A Cold Heart

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “The thing is,” she said, “I’ve been out on the streets three days running, can’t find anyone who even knows him, let alone a hint of criminal enterprise.”

  “What’s your guess?” I said. “Drugs?”

  “Rich kid with a bankroll. It fits.”

  Milo said, “Ten grand doesn’t make him a cartel, but it’s more than enough to finance an initial stash, mark it up, peddle it, use the profit for another stash.”

  Petra said, “The spot where he picked up Erna is a well-known illicit pill market. Maybe Kevin knew it from previous experience.”

  Milo finished his pie, began work on the ice cream. “Once upon a time, you worked at a hospital, Alex. Anything you want to toss in, here?”

  “Never caught a hint of a black-market pill trade.”

  “Still in touch with anyone at Western Peds?”

  “From time to time.”

  “What about the neighboring hospitals?”

  “I’ve got a few contacts.”

  He looked at Petra. “What do you think of his showing Kevin’s picture around to white coats?”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” she said. “Maybe they’d be more open with a colleague. You mind, Alex?”

  “No,” I said, “but if someone’s dealing pills, they’re not going to ‘fess up to it. Or admit they know any dealers.”

  “But you could study reactions,” said Milo, “see if anyone comes across weird. We’d take it from there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t wear yourself out, give it one day. It’s a long shot, but you never know.”

  “I’ll do it tomorrow,” I said. “But we should also consider other sources of income for Kevin. All that computer equipment, the printers, the scanners. And Kevin collected pornography.”

  Both of them stared at me.

  Petra said, “I should’ve thought of that. When we visited Frank Drummond’s office, his secretary asked if this had something to do with porn. Jeez, right under my nose— maybe she knew the kid had a history.”

  “Summers at Daddy’s office,” said Milo. “Didn’t seem to be a happy memory for Daddy.”

  “Kevin being creative,” said Petra. “Maybe in ways Daddy didn’t like. The stuff Junior collects is hard-core S & M.”

  “Or it wasn’t just Kevin in the biz, and they had creative differences,” I said. “What if there’s more than parental protectiveness to Frank’s hostility?”

  Both of them were silent. Petra played with her fork. “Family business . . . you know, Terry looks like she could’ve done dirty movies in her youth.” She bounced the fork’s tines on the tabletop. “I’ll check it out with Vice.”

  • • •

  I spent all day talking to friendly faces at Western Peds and other Sunset Boulevard hospitals. No one recognized Kevin. I tried a few less friendly faces, got blank stares, headshakes.

  I drove by the spot where Erna Murphy had been picked up. During the day, the street was quiet, sunny, lined with old apartment buildings. Not a hint of what went on after dark.

  I spotted a young Hispanic woman walking twin babies in a double stroller. Smiling. The infants dozed.

  A few miles west, she’d be wearing a uniform and they’d be someone else’s babies. Here, mothers took care of their own.

  And locked them in at night.

  • • •

  Before heading home, I called Milo to let him know I’d come up empty. He said, “Comrades in arms, pal. No progress at the airlines, and I’ve been on the phone to Boston all morning, trying to find out if Kevin checked in anywhere near there— both now and during the period when Angelique Bernet got carved up. Nothing on the former, hard to be certain regarding the latter because most of the smaller hostelries claim not to hold on to their guest registers for more than a year. A few places did crack their computers, but if Kevin’s staying at any of them, it’s not under his own name. The bigger hotels report being booked the week of Bernet— lots of conventions— and they do keep records. Again, no Kevin.”

  “What kind of conventions?”

  “Let’s see . . . there were six good-sized affairs that week. Three at Harvard— rehabilitation medicine, media and public policy, and history of science— one on plasma physics at MIT, a law symposium at Tufts, something to do with the Middle East at Brandeis. Any of those sound like our boy’s cup of tea?”

  “No,” I said, “and a student on a limited budget wouldn’t have stayed at the Four Seasons or the Parker House.”

  “That’s why I concentrated first on motels and budget places. I also checked car rental outfits and bugged Boston and Cambridge PDs to check their traffic files, on the chance that Kevin rented another under an assumed name and got a parking citation. It’s how Son of Sam got nailed, why shouldn’t I be lucky?” Long breath. “Nada. And Petra found out the Drummond pornography connection isn’t Kevin, it’s his daddy. Franklin D. has represented over a dozen adult filmmakers. The Valley is Porn Central, so an Encino mouthpiece makes sense.”

  “Constitutional issues?”

  “Bread-and-butter civil issues: overdue bills, contract disputes, workman’s comp. Frank comes across as your basic hardworking solo practitioner. Guess he doesn’t blush easily. Given all the X-rated types in and out of the office, I can understand his secretary wondering about Kevin getting his feet wet. So to speak.”

  “But no evidence Kevin got involved?”

  “Not so far. Vice knew about Frank but never heard of Kevin. They checked all the corporate doing-business-as registrations. Nada redux.”

  “What about Terry?” I said.

  “Nothing. But even assuming Mommy did make some dirty movies. Maybe that’s even how she and Frankie met. So what, if Kevin didn’t take up the family biz.”

  “The family biz could’ve contributed to Kevin’s sexual confusion,” I said. “By itself it means nothing, but toss it onto the pile and it helps define Kevin a bit more. I can see him wanting to distance himself. Becoming obsessed with art for art’s sake. Getting enraged at people he views as selling out— prostituting themselves. But in the privacy of his apartment, he stockpiles dirty pictures.”

  “Sexual confusion,” he said. “Nice euphemism. He’s gay, Alex.”

  “It’s not a euphemism to me. He could be straight and be confused.”

  “Guess so— don’t mean to get touchy but like Ol’ Bob D. said, too much of nothing. Okay: The Drummonds are highly screwed up. Now how the hell do I find Kevin before he channels his confusion into offing another poor, unsuspecting artiste?”

  I had no answer for that.

  He said, “We’re still exploring the Erna Murphy angle. On the off chance that Frank and Terry lied to us about not knowing her, or maybe Erna’s smart, artistic cousin really does exist. Stahl’s been working the Internet, searching the family tree using the name of the battle-ax aunt— Trueblood. Turns out she really is in the money. Married an appliance king, lives in a big house in Pasadena.”

  “A neighbor of Everett Kipper,” I said.

  A couple of beats passed. “Didn’t think of that . . . well, let’s see what Stahl turns up. Meanwhile, Petra and I have adopted the showbiz approach: got no ideas, take a meeting. The next one’s tonight, nine P.M., her turf: Gino’s on the Boulevard. You’re welcome to come, but I can’t promise you any excitement.”

  “Shame on you,” I said. “No rose garden, and now this.”

  39

  Allison had a break between her last outpatient of the day and a man dying of Lou Gehrig’s disease whom she was seeing at the hospice. I bought some takeout deli, picked her up on Montana Avenue in front of her office, and we drove to Ocean Park and ate while watching the sun sink. A few windsurfers lingered on the beach, incorrigibly optimistic. Pelicans flapped their wings and scanned the water for dinner.

  She attacked her sandwich, wiped her mouth, and watched the birds. “I love them. Aren’t they gorgeous?”

  Pelicans have always been favorites of mine. Ungainly fliers b
ut efficient feeders. No pretense, just do the job. I told her so, put my arm around her, and finished my beer. “My idea of gorgeous is more like you.”

  “Shameless flattery.”

  “Sometimes it works.”

  She put her head on my shoulder.

  “Tough night ahead?” I said. She’d talked to me a few times about the ALS patient. A good man, a kind man, he’d never make it to fifty. She’d counseled him for four months. Now, as he faded, so had Allison’s feelings of usefulness.

  “This job we chose to do,” she’d said, a few weeks ago. “We’re supposed to be experts, but which god appointed us?”

  “The Baal of Academia,” I said.

  “Exactly. Get good grades, pass the right exams. It’s not exactly spiritual training.”

  Neither of us spoke for a very long time. I heard her sigh.

  “What is it?”

  “Have the stomach for another confession?”

  I squeezed her shoulder.

  “My little chromium friend,” she said. “I’ve used it once.”

  “When?”

  “Soon after I got it. Before I got my own place, when I leased space in Culver City. I used to work really late. Because I had nothing to come home to. One night, I was in the office doing paperwork until after midnight. I came out to the parking lot and some kids— punks— were hanging out, smoking dope, drinking beer. By the time I got to my car, they’d moved in on me. Four of them— fifteen, sixteen, they didn’t seem hard-core, but they were clearly blasted. To this day, I can’t be sure they meant to do anything other than hassle me. But when the leader stepped up to me— really got in my face— I gave him my best girlish smile, pulled the gun out of my purse, and stuck it in his face. He peed his pants, I could smell it. Then he backed away, ran, they all did. After they were gone, I just stood there, the smile still plastered to my face— it felt wrong, smiling, but for a moment I couldn’t move my facial muscles. Then I began trembling, couldn’t stop, the gun was flopping around. Catching moonlight— the reflection on the barrel was like shooting stars. When we were up in the canyon watching the sky, that image came back to me . . . I was gripping the gun so hard my fingers began to ache. When I finally calmed down, my hand still remained tight. I’d actually pushed the trigger down partially.”

  She lowered her head, black waves of hair fanning out.

  “After that I thought of ditching the gun. But I decided that wasn’t the answer. I needed to master it— master more of my life . . . and here’s the real confession: part of what attracted me to you was the fact that you got involved in crime cases. Someone in the same field as me who got it. I felt we were kindred spirits. I thought about you a lot. When you finally called me, I was thrilled.”

  She touched my hand. Her nail tickled my palm. My erection was sudden, disembodied.

  First with Robin, now this. Reacting to everything with the little head.

  “Of course,” she said, “that was only part of it. Your being handsome and smart didn’t hurt.”

  She looked up at me.

  “I’m not telling you this to lord it over Robin, because she had problems with your work and I want to be the big, brave kindred spirit. It’s just the way it is.”

  She gripped my fingers. “Does all this sound twisted?”

  “No.”

  “Does any of what I just said change things? I really don’t want it to. I’m so happy about what we’ve got going— I’m taking a risk, here. Letting you know who I really am.”

  “Nothing’s changed,” I said. “I like what I know.”

  “You’re sweet to say that.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “The truth,” she said, rolling on her side and pressing herself against me. “That’ll do, for now.”

  • • •

  I dropped her at her office and was setting out for the meeting at Gino’s when Milo called.

  “Canceled. Another body turned up. Similar to ours but different, because it wasn’t found near any artistic venue. Dumped outdoors, in the wetlands, near the Marina. Not buried but half-hidden by marsh plants. Some cyclists saw birds clustered, went to check. Significant decay, coroner estimates it’s been lying there two, three days.”

  “Right after Erna got picked up,” I said. “Right around the time Kevin’s car was left near the airport. The Marina’s not far from the airport.”

  “The dump site’s right on the way. Looks like Kevin gave himself a going-away present. The victim’s definitely an artistic type, sculptor named Armand Mehrabian. He’s based in New York, came out to audition for a big corporate project downtown. Works in rocks and bronze and running water— kinetic sculpture they call it. He was staying at the Loews in Santa Monica, had gone missing. Young, gifted, just starting to get noticed by the art world. Good shot at winning the corporate gig. He was gutted just like Baby Boy and had his neck yanked by a corrugated ligature. I told the coroner’s tech it was probably a low E guitar string. She was very impressed.”

  “Marina dump site makes it Pacific’s case.”

  “Two Ds I don’t know,” he said. “Schlesinger and Small. Petra says Small used to work Wilshire, she collaborated with him, he’s okay. We’re rescheduling the meeting for later so they can show up. We’re an equal opportunity organization, share the despair. Figure on tomorrow morning, so Schlesinger and Small have time to do a preliminary workup on Mehrabian. Not Gino’s, the Westside for their sakes. My Indian pals’, say 10 A.M. That work for you?”

  “Like a charm.”

  40

  The same small back room at Café Moghul, the same smells of hot oil and curry.

  Two more people huddled around the table made the space feel like a cell.

  The Pacific detectives were men in their forties. Dick Schlesinger was big, dark, rangy, long-faced, and thoughtful, with a mink-colored mustache that crossed his face like a freeway. Marvin Small was smaller, chubby and blond-gray, his ode to facial hair a silver brush, prickly as a straw bed, bursting from under a boxer’s nose. He chuckled a lot, even when nothing was funny.

  The woman in the sari brought chai and ice water and left, smiling at Milo.

  Marvin Small said, “This joker, Drummond, anywhere else he could’ve rabbited other than Boston?”

  Milo said, “Your guess is as good as ours.”

  Dick Schlesinger shook his head. “Another whodunit.”

  Petra said, “Had a few, lately?”

  “Two others still on the burner. Little girl disappears from a supermarket where she’s shopping with her mom. We’re thinking one of the box boys, he’s got a molestation record. But no body, no evidence, and for a stupid guy, he’s being smart. We’re also working a shooting on Lincoln, one of the hookers who works the stretch between Rose and LAX. Whoever did it left her with a purse full of dope and cash, and this time we’ve got a pimp who actually seems to care. They had three kids together. A few city employees have been busted there recently, mostly Cal Trans losers and bus company folk heading home after the night shift, veering off for a quickie. We’re hoping it’s not the beginning of another serial. A municipal employee killer, at that.”

  Small said, “But don’t weep for me, Argentina. Sounds like you guys have been plenty busy, yourselves.”

  Knock on the door. The smiling woman entered with a tray of free appetizers that she placed on the table. Milo thanked her and she left.

  “That one has a crush on you,” said Marvin Small.

  “The old charm,” said Milo.

  Petra grinned.

  Everyone trying to deal with the frustration with levity. Except Stahl, he just sat there.

  Detective Small eyed the food with some anxiety. “Multicultural time. This is one culture I’ve never done, food-wise.”

  “It’s not bad, Marve,” said Schlesinger. “My wife’s a vegetarian, we go to Indian restaurants a lot.” He reached for a samosa, held it up, named it. Petra and Milo and Marvin Small took food. Stahl didn’t.

 
The remnants of a pastrami sandwich had taken residence in my gut— Milo’s call interrupting my digestion— so I stuck with the hot spiced tea.

  Stahl seemed off in another world. He’d arrived with a large white envelope, placed it in front of him. Hadn’t talked or budged since the meeting had started.

  The rest of them munched as Small and Schlesinger summarized the Armand Mehrabian case. Passing around death photos to the sounds of chewing. I flipped through them quickly. The abdominal wound was a horrible gape. Shades of Baby Boy Lee and Vassily Levitch.