A Cold Heart

8

After Robin’s drop-in, our contact was limited to polite phone calls and forwarded mail accompanied by even more polite notes. If she needed to talk about Baby Boy or anything else of substance, she’d found another audience.

I thought about visiting Spike. I’d adopted him, but he ended up disdaining me and competing for Robin’s attention. No custody struggle, I knew the score. Still, from time to time I missed his little bulldog face, the comical egotism, the awe-inspiring gluttony.

Maybe soon.

I’d heard nothing about the murder since Petra ’s first call, and weeks later, I spotted her name in the paper.

Triple slaying in the parking lot of a dance club off Franklin Boulevard. Three A.M. ambush of a carload of Armenian gang members from Glendale, by members of a rival faction from East Hollywood. Petra and a partner I didn’t know, a detective named Eric Stahl, had arrested a fifteen-year-old shooter and a sixteen-year-old driver after “a prolonged investigation.”

Prolonged meant the case had probably opened shortly after Baby Boy’s death.

Petra spending her time on something she could solve?

Maybe so, but she was driven; failure would stick in her gut.

For the next few weeks, I concentrated on spending time with Allison, helping kids, banking some income. One consultation kept me particularly busy: a two-year-old girl accidentally shot in the leg by her four-year-old brother. Lots of family complications, no easy answers, but things finally seemed to be settling down.

I convinced Allison to take off some time, and we spent a four-day weekend at the San Ysidro Ranch in Montecito, imbibing sun and great food. When we drove back to L.A. I convinced myself I was doing okay on all fronts.

The day after I got back, Milo phoned, and said, “Don’t you sound chipper.”

“Been working on chipper.”

“Don’t overdo it,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you to forget the morose underpinnings of our relationship.”

“God forbid,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Something decidedly un-chipper. I’ve got a weird one, so naturally I thought of you.”

“Weird in what way?”

“Apparently motiveless, but we psychologically astute types know better, don’t we? An artist- a painter- murdered the night of her big opening. Last Saturday. Someone strangled her. Ligature- thin, with corrugations, probably a wound metal wire.”

“Sexual assault?”

“There was some posing but no evidence of assault. You have time?”

“For you, always.”

He asked me to meet him for lunch at Café Moghul, an Indian restaurant on Santa Monica, a few blocks from the West L.A. station. The place turned out to be a storefront blocked by gilt-flecked, madras curtains. An unmarked Ford LTD was parked near the entrance in a Loading Only space, and cheap plastic sunglasses that I recognized as Milo ’s sat atop the dashboard.

The place was magenta-walled and hung with machined tapestries of huge-eyed, nutmeg-skinned people and spire-topped temples. An ultrasoprano voice sang plaintively. The air was a mix of curry and anise.

A sixtyish woman in a sari greeted me. “He’s over there.” Pointing to a table along the rear wall. No need for guidance; Milo was the only customer.

In front of him was a quart-sized glass of what looked to be iced tea and a plate of fried things in various geometric shapes. His mouth was full, and he waved and continued masticating. When I reached the table, he half rose, wiped grease from his chin, washed down the baseball-sized bolus that orangutaned his cheeks, and pumped my hand.

“The mixed appetizers combo,” he said. “Have some. I ordered entrees for both of us- the chicken tali, comes with rice, lentils, side vegetable, the works. The vegetable’s okra. Which is usually about as appealing as snot on toast, but they do it good. Little mango chutney on the side, too.”

“Hi,” I said.

The shy woman brought a glass, poured me tea, and departed.

“Iced and spiced, lots of cloves,” he said, “I took liberty there, too.”

“How nice to be nurtured.”

“How would I know?” He reached for a triangular pastry, muttered, “Samosa,” and gazed at me from under heavily lidded, bright green eyes. Since Robin had moved out, I’d been trying to convince him I was okay. He claimed to believe me, but his body language said he was reserving judgment.

“No nurturance for the poor detective?” I said.

“Don’t want it. Too tough.” He winked.

“How’re you doing?” I said, mostly to prevent him from focusing on my mood.

“The world’s falling apart but I’m fine.”

“Freelancing’s still fun?”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

“What would you call it?”

“Bureaucratically sanctioned isolation. I’m not allowed to have fun.” He bared his teeth in what I knew was a smile; someone else might have taken it for hostility. I watched him toss another appetizer down his gullet and drink more tea.

Last year, he’d run afoul of the police chief before the chief retired, managed to play some cards, and ended up with a lieutenant’s title and salary but not the desk job that came with promotion.

Effectively banished from the robbery-homicide room, he was given his own windowless office down the hall- a converted interrogation space, figurative miles from the other detectives. His official title was “clearance officer” for unsolved homicide cases. Basically, that meant deciding which cold files to pursue and which to ignore. The good news was relative independence. The bad news was no built-in backup or departmental support.

Now he was working a fresh case. I figured there was a back story, and he’d tell me when he was ready.

He looked in good trim, and the clarity in his eyes suggested he’d stuck to his resolution to cut down on the booze. He’d also resolved to start walking for exercise, but the last few times I’d seen him, he’d griped about his instep.

Today, he had on a coarse, brown, herringbone sport coat way too heavy for a California spring, a once-white wash-and-wear shirt and a green polyblend tie embroidered with blue dragons. His black hair was freshly cut in the usual style: long and shaggy on top, cropped tight at the temples. Sideburns, now snow-white, reached the bottoms of his fleshy ears. He called them his skunk stripes. The restaurant’s lighting was kind to his complexion, rendering some of the acne pits as craggy contours.

He said, “The artist’s name was Juliet Kipper, known as Julie. Thirty-two, divorced, a painter in oils. As they say.”

“Who says?”

“Arty types. That’s the way they talk. A painter in oils, a sculptor in bronze, an etcher in drypoint. Paintings are ‘pictures’ or ‘images,’ one ‘makes’ art, blah blah blah. Anyway, Julie Kipper: apparently she was gifted, won a bunch of awards in college, went on for an MFA at the Rhode Island School of Design and attracted New York gallery attention soon after graduation. She sold a few canvases, seemed to be moving forward, then things tightened up, and she ran into financial problems. She moved out here seven years ago, did commercial illustration for ad agencies to earn a living. A year ago, she got serious again about fine art, found herself gallery representation, took part in a couple of group shows, did okay. Last Saturday was her first solo show since she left New York.”

“Which gallery?”

“Place called Light and Space. It’s a cooperative run by a bunch of artists who use it mostly to showcase their own stuff. But they also support what they call distinctive talent, and Julie Kipper was deemed as such by their review committee. I get the feeling these people don’t earn a living by their art. Most of them have day jobs. Julie had to pay for her own party- cheese and crackers and cheap wine, a jazz trio. About fifty people drifted in and out during the evening and six of the fifteen paintings were red-dotted- that means ‘sold’ in art lingo. They actually put little red dots on the title tag.”

“Any of the co-op members twang your antenna?”

“They come across as a peace-loving bunch, nothing but good words about Julie, but who knows?”

Julie. Calling the victim by her first name early in the game. He’d bonded with this one. I said, “What happened?”

“Someone ambushed her in the ladies’ room of the gallery. After hours. Close confines- just a sink and a toilet and a mirror. There was a bump on the back of her head- coroner says not serious enough to knock her out, but the skin was broken and traces of her blood were found on the rim of the sink. Coroner’s guess is she was thrashing and her head knocked against it.”

“Anyone else’s blood?”

“I should be so lucky.”

“A struggle,” I said. “How big a woman was she?”

“Small,” he said. “Five-four, hundred and ten.”

“Any skin under her fingernails?”

“Not a molecule, but we did find some talcum powder. As in the stuff they use inside rubber gloves.”

“If that’s what it means,” I said, “it implies careful preparation. How long after hours did it happen?”

“The show closed at ten, and Julie stayed behind to clean up. One of the co-op artists helped her, a woman named CoCo Barnes. Who I don’t see as a suspect because A, she’s in her seventies and B, she’s the size of a garden troll. Just after eleven, Barnes went back to check and found Julie.”

“Is she hard of hearing, as well?” I said. “All that thrashing around?”

“No mystery there, Alex. The gallery’s one big front room, but the bathrooms are out back, separated by a solid-core door that leads to a small vestibule and a storage area that feeds to a rear alley door. Plus the bathroom door’s also solid. Top of that, there was music playing. Not the jazz combo, they’d already packed out. But Julie had brought a stereo system and backup tapes for when the band took breaks. She switched it on while they straightened. Barnes not hearing a thing makes total sense.”

The smiling woman brought shallow, round stainless-steel trays crowded with small saucerlike dishes. Basmati rice, lentils, green salad, okra, nan bread, tandoori chicken. A ramekin of mango chutney.

“Nice variety, huh?” said Milo, picking up a chicken wing.

“You’re assuming the killer got in through the alley. Was the rear door forced?”

“Nope.”

“How soon after ten did Julie go back to the bathroom?”

“ CoCo can’t recall. She remembers realizing Julie’d been gone for a while just before she checked. But the two of them had been busy cleaning. Finally, she had to go herself, made her way back there and knocked on the bathroom door and when Julie didn’t answer, she opened it.”

“Self-locking bathroom?”

He thought. “Yeah, one of those push-button dealies.”

“So the killer chose not to lock up.”

“Or forgot.”

“Someone who brings gloves and ambushes his victim would remember.”

He rubbed his face. “Okay, so what’s the insight?”

“Showing off,” I said. “Aiming for display. You said there was sexual positioning.”

“Panties down to the ankles, legs spread, knees propped. No bruising or entry. Lying on her back between the toilet and sink. She had to be squeezed in there- it’s not how you’d fall naturally.” He brushed hair off his brow, resumed eating.

“What was her mood that night?”

“CoCo Barnes says she was flying high because of how well she’d done.”

“Six out of fifteen paintings sold.”

“Apparently that’s great.”

“Flying high,” I said. “With or without aid?”

He put down his fork. “Why do you ask?”

“You said Julie’s career flagged after her initial success. I’m wondering if personal habits got in the way.”

He picked up what remained of the chicken wing, studied it, began crunching bones. He must’ve ground them fine enough to swallow, because nothing emerged. “Yeah, she had problems. As long as we’re at it, Dr. Clairvoyant, got any stock tips?”

“Stash your money in the mattress.”

“Thanks,… yeah, back in her New York days, she messed around with cocaine and alcohol. Talked openly about it, all the other co-op artists knew. But everyone I’ve talked to so far says she’d straightened up. I tossed her apartment myself and the most addictive thing in her medicine chest was Midol. Strongest thing in her system the night she was killed, according to the coroner, was aspirin. So it looks like she was flying on self-esteem.”

“Until someone brought her down,” I said. “And planned the fall carefully. Someone familiar enough with the gallery to know the bathroom would be a relatively safe place to get the job done. Is there any indication Julie arranged to meet someone after the party?”

“She didn’t mention any appointment to anyone, and her book was clear except for the party.”

“Posing but no assault. That could be someone wanted to make it look sexual.”

“That’s the vibe I get. The whole thing is too damned contrived for a rape-murder.”

“Almost like an art piece,” I said. “Performance art.”

His jaws bunched.

I said, “Why’d you take this one?”

“Personal favor. Her family knew my family back in Indiana. Her dad worked steel with my dad. Actually, he was one of the guys my dad supervised on the line. He’s dead, and so is Julie’s mother, but the dad’s brother- Julie’s uncle- flew out to ID the body, got hold of me, and asked me to take it. Last thing I wanted was something with a personal connection, but what choice did I have? The guy was coming on like I was some goddamn Sherlock.”

“You’re famous in Indiana.”

“Oh, joy,” he said, forking a wad of okra, then changing his mind and flipping the gooey mess back on the plate.

“Was the wire ligament left behind?”

“No, that was the coroner’s surmise from the marks on her neck. It sliced through the skin, but the killer took the time to remove it. We canvassed the area, found nothing.”

“More careful planning,” I said. “This is a smart one.”

“Ain’t we got fun.”