A Cold Heart

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She was shapely, of medium height, a good deal of it legs. She made no attempt to capitalize on that, her skirt was knee length. But she couldn’t prevent the way she moved naturally.

  The blond hair was long and straight, platinum with an overlay of gold. From the back, she looked like every straight guy’s dream.

  Milo appreciated her figure the way he enjoyed a good painting.

  He followed the four women to the Food Court, where the coworkers veered into the warren of fast-food booths after one of them said, “You’re sure, Steph?”

  Stephanie nodded.

  Her friend said, “See you later.”

  She continued walking, past the Brentano’s bookstore and the multiplex theaters, stopping to window-shop at Bloomingdale’s and several boutiques, then continuing until she reached a plaza at the south end of the mall. Benches and food vendors were scattered around a big square of sun-brightened stone.

  Gorgeous day. Perfect for a meeting with someone you loved.

  The complex was jammed with shoppers and tourists and white-collar types from the neighboring office buildings taking lunch. Milo bought a jumbo iced tea, melted into the throng, and strolled leisurely while keeping his eye on that pretty blond head.

  When Stephanie stopped in the center of the plaza and didn’t move for a moment, he kept himself behind a corner, then ventured out on foot and stood with his back to her sipping tea through a straw. Positioned so he could watch her reflection in a shop window.

  She tossed her hair, smoothed it over her ears. Removed her sunglasses, put them back on.

  Waiting for the boyfriend? Milo was curious why Kipper had been looking so angry.

  He kept his eye on the walkway. Kipper’s likely approach.

  Stephanie bought a hot pretzel with mustard and a cup of something from a pushcart vendor, took a bench, and began eating.

  Munching away, tossing crumbs to the pigeons.

  Crossing those long legs.

  Finishing most of the pretzel and the drink, she got up and bought an ice-cream cone from another cart and sat back down in the same spot.

  Not a single glance at her watch.

  Fifteen minutes passed, and she didn’t look the least bit impatient.

  Another five. She yawned, stretched, looked up at the sun.

  She removed her shades again. Took midday heat on her face.

  Eyes closed. Mellowing out.

  Not waiting for anyone.

  Milo crossed the plaza, made a long, wide, circle, and approached her from the back. She wouldn’t see him until he was ready.

  His badge was in hand, concealed by his fingers. She was sure to be startled by the sight of a big man bearing down on her, and he hoped the shield would focus her, avoid a scene.

  She didn’t hear him coming, didn’t look up and open her eyes until he’d walked around to the front of her bench, was nearly on top of her.

  Dark eyes, surprised. He looked past that, focused on the bruise that swelled her left cheekbone. She’d done well with her makeup, had almost concealed the purpling, but a bit peeked through— a rosy splotch deepening her smooth, tan complexion. The entire left side of her face was enlarged. Cosmetics couldn’t handle edema.

  The badge scared her, and he pocketed it. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. Especially today.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said in a small voice. “Today?”

  He sat down beside her, recited his title, emphasizing all the buzzwords. Lieutenant. Police. Homicide.

  That did nothing to squelch Stephanie’s fear level, but it did focus her anxiety.

  “This is about Julie, right?” she said. Trembling lips. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Serious about what, Ms. . . .”

  “Cranner. Stephanie Cranner. Ev told me you’d been asking him lots of questions about Julie. That you probably suspected him because he was the ex.” Her hand rose toward the bruised cheek, then stopped and dropped into her lap. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “He told you we suspected him,” said Milo.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” said Stephanie Cranner. Pleasant voice— youthful, lilting, but strained by anxiety. Everything about her radiated youth and health. Except the bruise.

  “Did Mr. Kipper do that to you?”

  The brown eyes dropped. “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. It has nothing to do with Julie— not her murder, anyway.”

  Milo slumped, made himself as small as possible, nonthreatening.

  Stephanie Cranner sat up straighter. “I’ve got to get back to the office.”

  “You just got here,” said Milo. “Usually you take forty minutes for lunch.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You’ve been watching me?”

  He shrugged.

  “That’s outrageous,” she said. “I haven’t done anything. I just happen to be in love with Ev.” A beat. “And he loves me.”

  Milo eyed the swollen cheek. “First time he’s done that?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Ah.”

  “It is,” she said. “Absolutely the first time. That’s why I don’t want to make a big deal. Please.”

  “Sure,” said Milo.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  He made no move to leave.

  She said, “May I go now, Lieutenant? Please?”

  Milo swiveled, eased himself a little closer, made eye contact. “Ms. Cranner, I have absolutely no desire to make your life difficult. I work Homicide, not Domestic Violence. Though I should tell you, the two aren’t always unrelated.”

  Stephanie Cranner gaped at him. “This is unbelievable. You’re saying . . .”

  “I’d be less concerned about your well-being if I knew what happened.”

  “What happened was Ev and I had . . . words. A fight. It was my fault, I lost it. Got physical and started shoving at him, kept shoving, really shoving hard. He took it for a while, then finally he shoved me back.”

  “With his fist?”

  “With his hand,” she said, showing Milo a smooth palm. She wore two rings on each hand. Cheap stuff— thin gold, semiprecious stones. No diamond solitaire.

  “His open hand did that?”

  “Yes, it did, Lieutenant. Because I was charging him and the movement— all the force, we collided. Believe me, he was a lot more upset than me. Got down on his knees and begged forgiveness.”

  “Did you grant it?” said Milo.

  “Of course, I did. There was nothing to forgive.” She thumped a firm bosom. “I started it. He was defending himself.”

  Milo sipped iced tea and let several moments pass.

  “Lunching alone, today,” he said.

  “He’s in a meeting.”

  “Ah.” Using the old shrink word, again. After riding Alex about it for years, he’d found it a useful tool.

  “He is,” said Stephanie Cranner. “If you don’t believe me, you can check.”

  “And you were in the mood to be alone.”

  “Is that a crime?”

  “What got you so upset that you shoved him, Ms. Cranner?”

  “I don’t see why I have to talk about it.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Then I won’t.”

  Milo smiled.

  She said, “You’re not going to let go of this.”

  “I’ve got a job to do.”

  “Look,” she said, “if you have to know, the fight was about Julie. Which is exactly why you’re wasting your time looking at Ev.”

  She folded her arms across her chest, looked smug. As if that explained it all.

  Milo said, “You lost me, Ms. Cranner.”

  “Pu-leeze,” she said. “Don’t you get it? Ev loved Julie. Still does. That’s what ticked me off. He loves me but he also— he can’t get Julie out of his head. Even with her being . . . since she died, he can’t . . .” A blush spread from her neck to her hairline, a reaction so sudden and deeply pigmented that it appeared cartoonish.

  “Sinc
e she died he can’t what?” said Milo.

  Stephanie Cranner mumbled.

  “Pardon?”

  “You know.”

  Milo said nothing.

  “Shit,” said Stephanie Cranner. “Me and my big mouth.” Her fingertips grazed his sleeves. She batted her lashes and flipped her hair and shot him a sick smile. “Please, Lieutenant, don’t tell him I said anything about . . . please don’t tell him, he’d . . .”

  She stopped herself.

  Milo suppressed his own sick smile, knowing what had been coming. He’d kill me.

  “He’d be unhappy,” she said, too emphatically. “I had no right to tell you, you’ve got me to say things I don’t mean.”

  “Let’s leave it at this: Since Julie, Mr. Kipper’s changed.”

  “No. Yes. Not just in that way. Mainly emotionally. He— he’s distant. It’s all part of the same thing.”

  “Emotionally,” he said. Another shrink’s trick. Echoing.

  She said, “Yes! Ev cared for Julie so much that he can’t put her out of his mind and . . . give himself over.”

  She drew back her arm, hurled the remaining piece of pretzel across the plaza. More of an assault than altruism; pigeons scattered. The mustard-crusted dough rolled, teetered, came to a halt.

  She said, “I knew about Julie when I started going with him.”

  “Knew what?”

  “That they still saw each other once in a while. I was cool with that. I figured it would fade. And Ev tried. He wanted to give himself to me, but . . .”

  She blinked away tears, put on her sunglasses, showed Milo her profile.

  “They kept seeing each other,” he said.

  “It was nothing sneaky, Lieutenant. Ev was always open about it. It had always been part of the deal.” She turned abruptly, faced Milo, again. “Ev loved Julie so deeply that he couldn’t let go of her. There’s no way he would have done anything to hurt her, let alone kill her.”

  • • •

  He managed to keep her there for another fifteen minutes, shifted the topic to her work and learned she was a U. grad, working as a secretary while she studied, nights, for a Pepperdine MBA. Smart, with big plans.

  Seeing herself and Kipper as a potential power couple in the financial world.

  She gave him nothing more about Kipper and Julie. He handed her his card.

  She said, “I really have nothing else to tell you.”

  Figuring she’d toss it the moment he was gone, he left the plaza, amazed that someone so young and good-looking and bright would accept the contingencies Ev Kipper had saddled her with.

  Probably something to do with her own upbringing, but that was Alex’s world. Back in his unmarked, he phoned Alex at home, recounted the interview.

  Alex said, “I’m inclined to agree with her.”

  “That level of passion? Julie and Kipper get divorced but nine years later Kipper can’t let go? His feelings for her are so intense that once she’s dead, he can’t get it up? Doesn’t all that imply an unhealthy emotional situation, Alex? Toss in Kipper’s temper— and now we know he acts out physically— and doesn’t that add up to an explosive situation? Like I told Cranner, domestic violence and homicide ain’t strangers.”

  “I’m not saying Kipper couldn’t have lost it and gotten violent with Julie. But that’s not the crime scene we’ve got. Julie’s murder was thought-out, cold and calculated just like all the others. Stalking, an optimal kill site, the use of a preselected weapon, pseudosexual posing. If Kipper had done it, he wouldn’t have demeaned Julie. On the contrary, he’d have arranged her body in as dignified a manner as possible. The only thing that would get me to change my mind is some link between Kipper and Erna Murphy. Also, the same type of guitar string was used on Julie and Levitch. That would mean Kipper murdered Levitch to cover for Julie. And that sounds like a bad movie.”

  “Life sometimes imitates bad art,” said Milo. “Why not? A well-dressed man like Kipper would blend in with the concert crowd at Szabo and Loh’s. And Julie and Levitch were the only ones the string was used on.”

  “You have your doubts about the psychic-cannibal scenario? What about Faithful Scrivener? All those reviews of our victims.”

  “Artistic types get reviewed . . . it’s not a matter of doubt, I’m exploring alternatives.”

  “Okay,” said Alex.

  “I’m sure you’re right. But Kipper being that freaked out over Julie bugs me. Not just the impotence but his defying the cops by hammering late at night. To me that says boundaries are loosening. I wouldn’t want to be Stephanie. I’m not sure she sees the danger.”

  “Your instincts are good. If you think she’s in serious danger, warn her.”

  “Basically, I did . . . okay, I’m gonna check in with Petra, then see how the motor lab’s doing on Kevin Drummond’s Honda. Thanks for listening.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Robin still in San Francisco?”

  “Last I heard,” said Alex.

  Keeping his voice even, but Milo knew the question had been out of line. No time to get distracted. Stay on course.

  If only he could decide what “on course” meant.

  He didn’t apologize, no sense apologizing. Instead he said, “Anything turns up, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” said Alex, back to his friendly voice. “This one’s a twister, isn’t it?”

  Always, the therapist.

  36

  Eric Stahl snapped off fifty one-handed pushups, followed by another four hundred conventionals. That level of exertion seldom made him sweat, but this time, he was soaked— anticipation of the visit to Donald Murphy?

  Stupid, he should be able to control it. But the body didn’t lie.

  He showered, dressed in one of his four black suit–white shirt–gray tie combos and drove to Sun Garden Convalescent Home in Mar Vista.

  The place was a coffee-colored two-story building with dark brown trim. Inside was a lobby covered in flocked green paper. Ancient people lolled in wheelchairs.

  Then: the hospital smell.

  Vertigo stabbed Stahl. He fought the urge to bolt, kept his posture boot-camp rigid, yanked his lapels in place, and walked to the front desk.

  The woman in charge was a middle-aged Filipina who wore a white coat over her floral dress. In Saudi Arabia, a lot of the servants had been Filipinas— little more than slaves, really. People in a worse situation than him.

  This one’s badge said she was CORAZON DIAZ, UNIT ASSISTANT.

  Hospital lingo for clerk.

  Stahl smiled at her, worked hard at being a regular guy, told her what he was after.

  “Police?” she said.

  “Nothing serious, ma’am. I just need to speak with one of your patients.”

  “We call them guests.”

  “The guest I’m looking for is Donald A. Murphy.”

  “Let me check.” Computer clicks. “Floor two.”

  He rode a very slow elevator up to the second floor. More flocked walls but no mistaking this for anything but what it was: a ward. A nursing station was positioned at the center, and a couple of women in red uniforms stood around chatting. Then one long corridor lined by rooms. Two gurneys in the hall. Rumpled bedding on one.

  Stahl struggled to maintain.

  Even as he approached the nurses, they didn’t stop talking. He was about to ask them for Donald Murphy’s room number when he noticed a whiteboard above the station. Names inked in with blue marker, not unlike the case list at the station.

  Two-fourteen.

  He made his way up the hall, passing rooms occupied by very old people, some in wheelchairs, others bedridden. Waves of television noise hit him. The click-click of medical apparatus.

  The smell, even stronger up here. The generic chemical reek, mixed with vomitus, fecal stench, sick sweat, and a host of odors he couldn’t identify.

  His skin had turned clammy, and another attack of imbalance nearly doubled him over. He stopped midwa
y up the corridor, pressed a palm against the fuzzy wallpaper, breathed in, out, in, out. Felt light-headed but a little better, and kept going to 214.

  • • •