A Cold Heart

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Macho-man put-down of Kevin’s latest nonsense.

  This father, that uncle, two jock brothers. Growing up eccentric and unathletic would’ve been tough for poor Kevin. Traumatic enough to twist him in the worst possible way?

  “ ‘Not hardly’?” said Petra.

  “Kevin took all his things with him when he moved out.”

  “When was that?”

  “After he graduated.”

  Randolph Drummond had received a copy of the zine around then. At the advent of the maiden issue, Junior and Dad had experienced a parting of the ways. Creative differences, or Dad tired of Junior slacking off?

  “Is Kevin in school, sir?”

  “No.” Frank Drummond’s mouth got tight.

  “Is there some reason these questions bother you, sir?”

  “You bother me. Because I think you’re bullshitting me. If you’re after the magazine, why all these questions about Kevin? If he’s under suspicion for something— well, that’s just crap. Kevin’s a gentle kid.”

  Making that sound like a character flaw.

  Twenty-four-year-old kid.

  Petra said, “Any idea who, besides Kevin, wrote for GrooveRat?”

  Drummond shook his head and worked at looking bored.

  “How did Kevin finance his baby?”

  Drummond’s right hand moved to the lovely blue tie, squeezed it into a ribbon, let go. “If you want copies, I’m sure Kev’s got some in his apartment. If you see him, tell him to call his mother. She misses him.”

  • • •

  “As opposed to,” said Stahl, as they drove away.

  “What do you mean?”

  “His mother misses him. His father doesn’t.”

  “Dysfunctional family,” said Petra. “Kevin was the resident sissy. So where does that take us?”

  “Frank was evasive.”

  “Or just a lawyer who likes asking questions, not answering them. We made it pretty obvious we’re after more than back issues. Which is fine with me. Shake things up a bit, see what happens.”

  “What could happen?” said Stahl.

  “I don’t know. What bothers me is we’re spending all this time chasing a kid and his stupid magazine.”

  “You said he was a ghoul.”

  “I did?”

  “At the meeting,” said Stahl. “You said Yuri wanted the gory details. Was a ghoul.”

  “True,” said Petra. “So?”

  A half block of silence.

  Stahl said, “Let’s give his apartment another try.”

  It was close to 6 P.M. Petra, used to working nights, often found herself showering at this hour, then wolfing a bowl of cereal. All the paper and meetings on the Armenian case and breaking in Stahl and today’s lunch with Milo and Alex and this entire futile afternoon had played havoc with her bio clock. She felt queasy and fatigued.

  “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

  • • •

  Kevin Drummond was still out, but a press of the manager’s button produced a high-pitched “Yes?”

  Petra identified herself and the door buzzed open and the detectives found themselves face-to-face with a short, stout woman in her fifties, wearing a white blouse over black leggings and sneakers. Eyeglasses dangled from a chain around her neck. A jumbo roller topped a mass of too-black hair. Freshly waved locks hung down to her shoulders. She said, “Is everything okay?”

  “Mrs. Santos?”

  “Guadalupe Santos.” Open smile. Someone with a pleasant demeanor. Finally.

  “We’re looking for one of your tenants, Mrs. Santos. Unit fourteen, Kevin Drummond.”

  “Yuri?” said Santos.

  “That’s what he calls himself?”

  “Yes. Is everything okay?”

  “What kind of tenant is Yuri?”

  “Nice boy. Quiet. Why do you want him?”

  “We’d like to talk to him as part of an investigation.”

  “I don’t think he’s here. I saw him . . . hmm . . . maybe two, three days ago. I met him out back, taking out the garbage. I was. He got into his car. His Honda.”

  DMV had reported a five-year-old Civic. But remembering the red Accord in Frank Drummond’s driveway, Petra said, “What color?”

  “White,” said Guadalupe Santos.

  “So Mr. Drummond’s been gone for three days.”

  “Maybe he goes in and out when I’m sleeping, but I never see him.”

  “No problems from him.”

  “Easy tenant,” said Santos. “His daddy pays his rent six months in advance, he don’t make noise. Wish they were all like that.”

  “He have any friends? Regular visitors?”

  “No girlfriends, if that’s what you mean. Or boyfriends.” Santos smiled uneasily.

  “Is Yuri gay?”

  Santos laughed. “No, just kidding. This is Hollywood, you know.”

  Stahl said, “No visitors at all?”

  Santos turned serious. Stahl’s contagious amiability. “Now that I think about it, you’re right. No one. And he doesn’t come and go much. Not the neatest guy, but that’s his business.”

  Petra said, “You’ve been up to his apartment.”

  “Twice. He had a leaky toilet. And another time I had to show him how to work the heater— not too mechanical.”

  “A slob, huh?” said Petra.

  “Not like dirty,” said Santos. He’s just one of those— howyoucallit— holds on to everything?”

  “Pack rat?”

  “That’s it. It’s a single, and he’s got it all filled up with boxes. I couldn’t tell you what’s in them, it just looked like he never throws anything out— oh yeah, I did see what was in one of them. Those little cars— Matchboxes. My son used to collect them but not as many as Yuri’s got. Only Tony outgrew it. He’s in the Marines, over at Camp Pendleton. Training sergeant, he spent time over in Afghanistan, my Tony.”

  Petra offered a congratulatory nod and a moment of respect for Sergeant Tony Santos. Then: “So Yuri collects stuff.”

  “Lots of stuff. But like I said, not dirty.”

  “What kind of work does he do?”

  “I don’t think he does any,” said Guadalupe Santos. “With his daddy paying the rent and all that, I figured him for . . . you know.”

  “What?”

  “Someone with . . . I don’t want to say problems. Someone who can’t work regular.”

  “What kind of problems?” said Petra.

  “I don’t want to say . . . he’s just real quiet. Walks with his head down. Like he doesn’t want to talk.”

  Big difference from the pushy guy who’d hectored Petra. Kevin chose his moments.

  She showed Kevin Drummond’s DMV picture to Santos. Blurred picture, five years old. Skinny kid with dark hair and a nondescript face. Brown and brown, 6’2", 150, needs corrective lenses.

  “That’s him,” said Santos. “Tall— he wears glasses. Not such good skin— some zits here and here.” Touching her jawline and her temple. “Like he had it bad when he was younger, you know, and it didn’t all heal up?”

  Six-two fit Linus Brophy’s description of Baby Boy’s killer. Would a skinny kid have been able to overpower Vassily Levitch? Sure, given the element of surprise.

  “Shy,” said Petra. “What else?”

  “He’s like one of those— someone who’d like computers, want to be by himself, you know? He’s got tons of computer stuff up there, too. I don’t know much about that kind of thing, but it looks expensive. With his daddy paying the rent, I just figured . . . he’s a good tenant, though. No problems. I hope he isn’t in trouble.”

  “You’d hate to lose him as a tenant,” said Stahl.

  “You bet,” said Santos. “This business, you never know what you’re gonna get.”

  • • •

  On the way back to the station, just as the sun began to set, Petra spotted an elderly man and woman walking slowly up Fountain Avenue followed by a large, white, yellow-billed duck.

&n
bsp; Blinking to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating, she stopped, backed up until she was even with the couple. They kept plodding, and she coasted at their pace. Two munchkins in heavy overcoats and knit caps, veering toward androgynous twinhood, the way very old people sometimes do. Ninety or close to it. Each step was labored. The duck was unleashed and trailed them by inches. Its waddle looked a trifle off-balance.

  The man looked over, took the woman’s arms, and they stopped. Nervous smiles. Probably some animal regulation being violated, but who cared about that.

  “Nice duck,” said Petra.

  “This is Horace,” said the woman. “He’s been our baby for a long time.”

  The duck lifted a foot and scratched its belly. Tiny black eyes seemed to bore into Petra’s. Protective.

  She said, “Hey there, Horace.”

  The duck’s feathers ruffled.

  “Have a nice day,” she said, and pulled away from the curb.

  Stahl said, “What was that?”

  “Reality.”

  20

  Two days after the meeting with Petra and Stahl, Milo asked me to come along for a second interview with Everett Kipper.

  “It’s a drop-in, this time,” he said. “I called ahead, but Kipper’s in meetings all day.”

  “Why the renewed interest?” I said.

  “I want to talk to him about GrooveRat, see if Yuri Drummond ever expressed an interest in interviewing Julie. Petra and Stahl haven’t been able to get hold of actual copies, but Drummond’s looking more interesting. He’s a twenty-four-year-old loner, real name of Kevin, lives in a one-bedroom pad on a scruffy part of Rossmore. Hasn’t been seen for several days— isn’t that intriguing? The zine sounds like a vanity deal, delusional. Daddy’s a lawyer, pays the rent and probably the printing costs. He wouldn’t give Petra the time of day. I’m talking a real clam-up.”

  “He’s a lawyer,” I said.

  “Petra picked up definite family tension. Kevin sounds like the family weirdo, and Daddy was definitely not pleased to be discussing him.”

  “A loner,” I said.

  “What a shock, huh? He’s got a history of jumping from project to project— from obsession to obsession. Exactly the fanatical personality you described. He’s also a pack rat, his landlady says his apartment’s piled high with boxes. Including toys. So maybe kill trophies are part of his collection. He started doing the zine in his senior year. Petra found one partial copy, and Drummond lists himself as the entire editorial staff. He asked an outrageous subscription price, but there’s no evidence anyone ever paid.”

  “Where’d he go to school?”

  “Charter College, which is pretty selective, so he’s probably smart— just like you’ve been saying. And he’s tall— six-two— which would synch what the wino witness saw. All in all, it’s not a bad fit. Stahl’s staking out his apartment, and Petra’s still trying to learn more about GrooveRat— to see if anyone distributed it. If we can locate back issues and find the articles on Baby Boy and China and hopefully Julie, we’ll ask for a warrant and won’t get one. But it’s something.”

  The orchestration of the murders had set me thinking of a killer in his thirties or forties, and twenty-four seemed young. But maybe Kevin Drummond was precocious. And for the first time since the Kipper case had opened, Milo’s voice was light. I kept my mouth shut. Drove to Century City.

  • • •

  The same ovoid waiting room, the same toothy woman at the front desk. No initial alarm, this time, just a chilly smile. “Mr. Kipper’s gone to lunch.”

  “Where to, ma’am?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Milo said, “You didn’t make the reservation?”

  “No reservation,” she said. “Mr. Kipper prefers simple places.”

  “Business lunches at simple places?”

  “Mr. Kipper prefers to eat by himself.”

  “What about the people he’s been meeting with all morning?”

  The receptionist bit her lip.

  Milo said, “It’s okay. He pays your salary, you need to do what he tells you. The city pays mine, and I’m just as determined.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . .”

  “He doesn’t want to talk to us. Any reason?”

  “Not that he mentioned. He’s like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Not much of a talker.” She bit her lip. “Please . . .”

  “I understand,” said Milo. Sounding as if he really did.

  We left the office, took the elevator down to street level. Dark-suited men and women streamed in and out of the building.

  “If she’s telling the truth about a simple place,” he said, “my guess is one of the food stands in the Century City Mall a block away. Meaning he probably walked and will return this way.”

  Three massive granite planters filled with rubber trees punctuated the plaza in front of Kipper’s building. We chose one and sat on the rim.

  Twenty minutes later, Everett Kipper appeared, walking alone. This time his suit was the color of a blued revolver, tailored snug, also four-button. White shirt, pink tie, a flash of gold at his cuffs as he moved toward his building with that bouncing stride. The business crowd in front had thickened, and he passed us, unmindful.

  We got off the ledge and jogged toward him. Milo said, “Mr. Kipper?” and Kipper whipped around with the practiced tension of a martial arts fighter.

  “What now?”

  “A few more questions, sir.”

  “About what?”

  “Could we talk up in your office?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Kipper. “Cops in the office is bad for business. How long will this take?”

  “Just a few moments.”

  “Step over here.” He led us behind one of the rubber trees. The plant cast spatulate shadows on his round, smooth face. “What?”

  Milo said, “Ever hear of a magazine called GrooveRat?”

  “No. Why?”

  “We’re trying to trace any articles that might have been written about Julie.”

  “And this magazine wrote one?” Kipper shook his head. “Julie never mentioned it. Why’s that important?”

  “We’re conducting a careful investigation,” said Milo.

  Kipper said, “The answer’s still no. Never heard of it.”

  “Are you aware of any publicity Julie received recently?”

  “She got none, and it bugged her. Back in New York, when she had her gallery show at Anthony, she got plenty. The New York Times mentioned the show in their arts section, and I think some of the other papers did, too. She remembered that. Being obscure was part of what was painful.”

  “What else was painful?”

  “Failure.”

  “No publicity at all for the Light and Space show?”

  Kipper shook his head. “She told me Light and Space sent a notice of the group show to the L.A. Times, but they didn’t deign to run it . . . wait a second, there was one magazine that did want an interview— not the one you mentioned. Nothing with Rat in the title . . . what was it . . . shit. Not that it mattered. Julie was pretty jazzed about it, but in the end they crapped out.”

  “Canceled?”

  “She waited, but the writer stood her up. She was not happy, called the editor and bitched. In the end they ran a piece— something short, probably to mollify her.”

  “Review of the show?” I said.

  “No, this was before the show, maybe a month. For all I know Julie called them herself. She was trying to drum up publicity for herself. For the comeback.” Kipper tweaked his nose. “She really believed she had a shot.”

  “She didn’t?”

  Kipper looked as if he wanted to spit. “The art world, I . . . what was the name of the magazine . . . Scene something, a wiseass name . . . she showed me a copy. Looked vapid to me, but I didn’t say anything because Julie was excited . . . Scene . . . SeldomScene something. Now, I’m out of here.”

 
; He turned and walked away. The flaps of his suit coat billowed. No breeze blew through the plaza. Creating his own turbulence.