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-I 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.
The embrace.
I broke free, made a grab for one of the guitars, Mexican-made Strat, a cheap one. Solid ash body. I swung it like a bat and hit him full face.
His knees gave way. He went down on his back. The knife flew through the air right at me. I dodged it, and it hit the floor, skittered away.
He stayed down, lying still, one leg curled beneath his body.
White filled the eyeholes of the ski mask. His breathing was rapid and steady.
I peeled back the mask, felt the fabric snag on whiskers. Gordon Shull's rugged face looked as if he'd kissed a lawnmower.
A small voice behind me said, 'Who is he?'
Robin, shaking, teeth chattering. I wanted to hold her but couldn't. Shull had begun to stir and moan. He bore my full attention.
I searched for the knife, found it. Purpling of the steel blade snapped my attention at the wounded man I'd jumped over when I came in.
Kevin Drummond? A two-man game?
How had Robin gotten the best of him?
His chest was inert. The blood pool had widened.
'Oh my God, we have to help him,' said Robin.
I thought that was curious, said, 'Call 911.' She ran out and I went to examine Drummond. Dark hair, no mask. Faint pulse in his neck. I rolled his head carefully.
Not Drummond. Eric Stahl.
The blood beneath him was copious, rich red, syrupy. His skin was taking on that green-gray cast. I ripped off my coat and set it gently beneath the wound. I saw no signs of respiration, but his pulse was still going.
I said, 'Keep going, Eric, you're doing great.' Because vou never know what they hear.
Several feet away, Shull stirred again. His bent kg quivere
d.
I jumped to my feet just as Allison appeared in the doorway.
'He's the bad guy,' I said. 'This one's a cop. Robin's calling 911, make sure she's okay.'
'She's on the phone with them right now. She's doing fine.' She walked in carefully. Stepping around the blood on her deep green Jimmy Choo's.
Little chrome friend in her hand. Cool, unwavering appraisal in her blue eyes.
Not afraid. Annoyed.
Shull groaned and flexed his right hand. His eyes opened. Allison was at his side in a flash.
Shull tried to punch her but his fingers refused to clench. Hers didn't. She hit his arm hard, pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple.
'You need to be quiet or I'll shoot you,' she said, in the calm voice of a therapist.
Petra hung out in the Intensive Care Unit observation area, doing nothing. The closest she'd gotten to Eric was looking at him through the glass wall.
No new information since an hour ago when the trauma surgeon, a good-looking guy named LaVigne who looked like a TV doctor, had told her, 'He'll probably make it.'
'Probably?'
'He's not in imminent danger right now, but with abdominal wounds, you never know. The key is preventing infection. There's also the blood loss. He's almost been totally replaced. He was in shock, out, could go in again.'
'Thanks,' she said.
Something in her tone made LaVigne frown. 'I'm being honest.'
'Only way to be.' She turned her back on him.
Shortly after that, Milo came by with Rick, and he used his MD credentials to read the chart, confer with the staff behind closed doors.
He came out, looking doctorly, and said, 'No promises,
but my instinct is he'll pull through.'
'Great,' said Petra, drained, weak, useless, guilty. Thinking: Hope your instincts are worth a damn.
When she stepped out into the waiting room, the only other person there was a blonde woman in her mid-thirties, sitting in a corner with a copy of Elle, wearing a tight, black, ribbed turtleneck, equally snug white jeans, high-heeled sandals, pink toenails. This one had it all: the hair, the chest, a once-flawless face now only terrific.
Dress for distress.
She and Petra exchanged glances then Petra sat down and the woman said, 'Excuse me are you a... police person?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
The woman stood and walked over. Petra recognized her fragrance. Bal a Versailles. Lots of it. Pink nails, too. A lighter pearlescent shade. She wrung her hands nonstop.
'Can I help you?'
'I'm a... I know Eri - Detective Stahl. The hospital called me because he had my number on a piece of paper in his pocket, and they...'
The woman trailed off.
Petra stood and extended her hand. 'Petra Connor.'
'Kathy Magary. Is he all right?'
'He's doing better, Kathy.'
Magary let out a long whiff of spearmint breath. "Thank goodness.'
'You and Eric are friends?'
'More like acquaintances.' Magary was blushing. 'I
mean we just met. That's why he had my number. You know.'
Stahl, you Don Juan. May you live long enough to keep surprising me.
Petra said, 'Sure.'
Magary said, 'I mean I didn't know if I should come over. But they called me. I felt kind of... an obligation?'
'Eric needs friends,' said Petra. The woman seemed confused. Given the circumstances, that seemed the appropriate state of mind.
'I do hope he gets okay. He's a nice guy.'
'He is.'
'What... exactly happened?'
'Eric was involved in a police incident,' said Petra. 'Apprehending a suspect. He got stabbed in the abdomen.'
Magary's hand flew to her perfect mouth. 'Omigod! All they told me is he was hurt. And then, when I got here, they said I couldn't go inside.' Pointing to the ICU door. 'I guess you got in because you're a police person.'
'I'm his partner,' said Petra.
'Oh.' Magary's eyes got wet. 'I'm so, so sorry.'
'He's going to be all right,' said Petra with phony confidence. Magary relaxed and smiled.
'That's great!'
Maybe, thought Petra, I picked the wrong career. There's always telemarketing.
Magary said, 'I guess I'll go now. Think it's okay if I come back tomorrow? Maybe he'll be better, and I can go in there?'
'It's more than okay, Kathy. Like I said, he needs all the support he can get.'
Something about that knocked Magary down a notch. 'It's still real bad, isn't it? Even though he's going to make it.'
'He incurred a serious injury. He's getting really good care.'
'Good,' said Magary. 'The only doctor I know is my orthopedist. I'm a dancer.'
'Ah,' said Petra.
'Well,' said Magary. 'I'll be going. I'll come back tomorrow. If Eric wakes up, tell him I was here.' She kissed her fingertips, waved them at the ICU door. Smiled at Petra and sashayed down the hall.
Shortly after that, Petra spotted Dr LaVigne exit an elevator, talking to two gray-haired people. The three of them stopped and continued their conversation out of her earshot.
The man was in his sixties, short, slight, wore a brown sport coat, a white shirt under a tan sweater, and pressed beige slacks. Gray crew cut, steel-rimmed glasses. The woman was tiny - maybe five feet tall, also slender. Blue sweater, gray slacks.
LaVigne said something that made both of them nod. They followed him past Petra, into the ICU. LaVigne emerged a half hour later, ignoring Petra as he hurried by. A quarter hour after that, the gray-haired couple came out.
Petra had been slumped in a horrid orange Naugh-ahyde chair that squeaked every time she exhaled. Trying to chase away her thoughts by reading a magazine. The words might as well have been Swahili.
The woman said, 'Detective Connor?'
Petra stood.
'We're Eric's parents. This is the Reverend Stahl, and I'm Mary.'
'Bob,' said her husband.
Petra reached for Mary Stahl's hand, covered it with both of hers. 'I'm so sorry, ma'am.'
'They say he'll be all right.'
Reverend Bob Stahl said, 'We'll be praying.'
'We sure will,' said Petra.
'How did it happen?' Mary Stahl asked her. 'If you know.'
'What I know,' said Petra, 'is that your son's a hero.'
What she thought was: It didn't need to happen.
Stahl had stopped calling in an hour before the confrontation with Shull. She'd tried reaching him twice on the tac band but couldn't get through- Meaning he'd ignored her. Or switched off his radio.
Why?
She sat with Bob and Mary Stahl for over an hour before the answer took shape.
Learning they lived in Camarillo, where Eric had grown up, a short drive from the beach. Eric had been a good student, lettered in baseball and track, loved junk food, played the trumpet. Surfed on weekends - so her initial guess hadn't been that off, after all. She suppressed a smile. Suppressing wasn't hard, thinking of Eric lying there, his abdomen stitched from sternum to navel. Shull's blade had ravaged his intestines, missed the diaphragm by millimeters...
Mary Stahl said, 'Eric's always been a good boy. Never a lick of trouble.'
'Never,' Bob agreed. 'Almost too good, if you know what I mean.'
Petra urged them on with a smile.
Mary Stahl said, 'I wouldn't say that, dear.'
'You're right,' said Reverend Bob. 'But you know what I mean.' To Petra: 'The P.K. syndrome. Preacher's kids. It's hard for them - keeping up the image. Or thinking they need to. We never pressured Eric. We're Presbyterian.'
As if that explained it.
Petra nodded.
Reverend Bob said, 'Still, some kids feel the pressure. My other son did. Put himself under serious pressure and sowed some wild oats. He's a lawyer, now.'
'Steve lives on Long Island,' said Mary Stahl. 'Works at a big firm in Manhattan. He'll be flying in tomorrow. He a
nd Eric used to surf together.'
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 17 - A Cold Heart Page 39
