A Cold Heart

by Jonathan Kellerman

She took her 9 mm. out of her purse and transferred it to the lightweight mesh holster that rode her hip, concealed by a loose, black jacket. Richard Tyler markdown, a real bargain. Way too nice for this kind of thing but the way her life had been going a bit of couture was her sole link to civilization.

  What would Tyler think, seeing his duds on Prostie Avenue?

  She decided to make her move, walked toward the hookers, aiming for nonchalance but feeling the chill of anxiety. As she passed the first two women, both black, they dangled their cigarettes and stared. One said, “Hey, sister, you like to munch?”

  Giggles.

  “Cause I ready for anything.”

  Petra continued walking. One of the women called out: “You ain’t even thinking of setting up here, Skinnylegs, cause this is private property and you dressed for Beverly Hills.”

  More laughter, but an edge to it.

  Someone with a high, nasal voice said, “Privates property.”

  Receptive audience for the wisecrack. Petra looked for the comedian. A big smirk said it was her quarry: the stocky brunette white girl in the red vinyl ensemble.

  Smiling at Petra. Petra smiled back and the woman cocked a hip. The hot pants were tight, ruby sausage casing for flaccid pale flesh. The woman’s face was broad, coarse, appeared well beyond middle age, though Petra guessed her age as late twenties.

  “Hey,” she said.

  Red Vinyl said, “What can I do for you?”

  Petra smiled again, and the woman’s hands balled. “What you lookin’ at?”

  Petra stepped close, flashed the badge.

  The woman said, “So?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “Talk’s by the hour.”

  “Here or at the office,” said Petra. “Your choice.”

  “For whut?”

  “For your safety.” Checking to see that none of the other hookers had inched closer and keeping her eye on the brunette, Petra produced a business card and her penlight and directed a beam on the small print.

  The prostitute turned her head, refused to read.

  Petra said, “Take a look.”

  Red Vinyl finally complied, lips moving laboriously. Home— hom— icide.

  “Someone got killed?”

  A jet killed the silence. Then: staccato clatter as the other hookers hurried over. They crowded around Petra, but she felt safe— they were scared.

  “Whusup?” said someone.

  Petra said, “That guy who was just here, in the gray Cadillac.”

  “Oh, him,” said Red Vinyl.

  “You know him?”

  “He bad? He never been bad to me.”

  “I never liked him,” said one of the black women.

  “He don’t go for you,” said Red Vinyl, shaking her bosoms. Prostie-pride, but forced.

  Petra said, “What’s his thing?”

  “What’d he do?” insisted Red Vinyl.

  Petra smiled.

  Red Vinyl said, “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Do what?” said Petra.

  “Smile like that. It’s freaky.”

  • • •

  She drew the woman aside, wrote down the undoubtedly phony name, printed on an impressively state-sealed, bogus California ID.

  Alexis Gallant. Alleged address in Westchester.

  All Gallant could— or would tell her was that A. Gordon Shull was a somewhat-regular customer with mundane sexual tastes.

  One to three times a month, oral sex, no kinky demands, no complications.

  “He takes a little long, but big deal. If they were all like him, my life would be easy.”

  Petra shook her head.

  “What?” Gallant protested. “You ain’t tellin’ me nothin’, and what I know is he likes to be blowed.”

  “What about the girl who was murdered around here a while back?”

  “Shaneen? That was a pimp thing.”

  “My colleagues say she and her pimp got along.”

  “Your colleagues got they heads up they asses. And that’s all I’m sayin’.”

  “Suit yourself, Alexis. But Mr. Caddy’s bad news.”

  “You say.”

  “Why you being stubborn, Alexis?”

  The woman mumbled something.

  “What’s that?”

  “It ain’t easy makin’ a livin’.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” said Petra.

  48

  Stahl followed the Cadillac to the street where Kevin Drummond’s car had been abandoned. A. Gordon Shull parked but kept his engine idling, got out of his car, raised his arms to the sky, and stretched.

  Stahl heard something sickening.

  Shull howling at the moon.

  Waving a fist as he did it. Starring in his own private movie. Stahl’s hands were cool on the steering wheel. Just the two of them, so easy . . .

  He sat there, and Shull shook his head like a wet dog, returned to the Cadillac, continued another five blocks west to a self-storage unit.

  The sign said twenty-four-hour access, but Shull just slowed down, didn’t stop. Stahl made a note of the address as the Cadillac put on speed, zipped another half mile, then took a side-street route that forced Stahl to cut his lights again.

  They emerged on Howard Hughes Boulevard, where Shull switched direction, yet again. North, back toward the city.

  Back to Venice, where Shull, once again, drove west on Rose.

  Asshole was on a memory-jog. What memories were here?

  Back to the walkway, again? Had Shull done someone here?

  But this time, instead of continuing to the end of the road, the Cadillac swung a right onto a side street— Rennie.

  Dark block of one-story bungalows and tiny houses.

  Shull cruised up, down, up, down.

  Stahl wanted to follow but the narrow quiet street made it way too risky. He remained on Rose, close enough to the corner to follow Shull’s headlights. Taillights.

  Back and forth.

  The memory of the howl reverbed in Stahl’s head.

  Bastard saw himself as a big bad predator.

  49

  Allison was waiting for me outside her office.

  Black suit, orange scarf. Her hair was tied up in a chignon.

  She got into the car before I could come around and open the door. Before the dome light switched off I saw that the suit was actually dark green. “Great color.”

  “Black emerald. Glad you like it, I bought it for tonight.” She pecked my cheek. “You hungry? I’m famished.”

  The Bel Air dining room’s one of those places that can be nearly full, but still quiet. Irish coffee for her, gin and tonic for me. The complimentary ramekins of soup, then salad, rack of lamb, Dover sole, a bottle of Pinot Grigio. A real waiter, not a pretty-face biding time till the next big break. A man I recognized— one of the Salvadoran busboys who’d earned his way up doing the job well.

  We’d made it to dessert when he approached the table looking pained. “Sorry, Doctor, there’s a call for you.”

  “Who?”

  “Your answering service. They insist.”

  I used the phone in the bar. The operator said, “This is June, I’m sorry to bother you, Dr. Delaware, but this guy keeps on calling, claims it’s urgent. He sounds pretty agitated, so I figured . . .”

  The phone ring I’d ignored in the car. “Detective Sturgis?”

  “No, a Mr. Tim Plachette. Did I do right?”

  “Sure,” I said, wondering. “Put him through.”

  • • •

  Tim said, “Where is she?”

  “Robin?”

  “Who else?” He was talking loud, nearly shouting, and his gorgeous voice had lost its silk.

  “I have no idea, Tim.”

  “Don’t screw with me, Alex—”

  “Last I heard she was in San Francisco with you.”

  Pause. “You’d better be leveling with me.”

  “I’m out to dinner, Tim. I’m going to hang up, now
—”

  “No!” he shouted. “Please.”

  I took a deep breath.

  He said, “I’m sorry, I assumed . . . it was logical.”

  “What was?”

  “Robin being with you. She left this morning . . . we had a fight. I figured she’d run back to you. I’m sorry . . . where is she?”

  “If I knew, I’d tell you, Tim.”

  “If you asked me what the fight was about, I couldn’t tell you. One minute we were getting along and the next . . . my fault, I was too damn busy, didn’t pay her enough attention, this lousy show—”

  “I’m sure you’ll work it out, Tim.”

  “You didn’t.”

  I let that ride.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m being a total asshole, I’m really sorry. It’s just that she was so angry with me, I assumed she went back because . . . the truth is, she still feels for you, Alex. It’s something I’ve been dealing with. It’s not easy—”

  “You have nothing to worry about,” I said. “I’m having dinner with another woman. Someone I’ve been seeing for a while—”

  “The psychologist. Robin told me. She talks about you more than she realizes. Tries be casual about it . . . I’m willing to put up with it if it’s just a matter of time . . . I really love her, Alex.”

  “She’s a great woman.”

  “She is, she is . . . goddamn, if she’s not with you, where the hell is she? Her flight got in at five, I gave her an hour and a half to get home, called, got no answer. Called again, kept calling—”

  “Try her friend Debby, in San Diego.”

  “I did. She hasn’t heard from Robin, either.”

  “She probably just needs time by herself,” I said, feeling my stomach knot.

  “I know, I know . . . okay, I’ll keep trying. Listen, thanks, Alex. Sorry for being such a moron. I shouldn’t have presumed—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  Easier said than done.

  • • •

  When I got back to the table, Allison said, “You look like you just handled a crisis.”

  “I suppose I did.”

  “Anything you’d care to talk about?”

  My mind was racing and shutting her out seemed wrong. I recounted Tim’s call.

  “Nice of you to calm him down,” she said.

  “That’s me, Father Teresa.”

  She sidled over, showed me the dessert menu.

  “Whatever you’re in the mood for,” I said.

  Allison said, “Too full for dessert?”

  “No, I’m just not picky.”

  “Okay, then . . . chocolate or nonchocolate?”

  “Whatever.”

  “You know,” she said, “I’m pretty full.”

  “No, let’s go for it.”

  She shook her head. “I changed my mind, it’s getting late.”

  “I’ve spoiled it.”

  “Not at all, baby.”

  “Chocolate,” I said.

  She patted her tummy. “I really am full, please call for the check. And then let’s drive to Venice.”

  “What?”

  “You’re worried,” she said. “I’m sure it’s nothing— she probably doesn’t want to take his call. But let’s make sure and set your mind at ease.”

  I stared at her.

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  “Some date.”

  “It’s been more than dating for a while.”

  • • •

  We left the hotel. Allison was smart and perceptive enough to know I’d been concerned, but I hadn’t told her the extent of it. The nagging, sickening, chain of thought set off by Tim’s call.

  China and Baby Boy; two victims Robin had worked for.

  The break-in; only cheapie electrics stolen. Except for Baby Boy’s acoustic.

  Shull fancied himself a guitarist, the instruments were ideal trophies.

  And Robin had just gotten some nice publicity: The Guitar Player profile. GP was a specialty magazine, but just the kind of thing Shull, with his self-image as a musician, an insider— an arbiter of art— might be likely to read.

  I sped to Venice.

  • • •

  Allison switched on the radio, tuned the music low, pretended to listen. Leaving me to my thoughts.

  Something Shull had said, when I’d interviewed him in his office came back to me: For some reason your name’s familiar.

  Soon after, I’d asked Shull if he’d noticed any change in Kevin Drummond’s writing style.

  How so?

  He seems to have gone from simple and direct to wordy and pretentious.

  I’d had no idea at the time, but that had been a direct assault upon Shull’s massive ego. And Shull didn’t respond well to deflation.

  How had he taken it . . . calm, smiling, an aw-shucks smile—“Ouch. On the contrary, the little I saw of Kevin’s development seemed to indicate improvement.”

  Then he’d dismissed me.

  A pathologically jealous psychopath, and I’d slapped him across the face.

  For some reason your name’s familiar.

  From time to time I made the papers. Not in any big way, just a bit player in crime stories. Some psychopaths followed crime pieces. Had Shull? Was his memory good enough to pounce upon my name?

  Then I got it: Baby Boy’s CD. A record Shull was likely to own— researching his quarry.

  I pictured him listening to the disc repeatedly. Poring over the liner notes. Drinking in the details.

  Milo, a casual listener, had come across Robin’s name— and mine— in the small-print credits. Shull would’ve been sure to see it.

  Baby Boy thanking “the beautiful guitar lady” for keeping his instruments in fine shape.

  Thanking “Dr. Alex Delaware for keeping the guitar lady happy.”

  All those pictures of Robin in the magazine, the adulation.

  Rising star.

  • • •

  I told it all to Allison. “Overactive imagination, huh?”

  “It’s a spooky case, you’re entitled. Let’s call her now, maybe she’s in, and that’ll be that.”

  I used the cell. No answer. Tried Milo’s desk. Away; a machine answered his cell number.

  Then I remembered: He was out in Porter Ranch with the judge, angling for a signature on a warrant application.

  I phoned the Hollywood station. Petra was out, too. I didn’t have her cell.

  Allison said, “You can put on some speed.”

  • • •

  Robin’s street was quiet, dark. Little houses tucked in and put to bed, lots of parked cars, the brine of the ocean.

  “There,” I said. “Her truck’s in the driveway. You were right, she’s not taking calls. Her lights are on, everything looks fine.”

  “If you want to check on her, it’s okay,” said Allison.

  “What is this, the bond of sisterhood?”

  “Hardly. I don’t know her. Don’t even know if I’d like her. This is for you, my dear. If anything’s going to keep you up tonight, I want it to be me.”

  “You’re okay waiting?”

  “Sure,” she said. Big grin. “Or I can get out and flaunt my Jimmy Choo’s and my black-emerald hoo-hah.”

  As I looked for a parking space, she said, “I’ll bet she’s beautiful.”

  “I’d rather talk about you.”

  “That means she’s beautiful. Oh well.”

  “Allison—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She laughed. “There’s a space— right behind that Cadillac.”

  I started to tell her something— to this day I don’t remember what.

  A scream cut me short.

  50