Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

Milo said, “About the break-in. Robin’s name appeared on the liner notes to Baby Boy’s CD, and Baby Boy’s guitars were taken.”

Putting into words what had gnawed at me.

“Your name was on there, too, Alex.”

“It was a long list,” I said. “And even if there is a connection, I have nothing to worry about. Not an artist. You going to call Robin?”

“I don’t want to freak her out, but I do want her to be careful. It’s good she’s in San Francisco… yeah, I’ll call her. Where’s she staying?”

“Don’t know. Her boyfriend’s working with some kids on a Les Miz production, should be easy enough to find out.”

His lips twisted, and he played with the cover of the pad.

Her boyfriend.

The wall clock said seven-ten. If Allison’s flight was on time, she’d be landing in twenty minutes.

Milo said, “Anything new on Erna Murphy.”

Stahl said, “No criminal history, no state hospitalizations.”

“We haven’t been able to track down any family to inform,” said Petra.

“Most of the state mental hospitals closed down years ago,” I said. “She could’ve been committed and we wouldn’t know it.”

Stahl said, “I’m open to suggestions, Doctor.”

Milo said, “Even if she was hospitalized at Camarillo or someplace like that, it tells us nothing. We already know she’s mentally ill. We need something more recent, some connection to Drummond. She has no record at all?”

Stahl shook his head. “Not even a traffic violation. She never got a driver’s license.”

“That probably means she’s been impaired for a while,” I said.

“Impaired but bright and educated?” said Milo.

“Driving can be frightening for disturbed people.”

“Driving scares me, sometimes,” said Petra.

“What paper does she have?” said Milo.

Stahl said, “A Social Security number, and state welfare says she got on their rolls about eight years ago but didn’t put in for benefits. The only employment record I can find is eight years before that. She worked at a McDonald’s from June through August.”

“Sixteen years ago,” said Milo, “she was seventeen. High school summer job. Where?”

“San Diego. She went to Mission High, there. The school lists her parents as Donald and Colette Murphy but says they have no other records. S.D. County assessor has Donald and Colette living in the same house for twenty-one years, then selling it ten years ago. No indication where they moved. No record of their buying another house. I took a trip down there. The neighborhood’s working-class, civilian military employees, retired noncoms. No one remembers the Murphys.”

“Maybe when Daddy retired, they moved out of state,” said Milo. “It would be nice to find them for their sake.” A half-second grimace tightened his face; imagining another bad-news call. “But the picture I’m getting is Erna was long gone from hearth and home, so it’s unlikely they can tell us anything relevant.” He looked to me for confirmation.

“The lack of social connections,” I said, “would make Erna the perfect acquaintance for our boy. Someone he could talk to without fear of her confiding his secrets to another friend. Someone he could dominate, whose identity he could borrow.”

“The lack of connections,” said Petra, “made her an easy victim.” She brushed nonexistent lint from the lapel of her black pantsuit. To Milo: “What, now?”

“Maybe another visit to Kevin’s parents?” said Milo. “Shake the family tree a bit and see what falls out?”

“Not right now,” she said. “Dad’s overtly hostile, very clear he wants nothing to do with us. It’s possible Mrs. D. could be made more pliable, but he’s calling the shots. And his being an attorney makes it riskier than usual. One wrong move, he makes lawyer noise, there goes the evidentiary chain. If we had infinite manpower, I’d stick a surveillance on the house. What I figured I’d do in the real world is work the streets some more. Keep looking for anyone who remembers Erna or Kevin.” She glanced at Stahl. “No harm trying to trace her parents.”

He said, “Donald and Colette. I’ll go national.”

“A guitar string,” said Milo. “So far, we’re playing out of tune.”

“So far,” said Petra, “we don’t even know what the song is.”

Allison arrived by taxi, an hour and a half late, freshly made-up but looking exhausted. I had a couple of steaks on the grill, spaghetti with olive oil and garlic in the sauté pan, was mixing a butter lettuce salad.

“I was wrong,” she said. “Food at hand seems like a great idea.”

“No peanuts on the plane?”

“We were lucky to land . Some guy got drunk and rowdy. For a while it looked as if it was going to be ugly. A bunch of us subdued him, and finally he fell asleep.”

“A bunch of us?” I said.

“I got hold of one ankle.”

“Sheena, Queen of the Jungle.”

She flexed a biceps. “It was terrifying.”

“Brave girl,” I said, holding her.

“When it happens, you don’t even think,” she said. “You just act… I need to sit down. Is wine on the menu?”

We took a long time eating, chatting, slipping into the fuzz of light intoxication. Later, undressed, in bed, we held each other without making love and fell asleep like roommates. I awoke at 4 A.M., found Allison’s side of the bed empty, and went to look for her.

She was in the kitchen, sitting in dim light, wearing one of my T-shirts and drinking instant decaf. Hair tied up carelessly, face scrubbed of makeup, bare legs smooth and white against the dark oak floor.

“Biorhythm must be off,” she said.

“From Colorado?”

She shrugged. I sat down.

“Hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but I was wandering around, trying to tire myself out. What are all those guitar cases in the spare bedroom about?”

I told her.

She said, “Poor Robin, what a trauma. Nice of you.”

I said, “It seemed the right thing to do.”

A clump of black hair came loose, and she slipped it behind her ear. Her eyes were bloodshot. Without makeup she looked a bit faded, but younger.

I leaned over and kissed her lips. Sour breath, both of us.

“So she’s back in San Francisco?”

“Yup.”

“Helping her was the right thing to do,” she said. “Now do something for me.”

She got up, crossed her arms, raised the T-shirt from her slim, white body.

I was up by seven, wakened by her light snoring. I watched her chest rise and fall, studied her pale, lovely face scrunched between two pillows. Mouth agape in what could have been a comical expression. Long-fingered hands gripped the covers.

Tight grip. Frantic movement behind her eyelids. Dreams. From the tension in her body, maybe not good ones.

I closed my eyes. She stopped snoring. Started again. When she opened her eyes and saw me, the blue irises were clogged with confusion.

I smiled.

She said, “Oh,” sat up, stared at me, as if encountering a stranger.

Then: “Good morning, baby.” She knuckled her eyes. “Was I snoring?”

“Not a bit.”

She had a morning full of patients and left at eight. I tidied up, thought about Robin in San Francisco, Baby Boy Lee’s instruments gone and what that meant, if anything.

Three blocks south, the gangs were active…

But Baby’s Gibson had been the only acoustic instrument taken.

The phone rang. Milo said, “The ligature marks on Julie and Levitch are a perfect match to a light-gauge low E guitar string. Now what does that mean?”

“It means nothing about these killings is accidental,” I said. “And that worries me. Talk to the Pacific detectives about Robin’s break-in?”