Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 17 - A Cold Heart

by A Cold Heart(Lit)

  Homicide number three was the three-year-old stabbing of a twenty-five-year-old ballet dancer named Angelique Bernet in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Bernet had been part of a touring New York company performing in Boston, and she'd left her hotel around 2 A.M. Friday evening and never returned. Two days later, her body was found behind an apartment on Mt. Auburn Avenue, not far from the Harvard campus. Cross-references to the Boston Herald and the Globe pulled up brief accounts of the crime but no arrests. Something else the Globe reported caught my eye: Bernet had recently been promoted to stand-in for the prima ballerina and had, in fact, performed her first solo the night of her disappearance.

  The final hit took place thirteen months later -another Hollywood murder. During an all-night recording session, a punk-rock vocalist named China Maranga had unleashed a drunken tirade at her backup band over what she viewed as lackluster playing, stomped out of the studio, and vanished. Two months later, her skeletal remains were discovered by hikers, not far from the Hollywood sign, barely concealed by brush. ID had been made using dental records. A broken neck and the absence of bullet holes or stab wounds suggested cause of death as strangulation, but that was about all the coroner could come up with.

  China Maranga's teeth had been easy to identify - as a youngster, she'd undergone extensive orthodontic work. Her birth name was Jennifer Stilton, and she'd grown up in a big house in Palos Verdes, the daughter of a grocery-chain executive and an interior decorator. She'd earned good grades in prep school, where a sweet soprano earned her a starring role in the glee club. Admitted to Stanford, she majored in English Lit, got hooked on alternative music and whiskey and cocaine, amassed a collection of tattoos and piercings, and assembled a band of like-minded sophomores who joined her in dropping out. For the next several years, she and China Whiteboy toured the country, playing small clubs and garnering cult status but failing to get a record contract. During that period, China morphed her sweet soprano to a ragged, atonal scream. A tour in Germany and Holland garnered larger audiences and brought about a deal with an alternative label back in L.A. Sales of China Whiteboy's two albums were surprisingly brisk, the band began attracting attention from people-with-clout, rumors of a deal with a major label were rife.

  China's murder ended all that.

  China could barely play guitar, but she wielded one as a prop - a battered old Vox teardrop that she treated rough. I knew that because two members of the band - a pair of slouching, inarticulate wraiths named Squirt and Brancusi - were serious about their gear, and when they needed repairs, they came to Robin. When China snapped the Vox's neck during one of her more ebullient stage tantrums, the boys passed along Robin's number.

  I remembered the day China dropped by. A particularly unpleasant July afternoon, strangled by West Coast pollution and East Coast humidity. Robin was working in back, and I was in my office when the doorbell rang. Eight times in a row. I padded to the front and opened the door on a pallid, curvaceous woman with spiked hair as black and shiny as La Brea tar. She hefted a guitar in a soft canvas gig bag and looked at me as if I was the intruder. Parked below the terrace was a big, dusty Buick the color of ballpark mustard.

  She said, 'Who the hell are you and am I as lost as I feel?'

  'Where do you want to be?'

  'In Paradise feasting on boy virgins - is this the guitar lady's place or not?'

  She tapped her foot. Rolled her shoulders. Her left eye ticced. Her features were unremarkable but might've

  been pleasant if she'd relaxed. Some of the pallor came from ashy pancake makeup, laid on thick, and set off by kohl-darkened lids. The rest implied unhealthy habits.

  Black ink tats - snaky, abstract images - covered what I could see of her left arm. A blue-and-black iron cross marked the right side of her face, where the jawline met the earlobe. Both ears sagged under an assortment of rings and plugs. All that and the eyebrow pierces and the nose studs said Notice Me. Her blue, pinpoint Oxford button-down shirt implied a forage in Daddy's Ivy League closet. The shirt was tucked into a plaid miniskirt - the kind parochial schoolgirls are compelled to wear. Topped off by white knee socks stuffed into high, laced combat boots, the outfit said, Don't even try to figure it out.

  "The guitar lady's out back,' I said.

  'Where out back? I'm not prancing around without knowing. This place freaks me out.'

  'Why?'

  'There could be coyotes or some other shit.'

  'Coyotes come out at night.'

  'So do I - c'mon, man, my eyes hurt, show me.'

  I walked her down the terrace steps, around to the side of the house, and through the garden. She had very little stamina and was breathing hard by the time we reached the pond. As we approached the water, she overtook me and raced ahead, swinging the gig bag. Stopped and stared at the koi.

  'Big fish,' she said. 'All-you-can-eat sushi orgy?'

  'Be an expensive meal,' I said.

  A grin turned her crooked mouth straight. 'Hey, Mr Yuppie, no need to reach for the Xanax, I'm not gonna

  steal your little babies. I'm a voodgetarian.' She eyed the landscaping, licked her lips. 'All this yummy yuppie greenery - so where is she?'

  I pointed to the studio.

  She said, 'Okay, dollar-boy, you did your good deed for the day, go back to the stock pages,' and turned her back on me.

  Hours later, when Robin came into the house, alone, I said, 'Charming clientele you've got.'

  'Oh, her,' she said. 'That's China Maranga. She shrieks in a band.'

  "Which one?'

  'China Whiteboy.'

  'Squirt and Brancusi,' I said, remembering two skinny guys with cheap electrics.

  'They're the ones ratted me out to her. We're going to have a little chat.'

  She stretched and went into the bedroom to change. I poured myself a Chivas and brought her a glass of wine.

  'Thanks, I can use that.'

  We sat on the bed and drank. I said, 'Does the young lady shriek well?'

  'She's got great range. From nails on chalkboard to nails on chalkboard even harder. She doesn't play, just swings her guitar around, like she wants to hurt someone. Last night, she assaulted a mike stand, and the neck broke off. I kept telling her it wasn't worth fixing, but she began crying.'

  'Literally?'

  'Real tears - stomping her feet like a spoiled little kid. I should've sent her to talk to you.'

  'Outside my expertise.'

  She put down her glass and ran her fingers through my hair. 'I'm charging her my max fee to bolt on one of those Fender necks I got at the bulk sale and taking my time about it. Next week, she'll have something even uglier to ruin, and she'd better pay cash. Now enough of this chitchat and let's get down to business.'

  'What business is that?'

  'Something well within the range of your expertise.'

  When China came by to pick up the guitar a week later, I was in the studio having coffee with Robin.

  This time she wore a greasy motorcycle jacket over a long lace dress, once white, now soup-bone beige. Pink satin high-heeled pumps. A black tarn o' shanter capped the black spikes.

  Robin fetched the hybridized Vox. 'Here you go.'

  China held the instrument at arm's length. 'Ugleee - I'm supposed to pay you for this?'

  'That's the routine.'

  China stared at her, shifted her glare to me, then back to Robin. Reaching into a pocket of the leather jacket, she pulled out a crumpled mass of bills and dropped them on the workbench.

  Robin counted the money. 'This is forty dollars too much.'

  China marched to the door, stopped, flipped us off. 'Buy yourself a fucking fish.'

  Her murder had elicited a headshake and a 'How sad,' from Robin.

  China differed from Baby Boy and Julie Kipper in that she'd lacked substantial talent. But there was the matter

  of a rising star snuffed out mid-ascent.

  I wondered if Robin had made any connection, years later, between the killings. Two clients of her
s, one beloved, the other quite the opposite.

  If she had, she hadn't let me know.

  Why would she?

  Juliet Kipper's house was one of two ugly gray boxes squeezed onto a skimpy lot. No back yard. The front was an oily mesa of concrete. Curling tar-paper roofs provided the only green in sight.

  Bars on the windows. A rusted iron fence blocked entry to the property. Yellow tape across the rear unit billowed in the ocean breeze. I got out. The fence was locked. No doorbell or call box in sight. A shaved-head kid of sixteen or so sauntered down the street, walking a red-nosed pit bull leashed to a pinch collar. Both owner and dog ignored me, but the two older, shaved-head guys who drove by a few moments later in a chopped-and-lowered Chevy Nova slowed and looked me over.

  No reason for me to be there. I returned to the car, took Pico to Lincoln, drove south to Rose Street, in Venice, where I crossed over to the good side.

  Robin's place was a white cottage, shake-roofed and gabled, way too cute by half. Pretty flowers in front hadn't been there months ago. I'd never known Robin to garden. Maybe Tim had a green thumb. His Volvo was parked in the driveway behind Robin's

  Ford truck. I considered leaving.

  'To hell with that,' I said, out loud. 'Paternal rights and all that.'

  I was hoping she'd answer the door, but he did.

  'Alex.'

  'Tim.'

  Tight smiles, all around. Cursory handshake. He had on his usual outfit: long-sleeved plaid shirt, khaki Dockers, brown moccasins. Mr Laid Back. Rimless eyeglasses gave his blue eyes - true blue, deeper than my gray-tinged irises - a dreamy look.

  He's a year younger than me, but I like to think he looks older because he's losing his hair. The strands that remain are fine and caramel-colored and too long -obvious overcompensation. There's gray in his beard, Soulful, those eyes.

  Then, there's the voice. The smoothest, most sonorous basso profundo you'll ever hear. Every word rounded and plummy and cadenced. Walking advertisement for his craft.

  He's a vocal coach, one of the best, works with opera singers and rock stars and high-priced public speakers, travels around a lot. Robin met him at a recording session a month after we separated. He'd been called in to help a diva whose larynx had frozen up, and he and Robin had started talking. She was there on an emergency call, too - several instruments knocked out of kilter in transit.

  I thought of the kind of emergencies the two of them faced. The two of them lived in a different world from mine.

  From what I'd seen, Tim was easygoing, patient, rarely spoke unless he was spoken to. Divorced from another vocal coach, he had a twenty-year-old daughter studying at Juilliard who adored him.

  A week after Robin met him, she called me up. Once we got past the hemming and hawing, I realized she was asking my permission.

  I told her she didn't need it, wished her the best, hung up. Then I sank low. Within a month, she and Tim were living together.

  'So,' he said. The Voice making it sound profound. Maybe he was born with those pipes, but it set my teeth on edge.

  'How's it going, Tim?'

  'Well. With you?'

  'Ditto.'

  He leaned against the doorjamb. 'I'm on my way out, actually.'

  'On the road, again?'

  'Indeed. The road to Burbank - sounds like a Hope and Crosby movie.'

  'Have fun.'

  He didn't budge. 'You're here to...'

  'See Spike.'

  'I'm sorry,' he said. 'He's at the vet. Having his teeth cleaned.'

  'Ah. There's also something I need to talk to Robin about.'

  No movement for a second, then he stepped aside.

  I walked past him, through the small, dim living room furnished with his solid oak furniture and the few things Robin had taken with her. An old closet in the hallway

  had been turned into a passageway between the units. Through the door, I could hear the roar of a table saw.

  'Alex?'

  I stopped and turned. Tim remained in the doorway. 'Please don't upset her.'

  'I wasn't intending to.'

  'I know - look, I'll be frank with you. The last time she spoke to you she was really upset.'

  'The last time she spoke to me was volitional. She dropped in on me.'

  He showed me his palms in a pacific gesture. 'I know that, Alex. She wanted to talk to you about Baby Boy Lee. I thank you.'

  'For what?'

  'listening to her.'

  'Yet you think I upset her.'

  'No - look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. It's just that...'

  I waited.

  He said, 'Forget it,' and turned to leave.

  I said, 'Did you know Baby Boy?'

  The sudden change of topic made him flinch. 'I knew of him.'

  'Ever work with him?'

  'Never.'

  'What about China Maranga?'

  'That name I don't know.'

  'She was a singer,' I said. 'More of a screamer, actually. Which is why I figured she might've consulted you.'

  'The screamers seldom do. Why are you asking about her?'

  'She's dead. Murdered, like Baby Boy.'

  'That's what you're here for? Alex, I really don't think Robin should be exposed to any more-'

  'I'll keep that in mind.' I continued toward the connecting door.

  'Fine,' he called after me. 'You're tough-minded. I concede. Now how about thinking of Robin, this time?'

  This time. Dangling the bait. I swam by.

  I stepped into the heat of machinery and the smell of hardwood. The floor was coated with sawdust. Several projects - guitars and mandolins in various stages of completion - hung on the wall. Robin's back was to me as she guided a block of rosewood through the whirring blade. Her hair was gathered under one of those bandanas she collects. She wore goggles, a dust mask, had on a tight, white tank top, loose black cotton yoga pants, white tennis shoes. The dark wood hissed and threw off what looked like chocolate chips. Startling her would be dangerous, so I stood there and watched and waited until she'd flipped the switch and stepped away from the saw and the roar died to a growl.

  'Hi,' I said.

  She flipped around, stared at me through the goggles, pulled down the mask, laid the trimmed piece of rosewood on the bench.

  'Hi.' She wiped her hands on a rag.

  'Just saw Tim on the way out. He's worried I'm going to upset you.'

  'Are you?'

  'Maybe.'

  Flipping the mask over her back, she said, 'C'mon, I'm thirsty.'

  I followed her into the tiny, old kitchen at the rear of the duplex. Old, white appliances, yellow tiles, several of them mended. The room was one-third the size of the spiffy new kitchen we'd designed together. But as in that room, all was spotless, everything in its place.

  She got a pitcher of iced tea and poured two glasses and brought them to the Formica table that barely fit the room. Space for two chairs, only. Guess they didn't entertain much. Probably busy entertaining each other...

  'Cheers,' she said, looking anything but cheerful.

  We drank tea. She glanced at her watch.

  I said, 'If you're busy-'

  'No, I'm tired. Been at it since six, ready for my nap.'

  In the old days, I'd have suggested a mutual nap. 'I'll go,' I said.

  'No. What's on your mind, Alex?'

  'China Maranga.'

  'What about her?'

  'I was thinking,' I said. 'She and Baby Boy. There could be similarities.'

  'China? In what way?'

  I told her, added the bare facts of Juliet Kipper's murder.

  She got pale. 'I guess - but really, there are so many differences.'

  'You're probably right,' I said.

  'You could say China's career was taking off,' she said. 'Her records were selling better than anyone expected. But, still... Alex, I hope you're wrong. That would be hideous.'

  'Murdering art?'

  'Murdering artists because they're on the
way up.' Her color hadn't returned.

  'Here I go again,' I said, 'bringing the bad stuff into your life.' I stood. 'I was wrong. Tim was right.'