JONATHAN KELLERMAN. A COLD HEART

Brophy’s description boiled down to a tall man.

Age? No idea.

Race? No idea.

Clothing? Not a clue.

It was real dark, Detective Lady.

If that wasn’t enough to endear her to Brophy, the bum had a media jones, kept pestering her, wanting to know if someone from TV would be talking to him. Petra wondered how long till Brophy tried to peddle a screenplay. Hawking his story to the tabloids: I WATCHED ALIENS MURDER BABY BOY LEE.

Only problem was, the tabs couldn’t care less. Because comeback attempt notwithstanding, Baby Boy was no celebrity. It had been eighteen years since the hit with Junior Biscuit, and in the age of rock-as-porn, Lee was just what MTV didn’t want.

The gawkers from the scene said volumes. All were kids young enough to be Baby Boy’s offspring and every single one admired him only by association: last year Baby Boy had played backup guitar on an album by a twentysomething band called Tic 439, a disc that had gone platinum and had fueled the big man’s rebound attempt.

Still, Petra wondered if Baby Boy had taken in some heavy cash from the hit—big money was always a good motive. But that idea was quashed quickly when she spoke to Lee’s manager.

“Nah, it didn’t make Baby rich. Didn’t make him squat.” The former custodian of Lee’s career was a big-haired, stoop-shouldered, denimed ferret named Jackie True, who spoke in a clinically depressed mumble.

“Why not, sir?”

“Cause it was bullshit, a scam,” said True. “Those kids, they hooked him in by telling him they idolized him, he was God’s answer to whatever. Then guess what they paid him: double scale. I tried to get a piece of the profits, at least the net, but . . .” True blew out air and shook his head. “I didn’t even take my cut. Baby needed every penny.”

“Too bad,” said Petra.

“Too bad was Baby’s theme song.”

She was talking to True in the manager’s crappy North Hollywood apartment. Jackie’s boots were scuffed, and his nails were ragged. What did managers get—ten, fifteen percent? This one didn’t come across like he had a stable full of thoroughbreds. Did Baby being gone mean that fresh footwear and manicures would remain dreams for Jackie? If so, scratch another motive.

No way Jackie True could be her man, anyway. The one thing Linus Brophy seemed sure of was that the killer had been tall, and True would be five-five after a session on the rack.

She moved on to the next name on her list: the soundman, a grad student at USC freelancing for the night, who’d barely heard of Baby Boy.

“Tell the truth,” he said, “it really wasn’t my thing. I’m into classical.”

Petra visited Baby Boy’s residence the afternoon following the murder. It turned out to be an apartment every bit as sad as Jackie True’s, a ground-floor unit in a boxy white sixplex off Cahuenga, midway between Hollywood and the Valley. The building sat behind a cypress-lined parking lot. Oily pools dotted the asphalt and like Lee’s thirteen-year-old Camaro, the resident cars were tired and dusty.

Given Lee’s history, she’d expected dysfunctional clutter, poor hygiene, empty booze bottles, dope, whatever. But Baby Boy had been living clean, in every sense of the word.

The flat consisted of living room, kitchenette, bedroom, bathroom. Off-white walls, shag carpeting the color of Mexican limes, low, cracked ceilings, sixties-era light fixtures with a nod toward sparkle and gold paint. Petra started at the back and worked her way forward.

The bedroom smelled of stale sweat. Baby Boy had slept on a pillow-top, king-size mattress set upon a box spring that rested on the floor. No stash space underneath. Lee’s clothes took up half the stingy closet: T-shirts, sweats, jeans, one huge black leather jacket so crackled it appeared ready to disintegrate. A nightstand drawer yielded a mostly empty date book and some overdue utility bills.

Petra took the book and continued to look around. No dope or alcohol anywhere, and the strongest nostrum she found in the bathroom was an economy-sized bottle of extra-strength Advil, the top left loose, indicating frequent use.

The avocado-colored fridge held yogurt, cottage cheese, decaf, nonfat Mocha Mix, some bruised peaches and plums, grapes that had started to pucker. In the freezer was a package of skinless chicken breasts and a dozen boxes of Lean Cuisine.

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