Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“What kind of car?”

“Just a car,” he said. “Nothing fancy- no Beemer or Porsche.”

“Color?”

“Light.”

“Big or small?”

“Small, I guess.”

Kevin Drummond drove a white Honda. Milo’s call about the car turning up near the airport firmed Kevin up further as their guy. The plan was to wait until the vehicle was processed, then she’d be bracing Kevin’s parents, again.

Strobe’s story kicked things up several notches. Time and place, a perfect fit.

Kevin decides Erna’s expendable, picks her up, drives her a few blocks away, plies her with booze, does the deed, ditches the car in Inglewood, makes the short hike to LAX and is heavenward.

Milo had called her early this morning, before she left. No sightings of Kevin at the airport, yet.

“The car,” she said. “Give me a brand, Duncan.”

“I dunno, ‘Tective Connor.”

“Nissan, Toyota, Honda, Chevy, Ford?”

“I dunno,” Strobe insisted. “That’s the truth, I don’t wanna give you some bullshit and then you find out different and you think I’m lyin’ and you come back for me- could you please take these off , I can’t stand being tied up.”

Something in the kid’s tone- a genuine plaintiveness that spoke of past indignities- tugged at her heart. Runaways came to Hollywood for a reason. For a horrible moment, Petra visualized a younger, rosy-cheeked Duncan Beemish tied up at home by some pervert.

As if sensing her unease, Strobe broke down and cried even louder.

Petra cut him off mentally. “Not a van? Definitely a car?”

“A car.”

“Not an SUV?”

“A car.”

“Color?”

“Light.”

“White, gray?”

“I dunno, I ain’t lying to you-”

“Why’d you assume she was hooking, Duncan?”

“Because she was on the street and the car pulled up and she got in.”

“How many people in the car?”

“Dunno.”

“What did the driver look like?”

“Didn’t see him.”

“How far were you from the car?”

“Um um um, maybe half a block.”

“This happened right on the boulevard?”

“No, a side street.”

“Which one?”

“Um… Ridgeway, yeah I think it was Ridgeway, yeah yeah Ridgeway. It’s real dark there, go there and check, all these broken streetlights.”

Ridgeway was a block from where the surgeon had been busted. The city had probably fixed the lights, only to have them vandalized by the freelance pharmacists.

Petra said, “Before she got in the car, did she talk to the driver?”

“No, she just got in.”

“No negotiating? No scoping out for a U.C. cop? That doesn’t sound like a hooker, Duncan.”

Strobe’s eyes widened. Speedfreak insight. “Yeah, you’re right!” He squirmed some more. “Can you take these off? Please?”

She pumped him a while longer, got nothing, left the car, returned to Mr. Gold Tooth and ordered a jumbo kabob combo with double hot peppers and an XL cola. Once again, he tried to freebie her, once again she insisted on paying in full, and Tooth’s dark eyes clouded.

Some ethnic insult, no doubt. “I give you extra bebbers.”

Returning to the Honda, she placed the food on the trunk, pulled Strobe out, uncuffed him, had him sit on the curb, a few feet away. He complied readily and she brought him the food and another twenty-dollar bill.

A few feet away, Gold Tooth glared.

Strobe’s claws were on the sandwich before Petra took a breath. Snarfing audibly. Making animal sounds.

With a mouth full of meat and bread and tahina dripping down his chin, he said, “Thanks, ‘Tective.”

“ Bon appétit, Duncan.”

Milo followed the blonde. He’d been watching her building for an hour, tailed her as she and a group of coworkers left and walked a block west to the Century City Mall. Her companions were three other women, all dressed like the blonde in somber-colored suits. All were older than the blonde, who appeared to be twenty-five or -six.

Everett Kipper’s young squeeze, Stephanie.

She was shapely, of medium height, a good deal of it legs. She made no attempt to capitalize on that, her skirt was knee length. But she couldn’t prevent the way she moved naturally.

The blond hair was long and straight, platinum with an overlay of gold. From the back, she looked like every straight guy’s dream.

Milo appreciated her figure the way he enjoyed a good painting.

He followed the four women to the Food Court, where the coworkers veered into the warren of fast-food booths after one of them said, “You’re sure, Steph?”

Stephanie nodded.

Her friend said, “See you later.”

She continued walking, past the Brentano’s bookstore and the multiplex theaters, stopping to window-shop at Bloomingdale’s and several boutiques, then continuing until she reached a plaza at the south end of the mall. Benches and food vendors were scattered around a big square of sun-brightened stone.

Gorgeous day. Perfect for a meeting with someone you loved.

The complex was jammed with shoppers and tourists and white-collar types from the neighboring office buildings taking lunch. Milo bought a jumbo iced tea, melted into the throng, and strolled leisurely while keeping his eye on that pretty blond head.

When Stephanie stopped in the center of the plaza and didn’t move for a moment, he kept himself behind a corner, then ventured out on foot and stood with his back to her sipping tea through a straw. Positioned so he could watch her reflection in a shop window.

She tossed her hair, smoothed it over her ears. Removed her sunglasses, put them back on.

Waiting for the boyfriend? Milo was curious why Kipper had been looking so angry.

He kept his eye on the walkway. Kipper’s likely approach.

Stephanie bought a hot pretzel with mustard and a cup of something from a pushcart vendor, took a bench, and began eating.

Munching away, tossing crumbs to the pigeons.

Crossing those long legs.

Finishing most of the pretzel and the drink, she got up and bought an ice-cream cone from another cart and sat back down in the same spot.

Not a single glance at her watch.

Fifteen minutes passed, and she didn’t look the least bit impatient.

Another five. She yawned, stretched, looked up at the sun.

She removed her shades again. Took midday heat on her face.

Eyes closed. Mellowing out.

Not waiting for anyone.

Milo crossed the plaza, made a long, wide, circle, and approached her from the back. She wouldn’t see him until he was ready.

His badge was in hand, concealed by his fingers. She was sure to be startled by the sight of a big man bearing down on her, and he hoped the shield would focus her, avoid a scene.

She didn’t hear him coming, didn’t look up and open her eyes until he’d walked around to the front of her bench, was nearly on top of her.

Dark eyes, surprised. He looked past that, focused on the bruise that swelled her left cheekbone. She’d done well with her makeup, had almost concealed the purpling, but a bit peeked through- a rosy splotch deepening her smooth, tan complexion. The entire left side of her face was enlarged. Cosmetics couldn’t handle edema.

The badge scared her, and he pocketed it. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. Especially today.”

“I don’t understand,” she said in a small voice. “Today?”

He sat down beside her, recited his title, emphasizing all the buzzwords. Lieutenant. Police. Homicide.

That did nothing to squelch Stephanie’s fear level, but it did focus her anxiety.

“This is about Julie, right?” she said. Trembling lips. “You can’t be serious.”