A Cold Heart

“The gory details.” She frowned. “I figured him for an adolescent ghoul, shined him on.”

Milo said, “Be interesting to know if he ever wrote up Julie Kipper.”

“Wouldn’t it,” said Petra.

I said, “I tried to find a copy of GrooveRat at the big newsstand on Selma, but they didn’t carry it. The owner suggested a comics store on the boulevard, but they were closed.”

“Probably a dinky fly-by-night deal,” said Milo.

“That’s what China’s band mate said. He didn’t save a copy, either.”

“Yuri Drummond… sounds like a made-up name. What, he wants to be a cosmonaut?”

“Everyone reinvents themselves,” said Petra. “It’s the L.A. way.” Glancing at Stahl. He didn’t respond.

“Especially if they’re running from something,” I said.

“GrooveRat,” she said. “So what does this mean? A fan gone psycho?”

“Someone overinvolved in the victims’ careers. Maybe someone whose identity became enmeshed with the creativity of others. ‘Leeches on the body artistic’ is how Julie Kipper’s ex-husband described critics and agents and gallery owners and all the other ancillaries of the creative world. The same can be said of fanatical followers. Sometimes attachments morph into business arrangements- presidents of fan clubs selling memorabilia- but the core remains emotional: celebrity by association. For most people, fandom’s a fling that ends when they grow up. But certain borderline personalities never mature, and what starts out as a harmless ego-substitution- the kid standing in front of a mirror playing air guitar and imagining himself to be Hendrix- can turn into a psychological hijacking.”

“Hijacking what?” said Milo.

“The adored one’s identity. ‘I know the star better than he knows himself. How dare he get married/sell out/not listen to my advice?’ “

“How dare he refuse my generous offer to be interviewed,” said Petra. “Adolescents are the biggest fanatics, right? And Yuri Drummond sounded adolescent. The fact that he published a zine makes him hard-core.”

“Desktop publishing’s elevated hard-core,” I said. “Buy a computer and a printer, and you, too, can be a media-master. I know these victims vary demographically, but I’ve thought all along that the crucial element is their career status: poised for a jump. What if the killer became attached to them precisely because they weren’t stars? Entertained rescue fantasies- he’d be the star-maker by writing about them. They rejected him, so he interrupted the climb. Maybe he convinced himself they sold out.”

“Or,” said Petra, “since we’re talking about vicarious talent, maybe he was an aspiring artist himself and simply got consumed with jealousy.”

Milo said, “Aspiring guitarist, painter, singer, and pianist?”

“A real megalomaniac,” she said.

All three detectives looked at me.

“It’s possible,” I said. “A dilettante who bounces from game to game. I had a patient years ago, a successful writer. Scarcely a week went by when he didn’t meet someone who planned to pen the Great American Novel if only they had time. This guy had written his first four books while holding down two jobs. One thing he told me stuck: When someone says they want to be a writer, they’ll never make it. When they say they want to write, there’s a chance. That could fit with our bitter-fan scenario: someone who gets off on the external trappings of creativity.”

Petra smiled. “Leeches on the body artistic.” Years ago, she’d worked as a painter. “I like that.”

“So we’re talking two possibilities,” said Milo. “A rescue fantasy turned on its head or pathological jealousy.”

“Or both,” I said. “Or, I’m dead wrong.”

Petra laughed. “Don’t say that up on the witness stand, Doctor.” She picked up a piece of wafer bread, cracked a corner between sharp, white teeth, chewed slowly. “Yuri Drummond went on about his zine capturing the essence of art. When he started nagging me for the gories, it could’ve been revisiting the scene- psychologically.”

“Ego trip,” said Milo. “Like arsonists standing around watching the flames.”

“Did Drummond write the story on Baby Boy?” I said.

“I think he told me a writer did,” said Petra. “All I copied down was the guy’s name. At the time it seemed irrelevant.” She placed her napkin on the table. “Time to check the guy out, earn my salary. This was good, Milo. Let me split the check with you.”

“Forget it. I run a tab here.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m a rajah,” he said. “Go detect. Stay in touch.”

Petra touched Milo’s shoulder briefly, favored me with a smile, turned and headed for the door.

Stahl got up and followed her out. During the entire discussion, he hadn’t said a word.

18

The silent type. Some women thought they liked that.

Petra had thought she liked it. But working with Stahl was proving to be a trying experience.

The guy never spoke unless spoken to, and even then, he drew upon his verbal bank account one scroogy syllable at a time.

Now here they were, driving away from the meeting with Milo and Alex, when there should’ve been animated discussion. Stahl just stared out the passenger window, inert as dirt.

What? Looking for another stolen car? He’d spotted two GTAs in one week, and the second had contained a passenger with a felony manslaughter warrant, so brownie points for the two of them. But if that’s what floated Stahl’s dinghy, he should’ve asked for an assignment to Auto Theft.

Why he’d chosen Homicide puzzled her. Why he’d given up the security of an Army gig for the streets was an even bigger question mark.

She’d hazarded a few polite questions. Every attempt to crack the shell revealed a granite egg.

Not that old Eric was any big old stoic macho man with obvious dominance needs or glory lust. On the contrary, he’d made it clear, right from the beginning, that Petra was the senior partner.

And unlike most men, he knew how to apologize. Even when it wasn’t necessary.

Two days into their partnership, Petra had arrived early and found Stahl at his desk, reading a folded newspaper and sipping herbal tea- that was another thing, he didn’t drink coffee, and if anything contravened the detective code of ethics, it was caffeine phobia.

When he saw her he looked up and Petra sensed unease- the merest hint of restlessness- in his flat, brown eyes.

“Evening, Eric.”

“This wasn’t my idea,” he said, handing her the paper. A two-paragraph article toward the back had been circled in black marker.

Summary of the Armenian gang killing. Her name in print, as the investigator. Along with Stahl’s.

The case had been wrapped up well before Stahl’s arrival. Someone- maybe a departmental PR doofus, or even Schoelkopf digging at Petra intentionally- had doled out cocredit.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Petra.

“I don’t like it,” said Stahl.

“Don’t like what?”

“It was your case.”

“I don’t care, Eric.”

“I thought I’d call the Times.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Stahl stared at her. “Okay,” he said, finally. “I wanted to clarify.”