A Cold Heart

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She put on her coat and left.

  • • •

  When she reached home, there was a message from Milo on her machine. “Call me, I’m up.”

  She reached him on his cell. “You’re up late.”

  “The bad guys don’t sleep, why should I. What’s up?”

  She gave him a progress report.

  Milo said, “Good work, very good. We’re closing in.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you earned your shut-eye, and I’ll be at the courthouse by nine tomorrow to see if Judge Davison is a little more open-minded.”

  “Let me know.”

  “You bet. Thanks, kid.”

  “You’re welcome. Pop.”

  43

  The first time Eric Stahl saw the house, he knew it wasn’t an ideal situation.

  All that was visible from the street were bleached wooden gates flanked by brick posts. Beyond the posts were six-foot-tall ivy-covered walls. Behind the walls, junipers and cypress towered, and some kind of vine sprawled.

  Nice place. Shull had money.

  It always came down to money.

  Soon after he positioned himself down the hilly block, Stahl entertained a brief fantasy: scale the fence, B and E the house, find Shull doing something evil, and finish the bastard off the way bad guys deserved to be finished off.

  Nice movie. Reality was that he sat and watched and waited.

  • • •

  Tonight, for some reason, his talent for inertia was being tested. By 9:30 P.M.— two hours after he’d arrived— the hero fantasy recurred.

  He visualized how he’d do Shull. The neck snap, or if Shull resisted, a knife.

  Eric Stahl, big hero, providing closure.

  Ugliest word in the English language.

  Justice was a close second. He wondered how long he could do this job.

  Maybe forever. Maybe till tomorrow.

  • • •

  There were three positives to the layout: Shull’s house was positioned at the end of a cul-de-sac, meaning one way in, one way out. Parking was permitted on the west side of the road, allowing Stahl to find himself a spot between two other vehicles and avoid conspicuousness.

  The best thing: This was an out-of-the-way street, hard to find without a map, no sidewalks, no reason for a casual pedestrian to come up here.

  Nice for a bad boy . . .

  • • •

  By nine-forty-five, he still wasn’t sure if Shull was even home. Guy kept professor’s hours and according to Sturgis, not much of that. For all he knew, Shull was bunking in all day, had yet to emerge. Or, the bastard hadn’t come home at all, was somewhere below, in the flats of Hollywood, trolling city streets.

  Digging art.

  Since Stahl had arrived, only two cars had appeared within the first hour, each stopping well short of his surveillance spot. In both cases, the drivers were young women with terrific figures driving foreign compacts. Stahl watched them carry groceries to their cute little hill houses.

  Poor choice of neighborhood for a woman alone. Too isolated, too far from help. Not that crowds kept you safe . . .

  He wondered how the tight-bodied women would react when they found out they’d been neighbors to a very bad person. He imagined the usual, horrified newspaper quotes: “I had no idea.” “I can’t believe it, he seemed like a nice person.”

  Believe it, ladies. Anything’s possible.

  • • •

  The night sky gelled and turned shiny— purplish black, like boysenberry jam. Black napalm. Stahl ate a ham sandwich and drank from his thermos of espresso and risked a couple of forays across the road so he could pee in the bushes. Then back to his car, where he kept his eyes out for either of the two vehicles registered to Shull: a one-year-old BMW and a two-year-old Ford Expedition.

  The Beemer was probably Shull’s show wheels. The four-wheeler was what he used for exploration. Not a van— guys like Shull loved vans because you could turn one into a prison-on-wheels easily enough. But a trendy guy like Shull, living up here in the hills, would view a van as déclassé and the oversized SUV provided some of the same benefits: big, unobtrusive.

  Lots of storage space.

  A hundred to one Shull had blackened the windows.

  • • •

  Headlights brightening Stahl’s rear window made him slink down and turn his head.

  Small vehicle.

  A dark car— there it was, the BMW grille, zipping toward the end of the cul-de-sac. The BMW passed too quickly for Stahl to make out the driver in the darkness but when it stopped at the bleached gates, he sat higher and watched.

  Electric gate. The car passed through. Exactly thirty seconds later, the gate closed— some sort of time-release mechanism.

  Stahl waited until 11 P.M. before exiting his car. Figuring even a hip guy like Shull was probably buttoned down for the night. Had he arrived alone? No way to know.

  Checking out the street and finding it dead, Stahl crossed the road again, peed, continued. Sticking close to the foliage; if anyone did appear, he could conceal himself in the brush.

  He proceeded slowly, with rubber-soled silence, feeling loose, the old prowl-zen kicking in. Good trackers and snipers were born with it.

  A neighborhood this remote should’ve been silent, but an insistent hum filtered up from the base of the foothills. The sounds of Hollywood, the real Hollywood, percolating a couple of miles below.

  He got within yards of the bleached gate. Through the big trees fronting Shull’s property, distant lights sparked and blinked. A few stars in the sky, too, struggling to be noticed through the smog.

  Guy had a terrific view.

  The good life.

  Stahl made it to the gate, surveyed the street again, got his nose up close and was able to inspect the gate’s construction without using his penlight. Two-by-fours, tongue-and-groove, arranged in a pretty chevron design and framed by heavier boards. The frame bottom was stout and steady, provided a nice toehold. He put his foot in place, lifted himself up high enough to peer over.

  On the other side was a round brick courtyard surrounded by greenery. Plants in pots. Tiled fountain off to the left; no drip. Soft lighting revealed the house, a split-level Spanish design, tile-roofed, with nice arched windows.

  Very good life.

  No sign of the BMW or the Expedition, but the courtyard terminated in an attached three-car garage that sat under a wing of the house. A low-wattage bulb revealed a trio of bleached wood chevron doors that matched the gate. To the right, an iron-railed staircase led up to what Stahl assumed was the house’s main entrance. Hard to say how big the place was, it looked good-sized.

  He thought about the layout. The door up the stairs would be where you had your guests enter, if you wanted to make an impression. First thing they’d see would be a windowful of city lights.

  With no one to impress, Shull would drive in through the garage, take an interior staircase into the house. No BMW in sight said that’s what he’d done tonight. Meaning, he was alone.

  Or with someone he didn’t care to impress.

  Stahl stood there, perched on the gate frame, figuring this would be another uneventful night. Then a rustle of leaves— several rustles— tightened the back of his neck, and he got down and pressed himself against the ivy-colored wall.

  More noise. More than a rodent scurrying. Someone sniffing the air.

  Stahl waited. Nothing happened.

  Then the sound repeated itself, louder, and twenty feet down, the brush parted and a deer— a smallish doe— began prancing across the road.

  The animal stopped in the middle, stood there twitching. Stahl’s heartbeat was way slow— the way it always was after it had been tweaked. Quick recovery . . . from some things . . .

  The deer considered her options, finally bounded off and ran down a driveway, disappearing between two houses.

  A regular; she knew who was home and who wasn’t. Now someone’s garden would be a late-night
snack. And, eventually, the doe would be some coyote’s dinner. Or maybe a puma would get her. Stahl had heard that the mountain lions were making a big comeback— wildlife, in general, was inching its way toward the urban jungle. That had certainly been true near the base. All sorts of critters turning up in the strangest places— his favorite was the snake who chose a colonel’s wife’s bidet as a drinking fountain. She squats in the dark, gets a slithery surprise . . .

  Stahl felt himself smiling.

  Noise on the other side of Shull’s gate wiped his face clean.

  Ignition rumble.

  He ran to the gate, regained his foothold, chanced a quick look. The center garage door slid open, and he jumped down, sprinted back to his car.

  He barely made it back as the gate swung back.

  Headlights, a new set, higher up than the BMW.

  The Expedition nosed its way out, paused, sped away.

  Black SUV. Blackened windows.

  • • •

  One-man tails were impractical, often impossible, but with an arrogant guy like Shull, the job was easier. Why would the bastard even imagine he was being followed?

  Stahl drove with his lights off as Shull sped down the hill way too fast. The Expedition headed north on Cahuenga and over to a jazz club just south of the Valley. Not far from Baby Boy’s apartment. Shull left the Expedition with a parking valet, stayed inside for forty minutes, and retrieved the SUV. Now it was nearly 1 A.M., and with the traffic thinned, Stahl had to keep his distance.

  Shull didn’t go far, just a quick jaunt into Studio City, where he had coffee and a burger at an all-night coffee shop on Ventura near Lankershim. No valet, here. Stahl parked in the half-empty lot, observed the window.

  Four cups of coffee, black. Shull inhaled his burger.

  Fueling up.

  Shull paid in cash, got back in the SUV.

  Back to the city on Laurel Canyon, a right turn on Sunset. A few blocks up, Shull pulled in front of a bar called Bambu. Neo tiki-hut décor, bored bouncer in front. Another valet situation.

  Stahl drove a block, hung a quick U, watched from across Sunset as Shull got out of the SUV smoking a cigar.

  Dressed in a black leather jacket, black jeans, black T-shirt. Swaggering, shmoozing with the parking attendant.

  No nerves; obviously, Delaware’s showing up at his office didn’t worry him. Just the opposite: Shull had taken Delaware’s questions about Drummond as proof he was safe.

  If Drummond had been Shull’s partner in crime— if Drummond had known anything— Delaware’s asking about him had probably accomplished something else: Drummond was now a severe liability, bye bye, Kev.

  Sturgis had opined as much at the last meeting. Drummond’s car near the airport meant Shull had probably taken care of the kid, used the Honda to pick up Erna Murphy, then planted it to imply Drummond’s long-distance rabbit. And it had worked. All those days wasted checking out airline rosters. All the time Stahl had spent watching Drummond’s apartment.

  Meanwhile, Drummond was probably moldering somewhere.

  Even if Drummond hadn’t been in on the bad stuff, he was a likely corpse. Because his disappearance provided distraction— terrific cover for Shull.

  And because Shull liked killing people.

  Modern art.

  • • •

  Bambu’s fake-grass door swung open and Shull exited with a knockout blonde in tow. Late twenties, big golden hair, a real Barbie. She wore a red glittery crop top under a short, black jacket, shredded second-skin jeans, high-heeled boots. Breasts way too high and too large to be real, too much makeup; Stahl upped his age estimate: the wrong side of thirty.

  Your basic Sunset Boulevard party girl past her prime. But not a pro, she looked too happy positioned on Shull’s leather arm for this to be work.

  Giggling. Staggering. Giddy.

  Shull smiled back at her but he was composed.

  Life is going so well for me.

  Stahl sat in his car and watched the two of them flirt. Fixing on Shull’s macho posturing, just about feeling the heft of the sniper rifle on his shoulder.

  The Expedition arrived and Shull was careful to hold the passenger door open for Barbie. Taking her hand as he did it. She kissed him in appreciation.

  Once the blonde was inside, Shull and the parking valet exchanged conspiratorial glances.

  Someone’s getting lucky tonight, bro.

  Not the girl.

  • • •

  Shull stayed on Sunset and continued west, through the Strip and into Beverly Hills, speeding into even ritzier Bel Air. At Hilgard, he turned south, drove through Westwood Village, got on Wilshire and resumed a westerly route.

  Making Stahl’s job easy, because even at this hour—2 A.M.— the brightly lit boulevard had its share of traffic. He hung three car lengths behind the Expedition, accompanied Shull and the blonde all the way through Brentwood and Santa Monica.

  Down to Pacific Coast Highway. The beach. Here, the traffic was sparse, and the job became trickier. Stahl hung back, fixed his eyes on the SUV’s taillights. Shull picked up speed, traveling nearly seventy— twenty miles over the limit— as he crossed the coastal boundaries of Pacific Palisades and continued into the city of Malibu.

  Going seventy-five per, eighty, eighty-five. Big hurry. No concern about being stopped on a traffic violation because he thought of himself as the kind of guy bad things didn’t happen to.

  Or because a speeding ticket was just money, and he had plenty of that.

  Did it also mean anything of forensic value been expunged from the SUV? A perfect cleaning was hard to pull off; one errant hair, a speck of body fluid could tell a tale. Shull didn’t transport his victims, he left them in place but, still, his own garments, the seat of the car— anything could’ve picked up some transfer.

  Yet, here he was playing Daytona 500. Was the guy that arrogant?

  Stahl’s mental meanderings were cut short when the Expedition made an abrupt right turn off the highway, into the parking lot of a white-board, blue-shuttered motel. The Sea Arms.

  Caught off guard, Stahl continued another quarter mile, pulled over to the shoulder, turned around, and drove back.

  Parking on the beach side of PCH, he studied the Sea Arms.

  Two-storied, Cape Coddish building, behind an open parking lot. No rear property, the motel was nestled against the mountains. The usual AAA endorsement, a pink neon VACANCY sign on a tall pole.

  Six units on each floor, the manager’s office down below to the right.

  Thirteen cars in the lot, including the Expedition. Twelve occupants, plus the manager.

  A. Gordon Shull, lucky boy that he was, had snagged the last empty room.

  • • •

  Stahl lost it.

  Falling asleep in his car. Rudely awakened by a rap on the window. Blinding light in his eyes.

  He opened the window and a voice barked, “Let’s see some ID.”

  Stahl’s hand had moved instinctively toward the holstered 9 mm. concealed under his car coat, but fortunately his brain kicked in once he saw the robocop countenance of a highway patrolman.

  Eventually everything was cleared up, and the CHP guy sped away in his cruiser.

  Stahl sat there, humiliated. How long had he been out? Three-forty A.M. meant nearly half an hour.

  The ocean roared in his head. The beach sky was full of stars; the sea was ash gray speckled with pinpoints of gold.

  Eleven vehicles in the lot. Shull’s Expedition, one of them.

  Stahl got out, took in a headful of salt air, stretched, cursed his stupidity, got back in the car, resumed watching.

  • • •

  At 4:20 A.M., A. Gordon Shull stepped out of a downstairs unit. Alone, no blonde. Carrying his black leather jacket over his shoulder, rubbing his eyes. He got in the Expedition, swung out of the lot, and made a quick, illegal left turn across the highway, crossing a set of double-yellows. Speeding off back to the city. Where was CHP when you needed the
m?

  Quick decision time: follow the bastard or check on the blonde?

  Did the blonde fit Shull’s pattern? Some kind of artistic type? A would-be actress? Did that qualify? Or maybe she was a dancer. Those legs.

  Shull had already done a dancer. Would he repeat himself?

  The one in Boston had been a ballerina. This one looked more like the lap-dance type. Enough kill variety?