Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“We’re a ways off from that, yet.”

“Even with the hair?”

“I phoned an ADA. They want more. Significantly more.”

“Shull being a rich kid make a difference?”

He smiled. “ADA would shudder at the thought.”

“This might help.” I pointed to the “Cold Heart” reference on my screen.

He said, “Oh, my.”

“Is Shull warrantable, now?”

“Probably not. Literary pretension doesn’t qualify as probable cause.”

“What about this, then: There were six conventions in Boston the week of Angelique Bernet’s murder. You mentioned one had something to do with the media. That sounds like something Shull might be interested in.”

He whipped out his notepad, flipped pages. “The media and public policy. Harvard.”

“Who ran it?”

“This is all I’ve got,” he said.

“Want me to look into it?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Put that Ph.D. to good use. Please.”

He left with a promise to return in an hour. It took nearly that long, but finally I had a copy of the mass-media convention’s attendees in hand.

Confidentiality and all that slowed the process, but one of my grad school classmates taught at Harvard, and I called him, made connections, combined shameless name-dropping with my academic bona fides, and spun a yarn about planning a symposium on the media and violence. Wanting the list so I could “target the right people.”

The final target of that lie was one of the symposium’s cochairs, a fast-talking professor of journalism at the University of Washington named Lionel South.

“That was mine, all right. Harvard let us use the K School- the Kennedy School- so we stuck one of their faculty members’ names on it as a cochair. But Vera Mancuso and I- she’s at Clark- really ran it. You say yours is going to be at the med school? What, a psychiatric slant?”

“Eclectic,” I said. “Meanwhile, I’m running interference between the med school, the psych department, and the law school.” Sometimes falsehood came so easy. In spare moments, I wondered about that.

“Media violence,” said South. “Great funding for that.”

“Not bad,” I said.

“Couple more schoolyard shootings, and you’ll really be set.”

I forced a collegial laugh. “Anyway, about your roster.”

“I’ll e-mail it to you right now. Do me a favor and keep us posted. And if you need a cochair…”

I found it on the third page, halfway down the “S’s”:

Shull, A. Gordon, Prof. Comm., Charter College.

A bit of self-aggrandizement; Shull was a lecturer.

That fit.

Milo came back, and I pointed.

“Oh, yeah! Great work… did Shull deliver a paper?”

“No, he just attended. Or signed up to attend.”

“Playing hooky?”

“It would’ve been easy. Once he registered, no one would’ve checked to see if he actually sat through the meetings. Shull had a free schedule.”

“Plenty of time to take in the ballet.”

“Ballet might very well be his thing,” I said. “Growing up with culture, and all that.”

“Cold heart… son of a bitch.” He checked his notes, found the list of Boston hotels, began working the phone. Forty minutes later, he had confirmation. Shull had stayed at the Ritz-Carlton the week of Angelique Bernet’s murder.

“Not far from the ballet hall,” he said. “He picks her up in Boston, takes her to Cambridge where he does her and dumps her. Because it’s away from his hotel and close to the symposium… carve up a girl, be back for another bullshit lecture.” His eyes had heated.

“Time for a warrant,” I said.

He cursed silently. “I picked the most agreeable judge I could find. She’s sympathetic but wants physical evidence.”

“Like the facial hairs found in Mehrabian’s beard,” I said. “But you can’t verify the hair is Shull’s until you have grounds to ask him for a sample.”

“Viva Joseph Heller,” he said. “At least we’ve got a target. Petra’s retracing her steps armed with Shull’s photo. I also talked to Small and Schlesinger about the hair. They said, thanks, keep them informed. My sense is they’d love to dump Mehrabian on us. My sense is also that’s where Mehrabian’s gonna end up.”

He eyed my computer. “Anything else interesting out in cyberspace?”

“Shull had a Web site, but it’s no longer operative.”

“Covering his tracks?”

“Or technical problems,” I said. “An ego like that, he’d want to be out there. I’d like to know what he’s been up to, recently. Dr. Martin could help us there.”

“Think she’ll cooperate?”

“Like I said at the meeting, my sense is Shull’s not her favorite employee, so maybe.”

“Let’s do it,” he said. “At her house, not her office.”

“Why?”

“Get her away from her professional comfort zone.”

Elizabeth Gala Martin’s office had been filled with antiques, but at home she preferred modern.

Her house was a wide, gray collection of cubes set on a large lot in a good part of Pasadena. The landscaping was low-profile, Japanese-inspired, glossed by strategic lighting. A sculptural gong stood off center in the broad, impeccable lawn. Two cars shared the double-wide driveway: a silver, late model BMW sedan and an identically colored Mercedes coupe of slightly older vintage.

Every blade of grass in place. As if the exterior was vacuumed regularly.

Half a mile from Everett Kipper’s place, but that didn’t seem relevant, now. It was 8 P.M. when Milo knocked on the front door.

Martin answered her own door, wearing a long, green silk caftan embroidered with golden dragons. On her feet were gold sandals. Her toenails were pink. Her hennaed hair appeared freshly set, and she wore huge gold hexagonal earrings. Behind her was a wide, white entry hall floored in travertine.

Her initial surprise was replaced by flinty scrutiny. “Professor Delaware.”

“Thanks for remembering,” I said.

“You made an… impression.” She studied Milo. I introduced him.

“The police,” she said, evenly. “More about Mr. Drummond?”

Milo said, “More about Mr. Shull.”

Martin’s hands flexed, and she let them fall to her side.

“Come in,” she said.

The house was rambling, mood-lit, topped by skylights. A rear wall of windows looked out to a softly illuminated garden and a long, skinny lap pool that traced the curves of a high white wall. Large, abstract paintings hung on the walls. Brass cases were filled with contemporary glass.

Elizabeth Martin seated us on a low, black suede couch and took her place in a black leather sling-chair.

“All right,” she said. “Tell me what this is all about.”

Milo said, “Professor Martin, we’re looking into possible criminal activity on the part of A. Gordon Shull. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

Sounds filtered from across the dining room. Footsteps and rattles behind white double doors. Utensil clink, running water. Someone in the kitchen.

“You can’t tell me more, but you’d like me to tell you whatever you want to know.”

Milo smiled. “Exactly.”

“Well, that seems fair.” Green silk rippled as Martin’s legs crossed. She was wearing perfume- something grassy- and it drifted toward us. Body-heat activated? She looked composed, but you never knew.

“Professor Martin,” said Milo, “this is a very serious matter, and I can promise you that the information will come out eventually.”

“What information is that?”

“Mr. Shull’s problems.”

“Oh,” she said. “Gordon’s got problems, does he?”