A Cold Heart

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “That’s the way it can be with women,” I said.

  “True.”

  We traded Y-chromosome chuckles.

  “Anyway,” he said.

  “Be well, Tim.”

  “You, too.”

  Two days after that, Robin phoned. “I don’t want to bother you, but I also don’t want you to find out from someone else. Guitar Player’s running a profile on me, and I must admit I think that’s extremely cool. I know you buy it sometimes, so I thought you might see it.”

  “Beyond cool,” I said. “Tell me the issue, and I’ll be sure to buy it.”

  “This coming issue,” she said. “They interviewed me a while back but never told me the piece was going to run. They called me today to say it was. It’ll probably complicate my life by throwing me more business when I don’t need it, but who cares; getting out in the limelight once in a while feels good. I’m such a baby, huh?”

  “You deserve it,” I said. “Enjoy.”

  “Thanks, Alex. How’s everything?”

  “Moving along.”

  “Anything new on Baby or that painter?”

  “No,” I said. When we were together she’d never wanted to know about that kind of thing. Maybe it was her affection for Baby Boy. Or the fact that what I did with my life no longer touched hers.

  “Well,” she said, “I’m sure if anyone can figure it out, it’s you.”

  “Aw shucks, ma’am.”

  “Bye,” she said, and the laughter in her voice put a little light in my day.

  • • •

  Milo reached me at home, the following Thursday, just after 9 P.M. Solitary end of a solitary day. I’d finished the last of my reports, collected tax information for my accountant, did a few handyman chores around the house. When the phone rang, I was doing the couch-spud bit: wearing grubby sweats, snarfing takeout ribs, a couple of Grolsches within reach. Dimming the lights and turning up the volume on the big screen as I watched both reels of Magnolia. Thinking, once again, that the film was a work of genius.

  The previous two nights, I’d slept at Allison’s place, waking up in her cozy, girly bedroom, smelling perfume and breakfast, resting the grizzle of my unshaven face against soft sweet sheets, dividing my brain between delight and disorientation.

  No more talk about Grant or Robin, and she seemed content— or trying to fake it. She moved appointments around and took a day off and we drove up the coast, had lunch in Montecito, at the Stone House. Then we continued to Santa Barbara, walked along the beach, and up State Street to the art museum where a portraiture show was on display.

  Black-eyed, too-wise Robert Henri children, the wistful, wounded women of Raphael Soyer, the dandies and dolled-up ladies of John Koch’s New York arty crowd.

  Pale, languid, dark-haired Singer Sargent beauties who made me look at Allison with new appreciation.

  A late dinner at the Harbor, on the pier, stretched out to 11 P.M., and we got back to L.A. just before 1 A.M. For the last twenty miles I fought to stay awake. When I pulled up in front of Allison’s house, I hoped she wouldn’t invite me in.

  She said, “This has been great— you’re great for me. Want some instant coffee before you shove off?”

  “I’ll make it.”

  I kissed her and drove off. Now the night was mine.

  The next morning, I rented the movie.

  • • •

  Milo said, “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Beer and ribs and Magnolia.”

  “That, again? What is it, the tenth time?”

  “Third. What’s up?”

  “You alone?”

  “Yup.”

  “Then screw you for hoarding ribs.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Come over and scavenge.”

  “Don’t tempt me, Satan. No, Rick’s cutting his shift early, and we’re heading over to the Jazz Bakery. Larry Coryell’s in town, and you know Rick. Anyway, CoCo Barnes sent over her drawing of the redhead. Afraid you were right. It’s just this side of abstract— those cataracts scotch her as any kind of reliable witness. Also, here’s the scoop on Everett Kipper. Not a popular guy.”

  “Among who?”

  “His neighbors,” he said. “He lives in a nice part of Pasadena— near the border with San Marino. Big craftsman place on a full-acre lot, lotsa house for one guy. The rest of the block’s families and senior citizens. Both of Kipper’s immediate neighbors are the latter— genteel old folk. They say he’s unfriendly, keeps to himself, used to go out to his garage late at night, create a racket hammering marble or whatever. Finally, they called the cops, who went out and had a talk with Kipper. After that, things quieted down, but Kipper got downright unfriendly— doesn’t answer when spoken to. The cops told him to cool it by ten, and the neighbors say Kipper makes a point of hammering up until the stroke of ten. Leaves his garage door open, making sure he can be heard.”

  “Hostile and vindictive,” I said. “Sculpting and tearing it apart.”

  “I spoke to the Pasadena cops, but all they remember is the nuisance call. They sent me the report. Nothing illuminating. The neighbors also said Kipper rarely if ever entertains visitors, but every so often there was a blond lady around. I showed them Julie’s picture, they thought maybe it was her.”

  “Maybe?”

  “These are folks in their eighties and no one got a close look. Blond is what they remember— very, very light blond hair, the way Julie’s was. So looks like Kipper was telling the truth when he said they’d maintained a relationship.”

  “How often was she there?”

  “Irregularly. Sometimes once a month, sometimes twice. One of the old gals did tell me she’s sure the blonde sometimes stayed the night because she saw her and Kipper getting into Kipper’s Ferrari the next morning.”

  “Occasional intimacy,” I said.

  “Maybe she came by to pick up the alimony in person, and they forgot why they split up. That got me thinking about what you said— Julie’s dependency. What if she decided she no longer wanted any part of that, told Kipper so, and things got nasty? He wouldn’t kill her at his place. Not with the neighbors looking over his shoulder, that police report already on file. You’ve been talking about a smart, calculating guy, and he’s a bright one. Do I have any way to prove it? Nyet. But there’s nothing else in my scope.”

  “What’s the state of Kipper’s finances?”

  “I’m light-years away from any kind of warrant on his accounts, but from all appearances, he’s doing well. In addition to the Testarossa, he’s got a vintage bathtub Porsche, an old MG, and a Toyota Land Cruiser. The house is stately and pretty, he keeps up the gardening and the maintenance— the place sparkles from the curb. Neighbors say he dresses sharp, even on casual days. One coot said he looked ‘Hollywood.’ Which in Pasadena is damn near felonious. Another one— an old lady— went on about Kipper liking black. Described it as ‘an undertaker uniform.’ Then her husband chimes in, and says, ‘No, he looks like one of the stiffs.’ Ninety-one, and he’s cracking wise. Maybe it was the gin and tonic talking— they invited me in for a drinkie. I think I was the most exciting thing in the ’hood since the last Rose Bowl.”

  “Gin and tonics with the old folk,” I said. “Refined.”

  “The Queen Mother drank gin and tonics and she lived to 101. But I had Coke. Let me tell you, it was tempting— they were pouring Bombay, and I haven’t had much fun, recently. Virtue triumphed. Goddammit. Anyway, Kipper is still on my screen. The hostile, aggressive loner. Also, I did ask around about tall redheaded homeless gals. A few possibles surfaced on the Westside or Pacific Division, but all turned out to be wrong. One of the shelters in Hollywood does remember a woman named Bernadine or Ernadine who fits the description. Tall, big bones, crazy, midthirties or about. She drops in occasionally to dry out, but they haven’t seen her in a while. The shelter supervisor had the feeling she’d fallen quite a ways.”

  “Why?”

  “When her head cleared, she could sound
fairly intelligent.”

  “No last name?”

  “Unlike the public shelters, the privates don’t always keep records— it’s a church group, Dove House. Pure good deeds, no questions asked.”

  “When Bernadine sounded intelligent,” I said, “what did she talk about?”

  “I dunno. Why? This was just time-killing because I dead-ended on Kipper.”

  “Just wondering if she was a fan of the arts.”

  “All of a sudden you think it’s worth pursuing?”

  “Not really.”

  “What?”

  “Forget it,” I said. “I don’t want to waste your time.”

  “Right now my time isn’t exactly precious. Julie Kipper’s uncle called this morning, politely inquiring as to my progress, and I had to tell him there was none. What’s on your mind, Alex?”

  I told him about the other killings I’d found, recounted my talk with Paul Brancusi.

  “Wilfred Reedy I remember,” he said. “Another of Rick’s favorite jazz guys. I think that one was a dope thing. Reedy pissing off a dealer, or something like that.”

  “Reedy was an addict?”

  “Reedy’s kid was an addict. He OD’d and died and Reedy got hot about all the dealing near the South Central clubs, started making noise. I could be wrong, but that’s what I remember.”

  “So it was solved?”

  “Don’t know, I’ll find out,” he said. “So . . . jealousy’s become the motive?”

  “It’s the one point of consistency: artists struck down just as they’re about to ascend. Four, if you include Angelique Bernet. But the differences outweigh any link.”

  “Wilfred Reedy wasn’t ascending. He’d been admired for years.”

  “Like I said, wasting your time.”

  Silence.

  “On the surface, it’s not much,” he said. “Still, I ain’t sherlocking anything the old-fashioned way. Why don’t I do this: make a few calls and try to disprove the theory. That’s the scientific method, right? Blow up the whatchamacallit . . .”

  “The null hypothesis.”

  “Exactly. I’ll find out who handled Reedy, talk to Cambridge PD, see what’s really gone down. I can also check whether or not that ceramicist’s boyfriend is still behind bars, what are their names?”

  “Valerie Brusco and Tom Blaskovitch,” I said. “He was sentenced three years ago.”

  “Another creative type?”

  “Sculptor.”

  “Same as Kipper— maybe another vindictive chisel man. Ah, the art world. Like I tell my mother, you never know when the job will elevate you to higher ground.”

  16

  The next few weeks were a slow fade to futility. No new evidence on the Kipper murder surfaced, and Milo learned nothing about the other killings that excited him. He contacted Petra and learned she’d dead-ended on Baby Boy.

  Tom Blaskovitch, the sculptor-killer, had been released from prison a year before, having earned good behavior points by setting up art classes for his fellow inmates. But he’d settled in Idaho, gotten a job as a handyman at a dude ranch, which was exactly where his boss was certain he’d been on the nights of the Kipper and the Lee murders.

  Detective Fiorelle of the Cambridge police remembered me as a “pushy guy, one of those intellectuals— I know the type, plenty around here.” The facts of Angelique Bernet’s murder did nothing to support any link with Baby Boy or Julie: The dancer had been stabbed half a dozen times and dumped in an area of the college town that was well traveled during the day but quiet at night. No strangulation, no sexual posing; she’d been found fully clad.

  The detective who’d worked the Wilfred Reedy case was dead. Milo got a copy of the file. Reedy had been gut-stabbed in an alley like Baby Boy, but strong indications of a drug-related hit had surfaced at the time, including the name of a probable suspect: a small-time dealer named Celestino Hawkins, who’d fed the habit of Reedy’s son. Hawkins had served time for assault with a knife. He’d been dead for three years.

  China Maranga’s file was thin and cold.

  Milo phoned Julie Kipper’s uncle and told him not to expect any quick solve. The uncle was gracious, and that made Milo feel worse.

  • • •

  Allison and I spent more time at each other’s houses. I bought Guitar Player and read the profile on Robin. Spent a long time staring at the photos.

  Robin in her new shop. No mention there’d ever been another one. Gorgeous carved guitars and mandolins and celebrity endorsements and big smiles. The camera loved her.

  I wrote her a brief congratulatory note, received a thank-you card in return.

  • • •

  Two and a half months after Julie Kipper’s murder, the weather warmed and the case file froze. Milo cursed and put it aside and resumed excavating cold cases.

  Few of them were solvable, and that kept him grumbling and occupied. The times we got together, he never failed to mention Julie— sometimes with that forced blithe tone that meant failure was eating at him.

  Soon after that, Allison and I drove up to Malibu Canyon to watch a meteor shower. We found an isolated turnoff, lowered the top of her Jaguar, reclined the seats, and watched cosmic dust streak and explode. Shortly after we got home, at 1:15 A.M. the phone rang. I was skimming the papers, and Allison was reading V. S. Naipaul’s The Mimic Men. She’d pinned her hair up. Tiny, black-framed reading glasses rode her nose. As I lifted the receiver, she looked over at the nightstand clock.

  Most of the early-morning calls were hers. Patient emergencies.

  I picked up.

  Milo spit, “Another one.”

  I mouthed his name, and she nodded.

  “Classical pianist,” he went on, “stabbed and strangled after a concert. Right behind the venue. And guess what: This guy was on his way up, career-wise. Record deal pending. It wasn’t my call, but I heard it on the scanner, I went over and took over. Lieutenant’s prerogative. I’m here at the scene. I want you to see it.”

  “Now?” I said.

  Allison put the book down.

  “Is there a problem?” he said. “You’re not a night owl anymore?”

  “One sec.” I covered the phone, looked at Allison.

  “Go,” she said.

  “Where?” I asked Milo.

  “Hop, skip, and jump for you,” he said. “Bristol Avenue, Brentwood. The north side.”

  “Moving up in the world,” I said.

  “Who, me?”

  “The bad guy.”

  • • •

  Bristol was lovely and shaded by old cedars and marked by circular turnarounds every block or so. Most of the homes were the original Tudors and Spanish Colonials. The murder house was new, a Greek Revivalish thing on the west side of the street. Three square stories, white and columned, bigger by half than the neighboring mansions, with all the welcoming warmth of a law school. A flat green lawn was marked by a single, fifty-foot liquidambar tree and nothing else. High-voltage lighting was blatant and focused. A stroll away was Rockingham Avenue, where O. J. Simpson had dripped blood on his own driveway.

  A black-and-white with its cherry flashing half blocked the street. Milo had left my name with the uniform on duty and I got smiled through with a “Certainly, Doctor.”

  That was a first. Lieutenant’s prerogative?

  Four more squad cars fronted the big house, along with two crime-scene vans and a coroner’s wagon. The sky was moonless and impenetrable. All the shooting stars gone.

  The next uniform I encountered offered standard-issue cop distrust as he called on his walkie-talkie. Finally: “Go on in.”

  A ton of door responded to my fingertip— some sort of pneumatic assist. As I stepped inside, I saw Milo striding toward me, looking like a day trader whose portfolio had just imploded.

  Hurrying across a thousand square feet of marble entry hall.

  The foyer had twenty-foot ceilings, ten percent of that moldings and dentils and scrollwork. The floor was white marble in
set with black granite squares. A crystal chandelier blazed enough wattage to power a third-world hamlet. The walls were gray marble veined with apricot, carved into linen-fold panels. Three were bare, one was hung with a frayed brown tapestry— hunters and hounds and voluptuous women. To the right, a brass-railed marble staircase swooped up to a landing backed by gilt-framed portraits of stoic, long-dead people.

  Milo wore baggy jeans and a too-large gray shirt and a too-small gray herringbone sport coat. He fit the ambience the way a boil fits a supermodel.