A Cold Heart

19

Kevin Drummond’s Rossmore address matched an eighty-year-old, three-story brick-faced, mock Tudor just below Melrose, where the street turned into Vine and commercial Hollywood began.

The mansions of Hancock Park were a brief stroll south, and between that high-priced real estate and Drummond’s block, sat the Royale and the Majestic and other elegant, doorman-guarded buildings. Gorgeous old vanilla-colored dowagers, facing the green velvet links of the Wilshire Country Club, built when labor was cheap and architecture meant ornament. Petra had heard that Mae West had lived out her days in one of them, clad in satin gowns and keeping company with young men till the end. God bless her.

But any vestiges of glamour had faded by the time you got to Drummond’s street. The bulk of the buildings were ugly boxes knocked into place during the fifties, and the remaining older structures appeared ill tended, like Drummond’s. Several bricks were missing from the facade and a warped slat of cardboard shielded a second-story window. On the ground floor, protection was provided by rusty security grates across the front door and the street-level windows. The alarm sign on the scrubby little lawn was that of a shoddy company Petra knew had been out of business for years. The hub, indeed.

To the right of the entrance were twenty call buttons, most with the tenant IDs missing from the slots. No identification for Drummond’s second-story unit. The names that remained in place were all Hispanic or Asian.

Petra pushed Drummond’s button. No answer. She tried again, leaned on the buzzer. Nothing.

Unit One was the manager, G. Santos. Same result.

She said, “Let’s try the other two.”

Randolph Drummond’s place on Wilton was a sixty-unit, pink-stucco monster built around a cloudy swimming pool. Drummond’s apartment was at street level, facing the traffic. No security here, not even a symbolic gate across the cutout that led to the complex, and Petra and Stahl walked right in and up to Drummond’s door.

Petra’s knock was answered by a boomy “Hold on!” The lock turned and the door opened and a man leaning on aluminum elbow crutches said, “What can I do for you?”

“Randolph Drummond?”

“In the flesh. Such as it is.” Drummond’s torso canted to one side. He wore a brown v-neck sweater over a yellow shirt, spotless khakis, felt bedroom slippers. His hair was white, neatly parted, and a snowy beard bottomed a full face. Weary eyes, seamed skin, mild tan. Hemingway on disability.

Petra would have guessed his age as closer to fifty-four than forty-four.

Massive forearms rested on the crutches. A big man above the waist, but skimpy legs. Behind him was a bed-sitting room- the bed open and covered with a silk throw. What Petra could see appeared military-neat. The sounds of classical music- something sweet and romantic- streamed toward the detectives.

Waste of time. Handicap aside, this was no zine guy. She said, “May we come in, sir?”

“May I ask why?” said Drummond. Jovial smile but no give.

“We’re investigating a homicide and looking for a man who calls himself Yuri Drummond.”

Drummond’s smile expired. He shifted his weight on the crutches. “Homicide? Lord, why?”

His reaction made Petra’s heart beat fast. She smiled. “Could we talk inside please, sir?”

Drummond hesitated. “Sure, why not? Haven’t had a visitor since the last wave of do-gooders.”

He stamped backward on his crutches and cleared space, and Petra and Stahl stepped into the apartment. Inside, the music was louder, but barely. Kept at reasonable volume- issuing from a portable stereo on the floor. One room, just as Petra had thought, outfitted with the bed and two armchairs, a cubby kitchen. A tiny bathroom could be seen behind the arch in the rear wall.

Two plywood bookcases perpendicular to the bed were filled with hardcovers. Literary fiction and law books. Drummond had been busted for manslaughter; a jailhouse expert?

Petra said, “Do-gooders?”

“Disability pimps,” said Drummond. “State grants, private foundations. Your name gets on a list and you become a potential customer. Go on, make yourselves comfortable.”

Petra and Stahl each took a chair, and Drummond lowered himself to the bed. Keeping that smile pasted on during what looked like a painful ordeal. “Now who got homicided and why would I know anything about it?”

Petra said, “Have you heard of Yuri Drummond?”

“Sounds Russian. Who is he?”

“What about a magazine called GrooveRat?”

Drummond’s chunky knuckles whitened.

“You know it,” said Petra.

“What interest do you have in it?”

“Mr. Drummond, it would be better if we asked the questions.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it.”

“Are you the publisher?”

“Me?” Drummond laughed. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Who is?”

Drummond inched his bulk toward the bed cushions, took a long time to get comfortable. “I’m happy to cooperate with the police, but you really need to let me know what’s going on.”

“We really don’t,” said Stahl.

Stahl’s voice seemed to spook Drummond. Drummond paled and licked his lips. Then his eyes brightened with anger. “I put myself here. In this situation.” Tapping the crutches. “Little drinking-and-driving problem. But you probably know that.”

No answer from the detectives. Petra glanced at her partner. Stahl looked furious.

“Inscrutable public servants,” said Drummond. “I got caught- thank God. Served time in a hospital ward, did AA.” Another tap. “I’m telling you this because I’ve been trained to confess. But also so you’ll understand: I’m a fool but not an idiot. My head’s been clear for ten years, and I know that nothing I’ve done abrogates my rights. So don’t try to intimidate me.”

“Abrogate,” said Stahl, reaching out and touching the spine of a law book. “You like legal terminology.”

“No,” said Drummond. “On the contrary. I despise it. But I used to be an attorney.”

“Is Yuri Drummond your son?” said Petra.

“Not hardly. I told you I’ve never heard that name.”

“But you have heard of GrooveRat. The magazine Yuri Drummond edits.”

Drummond didn’t reply.

“Mr. Drummond,” said Petra. “We found you, we’ll find him. Why add to your roster of poor decisions?”

“Ouch,” said Drummond, stroking his beard.

“Sir?”

Drummond chewed his cheek. “I didn’t know he was calling himself ‘Yuri.’ But, yes, I have heard of the so-called magazine. He’s my brother’s kid. Kevin Drummond. So now he’s Yuri? What’s he done?”

“Maybe nothing. We want to talk to him about GrooveRat.”

“Well, you’ve come to the wrong place,” said Drummond.

“Why’s that?”

“Don’t see Kevin,” said Drummond. “Let’s just say it’s not a close-knit family.”

“Any idea why he took on the name Yuri?”

“Hell if I know- maybe he fancies himself subversive.”

“When’s the last time you spoke to your nephew?”

“I never speak to him.” Drummond’s smile was sour. “His father- my brother- and I used to be law partners, and my indiscretions cost Frank quite a bit of business. After I was paroled and discharged from rehab, he fulfilled his brotherly obligation by finding me this place- ten units set aside for state-funded cripples- then proceeded to shut me out completely.”

“How do you know about GrooveRat?”

“Kevin sent me a copy.”

“How long ago?”

“Years- couple of years ago. He’d just graduated college, announced he was a publisher.”

“Why would he send it to you?” said Petra.

“Back then, he liked me. Probably because no one else in the family did- wild, alkie uncle and all that. Brother Frank’s a bit stuffy. Growing up with him couldn’t have been fun for Kevin.”

“So you were Kevin’s mentor.”

Drummond chuckled. “Not remotely. He sent me the rag, I wrote him a note and told him it was dreadful, he should study accounting. Mean old uncle. I never liked the kid.”

“Why not?” said Petra.

“Not a charming lad,” said Drummond. “Mumbly, ninety-eight-pound-weakling type, kept to himself, always going off on some project.”

“Publishing projects?”

“The fancy of the moment. Tropical fish, lizards, rabbits, trading cards, God knows what. Those little Japanese robots- of course he had to have every single one. He was always collecting crap- toy cars, computer games, cheap watches, you name it. Frank and his mother indulged him. Frank and I grew up with no money. Sports was our thing, we both lettered in football in high school and college. Frank’s other boys- Greg and Brian- are super athletes. Greg’s got a scholarship to Arizona State and Brian’s playing varsity in Florida.”

“Kevin’s not athletic.”

Drummond smirked. “Let’s just say Kevin’s an indoor type.”

Talking about his nephew had brought out the cruelty. Petra thought: Drunk, this guy would be ugly. “Do you have kids of your own, Mr. Drummond?”

“No. I used to have a wife.” Drummond’s eyes squeezed shut. “She was next to me in the car when I hit the pole. My lawyer used my grief as a defense and got me a lighter sentence.”

His eyes opened. Moist.

Stahl watched him. Rigid. Unimpressed.

Petra said, “So when’s the last time you saw Kevin?”

“Like I said, years ago. I couldn’t hazard a precise guess. After my review of his so-called publication, he never called me. It wasn’t really a magazine, you know. Just something Kevin cranked out in his bedroom. Probably cost Frank another chunk of change.”

“Do you recall anything about the content?”

“I didn’t read it,” said Drummond. “I took one look, saw it was crap, and tossed it.”

“Crap about what?”

“Kevin’s take on the art world. People he considered geniuses. Why?”

“Did Kevin write the whole thing himself?”

“That’s what I assumed- what, you think he had a staff? This was amateur hour, Detective. And what the hell does it have to do with homicide?”

Petra smiled. “So you never see Kevin. Despite the fact that he lives close to you.”

“Does he?” Drummond seemed genuinely surprised.

“Right here in Hollywood.”

“Hooray for Hollywood,” said Drummond. “Makes sense.”

“Why’s that?”

“Kid always was a star-fucker.”

They spent a while longer in the apartment, going over the same territory, rephrasing, the way detectives do, when trolling for inconsistencies. Refusing Randolph Drummond’s offers of soft drinks but fetching a Diet Coke for the man when he began licking his lips. Petra did most of the talking. The few times Stahl spoke, Drummond grew uneasy. Not evasiveness, as far as Petra could tell. Stahl’s inflectionless tone seemed to spook the guy, and Petra found herself empathizing.

The interview produced home and business addresses and phone numbers for Franklin Drummond, Attorney at Law, both in Encino, and the fact that, two years ago, Kevin Drummond had graduated from Charter College, a small, expensive private school near Eagle Rock.

“They sent me an invitation,” said Drummond. “I didn’t attend. It was an insincere offer.”

“What do you mean?” said Petra.

“No offer to drive me there. I wasn’t going to take the damn bus.”

It was nearing 4 P.M. by the time they got back to Kevin Drummond’s building. Still, no one home.

Time for Encino. As they drove north over Laurel Canyon, Petra said, “Randolph D. bother you?”

“He can’t stand his nephew,” said Stahl.

“Angry man. Estranged from his entire family. But can’t see any link to our case. Can’t see him moving round town on those crutches and offing artistic types.”

“He killed his wife.”

“You see that as relevant?” said Petra.

Stahl’s pale fingers interlaced. A stricken look washed over his face, then it was gone so fast that Petra wondered if she’d really seen it.

“Eric?” she said.

Stahl shook his head. “No, he has nothing to do with our case.”

“Back to Kevin, then. That comment about his being a star-fucker would tie in with Delaware’s theory. So would the history of failed projects. And attraction to fads. This could be one pathetic little loser who just couldn’t take not being talented and decided to act out against those who were.”

Stahl didn’t answer.

“Eric?”

“Don’t know.”

“What’s your intuition?”

“I don’t rely on intuition.”

“Really?” said Petra. “You’ve been pretty good with GTAs.”

As if taking that as an invitation, Stahl’s head swiveled toward the passenger window, and he studied the traffic flow. He stayed that way during the entire trip to the Valley.

They tried Franklin Drummond’s Ventura Boulevard office first. The “firm” was a one-lawyer affair on the tenth floor of a bronzed-glass high-rise. The waiting room was cozy, bathed in the same type of romantic music Randolph Drummond had played. The young receptionist was friendly enough when she informed them that Mr. Drummond was in court. Her nameplate said DANITA TYLER, and she looked busy.

“What kind of law does Mr. Drummond practice?” said Petra.

“General business, real estate, litigation. May I ask what this is about?”

“We’d like to talk to him about his son, Kevin.”

“Oh.” Tyler was puzzled. “Kevin doesn’t work here.”

“Do you know Kevin?”

“By sight.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Is he in trouble?”

“No,” said Petra. “We need to talk to him about his publishing business.”

“Publishing? I thought he was a student.”

“He graduated college a couple of years ago.”

“I mean a graduate student. At least that was my impression.” The young woman fidgeted. “I probably shouldn’t be talking about it.”

“Why not?”

“The boss has a thing for privacy.”

“Any particular reason?”

“He’s a private man. Good boss. Don’t get me in trouble, okay?”

Petra smiled. “Promise. Could you please tell me where Kevin attends grad school?”

“Don’t know- that’s the truth. I’m not even sure he is in grad school. I really don’t know much about the family. Like I said, Mr. Drummond likes his privacy.”

“When’s the last time Kevin was here, Ms. Tyler?”

“Oh, my… I couldn’t tell you. The family almost never comes in.”

“How long have you been working here, Ms. Tyler?”

“Two years.”

“During that time have you ever met Randolph Drummond?”

“Who’s he?”

“A relative,” said Petra.

“Publishing, huh?” said Tyler. “The police… what, some kind of porno- no, don’t answer that.” She laughed, ran a finger across her mouth. “I don’t want to know.”

They had her call Franklin Drummond’s cell phone, but the attorney didn’t answer.

“Sometimes,” she said, “he turns it off during the ride home.”

“The man likes his privacy,” said Petra.

“The man works hard.”

They drove out onto Ventura Boulevard. Petra was hungry, and she looked for a semi-inviting, cheap eatery. Two blocks west, she spotted a falafel stand with two picnic tables. Leaving the unmarked in a loading zone, she bought a spiced lamb shwarma in a soft pita and a Coke and ate as Stahl waited in the car. When she was halfway through the sandwich, Stahl got out and took a seat across from her.

Traffic roared by. She munched.

Stahl just sat. His interest in food matched his hunger for human discourse. When he did eat, it was always something boring on white bread that he brought from home in a clean, brown bag.

Whatever home was for Eric.

She ignored him, enjoyed her food, wiped her lips, and stood. “Let’s go.”

Ten minutes later they pulled up to the home where Kevin Drummond had pursued his ever-shifting fancies.

It was a beautifully tended, extrawide ranch house perched on the uppermost lot of a hilly street south of Ventura Boulevard. Jacarandas shaded the sidewalks. Like most nice L.A. neighborhoods, not a sign of humanity.

Lots of wheels. Three or four vehicles for each house. At Franklin Drummond’s, that meant a new-looking, gunmetal Baby Benz sharing circular-driveway space with a white Ford Explorer, a red Honda Accord, and something low-slung under a beige car cover.

The man who opened the door was loosening his tie. Midforties, stocky build, a broad, rubbery face topped by wavy salt-and-pepper hair, a nose that looked as if it had spent some time in the ring. Gold-rimmed eyeglasses sat atop the meaty bridge. Behind the lenses, cool brown eyes looked them over.

With three grown sons, Franklin Drummond had to be older than his brother’s forty-four. But he looked younger than Randolph.

“Yes?” he said. The tie was royal blue silk. It loosened easily, and Frank Drummond let it drape over his barrel chest. Petra noticed a wee gold chain dangling from the back. Brioni label. Drummond’s shirt was tailored and baby blue with a starched white collar, and his suit pants were gray pinstripe.

Petra told him they were looking for his son.

Frank Drummond’s eyes narrowed to paper cuts, and his chest swelled. “What’s going on?”

“Have you heard from Kevin recently, sir?”

Drummond stepped out of the house and closed the door behind him. “What’s this about?”

Wary but unruffled. This guy was a working lawyer. A one-man firm, accustomed to taking care of his own business. Any sort of subterfuge would bounce right off him, so Petra kept it straight and simple.

“It’s Kevin’s magazine we’re interested in,” said Petra. “GrooveRat. A couple of the people he covered have been murdered.”

As she said it, it sounded far-fetched. All this time searching for a nerdy little wanna-be, and it would probably turn into nothing.

“So?” said Frank Drummond.

“So we’d like to talk to him,” said Stahl.

Drummond’s eyes tilted toward Stahl. Unlike his brother, he was unimpressed by Stahl’s zombie demeanor. “Same question.”

“These are general inquiries, sir,” said Petra.

“So find him and inquire away,” he said. “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?” said Petra.

“Why should I get into this?”

“Why not, sir?”

“General principles,” said Frank Drummond. “Keep your mouth shut, flies don’t enter.”

“We’re not flies, sir,” said Petra. “Just doing our job, and it would really help us if you could direct us to Kevin.”

“Kevin lives by himself.”

“In the apartment on Rossmore?”

Drummond glared at her. “If you know that, why are you here?”

“Does Kevin pay his own rent?”

Drummond’s lips pursed. He clicked his tongue. “I don’t see that Kevin’s financial arrangements are relevant to your investigation. If you want to read the magazine, go ask him, and I’m sure he’ll be happy to share. He’s proud of it.”

The tiniest rise in pitch on “the magazine” and “proud.”

“He wasn’t home,” Petra said.

“So try again. It’s been a long day-”

“Sir, if you’re paying his rent, we thought you might know about his comings and goings.”

“I pay,” said Drummond, “and that’s the extent of it.”

Petra smiled. “The joys of parenthood?”

Drummond didn’t take the bait. He reached for the door handle.

“Sir, why does Kevin call himself ‘Yuri’?”

“Ask him.”

“No idea?”

“He probably thinks it sounds cool. Who cares?”

“So you don’t see your son, at all?” said Petra.

Drummond retracted his arm, began to fold both limbs across his chest and changed his mind. “Kevin’s twenty-four. He has his own life.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any copies of GrooveRat, would you?”

“Not hardly,” said Drummond. The two words were ripe with scorn- the same flavor of contempt Petra had just heard from Uncle Randolph.

Macho-man put-down of Kevin’s latest nonsense.

This father, that uncle, two jock brothers. Growing up eccentric and unathletic would’ve been tough for poor Kevin. Traumatic enough to twist him in the worst possible way?

“ ‘Not hardly’?” said Petra.

“Kevin took all his things with him when he moved out.”

“When was that?”

“After he graduated.”

Randolph Drummond had received a copy of the zine around then. At the advent of the maiden issue, Junior and Dad had experienced a parting of the ways. Creative differences, or Dad tired of Junior slacking off?

“Is Kevin in school, sir?”

“No.” Frank Drummond’s mouth got tight.

“Is there some reason these questions bother you, sir?”

“You bother me. Because I think you’re bullshitting me. If you’re after the magazine, why all these questions about Kevin? If he’s under suspicion for something- well, that’s just crap. Kevin’s a gentle kid.”

Making that sound like a character flaw.

Twenty-four-year-old kid.

Petra said, “Any idea who, besides Kevin, wrote for GrooveRat?”

Drummond shook his head and worked at looking bored.

“How did Kevin finance his baby?”

Drummond’s right hand moved to the lovely blue tie, squeezed it into a ribbon, let go. “If you want copies, I’m sure Kev’s got some in his apartment. If you see him, tell him to call his mother. She misses him.”

“As opposed to,” said Stahl, as they drove away.

“What do you mean?”

“His mother misses him. His father doesn’t.”

“Dysfunctional family,” said Petra. “Kevin was the resident sissy. So where does that take us?”

“Frank was evasive.”

“Or just a lawyer who likes asking questions, not answering them. We made it pretty obvious we’re after more than back issues. Which is fine with me. Shake things up a bit, see what happens.”

“What could happen?” said Stahl.

“I don’t know. What bothers me is we’re spending all this time chasing a kid and his stupid magazine.”

“You said he was a ghoul.”

“I did?”

“At the meeting,” said Stahl. “You said Yuri wanted the gory details. Was a ghoul.”

“True,” said Petra. “So?”

A half block of silence.

Stahl said, “Let’s give his apartment another try.”

It was close to 6 P.M. Petra, used to working nights, often found herself showering at this hour, then wolfing a bowl of cereal. All the paper and meetings on the Armenian case and breaking in Stahl and today’s lunch with Milo and Alex and this entire futile afternoon had played havoc with her bio clock. She felt queasy and fatigued.

“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

Kevin Drummond was still out, but a press of the manager’s button produced a high-pitched “Yes?”

Petra identified herself and the door buzzed open and the detectives found themselves face-to-face with a short, stout woman in her fifties, wearing a white blouse over black leggings and sneakers. Eyeglasses dangled from a chain around her neck. A jumbo roller topped a mass of too-black hair. Freshly waved locks hung down to her shoulders. She said, “Is everything okay?”

“Mrs. Santos?”

“Guadalupe Santos.” Open smile. Someone with a pleasant demeanor. Finally.

“We’re looking for one of your tenants, Mrs. Santos. Unit fourteen, Kevin Drummond.”

“Yuri?” said Santos.

“That’s what he calls himself?”

“Yes. Is everything okay?”

“What kind of tenant is Yuri?”

“Nice boy. Quiet. Why do you want him?”

“We’d like to talk to him as part of an investigation.”

“I don’t think he’s here. I saw him… hmm… maybe two, three days ago. I met him out back, taking out the garbage. I was. He got into his car. His Honda.”

DMV had reported a five-year-old Civic. But remembering the red Accord in Frank Drummond’s driveway, Petra said, “What color?”

“White,” said Guadalupe Santos.

“So Mr. Drummond’s been gone for three days.”

“Maybe he goes in and out when I’m sleeping, but I never see him.”

“No problems from him.”

“Easy tenant,” said Santos. “His daddy pays his rent six months in advance, he don’t make noise. Wish they were all like that.”

“He have any friends? Regular visitors?”

“No girlfriends, if that’s what you mean. Or boyfriends.” Santos smiled uneasily.

“Is Yuri gay?”

Santos laughed. “No, just kidding. This is Hollywood, you know.”

Stahl said, “No visitors at all?”

Santos turned serious. Stahl’s contagious amiability. “Now that I think about it, you’re right. No one. And he doesn’t come and go much. Not the neatest guy, but that’s his business.”

Petra said, “You’ve been up to his apartment.”

“Twice. He had a leaky toilet. And another time I had to show him how to work the heater- not too mechanical.”

“A slob, huh?” said Petra.

“Not like dirty,” said Santos. He’s just one of those- howyoucallit- holds on to everything?”

“Pack rat?”

“That’s it. It’s a single, and he’s got it all filled up with boxes. I couldn’t tell you what’s in them, it just looked like he never throws anything out- oh yeah, I did see what was in one of them. Those little cars- Matchboxes. My son used to collect them but not as many as Yuri’s got. Only Tony outgrew it. He’s in the Marines, over at Camp Pendleton. Training sergeant, he spent time over in Afghanistan, my Tony.”

Petra offered a congratulatory nod and a moment of respect for Sergeant Tony Santos. Then: “So Yuri collects stuff.”

“Lots of stuff. But like I said, not dirty.”

“What kind of work does he do?”

“I don’t think he does any,” said Guadalupe Santos. “With his daddy paying the rent and all that, I figured him for… you know.”

“What?”

“Someone with… I don’t want to say problems. Someone who can’t work regular.”

“What kind of problems?” said Petra.

“I don’t want to say… he’s just real quiet. Walks with his head down. Like he doesn’t want to talk.”

Big difference from the pushy guy who’d hectored Petra. Kevin chose his moments.

She showed Kevin Drummond’s DMV picture to Santos. Blurred picture, five years old. Skinny kid with dark hair and a nondescript face. Brown and brown, 6’2", 150, needs corrective lenses.

“That’s him,” said Santos. “Tall- he wears glasses. Not such good skin- some zits here and here.” Touching her jawline and her temple. “Like he had it bad when he was younger, you know, and it didn’t all heal up?”

Six-two fit Linus Brophy’s description of Baby Boy’s killer. Would a skinny kid have been able to overpower Vassily Levitch? Sure, given the element of surprise.

“Shy,” said Petra. “What else?”

“He’s like one of those- someone who’d like computers, want to be by himself, you know? He’s got tons of computer stuff up there, too. I don’t know much about that kind of thing, but it looks expensive. With his daddy paying the rent, I just figured… he’s a good tenant, though. No problems. I hope he isn’t in trouble.”

“You’d hate to lose him as a tenant,” said Stahl.

“You bet,” said Santos. “This business, you never know what you’re gonna get.”

On the way back to the station, just as the sun began to set, Petra spotted an elderly man and woman walking slowly up Fountain Avenue followed by a large, white, yellow-billed duck.

Blinking to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating, she stopped, backed up until she was even with the couple. They kept plodding, and she coasted at their pace. Two munchkins in heavy overcoats and knit caps, veering toward androgynous twinhood, the way very old people sometimes do. Ninety or close to it. Each step was labored. The duck was unleashed and trailed them by inches. Its waddle looked a trifle off-balance.

The man looked over, took the woman’s arms, and they stopped. Nervous smiles. Probably some animal regulation being violated, but who cared about that.

“Nice duck,” said Petra.

“This is Horace,” said the woman. “He’s been our baby for a long time.”

The duck lifted a foot and scratched its belly. Tiny black eyes seemed to bore into Petra’s. Protective.

She said, “Hey there, Horace.”

The duck’s feathers ruffled.

“Have a nice day,” she said, and pulled away from the curb.

Stahl said, “What was that?”

“Reality.”