JONATHAN KELLERMAN. A COLD HEART

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 the 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 stashed Kevin Drummond’s car.

If he’d stashed Kevin, too, maybe this would tell them where.

At Rose, Shull surprised her, yet again. Turning back toward the ocean and driving all the way to the Venice Walkway, where he pulled toward the right side of the street but didn’t park.

Idling. Lights on.

She hung back at Pacific, maintained her distance. Stahl dimmed his lights and got within a block of the Cadillac.

The Caddy made a ponderous three-point turn, sped back toward them. By the time they were in gear, all three vehicles were back on Lincoln.

For this guy, driving was something way beyond getting from one place to another.

Shull drove past the Marina and Playa del Rey, not far from where he’d dumped Armand Mehrabian, then into the bleak, industrial wasteland on the outskirts of El Segundo.

Great dump ground, and the isolation made it terrible for a tail. Both detectives had switched their lights off a half mile back.

Shull lowered his speed as he glided past empty fields, oil derricks, marshland.

Kevin’s final resting spot? Nope, here Shull was, again, speeding. Continuing another mile, then east to Sepulveda. Another right turn.

Driving rapidly into Inglewood. Definitely LAX.

But, as if thumbing his nose at Petra’s theories, Shull slowed three blocks short of the airport and jerked the Caddy suddenly onto a side street.

This was walking distance from where Kevin Drummond’s car had been found.

The Caddy chewed up four more blocks before pulling over. On both sides of the street were warehouses and small factories. Poor lighting. And Petra knew what else.

A hooker strip.

She settled a hundred feet behind Stahl. He called in: “I’ve got binocs on him. He’s out of the car, now . . . walking. Talking to a woman.”

“What’s she look like?” said Petra, remembering what Small and Schlesinger had said about working an unsolved streetwalker murder in this neighborhood.

“She’s wearing hot pants,” said Stahl.

She said, “I’m getting closer.”

A. Gordon Shull talked to the prostitute—a chubby woman, the hot pants were red and so was her top. Nothing but talk; he got back in the Cadillac.

Petra radioed Stahl: “I’m going to stay behind and check her out. You continue.”

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