Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“He wants to own them,” I said. “And he traveled to do it. Levitch’s recital was in Santa Barbara. Angelique Bernet was reviewed in L.A. but murdered in Boston. If you could verify his presence in Boston at the time, that would be grounds for a warrant.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but how do I verify without a warrant? The airlines have tightened up big-time, and Kevin’s family isn’t going to volunteer the info.”

We traveled west on Santa Monica. When we reached Doheny, I said, “If Drummond freelanced for SeldomScene , he may very well have submitted to other magazines.”

His hands clenched around the wheel. “What if the bastard uses a dozen pseudonyms? What do I do- find some expert to conduct linguistic analysis of every fringe mag in the country?”

“I’d start with Faithful Scrivener and E. Murphy bylines, see where that leads.”

“Extracurricular reading. Meanwhile, a grieving mother waits.”

A few blocks later, he said, “Any other insights? From the writing?”

“It’s the type of inflated prose you see in college papers. Writing to impress. If it’s Kevin we’re dealing with, he didn’t get strokes at home, channeled his energies into projects, came to see himself as a maven of the art world. I’d check his college newspaper for reviews, see if the writing matches.”

“You keep saying that. ‘If it’s Kevin.’ “

“Something bothers me,” I admitted. “Even at twenty-four, Kevin seems young for these killings. If he murdered Angelique Bernet he did it at the age of twenty-one. There are elements of Angelique that fit a novice: multiple stab wounds that could mean a blitz attack, the body left out in the open. But traveling three thousand miles from his comfort zone’s pretty calculated.”

“What about this,” he said. “He sees Bernet dance in L.A., gets the hots, writes her up, checks the ballet company’s travel schedule, takes a trip to Boston. Maybe he’s not even sure why. All sorts of feelings bouncing around in his head. Then he stalks her, follows her to Cambridge, makes contact with her- he could’ve even come on to her and she rejected him. He freaks out, does her. Flies home. Sits thinking about it- realizes what he did. That he got away with it. Finally, he’s succeeded at something. Thirteen months after that, China disappears. The killer takes time to bury her, and no one finds her for months. Because now he’s being careful. Plotting it out. And he’s close to home. Make any sense?”

“If he’s a gifted boy.”

“Excitable boy,” he said. “Like that song.”

“The recent murders fit with rising confidence,” I said. “All three were done right at the venues. In Baby Boy’s and Levitch’s cases with the audience still present, in Julie’s with CoCo Barnes in the next room. That stinks of audaciousness. Could be he’s practiced his craft, is feeling like a virtuoso.”

“Practiced- meaning other murders we don’t know about.”

“Thirteen months lapsed between Angelique and China, then nothing for nearly two years until Baby Boy. After that, we’ve got six weeks to Julie and nine weeks to Levitch.”

“Great,” he said.

“The alternative is he managed, somehow, to suppress his urges for years and now he’s losing control.”

“How could he suppress?”

“By obsessing on a new project.”

“GrooveRat.”

“Being a publisher could grant serious illusions of power. Perhaps he’s finally realized that the zine’s a failure. Yet another one.”

“Daddy pulled the plug?”

“From what Petra says, Daddy was never enthusiastic.”

“The art world fails him,” he said. “So he takes it out on the artists. Let’s get back to the sexual angle. We’ve got male and female victims? What’s that say? A bisexual killer?”

“Or a sexually confused killer,” I said. “Certainly, a sexually inadequate killer. In no case was there any penetration. He’s intimidated by the clash of genitalia, substitutes the eroticism of talent. Targeting talent on the rise, he captures their essence at its peak. How’s that for a cheap Freudian shot?”

“You’re talking about an artistic cannibal,” he said.

“I’m talking,” I said, “about the ultimate critic.”

Back at my house, alone.

Allison was in Boulder, Colorado, for a conference. After that, she’d be traveling to attend her former father-in-law’s birthday.

I’d driven her to the airport, and she’d spent the night at my house. After I stashed her suitcases in the car, she removed something from her purse and handed it to me.

Petite, chrome-plated automatic. As I took it, she said, “Here’s the clip,” and gave me that, too.

“Forgot to leave it at home,” she explained. “Can’t get on the plane with it. Could you keep it for me?”

“Sure.” I placed the gun in my pocket.

“It’s registered, but I have no carry permit. If that bothers you, you can put it in the house.”

“I’ll chance it. Ready to go?”

“Yup.”

As we neared the 405 South, she said, “You’re not going to ask?”

“I figure you’ve got a reason.”

“The reason is after what happened to me, when I finally got my head straight, I told myself I’d avoid feeling that helpless again. I started with the usual stuff- self-defense courses, basic safety manuals. Then, years later, when I was a postdoc, I treated a woman who’d been raped twice. Two separate incidents, years apart. The first time she blamed herself. She’d been out-of-her-mind drunk, got picked up by a lowlife in a bar. The second time was some monster managing to jimmy a closed bedroom window. I did all I could for her, looked up gun shops in the yellow pages, bought my little chromium friend.”

“Makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“You kept it.”

“I like it,” she said. “I really think of it as my friend. I’m a pretty good shot. Took basic and intermediate training. Still go to the range once a month. Though I’ve missed a couple of months because we’ve been spending time.”

“Sorry to distract you.”

She touched my face. “Does it bother you?”

“No.”

“You’re sure.”

Within ten years, I’d shot two men to death. Both had been out to kill me. Evil men, self-defense, no option. Sometimes I still dreamed about them and woke up with acid in my stomach.

I said, “In the end we look out for ourselves.”

“True,” she said. “I didn’t really forget to leave it home. I wanted you to know.”

Eric Stahl sat and drank water.

Tap water in a half-gallon Sprite bottle. He’d brought it from home.

Watching Kevin Drummond’s apartment on Rossmore.

He’d arrived before sunrise, checked out the rear of the building. Treading cat-light on old sneakers sure not to squeak.

No sign of Kevin Drummond’s car.

No surprise.

He found himself a good spot, catercornered from the dingy brick building. Nice oblique angle; he could study the entrance without straining his head, a passerby would have no idea what he was after.

Not that a passerby would be likely to notice. Plenty of vehicles on the block, and Stahl had brought his personal wheels: a beige Chevy van with windows tinted way beyond the legal limit.

All the comforts of… during the first hour, a blue jay had swooped and cast a shadow across the building. Since then, very few signs of life.

Seven hours twenty-two minutes of watching.

Torture for someone else; Stahl was as close to content as he could be.

Sit. Drink bottled water. Sit. Stare.

Put the pictures out of your head.

Keep it clear, keep everything clear.