Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 17 - A Cold Heart

by A Cold Heart(Lit)

  for the movies instead of killing people?' Muttering, he circled the matching phrases with red pen.

  'Now that we know it's him,' I said, 'I'm getting a new slant on his victim selection. Until now, I'd been thinking along purely psychological lines: capturing stars on the ascent, swallowing their identities before they became corrupted.'

  'Psychic cannibalism,' he said. 'I was starting to like that. You don't, anymore?'

  'I do. But another factor is the disconnect between Shull's inflated sense of self and his accomplishments. The grand artiste who's failed at music and art. He hasn't killed any writers, so he probably still thinks of himself as a viable writer.'

  'The novel he talks about.'

  'Maybe there is a manuscript in a drawer,' I said. 'The bottom line is, Shull's a good bet for bitterness and pathological jealousy, but that's only part of it. I think he's being practical: Murder someone really famous, and you bring down big-time publicity and persistent scrutiny. Pulling off something that grandiose would be tempting for Shull, but at this point he's smart enough to be deterred by the risk. So he lowers his sights, targets not-quite-celebrities like Baby Boy and Julie Kipper and Vassily Levitch. Their stories don't make the papers.'

  'You're saying he'll eventually go for the big time?'

  'If he keeps succeeding. Murder's the only thing he's ever been good at.'

  'You're right. With a famous victim, I'da gotten a warrant a long time ago.'

  'Still no luck?'

  'I tried the three most permissive judges I know. Went

  to the D.A. for backup, no dice. Everyone says the same thing: The totality is suggestive but insufficient foundation.'

  'What do they want?'

  'Short of an eyewitness, body fluids, anything physical. Detective Stahl may have helped things along. Early this morning, he watched Shull pick up a girl at a bar on Sunset, take her to a motel in Malibu, and leave the place without her. Stahl assumed the worst and abandoned the tail to check the room, but it was just a case of Shull leaving early. But while he was interviewing the girl, ol' Eric got consent from her to look around. She was the resident, so it's full consent. What he took with him was a cardboard coke chute, a tissue caked with snot and what're probably blood flecks, a drinking glass the girl said Shull used, and the bedsheet. Any of that matches the little red hairs in Armand Mehrabian's beard, we're in business.'

  'When will you know?'

  'We put a rush on, but we're still talking days. Still, it's progress.'

  'Good for Stahl.'

  'Weird guy,' said Milo. 'But maybe our hero.'

  'Speaking of Mehrabian's beard,' I said, 'you phrased it as Shull getting in his victim's face. I'm wondering if he actually kissed Mehrabian.'

  'Kiss of death?'

  'The image might've appealed to Shull - seeing himself as a mafioso or the Angel of Death. The sexual ambiguity might also be relevant. That would tie in with his relationship with Kevin.'

  'Think Kevin's alive?'

  'I wouldn't take odds on it,' I said. 'Whether or not he was Shull's confederate, once I started asking about him, Shull would've seen him as a liability.'

  'Petra says no one can confirm seeing the two of them together, so whatever they collaborated on, it was private.'

  'One thing I'd wager: Shull financed Kevin's magazine and got himself an outlet for his writing. Ten to one he's been trying for years to get in print at real magazines, piled up the rejection slips.'

  'Kevin was his vanity press,' he said.

  'Shull used Kevin as a front because Kevin was young, edgy, and impressionable, and if anything went wrong with GrooveRat - as it did - Shull would be spared public embarrassment. Right after Baby Boy's murder, Kevin called Petra, trying to get gory details. Either Shull put him up to it - aiming for psychic souvenirs - or Kevin suspected something about his teacher and was checking it out. Either way, he'd be in trouble.'

  He frowned.

  I said, 'What's next?'

  'More of the same. This is Stahl's second day on surveillance. He called in an hour ago, and all Shull's done so far is spend a few hours on campus, run errands, come home. He's still there, but Stahl figures he'll likely get going soon. He usually begins night-crawling around now.'

  'Where does he crawl?'

  'All over town. Clubs, bars, restaurants. He drives a lot, moves around constantly - which fits, these guys are always mileage freaks. Tonight, Stahl switched cars to a rental SUV, just in case. Petra's run out of things to do,

  so she may join in. A two-person surveillance is always better. I showed Shull's photo to the gallery people and Szabo and Loh. No one recognized him, why would they? He wears the uniform, black-on-black, your prototypical L.A. Guy. His name doesn't show up on Szabo's invite list, either, but I'll keep looking.'

  "What kind of girl did Shull pick up?' I said.

  'Stahl didn't say. The main thing is, he didn't kill her. Stahl describes Shull's general demeanor during the pickup as relaxed. He's certain Shull's unaware we're looking at him. So maybe he'll slip up, actually make a move on someone.'

  'Caught in the act,' I said.

  'Yeah, yeah,' he said. 'A boy can dream.'

  The next morning Milo phoned, and said, 'Boring night. Shull just drove around. Up in the hills, then out to the beach all the way into Ventura County. He turned off on Las Posas, got on the 101 north, went another ten miles, returned, stopped at an all-night coffee shop in Tarzana - he likes cheapie-eats places, probably thinks of himself as slumming. Then he drove home alone, went to bed.'

  'Restless,' I said. 'The tension could be building up.'

  'Well,' he said, 'let's see if he blows.'

  Just as I was leaving for a jog, Allison phoned to say she'd had to add three appointments to her patient schedule, wouldn't be through until 9:30 P.M.

  'Crises?' I said.

  'When it rains it pours. Are you up for a later reservation?'

  We'd arranged an eight o'clock dinner date at the

  Hotel Bel Air. Fabulous food, impeccable service, and when the weather was kind, which was often in L.A., you could dine outside and watch swans glide on lagoons. Years ago, I'd seen Bette Davis glide across the patio. That night I'd been with Robin. She and I used to hit the Bel Air on special occasions. I thought the fact that I was ready to take Allison was a healthy sign.

  'How about ten?' I said. 'Will you have the energy?'

  'If I don't, I'll fake it,' she said.

  I laughed. 'You're sure? We can do it another time.'

  ' "Another time" isn't a concept I admire,' she said. 'Sorry for the shuffle.'

  'A crisis is a crisis.'

  'Finally,' she said. 'Someone who gets it.'

  Night three of the surveillance found Petra stationed up the road from A. Gordon Shull's house. Not nearly as close as Stahl had gotten because fewer vehicles were parked on the street, and she had to blend in. But she still had a nice clear view of the gates.

  Stahl had suggested she take the hillside position while he stayed down in the city in the rental SUV. Just about the only thing he'd said to her all of yesterday. He seemed more distant than ever, if that was possible.

  He was down on Franklin, in a Bronco. A cute, shiny, black thing Petra had admired in the station parking lot.

  'Nice, Eric'

  Stahl's response was to produce an oily rag, bend down and rub the cloth on the greasy asphalt, flick off flecks of grit and begin dirtying the Bronco's side panels and windows. Soon the poor thing looked as if it had been driven all day from Arizona.

  'Schoelkopf must've been in a good mood,' said Petra. 'Okaying cool wheels.'

  Stahl picked up more parking lot dirt, continued to filthy the Bronco. 'I didn't ask him.'

  '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 to catch 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 cafe 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, Tm 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.'

  'Okay.'

  Four minutes later, the Cadillac reappeared, passed the turnaround, continued to Sunset and made a quick right turn.

  Stahl's lights switched on. She followed him, and they both put on speed and spotted the Cadillac as it continued into the Palisades.

  Back to the beach? Shull had taken a girl to a motel in Malibu, but as far as they knew he'd never killed anyone there.

  As far as they knew.

  At Pacific Coast Highway, Shull reversed direction again, turning left - south - away from Malibu and toward th
e lights of the Santa Monica pier.

  Zig and zag, up and down.

  They followed him up the drive to Ocean Avenue. When Shull got to Colorado, he drove east, past the noise and activity of the Promenade and over to Lincoln, where he headed south again.

  Toward the airport. The route he'd taken when he