Robin counted the money. “This is forty dollars too much.”
China marched to the door, stopped, flipped us off. “Buy yourself a fucking fish.”
Her murder had elicited a headshake and a “How sad,” from Robin.
China differed from Baby Boy and Julie Kipper in that she’d lacked substantial talent. But there was the matter of a rising star snuffed out mid-ascent.
I wondered if Robin had made any connection, years later, between the killings. Two clients of hers, one beloved, the other quite the opposite.
If she had, she hadn’t let me know.
Why would she?
11
Juliet Kipper’s house was one of two ugly gray boxes squeezed onto a skimpy lot. No backyard. The front was an oily mesa of concrete. Curling tar-paper roofs provided the only green in sight.
Bars on the windows. A rusted iron fence blocked entry to the property. Yellow tape across the rear unit billowed in the ocean breeze. I got out. The fence was locked. No doorbell or call box in sight. A shaved-head kid of sixteen or so sauntered down the street, walking a red-nosed pit bull leashed to a pinch collar. Both owner and dog ignored me, but the two older, shaved-head guys who drove by a few moments later in a chopped-and-lowered Chevy Nova slowed and looked me over.
No reason for me to be there. I returned to the car, took Pico to Lincoln, drove south to Rose Street, in Venice, where I crossed over to the good side.
Robin’s place was a white cottage, shake-roofed and gabled, way too cute by half. Pretty flowers in front hadn’t been there months ago. I’d never known Robin to garden. Maybe Tim had a green thumb.
His Volvo was parked in the driveway behind Robin’s Ford truck. I considered leaving.
“To hell with that,” I said, out loud. “Paternal rights and all that.”
I was hoping she’d answer the door, but he did.
“Alex.”
“Tim.”
Tight smiles, all around. Cursory handshake. He had on his usual outfit: long-sleeved plaid shirt, khaki Dockers, brown moccasins. Mr. Laid Back. Rimless eyeglasses gave his blue eyes—true blue, deeper than my gray-tinged irises—a dreamy look.
He’s a year younger than me, but I like to think he looks older because he’s losing his hair. The strands that remain are fine and caramel-colored and too long—obvious overcompensation. There’s gray in his beard. Soulful, those eyes.
Then, there’s the voice. The smoothest, most sonorous basso profundo you’ll ever hear. Every word rounded and plummy and cadenced. Walking advertisement for his craft.
He’s a vocal coach, one of the best, works with opera singers and rock stars and high-priced public speakers, travels around a lot. Robin met him at a recording session a month after we separated. He’d been called in to help a diva whose larynx had frozen up, and he and Robin had started talking. She was there on an emergency call, too—several instruments knocked off kilter in transit.
I thought of the kind of emergencies the two of them faced. The two of them lived in a different world from mine.
From what I’d seen, Tim was easygoing, patient, rarely spoke unless he was spoken to. Divorced from another vocal coach, he had a twenty-year-old daughter studying at Juilliard who adored him.
A week after Robin met him, she called me up. Once we got past the hemming and hawing, I realized she was asking my permission.
I told her she didn’t need it, wished her the best, hung up. Then I sank low. Within a month, she and Tim were living together.
“So,” he said. The Voice making it sound profound. Maybe he was born with those pipes, but it set my teeth on edge.
“How’s it going, Tim?”
“Well. With you?”
“Ditto.”
He leaned against the doorjamb. “I’m on my way out, actually.”
“On the road, again?”
“Indeed. The road to Burbank—sounds like a Hope and Crosby movie.”
“Have fun.”
He didn’t budge. “You’re here to . . .”
“See Spike.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “He’s at the vet. Having his teeth cleaned.”
“Ah. There’s also something I need to talk to Robin about.”
No movement for a second, then he stepped aside.