“Good student?”
“Oh, yes.”
Kevin’s advisor—Shull—had seen it differently: no honor student.
I said, “So he worked before college.”
“Oh, absolutely,” she said. “He worked at a tropical fish store, sold magazine subscriptions, did yardwork for us.” She licked her lips. “Several summers he helped Frank out at the office.”
“Paralegal work?” I asked Drummond.
“He filed papers for me.” His expression said it hadn’t been a good match.
Terry picked up on it. “Kevin was always . . . he’s always had his own ideas.”
Frank said, “He doesn’t like routine. My office, any law office, there’s a lot of routine. My bet is he found himself something . . . unconventional.”
“Such as?” said Petra.
“Writing, something like that.”
“He’s fine,” said Terry. “I just know he is.” Her voice shook. Frank reached over and tried to hold her hand, but she pulled away from him and burst into sobs.
He sat back, disgusted.
When she quieted, I said, “You’re worried about Kevin.”
“Of course I am—I know he hasn’t done anything to anyone. But that—the picture you showed us.”
More sobs.
“Stop,” said Frank Drummond in a harsh tone. Then he forced his voice lower. “For your sake, Ter. You don’t need to do that, honey.”
“Why?” she said. “Because you tell me?”
“So what’s the deal beyond basic dysfunction?” said Milo, as Petra drove us back to his unmarked.
“Kevin left home two years ago,” I said, “but he was a stranger long before that. They have no idea what goes on in his head. If they’re telling the truth about his turning down money, I’d like to know where he got the money to finance his publishing venture.”
“Something illegal,” said Milo. “Something on the street. That’s how he met Erna.”
“Not his cousin,” said Petra.
“Doesn’t look like it.”
I raised the issue of a crime car. Kevin selecting a white Honda over something dark.
“He’s unsophisticated,” said Petra. “Over the phone, he sounded like a kid.”
“Nasty kid,” said Milo. “Mommy’s worried he’s a victim.”
“Mommies think that way,” said Petra. She sounded nearly as sad as Terry Drummond.
38
Petra and Milo wanted to talk more so we found an all-night coffee shop on Ventura near Sepulveda, ordered coffee and pie from a waitress who read our faces and kept her distance.
He told me, “You’re right about the money. Ten grand might’ve covered Kevin’s computer equipment—and maybe not all of it. That leaves printing expenses, marketing the magazine, rent and food.”
Petra said, “Kevin’s landlady said he’d paid six months in advance. The place goes for five hundred a month, so there’s three grand. He also paid for six months of POB rental up front. Not a big deal, but he was obviously spending Daddy’s cash up front. Daddy just said Kevin preferred ‘unconventional’ jobs.”
She’d ordered Boston Cream, cut away the cream, picked at the chocolate.
Milo inhaled half of his apple à la mode deluxe (two scoops of vanilla), and I realized I was hungry and made inroads on a slab of pecan.
“The thing is,” she said, “I’ve been out on the streets three days running, can’t find anyone who even knows him, let alone a hint of criminal enterprise.”
“What’s your guess?” I said. “Drugs?”
“Rich kid with a bankroll. It fits.”
Milo said, “Ten grand doesn’t make him a cartel, but it’s more than enough to finance an initial stash, mark it up, peddle it, use the profit for another stash.”
Petra said, “The spot where he picked up Erna is a well-known illicit pill market. Maybe Kevin knew it from previous experience.”
Milo finished his pie, began work on the ice cream. “Once upon a time, you worked at a hospital, Alex. Anything you want to toss in, here?”
“Never caught a hint of a black-market pill trade.”
“Still in touch with anyone at Western Peds?”
“From time to time.”
“What about the neighboring hospitals?”
“I’ve got a few contacts.”
He looked at Petra. “What do you think of his showing Kevin’s picture around to white coats?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” she said. “Maybe they’d be more open with a colleague. You mind, Alex?”
“No,” I said, “but if someone’s dealing pills, they’re not going to ‘fess up to it. Or admit they know any dealers.”