Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 17 - A Cold Heart

by A Cold Heart(Lit)

  'Big bones,' said Milo.

  'Sturdy - almost masculine.'

  'Could it have been a man dressed up as a-'

  Barnes laughed. 'No, no, this one was pure girl all right. But a big girl. A lot bigger than Julie. Which got

  me thinking. It needn't have been a man at all, right? Especially if we're dealing with someone not in their right mind.'

  Milo's pad was out. 'How old would you say she was?'

  'I'd guess thirties, but it's a guess because that kind of misery - homelessness, mental illness - it overrides age, doesn't it?'

  'In what way, ma'am?'

  'What I mean,' said Barnes, 'is that people like that oil look ancient and damaged - there's a coating of despair. This one, though, she'd managed to hold on to some of her youth; under the grime I could see some youth. I can't explain it any better than that.'

  CoCo Barnes ticked a finger. 'In terms of other details, she wore a thick, padded military-type camouflage jacket over a red, black, and white flannel shirt over a blue UCLA sweatshirt. UCLA in white letters, the C was half-gone. On the bottom were heavy-duty gray sweatpants, and from the way they bulked, she had on at least one other pair of pants underneath. White, lace-up tennis shoes on her feet and a broad-brimmed black straw hat atop her head. The brim was shredded in front - pieces of straw poking out. Her hair was bunched up in the hat, but some had come loose, and it was red. And curly. Curly red hair. Add a layer of grime to all of that, and you've got the picture.'

  Milo scribbled. 'Ever see her before?'

  'No,' said Barnes. 'Not on the walkway or kicking; around the alleys in Venice or in Ocean Front Park or anywhere else you see the homeless. Maybe she's not one of the locals.'

  'Is there anything else you remember about the encounter?'

  'It wasn't much of an encounter, Detective. I opened the door, she got scared, I offered to get her some food, she ran off.'

  Milo scanned his notes. 'You've got a great memory, Ms Barnes.'

  'You should've known me a few years ago.' The old woman tapped her forehead. 'I'm accustomed to taking mental snapshots. We artists view the world with a high-focus lens.' Two rapid blinks. 'If I hadn't chickened out of my cataract surgery, I'd be doing a lot better.'

  'Let me ask you this, ma'am: Could you draw me a picture of this woman? I'm sure it would be better than anything our police artist would come up with.'

  Barnes suppressed a surprised smile. 'Haven't drawn in a while. Shifted to ceramics a few years ago, but, sure, why not? I'll do it and call you.'

  'Appreciate it, ma'am.'

  'Civic duty and art,' said Barnes. 'All in one swoop.'

  As I drove back to Cafe Moghul, I said, 'How seriously do you take it?'

  'You don't?'

  'CoCo Barnes has cataracts, so who knows what she really saw. I still think the murder smacks of planning and intelligence. Someone well composed mentally. But that's just a guess, not science.'

  He frowned. 'Tracking this redhead down means getting hold of the patrol officers where the homeless hang out, dealing with the social service agencies and the treatment centers. And if Barnes is right about the

  redhead not being local, I can't limit myself to the Westside.'

  'One thing in your favor,' I said, 'a six-foot woman with curly red hair isn't inconspicuous.'

  'Assuming I find her, then what? What I've got is a probable psychotic who Dumpster-dove in the alley five hours before Julie got strangled.' He shook his head. 'How seriously am I taking it? Not very.'

  A block later: 'On the other hand...'

  'What?'

  'If I don't turn up anything else, soon, I can't afford not to chase it down.'

  I pulled up alongside the loading zone in front of the restaurant. A parking ticket was folded under the windshield wiper of his unmarked. He said, 'Want to meet Everett Kipper?'

  'Sure.'

  He eyed the citation. 'You drive - long as I'm renting, I might as well occupy.'

  'Will the city reimburse me?'

  'Oh, sure. I'll FedEx you a box of infinite gratitude.'

  Everett Kipper worked at a firm called MuniScope, on the twenty-first floor of a steel-and-concrete high-rise on Avenue of the Stars just south of little Santa Monica. Parking fees were stiff, but Milo's badge impressed the attendant, and I stashed the Seville for free.

  The building's lobby was arena-sized, serviced by a dozen elevators. We rode up in hermetic silence. Muni-Scope's reception room was ovoid, paneled in bleached bird's-eye maple, softly lit and carpeted, and ringed by

  saffron leather modules. Milo's badge elicited alarm from the hard-faced, hard-bodied receptionist. Then she recovered and compensated with toothy graciousness.

  'I'll ring him right away, gentlemen. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, Sprite, Diet Coke?'

  We demurred and sank down in yellow-orange leather. Down-filled cushions. No corners in the egg-shaped space. I felt like a privileged unborn chick nestled in - high-rent surroundings.

  Milo muttered, 'Cushy.'

  I said, 'Put the client at ease. It works. I'm ready to peck through the shell and buy something.'

  A man in a black suit appeared from around a convex wall. 'Detectives? Ev Kipper.'

  Julie Kipper's ex was a thin man with a big voice, a blond-gray crew cut and the smooth round face of an aging frat boy. Forty or so, five-eight, one-fifty. His bouncy stride suggested gymnastics or ballet training. The suit was a four-button model, tailored snug, set off by a sapphire blue shirt, gold tie, gold cuff links, gold wristwatch. His hands were manicured and smooth and outsized, and when we shook, I felt barely suppressed strength in his grip. Dry palms. Clear, brown eyes that made eye contact. A subtle bronze veneer to his complexion said outdoor sports or the tanning bed.

  'Let's go in and talk,' he said. Confident baritone, not a trace of anxiety. If he'd murdered his former spouse, he was one hell of a psychopath.

  He took us to an empty boardroom with a view all the way to Vegas. Oyster-colored carpeting and walls, and a black granite conference table more than large enough

  for the thirty Biedermeier-revival chairs that surrounded it. The three of us huddled at one end.

  'Sorry it took so long to get together,' said Kipper. 'What can I help you with?'

  Milo said, 'Is there anything about your ex-wife we should know? Anything that would help us figure out | who strangled her?'

  Putting emphasis on wife and strangled and watching Kipper's face.

  Kipper said, 'God, no. Julie was a wonderful person.'

  'You've maintained contact, despite the divorce ten years ago.'

  'life took us in other directions. We've remained friends.'

  'Other directions professionally?'

  'Yes,' said Kipper.

  Milo sat back. 'Are you remarried?'

  Kipper smiled. 'No, still looking for Ms Right.'

  'Your ex-wife wasn't her.'

  'Julie's world was art. Mine is slogging through bond prospectuses. We started off in the same place but ended up too far apart.'

  'Did you study painting in Rhode Island?'

  'Sculpting.' Kipper touched the face of his watch. The timepiece was thin as a nickel with an exposed skeleton movement. Four diamonds placed equidistant around the rim, crocodile band. I tried to estimate how many paintings Julie Kipper would have had to sell to afford it.

  'Sounds like you've been researching me, Detective.'

  'Your marriage came up while talking to people who knew her, sir. People seem to know about your artistic origins.'

  'The Light and Space bunch?' said Kipper. 'Sad crowd.'

  'How so, sir?'

  'Maximally self-labeling, minimally talented.'

  'Self-labeling?'

  'They call themselves artists,' said Kipper. New edge in his voice. 'Julie was the real thing, they're not. But that's true of the art world in general. There are no criteria - it's not like being a surgeon. Lots of pretense.'

  The brown eyes shifte
d down to his oversized hands. Square fingers, glossy nails. A well-tended hand. Hard to imagine it working a chisel, and the look in Kipper's eyes said he knew it. 'That was my story.'

  'You were pretending?' said Milo.

  'For a while. Then I gave it up.' Kipper smiled. 'I sucked.'-

  'You were good enough to get into the Rhode Island School of Design.'

  'Well, what do you think of that?' said Kipper. Another layer of silk had been peeled from his voice. 'Like I said, there are no criteria. What Julie and I had in common was we both won awards in high school and college. The only difference was, she deserved hers. I always felt like an impostor. I'm not saying I'm a total boob. I can do things with wood and stone and bronze the average person can't. But that's a far cry from art. I was smart enough to realize that, and got into something that fits me.'

  Milo glanced around the room. 'Any artistic satisfaction in this?'

  'Not a whit,' said Kipper. 'But I make a fortune and indulge my fantasies on Sunday - home studio. Most of the time my stuff never gets out of clay. Smashing it can be quite cathartic'

  His face remained unlined, but his color had deepened.

  Milo said, 'How did your ex-wife feel about your switching careers?'

  'That was years ago, how can it be relevant?' said Kipper.

  'At this point, everything is, sir. Please bear with me.'

  'How'd she feel? She hated it, tried to talk me out of it. Which tells you something about Julie - her integrity. We were living like paupers in a hovel on the Lower East Side, doing odd jobs. Julie tried to telemarket magazine subscriptions, and I did janitorial duty in the building to make the rent. The day I got into finance was the first time we could count on a stable income. And not much of one, at that. I started off gofering for chump change at Morgan Stanley. But even that was a step up. Now we could buy food. But Julie couldn't have cared less. She kept yelling at me - I was talented, had sold out. I don't think she ever forgave me - not until she moved out here and looked me up and we reconnected. At that point, I think she could see that I was really happy.'

  'You moved here first.'

  'A year before Julie. After we divorced.'

  'And she looked you up.'

  'She called my office. She was really down - about failing to make it in New York, about having to draw stupid newspaper ads. She was also broke. I helped her out.'

  'On top of the alimony.'

  Kipper exhaled. 'No big deal. Like I said, I do very well.'

  'So give me the chronology,' said Milo. 'Marriage, divorce, et cetera.'

  'Sum my life up in one sentence, huh?'

  'A few sentences, sir.'

  Kipper unbuttoned his suit jacket. 'We met right after we got to Rhode Island. Instant chemistry, within a week we were living together. After graduation, we moved to New York and got married - fourteen years ago. Four years later, we got divorced.'

  'After the divorce, what was your contact with your ex-wife?' Milo'd avoided using Julie's name in Kipper's presence. Emphasizing the severed relationship.

  Kipper said, 'Our contact was occasional phone calls, even more occasional dinners.'

  'Friendly phone calls?'

  'For the most part.' Kipper's finger massaged the watch face. 'I see where this is going. Which is fine. My buddies told me I'd be looked at as a suspect.'

  'Your buddies?'

  'Some of the other brokers.'

  'They have experience with the criminal justice system?'

  Kipper laughed. 'Not yet. No, they watch too much TV. I suppose I'm wasting my time telling you I had nothing to do with it.'

  Milo smiled.

  Kipper said, 'Do what you have to do but know this: I loved Julie - first as a woman, later as a person. She was my friend, and I'm the last one who'd ever hurt her. I have no reason to hurt her.' He slid his chair back several inches, crossed his legs.

  'Friendly phone calls about what?' said Milo.

  'Letting each other know what we were up to,' said Kipper. 'And I guess what you'd term business calls, too. Around tax time. I needed to account the alimony and any other money I sent Julie. And sometimes she needed extra.'

  'How much extra?'

  'A bit here and there - maybe another ten, twenty grand a year.'

  'Twenty would be almost double her alimony.'

  'Julie wasn't good about money. She tended to get into tight spots.'

  'Trouble living within her means?'

  Kipper's big hands lowered to the granite surface of the table and lay flat. 'Julie wasn't good with money because she didn't care about it.'

  'So in total, you were giving her nearly forty thousand a year. Generous.'

  'I drive a Ferrari,' said Kipper. 'I don't expect any merit badges.' His body shifted forward. 'Let me explain Julie's history to you: Right after graduation she had an initial burst of success. Got placed in a high-quality group show at a midtown gallery and sold every single painting. She got great critical notice, too, but guess what: It didn't mean she made serious money. Her canvases were priced from eight to twelve hundred dollars, and by the time the gallery owner and her agent and every other gimme-type took their cuts, there was maybe enough to buy lunch at Tavern on the Green. The gallery kicked her price up to fifteen hundred a picture and told her to get productive. She spent the next six months working. Twenty-four hours a day, or it seemed that way.' He winced.

  'Tough regimen,' said Milo.

  'More like self-destruction.'

  'She have help keeping up her energy?'

  'What do you mean?' said Kipper.

  'We know about her drug problem. Is that when it started? Cocaine can be an energizer.'

  'Coke,' said Kipper. 'She was into it way before that -in college. But yes, it got intense when the gallery demanded she make instant art at an inhuman pace.'

  'What pace was that?'

  'A dozen canvases within four months. A crap-monger could have splashed that together, no problem, but Julie was meticulous. Ground her own pigments, laid on layer after layer of paint, alternated with her own special glazes and varnishes. Was so picky that she sometimes made her own brushes. Could spend weeks making brushes. And frames. Each one had to be original - perfect for the painting. Everything had to be perfect. Everything became a project of immense significance.'

  'Her current works have no frames,' I said.

  'I saw that,' said Kipper. 'Asked her about it. She said she was concentrating on the image itself. I told her it was a good idea.' One hand closed in a fist. 'Julie was brilliant, but I don't know if she would have ever achieved real success.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because she was too talented. What passes for art now is pure shit. Video-installations, "performances," crap put together with "found materials" - which is art-bullshit language for garbage-picking. Nowadays, if you staple a dildo to a pop bottle you're Michelangelo. If you actually know how to draw, you're disparaged. Add to

  that Julie's absolute lack of business sense and...' Ripper's shoulders sagged. His black suit didn't pop a wrinkle.

  'Not of this world,' I said.

  'Exactly,' said Kipper. 'She wasn't keyed into her surroundings. Take the money thing, for example. I tried to get her to invest some of the alimony in low-risk bond funds. If she'd started investing back when I did, she'd have built up a nice little nest egg, could have plied her art in the way she wanted. Instead, she had to lower herself by doing commercial gigs.'

  'She didn't like commercial art.'

  'She hated it,' said Kipper. 'But she refused to take the steps that would've freed her. I won't say she was masochistic, but Julie definitely had a thing for suffering. She was never really happy.'

  'Chronically depressed?' I said.

  'Except when she was painting.'

  'Let's go back for a moment,' said Milo, thumbing through his pad. 'The New York gallery that took her on - the resume on her brochure lists The Anthony Gallery-'

  'That's the one. Bloodsucking Lewis Anthony'

/>   'Not a nice man?'