A Cold Heart

48

Stahl followed the Cadillac to the street where Kevin Drummond’s car had been abandoned. A. Gordon Shull parked but kept his engine idling, got out of his car, raised his arms to the sky, and stretched.

Stahl heard something sickening.

Shull howling at the moon.

Waving a fist as he did it. Starring in his own private movie. Stahl’s hands were cool on the steering wheel. Just the two of them, so easy…

He sat there, and Shull shook his head like a wet dog, returned to the Cadillac, continued another five blocks west to a self-storage unit.

The sign said twenty-four-hour access, but Shull just slowed down, didn’t stop. Stahl made a note of the address as the Cadillac put on speed, zipped another half mile, then took a side-street route that forced Stahl to cut his lights again.

They emerged on Howard Hughes Boulevard, where Shull switched direction, yet again. North, back toward the city.

Back to Venice, where Shull, once again, drove west on Rose.

Asshole was on a memory-jog. What memories were here?

Back to the walkway, again? Had Shull done someone here?

But this time, instead of continuing to the end of the road, the Cadillac swung a right onto a side street- Re

Dark block of one-story bungalows and tiny houses.

Shull cruised up, down, up, down.

Stahl wanted to follow but the narrow quiet street made it way too risky. He remained on Rose, close enough to the corner to follow Shull’s headlights. Taillights.

Back and forth.

The memory of the howl reverbed in Stahl’s head.

Bastard saw himself as a big bad predator.

49

Allison was waiting for me outside her office.

Black suit, orange scarf. Her hair was tied up in a chignon.

She got into the car before I could come around and open the door. Before the dome light switched off I saw that the suit was actually dark green. “Great color.”

“Black emerald. Glad you like it, I bought it for tonight.” She pecked my cheek. “You hungry? I’m famished.”

The Bel Air dining room’s one of those places that can be nearly full, but still quiet. Irish coffee for her, gin and tonic for me. The complimentary ramekins of soup, then salad, rack of lamb, Dover sole, a bottle of Pinot Grigio. A real waiter, not a pretty-face biding time till the next big break. A man I recognized- one of the Salvadoran busboys who’d earned his way up doing the job well.

We’d made it to dessert when he approached the table looking pained. “Sorry, Doctor, there’s a call for you.”

“Who?”

“Your answering service. They insist.”

I used the phone in the bar. The operator said, “This is June, I’m sorry to bother you, Dr. Delaware, but this guy keeps on calling, claims it’s urgent. He sounds pretty agitated, so I figured…”

The phone ring I’d ignored in the car. “Detective Sturgis?”

“No, a Mr. Tim Plachette. Did I do right?”

“Sure,” I said, wondering. “Put him through.”

Tim said, “Where is she?”

“Robin?”

“Who else?” He was talking loud, nearly shouting, and his gorgeous voice had lost its silk.

“I have no idea, Tim.”

“Don’t screw with me, Alex-”

“Last I heard she was in San Francisco with you.”

Pause. “You’d better be leveling with me.”

“I’m out to di

“No!” he shouted. “Please.”

I took a deep breath.

He said, “I’m sorry, I assumed… it was logical.”

“What was?”

“Robin being with you. She left this morning… we had a fight. I figured she’d run back to you. I’m sorry… where is she?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you, Tim.”

“If you asked me what the fight was about, I couldn’t tell you. One minute we were getting along and the next… my fault, I was too damn busy, didn’t pay her enough attention, this lousy show-”

“I’m sure you’ll work it out, Tim.”

“You didn’t.”

I let that ride.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m being a total asshole, I’m really sorry. It’s just that she was so angry with me, I assumed she went back because… the truth is, she still feels for you, Alex. It’s something I’ve been dealing with. It’s not easy-”

“You have nothing to worry about,” I said. “I’m having di

“The psychologist. Robin told me. She talks about you more than she realizes. Tries be casual about it… I’m willing to put up with it if it’s just a matter of time… I really love her, Alex.”

“She’s a great woman.”

“She is, she is… goddamn, if she’s not with you, where the hell is she? Her flight got in at five, I gave her an hour and a half to get home, called, got no answer. Called again, kept calling-”

“Try her friend Debby, in San Diego.”

“I did. She hasn’t heard from Robin, either.”

“She probably just needs time by herself,” I said, feeling my stomach knot.

“I know, I know… okay, I’ll keep trying. Listen, thanks, Alex. Sorry for being such a moron. I shouldn’t have presumed-”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

Easier said than done.

When I got back to the table, Allison said, “You look like you just handled a crisis.”

“I suppose I did.”

“Anything you’d care to talk about?”

My mind was racing and shutting her out seemed wrong. I recounted Tim’s call.

“Nice of you to calm him down,” she said.

“That’s me, Father Teresa.”

She sidled over, showed me the dessert menu.

“Whatever you’re in the mood for,” I said.

Allison said, “Too full for dessert?”

“No, I’m just not picky.”

“Okay, then… chocolate or nonchocolate?”

“Whatever.”

“You know,” she said, “I’m pretty full.”

“No, let’s go for it.”

She shook her head. “I changed my mind, it’s getting late.”

“I’ve spoiled it.”

“Not at all, baby.”

“Chocolate,” I said.

She patted her tummy. “I really am full, please call for the check. And then let’s drive to Venice.”

“What?”

“You’re worried,” she said. “I’m sure it’s nothing- she probably doesn’t want to take his call. But let’s make sure and set your mind at ease.”

I stared at her.

“It’s okay,” she said.

“Some date.”

“It’s been more than dating for a while.”

We left the hotel. Allison was smart and perceptive enough to know I’d been concerned, but I hadn’t told her the extent of it. The nagging, sickening, chain of thought set off by Tim’s call.

China and Baby Boy; two victims Robin had worked for.

The break-in; only cheapie electrics stolen. Except for Baby Boy’s acoustic.

Shull fancied himself a guitarist, the instruments were ideal trophies.

And Robin had just gotten some nice publicity: The Guitar Player profile. GP was a specialty magazine, but just the kind of thing Shull, with his self-image as a musician, an insider- an arbiter of art- might be likely to read.

I sped to Venice.

Allison switched on the radio, tuned the music low, pretended to listen. Leaving me to my thoughts.

Something Shull had said, when I’d interviewed him in his office came back to me: For some reason your name’s familiar.

Soon after, I’d asked Shull if he’d noticed any change in Kevin Drummond’s writing style.

How so?

He seems to have gone from simple and direct to wordy and pretentious.