Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“Psychic cannibalism,” he said. “I was starting to like that. You don’t, anymore?”

“I do. But another factor is the disconnect between Shull’s inflated sense of self and his accomplishments. The grand artiste who’s failed at music and art. He hasn’t killed any writers, so he probably still thinks of himself as a viable writer.”

“The novel he talks about.”

“Maybe there is a manuscript in a drawer,” I said. “The bottom line is, Shull’s a good bet for bitterness and pathological jealousy, but that’s only part of it. I think he’s being practical: Murder someone really famous, and you bring down big-time publicity and persistent scrutiny. Pulling off something that grandiose would be tempting for Shull, but at this point he’s smart enough to be deterred by the risk. So he lowers his sights, targets not-quite-celebrities like Baby Boy and Julie Kipper and Vassily Levitch. Their stories don’t make the papers.”

“You’re saying he’ll eventually go for the big time?”

“If he keeps succeeding. Murder’s the only thing he’s ever been good at.”

“You’re right. With a famous victim, I’da gotten a warrant a long time ago.”

“Still no luck?”

“I tried the three most permissive judges I know. Went to the D.A. for backup, no dice. Everyone says the same thing: The totality is suggestive but insufficient foundation.”

“What do they want?”

“Short of an eyewitness, body fluids, anything physical. Detective Stahl may have helped things along. Early this morning, he watched Shull pick up a girl at a bar on Sunset, take her to a motel in Malibu, and leave the place without her. Stahl assumed the worst and abandoned the tail to check the room, but it was just a case of Shull leaving early. But while he was interviewing the girl, ol’ Eric got consent from her to look around. She was the resident, so it’s full consent. What he took with him was a cardboard coke chute, a tissue caked with snot and what’re probably blood flecks, a drinking glass the girl said Shull used, and the bedsheet. Any of that matches the little red hairs in Armand Mehrabian’s beard, we’re in business.”

“When will you know?”

“We put a rush on, but we’re still talking days. Still, it’s progress.”

“Good for Stahl.”

“Weird guy,” said Milo. “But maybe our hero.”

“Speaking of Mehrabian’s beard,” I said, “you phrased it as Shull getting in his victim’s face. I’m wondering if he actually kissed Mehrabian.”

“Kiss of death?”

“The image might’ve appealed to Shull- seeing himself as a mafioso or the Angel of Death. The sexual ambiguity might also be relevant. That would tie in with his relationship with Kevin.”

“Think Kevin’s alive?”

“I wouldn’t take odds on it,” I said. “Whether or not he was Shull’s confederate, once I started asking about him, Shull would’ve seen him as a liability.”

“Petra says no one can confirm seeing the two of them together, so whatever they collaborated on, it was private.”

“One thing I’d wager: Shull financed Kevin’s magazine and got himself an outlet for his writing. Ten to one he’s been trying for years to get in print at real magazines, piled up the rejection slips.”

“Kevin was his vanity press,” he said.

“Shull used Kevin as a front because Kevin was young, edgy, and impressionable, and if anything went wrong with GrooveRat - as it did- Shull would be spared public embarrassment. Right after Baby Boy’s murder, Kevin called Petra, trying to get gory details. Either Shull put him up to it- aiming for psychic souvenirs- or Kevin suspected something about his teacher and was checking it out. Either way, he’d be in trouble.”

He frowned.

I said, “What’s next?”

“More of the same. This is Stahl’s second day on surveillance. He called in an hour ago, and all Shull’s done so far is spend a few hours on campus, run errands, come home. He’s still there, but Stahl figures he’ll likely get going soon. He usually begins night-crawling around now.”

“Where does he crawl?”

“All over town. Clubs, bars, restaurants. He drives a lot, moves around constantly- which fits, these guys are always mileage freaks. Tonight, Stahl switched cars to a rental SUV, just in case. Petra’s run out of things to do, so she may join in. A two-person surveillance is always better. I showed Shull’s photo to the gallery people and Szabo and Loh. No one recognized him, why would they? He wears the uniform, black-on-black, your prototypical L.A. Guy. His name doesn’t show up on Szabo’s invite list, either, but I’ll keep looking.”

“What kind of girl did Shull pick up?” I said.

“Stahl didn’t say. The main thing is, he didn’t kill her. Stahl describes Shull’s general demeanor during the pickup as relaxed. He’s certain Shull’s unaware we’re looking at him. So maybe he’ll slip up, actually make a move on someone.”

“Caught in the act,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “A boy can dream.”

The next morning Milo phoned, and said, “Boring night. Shull just drove around. Up in the hills, then out to the beach all the way into Ventura County. He turned off on Las Posas, got on the 101 north, went another ten miles, returned, stopped at an all-night coffee shop in Tarzana- he likes cheapie-eats places, probably thinks of himself as slumming. Then he drove home alone, went to bed.”

“Restless,” I said. “The tension could be building up.”

“Well,” he said, “let’s see if he blows.”

Just as I was leaving for a jog, Allison phoned to say she’d had to add three appointments to her patient schedule, wouldn’t be through until 9:30 P.M.

“Crises?” I said.

“When it rains it pours. Are you up for a later reservation?”

We’d arranged an eight o’clock dinner date at the Hotel Bel Air. Fabulous food, impeccable service, and when the weather was kind, which was often in L.A., you could dine outside and watch swans glide on lagoons. Years ago, I’d seen Bette Davis glide across the patio. That night I’d been with Robin. She and I used to hit the Bel Air on special occasions. I thought the fact that I was ready to take Allison was a healthy sign.

“How about ten?” I said. “Will you have the energy?”

“If I don’t, I’ll fake it,” she said.

I laughed. “You’re sure? We can do it another time.”

“ ‘Another time’ isn’t a concept I admire,” she said. “Sorry for the shuffle.”

“A crisis is a crisis.”

“Finally,” she said. “Someone who gets it.”

Night three of the surveillance found Petra stationed up the road from A. Gordon Shull’s house. Not nearly as close as Stahl had gotten because fewer vehicles were parked on the street, and she had to blend in. But she still had a nice clear view of the gates.

Stahl had suggested she take the hillside position while he stayed down in the city in the rental SUV. Just about the only thing he’d said to her all of yesterday. He seemed more distant than ever, if that was possible.

He was down on Franklin, in a Bronco. A cute, shiny, black thing Petra had admired in the station parking lot.

“Nice, Eric.”

Stahl’s response was to produce an oily rag, bend down and rub the cloth on the greasy asphalt, flick off flecks of grit and begin dirtying the Bronco’s side panels and windows. Soon the poor thing looked as if it had been driven all day from Arizona.

“Schoelkopf must’ve been in a good mood,” said Petra. “Okaying cool wheels.”

Stahl picked up more parking lot dirt, continued to filthy the Bronco. “I didn’t ask him.”