “Of course you did,” I said.

  She’s wonderful. What the hell happened?

  Allison’s wonderful . . .

  I dropped her hand, got into the car, started up the engine, and turned to give her a wave. She’d already gone inside.

  12

  A partner. The last thing Petra needed.

  Not that she had any choice. Halfway through her shift, Schoelkopf had summoned her into his office and dangled a scrap of paper in her face. Transfer slip.

  “From where?” she said.

  “The Army. He’s new to the department but he’s got serious experience as a military investigator, so don’t treat him like an idiot rookie.”

  “Captain, I’ve been doing fine solo—”

  “Well, gee, that’s great, Connor. I’m so glad the job’s giving you intrinsic satisfaction. Here you go.”

  Waving the paper. Petra took it but didn’t read it.

  Schoelkopf said, “Go. He’s due over in a couple of hours. Find him a desk and make him feel at home.”

  “Should I bake him cookies, sir?”

  The captain’s big black mustache spread as he flashed too-white caps. Last summer, he’d been gone for three weeks and had come back with a scary tan and new dentition and what looked like more hair in front.

  He said, “If that’s where your girlish talents lie, Detective, go ahead. My personal preference is oatmeal crunch.” He waved Petra away.

  When she reached his door, he said, “That Armenian thing squared away?”

  “Seems to be.”

  “Seems to be?”

  “It’s all set with the D.A.”

  “What’s on your plate, now?”

  “The Nunes stabbing—”

  “Which one’s that?”

  “Manuel Nunes. The bricklayer who troweled his wife—”

  “Yeah, yeah, the bloody mortar. You on top of it?”

  “It’s not a whodunit,” said Petra. “When the blues showed up Nunes was holding the trowel. I’m dotting the t’s and crossing the i’s.” She resisted the temptation to cross her own eyes and give the bastard a goofy look.

  “Well, dot and cross everything— speaking of whodunits, you ever accomplish anything on that musician— the fat boy, Lee?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re telling me it’s ice-cold?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “What,” said Schoelkopf, “some nutcase just walked up and gutted him?”

  “I can bring you the file—”

  “Nah,” said Schoelkopf. “So you got stuck. Guess what, it’s good for you, once in a while. Gain a little humility.” More caps. “Lucky for you he wasn’t a big-time celebrity. Small potatoes like that, it goes cold, no one gives a shit. What about his family? Anyone squawking at you?”

  “He didn’t have much family.”

  “Lucky for you, again.” Schoelkopf’s big smile was polluted by anger. The two of them had gotten off to a bad start, and no matter what Petra did, she knew it would never improve. “You’re a pretty lucky gal—’scuse me, lucky woman— aren’t you?”

  “I do my best.”

  “Sure you do,” said Schoelkopf. “Okay, that’s all. Show G.I. Joe the ropes. Maybe he’ll turn out to be a lucky guy, too.”

  • • •

  She returned to the detectives’ room, calmed herself down, glanced at the scrap. Expecting a capsule background on her new partner. But all Schoelkopf had scrawled on the form was a name.

  Eric Stahl

  Eric. Cute-sounding. A military guy. Petra got herself a hot chocolate from the vending machine downstairs and climbed back up with her imagination in high gear. Picturing Eric as buff and cut, a Clint Eastwoody type, maybe one of those precision military buzz do’s. An outdoor dude who surfed and biked, skydove, bungee-jumped, did all those adrenalized things.

  A high-energy partner was fine with her. He could do the driving.

  He showed up twenty minutes later. She’d been right about the haircut, but nothing else.

  Eric Stahl was thirty or so, five-ten, tops, painfully thin, stoop-shouldered and gangly-limbed. The buzz was medium brown, prickly hairs riding the narrow, brooding face of a starving poet. Lord, this white boy was white! A too-many-hours-in-the-library complexion. Except for incongruous coins of pink on his cheeks— fever spots.

  Sunken cheeks. Dagger-point chin, lipless mouth, the deepest-set eyes Petra had ever seen. As if someone had poked them with two fingers and pushed them back into his skull. Same matte brown as the hair. Static.

  He said, “Detective Connor? Eric Stahl,” without extending a hand or moving. Just stood by her desk, wearing a black suit, white shirt, and gray tie.

  Petra said, “Hi, why don’t you sit down.”

  Indicating a chair at the side of her desk.

  Stahl considered the offer, finally accepted.

  His black suit seemed to compound her own outfit: an ebony Vestimenta pantsuit she’d bought at the Barney’s hanger sale two seasons ago. Funereal; the two of them looked like the welcoming committee at Forest Lawn.

  Stahl didn’t bat a lash. High energy, indeed. That face . . . grow out the buzz cut and dress him in leather pants and a bunch of other punky whatnot, and he’d fit right in with any of the dissolute hustlers you saw staggering down the boulevard.