Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“They see it as a routine burglary.”

“Are they good?”

“Average,” he said. “But no reason to think they’re wrong. Robin’s neighborhood, there’s plenty of that.”

I thought of Robin living with me, up in the Glen. Higher-priced neighborhood. Safer. Except when it wasn’t. A few years ago, a murderous psychopath had burned down the house.

Our house…

Milo said, “I asked them for a uniform drive-by for the next few weeks.”

“The usual two passes a day?”

“Yeah, I know, but it’s better than nothing. I also gave them Kevin Drummond’s vehicle and plates, told them to keep a special lookout. Meanwhile, Robin’s in San Francisco, so don’t worry. Stahl and the landlady got into Drummond’s apartment last night. He collects toys and magazines, has a slew of computer and printing equipment. No guitars, no strings, no creepy trophies, nothing incriminating. And not a single copy of GrooveRat . That’s what I find interesting.”

“Covering his tracks,” I said. “Or he’s got another storage space.”

“Stahl’s calling U-rent places.”

“Wonder if it was Stahl’s second entry.”

“What do you mean?”

“Normally he’s got the demeanor of a statue. Yesterday, when you talked about going in, his eyes got jumpy, and he looked at the floor.”

“Did he… he’s a strange one, that’s for sure… the magazines included gay porn. Rough stuff. Stahl said Kevin’s been living spartan, just a few bits of clothing, no personal effects of any consequence. That could be because he split for the long run or there is another stash spot.”

“It could also mean psychological deterioration,” I said. “Drawing inward. Spitting on his parents’ values.”

“Petra decided she will give the parents another try- specifically the father. I’m heading over to Ev Kipper’s office building, see if I can learn more about his girlfriend. Because one of his neighbors called me. Claims Ol’ Ev’s been looking especially angry. Pounding away late at night, past the curfew. They’re afraid to call the cops. Also the girlfriend’s been looking rather down the last coupla days, eating alone. I can’t see any easy link to the cases, but I don’t have a lead in any other direction. The more I think about Erna Murphy, the more I want to know about her, but all Petra’s found, so far, are a few merchants who vaguely remember Erna on the street. No buddies or boyfriends, she was always by herself.”

“What about the doctor the Dove House folks called in when she bled on the sheets? Could be Erna opened up to her.”

“The Dove House folks said the doctor just met Erna once.”

“The Dove House folks admitted they don’t stay in touch with the women once they leave the shelter. And Erna was out of there more than she was in. If she got sick again, maybe she returned to the person who’d cared for her.”

“Well,” he said, “nothing else looks promising, might as well check it out- you mind doing it? I’m on my way to Century City.”

“Sure,” I said. “What’s the doctor’s name?”

“Let me check my notes… here it is… Hannah Gold.”

“I’ll call her now.”

I phoned Dr. Gold, got a male receptionist, used my title.

He said, “She’s with a patient, Doctor.”

“It’s about a patient. Ernadine Murphy.”

“Is this an emergency?”

“It’s important.”

“Hold on, please.”

Moments later: “Dr. Gold wants to know what it’s about?”

“Ernadine Murphy was murdered.”

“Oh. Hold on, please.”

Longer wait, this time. The same man came on the line. “Dr. Gold will be free at noon. You can come by then.”

The office was a sand-colored bungalow next to a Fiat mechanic. A black plastic sign to the right of the door said:

Vrinda Srinivasan, M.D.

Hannah R. Gold, M. PH., M.D.

Angela B. Borelli, M.D.

Internal Medicine, Obstetrics-Gynecology,

Women’s Health Issues

I arrived at noon, but Dr. Gold wasn’t free. Three patients sat in the waiting room- two elderly women and a starving girl around fifteen. All of them looked up as I entered. The kid kept staring until my smile made her frown in disgust and she returned to picking her cuticles.

Small, overheated waiting room, furnished with clean but faded castoffs. Framed photos of Machu Picchu and Nepal and Angkor Wat hung on the walls. Enya sang sweetly on tape.

A handwritten sign taped to the reception counter said:

We take Medi-Cal from you-

and sometimes we even get paid by the State.

Cash won’t be refused- pay what you can, or don’t

worry about it.

No glass blocking the reception area, just a cramped space occupied by a young man in his early twenties with neatly cut, prematurely gray hair. He pored over Principles of Accounting as if it were a thriller. A name tag on his plaid, short-sleeved shirt read ELI.

When I stepped up, he put the book down reluctantly.

“I’m Dr. Delaware.”

“She’s running late.” He lowered his voice: “She’s very upset by what I told her. You might not be able to tell, but she is. She’s my sister.”

Twenty-five minutes later, all three patients were gone, and Eli announced he was going to lunch.

“She’ll be right out,” he said, tucking the textbook under his arm and leaving the bungalow.

Five minutes after that, a woman in a buttoned white coat stepped into the waiting room, holding a medical chart. Young face, foxlike, the kind of bronze skin that glows naturally. Not much older than thirty but her thick, brushy, shoulder-length hair was snow-white. Genetics; Eli would get there soon. She had pale, green eyes that could’ve used some rest.

“I’m Dr. Gold.” She held out a hand, gripped my fingers defensively, the way delicately boned women learn to do so as not to be crushed. Her skin was dry and cold.

“Thanks for meeting with me.”

The sea-colored eyes were down-slanted, wide, and curious. Broad mouth, strong, square chin. An exceedingly handsome woman.

She locked the waiting room door, sat down on a worn, olive green, herringbone chair that matched nothing else in the room, crossed her legs. Beneath the white coat, she wore black jeans and gray boots. Enya’s voice mourned in Gaelic.

“What happened to Erna?” she said.

I gave her the basics.

“Oh, my. And you’re here because…?”

“I consult to the police. They asked me to talk to you.”

“Meaning the murder has psychological overtones as opposed to a dumb street crime.”

“Hard to say, at this point,” I said. “How well did you know her?”

“You don’t really know someone like Erna. I saw her a few times.”

“Here or at Dove House?”

“Once there, twice here.”

“She returned after your emergency call to the shelter.”

“I gave her my card,” she said. “I was shocked to find out she’d actually kept it.” She flipped the chart open. Inside was a single page. Upside down, I made out small, neat handwriting. “Both times were drop-ins. The first was a little over two weeks after I saw her at Dove House. Her anal fissures had started bleeding again, and she was complaining of pain. It didn’t surprise me. All I’d done the first time was a superficial exam. Someone like that, you can only imagine what’s going on internally. I urged her to get scoped, offered to arrange it for free at County. She refused, so I gave her salve and analgesics and the basic lecture on hygiene- not laid on too thickly. You have to know your audience.”