A Cold Heart

by Jonathan Kellerman

  A handsbreadth between them. No touching.

  Petra said, “I know this is hard for you—”

  “And you’re making it a lot harder,” said Frank Drummond.

  His wife tilted her face toward him but kept silent.

  “What would you have us do, sir?” said Petra.

  No answer.

  Milo said, “Looks like Kevin flew somewhere. Any guesses where?”

  “You’re the detectives,” said Frank Drummond.

  Milo smiled. “If I was in your situation, I’d like to know where my son was.”

  More silence. I scanned their faces for the slightest hint of deception. The errant eye blink, the facial twitch, the merest shift in body language.

  All I saw was anguish. A pain I’d seen far too often.

  Parents of seriously ill children. Parents of runaways. Parents living with adolescents whose behavior had long since stopped being predictable.

  The agony of not knowing.

  Terry Drummond’s eyes caught mine. I smiled, and she smiled back. Her husband didn’t notice, sitting stiffly, eyes dulled— off in some lonely place.

  Milo said, “There is one good thing. For us, and maybe for you. Kevin never got a passport, so chances are he’s still in the country.”

  Terry Drummond said, “This can’t be happening.”

  “Honey,” said Frank.

  “This just can’t be happening— please. What do you want from us?”

  “Information about Kevin’s whereabouts,” said Milo.

  “I don’t know his whereabouts! That’s why I’m going out of my mind!”

  “Terry,” said Frank.

  She ignored him, shifted her buttocks, and showed him her back. “Don’t you people think if I knew where he was I’d tell you?”

  “Would you?” said Petra.

  Terry regarded Petra with contempt. “You’re obviously not a mother.”

  Petra went white, then she smiled. “Because . . .”

  “Mothers are protective, young lady. Do you actually believe I’d want Kevin to be hounded by you people? Maybe God forbid get shot because he looked at you the wrong way? I know how you people operate. Trigger-happy. If I knew where he was, I’d want him safe and beyond suspicion!”

  Frank Drummond regarded his wife with what seemed like new respect.

  No one spoke.

  Terry said, “This is absolutely ridiculous— considering Kevin a suspect in anything. A mother knows. Are any of you parents?”

  Silence.

  “Ha. Thought so. Now you people listen to me: Kevin’s a good boy, he’s done nothing wrong. That’s why I would tell you if I knew where he was. Because I am his mother.” A glance at Frank said she considered that several ranks above father.

  He said, “Okay?” in a soft voice. “Will you please go now?”

  Milo said, “Why would Kevin leave town?”

  Terry said, “You don’t know that he did.”

  “His car was near the airport—”

  “There could be any number of reasons for that,” Frank broke in. Pugnacious inflection. Back to lawyer’s mode.

  His wife shot him a disgusted look, then turned to Petra. “If you were really interested in doing your job, young woman, you’d stop regarding my son as a criminal and look for him as if he were just a regular person.”

  “Meaning?” said Petra.

  “Meaning— I don’t know what I mean. That’s your job—your world.”

  “Ma’am—”

  Terry wrung her hands. “We’re normal people, we don’t know how to behave in this situation!”

  “Answering our questions would be a good start,” said Petra.

  “What questions?” Terry shouted. Red-nailed fingers clawed the air. Trying to rip through an invisible barrier. “I haven’t heard any intelligent questions! What? What?”

  • • •

  Milo and Petra let her calm down, then went through their routine. Twenty minutes later, they’d learned little more than the approximate date of Kevin’s last call to his parents.

  Nearly a month ago.

  Frank’s admission. Terry blanched as he said it.

  A month between calls spoke volumes about the parent-child relationship.

  “Kevin needed space,” she said. “He was always my creative one.”

  Frank started to say something, stopped himself, began picking lint from the sofa.

  Terry muttered, “Stop that, you’ll ruin it.”

  Frank complied, closed his eyes, rested his neck on a throw pillow.

  Terry said, “Kevin’s twenty-four. He has a life of his own.”

  I said, “When’s the last time you sent him money?”

  The subject of cash rejuvenated Frank; his dark eyes snapped open. “Not for a long time. He wouldn’t take any more.”

  “Kevin refused money?”

  “Eventually,” he said.

  “Eventually,” I repeated.

  Terry said, “He was always independent. Never wanted to rely on us.”

  “But you did finance GrooveRat,” I said.

  Mention of the magazine made both of them wince.

  Frank said, “I bankrolled it in the beginning.”

  “And after that?”

  “Nothing,” he told me. “You’re wrong about our being involved in everything he did.”

  “His life we were involved in,” countered his wife. “He’s our son, we’ll always be part of his life, but . . .” She trailed off.

  I said, “Kevin needed to establish his own identity, and you respected that.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “Kevin’s always had his own identity.”

  Frank blinked, and I addressed him: “So you sent him money to start up the magazine, then stopped.”

  “I sent him money for whatever he needed,” said Frank. “It wasn’t specifically for the magazine.”

  “What did you think of the magazine?”

  He shrugged. “Not my thing.”

  Terry said, “I thought it was cute. Very well written.”

  I said, “And after the first few months . . . ?”

  Frank’s eyes narrowed. “He stopped calling—”

  “Don’t say it like that,” said Terry. “It wasn’t like we had a fight. You and he—” To us: “My husband’s a dominant man. The other boys can deal with it. Kevin needed to find his own way.”

  “Great,” said Frank, “it’s my fault.”

  “It’s no one’s fault, Frank, we’re not talking about fault, no one’s done anything that’s a fault. We’re trying to give them a clear picture of Kevin so they can see him as a person, not some . . . some suspect.”

  Frank folded thick arms across his chest.

  Terry said, “This is not about you, Frank.”

  “Thank God.”

  She moved a few inches farther from him. Took hold of an accent pillow and held it on her lap like a pet.

  He glanced toward the kitchen. Rolled his jaw. “You know something? I’ve had it with this. I’ve been in court all day, figure I deserve a goddamn home-cooked dinner. You people interrupted our dinner.”

  But Terry didn’t back him up, and he didn’t budge.

  I asked her, “How did Kevin support himself after he stopped asking for money?”

  “He never asked,” said Terry. “Not even in the beginning. We offered, and Kevin agreed to take it.”

  “Did us a big favor,” said Frank.

  Terry said, “Kevin’s not materialistic. When he graduated we offered to buy him a nice car. He went and got an old clunker.” Her face clouded. Thinking of the Honda by the airport.

  I thought: Wanting an unobtrusive crime car? Then: If so, why not choose a dark vehicle?

  I said, “At some point Kevin actively refused money.”

  Terry said, “Yes.”

  Frank said, “There are different ways to ask.” He unfolded his arms, cracked his knuckles. “I’ve been financing his hobbies for years.”

  “Wh
ich is what a father does, Frank.”

  “That’s me,” said Drummond. “A father.”

  Terry glared at him. Her fists were small and white. “Now you people have seen us at our worst. I do hope you’re happy.”

  The shame in her voice made her husband flinch. He scooted closer to her. Placed a hand on her knee. She didn’t budge.

  Milo looked at Petra, then me. She gave a small nod. I didn’t object.

  He reached into his briefcase, produced a death shot of Erna Murphy and flashed it at the Drummonds.

  “Oh my God,” said Terry.

  “Who the hell is that?” said Frank. Then: “So much for dinner.”

  • • •

  Milo and Petra kept them there as the spaghetti smell faded. Asking the same questions several times. Rephrasing, alternating between sympathy and aloofness. Probing for details, pressing for a Murphy-Drummond link.

  The Drummonds denied it— denied everything. No anxiety. I believed them. Believed they knew little about their son.

  At some point, a certain looseness entered the conversation. Low voices all around.

  Discouragement all around. We’d learned nothing vital, and they had a missing son.

  Terry said, “That poor woman. You say she was homeless?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Milo.

  “Why in the world would Kevin know anyone like that?”

  “He lived in Hollywood, ma’am,” said Petra. “You run into all kinds of people in Hollywood.”

  All kinds of people made Frank Drummond grimace. Thinking about Kevin’s sexual orientation?

  He said, “I never liked him living there.”

  Terry said, “He needed something new, Frank.” To us: “Kevin wouldn’t— I mean he might be kind to someone like that, give them money, but that’s it. He’s never been interested in mental illness or anything like that.”

  “Just the arts,” I said.

  “Yes, sir. Kevin loves the arts. He got that from me, I used to dance.”

  “Really?” said Petra. “Ballet?”

  “I took ballet,” said Terry, “but I specialized in modern. Rock ’n’ roll, disco, jazzercize. I used to be on TV.” She touched her hair. “Hullabaloo, Hit List, all the dance shows. Back in ancient times. I worked a lot back then.”

  Frank’s eyes glazed over.

  Her talking about her career made me think of something. I said, “Have you ever heard of Baby Boy Lee?”

  She bit her lip. “He’s a musician, right?”

  “Ever meet him?”

  “Let’s see,” she said. “No, I don’t think he was on any of the dance shows. I did meet The Dave Clark Five and the Byrds, Little Richard—”

  Frank’s loud exhalation cut her off.

  “Why did you ask about that?” she said.

  My turn to get an okay. Milo and Petra both nodded.

  “Baby Boy Lee was murdered,” I said. “Kevin ran a profile on him in GrooveRat, and he called the police to ask for forensic details.”

  “That’s what this is about?” said Frank. His laugh was coarse. “My God. What utter and complete horseshit.” Another laugh. “A phone call? I don’t believe you people!”

  Milo said, “There’s more to it, Mr. Drummond.”

  “Like what?”

  Milo shook his head.

  Drummond said, “Beautiful.”

  I broke in: “How much money did you give Kevin?”

  “Why’s that important?”

  “Why’s it a secret?”

  “Because—”

  Terry said, “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “Beautiful,” Frank repeated.

  “It is no secret, Frank.”

  I said, “One payment or in installments?”

  “One payment,” he said. “Graduation gift. I wanted to break it up, but she . . . I also pay his car insurance and his health coverage. I figured ten would cover a year’s rent and expenses if he didn’t overdo it.”

  “How did Kevin finance the magazine and the rest of his living expenses for two years?”

  “Don’t know,” said Drummond. “I assumed he’d gotten some kind of job.”

  “Did he mention a job?”

  “No, but he didn’t ask me for anything.”

  Terry said, “Kevin’s always been independent.”

  “What kind of jobs had he worked before?” I said.

  “He didn’t work as a college student,” she said. “I advised against it. He concentrated on his studies.”

  “Good student?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Kevin’s advisor— Shull— had seen it differently: no honor student.

  I said, “So he worked before college.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” she said. “He worked at a tropical fish store, sold magazine subscriptions, did yardwork for us.” She licked her lips. “Several summers he helped Frank out at the office.”

  “Paralegal work?” I asked Drummond.

  “He filed papers for me.” His expression said it hadn’t been a good match.

  Terry picked up on it. “Kevin was always . . . he’s always had his own ideas.”

  Frank said, “He doesn’t like routine. My office, any law office, there’s a lot of routine. My bet is he found himself something . . . unconventional.”

  “Such as?” said Petra.

  “Writing, something like that.”

  “He’s fine,” said Terry. “I just know he is.” Her voice shook. Frank reached over and tried to hold her hand, but she pulled away from him and burst into sobs.

  He sat back, disgusted.

  When she quieted, I said, “You’re worried about Kevin.”

  “Of course I am— I know he hasn’t done anything to anyone. But that— the picture you showed us.”

  More sobs.

  “Stop,” said Frank Drummond in a harsh tone. Then he forced his voice lower. “For your sake, Ter. You don’t need to do that, honey.”

  “Why?” she said. “Because you tell me?”

  • • •

  “So what’s the deal beyond basic dysfunction?” said Milo, as Petra drove us back to his unmarked.

  “Kevin left home two years ago,” I said, “but he was a stranger long before that. They have no idea what goes on in his head. If they’re telling the truth about his turning down money, I’d like to know where he got the money to finance his publishing venture.”

  “Something illegal,” said Milo. “Something on the street. That’s how he met Erna.”

  “Not his cousin,” said Petra.

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  I raised the issue of a crime car. Kevin selecting a white Honda over something dark.

  “He’s unsophisticated,” said Petra. “Over the phone, he sounded like a kid.”

  “Nasty kid,” said Milo. “Mommy’s worried he’s a victim.”

  “Mommies think that way,” said Petra. She sounded nearly as sad as Terry Drummond.

  38

  Petra and Milo wanted to talk more so we found an all-night coffee shop on Ventura near Sepulveda, ordered coffee and pie from a waitress who read our faces and kept her distance.

  He told me, “You’re right about the money. Ten grand might’ve covered Kevin’s computer equipment— and maybe not all of it. That leaves printing expenses, marketing the magazine, rent and food.”

  Petra said, “Kevin’s landlady said he’d paid six months in advance. The place goes for five hundred a month, so there’s three grand. He also paid for six months of POB rental up front. Not a big deal, but he was obviously spending Daddy’s cash up front. Daddy just said Kevin preferred ‘unconventional’ jobs.”

  She’d ordered Boston Cream, cut away the cream, picked at the chocolate.

  Milo inhaled half of his apple à la mode deluxe (two scoops of vanilla), and I realized I was hungry and made inroads on a slab of pecan.