Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

She went in and encountered a fat, ponytailed bouncer nursing a gin and tonic. The place smelled like a toilet.

“Closed,” the fat guy told her. “Maintenance.”

That meant him standing around guzzling and a diminutive man who looked like a rain forest Indian sweeping the sticky floor. Music- some kind of harmonica-driven, bass-heavy Chicago blues- blared on the sound system. Bare, plywood tables were arranged haphazardly. A drum kit sat on the stage. A microphone stand with no mike looked decapitated. Nothing sadder than a dive without patrons.

Petra stepped in farther and looked around some more and smiled at the bouncer.

“Yeah?” He folded thigh-sized forearms over his sumo belly. His skin was the pink-gray of raw pork sausage. A brocade of tattoos turned the arms into kimono sleeves. Prison art and finer work. A swastika graced the back of his neck.

He hadn’t been one of the interviewees on Baby Boy’s murder. She showed him the badge and asked him about that.

“I was off that night.”

She’d requested a full staff list from the management. So much for that. She showed him Shull’s photo.

“Yeah, he comes here.” Pork Sausage downed his drink, waddled behind the bar, and fixed himself another. He took a long time cutting a lime, squeezed it into the glass, then tossed the slice into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, rind and all.

“How often does he come here?” said Petra.

“Sometimes.”

“What’s your name?”

He didn’t like the question, but he wasn’t the least bit intimidated. “Ralf Kvellesenn.”

She had him spell it for her, write it down. Ralf with an “F.” Some Viking ancestor was rolling over in his grave. “Be more specific than ‘sometimes,’ Ralf.”

Kvellesenn frowned, and his greasy forehead furrowed. “Dude comes in once in a while. He ain’t a regular, I only know him because he comes on real friendly .”

“With you?”

“With the acts. Dude’s into talking to them. Between sets. He digs going backstage.”

“Is he allowed to do that?”

Kvellesenn winked. “It ain’t the Hollywood Bowl.”

Meaning a few bucks opened doors.

Petra said, “So he’s kind of like a groupie.”

Kvellesenn emitted a wet laugh. “I never seen him giving head.”

“I didn’t mean literally, Ralf.”

“Whatever.”

“You don’t seem curious about why I’m asking you about him.”

“I ain’t a curious person,” said Kvellesenn. “Curious gets you fucked up.”

She recorded Kvellesenn’s address and phone number, sat down at a bare table as he stared, took her time rereading her notes and found the name of the bouncer who’d been on the night of Baby Boy’s murder.

Val Bove.

She left the club, phoned Bove’s home number, woke him up, described Shull.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Yeah, what?”

“I know the dude you mean, but I don’ remember if he was there when Baby got offed.”

“Why not?”

“House was packed.”

“But you definitely know who I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, the professor dude.”

“How do you know he’s a professor?”

“He calls himself that,” said Bove. “He told me he was a professor. Like trying to impress me. Like I give a shit.”

“What else did he tell you?”

“Basically, he’s like ‘I’m cool.’ ‘I write books,’ ‘I play guitar, too.’ Like I give a fuck.”

“An artistic type,” said Petra.

“Whatever.” A loud yawn came over the phone, and Petra could swear she smelled the guy’s rotten breath.

“What else can you tell me about the professor dude?”

“That’s it, babe. Next time don’ call so early.”

She made careful, copious notes, was about to phone Milo, call it a day well spent, but drove to Dove House, instead. The assistant director, Diane Petrello, was at the downstairs desk. Petra had brought her a few people.

Diane smiled. Her eyes were pink-rimmed and raw. Her expression said, What now ?

“Rough day?” said Petra.

“Terrible day. Two of our girls OD’d last night.”

“Sorry to hear that, Diane. They were doping together?”

“Separate incidents, Detective. Which somehow makes it worse. One was right around the corner, she’d just left for a walk, promised to come back for evening prayers. The other was in that big parking lot behind the new Kodak Center. All those tourists… the only reason we found out so quickly is both girls had our card in their purses, and your officers were kind enough to let us know.”

Petra showed her Shull’s photo. Diane shook her head.

“Is he involved with Erna?”

“Don’t know yet, Diane. Could I please show this to your current residents?”

“Of course.”

They trudged upstairs together and Petra began with the males- six profoundly inebriated men, none of whom recognized Shull. On the women’s floor, she found only three residents in one room, including Lynnette, the gaunt, black-haired junkie Milo had spoken to about Erna.

“Cute,” she said. “Kind of like a Banana Republic ad.”

“Have you seen him before, Lynnette?”

“I wish.”

Behind smudged eyeglass lenses, Diane Petrello’s eyes shut tight, then opened. “Lynnette,” she said softly.

Before Lynnette could reply, Petra said, “You wish?”

“Like I said, cute,” said Lynnette. “I could do him so good he’d buy me pretty things.” She grinned, revealing ragged mossy teeth. Yellow eyes, hepatitis or something in that league. Petra felt like stepping away, but she didn’t.

“Lynnette, have you ever seen this man with Erna?”

“Erna was a skank. He’s way too cute for her.”

One of the other women was elderly and whisker-chinned, stretched out on the bed, sleeping. The other was fortyish, tall, black, heavy-legged. Petra glanced at the black woman, and she drifted over, sliding worn bedroom slippers over threadbare carpeting and sounding like a snare drum.

“ I seen him with Erna.”

“Right,” said Lynnette.

Petra said, “When did you see him, Ms.-?”

“Devana Moore. I seen him here and there- talking.”

“To Erna.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Right,” said Lynnette.

Devana Moore said, “I did.”

“Here and there?” said Petra.

“Not here… like you know- here, ” said Devana Moore. Talking slowly. Slurring. Forming sentences was an ordeal. “Here and… there .”

“Not in the building,” said Petra, “but in the neighborhood.”

“Right!”

“She’s lyin’,” said Lynnette.

“I ain’t lyin’,” said Devana Moore, without a trace of resentment. More like a kid protesting her innocence. Petra was no expert, but she was willing to bet this one’s IQ made her a disastrous witness. Still, work with what you have…

Lynnette snickered.

Devana Moore said, “Girl, I be lyin’, I be flyin’.”

Petra said, “When’s the last time you saw this man with Erna, Ms. Moore?”

“ Mizz Moore,” said Lynnette, cackling.

Diane Petrello said, “C’mon, Lynnette. Let’s get some coffee.”

Lynnette didn’t budge. The old woman snored loudly. Devana Moore stared at Petra.

Petra repeated the question and Moore said, “Had to be… few days ago.”

“How many days?”

Silence.

“About?” pressed Petra.

“Dunno- maybe… dunno.”

Lynnette said, “They gonna bust you for lyin’. Mizz Moore.” To Petra: “She’s a retard.”

Moore sagged and pouted, and Petra thought she’d break into tears. Instead, she lunged at Lynnette, and the two woman flailed their arms ineffectually until Petra got between them, and shouted, “Stop it right now!”