JONATHAN KELLERMAN. A COLD HEART

“General business, real estate, litigation. May I ask what this is about?”

“We’d like to talk to him about his son, Kevin.”

“Oh.” Tyler was puzzled. “Kevin doesn’t work here.”

“Do you know Kevin?”

“By sight.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Is he in trouble?”

“No,” said Petra. “We need to talk to him about his publishing business.”

“Publishing? I thought he was a student.”

“He graduated college a couple of years ago.”

“I mean a graduate student. At least that was my impression.” The young woman fidgeted. “I probably shouldn’t be talking about it.”

“Why not?”

“The boss has a thing for privacy.”

“Any particular reason?”

“He’s a private man. Good boss. Don’t get me in trouble, okay?”

Petra smiled. “Promise. Could you please tell me where Kevin attends grad school?”

“Don’t know—that’s the truth. I’m not even sure he is in grad school. I really don’t know much about the family. Like I said, Mr. Drummond likes his privacy.”

“When’s the last time Kevin was here, Ms. Tyler?”

“Oh, my . . . I couldn’t tell you. The family almost never comes in.”

“How long have you been working here, Ms. Tyler?”

“Two years.”

“During that time have you ever met Randolph Drummond?”

“Who’s he?”

“A relative,” said Petra.

“Publishing, huh?” said Tyler. “The police . . . what, some kind of porno—no, don’t answer that.” She laughed, ran a finger across her mouth. “I don’t want to know.”

They had her call Franklin Drummond’s cell phone, but the attorney didn’t answer.

“Sometimes,” she said, “he turns it off during the ride home.”

“The man likes his privacy,” said Petra.

“The man works hard.”

They drove out onto Ventura Boulevard. Petra was hungry, and she looked for a semi-inviting, cheap eatery. Two blocks west, she spotted a falafel stand with two picnic tables. Leaving the unmarked in a loading zone, she bought a spiced lamb shwarma in a soft pita and a Coke and ate as Stahl waited in the car. When she was halfway through the sandwich, Stahl got out and took a seat across from her.

Traffic roared by. She munched.

Stahl just sat. His interest in food matched his hunger for human discourse. When he did eat, it was always something boring on white bread that he brought from home in a clean, brown bag.

Whatever home was for Eric.

She ignored him, enjoyed her food, wiped her lips, and stood. “Let’s go.”

Ten minutes later they pulled up to the home where Kevin Drummond had pursued his ever-shifting fancies.

It was a beautifully tended, extrawide ranch house perched on the uppermost lot of a hilly street south of Ventura Boulevard. Jacarandas shaded the sidewalks. Like most nice L.A. neighborhoods, not a sign of humanity.

Lots of wheels. Three or four vehicles for each house. At Franklin Drummond’s, that meant a new-looking, gunmetal Baby Benz sharing circular-driveway space with a white Ford Explorer, a red Honda Accord, and something low-slung under a beige car cover.

The man who opened the door was loosening his tie. Midforties, stocky build, a broad, rubbery face topped by wavy salt-and-pepper hair, a nose that looked as if it had spent some time in the ring. Gold-rimmed eyeglasses sat atop the meaty bridge. Behind the lenses, cool brown eyes looked them over.

With three grown sons, Franklin Drummond had to be older than his brother’s forty-four. But he looked younger than Randolph.

“Yes?” he said. The tie was royal blue silk. It loosened easily, and Frank Drummond let it drape over his barrel chest. Petra noticed a wee gold chain dangling from the back. Brioni label. Drummond’s shirt was tailored and baby blue with a starched white collar, and his suit pants were gray pinstripe.

Petra told him they were looking for his son.

Frank Drummond’s eyes narrowed to paper cuts, and his chest swelled. “What’s going on?”

“Have you heard from Kevin recently, sir?”

Drummond stepped out of the house and closed the door behind him. “What’s this about?”

Wary but unruffled. This guy was a working lawyer. A one-man firm, accustomed to taking care of his own business. Any sort of subterfuge would bounce right off him, so Petra kept it straight and simple.

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 *