Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“You paid for this with your own money?”

“Yup.”

“You might still be able to collect,” she said. “If you put in the voucher soon.”

Stahl did something with his head that might’ve been a nod. If you were looking for a nod. He opened the Bronco’s driver door, said, “Let me know when you’re all set.” Got in. Drove off.

They maintained contact every hour, using a tactical band on the radio.

Four calls tonight, so far, each the same:

“Nothing.”

“Okay.”

It was a quarter to eleven and Shull, whom they assumed was home, hadn’t emerged.

Staying in, just as he had last night?

That had been a downer. Sitting, waiting, fighting drowsiness. The crushing boredom Petra detested. At least Shull wasn’t out killing anyone.

Then she flashed an evil grin. Too bad Shull wasn’t out for the kill. This case had been nothing but false starts and dead ends and way too much of nothing and Lord forgive her, she craved some action , was willing to trade public safety for a little adrenaline fix.

What’s a little attempted murder between friends?

A voice in her head said, Naughty girl .

She said, “Up yours,” just to hear the sound of her own voice.

At 11 P.M. she shared another two-word communication with Eric the Dead. Sat back and stared at the black sky above the gates.

She’d avoided fluids well before the surveillance but by now, her bladder was cramping.

Not easy for a girl.

Not that she’d ever complain to anyone.

She was considering her urinary options when Shull’s gate swung open and headlights stared out at the night. The BMW or the Expedition?

She was down in her seat when it passed.

Neither. A Cadillac- dark gray, shiny.

Despite her surprise, she was able catch to the license number. Whispered it out loud in order to commit it to memory.

Stahl had said only two vehicles were registered to Shull. Interesting. She got back on the tac band, told Stahl what to look for. He’d be the primary tail, now, because she was going to call in the plates.

Soon she had it: Five-year-old Sedan DeVille registered to William F. Trueblood, Pasadena address.

Shull’s rich stepfather.

She put Trueblood’s name into the system, got two more DMV hits: a one-year-old Eldorado and a 1952 Jaguar.

Stepdaddy gets a new Caddy, donates the old one to Junior. William F. Trueblood hadn’t bothered to change the registration. Meaning he was probably still paying the license fees and the insurance.

Nice gift for Gordie, free and clear. The Cadillac offered Shull the use of a completely legal, unregistered set of wheels.

Spoiled brat.

Petra started up her Honda, turned around, headed down to the city. The first clean, safe rest room she spotted was at a French-type café on Franklin, seven blocks west of Beachwood. She left her car with the valet, tipped him, and told him to keep it there. The restaurant had a bar and a few tables, was jammed and noisy and rich with the smell of ratatouille and shellfish. She elbowed her way through a crush of laughing, flirting pretty people, picking up bits of stale pickup dialogue and smiling, despite herself. Then resenting the fact that some people had lives and she didn’t.

On the way to the ladies’ room, someone pinched her butt. Normally, she’d have dealt with it. Tonight, she found the attention welcome.

By the time she was back in her car and calling in, she expected Stahl and Shull to be miles away. But Stahl said, “I’m on Fountain near Vermont.”

“He stopped somewhere?”

“He drove straight to Fountain, has cruised up and down three times. Past the Snake Pit.”

“Revisiting the scene,” she said. “Memory trophy. Has he gone into the alley where he did Baby Boy?”

“Not yet,” said Stahl. “He just drives by, does a three-point, heads up the block, drives by again. The street’s dead, I can’t get that close.”

“Where are you?”

Stahl pinpointed his location.

Petra said, “I’ll come in from the west end, cruise through at a moderate speed. If he leaves before I get there, let me know.”

She drove to Western, turned left on Fountain. The street was empty, dark, eerie. When she was three blocks from the Snake Pit, Stahl called. “He’s finished. Heading your way.”

Petra spotted two sets of headlights. Not Stahl, no way would he be following that obviously. She maintained her speed as her windshield whitened.

A pickup truck, then the Cadillac.

In her rearview, she watched Shull continue to Western, catch an amber light, and sail through the intersection.

Moments later, the rental Bronco sped by.

Petra hung a U, followed at a safe distance.

They picked up the Cadillac on Wilton heading south. Moderate traffic made their life easier, and they alternated positions: first the Bronco would lag three or four cars behind, then Stahl would slow and Petra’s Accord would fill in.

We’re dancing, she thought. This was as intimate as she ever wanted to get with Stahl.

Shull drove to Wilshire, turned right, continued west. Maintaining a nice steady pace within ten miles of the speed limit.

Driving as recreation.

When Petra was the primary tag, she got close enough to notice that the Cadillac’s windows had been tinted nearly black. She couldn’t see an old guy from Pasadena doing that. Shull had customized the car.

The Sedan DeVille drove through Beverly Hills and veered right at the junction of Wilshire and Santa Monica. Staying on Wilshire, Shull continued into Westwood, then headed north on San Vicente, hugging the western perimeter of the Veterans Administration grounds. Passing the cemetery studded with white crosses and Stars of David. Then: the boutique/latte jungle that made up lower Brentwood.

Shull took another northern turn on Bundy, followed by a left on Sunset. Too few cars for cover, now. Stahl was in front, and he took his time before following. Took so long Petra was certain they’d lost sight of the Caddy.

She called in. “Any idea where he is?”

“Nope.”

Great.

“But I can guess,” said Stahl.

He sped ahead of her, drove a while, turned right.

Onto Bristol. The site of the Levitch murder.

Petra entered the lush street very slowly. Looked for the Bronco and spotted it parked a half block up, lights off. She killed her beams, rolled several yards up, pulled to the curb.

Stahl said, “Don’t know if he’s here.”

So what, we just wait? Petra kept her mouth shut. Looked around, admired the mansions, the massive deodar cedars, the grassy, tree-shrouded turnarounds that slowed traffic and gave the neighborhood character. Your perfect upper-crust suburban scene. If you had a seven-figure income.

Lights glimmered in some of the big houses. She caught glimpses of crystal chandeliers, rich paintings, crown moldings. Outside: Herds of sleek cars luxuriated in commodious driveways.

Then: lights in the distance. Moving, enlarging. Maybe two blocks up. Could be anyone.

It was Shull. Heading their way, pausing at the turnaround. Making an easy slow circle and retracing northward.

Back and forth, back and forth. Drinking in the scenes of his crimes. There was a sexual nature to it, and she wondered if the fool was playing with himself.

“Should we get closer?” said Petra. Annoyed with herself for consulting Stahl. She was the senior partner.

But Stahl had been the one who’d figured out Shull’s intentions.

“It’s a risk,” he said.

“Still, if he doesn’t return within five, I’m going to have a look.”