A Cold Heart

by Jonathan Kellerman

  • • •

  Just as I was leaving for a jog, Allison phoned to say she’d had to add three appointments to her patient schedule, wouldn’t be through until 9:30 P.M.

  “Crises?” I said.

  “When it rains it pours. Are you up for a later reservation?”

  We’d arranged an eight o’clock dinner date at the Hotel Bel Air. Fabulous food, impeccable service, and when the weather was kind, which was often in L.A., you could dine outside and watch swans glide on lagoons. Years ago, I’d seen Bette Davis glide across the patio. That night I’d been with Robin. She and I used to hit the Bel Air on special occasions. I thought the fact that I was ready to take Allison was a healthy sign.

  “How about ten?” I said. “Will you have the energy?”

  “If I don’t, I’ll fake it,” she said.

  I laughed. “You’re sure? We can do it another time.”

  “ ‘Another time’ isn’t a concept I admire,” she said. “Sorry for the shuffle.”

  “A crisis is a crisis.”

  “Finally,” she said. “Someone who gets it.”

  45

  Night three of the surveillance found Petra stationed up the road from A. Gordon Shull’s house. Not nearly as close as Stahl had gotten because fewer vehicles were parked on the street, and she had to blend in. But she still had a nice clear view of the gates.

  Stahl had suggested she take the hillside position while he stayed down in the city in the rental SUV. Just about the only thing he’d said to her all of yesterday. He seemed more distant than ever, if that was possible.

  He was down on Franklin, in a Bronco. A cute, shiny, black thing Petra had admired in the station parking lot.

  “Nice, Eric.”

  Stahl’s response was to produce an oily rag, bend down and rub the cloth on the greasy asphalt, flick off flecks of grit and begin dirtying the Bronco’s side panels and windows. Soon the poor thing looked as if it had been driven all day from Arizona.

  “Schoelkopf must’ve been in a good mood,” said Petra. “Okaying cool wheels.”

  Stahl picked up more parking lot dirt, continued to filthy the Bronco. “I didn’t ask him.”

  “You paid for this with your own money?”

  “Yup.”

  “You might still be able to collect,” she said. “If you put in the voucher soon.”

  Stahl did something with his head that might’ve been a nod. If you were looking for a nod. He opened the Bronco’s driver door, said, “Let me know when you’re all set.” Got in. Drove off.

  • • •

  They maintained contact every hour, using a tactical band on the radio.

  Four calls tonight, so far, each the same:

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay.”

  It was a quarter to eleven and Shull, whom they assumed was home, hadn’t emerged.

  Staying in, just as he had last night?

  That had been a downer. Sitting, waiting, fighting drowsiness. The crushing boredom Petra detested. At least Shull wasn’t out killing anyone.

  Then she flashed an evil grin. Too bad Shull wasn’t out for the kill. This case had been nothing but false starts and dead ends and way too much of nothing and Lord forgive her, she craved some action, was willing to trade public safety for a little adrenaline fix.

  What’s a little attempted murder between friends?

  A voice in her head said, Naughty girl.

  She said, “Up yours,” just to hear the sound of her own voice.

  At 11 P.M. she shared another two-word communication with Eric the Dead. Sat back and stared at the black sky above the gates.

  She’d avoided fluids well before the surveillance but by now, her bladder was cramping.

  Not easy for a girl.

  Not that she’d ever complain to anyone.

  She was considering her urinary options when Shull’s gate swung open and headlights stared out at the night. The BMW or the Expedition?

  She was down in her seat when it passed.

  Neither. A Cadillac— dark gray, shiny.

  Despite her surprise, she was able catch to the license number. Whispered it out loud in order to commit it to memory.

  Stahl had said only two vehicles were registered to Shull. Interesting. She got back on the tac band, told Stahl what to look for. He’d be the primary tail, now, because she was going to call in the plates.

  Soon she had it: Five-year-old Sedan DeVille registered to William F. Trueblood, Pasadena address.

  Shull’s rich stepfather.

  She put Trueblood’s name into the system, got two more DMV hits: a one-year-old Eldorado and a 1952 Jaguar.

  Stepdaddy gets a new Caddy, donates the old one to Junior. William F. Trueblood hadn’t bothered to change the registration. Meaning he was probably still paying the license fees and the insurance.

  Nice gift for Gordie, free and clear. The Cadillac offered Shull the use of a completely legal, unregistered set of wheels.

  Spoiled brat.

  Petra started up her Honda, turned around, headed down to the city. The first clean, safe rest room she spotted was at a French-type café on Franklin, seven blocks west of Beachwood. She left her car with the valet, tipped him, and told him to keep it there. The restaurant had a bar and a few tables, was jammed and noisy and rich with the smell of ratatouille and shellfish. She elbowed her way through a crush of laughing, flirting pretty people, picking up bits of stale pickup dialogue and smiling, despite herself. Then resenting the fact that some people had lives and she didn’t.

  On the way to the ladies’ room, someone pinched her butt. Normally, she’d have dealt with it. Tonight, she found the attention welcome.

  • • •

  By the time she was back in her car and calling in, she expected Stahl and Shull to be miles away. But Stahl said, “I’m on Fountain near Vermont.”

  “He stopped somewhere?”

  “He drove straight to Fountain, has cruised up and down three times. Past the Snake Pit.”

  “Revisiting the scene,” she said. “Memory trophy. Has he gone into the alley where he did Baby Boy?”

  “Not yet,” said Stahl. “He just drives by, does a three-point, heads up the block, drives by again. The street’s dead, I can’t get that close.”

  “Where are you?”

  Stahl pinpointed his location.

  Petra said, “I’ll come in from the west end, cruise through at a moderate speed. If he leaves before I get there, let me know.”

  • • •

  She drove to Western, turned left on Fountain. The street was empty, dark, eerie. When she was three blocks from the Snake Pit, Stahl called. “He’s finished. Heading your way.”

  Petra spotted two sets of headlights. Not Stahl, no way would he be following that obviously. She maintained her speed as her windshield whitened.

  A pickup truck, then the Cadillac.

  In her rearview, she watched Shull continue to Western, catch an amber light, and sail through the intersection.

  Moments later, the rental Bronco sped by.

  Petra hung a U, followed at a safe distance.

  • • •

  They picked up the Cadillac on Wilton heading south. Moderate traffic made their life easier, and they alternated positions: first the Bronco would lag three or four cars behind, then Stahl would slow and Petra’s Accord would fill in.

  We’re dancing, she thought. This was as intimate as she ever wanted to get with Stahl.

  Shull drove to Wilshire, turned right, continued west. Maintaining a nice steady pace within ten miles of the speed limit.

  Driving as recreation.

  When Petra was the primary tag, she got close enough to notice that the Cadillac’s windows had been tinted nearly black. She couldn’t see an old guy from Pasadena doing that. Shull had customized the car.

  The Sedan DeVille drove through Beverly Hills and veered right at the junction of Wilshire and Santa Monica. Staying on Wilshire, Shull continued into Wes
twood, then headed north on San Vicente, hugging the western perimeter of the Veterans Administration grounds. Passing the cemetery studded with white crosses and Stars of David. Then: the boutique/latte jungle that made up lower Brentwood.

  Shull took another northern turn on Bundy, followed by a left on Sunset. Too few cars for cover, now. Stahl was in front, and he took his time before following. Took so long Petra was certain they’d lost sight of the Caddy.

  She called in. “Any idea where he is?”

  “Nope.”

  Great.

  “But I can guess,” said Stahl.

  He sped ahead of her, drove a while, turned right.

  Onto Bristol. The site of the Levitch murder.

  Petra entered the lush street very slowly. Looked for the Bronco and spotted it parked a half block up, lights off. She killed her beams, rolled several yards up, pulled to the curb.

  Stahl said, “Don’t know if he’s here.”

  So what, we just wait? Petra kept her mouth shut. Looked around, admired the mansions, the massive deodar cedars, the grassy, tree-shrouded turnarounds that slowed traffic and gave the neighborhood character. Your perfect upper-crust suburban scene. If you had a seven-figure income.

  Lights glimmered in some of the big houses. She caught glimpses of crystal chandeliers, rich paintings, crown moldings. Outside: Herds of sleek cars luxuriated in commodious driveways.

  Then: lights in the distance. Moving, enlarging. Maybe two blocks up. Could be anyone.

  It was Shull. Heading their way, pausing at the turnaround. Making an easy slow circle and retracing northward.

  Back and forth, back and forth. Drinking in the scenes of his crimes. There was a sexual nature to it, and she wondered if the fool was playing with himself.

  “Should we get closer?” said Petra. Annoyed with herself for consulting Stahl. She was the senior partner.

  But Stahl had been the one who’d figured out Shull’s intentions.

  “It’s a risk,” he said.

  “Still, if he doesn’t return within five, I’m going to have a look.”

  “Okay.”

  Four minutes later, the Cadillac reappeared, passed the turnaround, continued to Sunset and made a quick right turn.

  Stahl’s lights switched on. She followed him, and they both put on speed and spotted the Cadillac as it continued into the Palisades.

  Back to the beach? Shull had taken a girl to a motel in Malibu, but as far as they knew he’d never killed anyone there.

  As far as they knew.

  At Pacific Coast Highway, Shull reversed direction again, turning left— south— away from Malibu and toward the lights of the Santa Monica pier.

  Zig and zag, up and down.

  They followed him up the drive to Ocean Avenue. When Shull got to Colorado, he drove east, past the noise and activity of the Promenade and over to Lincoln, where he headed south again.

  Toward the airport. The route he’d taken when he stashed Kevin Drummond’s car.

  If he’d stashed Kevin, too, maybe this would tell them where.

  • • •

  At Rose, Shull surprised her, yet again. Turning back toward the ocean and driving all the way to the Venice Walkway, where he pulled toward the right side of the street but didn’t park.

  Idling. Lights on.

  She hung back at Pacific, maintained her distance. Stahl dimmed his lights and got within a block of the Cadillac.

  The Caddy made a ponderous three-point turn, sped back toward them. By the time they were in gear, all three vehicles were back on Lincoln.

  For this guy, driving was something way beyond getting from one place to another.

  Shull drove past the Marina and Playa del Rey, not far from where he’d dumped Armand Mehrabian, then into the bleak, industrial wasteland on the outskirts of El Segundo.

  Great dump ground, and the isolation made it terrible for a tail. Both detectives had switched their lights off a half mile back.

  Shull lowered his speed as he glided past empty fields, oil derricks, marshland.

  Kevin’s final resting spot? Nope, here Shull was, again, speeding. Continuing another mile, then east to Sepulveda. Another right turn.

  Driving rapidly into Inglewood. Definitely LAX.

  But, as if thumbing his nose at Petra’s theories, Shull slowed three blocks short of the airport and jerked the Caddy suddenly onto a side street.

  This was walking distance from where Kevin Drummond’s car had been found.

  The Caddy chewed up four more blocks before pulling over. On both sides of the street were warehouses and small factories. Poor lighting. And Petra knew what else.

  A hooker strip.

  She settled a hundred feet behind Stahl. He called in: “I’ve got binocs on him. He’s out of the car, now . . . walking. Talking to a woman.”

  “What’s she look like?” said Petra, remembering what Small and Schlesinger had said about working an unsolved streetwalker murder in this neighborhood.

  “She’s wearing hot pants,” said Stahl.

  She said, “I’m getting closer.”

  • • •

  A. Gordon Shull talked to the prostitute— a chubby woman, the hot pants were red and so was her top. Nothing but talk; he got back in the Cadillac.

  Petra radioed Stahl: “I’m going to stay behind and check her out. You continue.”

  46

  At 9 P.M., as I left to pick up Allison at her office, the phone rang. I decided to let the service pick up but as I drove, my cell phone beeped.

  Milo said, “I’m on my way to Pasadena, got a panic call from Kipper’s girlfriend, Stephanie Cranner. Kipper knocked her around pretty badly, then took some pills. I 911’d Pasadena PD, but I wanna go over there, myself. She seemed like a nice kid . . . here we go, good, freeway’s nice and clear. Here’s the latest on the main stuff: my baby Ds came through. I had them go over every single name on the Levitch invitation list, call each invitee, make sure they were actually there. Turns out one couple— old folks from San Gabriel— couldn’t make it and gave their tickets away. Guess what? They’re on the board of Charter College and pals of Mr. and Mrs. William Trueblood.”

  “Shull got the tickets. Who’d he go with?”

  “No one, only one ticket was used. It’s not proof positive Shull was actually there, he could always claim he gave the ticket away, too. But it was enough— along with my assurances that we’re highly likely to pull a DNA match to the hairs on Mehrabian to nudge Judge Foreman into granting me a limited warrant for Shull’s house. After I’m through in Pasadena, I’m driving out to Foreman’s house. After that, we converge on Faithful Scrivener. Foreman lives out in Porter Ranch, so I’m figuring at least three, four hours before everything’s in place.”

  “Where’s Shull, now?”

  “Last time I talked to Petra he was still home, but that was hours ago. The plan’s for an early-morning surprise, say 2 A.M. If he night crawls, Stahl and Petra tail and we take the house. If he’s home, we all party.”

  “How limited is the warrant?”

  “I’ve requested permission to confiscate all written materials as well as personal belongings of victims, low E guitar strings, and weapons. Reason I’m calling is I want to know if you’ve got any other suggestions before I complete the application.”

  “Audio- and videotapes,” I said. “Sketch pads, drawings, paintings. Any medium in which Shull might express himself.”

  “You’re saying he re-creates the killings.”

  “There’s a good chance he does.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Thanks . . . this is good, I’m up for it. Time to give him a bad review.”

  • • •

  As I neared Montana Street, the cell beeped again. This time I ignored it.

  Thinking what a beautiful night it was. Wondering what Allison would be wearing.

  47

  Slow night; a couple of drive-by trawlers, no takers, and some of the women were lounging in the shadows, smoking.


  Petra left her Accord two blocks down, continued on foot, found a vantage point near some garbage bins outside a toy warehouse and watched for a while. The air stank of vinyl and fuel. Every so often jumbo jets roared overhead, assaulting the sky.