Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

His wife shot him a disgusted look, then turned to Petra. “If you were really interested in doing your job, young woman, you’d stop regarding my son as a criminal and look for him as if he were just a regular person.”

“Meaning?” said Petra.

“Meaning- I don’t know what I mean. That’s your job- your world.”

“Ma’am-”

Terry wrung her hands. “We’re normal people, we don’t know how to behave in this situation!”

“Answering our questions would be a good start,” said Petra.

“What questions?” Terry shouted. Red-nailed fingers clawed the air. Trying to rip through an invisible barrier. “I haven’t heard any intelligent questions! What? What? ”

Milo and Petra let her calm down, then went through their routine. Twenty minutes later, they’d learned little more than the approximate date of Kevin’s last call to his parents.

Nearly a month ago.

Frank’s admission. Terry blanched as he said it.

A month between calls spoke volumes about the parent-child relationship.

“Kevin needed space,” she said. “He was always my creative one.”

Frank started to say something, stopped himself, began picking lint from the sofa.

Terry muttered, “Stop that, you’ll ruin it.”

Frank complied, closed his eyes, rested his neck on a throw pillow.

Terry said, “Kevin’s twenty-four. He has a life of his own.”

I said, “When’s the last time you sent him money?”

The subject of cash rejuvenated Frank; his dark eyes snapped open. “Not for a long time. He wouldn’t take any more.”

“Kevin refused money?”

“Eventually,” he said.

“Eventually,” I repeated.

Terry said, “He was always independent. Never wanted to rely on us.”

“But you did finance GrooveRat ,” I said.

Mention of the magazine made both of them wince.

Frank said, “I bankrolled it in the beginning.”

“And after that?”

“Nothing,” he told me. “You’re wrong about our being involved in everything he did.”

“His life we were involved in,” countered his wife. “He’s our son, we’ll always be part of his life, but…” She trailed off.

I said, “Kevin needed to establish his own identity, and you respected that.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Kevin’s always had his own identity.”

Frank blinked, and I addressed him: “So you sent him money to start up the magazine, then stopped.”

“I sent him money for whatever he needed,” said Frank. “It wasn’t specifically for the magazine.”

“What did you think of the magazine?”

He shrugged. “Not my thing.”

Terry said, “I thought it was cute. Very well written.”

I said, “And after the first few months…?”

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “He stopped calling-”

“Don’t say it like that,” said Terry. “It wasn’t like we had a fight. You and he-” To us: “My husband’s a dominant man. The other boys can deal with it. Kevin needed to find his own way.”

“Great,” said Frank, “it’s my fault.”

“It’s no one’s fault , Frank, we’re not talking about fault , no one’s done anything that’s a fault . We’re trying to give them a clear picture of Kevin so they can see him as a person , not some… some suspect .”

Frank folded thick arms across his chest.

Terry said, “This is not about you, Frank.”

“Thank God.”

She moved a few inches farther from him. Took hold of an accent pillow and held it on her lap like a pet.

He glanced toward the kitchen. Rolled his jaw. “You know something? I’ve had it with this. I’ve been in court all day, figure I deserve a goddamn home-cooked dinner. You people interrupted our dinner.”

But Terry didn’t back him up, and he didn’t budge.

I asked her, “How did Kevin support himself after he stopped asking for money?”

“He never asked,” said Terry. “Not even in the beginning. We offered , and Kevin agreed to take it.”

“Did us a big favor,” said Frank.

Terry said, “Kevin’s not materialistic. When he graduated we offered to buy him a nice car. He went and got an old clunker.” Her face clouded. Thinking of the Honda by the airport.

I thought: Wanting an unobtrusive crime car? Then: If so, why not choose a dark vehicle?

I said, “At some point Kevin actively refused money.”

Terry said, “Yes.”

Frank said, “There are different ways to ask.” He unfolded his arms, cracked his knuckles. “I’ve been financing his hobbies for years.”

“Which is what a father does , Frank.”

“That’s me,” said Drummond. “A father.”

Terry glared at him. Her fists were small and white. “Now you people have seen us at our worst. I do hope you’re happy.”

The shame in her voice made her husband flinch. He scooted closer to her. Placed a hand on her knee. She didn’t budge.

Milo looked at Petra, then me. She gave a small nod. I didn’t object.

He reached into his briefcase, produced a death shot of Erna Murphy and flashed it at the Drummonds.

“Oh my God,” said Terry.

“Who the hell is that?” said Frank. Then: “So much for dinner.”

Milo and Petra kept them there as the spaghetti smell faded. Asking the same questions several times. Rephrasing, alternating between sympathy and aloofness. Probing for details, pressing for a Murphy-Drummond link.

The Drummonds denied it- denied everything. No anxiety. I believed them. Believed they knew little about their son.

At some point, a certain looseness entered the conversation. Low voices all around.

Discouragement all around. We’d learned nothing vital, and they had a missing son.

Terry said, “That poor woman. You say she was homeless?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Milo.

“Why in the world would Kevin know anyone like that?”

“He lived in Hollywood, ma’am,” said Petra. “You run into all kinds of people in Hollywood.”

All kinds of people made Frank Drummond grimace. Thinking about Kevin’s sexual orientation?

He said, “I never liked him living there.”

Terry said, “He needed something new , Frank.” To us: “Kevin wouldn’t- I mean he might be kind to someone like that, give them money, but that’s it. He’s never been interested in mental illness or anything like that.”

“Just the arts,” I said.

“Yes, sir. Kevin loves the arts. He got that from me, I used to dance.”

“Really?” said Petra. “Ballet?”

“I took ballet,” said Terry, “but I specialized in modern. Rock ’n’ roll, disco, jazzercize. I used to be on TV.” She touched her hair. “ Hullabaloo , Hit List , all the dance shows. Back in ancient times. I worked a lot back then.”

Frank’s eyes glazed over.

Her talking about her career made me think of something. I said, “Have you ever heard of Baby Boy Lee?”

She bit her lip. “He’s a musician, right?”

“Ever meet him?”

“Let’s see,” she said. “No, I don’t think he was on any of the dance shows. I did meet The Dave Clark Five and the Byrds, Little Richard-”

Frank’s loud exhalation cut her off.

“Why did you ask about that?” she said.

My turn to get an okay. Milo and Petra both nodded.

“Baby Boy Lee was murdered,” I said. “Kevin ran a profile on him in GrooveRat , and he called the police to ask for forensic details.”

“ That’s what this is about?” said Frank. His laugh was coarse. “My God. What utter and complete horseshit.” Another laugh. “A phone call? I don’t believe you people!”