Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“Relatively lucid,” I said. “Julie’s murder was too well planned and thought out for a psychotic. Not a shred of forensic evidence was left at the scene. Erna can’t have been counted on to be that meticulous. No, I can’t see that. There’s something else going on here-’E. Murphy’ wrote a review of Vassily Levitch a year ago. The prose was florid but not confused enough to be Erna’s. Her name was expropriated. It’s a kind of identify theft.”

“Smart boyfriend,” he said. “Lynnette was sure Erna was being delusional about that.”

“In terms of a romantic bond, she probably was. But there was a relationship. Erna’s aesthetic interests, the fact that she’d been educated, was periodically articulate, could’ve made her appealing to someone like Kevin Drummond. A tragic figure who’d hit rock bottom, the ultimate outsider. Even her psychosis would have appealed to him. Some fools still think being crazy is glamorous. But whatever bond they had, Kevin was careful to keep her at arm’s length. His landlady never saw her around his apartment, and no one Petra’s talked to has linked the two of them.”

“He idealizes her, then he kills her.”

“She ceased fitting into his worldview, became a threat.”

“Cold,” he said. “That’s one thing that does fit all of it. Coldhearted. Like Baby Boy’s song. I bought one of his CDs, been listening to it, trying to get some insights.”

“Any success?”

“He was one hell of a player, even a tone-deaf philistine like me can hear his soul pouring outta that guitar. But no big insights. Did you know your name’s on the album?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tiny print, on the bottom, where he thanks everyone from Jesus Christ to Robert Johnson. Big list, Robin’s in there. He calls her ‘the beautiful guitar lady,’ thanks her for keeping his instruments happy. Then he tacks you on. Something along the lines of ‘Thanks to Dr. Alex Delaware for keeping the guitar lady happy.’ “

“Been a while since that was true.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I thought you’d get a kick out of it.”

I pulled away from the curb, drove west on Hollywood Boulevard. Construction brought us to a halt. Hard-hatted crews running amok. Graft kings rejuvenating the neighborhood. Maybe one day, the shiny, sterile, franchised Hollywood the civic fathers lusted for would emerge. Right now, glitz coexisted with sleaze in an uneasy balance.

A few miles away, north, in the hills, was the Hollywood sign, where a starlet had ended her life decades ago, and China Maranga’s body had been left to rot. I didn’t suggest driving up there, and neither did Milo. Too long ago to matter.

We crawled to Vine Street. He said, “Erna. Another soul expropriated.”

I said, “A user. That’s what this is all about.”

Encino. Petra digested the details of Milo’s call. The E. Murphy ID meant the redhead’s murder would end up in her basket, too.

She phoned Eric Stahl and filled him in.

“Okay,” he said, in that infuriating, flat voice. Nothing impresses me.

“You going to keep watching Kevin?” she said.

“Probably a waste of time.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t think he’ll be coming by soon,” said Stahl. “Whatever you want.”

“I’m still watching his parents’ house. No action yet, but I want to stick with it. Meantime, I think we should start delving into Erna Murphy’s history. If you really think Kevin’s crib is a zero, feel free to start on that.”

“Sure.”

Silence.

Petra waited him out. He said, “Anywhere you want me to start?”

“The usual data banks- hold on, a woman just drove up to the house, could be Kevin’s mother- doesn’t look like a happy camper- just do the usual, Eric, I’ll talk to you later.”

She remained in her Accord and watched the woman climb out of her baby blue Corvette. The low-slung, covered thing she and Stahl had seen during their first visit to Franklin Drummond’s home.

The red Honda was registered to Anna Martinez- an Hispanic maid who appeared to live in; the other three vehicles were registered to Franklin Drummond. His daily drive was the gray Baby Benz, the ‘Vette was the missus’s toy, no one seemed to bother with the white Explorer. Maybe spare wheels for the two younger sons when they visited from college.

Kevin drove cheap wheels. Not the favored child.

The woman flipped her hair, wiggled her butt, and alarm-locked the Corvette. Middle-aged, tall, skinny, long-legged. Big, thick features. Homely, but in a not-unsexy way. The hair was a bright, orange helmet- same color as Erna Murphy’s, isn’t zat interesting Dr. Freud? She wore a baggy white jersey sweater embroidered with rhinestones that bobbled her big boobs, black leggings with footstraps, backless sandals with hypodermic heels.

Fuck-me shoes. Aging bimbo?

Was Kevin’s mommy doing someone other than Kevin’s daddy?

Petra watched her walk up to the front door, fool in her Gucci purse, remove a ring of keys.

Definitely Kevin’s mom. He hadn’t inherited his lanky frame from fireplug Franklin.

The car, the heels, the rest of it said Mama liked to party. A woman in touch with her sexuality. Toss that into the family mix and Petra could only imagine what Kevin’s childhood had been like.

This afternoon, Mama looked miserable. Tense. Tight neck, croquet wicket mouth. She dropped the key ring, bent, and retrieved it.

Petra got out of her car as the woman’s key aimed at the lock. Made it to the woman’s side before she made contact and twisted.

The woman turned. Petra flashed the badge.

“I have nothing to say to you.” Smoker’s voice. Tobacco mixed with Chanel 19 emanated from the redhead’s clothing.

“You are Mrs. Drummond,” said Petra.

“I’m Terry Drummond.” Fear in the voice.

“Could you spare a moment to talk about Kevin?”

“No way,” said Terry Drummond. “My husband warned me you’d be by. I have no obligation to talk to you.”

Petra smiled. The rhinestones on Terry’s shirt formed the crude outline of two terriers. Kissing. Sweet. “You certainly don’t, Mrs. Drummond. But I’m not here to persecute you.”

Terry Drummond’s key arm tightened. “Call it what you want. I’m going inside.”

“Ma’am, Kevin hasn’t been seen for nearly a week. As a mother, I’d think you’d be concerned.”

Studying the woman for a hint that Kevin had made contact.

Tears welled up in Terry Drummond’s eyes. Soft brown eyes, flecked with gold. Gorgeous eyes, really, despite the too-generous application of shadow and mascara. Petra revised her appraisal. Despite the thick features, Terry was more than attractive; even in her anxiety she exuded oodles of sensuality. As a young woman, she’d probably been dead-on sexy.

What would it be like to have a mother like that?

Petra knew nothing about mothers; hers had died giving birth to her.

She relaxed her posture, gave Terry Drummond time to think. Terry wore big gold jewelry, a three-carat rock on her ring finger. Up close the Gucci bag looked real.

Petra saw her as someone whose body heat and flashy looks had snagged an up-and-coming lawyer. Someone who’d climbed a few notches socially, probably given up whatever entry-level career she’d had, raised three boys, immersed herself in suburban motherhood, only to see her oldest son turn out… different.

Now she was terrified. Kevin hadn’t phoned home.

She said, “It’s got to be worrying, ma’am. No one’s saying Kevin’s guilty of anything, he’s just someone we need to talk to. He could be in danger. Think about it: Has he ever disappeared like this before? Don’t you think it’s important that we find him?”