Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

The fact that he knew the sublanguage made it a little easier.

How he felt about the military was another thing.

He’d started with Erna’s mother, first, because Colette was a less common name. One hundred eighteen SSI records with forty-three fitting the approximate age range. He began with the Western states, came up empty. Wondering all the while if this chasing down Erna was fruitless, even if he found her family.

Even so; he’d do what he was told.

He worked his way east, found a Colette Murphy in Saint Louis whose evasive tone and repeated denials made him wonder. From her accent Stahl guessed a black woman. He didn’t ask. You didn’t do that anymore.

The Army had taught him racial sensitivity. As in treat the Saudis like gods and smile as they shit on you.

He traced Saint Louis Colette with her local police, found out she had a record for petty larceny- which explained the caginess- and that she’d never been married to any Donald.

At 8:30 P.M. he reached a Colette Murphy in Brooklyn.

Eleven-thirty, her time. She said, “You woke me up.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” Not expecting much, Stahl gave her the line- tracing Donald on a routine investigation, no mention of Erna’s name.

She said, “Christ, at this hour? That’s not me, it’s my sister-in-law. My husband’s brother married her, and they had a crazy kid. I’m Colette, and Donald finds himself a Colette, too. Weird, right? Not that it’s any great shakes being in this family. They’re both bums. My Ed and his brother.”

“Donald?”

“Who else.”

“Where’s your sister-in-law?”

“Six feet under,” said Brooklyn Colette.

“Where’s Donald?”

“Who knows, who cares?”

“Not a nice guy.”

“A bum,” she said. “Like Ed.”

“Could I talk to Ed?”

“You could if you were six feet under.”

“Sorry,” said Stahl.

“Don’t be. We weren’t close.”

“You and your husband?”

“Me and any of them. When Ed was alive, he beat the hell out of me. I finally got some peace. Until you woke me up.”

“Any idea where I can find Donald?”

“Thanks for the apology,” she said.

“Sorry for waking you, ma’am.”

“I think he was out in California. What’d he do?”

“It’s about his daughter Erna.”

“The crazy one,” said Brooklyn Colette. “What’d she do?”

“Got murdered,” said Stahl.

“Oh. Too bad. Well, good luck finding him. Check bum places. He drank like a fish. Same as Ed. Navy never cared. Made him a sergeant, or whatever they call them in the Navy- petty something. No big war hero, he shuffled papers. Made himself out like he was a hero. Liked to wear that uniform of his, go to bars, try to pick up women.”

“Military types do that.”

“You’re telling me?” said Brooklyn Colette. “I was married to one for thirty-four years. Ed was Coast Guard. Then he joined the Port Authority, sat at a desk, and made like he was an admiral.” She cackled. “Finally, his ship came in, and I’m on high ground. I’m going back to sleep-”

“One more thing, ma’am,” said Stahl. “Please.”

“It’s late,” she snapped. “What?”

“Do you recall what Navy bases your brother-in-law was stationed at?”

“Somewhere in California. San Diego, or something. I remember we visited them one summer. Sat around doing nothing, some hosts. After that they got to go to Hawaii, Navy sent ’ em to Hawaii, can you believe that? Like a paid vacation.”

“How long were they in Hawaii?”

“A year or so, then Donald retired, got the pension, they moved back to California.”

“San Diego?”

“Nah, somewhere near L.A., I think. We lost contact. Me, I’da stayed in Hawaii.”

“Why didn’t they?”

“How would I know? They were stupid. Talking about that side of the family is bringing back bad memories. Good-bye-”

“Any idea where near L.A.?” said Stahl.

“Didn’t you just hear me, mister? Where do you get off, asking all these questions, this hour of the night. Like you got a right. You sound military- you did military time, am I right?”

“I served, ma’am.”

“Well goody for you, oh-say-can-you-see-by-the-dawn- enough of you, soon I’m gonna see the dawn.”

San Diego to Hawaii made it easy. Back to the SSI list. Donald Arthur Murphy, sixty-nine years old.

Somewhere near L.A. Despite her problems, Erna hadn’t strayed far from home.

It was too late to access Navy or county property files, so Stahl drove to his one-room flat on Franklin, removed his clothes, folded them neatly, got on his bed, lay atop his blanket, masturbated briefly while thinking of nothing, showered, and scrubbed himself raw. Then he placed prewashed, precut salad greens on a paper plate, added a can of tuna because he needed protein, ate quickly without tasting, went to sleep.

The next morning, he used his home phone.

Donald Arthur Murphy owned no real estate in L.A. County. Same for Orange, Riverside, San Bernadino, all districts south, to the Mexican border. Stahl worked his way through the northern counties up to Oregon. Still no hits.

A renter.

He phoned the Navy office in Port Hueneme, finally obtained the address where Murphy’s pension check was sent each month.

Sun Garden Convalescent Home. Palms Avenue, in Mar Vista.

A half hour car ride. Connor hadn’t called him in a while, but he wanted to keep things orderly, so he phoned her at the station. Knowing she wouldn’t be in. He left a message- document everything. Tried her home number, got no answer.

Was she sleeping in and letting the phone ring? Or out, already, working the streets? Maybe neither and she was recreating- out on a date, she was cute enough. A girl with a social life.

Intellectually, he understood the need for pleasure.

Viscerally, it left him cold.

Petra got up early to work the streets. Last night’s shift had been spent with the after-dark crowd: clubbies, bouncers, parking valets, boulevard evangelists, dope-zombies, curb trawlers, assorted other miscreants. Crazies, too. Hollywood at night was an open-air asylum.

She stared into dead eyes, sniffed rancid auras, felt revulsion and pity and futility. These were Erna Murphy’s compatriots, but no one coherent enough to talk admitted knowing the big redhead.

Today would be more mundane: covering merchants she’d missed the first time around. Hopefully some good citizen would recall Erna.

It was a miscreant who came through. A pallid, twenty-two-year-old meth shooter and petty pill dealer named Strobe, with matted, oatmeal-colored hair that hung past his shoulder blades. Real name: Duncan Bradley Beemish. A country kid- a hick- from somewhere down South, Petra couldn’t remember where. He’d run away years ago, come to Hollywood, rotted like so many of them.

Petra had worked him as a small-time informant. Very small-time and only once. She’d run into Beemish while working a bar shooting and the speedfreak had provided ambiguous info that led Petra to someone who knew someone who might’ve heard something about something that might’ve gone down but hadn’t.

That fiasco had cost her seventy bucks, and she’d had enough of Strobe. But he found her as she talked to the owner of a joint on Western that advertised “Mediterranean Cuisine.” On Western, that meant kabobs and felafel and charcoal fumes that leaked to the sidewalk.

The proprietor was a Middle-Easterner with a big gold frontal incisor and a too-friendly attitude- the unctuous type that could turn quickly. The food stand had a B rating from the health department, which meant rodent droppings had topped the acceptable level. Gold Tooth denied ever seeing Erna Murphy and offered Petra a free sample. As she begged off and turned to leave, a reedy voice said, “I’ll take the sanwich, ‘Tective Connor.”