I thought: Wanting an unobtrusive crime car? Then: If so, why not choose a dark vehicle?
I said, “At some point Kevin actively refused money.”
Terry said, “Yes.”
Frank said, “There are different ways to ask.” He unfolded his arms, cracked his knuckles. “I’ve been financing his hobbies for years.”
“Which is what a father does, Frank.”
“That’s me,” said Drummond. “A father.”
Terry glared at him. Her fists were small and white. “Now you people have seen us at our worst. I do hope you’re happy.”
The shame in her voice made her husband flinch. He scooted closer to her. Placed a hand on her knee. She didn’t budge.
Milo looked at Petra, then me. She gave a small nod. I didn’t object.
He reached into his briefcase, produced a death shot of Erna Murphy and flashed it at the Drummonds.
“Oh my God,” said Terry.
“Who the hell is that?” said Frank. Then: “So much for dinner.”
Milo and Petra kept them there as the spaghetti smell faded. Asking the same questions several times. Rephrasing, alternating between sympathy and aloofness. Probing for details, pressing for a Murphy-Drummond link.
The Drummonds denied it—denied everything. No anxiety. I believed them. Believed they knew little about their son.
At some point, a certain looseness entered the conversation. Low voices all around.
Discouragement all around. We’d learned nothing vital, and they had a missing son.
Terry said, “That poor woman. You say she was homeless?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Milo.
“Why in the world would Kevin know anyone like that?”
“He lived in Hollywood, ma’am,” said Petra. “You run into all kinds of people in Hollywood.”
All kinds of people made Frank Drummond grimace. Thinking about Kevin’s sexual orientation?
He said, “I never liked him living there.”
Terry said, “He needed something new, Frank.” To us: “Kevin wouldn’t—I mean he might be kind to someone like that, give them money, but that’s it. He’s never been interested in mental illness or anything like that.”
“Just the arts,” I said.
“Yes, sir. Kevin loves the arts. He got that from me, I used to dance.”
“Really?” said Petra. “Ballet?”
“I took ballet,” said Terry, “but I specialized in modern. Rock ’n’ roll, disco, jazzercize. I used to be on TV.” She touched her hair. “Hullabaloo, Hit List, all the dance shows. Back in ancient times. I worked a lot back then.”
Frank’s eyes glazed over.
Her talking about her career made me think of something. I said, “Have you ever heard of Baby Boy Lee?”
She bit her lip. “He’s a musician, right?”
“Ever meet him?”
“Let’s see,” she said. “No, I don’t think he was on any of the dance shows. I did meet The Dave Clark Five and the Byrds, Little Richard—”
Frank’s loud exhalation cut her off.
“Why did you ask about that?” she said.
My turn to get an okay. Milo and Petra both nodded.
“Baby Boy Lee was murdered,” I said. “Kevin ran a profile on him in GrooveRat, and he called the police to ask for forensic details.”
“That’s what this is about?” said Frank. His laugh was coarse. “My God. What utter and complete horseshit.” Another laugh. “A phone call? I don’t believe you people!”
Milo said, “There’s more to it, Mr. Drummond.”
“Like what?”
Milo shook his head.
Drummond said, “Beautiful.”
I broke in: “How much money did you give Kevin?”
“Why’s that important?”
“Why’s it a secret?”
“Because—”
Terry said, “Ten thousand dollars.”
“Beautiful,” Frank repeated.
“It is no secret, Frank.”
I said, “One payment or in installments?”
“One payment,” he said. “Graduation gift. I wanted to break it up, but she . . . I also pay his car insurance and his health coverage. I figured ten would cover a year’s rent and expenses if he didn’t overdo it.”
“How did Kevin finance the magazine and the rest of his living expenses for two years?”
“Don’t know,” said Drummond. “I assumed he’d gotten some kind of job.”
“Did he mention a job?”
“No, but he didn’t ask me for anything.”
Terry said, “Kevin’s always been independent.”
“What kind of jobs had he worked before?” I said.
“He didn’t work as a college student,” she said. “I advised against it. He concentrated on his studies.”