Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“Give me details on the loser,” said Petra. “What did he look like? How’d he pay for the box?”

“He looked like… young, skinny, tall. Big glasses. Bad skin. One of those what-they-call nerds. A nerd fag.”

“Gay?” said Petra.

“That’s what I said.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t think it, I know it. He got fag stuff in the mail,” said Olive, sneering again.

“Gay magazines?”

“No, an invitation from the Pope. Yeah, magazines. What do you think these are for?” Gesticulating at the wall of boxes. “Not too many Bibles coming in.” Olive laughed, and even at this distance Petra could smell juniper berries on her breath. Midday gin.

“Did he give you his name?”

“Who remembers.”

“He did give you a name.”

“He had to fill out a form.”

“Where is it?”

“Gone,” said Olive. “Once the box changes hands, I toss out the paperwork. You think I got space to keep it all?”

“Convenient,” said Petra.

“That’s my middle name. Threaten me all you want, but it’s not gonna change facts.” Olive cursed under her breath and Petra made out fuckin’ bitch . “You should be ashamed, so-called officer of the so-called law, threatening me. I should report you. Maybe I will.” Olive folded her arms across her bosoms, but she stepped back, as if readying herself for a blow.

Petra said, “What threat are we talking about?”

“Right,” said Olive. “Overcrowding. Things change.”

“I don’t hear any threat, ma’am, but feel free to complain about me to anyone you choose.” Petra flashed her ID. “Here’s my badge number.”

Olive eyed a pen but didn’t move toward it.

“What name did the nerd give?” said Petra.

“I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“I don’t remember- something Russian. But he wasn’t. I figured him for a nut.”

“Did he act nuts?”

“Sure,” said Olive. “He came in drooling and shaking and seeing Martians.”

Petra waited.

“He was a weirdo ,” said Olive. “Get it? What, I’m supposed to be some kind of psychiatrist? He was a nerd-fag, didn’t talk much, kept his head down. Which was fine with me. Pay the fee, collect your filthy little secrets, get the hell outta here.”

“How’d he pay?”

“Cash. Like most of them.”

“By the month?”

“No way,” said Olive. “I got a space problem. You want to take up space, you guarantee me three months. So that’s at least what I got from him.”

“At least?”

“Some of them, I ask for more.”

“Which ones?”

“The ones I figure I can get it from.”

“Was he one of them?”

“Probably.”

“How long did he have the box?”

“A long time. Coupla years.”

“How often did he come in?”

“I hardly ever saw him. We’ve got twenty-four-hour access. He came in at night.”

“You’re not worried about theft?”

“I clean out the cash drawer, lock everything up. They want to steal a few pens, who cares? Too much pilferage, I raise the fees on the box, and they know it. So they behave. That’s capitalism.”

Henry Gilwhite’s transsexual encounter had taken place late at night. Petra pictured Olive back home at the double-wide in Palmdale. What had Henry’s cover story been? Going to the neighborhood tavern for a couple of beers?

Suddenly, she felt sorry for the woman.

“I won’t trouble you much longer-”

“You’ve already troubled me plenty.”

“- was the Russian name Yuri?”

“Yeah, that was it,” said Olive. “Yuri. Sounds like urine. What’d he do to piss you off?” She cackled, slapped the counter, exploded into phlegmy laughter that morphed into uncontrollable coughing.

Nasty-sounding wheezes accompanied Petra as she left the maildrop.

At 4 A.M., two days into his surveillance of Kevin Drummond’s building, Eric Stahl left his van and sneaked around to the back of the apartment structure. The night was blue, whipped by transitory, biting gusts from the east. The neon glow to the north- the Hollywood glow- was misted and dim.

Drummond’s block had been quiet for a while. Nearly two hours remained until sunrise.

Stahl had thought for a long time before deciding this was right. He’d been doing nothing but sitting and thinking for nearly fifty hours. He and Connor had spoken by cell phone three times. She’d learned nothing.

During the fifty hours, Stahl had observed plenty of comings and goings, including a dog-beater he would’ve loved disciplining, a shifty-eyed heathen with an eye for a near-new Toyota parked halfway up the block- that one he would’ve called in but the guy thought better of jacking the car and left- and a couple of furtive tête-à-têtes between drug dealers and customers.

The busiest dealer lived in the building north of Drummond’s. Stahl noted his address for a later report to Narcotics. Anonymous tip; that would keep things simple.

Most of Drummond’s neighbors seemed to be law-abiding Hispanic folk.

Quiet. The last vehicle to rumble by was a yellow cab, twelve minutes ago.

Stahl zipped up his black windbreaker, stashed his kit in a button pocket of his black cargo pants, got out of the car, appraised the street, stretched, breathed, jogged the diagonal trajectory to the building on well-padded black running shoes. Old shoes, the squeak pounded out of them on the fifteen-mile runs that had become a thrice-weekly component of his routine.

His new routine…

The space between Drummond’s building and its southern neighbor was a mess of weeds, nice and soft on the feet, and quiet. No lights on in any of the units.

As the city slept…

He continued to the back, scoped out the parking slots. He’d made several passes back there, but just in case. No sign of the white Honda, Drummond’s space was empty.

Stahl hustled over to the building’s rear entrance.

Locked, single dead bolt. An alarm sticker was pasted across the wood, but Stahl knew, from prior research, that it was false advertising. No wires, no open account at the alarm company. He removed his kit, pulled out his high-focus, narrow-beam penlight, inspected his collection of key specimens, eyeballed the slit in the bolt. Two blanks looked promising. The first one fit.

The Army had taught him how to play with locks. And all sorts of other skills.

He’d used these particular skills only once. In Riyadh, the heat and the sand nearly unbearable, the relentless sun bleaching his retinas. Despite all the high-rises and conspicuous consumption, the availability of American food on the base, the city had never been anything to Stahl but a desert hellhole.

The lockpick assignment in Riyadh had been part of a bigger plan: breaking into the penthouse of a Saudi prince who’d seduced the eighteen-year-old daughter of one of the military attachés at the U.S. embassy.

Skinny, plain-looking blond girl, borderline I.Q., subterranean self-esteem. The prince, handsome, rich, soft-spoken, had sweet-talked her into sex-on-demand at his place and fed her dope. Now feathers were being ruffled. Royal family feathers: consorting with a girl of such obvious inferiority could prove harmful to the prince’s image, but no way would the Saudis move on their golden boy. Dirty work was always left to foreigners.

“Think of it this way,” Stahl’s C.O. told him. “She’s getting off easy, being American. She was Saudi, they’d stone her to death.”

Officially, the prince lived with his family in a palace. His fuck pad was a white marble paradise atop one of the highest-rises, the delivery door of which just happened to have been left open and unguarded on a certain night.