Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

Stahl spotted white grains on the nightstand. A folded piece of stiff paper- the coke chute. A crumpled Kleenex stiffened by snot.

Kyra Montego knew Stahl had seen the dope leavings, but she pretended to be oblivious.

“I don’t understand,” she said, tight butt perched on the edge of the bed. Zipper all the way up, now. Her bra was slung over a chair, and her nipples pushed through the red top.

She fooled with her hair, had little success organizing the wild yellow thatch.

Stahl said, “The man you were with-”

“It wasn’t like that,” said Montego.

Kyra Montego. No way that was on her birth certificate.

Stahl asked her for ID and she said, “What gives you the right? You’re implying I’m a hooker or something, and that’s bullshit- you have no right.”

“I need to know your real name, ma’am.”

“You need a warrant!”

Everyone watched too much TV.

Stahl took her purse off the dresser, found three joints in a plastic baggie and placed them on the bed next to her. A long blond hair curled atop a crushed pillow.

“Hey,” she said.

He removed her wallet, found her license.

Katherine Jean Magary, address in Van Nuys, a three-digit apartment number that said she lived in a huge complex.

“Katherine Magary’s a fine name,” he said.

“You think?” she said. “My agent said it’s too clumsy.”

“Film agent?”

“I wish. I’m a dancer- yeah, the kind you think, but I’ve also done legit theater, so don’t go assuming anything about my morals.”

“I don’t think it’s too clumsy,” said Stahl.

She stared at him and her eyes softened- big, moist irises, deep brown, almost black. Somehow they went okay with the white-blond hair.

“You really think?”

“I do.” Stahl replaced the wallet in the purse. Put the joints back, too.

Magary/Montego arched her back and flipped her hair and said, “You’re cool.”

He talked to her for twenty minutes, but after five, he believed her.

She’d never seen Shull before, had drunk too much (wink, wink), Shull had seemed cute. Masculine. Funny. Kinda smart. From his clothes, she thought he had money.

“His clothes?” said Stahl.

“His jacket was Gucci.” Magary/Montego smiled. “I managed a peek at the label.”

Stahl smiled back in a way that told her that had been clever and kept her talking.

Shull had spun her a good yarn, telling her he was a professor of art and a landscape painter, had exhibited all over the world, was represented by galleries in New York and Santa Fe.

“Landscapes.” Stahl remembered Sturgis’s description of the Kipper woman’s paintings. Sturgis had gone into detail, more than was necessary. He’d clearly liked the pictures.

“That’s what he said.”

“Did he name the gallery?” said Stahl.

“Uh… I don’t think so.” Katherine Magary- he’d decided to think of her by her birth name- licked her lips and smiled and placed her hand on his knee. He let it sit there. No reason to alienate a witness.

“Was it all b.s.?” she said. “What he told me?”

“He’s not a good guy,” said Stahl.

“Oh, boy.” Katherine sighed, knocked a fist against her blond bangs. “I’ve gotta stop doing this- getting wasted, getting picked up. Even when they’re cute.”

“It is dangerous,” said Stahl.

“I’ll bet you know all about that. Being a detective. You could tell me stories.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Yeah,” said Katherine. “It must be fascinating. Your work.”

Stahl didn’t answer.

“Was I in serious danger?” she said. “Being with him?”

“I wouldn’t go with him again,” said Stahl.

“Jesus… I’m sorry.”

Apologizing to him ? He said, “Living by yourself, you need to keep yourself safe.”

“Yeah, I do… I’ve been stressed-out. Haven’t worked for a while.”

“Must be tough,” said Stahl.

“Oh boy. You learn to dance when you’re a kid, let me tell you it’s hard, it’s really hard work. An Olympic athlete wouldn’t work any harder. And then all they want is… you know.”

Stahl nodded. Grimy drapes pocked with cigarette burns blocked the motel room’s sole window. Through the glass and the fabric, he could barely make out the rush of the tide.

Slow rhythm; easy come, easy go.

He said, “Did he treat you okay?”

Katherine Magary didn’t answer. Stahl turned to her. She was blushing.

“Was he weird to you, Katherine?”

“No. That’s the point. He couldn’t… you know… he came on like a big stud and then he couldn’t… so instead, we- he… I really don’t want to incriminate myself.”

“You won’t,” said Stahl.

She remained silent.

He said, “He was impotent so he concentrated on packing his nose.”

“Like a pig. He wanted me to use, too, but I didn’t. Honest. At that point, all I wanted to do was get some sleep, but I was nervous. Because when he couldn’t, he got real jumpy- restless, pacing around. And the coke just made it worse. I finally calmed him down by giving him a massage. That’s my other skill, I’m a certified massage therapist- real massage, not you-know-what. I rubbed him down real good, and he relaxed. But something about him- even when he slept he was uptight. Grinding his teeth, he had this real… unpleasant look on his face.”

She squinted, jutted her lower jaw, strained.

“Uptight,” said Stahl.

“When I met him, he was totally mellow, loose. Real easygoing. That’s what I liked about him. I’ve had enough stress in my life, who needs bad vibes.” She shrugged. “I thought his vibes were good. Guess I’m stupid.”

Stahl’s thigh, where her hand rested, had grown hot. He patted her fingers lightly. Removed her hand and got up.

She said, “Where are you going?”

Alarm in her voice. Stahl said, “Stretching.”

He moved closer to the bed, stood by her.

She said, “When I woke up- when you woke me up- I was freaked out to learn he was gone. How am I supposed to get back to my place?”

Stahl said, “I’ll take you.”

She said, “You’re really cool.” Reached for his zipper, pulled it down very slowly.

“Nice,” she said. “Nice man.”

Stahl let her.

I put the photocopies down. “It’s pretty obvious.”

It was 10 P.M. and Milo had dropped by to show me the end-of-year summaries Elizabeth Martin had pulled from Shull’s faculty file. When I scanned the material, bloated paragraphs jumped out at me. Phrases bunched together like Tokyo commuters. Disorganization, pomposity, lack of grace. Shull could plot and carry out murder with cleverness and decisiveness, but when faced with the written word, his mind lost traction.

He’d proposed a course he wanted to develop. “The Cartography of Dissonance and Upheaval: Art As Paleo-Bioenergetic Paradox.”

I reached into my file box, found what I was looking for: the SeldomScene review of Julie Kipper’s show penned by “FS.” There were the words: paradoxical , cartograph , and dissonance . I searched further. When FS had picked Angelique Bernet out of “la compagnie” he’d raved, “This is DANCE as in paleo-instinctuo-bioenergetic, so right, so real, so unashamedly erotic.”

I pointed it out to Milo. “He recycles. Limited creativity. It’s got to be frustrating.”

“So he’s a hack,” he said. “So why couldn’t he just write for the movies instead of killing people?” Muttering, he circled the matching phrases with red pen.

“Now that we know it’s him,” I said, “I’m getting a new slant on his victim selection. Until now, I’d been thinking along purely psychological lines: capturing stars on the ascent, swallowing their identities before they became corrupted.”