A Cold Heart

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Milo scrawled in his pad.

  Martin said, “This has been educational, but I’m tired. If that’s all—”

  “If you’ve got a writing sample from Shull, that would be helpful.”

  “Back at my office,” she said. “I’ve got his latest end-of-year self-assessment. Every faculty member’s required to submit one— listing accomplishments, goals. Gordon’s is a formality because we both know he’s got life tenure.”

  “Maybe not,” said Milo.

  “What a lovely thought,” said Martin. “I’ll come in early tomorrow, messenger it to you first thing.”

  She saw us to the door, and Milo thanked her.

  “My pleasure,” she said. “Really . . . you know, now that I think about it, Gordon’s being a murderer doesn’t really surprise me all that much.”

  “Why’s that, ma’am?”

  “Someone that false, that shallow, could do anything.”

  42

  Petra was having a decent night.

  The air was cool, the sky was a velvety purple-black where Hollywood neon didn’t bleach it gray, and A. Gordon Shull was well known at clubs and dives and alternative bookstores.

  The recollections of a hungover barkeep at the Screw, a rancid thrash-metal cave on Vermont, were typical:

  Yeah, I seen him. Wears black and tries to pick up young chicks.

  Does he succeed?

  Maybe, sometimes.

  Any girl in particular?

  They’re all the same.

  What else can you tell me about him?

  Just an old guy trying to be cool— y’know.

  I know what?

  It’s the way things go.

  A whole different ball game than her futile attempts to find any links to Kevin Drummond. But something gave her pause: none of the sightings paired Shull with Kevin. Was the younger man even involved in the bad stuff?

  • • •

  Despite the IDs, her attempts to link Shull specifically to dope, violent tendencies, aberrant sex, or Erna Murphy were unsuccessful. By shift’s end, she realized it added up to very little they could use in the short term, and she felt her mood sinking. Then she got a little gift from God: During her first pass down Fountain Avenue, the Snake Pit had been closed—NO SHOW TONIGHT— but when she passed by on the way to the station, she spotted cars parked in front and a door left slightly ajar.

  She went in and encountered a fat, ponytailed bouncer nursing a gin and tonic. The place smelled like a toilet.

  “Closed,” the fat guy told her. “Maintenance.”

  That meant him standing around guzzling and a diminutive man who looked like a rain forest Indian sweeping the sticky floor. Music— some kind of harmonica-driven, bass-heavy Chicago blues— blared on the sound system. Bare, plywood tables were arranged haphazardly. A drum kit sat on the stage. A microphone stand with no mike looked decapitated. Nothing sadder than a dive without patrons.

  Petra stepped in farther and looked around some more and smiled at the bouncer.

  “Yeah?” He folded thigh-sized forearms over his sumo belly. His skin was the pink-gray of raw pork sausage. A brocade of tattoos turned the arms into kimono sleeves. Prison art and finer work. A swastika graced the back of his neck.

  He hadn’t been one of the interviewees on Baby Boy’s murder. She showed him the badge and asked him about that.

  “I was off that night.”

  She’d requested a full staff list from the management. So much for that. She showed him Shull’s photo.

  “Yeah, he comes here.” Pork Sausage downed his drink, waddled behind the bar, and fixed himself another. He took a long time cutting a lime, squeezed it into the glass, then tossed the slice into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, rind and all.

  “How often does he come here?” said Petra.

  “Sometimes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  He didn’t like the question, but he wasn’t the least bit intimidated. “Ralf Kvellesenn.”

  She had him spell it for her, write it down. Ralf with an “F.” Some Viking ancestor was rolling over in his grave. “Be more specific than ‘sometimes,’ Ralf.”

  Kvellesenn frowned, and his greasy forehead furrowed. “Dude comes in once in a while. He ain’t a regular, I only know him because he comes on real friendly.”

  “With you?”

  “With the acts. Dude’s into talking to them. Between sets. He digs going backstage.”

  “Is he allowed to do that?”

  Kvellesenn winked. “It ain’t the Hollywood Bowl.”

  Meaning a few bucks opened doors.

  Petra said, “So he’s kind of like a groupie.”

  Kvellesenn emitted a wet laugh. “I never seen him giving head.”

  “I didn’t mean literally, Ralf.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You don’t seem curious about why I’m asking you about him.”

  “I ain’t a curious person,” said Kvellesenn. “Curious gets you fucked up.”

  • • •

  She recorded Kvellesenn’s address and phone number, sat down at a bare table as he stared, took her time rereading her notes and found the name of the bouncer who’d been on the night of Baby Boy’s murder.

  Val Bove.

  She left the club, phoned Bove’s home number, woke him up, described Shull.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Yeah, what?”

  “I know the dude you mean, but I don’ remember if he was there when Baby got offed.”

  “Why not?”

  “House was packed.”

  “But you definitely know who I’m talking about.”

  “Yeah, the professor dude.”

  “How do you know he’s a professor?”

  “He calls himself that,” said Bove. “He told me he was a professor. Like trying to impress me. Like I give a shit.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “Basically, he’s like ‘I’m cool.’ ‘I write books,’ ‘I play guitar, too.’ Like I give a fuck.”

  “An artistic type,” said Petra.

  “Whatever.” A loud yawn came over the phone, and Petra could swear she smelled the guy’s rotten breath.

  “What else can you tell me about the professor dude?”

  “That’s it, babe. Next time don’ call so early.”

  • • •

  She made careful, copious notes, was about to phone Milo, call it a day well spent, but drove to Dove House, instead. The assistant director, Diane Petrello, was at the downstairs desk. Petra had brought her a few people.

  Diane smiled. Her eyes were pink-rimmed and raw. Her expression said, What now?

  “Rough day?” said Petra.

  “Terrible day. Two of our girls OD’d last night.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Diane. They were doping together?”

  “Separate incidents, Detective. Which somehow makes it worse. One was right around the corner, she’d just left for a walk, promised to come back for evening prayers. The other was in that big parking lot behind the new Kodak Center. All those tourists . . . the only reason we found out so quickly is both girls had our card in their purses, and your officers were kind enough to let us know.”

  Petra showed her Shull’s photo. Diane shook her head.

  “Is he involved with Erna?”

  “Don’t know yet, Diane. Could I please show this to your current residents?”

  “Of course.”

  • • •

  They trudged upstairs together and Petra began with the males— six profoundly inebriated men, none of whom recognized Shull. On the women’s floor, she found only three residents in one room, including Lynnette, the gaunt, black-haired junkie Milo had spoken to about Erna.

  “Cute,” she said. “Kind of like a Banana Republic ad.”

  “Have you seen him before, Lynnette?”

  “I wish.”

  Behind smudged eyeglass lenses, Diane Petrello’s eyes shut tight, then opened. “Lynnett
e,” she said softly.

  Before Lynnette could reply, Petra said, “You wish?”

  “Like I said, cute,” said Lynnette. “I could do him so good he’d buy me pretty things.” She grinned, revealing ragged mossy teeth. Yellow eyes, hepatitis or something in that league. Petra felt like stepping away, but she didn’t.

  “Lynnette, have you ever seen this man with Erna?”

  “Erna was a skank. He’s way too cute for her.”

  One of the other women was elderly and whisker-chinned, stretched out on the bed, sleeping. The other was fortyish, tall, black, heavy-legged. Petra glanced at the black woman, and she drifted over, sliding worn bedroom slippers over threadbare carpeting and sounding like a snare drum.

  “I seen him with Erna.”

  “Right,” said Lynnette.

  Petra said, “When did you see him, Ms.—?”

  “Devana Moore. I seen him here and there— talking.”

  “To Erna.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Right,” said Lynnette.

  Devana Moore said, “I did.”

  “Here and there?” said Petra.

  “Not here . . . like you know—here,” said Devana Moore. Talking slowly. Slurring. Forming sentences was an ordeal. “Here and . . . there.”

  “Not in the building,” said Petra, “but in the neighborhood.”

  “Right!”

  “She’s lyin’,” said Lynnette.

  “I ain’t lyin’,” said Devana Moore, without a trace of resentment. More like a kid protesting her innocence. Petra was no expert, but she was willing to bet this one’s IQ made her a disastrous witness. Still, work with what you have . . .

  Lynnette snickered.

  Devana Moore said, “Girl, I be lyin’, I be flyin’.”

  Petra said, “When’s the last time you saw this man with Erna, Ms. Moore?”

  “Mizz Moore,” said Lynnette, cackling.

  Diane Petrello said, “C’mon, Lynnette. Let’s get some coffee.”

  Lynnette didn’t budge. The old woman snored loudly. Devana Moore stared at Petra.

  Petra repeated the question and Moore said, “Had to be . . . few days ago.”

  “How many days?”

  Silence.

  “About?” pressed Petra.

  “Dunno— maybe . . . dunno.”

  Lynnette said, “They gonna bust you for lyin’. Mizz Moore.” To Petra: “She’s a retard.”

  Moore sagged and pouted, and Petra thought she’d break into tears. Instead, she lunged at Lynnette, and the two woman flailed their arms ineffectually until Petra got between them, and shouted, “Stop it right now!”

  Silence. Downcast looks. Lynnette cackled again, and Diane Petrello ushered her out of the room. Devana Moore was crying. Petra said, “She’s just being mean. I know you’re telling me the truth.”

  Sniffle. Moore looked at the floor.

  “You’re really helping me, Ms. Moore. I appreciate it.”

  “Don’t bust me,” said Moore. “Please.”

  “Why would I bust you?”

  Moore kicked her own ankle. “Sometimes I whore. It’s a sin, and I don’ want to, but sometimes I do it.”

  “That’s your business, Ms. Moore,” said Petra. “I’m Homicide, not Vice.”

  “Who got homicided?” said Devana.

  “Erna.”

  “Yeah,” said Devana. “That’s true.” Relaxing, as if confirmation upped Petra’s credibility. She blinked, scratched her head, pointed at Shull’s picture. “He do Erna?”

  “Maybe. Where’d you see him and Erna?”

  “Um . . . um . . . it was over on Highland.”

  “Highland and where?”

  “Sunset.”

  “North or south of Sunset?”

  “This way,” Devana pressed her hand against her chest which Petra supposed meant south. Two more attempts to pin down the location failed.

  Either way, Highland and Sunset made sense. Right near Erna’s doctor’s office— Hannah Gold. “What were they doing, Ms. Moore?”

  “Talking.”

  “Talking angrily?”

  “Uh-uh. Just talking— you aksing this because he did Erna?”

  “Maybe,” said Petra. “What else can you tell me about him, Ms. Moore?”

  “That’s it,” said Devana. She crossed herself. “He did Erna, he’s a sinful man.”

  • • •

  Petra returned to the station at 4 A.M. Stahl’s desk was unoccupied. Still surveilling Shull; he’d started just after dark. All those hours, sitting there. The guy had an attention span, that was for sure.

  She checked her message box. Stahl hadn’t called in. He never did.

  Meaning no progress. How did he stand the inactivity?

  She supposed Stahl’s willingness to play statue made him the perfect partner on this one. How cases that required more teamwork would work out was anyone’s guess . . . no sense wondering about that, she needed to keep focused on the here and now.

  Four in the morning was no time to bother a friend, so she phoned Milo’s desk at West L.A. and left a message. Knowing he’d be likely to wake her when he returned but that was okay. She wanted to let him know Shull was an habitue of the Snake Pit. Liked to go backstage.

  She was thirsty, got up, and poured herself terrible police coffee and drank it standing, alone, in the corner of the detective room. Thought about Shull.

  Hollywood night-scene regular.

  The professor.

  Too bad neither bouncer could verify his presence the night of Baby Boy’s murder. Maybe she’d go back over her witness list, do a major recontact with the photo, see if anyone remembered.

  Yeah, she’d have to do that. Big-time tedium. The core of detective work.

  With Shull under surveillance, it could wait until tomorrow. She was exhausted, needed to shower and stretch out and catch a few hours of dreamless sleep. So why was she loading up on caffeine?

  She tossed the muddy swill, returned to her desk, got her coat. Stood there some more. Visualizing how it had probably gone down between Shull and Baby Boy.

  Shull pays his cover, orders enough drinks to hold on to a nice, dark seat at the back. He takes in the show, watches, listens.

  Applauds.

  Clapping for himself, more than Baby Boy.

  Baby Boy finishes his first set and leaves. Shull’s watched him before, knows his habit of heading back to the alley for a smoke.

  He sits for a moment, sipping, planning, makes sure no one’s watching as he slips out of the club.

  Linus Brophy had said the killer was wearing a long, dark coat. Shull wore all black, habitually, when he night-crawled.

  A big black coat would be perfect for concealing a big, sharp knife.

  Ready for business, Shull makes his way to the alley, conceals himself in the shadows.

  Waits.

  Baby Boy shows up, lights a smoke. Shull studies him, taking his time.

  Savoring the moment.

  Finally, he approaches Baby Boy. Unaware of Brophy, but the wino’s presence turns out to be irrelevant.

  Baby Boy, unsuspecting. A sweet guy, a warm guy. He’s used to the adoration of fans, and here’s another one. Shull’s demeanor nurtures the subterfuge: big smile, tossing out the heartfelt praise of a true believer.

  The professor. Ingratiating himself the way he’d done with lots of artists.

  None of them knowing he considers himself the ultimate artist.

  A loser in real life, a legend in his own mind. Like Alex had said, psychological cannibalism.

  If you can’t beat ’em, eat ’em.

  Petra shuddered.

  Baby Boy, a trusting man, a naÏve man, smiles back.

  Both of them smiling as Shull plunges the knife.