Stahl didn't answer.
'Let's go,' Petra said, shoving the card at him and grabbing her purse.
'Where?'
'On a Drummond-search.'
Kevin Drummond's Rossmore address matched an eighty-year-old, three-story brick-faced, mock Tudor just below Melrose, where the street turned into Vine and commercial Hollywood began.
The mansions of Hancock Park were a brief stroll south, and between that high-priced real estate and Drummond's block, sat the Royale and the Majestic and other elegant, doorman-guarded buildings. Gorgeous old vanilla-colored dowagers, facing the green velvet links of the Wilshire Country Club, built when labor was cheap and architecture meant ornament. Petra had heard that Mae West had lived out her days in one of them, clad in satin gowns and keeping company with young men till the end. God bless her.
But any vestiges of glamour had faded by the time you got to Drummond's street. The bulk of the buildings were ugly boxes knocked into place during the fifties, and the remaining older structures appeared ill tended, like Drummond's. Several bricks were missing from the facade and a warped slat of cardboard shielded a second-story window. On the ground floor, protection was provided by rusty security grates across the front door
and the street-level windows. The alarm sign on the scrubby little lawn was that of a shoddy company Petra knew had been out of business for years. The hub, indeed.
To the right of the entrance were twenty call buttons, most with the tenant IDs missing from the slots. No identification for Drummond's second-story unit. The names that remained in place were all Hispanic or Asian.
Petra pushed Drummond's button. No answer. She tried again, leaned on the buzzer. Nothing.
Unit One was the manager, G. Santos. Same result.
She said, 'Let's try the other two.'
Randolph Drummond's place on Wilton was a sixty-unit, pink-stucco monster built around a cloudy swimming pool. Drummond's apartment was at street level, facing the traffic. No security here, not even a symbolic gate across the cutout that led to the complex, and Petra and Stahl walked right in and up to Drummond's door.
Petra's knock was answered by a boomy 'Hold on!' The lock turned and the door opened and a man leaning on aluminum elbow crutches said, 'What can I do for you?'
'Randolph Drummond?'
'In the flesh. Such as it is.' Drummond's torso canted to one side. He wore a brown v-neck sweater over a yellow shirt, spotless khakis, felt bedroom slippers. His hair was white, neatly parted, and a snowy beard bottomed a full face. Weary eyes, seamed skin, mild tan. Hemingway on disability.
Petra would have guessed his age as closer to fifty-four than forty-four.
Massive forearms rested on the crutches. A big man above the waist, but skimpy legs. Behind him was a bed-sitting room - the bed open and covered with a silk throw. What Petra could see appeared military-neat. The sounds of classical music - something sweet and romantic - streamed toward the detectives.
Waste of time. Handicap aside, this was no zine guy. She said, 'May we come in, sir?'
'May I ask why?' said Drummond. Jovial smile but no give.
'We're investigating a homicide and looking for a man who calls himself Yuri Drummond.'
Drummond's smile expired. He shifted his weight on the crutches. 'Homicide? Lord, why?'
His reaction made Petra's heart beat fast. She smiled. 'Could we talk inside please, sir?'
Drummond hesitated. 'Sure, why not? Haven't had a visitor since the last wave of do-gooders.'
He stamped backward on his crutches and cleared space, and Petra and Stahl stepped into the apartment. Inside, the music was louder, but barely. Kept at reasonable volume - issuing from a portable stereo on the floor. One room, just as Petra had thought, outfitted with the bed and two armchairs, a cubby kitchen. A tiny bathroom could be seen behind the arch in the rear wall.
Two plywood bookcases perpendicular to the bed were filled with hardcovers. Literary fiction and law books. Drummond had been busted for manslaughter; a jail-house expert?
Petra said, 'Do-gooders?'
'Disability pimps,' said Drummond. 'State grants, private foundations. Your name gets on a list and you
become a potential customer. Go on, make yourselves comfortable.'
Petra and Stahl each took a chair, and Drummond lowered himself to the bed. Keeping that smile pasted on during what looked like a painful ordeal. 'Now who got homicided and why would I know anything about it?'
Petra said, 'Have you heard of Yuri Drummond?'
'Sounds Russian. Who is he?'
'What about a magazine called GrooveRat?'
Drummond's chunky knuckles whitened.
'You know it,' said Petra.
'What interest do you have in it?'
'Mr Drummond, it would be better if we asked the questions.'
'Yes, I've heard of it.'
'Are you the publisher?'
'Me?' Drummond laughed. 'No, I don't think so.'
'Who is?'
Drummond inched his bulk toward the bed cushions, took a long time to get comfortable. 'I'm happy to cooperate with the police, but you really need to let me know what's going on.'
'We really don't,' said Stahl.
Stahl's voice seemed to spook Drummond. Drummond paled and licked his lips. Then his eyes brightened with anger. 'I put myself here. In this situation.' Tapping the crutches. 'Little drinking-and-driving problem. But you probably know that.'
No answer from the detectives. Petra glanced at her partner. Stahl looked furious.
'Inscrutable public servants,' said Drummond. 'I got caught - thank God. Served time in a hospital ward, did
AA.' Another tap. 'I'm telling you this because I've been trained to confess. But also so you'll understand: I'm a fool but not an idiot. My head's been clear for ten years, and I know that nothing I've done abrogates my rights. So don't try to intimidate me.'
'Abrogate,' said Stahl, reaching out and touching the spine of a law book. 'You like legal terminology.'
'No,' said Drummond. 'On the contrary. I despise it. But I used to be an attorney.'
'Is Yuri Drummond your son?' said Petra.
'Not hardly. I told you I've never heard that name.'
'But you have heard of GrooveRat. The magazine Yuri Drummond edits.'
Drummond didn't reply.
'Mr Drummond,' said Petra. 'We found you, we'll find him. Why add to your roster of poor decisions?'
'Ouch,' said Drummond, stroking his beard.
'Sir?'
Drummond chewed his cheek. 'I didn't know he was calling himself "Yuri." But, yes, I have heard of the so-called magazine. He's my brother's kid. Kevin Drummond. So now he's Yuri? What's he done?'
'Maybe nothing. We want to talk to him about GrooveRat'
'Well, you've come to the wrong place,' said Drummond.
'Why's that?'
'Don't see Kevin,' said Drummond. 'Let's just say it's not a close-knit family.'
'Any idea why he took on the name Yuri?'
'Hell if I know - maybe he fancies himself subversive.'
'When's the last time you spoke to your nephew?'
'I never speak to him.' Drummond's smile was sour. 'His father - my brother - and I used to be law partners, and my indiscretions cost Frank quite a bit of business. After I was paroled and discharged from rehab, he fulfilled his brotherly obligation by finding me this place - ten units set aside for state-funded cripples - then proceeded to shut me out completely.'
'How do you know about GrooveRat?'
'Kevin sent me a copy.'
'How long ago?'
'Years - couple of years ago. He'd just graduated college, announced he was a publisher.'
'Why would he send it to you?' said Petra.
'Back then, he liked me. Probably because no one else in the family did - wild, alkie uncle and all that. Brother Frank's a bit stuffy. Growing up with him couldn't have been fun for Kevin.'
'So you were Kevin's mentor.'
&
nbsp; Drummond chuckled. 'Not remotely. He sent me the rag, I wrote him a note and told him it was dreadful, he should study accounting. Mean old uncle. I never liked the kid.'
'Why not?' said Petra.
'Not a charming lad,' said Drummond. 'Mumbly, ninety-eight-pound-weakling type, kept to himself, always going off on some project.'
'Publishing projects?'
'The fancy of the moment. Tropical fish, lizards, rabbits, trading cards, God knows what. Those little Japanese robots - of course he had to have every single one. He was always collecting crap - toy cars, computer games, cheap watches, you name it. Frank and his
mother indulged him. Frank and I grew up with no money. Sports was our thing, we both lettered in football in high school and college. Frank's other boys - Greg and Brian - are super athletes. Greg's got a scholarship to Arizona State and Brian's playing varsity in Florida.'
'Kevin's not athletic'
Drummond smirked. 'Let's just say Kevin's an indoor type.'
Talking about his nephew had brought out the cruelty. Petra thought: Drunk, this guy would be ugly. 'Do you have kids of your own, Mr Drummond?'
'No. I used to have a wife.' Drummond's eyes squeezed shut. 'She was next to me in the car when I hit the pole. My lawyer used my grief as a defense and got me a lighter sentence.'
His eyes opened. Moist.
Stahl watched him. Rigid. Unimpressed.
Petra said, 'So when's the last time you saw Kevin?'
'Like I said, years ago. I couldn't hazard a precise guess. After my review of his so-called publication, he never called me. It wasn't really a magazine, you know. Just something Kevin cranked out in his bedroom. Probably cost Frank another chunk of change.'
'Do you recall anything about the content?'
'I didn't read it,' said Drummond. 'I took one look, saw it was crap, and tossed it.'
'Crap about what?'
'Kevin's take on the art world. People he considered geniuses. Why?'
'Did Kevin write the whole thing himself?'
'That's what I assumed - what, you think he had a staff? This was amateur hour, Detective. And what the
hell does it have to do with homicide?'
Petra smiled. 'So you never see Kevin. Despite the fact that he lives close to you.'
'Does he?' Drummond seemed genuinely surprised.
'Right here in Hollywood.'
'Hooray for Hollywood,' said Drummond. 'Makes sense.'
'Why's that?'
'Kid always was a star-fucker.'
They spent a while longer in the apartment, going over the same territory, rephrasing, the way detectives do, when trolling for inconsistencies. Refusing Randolph Drummond's offers of soft drinks but fetching a Diet Coke for the man when he began licking his lips. Petra did most of the talking. The few times Stahl spoke, Drummond grew uneasy. Not evasiveness, as far as Petra could tell. Stahl's inflectionless tone seemed to spook the guy, and Petra found herself empathizing.
The interview produced home and business addresses and phone numbers for Franklin Drummond, Attorney at Law, both in Encino, and the fact that, two years ago, Kevin Drummond had graduated from Charter College, a small, expensive private school near Eagle Rock.
'They sent me an invitation,' said Drummond. 'I didn't attend. It was an insincere offer.'
'What do you mean?' said Petra.. 'No offer to drive me there. I wasn't going to take the damn bus.'
It was nearing 4 P.M. by the time they got back to Kevin Drummond's building. Still, no one home.
Time for Encino. As they drove north over Laurel Canyon, Petra said, 'Randolph D. bother you?'
'He can't stand his nephew,' said Stahl.
'Angry man. Estranged from his entire family. But can't see any link to our case. Can't see him moving round town on those crutches and offing artistic types.'
'He killed his wife.'
'You see that as relevant?' said Petra.
Stahl's pale fingers interlaced. A stricken look washed over his face, then it was gone so fast that Petra wondered if she'd really seen it.
'Eric?' she said.
Stahl shook his head. 'No, he has nothing to do with our case.'
'Back to Kevin, then. That comment about his being a star-fucker would tie in with Delaware's theory. So would the history of failed projects. And attraction to fads. This could be one pathetic little loser who just couldn't take not being talented and decided to act out against those who were.'
Stahl didn't answer.
'Eric?'
'Don't know.'
'What's your intuition?'
'I don't rely on intuition.'
'Really?' said Petra. 'You've been pretty good with GTAs.'
As if taking that as an invitation, Stahl's head swiveled toward the passenger window, and he studied the traffic flow. He stayed that way during the entire trip to the Valley.
They tried Franklin Drummond's Ventura Boulevard office first. The 'firm' was a one-lawyer affair on the tenth floor of a bronzed-glass high-rise. The waiting room was cozy, bathed in the same type of romantic music Randolph Drummond had played. The young receptionist was friendly enough when she informed them that Mr Drummond was in court. Her nameplate said DANITA TYLER, and she looked busy.
'What kind of law does Mr Drummond practice?' said Petra.
'General business, real estate, litigation. May I ask what this is about?'
'We'd like to talk to him about his son, Kevin.'
'Oh.' Tyler was puzzled. 'Kevin doesn't work here.'
'Do you know Kevin?'
'By sight.'
'When's the last time you saw him?'
'Is he in trouble?'
'No,' said Petra. 'We need to talk to him about his publishing business.'
'Publishing? I thought he was a student.'
'He graduated college a couple of years ago.'
'I mean a graduate student. At least that was my impression.' The young woman fidgeted. 'I probably shouldn't be talking about it.'
'Why not?'
'The boss has a thing for privacy.'
'Any particular reason?'
'He's a private man. Good boss. Don't get me in trouble, okay?'
Petra smiled. 'Promise. Could you please tell me where Kevin attends grad school?'
'Don't know - that's the truth. I'm not even sure he is in grad school. I really don't know much about the family. Like I said, Mr Drummond likes his privacy.'
'When's the last time Kevin was here, Ms Tyler?'
'Oh, my... I couldn't tell you. The family almost never comes in.'
'How long have you been working here, Ms Tyler?'
'Two years.'
'During that time have you ever met Randolph Drummond?'
'Who's he?'
'A relative,' said Petra.
'Publishing, huh?' said Tyler. 'The police... what, some kind of porno - no, don't answer that.' She laughed, ran a finger across her mouth. 'I don't want to know.'
They had her call Franklin Drummond's cell phone, but the attorney didn't answer.
'Sometimes,' she said, 'he turns it off during the ride home.'
'The man likes his privacy,' said Petra.
'The man works hard.'
They drove out onto Ventura Boulevard. Petra was hungry, and she looked for a semi-inviting, cheap eatery. Two blocks west, she spotted a falafel stand with two picnic tables. Leaving the unmarked in a loading zone, she bought a spiced lamb shwarma in a soft pita and a Coke and ate as Stahl waited in the car. When she was halfway through the sandwich, Stahl got out and took a seat across from her.
Traffic roared by. She munched.
Stahl just sat. His interest in food matched his hunger for human discourse. When he did eat, it was always something boring on white bread that he brought from home in a clean, brown bag.
Whatever home was for Eric.
She ignored him, enjoyed her food, wiped her lips, and stood. 'Let's go.'
Ten minutes later they pulled up to the home where Kevin
Drummond had pursued his ever-shifting fancies.
It was a beautifully tended, extrawide ranch house perched on the uppermost lot of a hilly street south of Ventura Boulevard. Jacarandas shaded the sidewalks. Like most nice L.A. neighborhoods, not a sign of humanity.
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 17 - A Cold Heart Page 16