A Cold Heart
Page 26
“Sure.”
Silence.
Petra waited him out. He said, “Anywhere you want me to start?”
“The usual data banks— hold on, a woman just drove up to the house, could be Kevin’s mother— doesn’t look like a happy camper— just do the usual, Eric, I’ll talk to you later.”
• • •
She remained in her Accord and watched the woman climb out of her baby blue Corvette. The low-slung, covered thing she and Stahl had seen during their first visit to Franklin Drummond’s home.
The red Honda was registered to Anna Martinez— an Hispanic maid who appeared to live in; the other three vehicles were registered to Franklin Drummond. His daily drive was the gray Baby Benz, the ‘Vette was the missus’s toy, no one seemed to bother with the white Explorer. Maybe spare wheels for the two younger sons when they visited from college.
Kevin drove cheap wheels. Not the favored child.
The woman flipped her hair, wiggled her butt, and alarm-locked the Corvette. Middle-aged, tall, skinny, long-legged. Big, thick features. Homely, but in a not-unsexy way. The hair was a bright, orange helmet— same color as Erna Murphy’s, isn’t zat interesting Dr. Freud? She wore a baggy white jersey sweater embroidered with rhinestones that bobbled her big boobs, black leggings with footstraps, backless sandals with hypodermic heels.
Fuck-me shoes. Aging bimbo?
Was Kevin’s mommy doing someone other than Kevin’s daddy?
Petra watched her walk up to the front door, fool in her Gucci purse, remove a ring of keys.
Definitely Kevin’s mom. He hadn’t inherited his lanky frame from fireplug Franklin.
The car, the heels, the rest of it said Mama liked to party. A woman in touch with her sexuality. Toss that into the family mix and Petra could only imagine what Kevin’s childhood had been like.
This afternoon, Mama looked miserable. Tense. Tight neck, croquet wicket mouth. She dropped the key ring, bent, and retrieved it.
Petra got out of her car as the woman’s key aimed at the lock. Made it to the woman’s side before she made contact and twisted.
The woman turned. Petra flashed the badge.
“I have nothing to say to you.” Smoker’s voice. Tobacco mixed with Chanel 19 emanated from the redhead’s clothing.
“You are Mrs. Drummond,” said Petra.
“I’m Terry Drummond.” Fear in the voice.
“Could you spare a moment to talk about Kevin?”
“No way,” said Terry Drummond. “My husband warned me you’d be by. I have no obligation to talk to you.”
Petra smiled. The rhinestones on Terry’s shirt formed the crude outline of two terriers. Kissing. Sweet. “You certainly don’t, Mrs. Drummond. But I’m not here to persecute you.”
Terry Drummond’s key arm tightened. “Call it what you want. I’m going inside.”
“Ma’am, Kevin hasn’t been seen for nearly a week. As a mother, I’d think you’d be concerned.”
Studying the woman for a hint that Kevin had made contact.
Tears welled up in Terry Drummond’s eyes. Soft brown eyes, flecked with gold. Gorgeous eyes, really, despite the too-generous application of shadow and mascara. Petra revised her appraisal. Despite the thick features, Terry was more than attractive; even in her anxiety she exuded oodles of sensuality. As a young woman, she’d probably been dead-on sexy.
What would it be like to have a mother like that?
Petra knew nothing about mothers; hers had died giving birth to her.
She relaxed her posture, gave Terry Drummond time to think. Terry wore big gold jewelry, a three-carat rock on her ring finger. Up close the Gucci bag looked real.
Petra saw her as someone whose body heat and flashy looks had snagged an up-and-coming lawyer. Someone who’d climbed a few notches socially, probably given up whatever entry-level career she’d had, raised three boys, immersed herself in suburban motherhood, only to see her oldest son turn out . . . different.
Now she was terrified. Kevin hadn’t phoned home.
She said, “It’s got to be worrying, ma’am. No one’s saying Kevin’s guilty of anything, he’s just someone we need to talk to. He could be in danger. Think about it: Has he ever disappeared like this before? Don’t you think it’s important that we find him?”
Terry Drummond bit back tears. “I haven’t heard from him, so how could you find him?”
“How long has it been, ma’am?”
Terry shook her head. “That’s all I’m going to say.”
“Do you have any idea why we’re interested in him?”
“Something to do with murder. Which is ridiculous. Kevin’s gentle.” Terry’s voice rose on the last word, and she flinched. Petra had a sense someone had used it as an insult when referring to Kevin.
The gentle one.
“I’m sure he is, Mrs. Drummond.”
“Then why are you hounding us?”
“Not trying to, ma’am. I’m sure you know Kevin better than anyone. You care about him more deeply than anyone. So if he does get in touch, you’ll offer him good advice.”
Terry Drummond cried. “I don’t need this. I don’t need this one bit. If my idiot brother-in-law hadn’t finked on Kevin, I wouldn’t have to be dealing with this— why don’t you look at him? He already killed two people.”
“Randolph?”
“His wife and child, the dirty drunk,” snarled Terry. “Frank was always telling Randy to stop drinking. He nearly ruined us— the lawsuits. It’s only cause Frank’s so smart that he managed to climb back up to the top. So you can see why Randy’d have it in for us.”
“All Randy did was confirm he was Kevin’s uncle,” said Petra. “We’d have found out, anyway.”
“Why?” said Terry. “Why are you harassing my boy? He’s good, he’s kind, he’s smart, he’s gentle, he’d never hurt anyone.”
The woman’s entire body had gone rigid, and Petra shifted gears.
“Did Kevin have a friend named Erna Murphy?”
“Who?”
Petra repeated the name.
“Never heard of her. Kevin never had any— I don’t know his friends.”
Asocial Kevin. The admission made Terry blanch, and she tried to cover: “They move out, go their own way. Creative people especially need their space.” That sounded like a well-practiced rationalization for Kevin’s oddness.
“Yes, they do,” said Petra.
“I paint,” said Terry Drummond. “I started taking art lessons, and now I need my space.”
Petra nodded.
“Please,” said Terry. “Let me be.”
“Here’s my card, ma’am. Think about what I said. For Kevin’s sake.”
Terry faltered, then took it.
“One more thing,” said Petra. “Could you just tell me why Kevin called himself Yuri?”
Terry’s smile was abrupt, blinding, and it made her gorgeous. She touched her breast, as if remembering what it had nourished. “He’s so cute. So clever. I’ll tell you, and then you’ll see how off base you are. Years ago, when Kevin was little— just a little guy, but he was always bright— Frank was telling him about the space race. About Sputnik, which was a big thing when Frank was a little guy. The Russians got there first, showed us Americans how we got soft and lazy. Frank used to talk to Kevin like that all the time. Kevin was Frank’s firstborn and he really spent time with him, took him everywhere. Museums, parks, even the office, everyone called Kevin ‘a little lawyer’ because he talked so great. Anyway, Frank was telling Kevin about the Russians and Sputnik and this Russian astronaut— whatever they call them, cosmo-something . . .”
“Cosmonauts.”
“Cosmonauts beating out the astronauts, the first one was a guy named Yuri something. And Kevin, little as he was, was just listening to Frank, and then when Frank finished, Kevin piped up, ‘Daddy, I want to be first. I want to be a Yuri.’ “
Terry’s tears flowed anew. One long-nailed hand plucked at a rhinestone terrier.
“After that, whenever he did something good, got a good grade on a test, anything, I called him Yuri. He liked that. It meant he’d done a good job.”
30
Two messages on my machine.
Allison, two hours ago. Robin, a few minutes later. Both asking me to call back when I had a chance. I phoned Allison’s hotel. She picked up on the fourth ring, sounded out of breath. “It’s you, great. You caught me out the door.”
“Bad time?”
“No, no, excellent time. On my way to another seminar.”
“How’s the conference?”
“Boulder’s pretty,” she said. “Thin air.”
“Thin, hot air?”
She laughed. “Actually, there’ve been some good papers, stuff you might enjoy. PTSD in victims of terrorism, a good survey of depression in kids . . . how’s the case coming along?”
“Not much progress,” I said.
“Sorry . . . wish you were here. We could’ve had some fun on the slopes.”
“There’s still snow?”
“Not a lick. I canceled Philadelphia, will be coming home tomorrow. Want to get together tomorrow night?”
“You bet.”
“I didn’t offend Grant’s folks,” she said. “To tell the truth, they seemed relieved. Everyone knows it’s time to cut the ties. Shall I take a cab directly from the airport?”
“I can pick you up.”
“No, work on the case. I should make it by eight.”
“Should I cook?”
“If you want, but it’s not vital. One way or another we’ll obtain nourishment.”
• • •
I put off phoning Robin. When I finally did and heard the tension in her voice, I regretted the delay.
“Thanks for calling back.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t want to bother you, but I thought you should know— you’d have found out eventually. Someone broke into my place, vandalized the shop, made off with some instruments.”
“God, I’m sorry. When?”
“Last night. We were out, got back around midnight, found the lights on and the door to the studio ajar. The police took three hours to arrive, wrote a report, called in detectives who wrote another report. Technicians came and dusted for fingerprints. Strangers in my house— all those procedures you and Milo always talk about.”
“Was it a forced entry?”
“The back door’s bolted and grated but they just shoved it off the hinges. Looks like they were rusted. The alarm was set, but the detectives said the lead must have worn down, wasn’t making proper contact. It’s an old house . . . I should’ve checked but the landlord lives in Lake Havasu, everything’s a drawn-out process.”
“How much damage?”
“They took a bunch of stuff, but what’s worse is they smashed whatever was on the bench. Beautiful old things, an ivory-bridge Martin, Clyde Buffum’s Lyon & Healy mandolin, a Stella twelve-string. My insurance will cover it, but my poor clients, those instruments mean more than money . . . you don’t need to hear this, I don’t know why I called. Tim installed a new door, then he had to fly up to San Francisco.”
“You’re alone?”
“Just for a few days.”
“I’ll be right over.”
“Don’t, Alex . . . yes, do.”
• • •
She was waiting for me, sitting in a white plastic chair on her tiny front lawn, wearing a green sweater and jeans.
Her arms were around me before I made contact.
She said, “They took Baby Boy’s guitars.” Her body trembled. “I’d been talking to Jackie True about buying them so I could give them to you, Alex. He checked with Christie’s and they told him neither would fetch a premium. He was about to agree.”
She looked up at me. “I knew you’d enjoy them. It was going to be my birthday present to you.”
Her birthday was coming up in a month. I hadn’t thought about it.
I stroked her curls. “It was a sweet thought.”
“That’s what counts, right?” She smiled and sniffled. “Let’s go inside.”
Her living room looked the same but for some missing pieces of china. I said, “Detective have any ideas?”
“Gang bangers. They obviously weren’t pros. Left some prime stuff behind— a gorgeous D’Angelico Excel and a forties F-5— thank God I had those in a closet. Other than Baby’s Gibson, they went for the electrics. Couple of seventies Fenders, a Standell bass, a Les Paul gold-top reissue.”
“Going for the flash,” I said. “Kids.”
“That and all the wanton destruction says immaturity, according to the detectives. Like what kids do when they break into schools. The gangs are active south of Rose. Until now we haven’t felt it.”
South of Rose was two blocks away. Another arbitrary L.A. boundary, as genuine as a movie.
Maybe Robin suddenly realized that because she began shivering, clung harder to me, buried her head in the folds of my shirt.
“Tim’s trip up north was an emergency?” I said.
“He didn’t want to go, I insisted. He got a contract to work with the kids in a new Les Miserables production. Two weeks of prep before opening night. With kids you have to be careful not to stress the vocal cords.”
“Thought you’d only be alone for a couple of days.”
“I’m going up there as soon as I take care of this.”
I said nothing.
“Thanks for coming, Alex.”
“Need help straightening up?”
“I don’t even want to go in there.”
“How about a breather, then. Let’s go somewhere for a cup of coffee.”
“I can’t leave,” she said. “The locksmith’s coming.”
“When?”
“He was due an hour ago. Just sit with me. Please.”
• • •
She brought out a couple of Cokes, and we sat opposite each other drinking.
“Some cookies?”
“No, thanks.”
“I’m being selfish. I’m sure you’re busy.”
I said, “Where are you going to sleep tonight?”
“Here.”
“You’ll be okay?”
“Yes,” she said. “I don’t know.”
“Why don’t we do this: Once the new locks are in, we’ll tidy up, bring the instruments to my place for safekeeping, then you can fly up to San Francisco tonight.”
She placed her hands in her lap.
“I could do that,” she said.
Then she cried.
• • •
When she was ready to face the damage we entered the studio. Robin’s pin-neat organization had been reduced to trash. The two of us swept and straightened, collected shreds of ravished instruments, tuning pegs, bridges, salvaging what we could, discarding the rest.
Uncoiling and discarding kinked guitar strings. Hurting myself a couple of times on the sharp ends of the wires because I was working fast, with a blank mind.
The ordeal left Robin short of breath. She dusted the workbench, hopped up, said, “It’s fine, don’t do any more,” stretched an arm.
I stood there, broom in hand.
“Come here,” she said.
I put the broom down and walked toward her. When I was a foot away, she hooked a hand behind my neck, drew me in, kissed me.
I turned my head and her lips grazed my cheek.
Her laughter was dry. “All those times you were inside me,” she said. “And now it’s wrong.”
“Boundaries,” I said. “Without them, there’s not much to civilization.”
“Feeling civilized, are you?”
“Not particularly,” I said.
She grabbed me and kissed me harder. This time, I let her tongue work its way into my mouth. My cock felt like an iron bolt. My emotions lagged well behind.
She knew it. Touched my cheek with the flat of her hand, and for a moment I thought she’d slap me. Instead she just drew away.
“Why doesn’t that feel like a compliment?”