A Cold Heart

“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.”

9

We finished up and got into my car and Milo directed me to Light and Space’s address on Carmelina, just north of Pico. I knew the neighborhood: storage facilities, auto body shops and small factories, just a stroll from L.A. ’s western border with the city of Santa Monica. If Julie Kipper had been strangled a couple of blocks away, her uncle’s appeal to Milo would’ve been futile.

As I drove, Milo balanced a toothpick between the tips of his index fingers and radar-scanned the passing world with cop’s eyes. “Been a while since we did this, huh?”

Over the past few months we’d seen each other less and less. I’d put it down to his backlog of cold files and my workload. That was denial. There was mutual isolation going on. “Guess, you didn’t have enough weird ones.”

“Matter of fact, that’s true,” he said. “Just the usual, and I don’t trouble you with the usual.” A second later: “You doing all right? In general?”

“Everything’s fine.”

“Good.” A block later: “So… everything with Allison’s… things are working out?”

“Allison’s wonderful,” I said.

“Well, that’s good.” He picked his teeth, kept surveilling the city.

His first contacts with Allison had been professional: wrapping up the Ingalls file. She told me he’d been deft and compassionate.

His first reaction upon hearing that we were seeing each other had been silence. Then: She’s gorgeous, I’ll grant you that.

I’d thought: What won’t you grant me? Then I figured I was being touchy and kept my mouth shut. A few weeks later, I cooked dinner for four at my place: a mild March evening, steaks and baked potatoes and red wine out on the terrace. Milo and Rick Silverman, Allison and me.

The surprise was Allison and Rick knew each other. One of her patients had been brought into the Cedars-Sinai ER after a car wreck and Rick had been the surgeon on duty.

They talked shop, I played host, Milo ate and fidgeted. Toward the end of the evening, he drew me aside. “Nice girl, Alex. Not that you need my approval.” Sounding as if someone had prodded him to make the speech.

Since then, he’d seldom mentioned her.

***

“A few more blocks,” he said. “How’s the pooch?”

“I hear he’s fine.”

A moment later: “Robin and I got together a couple of times for coffee.”

Surprise, surprise.

“Nothing wrong with that,” I said.

“You’re pissed.”

“Why would I be pissed?”

“You sound pissed.”

“I’m not pissed. Where do I turn?”

“Two more blocks, then a right,” he said. “Okay, I keep my trap Crazy-Glued shut. Even though all these years you’ve been telling me I should express my feelings.”

“Express away,” I said.

“That guy she’s with-”

“He has a name. Tim.”

“Tim’s a wimp.”

“Give it up, Milo.”

“Give what up?”

“Reconciliation fantasies.”