Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

She flipped onto her back. Covered her face with both hands. “I feel so unfaithful . To him, to you. It’s been years, why can’t I let go ?”

“You loved him. You never stopped loving him.”

“I never did,” she said. “Maybe I never will- can you deal with that? Because it has nothing to do with you.”

“I’m okay with it.”

“You mean that?”

“I do.”

“I understand your holding on to your feelings about Robin.”

“My feelings,” I said.

“Am I wrong?”

I didn’t answer.

“You had years together,” she said. “You’d have to be shallow to just toss it aside.”

“Everything takes time,” I said.

She let her hands drop from her face. Stared up at the ceiling. “Well, folks, I may just have made a giant goof.”

“No,” I said.

“I wish I could be sure of that.”

I rolled closer and held her.

“Everything’s fine,” I said.

“I’m going to believe that,” she said. “Given the alternative.”

Ten days later, I heard from Milo. In the interim, I’d persisted with the Cambridge police and managed to talk to a detective named Ernest Fiorelle. He began by scoping me out, and we went through the old security bit. Finally, I satisfied his curiosity by faxing a copy of an old LAPD consultant’s contract and a couple of pages of my deposition on the Ingalls case. Despite all that, Fiorelle ended up asking more questions than he answered about Angelique Bernet.

No serious leads had developed, and the case remained unsolved.

“My guess is some nut,” said Fiorelle. “You’re the shrink, you tell me.”

“A sexual psychopath?” I said. “Was there evidence of rape?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Dead air.

I said, “What was crazy about it?”

“Cutting up a beautiful young girl and dumping her in an alley seems pretty crazy to me, Doc. Out there in L.A. does that pass for nahmul?”

“Depends on the day of the week.”

His laughter was brief and harsh.

I said, “So none of Bernet’s fellow dancers or musicians came under suspicion?”

“Nah, wimpy bunch, mostly females and gays. Scared witless. Everyone claimed to love the girl.”

“Even though she’d been promoted.”

“So what?” he said.

“I was wondering about jealousy.”

“Doc, if you’da been to the crime scene, you wouldn’t be wondering. This wasn’t some… spat. This was ugly.”

Still thinking about China’s possible encounter with a stalking fan, I asked him about music conventions at the time of the murder.

“You kidding?” he said. “This is College-Town, Hahvuhd, the rest of them. We’ve got nothing but conventions going on all the time.”

“Anything to do with the music business, specifically? A group of critics, journalists, fans.”

“Nah, don’t remember anything like that. And frankly, Doc, I don’t know why you’re bahkun up this tree.”

“Nothing better to bark up.”

“Well, maybe you should find something. And keep all that nutty stuff on the Left Coast. Nah, doesn’t sound like any matches between the girl and your cases. Fact is, I found a better match in Baltimore, and that didn’t pan out either.”

“Who was the victim in Baltimore?”

“Some secretary cut up like Ms. Bernet. What’s the difference, I just told you it didn’t pan, Baltimore busted a lunatic and he hung himself. Gotta run, Doc. Have a nice warm L.A. day.”

I searched for Baltimore homicides on the net but came up with nothing remotely familiar to Angelique Bernet or the other killings.

Nothing seemed to be the operative word.

During the same ten days, a few other things happened.

Tim Plachette called me one evening, and said, “Apologies for that ridiculous little mano-a-mano thing the other day.”

“No big deal,” I said. “You weren’t out of line.”

“Whether I was or not, I should’ve held my peace… I really care about her, Alex.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“You don’t want to have this conversation,” he said.

Something in his voice- desperation, anxiety that came from deep love, flipped my mood.

“I do appreciate your calling, Tim. And I won’t get in the way.”

“I’m not trying to be a censor, it’s a free country. If you want to drop by, that’s fine.”

I flipped again: Gee, thanks for permission, buddy . But I knew he was right. Life would be a lot easier for all of us if I kept my distance.

“We all need to move on, Tim.”

“It’s good of you to say that… Robin… and then there’s Spike- I’m making an ass out of myself.”

“That’s the way it can be with women,” I said.

“True.”

We traded Y-chromosome chuckles.

“Anyway,” he said.

“Be well, Tim.”

“You, too.”

Two days after that, Robin phoned. “I don’t want to bother you, but I also don’t want you to find out from someone else. Guitar Player ’s running a profile on me, and I must admit I think that’s extremely cool. I know you buy it sometimes, so I thought you might see it.”

“Beyond cool,” I said. “Tell me the issue, and I’ll be sure to buy it.”

“This coming issue,” she said. “They interviewed me a while back but never told me the piece was going to run. They called me today to say it was. It’ll probably complicate my life by throwing me more business when I don’t need it, but who cares; getting out in the limelight once in a while feels good. I’m such a baby, huh?”

“You deserve it,” I said. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks, Alex. How’s everything?”

“Moving along.”

“Anything new on Baby or that painter?”

“No,” I said. When we were together she’d never wanted to know about that kind of thing. Maybe it was her affection for Baby Boy. Or the fact that what I did with my life no longer touched hers.

“Well,” she said, “I’m sure if anyone can figure it out, it’s you.”

“Aw shucks, ma’am.”

“Bye,” she said, and the laughter in her voice put a little light in my day.

Milo reached me at home, the following Thursday, just after 9 P.M. Solitary end of a solitary day. I’d finished the last of my reports, collected tax information for my accountant, did a few handyman chores around the house. When the phone rang, I was doing the couch-spud bit: wearing grubby sweats, snarfing takeout ribs, a couple of Grolsches within reach. Dimming the lights and turning up the volume on the big screen as I watched both reels of Magnolia . Thinking, once again, that the film was a work of genius.

The previous two nights, I’d slept at Allison’s place, waking up in her cozy, girly bedroom, smelling perfume and breakfast, resting the grizzle of my unshaven face against soft sweet sheets, dividing my brain between delight and disorientation.

No more talk about Grant or Robin, and she seemed content- or trying to fake it. She moved appointments around and took a day off and we drove up the coast, had lunch in Montecito, at the Stone House. Then we continued to Santa Barbara, walked along the beach, and up State Street to the art museum where a portraiture show was on display.

Black-eyed, too-wise Robert Henri children, the wistful, wounded women of Raphael Soyer, the dandies and dolled-up ladies of John Koch’s New York arty crowd.

Pale, languid, dark-haired Singer Sargent beauties who made me look at Allison with new appreciation.

A late dinner at the Harbor, on the pier, stretched out to 11 P.M., and we got back to L.A. just before 1 A.M. For the last twenty miles I fought to stay awake. When I pulled up in front of Allison’s house, I hoped she wouldn’t invite me in.