Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“Gang bangers. They obviously weren’t pros. Left some prime stuff behind- a gorgeous D’Angelico Excel and a forties F-5- thank God I had those in a closet. Other than Baby’s Gibson, they went for the electrics. Couple of seventies Fenders, a Standell bass, a Les Paul gold-top reissue.”

“Going for the flash,” I said. “Kids.”

“That and all the wanton destruction says immaturity, according to the detectives. Like what kids do when they break into schools. The gangs are active south of Rose. Until now we haven’t felt it.”

South of Rose was two blocks away. Another arbitrary L.A. boundary, as genuine as a movie.

Maybe Robin suddenly realized that because she began shivering, clung harder to me, buried her head in the folds of my shirt.

“Tim’s trip up north was an emergency?” I said.

“He didn’t want to go, I insisted. He got a contract to work with the kids in a new Les Miserables production. Two weeks of prep before opening night. With kids you have to be careful not to stress the vocal cords.”

“Thought you’d only be alone for a couple of days.”

“I’m going up there as soon as I take care of this.”

I said nothing.

“Thanks for coming, Alex.”

“Need help straightening up?”

“I don’t even want to go in there.”

“How about a breather, then. Let’s go somewhere for a cup of coffee.”

“I can’t leave,” she said. “The locksmith’s coming.”

“When?”

“He was due an hour ago. Just sit with me. Please.”

She brought out a couple of Cokes, and we sat opposite each other drinking.

“Some cookies?”

“No, thanks.”

“I’m being selfish. I’m sure you’re busy.”

I said, “Where are you going to sleep tonight?”

“Here.”

“You’ll be okay?”

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t know.”

“Why don’t we do this: Once the new locks are in, we’ll tidy up, bring the instruments to my place for safekeeping, then you can fly up to San Francisco tonight.”

She placed her hands in her lap.

“I could do that,” she said.

Then she cried.

When she was ready to face the damage we entered the studio. Robin’s pin-neat organization had been reduced to trash. The two of us swept and straightened, collected shreds of ravished instruments, tuning pegs, bridges, salvaging what we could, discarding the rest.

Uncoiling and discarding kinked guitar strings. Hurting myself a couple of times on the sharp ends of the wires because I was working fast, with a blank mind.

The ordeal left Robin short of breath. She dusted the workbench, hopped up, said, “It’s fine, don’t do any more,” stretched an arm.

I stood there, broom in hand.

“Come here,” she said.

I put the broom down and walked toward her. When I was a foot away, she hooked a hand behind my neck, drew me in, kissed me.

I turned my head and her lips grazed my cheek.

Her laughter was dry. “All those times you were inside me,” she said. “And now it’s wrong.”

“Boundaries,” I said. “Without them, there’s not much to civilization.”

“Feeling civilized, are you?”

“Not particularly,” I said.

She grabbed me and kissed me harder. This time, I let her tongue work its way into my mouth. My cock felt like an iron bolt. My emotions lagged well behind.

She knew it. Touched my cheek with the flat of her hand, and for a moment I thought she’d slap me. Instead she just drew away.

“At the core,” she said, “you were always a good boy.”

“Why doesn’t that feel like a compliment?”

“Because I’m scared and alone and have no use for boundaries.”

She kept her arms at her side. Her eyes were a strange mix of cool and wounded.

“Tim says he loves me,” she said. “If he only knew- Alex, I’m behaving badly. Please believe me: When I called you all I really wanted was comfort. And to tell you about Baby’s guitars. God, I think that’s what bothers me the most about the break-in. I really wanted you to have them. I wanted to do something for you.” She laughed. “And the funny thing is, I don’t really know why.”

“What we had,” I said, “isn’t just going to vanish.”

“Do you ever think of me?”

“Of course.”

“Does she know?”

“Allison’s smart.”

“I try hard not to think of you,” she said. “Mostly, I succeed. I’m happy more often than you might think. But sometimes you stick to me. Like a burr. Mostly, I deal with it very well. Tim’s good to me.”

She gazed around the ravished studio. “Pride, the fall. I really didn’t wake up yesterday thinking, ‘Hey, girl, how about a little despair.’ “ She laughed, this time with some fervor. Touched my cheek gently. “You’re still my friend.”

“I am.”

“Will you tell her? About coming here?”

“I don’t know.”

“You probably shouldn’t,” she said. “Ignorance being bliss and all that. Not that you did anything wrong. Au contraire. So there’s nothing to tell. That’s my advice. As a girl.”

Gang bangers. As good a theory as any. I wanted her up in San Francisco, anyway.

My erection hadn’t flagged. Positioning myself so she wouldn’t see, I moved toward the closet where she stored the most expensive instruments. “Let’s get everything out to your truck.”

“A guitar string,” I said.

Milo and Petra and Eric Stahl stared at me.

The second group meeting. No Indian food, a small conference room at the West L.A. Division. Seven P.M. and the phones were ringing.

Cleaning up Robin’s studio- handling the strings- had given me the idea. When I’d told Milo about the break-in, he said, “Shit. I’ll check with Pacific, make sure they’re taking it seriously.”

I went on: “The size, the corrugations. Check a low E or A string against the marks on Juliet Kipper’s and Vassily Levitch’s necks. It also fits with the idea of our boy as a would-be artiste.”

“He plays them,” said Petra.

Milo grumbled, opened the case files, found the photos, passed them around. Stahl inspected the pictures without comment. Petra said, “Hard to tell from these. I’ll go out and buy some strings, bring them over to the coroner. Any particular brand?”

I shook my head.

“Artiste,” said Milo. “Wonder if Kevin has guitar strings in his pad.”

Stahl’s eyes drifted briefly to the floor.

Petra said, “I spoke to Kevin’s mom. Very uptight but no revelations. Kevin’s gentle, et cetera. Her anxiety level could mean she has no idea where her boy is. Or that she does. One thing did catch my eye: she’s a flaming redhead.”

“Like Erna Murphy,” said Milo. “Interesting. What do you think about that, Alex? The old Oedipal connection?”

“What’s the mother like?” I said.

“Curvy, voluptuous, flashy dresser,” said Petra. “More flash than class. Probably a looker in her youth. Not too shabby now.”

“Seductive?”

“I’m sure she could be. I didn’t pick up any weird vibes vis à vis Kevin, but it was only a three-minute conversation. The lady definitely did not want to talk to me.”

I said, “It’s possible Erna’s red hair evoked something in Kevin.”

“Guitar string,” said Milo. “What’s next, he stabs them with a fiddle bow? Kevin’s got a history of false starts. Wonder if he tried to be a guitar hero, too.”

Petra said, “Let’s get in his apartment- smell a gas leak and get the landlady to check. Meanwhile, we’re there to ensure her safety.”

Stahl said, “I’ll do it.”