A Cold Heart

***

I was waiting out in front of my house as she drove up in her Jag. She’d kept the top down and her hair was wild. When she got out I took her in my arms and kissed her hard.

“Wow,” she said, laughing. “Good to see you, too.”

She slid her arm around my waist and I looped mine over her shoulder as we climbed the stairs to the house.

Inside, she said, “Any of that Bordeaux left?”

“Whatever we didn’t drink last time is still there.”

We went into the kitchen, and I found the wine.

“Oh, my,” she said, looking me over. “You really are happy to see me.”

“You have no idea,” I said.

***

Lying in darkness, I heard the sharp intake of Allison’s breath.

“Everything okay?”

“Sure,” she said, too quickly. Curled under the covers, her back to me.

I reached over and touched her face. Felt moisture on her cheek.

“What is it?” I said.

“Nothing.” She began crying.

When the tears stopped, she said, “Are we at a point where it’s safe to tell you anything?”

“Of course.”

“I hope so,” she said.

But she didn’t speak.

“Allison?”

“Forget it. I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

Moment later: “Here I was, feeling so good, thinking what could be better than this, and Grant’s face floated into my head. He looked happy- benevolent, happy for me. God, how I need to think of him as being happy.”

“Of course.”

“And then the thoughts came- all he’d missed, how I’d felt about him, how young he was. Alex, I miss him so much! And sometimes the way you touch me- the way you’re tender with me when I need that- it makes me think about him.”

She flipped onto her back. Covered her face with both hands. “I feel so unfaithful. To him, to you. It’s been years, why can’t I let go?”

“You loved him. You never stopped loving him.”

“I never did,” she said. “Maybe I never will- can you deal with that? Because it has nothing to do with you.”

“I’m okay with it.”

“You mean that?”

“I do.”

“I understand your holding on to your feelings about Robin.”

“My feelings,” I said.

“Am I wrong?”

I didn’t answer.

“You had years together,” she said. “You’d have to be shallow to just toss it aside.”

“Everything takes time,” I said.

She let her hands drop from her face. Stared up at the ceiling. “Well, folks, I may just have made a giant goof.”

“No,” I said.

“I wish I could be sure of that.”

I rolled closer and held her.

“Everything’s fine,” I said.

“I’m going to believe that,” she said. “Given the alternative.”

15

Ten days later, I heard from Milo. In the interim, I’d persisted with the Cambridge police and managed to talk to a detective named Ernest Fiorelle. He began by scoping me out, and we went through the old security bit. Finally, I satisfied his curiosity by faxing a copy of an old LAPD consultant’s contract and a couple of pages of my deposition on the Ingalls case. Despite all that, Fiorelle ended up asking more questions than he answered about Angelique Bernet.

No serious leads had developed, and the case remained unsolved.

“My guess is some nut,” said Fiorelle. “You’re the shrink, you tell me.”

“A sexual psychopath?” I said. “Was there evidence of rape?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Dead air.

I said, “What was crazy about it?”

“Cutting up a beautiful young girl and dumping her in an alley seems pretty crazy to me, Doc. Out there in L.A. does that pass for nahmul?”

“Depends on the day of the week.”

His laughter was brief and harsh.

I said, “So none of Bernet’s fellow dancers or musicians came under suspicion?”

“Nah, wimpy bunch, mostly females and gays. Scared witless. Everyone claimed to love the girl.”

“Even though she’d been promoted.”

“So what?” he said.

“I was wondering about jealousy.”

“Doc, if you’da been to the crime scene, you wouldn’t be wondering. This wasn’t some… spat. This was ugly.”

Still thinking about China’s possible encounter with a stalking fan, I asked him about music conventions at the time of the murder.

“You kidding?” he said. “This is College-Town, Hahvuhd, the rest of them. We’ve got nothing but conventions going on all the time.”

“Anything to do with the music business, specifically? A group of critics, journalists, fans.”

“Nah, don’t remember anything like that. And frankly, Doc, I don’t know why you’re bahkun up this tree.”

“Nothing better to bark up.”

“Well, maybe you should find something. And keep all that nutty stuff on the Left Coast. Nah, doesn’t sound like any matches between the girl and your cases. Fact is, I found a better match in Baltimore, and that didn’t pan out either.”

“Who was the victim in Baltimore?”

“Some secretary cut up like Ms. Bernet. What’s the difference, I just told you it didn’t pan, Baltimore busted a lunatic and he hung himself. Gotta run, Doc. Have a nice warm L.A. day.”

I searched for Baltimore homicides on the net but came up with nothing remotely familiar to Angelique Bernet or the other killings.