A Cold Heart

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Open door. He went in and closed it behind him. The man on the bed had tubes running in and out of his nose and arms. A bank of monitors above his pillow proved he was alive. Catheter hosing trailed from under the sheets to a bottle on the floor filled with amber fluid.

  The Navy said CPO Donald Arthur Murphy (ret.) was sixty-nine years old but this guy looked a hundred.

  Stahl checked the patient’s wrist bracelet. D.A. MURPHY, the correct birth date.

  His own heart pounding, he forced his way past the anxiety and studied the man on the bed. Erna’s father had a withered, triangular face topped by dry, wild white hair. A few of the hairs bore the remnants of their original color: a faint ginger at the roots. Murphy’s hands were large and thick and liver-spotted. His nose was a mass of gin blossoms. His toothless mouth had collapsed.

  Eyes closed. Still as a mummy. No respiration Stahl could make out, but the monitors said otherwise.

  He said, “Mr. Murphy?”

  No reaction from the body on the bed or the equipment.

  All the effort for nothing. He stood there, wondering who to talk to when another wave of vertigo hit him and a full-body sweat washed over him like hard surf— too strong to control, shit, this one was going to get him.

  He spotted a chair. Made it over just in time. Closed his eyes . . .

  • • •

  A foghorn brought him out of it.

  “Who are you and what do you think you’re doing here?”

  Stahl’s eyes opened, traveled to the clock above the medical monitors. He’d been out for just a few minutes.

  “Answer me,” demanded the same voice. Brassy, female— a blaring tuba of a voice.

  He turned, faced the source.

  Older woman— mid to late sixties. Big, broad-shouldered, heavyset.

  Her face was a near-perfect sphere, topped by a puffy, sprayed bulb of champagne-colored waves. Made up heavily, way too much rouge and eye shadow. Burgundy lipstick did little to enhance her rubbery lips. She wore a grass green knit suit that had to be expensive, with big crystal buttons and white piping on the lapels. Too tight for her linebacker’s frame, she seemed to be bursting out of it. Matching shoes and purse. Crocodile purse with massive rhinestone clasp. The rock on her sausagelike ring finger was no rhinestone. Blinding white, humongous. Diamond earrings, a pair of stones in each. A string of huge black pearls encircled a turkey-ringed neck.

  “Well?” she blared. Glaring down at him as she planted both hands on barn-wide hips. Another massive ring sparkled from her right hand. Emerald solitaire even bigger than the diamond. Enough jewelry on her to finance Stahl’s retirement several times over.

  “I’m going to call Security, right now.” Her jowls shook, and her bosoms expressed sympathy.

  Stahl’s head hurt; the sound of that merciless voice was ground glass in an open sore. He fumbled in his pocket, flashed the badge.

  “You’re the police?” she said. “Then what in blazes were you doing sleeping in Donald’s room?”

  “Sorry, ma’am. Not feeling well. I sat down to catch my breath, must’ve passed out for a second—”

  “If you’re sick, then you certainly shouldn’t be here. Donald’s very ill. You’d better not have given him anything. This is outrageous!”

  Stahl got to his feet. No more vertigo. Annoyance at having to deal with this battle-ax had vanquished his anxiety.

  Interesting . . .

  He said, “What relationship do you and Mr. Murphy have?”

  “No, no, no.” A finger wagged. Diamonds glinted. “You tell me why you’re here.”

  “Mr. Murphy’s daughter was murdered,” said Stahl.

  “Erna?”

  “You knew her?”

  “Knew her? I’m her aunt. Donald’s baby sister. What happened to her?” Irritated, demanding, not a trace of sympathy. Or shock.

  “You’re not surprised?” said Stahl.

  “Young man, Ernadine was psychiatrically disturbed, had been for years. Donald had no contact with her, nor had I. No one in the family had.” She regarded the man on the bed. “As you can see, there’s no point in bothering Donald.”

  “How long has he been this way?”

  Her expression said, What’s it to you? “Months, young man, months.”

  “Coma?”

  The woman laughed. “You must be a detective.”

  “What’s wrong with him, Ms. . . .”

  “Mrs. Trueblood. Alma F. Trueblood.”

  Murphy’s baby sister. Stahl couldn’t imagine this one ever being small.

  He said, “Ma’am, is there anything you can tell me about—”

  “No,” snapped Alma Trueblood.

  “Ma’am, you didn’t hear the question.”

  “Don’t need to. There’s nothing I can tell you about Ernadine. As I just said, she’s been disturbed for years. Her death was a long time coming, if you ask me. Living on the street, like that. Donald hadn’t seen her in years. You’ll just have to take my word on that.”

  “How many years?”

  “Many. They lost contact.”

  “You say her death was a long time coming?”

  “I certainly do. Ernadine refused help, went her own way. Lived on the streets. She was always a strange little girl. Wild, sullen, odd habits— strange eating habits— chalk, dirt, spoiled food. She picked at her hair, walked around in circles talking to herself. Drew pictures all day but had not a whit of talent.”

  Alma Trueblood drew herself up. “I never liked having her around. She was a bad influence on my children and I must tell you, Officer, I won’t have the family drawn into anything sordid.”

  “Wow,” said Stahl.

  “What is that supposed to mean, young man?”

  “You seem pretty angry.”

  “I am not angry! I am protective. My brother needs protection—look at him. First his heart, then his liver and his kidneys. Everything’s failing. I’m footing the bill for this place, and, believe me, it adds up to a pretty penny. If I wasn’t, Donald would end up in some Veterans Affairs hospital. No, I won’t hear of that. The Good Lord’s been kind to me, and my big brother will rest here for however long it takes. Now, don’t think me cruel. I regret hearing about Ernadine. However, she left the family years ago, and I won’t have her ruining things.”

  “Ruining things by dying?”

  “By . . . associating us with whatever sordid life she led. We— my husband and I, William T. Trueblood— are well respected in the community. We endow many worthy causes, and I won’t have Mr. Trueblood’s name dragged into anything unsavory. Is that clear?”

  “Very.”

  “I’ll thank you to leave, then.” Alma Trueblood popped the clasp on the green croc purse, offering Stahl a view of the contents. Lots of stuff inside, but everything neatly arranged— parcels wrapped in filmy tissue paper. First time he’d seen a purse that organized.

  “Ever spend time in the military, Mrs. Trueblood?”

  “Why would you ask that? Ridiculous.” Thick fingers probed the bottom of the purse, found a small gold case that she opened. Out came a cream-colored calling card. “Have someone inform me as to Ernadine’s burial arrangements. I’ll be footing the bill. Of course. Good day, young man.”

  Stahl slipped the card in a jacket pocket. Great paper, heavy weight, silky gloss.

  Baby sister had climbed socially.

  He headed for the door.

  Alma Trueblood said, “You’d better do something about that narcolepsy of yours. I’m sure your superiors wouldn’t be pleased to hear about it.”

  37

  Milo called late in the afternoon. “Petra and I figured it’s time to give Drummond’s parents another try. No prints in the Honda other than Kevin’s on the steering wheel and the driver’s door handle, and a few scattered smudges from various Inglewood tow-yard folk. No blood, no body fluids, no weapons. No link to Erna Murphy, either, but Petra did find someone who saw her getting into a small, light car the night she
was killed. Walking distance from the kill spot. Kevin’s car wasn’t towed till the next day.”

  “Who’s the witness?” I said.

  “Speedfreak hustler,” he said. “It’s not sterling, but it does firm up the time frame: Kevin picks her up, finishes her off, cuts town.”

  “After wiping Erna’s prints from his car. Had it been washed recently?”

  “Hard to tell with it sitting in the yard all this time. Lab guys did say the passenger door appeared to be too clean, as in wipedown. That’s an indication of criminal intent, which is why we want to lean on Mommy and Daddy. Your suggestions and your presence would be appreciated. Psychological strategy and all that.”

  “When?” I said.

  “After dark. Couple of hours. I’ll pick you up, Petra’ll meet us there.”

  “Not Stahl?”

  “Petra’s got him on the computer. See you in two. Start warming up the old insight machine.”

  • • •

  When it comes to dealing with people, you can only rehearse so much. But the three of us tried, sitting in Petra’s Accord on a quiet, Encino street. The spot was two blocks west of Franklin and Teresa Drummond’s house, in the shade of a shaggy, anthropomorphic pepper tree. The moonlight was feeble, just enough to transform branches to grasping limbs. From time to time a car drove by, but no one noticed us.

  Petra filled us in on the Drummonds. “Does any of that sound like breeding ground for a psycho killer, Alex?”

  “So far,” I said, “it sounds like upper-middle-class suburban life.”

  She nodded, ruefully. “I figure we focus on Frank— his being dominant and all that. If we ignore him, we run the risk of alienating him right from the start.”

  “He’ll come to the door alienated,” I said. “You can start off being polite, but at some point you may need to get more assertive.”

  “Threatening?” said Milo.

  “If they do know where Kevin’s gone, they’re vulnerable to an aiding and abetting charge,” I said. “Frank’s an attorney. He may try to bluster his way through it, but I’d watch for signs of anxiety. As well as too much hostility— overreacting can be a cover.”

  “So, what, we ask them to sell out their kid to save their own butts?”

  “However they feel about Kevin, they may not be willing to put themselves in criminal jeopardy. At some point, I’d also focus on the financial angle. They bankrolled Kevin’s magazine, so they bear indirect responsibility for whatever flowed from that. At the least, it won’t help Frank’s practice. In that regard, the mother might also be your target. Work on her guilt by showing her Erna’s photos.”

  “Who is maybe Cousin Erna,” said Milo. To Petra: “Stahl still hasn’t come up with any link, there?”

  “Nope,” she said. “Like I told you, he located Erna’s dad, but he’s comatose, on his way out. While he was at the rest home, he did run into a relative. Donald Murphy’s sister, a real battle-ax named Alma Trueblood. More like she ran into Stahl. She says Erna had been strange all her life, refused family help.”

  She turned to me. “So we study their reactions. Three of us, two of them should make that feasible. Do we tell them Alex is a psychologist?”

  “What for?” said Milo.

  “Let them know the case has kicked up a notch, Kevin’s being thought of as a psycho.”

  Both of them waited for my answer.

  I said, “No, I’ll just stay in the background. If you don’t mind giving me some leeway, I’ll cut in if I feel the timing’s right.”

  “Fine with me,” said Petra.

  Milo nodded.

  She said, “You guys ready?”

  • • •

  A stocky man in a too-tight red Lacoste shirt, baggy khakis, black socks and bedroom slippers came to the door. Fleshy face, broad nose, wavy graying hair, keen, angry eyes. A tightly coiled man, ready to pounce.

  Petra said, “Evening, Mr. Drummond.”

  A ripple coursed through Frank Drummond’s jaw. He looked at Milo and me.

  “A battalion? What now?”

  Petra said, “We found Kevin’s car.”

  Franklin Drummond blinked. I’d hung back, kept most of my body concealed behind Milo’s bulk, but I was studying Drummond intently. He must’ve sensed it because his eyes fixed on mine, and his mouth worked.

  “Where?” he said.

  “It was impounded, sir,” said Petra. “Parked illegally near LAX. We’re canvassing various airlines, right now, to find out where Kevin’s gone. If you know . . .”

  “LAX,” said Drummond. Sweat broke at his hairline. The brown eyes were seized by a clutch of rapid blinks. “Goddamn.”

  “May we come in, please?”

  Drummond rolled his meaty shoulders and stood taller. Snapping back into litigator stance. “I have no idea where Kevin is.”

  Petra said, “That must concern you, sir.”

  Drummond didn’t answer. She went on: “At this point, Kevin’s disappearance is being regarded as a criminal matter.”

  “You people are ridiculous.”

  Petra edged closer to Drummond. Milo and I followed. Full-court press. “If you know where your son’s gone, it’s in his interest and yours that you tell us.”

  Drummond’s jaws clenched.

  A voice behind him called out, “Frank?” Rapid footsteps. Muffled, yet percussive.

  “It’s all right,” he said. But the footsteps continued, and Terry Drummond’s face appeared over her husband’s right shoulder. Half her face. She was an inch or so taller than him. Boosted by high-heeled backless sandals. Four-inch heels, not much thicker than darning needles. The percussion.

  Plush carpeting contributed the muffling.

  I looked at the heels again. Putting herself through foot agony in the privacy of her own home.

  “Go back in,” Frank Drummond ordered her.

  “What?” she insisted.

  Petra told her about the Honda.

  “Oh, no!”

  Frank said, “Terry.”

  “Frank, please—”

  “Ma’am, Kevin could be in danger,” said Petra.

  Frank wagged a finger in her face. “Now, you listen—”

  “Frank!” Terry Drummond reached around, grabbed his hand, pushed down, and lowered it.

  “This is inexcusable,” Frank Drummond said.

  “May we come in?” said Petra. “At this point, it’s either that or the station.”

  Drummond pressed his fists together and grimaced. Isometric exercise; no gain without emotional pain. “What do you mean ‘this point’?”

  “We found evidence in Kevin’s car of criminal intent.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “Let’s talk inside,” said Petra.

  Drummond didn’t respond.

  His wife said, “Enough, Frank. Let them in.”

  Drummond’s nostrils flared. “Make it short,” he said.

  But all the fight had been taken out of him.

  • • •

  The living room spoke of financial success acquired through achievement rather than legacy. The coffered ceiling was several feet too high for the modestly proportioned space. A faux-marble finish glossed the walls. Prefab moldings were slathered like whipped cream. The furniture was heavy, machine-carved, blond, bleached by too many crystal light fixtures. Machined copies of Persian rugs were arranged haphazardly over a bed of thick, beige wall-to-wall.

  Three paintings: a harlequin, a ballerina, a too-bright rendition of an imaginary arroyo under a salmon pink sky. In the landscape, flecks of silver paint passed as reflection. Dreadful. Kevin Drummond hadn’t grown up with fine art.

  And he’d escaped. The dingy Hollywood flat was less than an hour away, but for all intents, we were talking different planets.

  His father dropped heavily into an overstuffed sofa. Terry settled herself a foot away, crossed long, dancer’s legs encased in skintight capris, tossed her flame-colored hair, and displayed no self-conscious
ness as her unfettered breasts bobbled.

  High heels, no bra. The smell of canned spaghetti wafted from the kitchen.

  I wondered more about Kevin’s childhood.

  Frank Drummond exhaled, sat up straight. Terry Drummond’s face was heavily made-up but cosmetics failed to mask her grief. Yet, her body posture remained languid— Cleopatra-on-a-Nile-barge.