JONATHAN KELLERMAN. A COLD HEART

“What?”

“You’re worried,” she said. “I’m sure it’s nothing—she probably doesn’t want to take his call. But let’s make sure and set your mind at ease.”

I stared at her.

“It’s okay,” she said.

“Some date.”

“It’s been more than dating for a while.”

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.

50

I left the Seville in the middle of the road, double-parked, blocking the Cadillac. Jumping out, I ran to Robin’s house. Up the pathway. The screams continued.

Louder, when I reached the door.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *