'A neighbor of Everett Kipper,' I said.
A couple of beats passed. 'Didn't think of that... well, let's see what Stahl turns up. Meanwhile, Petra and I have adopted the showbiz approach: got no ideas, take a meeting. The next one's tonight, nine P.M., her turf: Gino's on the Boulevard. You're welcome to come, but I can't promise you any excitement.'
'Shame on you,' I said. 'No rose garden, and now this.'
Allison had a break between her last outpatient of the day and a man dying of Lou Gehrig's disease whom she was seeing at the hospice. I bought some takeout deli, picked her up on Montana Avenue in front of her office, and we drove to Ocean Park and ate while watching the sun sink. A few windsurfers lingered on the beach, incorrigibly optimistic. Pelicans flapped their wings and scanned the water for dinner.
She attacked her sandwich, wiped her mouth, and watched the birds. 'I love them. Aren't they gorgeous?'
Pelicans have always been favorites of mine. Ungainly fliers but efficient feeders. No pretense, just do the job. I told her so, put my arm around her, and finished my beer. 'My idea of gorgeous is more like you.'
'Shameless flattery.'
'Sometimes it works.'
She put her head on my shoulder.
'Tough night ahead?' I said. She'd talked to me a few times about the ALS patient. A good man, a kind man, he'd never make it to fifty. She'd counseled him for four months. Now, as he faded, so had Allison's feelings of usefulness.
'This job we chose to do,' she'd said, a few weeks ago. 'We're supposed to be experts, but which god appointed us?'
'The Baal of Academia,' I said.
'Exactly. Get good grades, pass the right exams. It's not exactly spiritual training.'
Neither of us spoke for a very long time. I heard her sigh.
'What is it?'
'Have the stomach for another confession?'
I squeezed her shoulder.
'My little chromium friend,' she said. 'I've used it once.'
'When?'
'Soon after I got it. Before I got my own place, when I leased space in Culver City. I used to work really late. Because I had nothing to come home to. One night, I was in the office doing paperwork until after midnight. I came out to the parking lot and some kids - punks -were hanging out, smoking dope, drinking beer. By the time I got to my car, they'd moved in on me. Four of them - fifteen, sixteen, they didn't seem hard-core, but they were clearly blasted. To this day, I can't be sure they meant to do anything other than hassle me. But when the leader stepped up to me - really got in my face - I gave him my best girlish smile, pulled the gun out of my purse, and stuck it in his face. He peed his pants, I could smell it. Then he backed away, ran, they all did. After they were gone, I just stood there, the smile still plastered to my face - it felt wrong, smiling, but for a moment I couldn't move my facial muscles. Then I began trembling, couldn't stop, the gun was flopping
around. Catching moonlight - the reflection on the barrel was like shooting stars. When we were up in the canyon watching the sky, that image came back to me... I was gripping the gun so hard my fingers began to ache. When I finally calmed down, my hand still remained tight. I'd actually pushed the trigger down partially.'
She lowered her head, black waves of hair fanning out.
'After that I thought of ditching the gun. But I decided that wasn't the answer. I needed to master it - master more of my life... and here's the real confession: part of what attracted me to you was the fact that you got involved in crime cases. Someone in the same field as me who got it. I felt we were kindred spirits. I thought about you a lot. When you finally called me, I was thrilled.'
She touched my hand. Her nail tickled my palm. My erection was sudden, disembodied.
First with Robin, now this. Reacting to everything with the little head.
'Of course,' she said, 'that was only part of it. Your being handsome and smart didn't hurt.'
She looked up at me.
'I'm not telling you this to lord it over Robin, because she had problems with your work and I want to be the big, brave kindred spirit. It's just the way it is.'
She gripped my fingers. 'Does all this sound twisted?'
'No.'
'Does any of what I just said change things? I really don't want it to. I'm so happy about what we've got going - I'm taking a risk, here. Letting you know who I really am.'
'Nothing's changed,' I said. 'I like what I know.'
'You're sweet to say that.' 'It's the truth.'
'The truth,' she said, rolling on her side and pressing herself against me. 'That'll do, for now.'
I dropped her at her office and was setting out for the meeting at Gino's when Milo called.
'Canceled. Another body turned up. Similar to ours but different, because it wasn't found near any artistic venue. Dumped outdoors, in the wetlands, near the Marina. Not buried but half-hidden by marsh plants. Some cyclists saw birds clustered, went to check. Significant decay, coroner estimates it's been lying there two, three days.'
'Right after Erna got picked up,' I said. 'Right around the time Kevin's car was left near the airport. The Marina's not far from the airport.'
'The dump site's right on the way. Looks like Kevin gave himself a going-away present. The victim's definitely an artistic type, sculptor named Armand Mehra-bian. He's based in New York, came out to audition for a big corporate project downtown. Works in rocks and bronze and running water - kinetic sculpture they call it. He was staying at the Loews in Santa Monica, had gone missing. Young, gifted, just starting to get noticed by the art world. Good shot at winning the corporate gig. He was gutted just like Baby Boy and had his neck yanked by a corrugated ligature. I told the coroner's tech it was probably a low E guitar string. She was very impressed.'
'Marina dump site makes it Pacific's case.'
'Two Ds I don't know,' he said. 'Schlesinger and Small. Petra says Small used to work Wilshire, she
collaborated with him, he's okay. We're rescheduling the meeting for later so they can show up. We're an equal opportunity organization, share the despair. Figure on tomorrow morning, so Schlesinger and Small have time to do a preliminary workup on Mehrabian. Not Gino's, the Westside for their sakes. My Indian pals', say 10 a.m. That work for you?' 'Like a charm.'
The same small back room at Cafe Moghul, the same smells of hot oil and curry.
Two more people huddled around the table made the space feel like a cell.
The Pacific detectives were men in their forties. Dick Schlesinger was big, dark, rangy, long-faced, and thoughtful, with a mink-colored mustache that crossed his face like a freeway. Marvin Small was smaller, chubby and blond-gray, his ode to facial hair a silver brush, prickly as a straw bed, bursting from under a boxer's nose. He chuckled a lot, even when nothing was funny.
The woman in the sari brought chai and ice water and left, smiling at Milo.
Marvin Small said, 'This joker, Drummond, anywhere else he could've rabbited other than Boston?'
Milo said, 'Your guess is as good as ours.'
Dick Schlesinger shook his head. 'Another whodunit.'
Petra said, 'Had a few, lately?'
'Two others still on the burner. Little girl disappears from a supermarket where she's shopping with her mom. We're thinking one of the box boys, he's got a
molestation record. But no body, no evidence, and for a stupid guy, he's being smart. We're also working a shooting on Lincoln, one of the hookers who works the stretch between Rose and LAX. Whoever did it left her with a purse full of dope and cash, and this time we've got a pimp who actually seems to care. They had three kids together. A few city employees have been busted there recently, mostly Cal Trans losers and bus company folk heading home after the night shift, veering off for a quickie. We're hoping it's not the beginning of another serial. A municipal employee killer, at that.'
Small said, 'But don't weep for me, Argentina. Sounds like you guys have been plenty busy, yourselves.'
Knock on the door. The smiling
woman entered with a tray of free appetizers that she placed on the table. Milo thanked her and she left.
'That one has a crush on you,' said Marvin Small.
"The old charm,' said Milo.
Petra grinned.
Everyone trying to deal with the frustration with levity. Except Stahl, he just sat there.
Detective Small eyed the food with some anxiety. 'Multicultural time. This is one culture I've never done, food-wise.'
'It's not bad, Marve,' said Schlesinger. 'My wife's a vegetarian, we go to Indian restaurants a lot.' He reached for a samosa, held it up, named it. Petra and Milo and Marvin Small took food. Stahl didn't.
The remnants of a pastrami sandwich had taken residence in my gut - Milo's call interrupting my digestion - so I stuck with the hot spiced tea.
Stahl seemed off in another world. He'd arrived with a
large white envelope, placed it in front of him. Hadn't talked or budged since the meeting had started.
The rest of them munched as Small and Schlesinger summarized the Armand Mehrabian case. Passing around death photos to the sounds of chewing. I flipped through them quickly. The abdominal wound was a horrible gape. Shades of Baby Boy Lee and Vassily Levitch.
The outdoor dump matched Angelique Bernet and China Maranga.
Flexibility. Creativity.
I said so. They listened, made no comment. Ate some more. Went over old ground for twenty minutes. Then Milo said, 'So what's up with the Murphy family tree, Eric?'
Stahl opened the white envelope and removed a computer-printed genealogy chart. 'I got this from the Internet, but it seems reliable. Erna Murphy's father, Donald, had a brother and a sister. The brother, Edward, married a woman named Colette Branigan. Only cousin there is one daughter, Mary Margaret. Edward's dead, Colette lives in New York, Mary Margaret's a nun in Albuquerque.'
"There's a hot lead for you,' said Small. 'Maniacal Sister Mary.'
Stahl said, 'Murphy's sister is named Alma Trueblood. I ran into her at the rest home where Murphy's dying. She's got two sons from a previous marriage, one's deceased. Her first husband's dead, but she divorced him before he died. I found a few distant cousins but none of them are local and none are Drummonds. No connection to Kevin I can find.'
'The whole cousin thing was probably nut talk,' said Small.
'A cousin who likes art,' said Schlesinger. 'So what?'
Milo reached for the chart, scanned it absently, gave a disgusted look.
I took a look.
'Who's this?' I said, pointing.
Stahl leaned across the small table and read upside down. 'Alma Trueblood's first husband. He was a real estate agent in Temple City.'
'Alvard G. Shull,' I said. 'Kevin's faculty advisor at Charter College is a guy named A. Gordon Shull. The two sons you've got listed here are Bradley - deceased -and Alvard, Junior.'
'A. Gordon,' said Petra. 'My first name was Alvard, I'd want to use the middle name.'
'Damn,' said Marvin Small. 'This professor like art?'
'As a matter of fact,' I said.
Dead silence in the room.
I said, 'Shull told me he'd grown up "grounded" in art and literature and theater. He's also got red hair.'
'Big and strong enough?' said Milo.
'Easily,' I said. 'Six feet, close to two hundred. Out-doorsy. Outgoing. And not at all protective of Kevin, the way you might expect from a mentor. At first, he expressed surprise that Kevin was under suspicion of anything. But as we talked, he warmed to the subject of Kevin's eccentricities. I remember one phrase he used: "Kevin wasn't the type of kid you'd want to have a beer with." At the time, I didn't make much of it, but in retrospect, it's cruel. One of the last things he told me was Kevin was a lousy writer.'
'Oh, boy,' said Petra.
Milo rubbed his face.
'Something else,' I said. 'When I first talked to Shull's department head about Kevin, she put on a full-force stonewall. Cited academic freedom, confidentiality. Exactly what you'd expect from a department head. Then she found out Shull had been Kevin's advisor, and her attitude changed completely. All of a sudden she was more than willing for me to talk to Shull. I didn't think much of it, but maybe she had a reason. Wanting Shull to have problems.'
'Shull's been a bad boy?' said Petra.
'For a professor,' said Small, 'being a bad boy could mean giving the wrong kid a bad grade. What do we really have on this guy except he likes art and had a nutty cousin?'
'A cousin who got strangled,' said Petra. 'And was spotted at the scene of one of our 187s.'
Small tickled his own mustache. 'So, what, we're thinking two bad guys, now? Teacher and student? Like Buono and Bianchi, Bittaker and Norris, pair of lowlife scumbag psychopaths pulling a duo?'
'We've got a literal teacher and student,' said Petra. 'Maybe they branched out of academia.' To Stahl: 'You said Shull's mommy has dough. That could explain Kevin's financing.'
I said, 'Shull's influence could also explain the shift in Kevin's writing style. Kevin started off simple, but Shull guided him toward greater complexity. I told Shull Kevin's style had gotten pretentious. He laughed, and said, "Ouch." But maybe he wasn't amused.'
Milo said, 'He show any signs of weirdness, Alex?'
'Not really. Very self-possessed. But right from the beginning I've thought our guy wouldn't come across strange. Someone who can move in and out of artistic venues without being conspicuous. Someone smart enough to plan.'
'Someone older than Kevin,' he said. 'His age bugged you from the beginning.'
'Shull's how old?' said Petra.
'Midthirties to forty.'
'Right in the zone.'
Schlesinger said, 'Where's the family money from?
Stahl said, 'The second husband.'
I said, 'Some of it may have found its way to her sole living child. Any idea how Shull's father and brother died?'
Stahl shook his head.
Petra said, 'Good work, Eric'
The merest flicker of emotion livened Stahl's eyes. Then they went flat, again.
'Life's like that,' said Marvin Small. 'All of a sudden things change.'
'A philosopher,' said Schlesinger, with the good humor of a long-suffering spouse. 'I wouldn't mind some good change. For a change. You guys gonna learn more about this professor?'
Petra said, 'Minute we're out of here, I'll run him through the data banks.'
Stahl said, 'I don't recommend interviewing his mommy.'
'Not a nice lady?' said Milo.
'Not someone I'd like to have a beer with.'
The first bit of humor I'd ever heard from him. But no
comic inflection. Mechanical voice. The deadened tone of someone beaten down. Or maybe he just had a weird personality.
He placed the chart back in the white envelope and studied his empty plate.
Milo turned to me. 'What's the name of that department head?'
Alvard Gordon Shull had been run through the law enforcement files. No criminal record, but Guada-lupe Santos, Kevin Drummond's landlady, thought she recognized Shull from the DMV photo Petra showed her.
'Hmm... maybe.'
'Maybe what, ma'am?'
'Once I saw Yuri on the street talking to a guy. Could've been him.'
'Where on the street, Mrs Santos?'
'Not far from here, like up on Melrose, couple of blocks that way.' Pointing east. 'I figured Yuri had gone shopping or something.'
Petra shook her head as she recounted it to Milo and me. She never thought to mention this? 'Ma'am, was he carrying a bag that indicated he'd been shopping?'
Santos thought. 'It was a while ago - maybe.'
'But you think this was the man he was with?'
'I'm not sure... like I said, it was a long time ago.'
'How long ago?'
'I'd have to say... months. Only reason I noticed was I never saw Yuri with anyone. But it's not like they were hanging out or anything.'
'What were they doing?'
'Just talking. like maybe the guy asked Yuri directions or something. Then Yuri walked home alone.'
'The man left on foot?'
'Um, I think so. But there's no way I could testify or anything. I couldn't honestly say I remember details, it's more like maybe. Who is he?'
'Maybe no one. Thank you, ma'am.'
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 17 - A Cold Heart Page 32
