Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 17 - A Cold Heart

by A Cold Heart(Lit)

  'GrooveRat,' she said. 'So what does this mean? A fan gone psycho?'

  'Someone overinvolved in the victims' careers. Maybe someone whose identity became enmeshed with the creativity of others. "Leeches on the body artistic" is how Julie Kipper's ex-husband described critics and agents and gallery owners and all the other ancillaries of the creative world. The same can be said of fanatical followers. Sometimes attachments morph into business arrangements - presidents of fan clubs selling memorabilia - but the core remains emotional: celebrity by association. For most people, fandom's a fling that ends when they grow up. But certain borderline personalities never mature, and what starts out as a harmless ego-substitution - the kid standing in front of a mirror playing air guitar and imagining himself to be Hendrix -can turn into a psychological hijacking.'

  'Hijacking what?' said Milo.

  "The adored one's identity. "I know the star better than he knows himself. How dare he get married/sell out/not listen to my advice?" '

  'How dare he refuse my generous offer to be interviewed,' said Petra. 'Adolescents are the biggest fanatics, right? And Yuri Drummond sounded adolescent. The fact that he published a zine makes him hard-core.'

  'Desktop publishing's elevated hard-core,' I said. 'Buy a computer and a printer, and you, too, can be a media-master. I know these victims vary demographically, but

  I've thought all along that the crucial element is their career status: poised for a jump. What if the killer became attached to them precisely because they weren't stars? Entertained rescue fantasies - he'd be the star-maker by writing about them. They rejected him, so he interrupted the climb. Maybe he convinced himself they sold out.'

  'Or,' said Petra, 'since we're talking about vicarious talent, maybe he was an aspiring artist himself and simply got consumed with jealousy.'

  Milo said, 'Aspiring guitarist, painter, singer, and pianist?'

  'A real megalomaniac,' she said.

  All three detectives looked at me.

  'It's possible,' I said. 'A dilettante who bounces from game to game. I had a patient years ago, a successful writer. Scarcely a week went by when he didn't meet someone who planned to pen the Great American Novel if only they had time. This guy had written his first four books while holding down two jobs. One thing he told me stuck: When someone says they want to be a writer, they'll never make it. When they say they want to write, there's a chance. That could fit with our bitter-fan scenario: someone who gets off on the external trappings of creativity.'

  Petra smiled. 'Leeches on the body artistic' Years ago, she'd worked as a painter. 'I like that.'

  'So we're talking two possibilities,' said Milo. 'A rescue fantasy turned on its head or pathological jealousy.'

  'Or both,' I said. 'Or, I'm dead wrong.'

  Petra laughed. 'Don't say that up on the witness stand, Doctor.' She picked up a piece of wafer bread, cracked a corner between sharp, white teeth, chewed slowly. 'Yuri

  Drummond went on about his zine capturing the essence of art. When he started nagging me for the gories, it could've been revisiting the scene - psychologically.'

  'Ego trip,' said Milo. 'like arsonists standing around watching the flames.'

  'Did Drummond write the story on Baby Boy?' I said.

  'I think he told me a writer did,' said Petra. 'All I copied down was the guy's name. At the time it seemed irrelevant.' She placed her napkin on the table. 'Time to check the guy out, earn my salary. This was good, Milo. Let me split the check with you.'

  'Forget it. I run a tab here.'

  'You're sure?'

  'I'm a rajah,' he said. 'Go detect. Stay in touch.'

  Petra touched Milo's shoulder briefly, favored me with a smile, turned and headed for the door.

  Stahl got up and followed her out. During the entire discussion, he hadn't said a word.

  The silent type. Some women thought they liked that. Petra had thought she liked it. But working with Stahl was proving to be a trying experience.

  The guy never spoke unless spoken to, and even then, he drew upon his verbal bank account one scroogy syllable at a time.

  Now here they were, driving away from the meeting with Milo and Alex, when there should've been animated discussion. Stahl just stared out the passenger window, inert as dirt.

  What? Looking for another stolen car? He'd spotted two GTAs in one week, and the second had contained a passenger with a felony manslaughter warrant, so brownie points for the two of them. But if that's what floated Stahl's dinghy, he should've asked for an assignment to Auto Theft.

  Why he'd chosen Homicide puzzled her. Why he'd given up the security of an Army gig for the streets was an even bigger question mark.

  She'd hazarded a few polite questions. Every attempt to crack the shell revealed a granite egg.

  Not that old Eric was any big old stoic macho man

  with obvious dominance needs or glory lust. On the contrary, he'd made it clear, right from the beginning, that Petra was the senior partner.

  And unlike most men, he knew how to apologize. Even when it wasn't necessary.

  Two days into their partnership, Petra had arrived early and found Stahl at his desk, reading a folded newspaper and sipping herbal tea - that was another thing, he didn't drink coffee, and if anything contravened the detective code of ethics, it was caffeine phobia.

  When he saw her he looked up and Petra sensed unease - the merest hint of restlessness - in his flat, brown eyes.

  'Evening, Eric'

  "This wasn't my idea,' he said, handing her the paper. A two-paragraph article toward the back had been circled in black marker.

  Summary of the Armenian gang killing. Her name in print, as the investigator. Along with Stahl's.

  The case had been wrapped up well before Stahl's arrival. Someone - maybe a departmental PR doofus, or even Schoelkopf digging at Petra intentionally - had doled out cocredit.

  'Don't worry about it,' said Petra.

  'I don't like it,' said Stahl.

  'Don't like what?'

  'It was your case.'

  'I don't care, Eric'

  'I thought I'd call the Times:

  'Don't be ridiculous.'

  Stahl stared at her. 'Okay,' he said, finally. 'I wanted to clarify.'

  'You have.'

  He returned to his tea.

  A mile before the Hollywood station, Petra said, 'So what do you think?'

  'About what?'

  'Dr Delaware's theory.'

  'You know him,' said Stahl. A statement, not a question.

  'If you're asking whether he's good, he is. I've worked with him and Milo before. Milo's the best - top solve-rate in West L.A., maybe the department.'

  Stahl tapped his knee.

  'He's gay,' said Petra.

  No answer.

  'Delaware's smart,' she said. 'Brilliant. I usually don't have much faith in shrinks, but he's come through.'

  'Then I like his theory,' said Stahl.

  'So what next? Check out comics stores for GrooveRat or try to find it with phone work?'

  'Both,' said Stahl. 'There are two of us.'

  'Which would you prefer?'

  'Your call.'

  'State a preference, Eric'

  'I'll do the phone work.'

  Big surprise. Eric at his desk, avoiding real-live people.

  She dropped him off and cruised Hollywood for alternative bookstores. Inquiries about GrooveRat produced blank stares from the clerks, but most of them looked blasted to begin with. On her fifth try, the pimply kid at the counter hooked a thumb toward a cardboard box to

  his left. Red ink scrawl on the flap said OLD ZINES, ONE BUCK.

  The carton smelled moldy and was crammed with paper and loose sheets - spindled and mutilated magazines.

  Petra said, 'You definitely have GrooveRat in here?'

  The kid said, 'Probably,' and stared off into space.

  Petra began pawing through the box, raising dust that grayed her black jacket. Most of the zines seemed to
be little more than adolescent hobby junk. Several were printed on pulp. She skimmed. A world of incoherence, fluctuating from bored to breathless, mostly to do with music and movies and dirty jokes.

  Nearly at the bottom of the pile, she found a coverless copy of GrooveRat. Ten pages of poorly typed text and amateurish cartoons. The date on the masthead was the previous summer. No volume or number listings.

  Not much in the way of staff, either.

  Yuri Drummond, Editor & Publisher

  Contributing Writers: The Usual Gang of

  Miscreants

  The second line reminded Petra of something - ripoff of a Mad magazine line. All four of her brothers had collected Mad. Something about the usual gang of idiots...

  So Mr Drummond was unoriginal, as well as pretentious. That fit with Alex's theory.

  The bottom of the masthead listed an address for mailing subscription checks. The zine promised 'irregular publication,' and charged forty dollars a year.

  Delusional, as well. Petra wondered if anyone had bitten. She supposed if idiots were willing to pay three bucks a minute for phone tarot, anything was possible.

  The address was right here in Hollywood - on Sunset east of Highland, just a short drive away.

  She scanned the table of contents. Four pieces on rock bands she'd never heard of and a write-up of a sculptor who worked in plastic-coated dog poo.

  The author of the art piece, nom-de-plumed 'Mr Peach,' really appreciated fecal art, terming it 'primally satisfying and gut-wrenching (Duchamp-Dada-yuk yuk, kids.)' Petra was surer than ever that she was dealing with an adolescent mind, and that didn't synch with the careful planning of the murders. Still, the zine cropping up in two cases bore attention.

  A careful check of the remaining pages revealed nothing on Baby Boy Lee, Juliet Kipper, or Vassily Levitch. Nothing on the Boston case Alex had found, either -Bernet, the ballerina. Petra had her doubts about that one, but you didn't want to ignore Alex's gut.

  She paid for the rag and headed for GrooveRat headquarters.

  Strip mall at Gower and Sunset. A Mail Boxes 'N' Stuff. Big shock.

  'Suite 248' was really Box 248, now leased to Verna Joy Hollywood Cosmetics. Petra knew that because as she waited for the woman in charge to stop fussing with a cuticle and give her the time of day, two bound stacks of mail on the counter caught her eye. Lots of interest in Verna Joy; too much for one box.

  The top envelope was pink, with a return address in

  Des Moines. Neat, feminine cursive writing advertised 'Payment Inside.'

  The mail-drop woman finally put away her emery board, spotted Petra studying the stacks, snatched them up, and jammed them under the counter. A peroxide blonde in her sixties, she'd gone overboard with the brown eye shadow and the black liner, left the rest of her tired, splotched, drinker's face unpainted. Emphasizing the eyes - bringing out the despair.

  Petra showed her ID and the woman's expression shifted from irritation to outright contempt. 'What do you want?'

  'A magazine named GrooveRat used to lease Box 248. How long has it been since they vacated, ma'am?'

  'Don't know and wouldn't tell you if I did.' The woman's jaw jutted.

  'Why's that, ma'am?'

  'It's the law. Bill of Rights. You need a warrant.'

  Petra relaxed her posture, tried a soft smile. 'You're absolutely right, ma'am, but I don't want to search the box. I'd just like to know how long it's been since the tenant vacated.'

  'Don't know and wouldn't tell you if I did.' The woman's smile was tight-lipped and triumphant.

  'Were you working here when GrooveRat occupied the box?'

  Shrug.

  'Who picked up GrooveRat's mail?'

  Ditto.

  'Ma'am,' said Petra. 'I can come back with a warrant.'

  'Then you do that,' said the woman with sudden savagery.

  'What's the problem, ma'am?'

  'I got no problem.'

  'This could be related to a homicide investigation.'

  The smudgy eyes remained resolute. Petra fixed on them, mustered a hard stare. The woman said, 'You don't impress me.'

  'Homicide doesn't impress you?' said Petra.

  'It's always homicide,' said the woman. 'Everything's homicide.'

  'What?'

  The woman jabbed a finger. 'This is my place, and I don't have to talk to you.' But she followed that with: 'Protect yourself, and it's homicide. Stand up for your rights, and it's homicide.'

  Battle of stares.

  'What's your name, ma'am?'

  'I don't have to tell-'

  'You sure do, or you'll be arrested on an obstruction charge.' Petra reached for her cuffs.

  'Olive Gilwhite,' said the woman, jowls flittering.

  'Are you sure you don't want to cooperate, Ms Gil-white?'

  'I'm not saying nothing.'

  Rather than deliver a grammar lesson, Petra left the mail drop and drove back to the station. Eric Stahl was at his desk phoning and taking notes. She ignored him and played with the computers, plugging in Olive Gil-white's name and the mail drop's address and finally coining up with something.

  Two years ago, the proprietor of a Hollywood Mailboxes 'N' Stuff, a man named Henry Gilwhite, had been busted for homicide.

  Petra fished in the files and found the case summary. Gilwhite, sixty-three, had shot a nineteen-year-old male trannie prostitute named Gervazio Guzman to death in back of the mail drop. Gilwhite had claimed self-defense in an attempted mugging, but his semen on Guzman's dress told a different story. The case had been pled down to manslaughter, and Gilwhite was serving time at Lom-poc. Five to ten, but at his age, that might very well

  mean life. Leaving Mrs Gilwhite to run the store and drink

  herself to death.

  Protect yourself, and it's homicide.

  Petra resolved to find some way to lean on the nasty

  old biddy.

  As she thought about it, Stahl got up and approached

  her desk.

  'What's up, Eric?'

  'I've got a few possibles on Yuri Drummond.' 'Possibles?'

  'There's no Yuri Drummonds anywhere in the state, so I looked up all the Drummonds in our zip codes.' "Why limit it to Hollywood?' said Petra. 'It's a place to start. If Drummond's a star-chaser, maybe he wants to live in the hub.'

  'Eric, the stars live in Bel Air and Malibu.' 'I was speaking metaphorically,' said Stahl. He drew a three-by-five index card from his suit jacket. Still wearing his black suit coat. Every other detective was in shirtsleeves.

  Petra said, 'What'd you come up with?' 'DMV has twelve Drummonds listed, five of them females. Of the seven males, four are older than fifty.

  These are the three remaining.'

  The longest speech she'd ever heard from him. His flat eyes had acquired a murky glow, and the coins in his cheeks had deepened to vermilion - this one got off on tedium. He handed her the index card. Neat printing in green ink; a list.

  1. Adrian Drummond, 16. (A Los Feliz address that Petra recognized as a gated street in Laughlin Park. Rich kid? That fit, but 16 seemed young to be publishing anything, even a low-level zine.)

  2. Kevin Drummond, 24. (An apartment on North Rossmore.)

  3. Randolph Drummond, 44. (An apartment on Wilton Place.)

  'The first two have no records,' said Stahl. 'Randolph Drummond has a five-year-old prior for vehicular manslaughter and DUI. Should we start with him?'

  'Bad car crash?' said Petra. 'It's not exactly serial murder.'

  'It's antisocial,' said Stahl. Something new came into his voice - harder, more intense. His eyes had narrowed to slits.

  Petra said, 'Still, my money's on the second one -Kevin. The voice I heard was younger than forty-four, and the zine's got an immature flavor. Of course, all this assumes any of these are our guy. For all we know our Drummond lives out in the Valley.' But even as she said that, she doubted it. The GrooveRat POB had been rented in Hollywood. Stahl's instincts were good.

  He said
, 'Okay.'

  'For all we know his name's not even Drummond,' said Petra. 'Yuri's probably fake and so why not the surname?' The incident with Olive Gilwhite had left her combative.