JONATHAN KELLERMAN. A COLD HEART

“Beyond cool,” I said. “Tell me the issue, and I’ll be sure to buy it.”

“This coming issue,” she said. “They interviewed me a while back but never told me the piece was going to run. They called me today to say it was. It’ll probably complicate my life by throwing me more business when I don’t need it, but who cares; getting out in the limelight once in a while feels good. I’m such a baby, huh?”

“You deserve it,” I said. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks, Alex. How’s everything?”

“Moving along.”

“Anything new on Baby or that painter?”

“No,” I said. When we were together she’d never wanted to know about that kind of thing. Maybe it was her affection for Baby Boy. Or the fact that what I did with my life no longer touched hers.

“Well,” she said, “I’m sure if anyone can figure it out, it’s you.”

“Aw shucks, ma’am.”

“Bye,” she said, and the laughter in her voice put a little light in my day.

Milo reached me at home, the following Thursday, just after 9 P.M. Solitary end of a solitary day. I’d finished the last of my reports, collected tax information for my accountant, did a few handyman chores around the house. When the phone rang, I was doing the couch-spud bit: wearing grubby sweats, snarfing takeout ribs, a couple of Grolsches within reach. Dimming the lights and turning up the volume on the big screen as I watched both reels of Magnolia. Thinking, once again, that the film was a work of genius.

The previous two nights, I’d slept at Allison’s place, waking up in her cozy, girly bedroom, smelling perfume and breakfast, resting the grizzle of my unshaven face against soft sweet sheets, dividing my brain between delight and disorientation.

No more talk about Grant or Robin, and she seemed content—or trying to fake it. She moved appointments around and took a day off and we drove up the coast, had lunch in Montecito, at the Stone House. Then we continued to Santa Barbara, walked along the beach, and up State Street to the art museum where a portraiture show was on display.

Black-eyed, too-wise Robert Henri children, the wistful, wounded women of Raphael Soyer, the dandies and dolled-up ladies of John Koch’s New York arty crowd.

Pale, languid, dark-haired Singer Sargent beauties who made me look at Allison with new appreciation.

A late dinner at the Harbor, on the pier, stretched out to 11 P.M., and we got back to L.A. just before 1 A.M. For the last twenty miles I fought to stay awake. When I pulled up in front of Allison’s house, I hoped she wouldn’t invite me in.

She said, “This has been great—you’re great for me. Want some instant coffee before you shove off?”

“I’ll make it.”

I kissed her and drove off. Now the night was mine.

The next morning, I rented the movie.

Milo said, “Am I interrupting something?”

“Beer and ribs and Magnolia.”

“That, again? What is it, the tenth time?”

“Third. What’s up?”

“You alone?”

“Yup.”

“Then screw you for hoarding ribs.”

“Fine,” I said. “Come over and scavenge.”

“Don’t tempt me, Satan. No, Rick’s cutting his shift early, and we’re heading over to the Jazz Bakery. Larry Coryell’s in town, and you know Rick. Anyway, CoCo Barnes sent over her drawing of the redhead. Afraid you were right. It’s just this side of abstract—those cataracts scotch her as any kind of reliable witness. Also, here’s the scoop on Everett Kipper. Not a popular guy.”

“Among who?”

“His neighbors,” he said. “He lives in a nice part of Pasadena—near the border with San Marino. Big craftsman place on a full-acre lot, lotsa house for one guy. The rest of the block’s families and senior citizens. Both of Kipper’s immediate neighbors are the latter—genteel old folk. They say he’s unfriendly, keeps to himself, used to go out to his garage late at night, create a racket hammering marble or whatever. Finally, they called the cops, who went out and had a talk with Kipper. After that, things quieted down, but Kipper got downright unfriendly—doesn’t answer when spoken to. The cops told him to cool it by ten, and the neighbors say Kipper makes a point of hammering up until the stroke of ten. Leaves his garage door open, making sure he can be heard.”

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 *