A Cold Heart

46

At 9 P.M., as I left to pick up Allison at her office, the phone rang. I decided to let the service pick up but as I drove, my cell phone beeped.

Milo said, “I’m on my way to Pasadena, got a panic call from Kipper’s girlfriend, Stephanie Cra

“Shull got the tickets. Who’d he go with?”

“No one, only one ticket was used. It’s not proof positive Shull was actually there, he could always claim he gave the ticket away, too. But it was enough- along with my assurances that we’re highly likely to pull a DNA match to the hairs on Mehrabian to nudge Judge Foreman into granting me a limited warrant for Shull’s house. After I’m through in Pasadena, I’m driving out to Foreman’s house. After that, we converge on Faithful Scrivener. Foreman lives out in Porter Ranch, so I’m figuring at least three, four hours before everything’s in place.”

“Where’s Shull, now?”

“Last time I talked to Petra he was still home, but that was hours ago. The plan’s for an early-morning surprise, say 2 A.M. If he night crawls, Stahl and Petra tail and we take the house. If he’s home, we all party.”

“How limited is the warrant?”

“I’ve requested permission to confiscate all written materials as well as personal belongings of victims, low E guitar strings, and weapons. Reason I’m calling is I want to know if you’ve got any other suggestions before I complete the application.”

“Audio- and videotapes,” I said. “Sketch pads, drawings, paintings. Any medium in which Shull might express himself.”

“You’re saying he re-creates the killings.”

“There’s a good chance he does.”

“Okay,” he said. “Thanks… this is good, I’m up for it. Time to give him a bad review.”

As I neared Montana Street, the cell beeped again. This time I ignored it.

Thinking what a beautiful night it was. Wondering what Allison would be wearing.

47

Slow night; a couple of drive-by trawlers, no takers, and some of the women were lounging in the shadows, smoking.

Petra left her Accord two blocks down, continued on foot, found a vantage point near some garbage bins outside a toy warehouse and watched for a while. The air stank of vinyl and fuel. Every so often jumbo jets roared overhead, assaulting the sky.

She took her 9 mm. out of her purse and transferred it to the lightweight mesh holster that rode her hip, concealed by a loose, black jacket. Richard Tyler markdown, a real bargain. Way too nice for this kind of thing but the way her life had been going a bit of couture was her sole link to civilization.

What would Tyler think, seeing his duds on Prostie Avenue?

She decided to make her move, walked toward the hookers, aiming for nonchalance but feeling the chill of anxiety. As she passed the first two women, both black, they dangled their cigarettes and stared. One said, “Hey, sister, you like to munch?”

Giggles.

“Cause I ready for anything.”

Petra continued walking. One of the women called out: “You ain’t even thinking of setting up here, Ski

More laughter, but an edge to it.

Someone with a high, nasal voice said, “Privates property.”

Receptive audience for the wisecrack. Petra looked for the comedian. A big smirk said it was her quarry: the stocky brunette white girl in the red vinyl ensemble.

Smiling at Petra. Petra smiled back and the woman cocked a hip. The hot pants were tight, ruby sausage casing for flaccid pale flesh. The woman’s face was broad, coarse, appeared well beyond middle age, though Petra guessed her age as late twenties.

“Hey,” she said.

Red Vinyl said, “What can I do for you?”

Petra smiled again, and the woman’s hands balled. “What you lookin’ at?”

Petra stepped close, flashed the badge.

The woman said, “So?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“Talk’s by the hour.”

“Here or at the office,” said Petra. “Your choice.”

“For whut?”

“For your safety.” Checking to see that none of the other hookers had inched closer and keeping her eye on the brunette, Petra produced a business card and her penlight and directed a beam on the small print.

The prostitute turned her head, refused to read.

Petra said, “Take a look.”

Red Vinyl finally complied, lips moving laboriously. Home- hom- icide.

“Someone got killed?”

A jet killed the silence. Then: staccato clatter as the other hookers hurried over. They crowded around Petra, but she felt safe- they were scared.

“Whusup?” said someone.

Petra said, “That guy who was just here, in the gray Cadillac.”

“Oh, him,” said Red Vinyl.

“You know him?”

“He bad? He never been bad to me.”

“I never liked him,” said one of the black women.

“He don’t go for you,” said Red Vinyl, shaking her bosoms. Prostie-pride, but forced.

Petra said, “What’s his thing?”

“What’d he do?” insisted Red Vinyl.

Petra smiled.

Red Vinyl said, “You don’t need to do that.”

“Do what?” said Petra.

“Smile like that. It’s freaky.”

She drew the woman aside, wrote down the undoubtedly phony name, printed on an impressively state-sealed, bogus California ID.

Alexis Gallant. Alleged address in Westchester.

All Gallant could- or would tell her was that A. Gordon Shull was a somewhat-regular customer with mundane sexual tastes.

One to three times a month, oral sex, no kinky demands, no complications.

“He takes a little long, but big deal. If they were all like him, my life would be easy.”

Petra shook her head.

“What?” Gallant protested. “You ain’t tellin’ me nothin’, and what I know is he likes to be blowed.”

“What about the girl who was murdered around here a while back?”

“Shaneen? That was a pimp thing.”

“My colleagues say she and her pimp got along.”

“Your colleagues got they heads up they asses. And that’s all I’m sayin’.”

“Suit yourself, Alexis. But Mr. Caddy’s bad news.”

“You say.”

“Why you being stubborn, Alexis?”

The woman mumbled something.

“What’s that?”

“It ain’t easy makin’ a livin’.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” said Petra.