Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

Easier said than done.

When I got back to the table, Allison said, “You look like you just handled a crisis.”

“I suppose I did.”

“Anything you’d care to talk about?”

My mind was racing and shutting her out seemed wrong. I recounted Tim’s call.

“Nice of you to calm him down,” she said.

“That’s me, Father Teresa.”

She sidled over, showed me the dessert menu.

“Whatever you’re in the mood for,” I said.

Allison said, “Too full for dessert?”

“No, I’m just not picky.”

“Okay, then… chocolate or nonchocolate?”

“Whatever.”

“You know,” she said, “ I’m pretty full.”

“No, let’s go for it.”

She shook her head. “I changed my mind, it’s getting late.”

“I’ve spoiled it.”

“Not at all, baby.”

“Chocolate,” I said.

She patted her tummy. “I really am full, please call for the check. And then let’s drive to Venice.”

“What?”

“You’re worried,” she said. “I’m sure it’s nothing- she probably doesn’t want to take his call. But let’s make sure and set your mind at ease.”

I stared at her.

“It’s okay,” she said.

“Some date.”

“It’s been more than dating for a while.”

We left the hotel. Allison was smart and perceptive enough to know I’d been concerned, but I hadn’t told her the extent of it. The nagging, sickening, chain of thought set off by Tim’s call.

China and Baby Boy; two victims Robin had worked for.

The break-in; only cheapie electrics stolen. Except for Baby Boy’s acoustic.

Shull fancied himself a guitarist, the instruments were ideal trophies.

And Robin had just gotten some nice publicity: The Guitar Player profile. GP was a specialty magazine, but just the kind of thing Shull, with his self-image as a musician, an insider- an arbiter of art- might be likely to read.

I sped to Venice.

Allison switched on the radio, tuned the music low, pretended to listen. Leaving me to my thoughts.

Something Shull had said, when I’d interviewed him in his office came back to me: For some reason your name’s familiar.

Soon after, I’d asked Shull if he’d noticed any change in Kevin Drummond’s writing style.

How so?

He seems to have gone from simple and direct to wordy and pretentious.

I’d had no idea at the time, but that had been a direct assault upon Shull’s massive ego. And Shull didn’t respond well to deflation.

How had he taken it… calm, smiling, an aw-shucks smile- “Ouch. On the contrary, the little I saw of Kevin’s development seemed to indicate improvement.”

Then he’d dismissed me.

A pathologically jealous psychopath, and I’d slapped him across the face.

For some reason your name’s familiar.

From time to time I made the papers. Not in any big way, just a bit player in crime stories. Some psychopaths followed crime pieces. Had Shull? Was his memory good enough to pounce upon my name?

Then I got it: Baby Boy’s CD. A record Shull was likely to own- researching his quarry.

I pictured him listening to the disc repeatedly. Poring over the liner notes. Drinking in the details.

Milo, a casual listener, had come across Robin’s name- and mine- in the small-print credits. Shull would’ve been sure to see it.

Baby Boy thanking “the beautiful guitar lady” for keeping his instruments in fine shape.

Thanking “Dr. Alex Delaware for keeping the guitar lady happy.”

All those pictures of Robin in the magazine, the adulation.

Rising star.

I told it all to Allison. “Overactive imagination, huh?”

“It’s a spooky case, you’re entitled. Let’s call her now, maybe she’s in, and that’ll be that.”

I used the cell. No answer. Tried Milo’s desk. Away; a machine answered his cell number.

Then I remembered: He was out in Porter Ranch with the judge, angling for a signature on a warrant application.

I phoned the Hollywood station. Petra was out, too. I didn’t have her cell.

Allison said, “You can put on some speed.”

Robin’s street was quiet, dark. Little houses tucked in and put to bed, lots of parked cars, the brine of the ocean.

“There,” I said. “Her truck’s in the driveway. You were right, she’s not taking calls. Her lights are on, everything looks fine.”

“If you want to check on her, it’s okay,” said Allison.

“What is this, the bond of sisterhood?”

“Hardly. I don’t know her. Don’t even know if I’d like her. This is for you, my dear. If anything’s going to keep you up tonight, I want it to be me.”

“You’re okay waiting?”

“Sure,” she said. Big grin. “Or I can get out and flaunt my Jimmy Choo’s and my black-emerald hoo-hah.”

As I looked for a parking space, she said, “I’ll bet she’s beautiful.”

“I’d rather talk about you.”

“That means she’s beautiful. Oh well.”

“Allison-”

“Yeah, yeah.” She laughed. “There’s a space- right behind that Cadillac.”

I started to tell her something- to this day I don’t remember what.

A scream cut me short.

I left the Seville in the middle of the road, double-parked, blocking the Cadillac. Jumping out, I ran to Robin’s house. Up the pathway. The screams continued.

Louder, when I reached the door.

“No, no- stop! Who are you, whoareyou- stop, stop!”

I shouldered the door but it swung open and I lost my balance, tumbled, caught myself on my palms, shot up, continued running.

Dark house, but for a triangle of light up the hall to the left.

The studio.

The screams… I rushed in, nearly tripped over a man on the floor. Black clothes, facedown, blood pooling beneath him.

Robin was crouched at the far end, up against the wall, holding her hands out protectively.

She saw me. Pointed to the left.

A man in black came from around the door, advanced on her, wielding a knife. Big kitchen knife. One of Robin’s. I recognized it. I’d bought the set.

She screamed, he kept coming. Ski mask over a black sweatshirt and nylon pants.

Benetton logo on the shirt, the things you notice.

Something in Robin’s eyes made him whirl. He took a half-second to decide, charged me, slashing.

I jumped back as Robin lunged for her worktable, picked something up, wrapped both hands around it, and lunged for him. A chisel. She missed, lost her grip, the tool clattered out of reach.

He glanced at it but not long enough to give me an advantage. Returned his attention to me. Played with the knife. I danced away from the blade’s tiny arcs. Robin got hold of something else.

I looked for a weapon. Too far from the bench. A few feet away, a couple of guitars in disrepair were propped in stands… Robin screamed again, and his head moved back involuntarily. He saw the hammer in her grip. Moved on her, changed his mind and returned back to me. Then her. Me. Her.

Predator 101: pick off the small ones.

He charged her. Running full force, the knife arm extended.

Robin threw the hammer at him, missed, dropped to the ground, rolled under the workbench. He bent his knees, reached under, got hold of her hand, slashed, missed, lost his grip.

She scooted toward the center of the bench.

I got hold of his free arm. He tried to shake me off, couldn’t, wheeled and faced me and drew me close.

Face-to-face.