Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“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-du-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. Gilwhite?”

“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 Gilwhite’s name and the mail drop’s address and finally coming 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 Lompoc. 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?”