Six-two fit Linus Brophy’s description of Baby Boy’s killer. Would a skinny kid have been able to overpower Vassily Levitch? Sure, given the element of surprise.
“Shy,” said Petra. “What else?”
“He’s like one of those—someone who’d like computers, want to be by himself, you know? He’s got tons of computer stuff up there, too. I don’t know much about that kind of thing, but it looks expensive. With his daddy paying the rent, I just figured . . . he’s a good tenant, though. No problems. I hope he isn’t in trouble.”
“You’d hate to lose him as a tenant,” said Stahl.
“You bet,” said Santos. “This business, you never know what you’re gonna get.”
On the way back to the station, just as the sun began to set, Petra spotted an elderly man and woman walking slowly up Fountain Avenue followed by a large, white, yellow-billed duck.
Blinking to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating, she stopped, backed up until she was even with the couple. They kept plodding, and she coasted at their pace. Two munchkins in heavy overcoats and knit caps, veering toward androgynous twinhood, the way very old people sometimes do. Ninety or close to it. Each step was labored. The duck was unleashed and trailed them by inches. Its waddle looked a trifle off-balance.
The man looked over, took the woman’s arms, and they stopped. Nervous smiles. Probably some animal regulation being violated, but who cared about that.
“Nice duck,” said Petra.
“This is Horace,” said the woman. “He’s been our baby for a long time.”
The duck lifted a foot and scratched its belly. Tiny black eyes seemed to bore into Petra’s. Protective.
She said, “Hey there, Horace.”
The duck’s feathers ruffled.
“Have a nice day,” she said, and pulled away from the curb.
Stahl said, “What was that?”
“Reality.”
20
Two days after the meeting with Petra and Stahl, Milo asked me to come along for a second interview with Everett Kipper.
“It’s a drop-in, this time,” he said. “I called ahead, but Kipper’s in meetings all day.”
“Why the renewed interest?” I said.
“I want to talk to him about GrooveRat, see if Yuri Drummond ever expressed an interest in interviewing Julie. Petra and Stahl haven’t been able to get hold of actual copies, but Drummond’s looking more interesting. He’s a twenty-four-year-old loner, real name of Kevin, lives in a one-bedroom pad on a scruffy part of Rossmore. Hasn’t been seen for several days—isn’t that intriguing? The zine sounds like a vanity deal, delusional. Daddy’s a lawyer, pays the rent and probably the printing costs. He wouldn’t give Petra the time of day. I’m talking a real clam-up.”
“He’s a lawyer,” I said.
“Petra picked up definite family tension. Kevin sounds like the family weirdo, and Daddy was definitely not pleased to be discussing him.”
“A loner,” I said.
“What a shock, huh? He’s got a history of jumping from project to project—from obsession to obsession. Exactly the fanatical personality you described. He’s also a pack rat, his landlady says his apartment’s piled high with boxes. Including toys. So maybe kill trophies are part of his collection. He started doing the zine in his senior year. Petra found one partial copy, and Drummond lists himself as the entire editorial staff. He asked an outrageous subscription price, but there’s no evidence anyone ever paid.”
“Where’d he go to school?”
“Charter College, which is pretty selective, so he’s probably smart—just like you’ve been saying. And he’s tall—six-two—which would synch what the wino witness saw. All in all, it’s not a bad fit. Stahl’s staking out his apartment, and Petra’s still trying to learn more about GrooveRat—to see if anyone distributed it. If we can locate back issues and find the articles on Baby Boy and China and hopefully Julie, we’ll ask for a warrant and won’t get one. But it’s something.”
The orchestration of the murders had set me thinking of a killer in his thirties or forties, and twenty-four seemed young. But maybe Kevin Drummond was precocious. And for the first time since the Kipper case had opened, Milo’s voice was light. I kept my mouth shut. Drove to Century City.
The same ovoid waiting room, the same toothy woman at the front desk. No initial alarm, this time, just a chilly smile. “Mr. Kipper’s gone to lunch.”