A Cold Heart

31

“A guitar string,” I said.

Milo and Petra and Eric Stahl stared at me.

The second group meeting. No Indian food, a small conference room at the West L.A. Division. Seven P.M. and the phones were ringing.

Cleaning up Robin’s studio- handling the strings- had given me the idea. When I’d told Milo about the break-in, he said, “Shit. I’ll check with Pacific, make sure they’re taking it seriously.”

I went on: “The size, the corrugations. Check a low E or A string against the marks on Juliet Kipper’s and Vassily Levitch’s necks. It also fits with the idea of our boy as a would-be artiste.”

“He plays them,” said Petra.

Milo grumbled, opened the case files, found the photos, passed them around. Stahl inspected the pictures without comment. Petra said, “Hard to tell from these. I’ll go out and buy some strings, bring them over to the coroner. Any particular brand?”

I shook my head.

“Artiste,” said Milo. “Wonder if Kevin has guitar strings in his pad.”

Stahl’s eyes drifted briefly to the floor.

Petra said, “I spoke to Kevin’s mom. Very uptight but no revelations. Kevin’s gentle, et cetera. Her anxiety level could mean she has no idea where her boy is. Or that she does. One thing did catch my eye: she’s a flaming redhead.”

“Like Erna Murphy,” said Milo. “Interesting. What do you think about that, Alex? The old Oedipal connection?”

“What’s the mother like?” I said.

“Curvy, voluptuous, flashy dresser,” said Petra. “More flash than class. Probably a looker in her youth. Not too shabby now.”

“Seductive?”

“I’m sure she could be. I didn’t pick up any weird vibes vis à vis Kevin, but it was only a three-minute conversation. The lady definitely did not want to talk to me.”

I said, “It’s possible Erna’s red hair evoked something in Kevin.”

“Guitar string,” said Milo. “What’s next, he stabs them with a fiddle bow? Kevin’s got a history of false starts. Wonder if he tried to be a guitar hero, too.”

Petra said, “Let’s get in his apartment- smell a gas leak and get the landlady to check. Meanwhile, we’re there to ensure her safety.”

Stahl said, “I’ll do it.”

Milo said, “About the break-in. Robin’s name appeared on the liner notes to Baby Boy’s CD, and Baby Boy’s guitars were taken.”

Putting into words what had gnawed at me.

“Your name was on there, too, Alex.”

“It was a long list,” I said. “And even if there is a connection, I have nothing to worry about. Not an artist. You going to call Robin?”

“I don’t want to freak her out, but I do want her to be careful. It’s good she’s in San Francisco… yeah, I’ll call her. Where’s she staying?”

“Don’t know. Her boyfriend’s working with some kids on a Les Miz production, should be easy enough to find out.”

His lips twisted, and he played with the cover of the pad.

Her boyfriend.

The wall clock said seven-ten. If Allison’s flight was on time, she’d be landing in twenty minutes.

Milo said, “Anything new on Erna Murphy.”

Stahl said, “No criminal history, no state hospitalizations.”

“We haven’t been able to track down any family to inform,” said Petra.

“Most of the state mental hospitals closed down years ago,” I said. “She could’ve been committed and we wouldn’t know it.”

Stahl said, “I’m open to suggestions, Doctor.”

Milo said, “Even if she was hospitalized at Camarillo or someplace like that, it tells us nothing. We already know she’s mentally ill. We need something more recent, some connection to Drummond. She has no record at all?”

Stahl shook his head. “Not even a traffic violation. She never got a driver’s license.”

“That probably means she’s been impaired for a while,” I said.

“Impaired but bright and educated?” said Milo.

“Driving can be frightening for disturbed people.”

“Driving scares me, sometimes,” said Petra.

“What paper does she have?” said Milo.

Stahl said, “A Social Security number, and state welfare says she got on their rolls about eight years ago but didn’t put in for benefits. The only employment record I can find is eight years before that. She worked at a McDonald’s from June through August.”

“Sixteen years ago,” said Milo, “she was seventeen. High school summer job. Where?”

“San Diego. She went to Mission High, there. The school lists her parents as Donald and Colette Murphy but says they have no other records. S.D. County assessor has Donald and Colette living in the same house for twenty-one years, then selling it ten years ago. No indication where they moved. No record of their buying another house. I took a trip down there. The neighborhood’s working-class, civilian military employees, retired noncoms. No one remembers the Murphys.”

“Maybe when Daddy retired, they moved out of state,” said Milo. “It would be nice to find them for their sake.” A half-second grimace tightened his face; imagining another bad-news call. “But the picture I’m getting is Erna was long gone from hearth and home, so it’s unlikely they can tell us anything relevant.” He looked to me for confirmation.

“The lack of social connections,” I said, “would make Erna the perfect acquaintance for our boy. Someone he could talk to without fear of her confiding his secrets to another friend. Someone he could dominate, whose identity he could borrow.”

“The lack of connections,” said Petra, “made her an easy victim.” She brushed nonexistent lint from the lapel of her black pantsuit. To Milo: “What, now?”

“Maybe another visit to Kevin’s parents?” said Milo. “Shake the family tree a bit and see what falls out?”

“Not right now,” she said. “Dad’s overtly hostile, very clear he wants nothing to do with us. It’s possible Mrs. D. could be made more pliable, but he’s calling the shots. And his being an attorney makes it riskier than usual. One wrong move, he makes lawyer noise, there goes the evidentiary chain. If we had infinite manpower, I’d stick a surveillance on the house. What I figured I’d do in the real world is work the streets some more. Keep looking for anyone who remembers Erna or Kevin.” She glanced at Stahl. “No harm trying to trace her parents.”

He said, “Donald and Colette. I’ll go national.”

“A guitar string,” said Milo. “So far, we’re playing out of tune.”

“So far,” said Petra, “we don’t even know what the song is.”