Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

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.”

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.