A Cold Heart

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Because I’m scared and alone and have no use for boundaries.”

  She kept her arms at her side. Her eyes were a strange mix of cool and wounded.

  “Tim says he loves me,” she said. “If he only knew— Alex, I’m behaving badly. Please believe me: When I called you all I really wanted was comfort. And to tell you about Baby’s guitars. God, I think that’s what bothers me the most about the break-in. I really wanted you to have them. I wanted to do something for you.” She laughed. “And the funny thing is, I don’t really know why.”

  “What we had,” I said, “isn’t just going to vanish.”

  “Do you ever think of me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Does she know?”

  “Allison’s smart.”

  “I try hard not to think of you,” she said. “Mostly, I succeed. I’m happy more often than you might think. But sometimes you stick to me. Like a burr. Mostly, I deal with it very well. Tim’s good to me.”

  She gazed around the ravished studio. “Pride, the fall. I really didn’t wake up yesterday thinking, ‘Hey, girl, how about a little despair.’ “ She laughed, this time with some fervor. Touched my cheek gently. “You’re still my friend.”

  “I am.”

  “Will you tell her? About coming here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You probably shouldn’t,” she said. “Ignorance being bliss and all that. Not that you did anything wrong. Au contraire. So there’s nothing to tell. That’s my advice. As a girl.”

  Gang bangers. As good a theory as any. I wanted her up in San Francisco, anyway.

  My erection hadn’t flagged. Positioning myself so she wouldn’t see, I moved toward the closet where she stored the most expensive instruments. “Let’s get everything out to your truck.”

  31

  “A guitar string,” I said.

  Milo and Petra and Eric Stahl stared at me.

  The second group meeting. No Indian food, a small conference room at the West L.A. Division. Seven P.M. and the phones were ringing.

  Cleaning up Robin’s studio— handling the strings— had given me the idea. When I’d told Milo about the break-in, he said, “Shit. I’ll check with Pacific, make sure they’re taking it seriously.”

  I went on: “The size, the corrugations. Check a low E or A string against the marks on Juliet Kipper’s and Vassily Levitch’s necks. It also fits with the idea of our boy as a would-be artiste.”

  “He plays them,” said Petra.

  Milo grumbled, opened the case files, found the photos, passed them around. Stahl inspected the pictures without comment. Petra said, “Hard to tell from these. I’ll go out and buy some strings, bring them over to the coroner. Any particular brand?”

  I shook my head.

  “Artiste,” said Milo. “Wonder if Kevin has guitar strings in his pad.”

  Stahl’s eyes drifted briefly to the floor.

  Petra said, “I spoke to Kevin’s mom. Very uptight but no revelations. Kevin’s gentle, et cetera. Her anxiety level could mean she has no idea where her boy is. Or that she does. One thing did catch my eye: she’s a flaming redhead.”

  “Like Erna Murphy,” said Milo. “Interesting. What do you think about that, Alex? The old Oedipal connection?”

  “What’s the mother like?” I said.

  “Curvy, voluptuous, flashy dresser,” said Petra. “More flash than class. Probably a looker in her youth. Not too shabby now.”

  “Seductive?”

  “I’m sure she could be. I didn’t pick up any weird vibes vis à vis Kevin, but it was only a three-minute conversation. The lady definitely did not want to talk to me.”

  I said, “It’s possible Erna’s red hair evoked something in Kevin.”

  “Guitar string,” said Milo. “What’s next, he stabs them with a fiddle bow? Kevin’s got a history of false starts. Wonder if he tried to be a guitar hero, too.”

  Petra said, “Let’s get in his apartment— smell a gas leak and get the landlady to check. Meanwhile, we’re there to ensure her safety.”

  Stahl said, “I’ll do it.”

  Milo said, “About the break-in. Robin’s name appeared on the liner notes to Baby Boy’s CD, and Baby Boy’s guitars were taken.”

  Putting into words what had gnawed at me.

  “Your name was on there, too, Alex.”

  “It was a long list,” I said. “And even if there is a connection, I have nothing to worry about. Not an artist. You going to call Robin?”

  “I don’t want to freak her out, but I do want her to be careful. It’s good she’s in San Francisco . . . yeah, I’ll call her. Where’s she staying?”

  “Don’t know. Her boyfriend’s working with some kids on a Les Miz production, should be easy enough to find out.”

  His lips twisted, and he played with the cover of the pad.

  Her boyfriend.

  The wall clock said seven-ten. If Allison’s flight was on time, she’d be landing in twenty minutes.

  Milo said, “Anything new on Erna Murphy.”

  Stahl said, “No criminal history, no state hospitalizations.”

  “We haven’t been able to track down any family to inform,” said Petra.

  “Most of the state mental hospitals closed down years ago,” I said. “She could’ve been committed and we wouldn’t know it.”

  Stahl said, “I’m open to suggestions, Doctor.”

  Milo said, “Even if she was hospitalized at Camarillo or someplace like that, it tells us nothing. We already know she’s mentally ill. We need something more recent, some connection to Drummond. She has no record at all?”

  Stahl shook his head. “Not even a traffic violation. She never got a driver’s license.”

  “That probably means she’s been impaired for a while,” I said.

  “Impaired but bright and educated?” said Milo.

  “Driving can be frightening for disturbed people.”

  “Driving scares me, sometimes,” said Petra.

  “What paper does she have?” said Milo.

  Stahl said, “A Social Security number, and state welfare says she got on their rolls about eight years ago but didn’t put in for benefits. The only employment record I can find is eight years before that. She worked at a McDonald’s from June through August.”

  “Sixteen years ago,” said Milo, “she was seventeen. High school summer job. Where?”

  “San Diego. She went to Mission High, there. The school lists her parents as Donald and Colette Murphy but says they have no other records. S.D. County assessor has Donald and Colette living in the same house for twenty-one years, then selling it ten years ago. No indication where they moved. No record of their buying another house. I took a trip down there. The neighborhood’s working-class, civilian military employees, retired noncoms. No one remembers the Murphys.”

  “Maybe when Daddy retired, they moved out of state,” said Milo. “It would be nice to find them for their sake.” A half-second grimace tightened his face; imagining another bad-news call. “But the picture I’m getting is Erna was long gone from hearth and home, so it’s unlikely they can tell us anything relevant.” He looked to me for confirmation.

  “The lack of social connections,” I said, “would make Erna the perfect acquaintance for our boy. Someone he could talk to without fear of her confiding his secrets to another friend. Someone he could dominate, whose identity he could borrow.”

  “The lack of connections,” said Petra, “made her an easy victim.” She brushed nonexistent lint from the lapel of her black pantsuit. To Milo: “What, now?”

  “Maybe another visit to Kevin’s parents?” said Milo. “Shake the family tree a bit and see what falls out?”

  “Not right now,” she said. “Dad’s overtly hostile, very clear he wants nothing to do with us. It’s possible Mrs. D. could be made more pliable, but he’s calling the shots. And his being an attorney makes it riskier than usual. One wrong move, he makes lawyer noise, there goes t
he evidentiary chain. If we had infinite manpower, I’d stick a surveillance on the house. What I figured I’d do in the real world is work the streets some more. Keep looking for anyone who remembers Erna or Kevin.” She glanced at Stahl. “No harm trying to trace her parents.”

  He said, “Donald and Colette. I’ll go national.”

  “A guitar string,” said Milo. “So far, we’re playing out of tune.”

  “So far,” said Petra, “we don’t even know what the song is.”

  32

  Allison arrived by taxi, an hour and a half late, freshly made-up but looking exhausted. I had a couple of steaks on the grill, spaghetti with olive oil and garlic in the sauté pan, was mixing a butter lettuce salad.

  “I was wrong,” she said. “Food at hand seems like a great idea.”

  “No peanuts on the plane?”

  “We were lucky to land. Some guy got drunk and rowdy. For a while it looked as if it was going to be ugly. A bunch of us subdued him, and finally he fell asleep.”

  “A bunch of us?” I said.

  “I got hold of one ankle.”

  “Sheena, Queen of the Jungle.”

  She flexed a biceps. “It was terrifying.”

  “Brave girl,” I said, holding her.

  “When it happens, you don’t even think,” she said. “You just act . . . I need to sit down. Is wine on the menu?”

  We took a long time eating, chatting, slipping into the fuzz of light intoxication. Later, undressed, in bed, we held each other without making love and fell asleep like roommates. I awoke at 4 A.M., found Allison’s side of the bed empty, and went to look for her.

  She was in the kitchen, sitting in dim light, wearing one of my T-shirts and drinking instant decaf. Hair tied up carelessly, face scrubbed of makeup, bare legs smooth and white against the dark oak floor.

  “Biorhythm must be off,” she said.

  “From Colorado?”

  She shrugged. I sat down.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but I was wandering around, trying to tire myself out. What are all those guitar cases in the spare bedroom about?”

  I told her.

  She said, “Poor Robin, what a trauma. Nice of you.”

  I said, “It seemed the right thing to do.”

  A clump of black hair came loose, and she slipped it behind her ear. Her eyes were bloodshot. Without makeup she looked a bit faded, but younger.

  I leaned over and kissed her lips. Sour breath, both of us.

  “So she’s back in San Francisco?”

  “Yup.”

  “Helping her was the right thing to do,” she said. “Now do something for me.”

  She got up, crossed her arms, raised the T-shirt from her slim, white body.

  • • •

  I was up by seven, wakened by her light snoring. I watched her chest rise and fall, studied her pale, lovely face scrunched between two pillows. Mouth agape in what could have been a comical expression. Long-fingered hands gripped the covers.

  Tight grip. Frantic movement behind her eyelids. Dreams. From the tension in her body, maybe not good ones.

  I closed my eyes. She stopped snoring. Started again. When she opened her eyes and saw me, the blue irises were clogged with confusion.

  I smiled.

  She said, “Oh,” sat up, stared at me, as if encountering a stranger.

  Then: “Good morning, baby.” She knuckled her eyes. “Was I snoring?”

  “Not a bit.”

  • • •

  She had a morning full of patients and left at eight. I tidied up, thought about Robin in San Francisco, Baby Boy Lee’s instruments gone and what that meant, if anything.

  Three blocks south, the gangs were active . . .

  But Baby’s Gibson had been the only acoustic instrument taken.

  The phone rang. Milo said, “The ligature marks on Julie and Levitch are a perfect match to a light-gauge low E guitar string. Now what does that mean?”

  “It means nothing about these killings is accidental,” I said. “And that worries me. Talk to the Pacific detectives about Robin’s break-in?”

  “They see it as a routine burglary.”

  “Are they good?”

  “Average,” he said. “But no reason to think they’re wrong. Robin’s neighborhood, there’s plenty of that.”

  I thought of Robin living with me, up in the Glen. Higher-priced neighborhood. Safer. Except when it wasn’t. A few years ago, a murderous psychopath had burned down the house.

  Our house . . .

  Milo said, “I asked them for a uniform drive-by for the next few weeks.”

  “The usual two passes a day?”

  “Yeah, I know, but it’s better than nothing. I also gave them Kevin Drummond’s vehicle and plates, told them to keep a special lookout. Meanwhile, Robin’s in San Francisco, so don’t worry. Stahl and the landlady got into Drummond’s apartment last night. He collects toys and magazines, has a slew of computer and printing equipment. No guitars, no strings, no creepy trophies, nothing incriminating. And not a single copy of GrooveRat. That’s what I find interesting.”

  “Covering his tracks,” I said. “Or he’s got another storage space.”

  “Stahl’s calling U-rent places.”

  “Wonder if it was Stahl’s second entry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Normally he’s got the demeanor of a statue. Yesterday, when you talked about going in, his eyes got jumpy, and he looked at the floor.”

  “Did he . . . he’s a strange one, that’s for sure . . . the magazines included gay porn. Rough stuff. Stahl said Kevin’s been living spartan, just a few bits of clothing, no personal effects of any consequence. That could be because he split for the long run or there is another stash spot.”

  “It could also mean psychological deterioration,” I said. “Drawing inward. Spitting on his parents’ values.”

  “Petra decided she will give the parents another try— specifically the father. I’m heading over to Ev Kipper’s office building, see if I can learn more about his girlfriend. Because one of his neighbors called me. Claims Ol’ Ev’s been looking especially angry. Pounding away late at night, past the curfew. They’re afraid to call the cops. Also the girlfriend’s been looking rather down the last coupla days, eating alone. I can’t see any easy link to the cases, but I don’t have a lead in any other direction. The more I think about Erna Murphy, the more I want to know about her, but all Petra’s found, so far, are a few merchants who vaguely remember Erna on the street. No buddies or boyfriends, she was always by herself.”

  “What about the doctor the Dove House folks called in when she bled on the sheets? Could be Erna opened up to her.”

  “The Dove House folks said the doctor just met Erna once.”

  “The Dove House folks admitted they don’t stay in touch with the women once they leave the shelter. And Erna was out of there more than she was in. If she got sick again, maybe she returned to the person who’d cared for her.”

  “Well,” he said, “nothing else looks promising, might as well check it out— you mind doing it? I’m on my way to Century City.”

  “Sure,” I said. “What’s the doctor’s name?”

  “Let me check my notes . . . here it is . . . Hannah Gold.”

  “I’ll call her now.”

  • • •

  I phoned Dr. Gold, got a male receptionist, used my title.

  He said, “She’s with a patient, Doctor.”

  “It’s about a patient. Ernadine Murphy.”

  “Is this an emergency?”

  “It’s important.”

  “Hold on, please.”

  Moments later: “Dr. Gold wants to know what it’s about?”

  “Ernadine Murphy was murdered.”

  “Oh. Hold on, please.”

  Longer wait, this time. The same man came on the line. “Dr. Gold will be free at noon. You can come by then.”

  • • •

  The office
was a sand-colored bungalow next to a Fiat mechanic. A black plastic sign to the right of the door said:

  Vrinda Srinivasan, M.D.

  Hannah R. Gold, M. PH., M.D.

  Angela B. Borelli, M.D.