All those pictures of Robin in the magazine, the adulation.
Rising star.
I told it all to Allison. “Overactive imagination, huh?”
“It’s a spooky case, you’re entitled. Let’s call her now, maybe she’s in, and that’ll be that.”
I used the cell. No answer. Tried Milo’s desk. Away; a machine answered
Then I remembered: He was out in Porter Ranch with the judge, angling for a signature on a warrant application.
I phoned the Hollywood station. Petra was out, too. I didn’t have her cell.
Allison said, “You can put on some speed.”
Robin’s street was quiet, dark. Little houses tucked in and put to bed, lots of parked cars, the brine of the ocean.
“There,” I said. “Her truck’s in the driveway. You were right, she’s not taking calls. Her lights are on, everything looks fine.”
“If you want to check on her, it’s okay,” said Allison.
“What is this, the bond of sisterhood?”
“Hardly. I don’t know her. Don’t even know if I’d like her. This is for you, my dear. If anything’s going to keep you up tonight, I want it to be me.”
“You’re okay waiting?”
“Sure,” she said. Big grin. “Or I can get out and flaunt my Jimmy Choo’s and my black-emerald hoo-hah.”
As I looked for a parking space, she said, “I’ll bet she’s beautiful.”
“I’d rather talk about you.”
“That means she’s beautiful. Oh well.”
“Allison-”
“Yeah, yeah.” She laughed. “There’s a space- right behind that Cadillac.”
I started to tell her something- to this day I don’t remember what.
A scream cut me short.
50
I left the Seville in the middle of the road, double-parked, blocking the Cadillac. Jumping out, I ran to Robin’s house. Up the pathway. The screams continued.
Louder, when I reached the door.
I shouldered the door but it swung open and I lost my balance, tumbled, caught myself on my palms, shot up, continued running.
Dark house, but for a triangle of light up the hall to the left.
The studio.
The screams… I rushed in, nearly tripped over a man on the floor. Black clothes, facedown, blood pooling beneath him.
Robin was crouched at the far end, up against the wall, holding her hands out protectively.
She saw me. Pointed to the left.
A man in black came from around the door, advanced on her, wielding a knife. Big kitchen knife. One of Robin’s. I recognized it. I’d bought the set.
She screamed, he kept coming. Ski mask over a black sweatshirt and nylon pants.
Something in Robin’s eyes made him whirl. He took a half-second to decide, charged me, slashing.
I jumped back as Robin lunged for her worktable, picked something up, wrapped both hands around it, and lunged for him. A chisel. She missed, lost her grip, the tool clattered out of reach.
He glanced at it but not long enough to give me an advantage. Returned his attention to me. Played with the knife. I danced away from the blade’s tiny arcs. Robin got hold of something else.
I looked for a weapon. Too far from the bench. A few feet away, a couple of guitars in disrepair were propped in stands… Robin screamed again, and his head moved back involuntarily. He saw the hammer in her grip. Moved on her, changed his mind and returned back to me. Then her. Me. Her.
Predator 101: pick off the small ones.
He charged her. Running full force, the knife arm extended.
Robin threw the hammer at him, missed, dropped to the ground, rolled under the workbench. He bent his knees, reached under, got hold of her hand, slashed, missed, lost his grip.
She scooted toward the center of the bench.
I got hold of his free arm. He tried to shake me off, couldn’t, wheeled and faced me and drew me close.
Face-to-face.
The embrace.
I broke free, made a grab for one of the guitars, Mexican-made Strat, a cheap one. Solid ash body. I swung it like a bat and hit him full face.
His knees gave way. He went down on his back. The knife flew through the air right at me. I dodged it, and it hit the floor, skittered away.
He stayed down, lying still, one leg curled beneath his body.
White filled the eyeholes of the ski mask. His breathing was rapid and steady.
I peeled back the mask, felt the fabric snag on whiskers. Gordon Shull’s rugged face looked as if he’d kissed a lawn mower.
A small voice behind me said, “Who is he?”
Robin, shaking, teeth chattering. I wanted to hold her but couldn’t. Shull had begun to stir and moan. He bore my full attention.
I searched for the knife, found it. Purpling of the steel blade snapped my attention at the wounded man I’d jumped over when I came in.
Kevin Drummond? A two-man game?
How had Robin gotten the best of him?
His chest was inert. The blood pool had widened.
“Oh my God, we have to help him,” said Robin.
I thought that was curious, said, “Call 911.” She ran out and I went to examine Drummond. Dark hair, no mask. Faint pulse in his neck. I rolled his head carefully.
Not Drummond. Eric Stahl.
The blood beneath him was copious, rich red, syrupy. His skin was taking on that green-gray cast. I ripped off my coat and set it gently beneath the wound. I saw no signs of respiration, but his pulse was still going.
I said, “Keep going, Eric, you’re doing great.” Because you never know what they hear.
Several feet away, Shull stirred again. His bent leg quivered.
I jumped to my feet just as Allison appeared in the doorway.
“He’s the bad guy,” I said. “This one’s a cop. Robin’s calling 911, make sure she’s okay.”
“She’s on the phone with them right now. She’s doing fine.” She walked in carefully. Stepping around the blood on her deep green Jimmy Choo’s.
Little chrome friend in her hand. Cool, unwavering appraisal in her blue eyes.
