A Cold Heart

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Beyond the entry hall was a much larger room. Wood floors, plain white walls. Rows of folding chairs faced a raised stage upon which sat a black grand piano. Several scoop-shaped, gridlike contraptions hung from the corners of the curved wooden ceiling— some sort of acoustic enhancement. No windows. Double doors at the rear blended with the plaster.

  A pedestal sign to the left of the piano read SILENCE PLEASE. The piano bench was tucked under the instrument. Sheet music was spread on the rack.

  The double doors opened and a thickset man in his sixties burst forth like a hatchling, trotting after Milo.

  “Detective! Detective!” He waved his hands and huffed to catch up.

  Milo turned.

  “Detective, may I send the staff home? It’s frightfully late.”

  “Just a while longer, Mr. Szabo.”

  The man’s jowls quivered and set. “Yes, of course.” He glanced at me, and his eyes disappeared in a nest of creases and folds. His lips were moist and purplish, and his color was bad— mottled, coppery.

  Milo told him my name but didn’t append my title. “This is Mr. Stefan Szabo, the owner.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said.

  “Yes, yes.” Szabo fussed with a diamond cuff link and offered his hand. His palm was hot and soft, so moist it verged on squishy. He was soft and lumpy, bald but for red-brown fuzz above floppy ears. His face was the shape of a well-bred eggplant and the nose that centered it a smaller version of the vegetable— a pendulous, plump, Japanese eggplant. He wore a white silk, wing-collared formal shirt fastened by half-carat diamond studs, a ruby paisley cummerbund, black, satin-striped tuxedo pants, and patent loafers.

  “Poor Vassily, this is terrible beyond terrible. And now everyone will hate me.”

  “Hate you, sir?” said Milo.

  “The publicity,” said Szabo. “When I built the odeum, I took such pains to go through every channel. Wrote personal notes to the neighbors, assured everyone that only private affairs and very occasional fund-raisers would be held. And always, the ultimate discretion. My policy’s always been consistent: fair warning to everyone within a two-block radius, ample parking valets. I took pains, Detective. And, now this.”

  He wrung his hands. “I need to be especially careful because of you-know-who. During the trial, life was hell. But beyond that, I’m a loyal Brentwoodite. Now this.”

  Szabo’s eyes bugged suddenly. “Were you involved in that one?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, that’s good,” said Szabo. “Because if you were, I can’t say I’d have any great confidence in you.” He sniffed the air. “The poor odeum. I don’t know if I’ll be able to continue.”

  “Mr. Szabo built a private concert hall, Alex. The victim was tonight’s performer.”

  “The victim.” Szabo placed a hand over his heart. Before he could speak, the doors opened again and a young, lithe Asian man in snug black satin pants, a black silk shirt, and a red bow tie hurried toward us.

  “Tom!” said Szabo. “The detective says a while longer.”

  The young man nodded. He looked to be thirty at most, with poreless, tight skin glowing ivory under a dense blue-black cirrus of hair. “Whatever it takes, Stef. Are you okay?”

  “Not hardly, Tom.”

  The young man turned to me. “Tom Loh.” His hand was cool, dry, powerful.

  Szabo hooked his arm around Loh’s biceps. “Tom designed the odeum. Designed the house. We’re partners.”

  “In life,” said Tom Loh.

  Szabo said, “Is the caterer doing anything or just standing around? As long as she’s stuck here, she might as well tidy up.”

  Milo said, “Mr. Szabo, let’s hold off on cleanup until the crime-scene people are through.”

  “Crime-scene people,” said Szabo. Tears filled his eyes. “Never in my life did I imagine that term would be relevant to our home.”

  Tom Loh said, “Is the— is Vassily still here?”

  “The body will be removed as soon as we’re finished,” said Milo.

  “Sure, fine, whatever. Is there anything else I can tell you? About Vassily, the concert?”

  “We’ve already been through the guest list, sir.”

  “But as I told you,” Szabo broke in, “the guest list is only part of the audience. Eighty-five out of a hundred and thirteen people. And you must take my word: every one of those eighty-five is beyond reproach. Twenty-five are our faithful season-ticket holders— neighbors whom we grant free admission.”

  “Stroking the neighbors,” explained Loh. “So we could get the odeum through zoning hassles.”

  “Eighty-five out of one thirteen,” said Milo. “Leaving twenty-eight strangers.”

  “But surely,” said Szabo, “anyone who’d be interested in Chopin would be too refined to . . .”

  Loh said, “Let them do their job, Stef.” His hand rested atop the older man’s shoulder.

  “Oh, I know you’re right. I’m just a fellow trying to make the world a more beautiful place, what do I know about this kind of thing?” Szabo smiled weakly. “Tom reads mystery novels. He appreciates this kind of thing.”

  “Only in fiction,” said Loh. “This is hideous.”

  Szabo seemed to take that as a reproach. “Yes, yes, of course, I’m babbling, don’t know what I’m saying. Go about your business, Detective.” He touched his chest. “I need to sit down.”

  Loh said, “Go upstairs, I’ll bring you a Pear William.” Taking Szabo’s arm, he guided the older man toward the landing, stopped and watched as Szabo trudged the rest of the way by himself, then returned to us.

  “He’s traumatized.”

  “How long have you had the odeum?” said Milo.

  “Same time as the house,” said Loh. “Three years. But the project was over a decade in the making. We began right after Stef and I moved from New York. We were together two years before that. Stef was in the hosiery business, and I was in urban design, did public and private spaces. We met at a reception for Zubin Mehta. Stef had always been a classical music freak, and I was there because I’d done some work for one of the maestro’s friends.”

  Dark, almondine eyes focused on Milo. “Do you think this will jeopardize the odeum?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir.”

  “Because it’s vital to Stef.” Loh plinked one end of his red bowtie. “I really don’t think there’d be any legal basis to stop it. The neighbors have been supportive. Stef buys their children’s school raffle tickets by the score, and we contribute heavily to every neighborhood project. We’re on good terms with the zoning board, and believe me that took some doing.”

  “Zoning board raffle tickets?” said Milo.

  Loh’s eyes rolled, and he smiled. “Don’t ask— the point is, I’d hate for it to end. It means a lot to Stef, and he means a lot to me.”

  “How often do you throw concerts?”

  “Throw concerts,” said Loh, amused by the image. “Stef schedules four a year. Last year, we added an extra one at Christmas, as a benefit for the John Robert Preston School.”

  “Neighbor’s kid?”

  Loh’s smile widened. “I can see why you’re a detective.”

  Milo said, “I went over the till and counted thirteen checks from people not on the guest list. That leaves another fifteen who paid cash. The cash balance matches perfectly. Any idea who those fifteen are?”

  Loh shook his head. “You’d have to ask Anita— the girl at the door.”

  “I did. She doesn’t recall.”

  “Sorry,” said Loh. “It’s not as if we were looking for— as if this could’ve been anticipated.”

  “What can you tell me about Vassily Levitch?”

  “Young, intense. Like all of them. Stefan would know more. Music is his passion.”

  “And you?”

  “I keep things organized.”

  “Is there anything you can say about Levitch’s demeanor?”

  “Very quiet, nervous about the performance. He
barely slept or ate, and I heard him pacing in his room just before the recital. But really, Detective, that’s how it usually is. These people are gifted, and they work harder than can be imagined. Vassily arrived two days ago and practiced seven hours each day. When he wasn’t playing, he was holed up in his room.”

  “No visitors?”

  “No visitors and two phone calls. From his mother and his agent. He’d never been to L.A. before.”

  “Gifted,” said Milo. “And on his way up.”

  “That’s Stefan’s thing,” said Loh. “He seeks out rising stars and tries to help their ascent.”

  “By offering them recital time, here?”

  “And money. Our foundation issues grants. Nothing lavish, each artist receives a fifteen-thousand-dollar stipend.”

  “Sounds generous to me.”

  “Stef’s the soul of generosity.”

  “How does Mr. Szabo locate the artists— how did he find Vassily Levitch, specifically?”

  “From Vassily’s agent in New York. Now that the concerts have achieved a certain reputation, we get contacted frequently. The agent sent Stefan a tape, and Stefan listened to it and decided Vassily would be perfect. Stefan tends to favor soloists or small ensembles. We’re not exactly set up for an orchestra.”

  “How long before the concert were the arrangements made?”

  “A while back,” said Loh. “Months. We need ample time for preparation. The acoustics, the lighting, choosing the caterer. And, of course, the advance publicity. Such as it is.”

  “Which is?”

  “Occasional mention on selected radio stations. KBAK— the classic station mentions us twice a day for two weeks prior. That fits our budget as well as our aspiration. We can’t handle a large crowd, nor do we wish one.”

  “Eighty-five on the guest list,” said Milo. “Why not prearrange all the seats?”

  “Stefan left a few extras for outsiders in order to be public-spirited. Music students, teachers, that kind of thing.”

  “Any publicity other than radio?”

  “We don’t try for that,” said Loh. “Even the small bit of exposure we get means more seat requests than we can handle.”

  “Was that true tonight?”

  “I’d assume so.” Loh frowned. “You can’t seriously believe a member of the audience did this.”

  “At this point, I’ll entertain any theories, sir.”

  “Here’s mine: Someone intruded. The truth is, anyone could’ve gone back there behind the poolhouse and stabbed Vassily. Bristol’s an open street, we don’t like living behind walls and gates.”

  “What would Levitch have been doing back there?”

  Loh shrugged. “Possibly walking off his tension after the recital.”

  “Any idea when he left the reception?”

  “Not a clue. People were milling. Stefan suggests that the artists stick around. For their sake— making connections. Generally, the artists comply. Obviously, Vassily slipped away.”

  “Shy type?” said Milo. “Holing up in his room.”

  “Yes. But he did like to stroll the garden at night. After he finished practicing. By himself.”

  “Were there guests milling outside, too?”

  “We discourage that, try to keep them indoors. Trampling the plants and all that. But it’s not as if we post armed guards.”

  “No armed guards,” said Milo. “Just one security man.”

  “For the neighbors— they prefer that Bristol be free of a Gestapo ambience. And there’s never been any need for an army of guards. This is one of the safest neighborhoods in the city. Despite you-know-who.”

  “The only fence is at the rear property line.”

  “Correct, behind the tennis court,” said Loh.

  “How big’s the property?”

  “A little over two acres.”

  “What was the security guard’s specific assignment?”

  “To provide security, whatever that means. I’m sure he wasn’t prepared for any . . . serious eventuality. This wasn’t exactly a rap concert. The average age of the audience had to be sixty-five. We’re talking perfect behavior.”

  “That include the outsiders?”

  “When it comes to the concerts, Stefan can be a bit of a martinet. He insists on dead silence. And his tastes run to soothing music. Chopin, Debussy, all that good stuff.”

  “Do you share Mr. Szabo’s tastes?”

  Loh grinned again. “I’m more into technorock and David Bowie.”

  “Any David Bowie concerts scheduled for the odeum?”

  Loh chuckled. “Mr. Bowie isn’t exactly within our price range. Nor would Stefan’s sensibilities survive the experience.” He shot a sleek black cuff and consulted a sleek black watch.

  Milo said, “Let’s have a look at Levitch’s room.”

  • • •

  As we climbed the stairs, Milo said, “Big house.”

  Loh said, “Stefan’s family escaped from Hungary in 1956. He was a teenager, but they managed to cram him into a large steamer trunk. We’re talking days without food or toilet facilities, a few air holes for breathing. I’d say he’s entitled to his space, wouldn’t you?”

  • • •

  The right side of the landing was taken up by two enormous bedrooms— Szabo’s and Loh’s. Open doors to both revealed flashes of brocade and damask, polished wood, soft lighting. To the left, were three guest suites, smaller, less opulent, but still stylishly turned out.

  The room where Vassily Levitch had spent the past two nights was taped off. Milo broke the tape, and I followed him inside. Tom Loh stood in the doorway, and said, “What should I do?”

  “Thanks for your time, sir,” said Milo. “Feel free to go about your business.”

  Loh went back down the stairs.

  Milo said, “Stay there while I toss, if you don’t mind. The evidentiary chain and all that.”

  “Got to be careful,” I said. “Especially in light of you-know-who.”

  • • •

  The guest suite was papered in red silk, furnished with a canopied queen bed, two Regency nightstands, and an ornate, inlaid Italian chest of drawers. Empty drawers, as was the closet. Vassily Levitch had lived out of his black nylon suitcase. Even his toiletries had remained in the valise.

  Milo examined the contents of the pianist’s wallet, went through the pockets of every garment. A kit bag produced aftershave, a safety razor, Advil, Valium, and Pepto-Bismol. A manila envelope in a zippered compartment of the suitcase contained photocopied reviews of other recitals Levitch had given. The critics lauded the young man’s touch and phrasing. He’d won the Steinmetz Competition, the Hurlbank Competition, the Great Barrington Piano Gala.

  No driver’s license. A check-cashing ID card put him at twenty-seven years old.

  Milo said, “Zero plus zero.”

  I said, “Can I see the body?”

  • • •

  A rear patio as large as the odeum emptied to the rolling lawn and widely spaced birch trees walled by a twelve-foot-tall ficus hedge. A gothic arch cut into the hedge led the way to a fifty-foot lap pool, a tennis court, a cactus garden, a shallow pond devoid of fish and, tucked into the rear, right corner, a four-car garage.

  I could see no driveway or any other direct access from the street to the garage, and asked Milo about that.

  “They use it for storage— antiques, clothing, lamps. You should see the stuff; I could live off their castaways.”

  “They leave their cars in front?”

  “His and his Mercedes 600s. Concert nights they park on the street. Want the house to look ‘aesthetically pure.’ Nice life, huh? C’mon.”

  He led me behind the garage to where a female cop guarded Vassily Levitch’s corpse. The body lay on a narrow strip of soiled concrete backed by another high ficus hedge, sharing space with five plastic garbage cans. A battery-op LAPD floodlight turned everything bilious. Milo told the policewoman to take five. She looked grateful as she headed toward th
e cactus garden.

  He stood back and let me take in the details.

  A mean, putrid space; even the grandest of estates have them, but on this estate, you had to make your way through two acres of beauty to find it.

  Best kill spot on the property. Someone who’d been here before and knew the layout?