JONATHAN KELLERMAN. A COLD HEART

“So she’s back in San Francisco?”

“Yup.”

“Helping her was the right thing to do,” she said. “Now do something for me.”

She got up, crossed her arms, raised the T-shirt from her slim, white body.

I was up by seven, wakened by her light snoring. I watched her chest rise and fall, studied her pale, lovely face scrunched between two pillows. Mouth agape in what could have been a comical expression. Long-fingered hands gripped the covers.

Tight grip. Frantic movement behind her eyelids. Dreams. From the tension in her body, maybe not good ones.

I closed my eyes. She stopped snoring. Started again. When she opened her eyes and saw me, the blue irises were clogged with confusion.

I smiled.

She said, “Oh,” sat up, stared at me, as if encountering a stranger.

Then: “Good morning, baby.” She knuckled her eyes. “Was I snoring?”

“Not a bit.”

She had a morning full of patients and left at eight. I tidied up, thought about Robin in San Francisco, Baby Boy Lee’s instruments gone and what that meant, if anything.

Three blocks south, the gangs were active . . .

But Baby’s Gibson had been the only acoustic instrument taken.

The phone rang. Milo said, “The ligature marks on Julie and Levitch are a perfect match to a light-gauge low E guitar string. Now what does that mean?”

“It means nothing about these killings is accidental,” I said. “And that worries me. Talk to the Pacific detectives about Robin’s break-in?”

“They see it as a routine burglary.”

“Are they good?”

“Average,” he said. “But no reason to think they’re wrong. Robin’s neighborhood, there’s plenty of that.”

I thought of Robin living with me, up in the Glen. Higher-priced neighborhood. Safer. Except when it wasn’t. A few years ago, a murderous psychopath had burned down the house.

Our house . . .

Milo said, “I asked them for a uniform drive-by for the next few weeks.”

“The usual two passes a day?”

“Yeah, I know, but it’s better than nothing. I also gave them Kevin Drummond’s vehicle and plates, told them to keep a special lookout. Meanwhile, Robin’s in San Francisco, so don’t worry. Stahl and the landlady got into Drummond’s apartment last night. He collects toys and magazines, has a slew of computer and printing equipment. No guitars, no strings, no creepy trophies, nothing incriminating. And not a single copy of GrooveRat. That’s what I find interesting.”

“Covering his tracks,” I said. “Or he’s got another storage space.”

“Stahl’s calling U-rent places.”

“Wonder if it was Stahl’s second entry.”

“What do you mean?”

“Normally he’s got the demeanor of a statue. Yesterday, when you talked about going in, his eyes got jumpy, and he looked at the floor.”

“Did he . . . he’s a strange one, that’s for sure . . . the magazines included gay porn. Rough stuff. Stahl said Kevin’s been living spartan, just a few bits of clothing, no personal effects of any consequence. That could be because he split for the long run or there is another stash spot.”

“It could also mean psychological deterioration,” I said. “Drawing inward. Spitting on his parents’ values.”

“Petra decided she will give the parents another try—specifically the father. I’m heading over to Ev Kipper’s office building, see if I can learn more about his girlfriend. Because one of his neighbors called me. Claims Ol’ Ev’s been looking especially angry. Pounding away late at night, past the curfew. They’re afraid to call the cops. Also the girlfriend’s been looking rather down the last coupla days, eating alone. I can’t see any easy link to the cases, but I don’t have a lead in any other direction. The more I think about Erna Murphy, the more I want to know about her, but all Petra’s found, so far, are a few merchants who vaguely remember Erna on the street. No buddies or boyfriends, she was always by herself.”

“What about the doctor the Dove House folks called in when she bled on the sheets? Could be Erna opened up to her.”

“The Dove House folks said the doctor just met Erna once.”

“The Dove House folks admitted they don’t stay in touch with the women once they leave the shelter. And Erna was out of there more than she was in. If she got sick again, maybe she returned to the person who’d cared for her.”

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