JONATHAN KELLERMAN. A COLD HEART

“Where to, ma’am?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Milo said, “You didn’t make the reservation?”

“No reservation,” she said. “Mr. Kipper prefers simple places.”

“Business lunches at simple places?”

“Mr. Kipper prefers to eat by himself.”

“What about the people he’s been meeting with all morning?”

The receptionist bit her lip.

Milo said, “It’s okay. He pays your salary, you need to do what he tells you. The city pays mine, and I’m just as determined.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . .”

“He doesn’t want to talk to us. Any reason?”

“Not that he mentioned. He’s like that.”

“Like what?”

“Not much of a talker.” She bit her lip. “Please . . .”

“I understand,” said Milo. Sounding as if he really did.

We left the office, took the elevator down to street level. Dark-suited men and women streamed in and out of the building.

“If she’s telling the truth about a simple place,” he said, “my guess is one of the food stands in the Century City Mall a block away. Meaning he probably walked and will return this way.”

Three massive granite planters filled with rubber trees punctuated the plaza in front of Kipper’s building. We chose one and sat on the rim.

Twenty minutes later, Everett Kipper appeared, walking alone. This time his suit was the color of a blued revolver, tailored snug, also four-button. White shirt, pink tie, a flash of gold at his cuffs as he moved toward his building with that bouncing stride. The business crowd in front had thickened, and he passed us, unmindful.

We got off the ledge and jogged toward him. Milo said, “Mr. Kipper?” and Kipper whipped around with the practiced tension of a martial arts fighter.

“What now?”

“A few more questions, sir.”

“About what?”

“Could we talk up in your office?”

“I don’t think so,” said Kipper. “Cops in the office is bad for business. How long will this take?”

“Just a few moments.”

“Step over here.” He led us behind one of the rubber trees. The plant cast spatulate shadows on his round, smooth face. “What?”

Milo said, “Ever hear of a magazine called GrooveRat?”

“No. Why?”

“We’re trying to trace any articles that might have been written about Julie.”

“And this magazine wrote one?” Kipper shook his head. “Julie never mentioned it. Why’s that important?”

“We’re conducting a careful investigation,” said Milo.

Kipper said, “The answer’s still no. Never heard of it.”

“Are you aware of any publicity Julie received recently?”

“She got none, and it bugged her. Back in New York, when she had her gallery show at Anthony, she got plenty. The New York Times mentioned the show in their arts section, and I think some of the other papers did, too. She remembered that. Being obscure was part of what was painful.”

“What else was painful?”

“Failure.”

“No publicity at all for the Light and Space show?”

Kipper shook his head. “She told me Light and Space sent a notice of the group show to the L.A. Times, but they didn’t deign to run it . . . wait a second, there was one magazine that did want an interview—not the one you mentioned. Nothing with Rat in the title . . . what was it . . . shit. Not that it mattered. Julie was pretty jazzed about it, but in the end they crapped out.”

“Canceled?”

“She waited, but the writer stood her up. She was not happy, called the editor and bitched. In the end they ran a piece—something short, probably to mollify her.”

“Review of the show?” I said.

“No, this was before the show, maybe a month. For all I know Julie called them herself. She was trying to drum up publicity for herself. For the comeback.” Kipper tweaked his nose. “She really believed she had a shot.”

“She didn’t?”

Kipper looked as if he wanted to spit. “The art world, I . . . what was the name of the magazine . . . Scene something, a wiseass name . . . she showed me a copy. Looked vapid to me, but I didn’t say anything because Julie was excited . . . Scene . . . SeldomScene something. Now, I’m out of here.”