A Cold Heart

something boring on white bread that he brought from home in a clean, brown bag.

Whatever home was for Eric.

She ignored him, enjoyed her food, wiped her lips, and stood. “Let’s go.”

Ten minutes later they pulled up to the home where Kevin Drummond had pursued his ever-shifting fancies.

***

It was a beautifully tended, extrawide ranch house perched on the uppermost lot of a hilly street south of Ventura Boulevard. Jacarandas shaded the sidewalks. Like most nice L.A. neighborhoods, not a sign of humanity.

Lots of wheels. Three or four vehicles for each house. At Franklin Drummond’s, that meant a new-looking, gunmetal Baby Benz sharing circular-driveway space with a white Ford Explorer, a red Honda Accord, and something low-slung under a beige car cover.

The man who opened the door was loosening his tie. Midforties, stocky build, a broad, rubbery face topped by wavy salt-and-pepper hair, a nose that looked as if it had spent some time in the ring. Gold-rimmed eyeglasses sat atop the meaty bridge. Behind the lenses, cool brown eyes looked them over.

With three grown sons, Franklin Drummond had to be older than his brother’s forty-four. But he looked younger than Randolph.

“Yes?” he said. The tie was royal blue silk. It loosened easily, and Frank Drummond let it drape over his barrel chest. Petra noticed a wee gold chain dangling from the back. Brioni label. Drummond’s shirt was tailored and baby blue with a starched white collar, and his suit pants were gray pinstripe.

Petra told him they were looking for his son.

Frank Drummond’s eyes narrowed to paper cuts, and his chest swelled. “What’s going on?”

“Have you heard from Kevin recently, sir?”

Drummond stepped out of the house and closed the door behind him. “What’s this about?”

Wary but unruffled. This guy was a working lawyer. A one-man firm, accustomed to taking care of his own business. Any sort of subterfuge would bounce right off him, so Petra kept it straight and simple.

“It’s Kevin’s magazine we’re interested in,” said Petra. “GrooveRat. A couple of the people he covered have been murdered.”

As she said it, it sounded far-fetched. All this time searching for a nerdy little wanna-be, and it would probably turn into nothing.

“So?” said Frank Drummond.

“So we’d like to talk to him,” said Stahl.

Drummond’s eyes tilted toward Stahl. Unlike his brother, he was unimpressed by Stahl’s zombie demeanor. “Same question.”

“These are general inquiries, sir,” said Petra.

“So find him and inquire away,” he said. “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?” said Petra.

“Why should I get into this?”

“Why not, sir?”

“General principles,” said Frank Drummond. “Keep your mouth shut, flies don’t enter.”

“We’re not flies, sir,” said Petra. “Just doing our job, and it would really help us if you could direct us to Kevin.”

“Kevin lives by himself.”

“In the apartment on Rossmore?”

Drummond glared at her. “If you know that, why are you here?”

“Does Kevin pay his own rent?”

Drummond’s lips pursed. He clicked his tongue. “I don’t see that Kevin’s financial arrangements are relevant to your investigation. If you want to read the magazine, go ask him, and I’m sure he’ll be happy to share. He’s proud of it.”

The tiniest rise in pitch on “the magazine” and “proud.”

“He wasn’t home,” Petra said.

“So try again. It’s been a long day-”

“Sir, if you’re paying his rent, we thought you might know about his comings and goings.”

“I pay,” said Drummond, “and that’s the extent of it.”

Petra smiled. “The joys of parenthood?”

Drummond didn’t take the bait. He reached for the door handle.

“Sir, why does Kevin call himself ‘Yuri’?”

“Ask him.”

“No idea?”

“He probably thinks it sounds cool. Who cares?”

“So you don’t see your son, at all?” said Petra.

Drummond retracted his arm, began to fold both limbs across his chest and changed his mind. “Kevin’s twenty-four. He has his own life.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any copies of GrooveRat, would you?”

“Not hardly,” said Drummond. The two words were ripe with scorn- the same flavor of contempt Petra had just heard from Uncle Randolph.

Macho-man put-down of Kevin’s latest nonsense.

This father, that uncle, two jock brothers. Growing up eccentric and unathletic would’ve been tough for poor Kevin. Traumatic enough to twist him in the worst possible way?

“ ‘Not hardly’?” said Petra.

“Kevin took all his things with him when he moved out.”

“When was that?”

“After he graduated.”

Randolph Drummond had received a copy of the zine around then. At the advent of the maiden issue, Junior and Dad had experienced a parting of the ways. Creative differences, or Dad tired of Junior slacking off?

“Is Kevin in school, sir?”

“No.” Frank Drummond’s mouth got tight.

“Is there some reason these questions bother you, sir?”

“You bother me. Because I think you’re bullshitting me. If you’re after the magazine, why all these questions about Kevin? If he’s under suspicion for something- well, that’s just crap. Kevin’s a gentle kid.”

Making that sound like a character flaw.

Twenty-four-year-old kid.

Petra said, “Any idea who, besides Kevin, wrote for GrooveRat?”

Drummond shook his head and worked at looking bored.

“How did Kevin finance his baby?”

Drummond’s right hand moved to the lovely blue tie, squeezed it into a ribbon, let go. “If you want copies, I’m sure Kev’s got some in his apartment. If you see him, tell him to call his mother. She misses him.”

***

“As opposed to,” said Stahl, as they drove away.

“What do you mean?”

“His mother misses him. His father doesn’t.”

“Dysfunctional family,” said Petra. “Kevin was the resident sissy. So where does that take us?”

“Frank was evasive.”

“Or just a lawyer who likes asking questions, not answering them. We made it pretty obvious we’re after more