A Cold Heart

single one admired him only by association: last year Baby Boy had played backup guitar on an album by a twentysomething band called Tic 439, a disc that had gone platinum and had fueled the big man’s rebound attempt.

Still, Petra wondered if Baby Boy had taken in some heavy cash from the hit- big money was always a good motive. But that idea was quashed quickly when she spoke to Lee’s manager.

“Nah, it didn’t make Baby rich. Didn’t make him squat.” The former custodian of Lee’s career was a big-haired, stoop-shouldered, denimed ferret named Jackie True, who spoke in a clinically depressed mumble.

“Why not, sir?”

“Cause it was bullshit, a scam,” said True. “Those kids, they hooked him in by telling him they idolized him, he was God’s answer to whatever. Then guess what they paid him: double scale. I tried to get a piece of the profits, at least the net, but…” True blew out air and shook his head. “I didn’t even take my cut. Baby needed every penny.”

“Too bad,” said Petra.

“Too bad was Baby’s theme song.”

She was talking to True in the manager’s crappy North Hollywood apartment. Jackie’s boots were scuffed, and his nails were ragged. What did managers get- ten, fifteen percent? This one didn’t come across like he had a stable full of thoroughbreds. Did Baby being gone mean that fresh footwear and manicures would remain dreams for Jackie? If so, scratch another motive.

No way Jackie True could be her man, anyway. The one thing Linus Brophy seemed sure of was that the killer had been tall, and True would be five-five after a session on the rack.

She moved on to the next name on her list: the soundman, a grad student at USC freelancing for the night, who’d barely heard of Baby Boy.

“Tell the truth,” he said, “it really wasn’t my thing. I’m into classical.”

***

Petra visited Baby Boy’s residence the afternoon following the murder. It turned out to be an apartment every bit as sad as Jackie True’s, a ground-floor unit in a boxy white sixplex off Cahuenga, midway between Hollywood and the Valley. The building sat behind a cypress-lined parking lot. Oily pools dotted the asphalt and like Lee’s thirteen-year-old Camaro, the resident cars were tired and dusty.

Given Lee’s history, she’d expected dysfunctional clutter, poor hygiene, empty booze bottles, dope, whatever. But Baby Boy had been living clean, in every sense of the word.

The flat consisted of living room, kitchenette, bedroom, bathroom. Off-white walls, shag carpeting the color of Mexican limes, low, cracked ceilings, sixties-era light fixtures with a nod toward sparkle and gold paint. Petra started at the back and worked her way forward.

The bedroom smelled of stale sweat. Baby Boy had slept on a pillow-top, king-size mattress set upon a box spring that rested on the floor. No stash space underneath. Lee’s clothes took up half the stingy closet: T-shirts, sweats, jeans, one huge black leather jacket so crackled it appeared ready to disintegrate. A nightstand drawer yielded a mostly empty date book and some overdue utility bills.

Petra took the book and continued to look around. No dope or alcohol anywhere, and the strongest nostrum she found in the bathroom was an economy-sized bottle of extra-strength Advil, the top left loose, indicating frequent use.

The avocado-colored fridge held yogurt, cottage cheese, decaf, nonfat Mocha Mix, some bruised peaches and plums, grapes that had started to pucker. In the freezer was a package of skinless chicken breasts and a dozen boxes of Lean Cuisine.

Dieting. Trying to better himself, the poor guy. And someone had gutted him like a fish.

The living room contained two straight-backed chairs, eight guitars on stands, and three amplifiers. Atop one amp was an obtrusive bit of elegance- a charming little cloisonne box, black enamel decorated with red dragons. Inside was an assortment of guitar picks.

And that was it.

Petra ’s cell phone tooted. The clerk at the station informed her that Linus Brophy had called, wanted to know if she needed him for anything else.

She laughed and hung up.

***

More of the usual procedures took up the next few days- lots of perspiration, no inspiration. Petra ’s esophagus ached, and her head pounded. The case was starting to acquire that nasty whodunit reek.

At 1 A.M., Monday, sitting at her desk, she got to Baby Boy’s datebook.

The black leatherette volume was virtually empty, save for scant reminders to shop for groceries, pick up laundry, or “call J. T.”

Lee keeping in touch with Jackie True. Hoping for what?

Then Petra came to the week of the murder. A single notation spanned all seven days: the large, right-slanted block letters she’d come to know as Baby Boy’s. But larger, penned in thick, black marker.

GIG AT S.P.

No exclamation points, but there might as well have been. Lee’s excitement came across in the scale.

Petra flipped a page to today’s date: Two notations, much smaller letters. Baby Boy planning a future that never arrived.

Gold Rush Studios? $$$?

That made sense. Jackie True had told her Baby Boy was still fired up, had intended to spend some of his Snake Pit fees on a recording session.

“Sad thing was,” True had said, frowning, “Baby didn’t realize how little studio time the gig was gonna buy him, once I paid the band and everything else.”

“What’s everything else?”

“Equipment rentals, the soundman, the kid who hauled our junk, you know.” Moment’s hesitation. “My cut.”

“Not much left,” said Petra.

“Not much to start with.”

***

The second notation was for Wednesday and this one looked like an appointment:

RC on setup, Tele, J-45.

Petra had learned enough to know that Baby Boy played Fender Telecasters, so this was a date with an instrument repairman.

Then she flashed on the initials.

RC. Alex Delaware’s lady friend, Robin Castagna built and fixed guitars, and from what Alex had told Petra, she was the one who got called when serious musicians needed work on their gear.

RC. Had to be.

Repairman, indeed.

Petra doubted Robin could shed any light on the case, but she had no other leads and made a note to phone tomorrow.

She went home early, thinking of Alex and Robin’s cool, white contemporary house off Beverly Glen.

Those two, talk about a solid relationship.

Robin, unlike other people we know, had been smart enough to get herself a stable guy. Lucky break, especially cause the guy was a shrink, and Petra suspected most shrinks were high-maintenance.

Alex was good-looking to boot- another high-maintenance predictor. But despite all that, he had a what… a solidity about him. A little on the serious side, but that was better than the self-centered flakiness that seemed to afflict L.A. men.