JONATHAN KELLERMAN. A COLD HEART

“Not much progress,” I said.

“Sorry . . . wish you were here. We could’ve had some fun on the slopes.”

“There’s still snow?”

“Not a lick. I canceled Philadelphia, will be coming home tomorrow. Want to get together tomorrow night?”

“You bet.”

“I didn’t offend Grant’s folks,” she said. “To tell the truth, they seemed relieved. Everyone knows it’s time to cut the ties. Shall I take a cab directly from the airport?”

“I can pick you up.”

“No, work on the case. I should make it by eight.”

“Should I cook?”

“If you want, but it’s not vital. One way or another we’ll obtain nourishment.”

I put off phoning Robin. When I finally did and heard the tension in her voice, I regretted the delay.

“Thanks for calling back.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t want to bother you, but I thought you should know—you’d have found out eventually. Someone broke into my place, vandalized the shop, made off with some instruments.”

“God, I’m sorry. When?”

“Last night. We were out, got back around midnight, found the lights on and the door to the studio ajar. The police took three hours to arrive, wrote a report, called in detectives who wrote another report. Technicians came and dusted for fingerprints. Strangers in my house—all those procedures you and Milo always talk about.”

“Was it a forced entry?”

“The back door’s bolted and grated but they just shoved it off the hinges. Looks like they were rusted. The alarm was set, but the detectives said the lead must have worn down, wasn’t making proper contact. It’s an old house . . . I should’ve checked but the landlord lives in Lake Havasu, everything’s a drawn-out process.”

“How much damage?”

“They took a bunch of stuff, but what’s worse is they smashed whatever was on the bench. Beautiful old things, an ivory-bridge Martin, Clyde Buffum’s Lyon & Healy mandolin, a Stella twelve-string. My insurance will cover it, but my poor clients, those instruments mean more than money . . . you don’t need to hear this, I don’t know why I called. Tim installed a new door, then he had to fly up to San Francisco.”

“You’re alone?”

“Just for a few days.”

“I’ll be right over.”

“Don’t, Alex . . . yes, do.”

She was waiting for me, sitting in a white plastic chair on her tiny front lawn, wearing a green sweater and jeans.

Her arms were around me before I made contact.

She said, “They took Baby Boy’s guitars.” Her body trembled. “I’d been talking to Jackie True about buying them so I could give them to you, Alex. He checked with Christie’s and they told him neither would fetch a premium. He was about to agree.”

She looked up at me. “I knew you’d enjoy them. It was going to be my birthday present to you.”

Her birthday was coming up in a month. I hadn’t thought about it.

I stroked her curls. “It was a sweet thought.”

“That’s what counts, right?” She smiled and sniffled. “Let’s go inside.”

Her living room looked the same but for some missing pieces of china. I said, “Detective have any ideas?”

“Gang bangers. They obviously weren’t pros. Left some prime stuff behind—a gorgeous D’Angelico Excel and a forties F-5—thank God I had those in a closet. Other than Baby’s Gibson, they went for the electrics. Couple of seventies Fenders, a Standell bass, a Les Paul gold-top reissue.”

“Going for the flash,” I said. “Kids.”

“That and all the wanton destruction says immaturity, according to the detectives. Like what kids do when they break into schools. The gangs are active south of Rose. Until now we haven’t felt it.”

South of Rose was two blocks away. Another arbitrary L.A. boundary, as genuine as a movie.

Maybe Robin suddenly realized that because she began shivering, clung harder to me, buried her head in the folds of my shirt.

“Tim’s trip up north was an emergency?” I said.

“He didn’t want to go, I insisted. He got a contract to work with the kids in a new Les Miserables production. Two weeks of prep before opening night. With kids you have to be careful not to stress the vocal cords.”