A Cold Heart

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “The Bernet piece was written before GrooveRat was started— if Kevin was the author, he would’ve still been a sophomore. Maybe he sent the others because Patti and Todd were getting distribution and he wasn’t.”

  “The need for exposure,” he said. “Lots of sex in the prose. He wants to screw them.”

  “He wants to own them,” I said. “And he traveled to do it. Levitch’s recital was in Santa Barbara. Angelique Bernet was reviewed in L.A. but murdered in Boston. If you could verify his presence in Boston at the time, that would be grounds for a warrant.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “but how do I verify without a warrant? The airlines have tightened up big-time, and Kevin’s family isn’t going to volunteer the info.”

  We traveled west on Santa Monica. When we reached Doheny, I said, “If Drummond freelanced for SeldomScene, he may very well have submitted to other magazines.”

  His hands clenched around the wheel. “What if the bastard uses a dozen pseudonyms? What do I do— find some expert to conduct linguistic analysis of every fringe mag in the country?”

  “I’d start with Faithful Scrivener and E. Murphy bylines, see where that leads.”

  “Extracurricular reading. Meanwhile, a grieving mother waits.”

  A few blocks later, he said, “Any other insights? From the writing?”

  “It’s the type of inflated prose you see in college papers. Writing to impress. If it’s Kevin we’re dealing with, he didn’t get strokes at home, channeled his energies into projects, came to see himself as a maven of the art world. I’d check his college newspaper for reviews, see if the writing matches.”

  “You keep saying that. ‘If it’s Kevin.’ “

  “Something bothers me,” I admitted. “Even at twenty-four, Kevin seems young for these killings. If he murdered Angelique Bernet he did it at the age of twenty-one. There are elements of Angelique that fit a novice: multiple stab wounds that could mean a blitz attack, the body left out in the open. But traveling three thousand miles from his comfort zone’s pretty calculated.”

  “What about this,” he said. “He sees Bernet dance in L.A., gets the hots, writes her up, checks the ballet company’s travel schedule, takes a trip to Boston. Maybe he’s not even sure why. All sorts of feelings bouncing around in his head. Then he stalks her, follows her to Cambridge, makes contact with her— he could’ve even come on to her and she rejected him. He freaks out, does her. Flies home. Sits thinking about it— realizes what he did. That he got away with it. Finally, he’s succeeded at something. Thirteen months after that, China disappears. The killer takes time to bury her, and no one finds her for months. Because now he’s being careful. Plotting it out. And he’s close to home. Make any sense?”

  “If he’s a gifted boy.”

  “Excitable boy,” he said. “Like that song.”

  “The recent murders fit with rising confidence,” I said. “All three were done right at the venues. In Baby Boy’s and Levitch’s cases with the audience still present, in Julie’s with CoCo Barnes in the next room. That stinks of audaciousness. Could be he’s practiced his craft, is feeling like a virtuoso.”

  “Practiced— meaning other murders we don’t know about.”

  “Thirteen months lapsed between Angelique and China, then nothing for nearly two years until Baby Boy. After that, we’ve got six weeks to Julie and nine weeks to Levitch.”

  “Great,” he said.

  “The alternative is he managed, somehow, to suppress his urges for years and now he’s losing control.”

  “How could he suppress?”

  “By obsessing on a new project.”

  “GrooveRat.”

  “Being a publisher could grant serious illusions of power. Perhaps he’s finally realized that the zine’s a failure. Yet another one.”

  “Daddy pulled the plug?”

  “From what Petra says, Daddy was never enthusiastic.”

  “The art world fails him,” he said. “So he takes it out on the artists. Let’s get back to the sexual angle. We’ve got male and female victims? What’s that say? A bisexual killer?”

  “Or a sexually confused killer,” I said. “Certainly, a sexually inadequate killer. In no case was there any penetration. He’s intimidated by the clash of genitalia, substitutes the eroticism of talent. Targeting talent on the rise, he captures their essence at its peak. How’s that for a cheap Freudian shot?”

  “You’re talking about an artistic cannibal,” he said.

  “I’m talking,” I said, “about the ultimate critic.”

  • • •

  Back at my house, alone.

  Allison was in Boulder, Colorado, for a conference. After that, she’d be traveling to attend her former father-in-law’s birthday.

  I’d driven her to the airport, and she’d spent the night at my house. After I stashed her suitcases in the car, she removed something from her purse and handed it to me.

  Petite, chrome-plated automatic. As I took it, she said, “Here’s the clip,” and gave me that, too.

  “Forgot to leave it at home,” she explained. “Can’t get on the plane with it. Could you keep it for me?”

  “Sure.” I placed the gun in my pocket.

  “It’s registered, but I have no carry permit. If that bothers you, you can put it in the house.”

  “I’ll chance it. Ready to go?”

  “Yup.”

  As we neared the 405 South, she said, “You’re not going to ask?”

  “I figure you’ve got a reason.”

  “The reason is after what happened to me, when I finally got my head straight, I told myself I’d avoid feeling that helpless again. I started with the usual stuff— self-defense courses, basic safety manuals. Then, years later, when I was a postdoc, I treated a woman who’d been raped twice. Two separate incidents, years apart. The first time she blamed herself. She’d been out-of-her-mind drunk, got picked up by a lowlife in a bar. The second time was some monster managing to jimmy a closed bedroom window. I did all I could for her, looked up gun shops in the yellow pages, bought my little chromium friend.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Does it?”

  “You kept it.”

  “I like it,” she said. “I really think of it as my friend. I’m a pretty good shot. Took basic and intermediate training. Still go to the range once a month. Though I’ve missed a couple of months because we’ve been spending time.”

  “Sorry to distract you.”

  She touched my face. “Does it bother you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure.”

  Within ten years, I’d shot two men to death. Both had been out to kill me. Evil men, self-defense, no option. Sometimes I still dreamed about them and woke up with acid in my stomach.

  I said, “In the end we look out for ourselves.”

  “True,” she said. “I didn’t really forget to leave it home. I wanted you to know.”

  22

  Eric Stahl sat and drank water.

  Tap water in a half-gallon Sprite bottle. He’d brought it from home.

  Watching Kevin Drummond’s apartment on Rossmore.

  He’d arrived before sunrise, checked out the rear of the building. Treading cat-light on old sneakers sure not to squeak.

  No sign of Kevin Drummond’s car.

  No surprise.

  He found himself a good spot, catercornered from the dingy brick building. Nice oblique angle; he could study the entrance without straining his head, a passerby would have no idea what he was after.

  Not that a passerby would be likely to notice. Plenty of vehicles on the block, and Stahl had brought his personal wheels: a beige Chevy van with windows tinted way beyond the legal limit.

  All the comforts of . . . during the first hour, a blue jay had swooped and cast a shadow across the building. Since then, very few signs of life.

  Seven hours twenty-two minutes of watching.

  Torture for someone else; Stahl was as close to content as
he could be.

  Sit. Drink bottled water. Sit. Stare.

  Put the pictures out of your head.

  Keep it clear, keep everything clear.

  23

  I volunteered.

  A visit to Charter College, where I’d try to find a sample of Kevin Drummond’s writing.

  “Thanks,” Milo said. “Good idea, you being professorial and all that.”

  “I’m professorial?”

  “You can be— it’s a compliment, I’ve got great respect for academia.”

  • • •

  Before I started out, I took care of some unfinished business: second attempt to reach Christian Bangsley, née Sludge, now CEO of Hearth and Home restaurants. It had been months since the first call. This time the young-sounding receptionist put me through. As I introduced myself, Bangsley cut me off.

  “I got the first message,” he said. “Didn’t call back because I have nothing to tell you.”

  “Was anyone stalking China?”

  Silence.

  He said, “Why, after all these years?”

  “It’s still an open case. What do you know?”

  “I never saw anyone bugging China.”

  Tension in his voice made me persist. “But she did tell you something.”

  “Shit,” he said. “Look, I’ve put all that past me. But there are assholes out there who don’t want me to.”

  Recalling the Internet flames—“ex-Chinawhiteboy sells out . . . ends up cap-pig cancerous bigtiiime” I said, “Are you being stalked, yourself?”

  “Nothing regular, but sometimes I get letters. People who claim to be fans and don’t like what I’m doing. People living in the past.”

  “Have you contacted the police?”

  “My lawyers say it’s not worth it. That people telling me they’re unhappy with how I’m running my life is no crime. Free country and all that. But I don’t want publicity. The only reason I’m talking to you now is my lawyers said if you tried again, I should. That if I didn’t, you’d think I was being evasive. Which I’m not. I just can’t help you. Okay?”

  “I’m sorry you’re being harassed. And I promise to keep anything you tell me under wraps.”

  Silence.

  I said, “What happened to China went well beyond harassment.”

  “I know, I know. Jesus— okay here it is: China bitched once about someone bugging her. Following her. I didn’t take it seriously because she was always paranoid about something. High-strung. The band used to joke she’d been weaned on chili peppers.”

  “When did she start complaining?”

  “A month or two before she disappeared. I told the cops, they blew me off, said I needed more details, it was worthless.”

  “What exactly did China complain about?”

  “She was convinced she was being peeped, stalked, whatever. But she never actually saw someone, couldn’t describe anyone. So maybe the cops were right. She talked about it being a feeling, but China had lots of feelings. Especially when she was high, which was most of the time. She could get paranoid over nothing, just blow up.”

  “She never went to the police.”

  “Right,” said Bangsley. “China and the police. The thing is, she wasn’t scared, she was pissed. Kept saying if the asshole ever showed his face, she’d break it, claw out his eyes, and shit in the sockets. That was China. Always aggression.”

  “Was it real?” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was she really that fearless or was it a cover?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t. She was hard to read. Had this wall around her. Drugs were the mortar.”

  Paul Brancusi had mentioned nothing about any stalker. I said, “Did China tell anyone else about being followed? The other members of the band?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  He hesitated. “China and I were . . . closer. She was officially gay, but for a while we had a thing going on— shit, this is exactly what I didn’t want. I’m married now, expecting my second kid—”

  “No one’s interested in your love life,” I said. “Just what you know about China’s stalker.”

  “I don’t even know if there was a stalker. Like I told you, she never actually saw anything.”

  “A feeling,” I said.

  “Exactly,” said Bangsley. “China had a vivid mind. When you were with her you had to be careful to step back, put things in perspective.”

  “At the time did you believe her?”

  “I fluctuated. She could be convincing. One time we were up in the hills, late at night, smoking weed, doing other good stuff and suddenly she went rigid and her eyes got scary and she grabbed my shoulders— hard, it hurt. Then she stands up and says, ‘Fuck, he’s here! I can feel him!’ Then she starts walking around in circles, like a gun turret on a tank— like she’s aiming herself at something. And she starts screaming into the darkness. ’Fuck you you asshole fuck, come out and show your fuckshit face.’ Waving her fist, crouching down like she’s ready to go karate-nuts. At that moment, I believed her— the darkness, the quiet, how certain she was, convinced me. Later, I said to myself, ‘What was that?’ “

  “What happened after she screamed?”

  “Nothing. I got worried someone would hear her, tried to get her down the hill and into my car. She made me wait until she convinced herself whoever was up there was gone. We crashed at my place. The next morning she was gone. She’d eaten all the munchies in my fridge and split. A month or two later, she disappeared, and when they finally found her, I freaked out. Because the place she was buried wasn’t far from where we were sitting that night.”

  “Did you tell the cops?”

  “After the way they treated me?”

  “China was found near the Hollywood sign.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “That’s where we were. Under the sign. China loved the sign, liked the story of some actress throwing herself off. There used to be a riding ranch up there, one of those rent-a-horse deals. China told me she liked to sneak in at night, talk to the horses, smell the horseshit, just wander around. She said she got off on walking around other people’s property. Made her feel like a Manson girl. She went through this phase where she was into the Manson family, talked about writing a song dedicated to Charlie, but we told her we wouldn’t play it. Even then we had some kind of standards.”

  “Enamored of serial killers.”

  “No, just Manson. And she wasn’t serious about that. It was just another China thing— something came into her head, it poured right out of her mouth. Anything for attention, she loved attention. Which was Manson’s thing, right? I remember thinking how weird it was that maybe she’d been murdered by some Manson type. Ironic, you know?”

  • • •

  Charter College was 150 acres nestled in the northeast corner of Eagle Rock, set apart from that bedroom community’s blue-collar, mostly Latino, bedrock sensibilities by ivy-covered stucco walls and grandiose trees.

  The college had been established 112 years ago, when Eagle Rock’s twelve-hundred-foot elevation and clean air had led developers to frame it “The Switzerland of the West.” Over a century later, the surrounding hills were pretty on the uncommon clear day, but chain motels were the closest Eagle Rock came to resort living.

  I drove up Eagle Rock Boulevard, a broad, sun-bleached haven for garages and auto parts emporia, turned onto College Road, and entered a residential neighborhood of small, craftsman bungalows, and chunky stucco cottages. An arch emblazoned with the school’s crest fed into Emeritus Lane, a broad, spotless strip heralded by a shield-shaped flower bed spelling out the institution’s name in red and white petunias.

  The campus buildings were Beaux-Arts and Monterey Colonial visions, all painted the same gray-dun and set, gemlike, in the jewel box of old-growth greenery. I’d treated a few Charter students, over the years, was familiar with the school’s basic flavor: selective, expensive, established by Congregatio
nalists, but decidedly secular now, with a bent toward activist politics and community involvement.

  Visitor parking was easy and free. I picked up a campus map from a Take-One stand and made my way to the Anna Loring Slater Library. A good number of the handsome kids I passed were smiling. As if life tasted delicious, and they were ready for the next course.