A Cold Heart Page 2

  Then she read the victim’s license and got sad because, for the first time since she’d been a detective, this was a name she recognized. She’d never been into the blues— not musically, anyway— but you didn’t have to be to know who Edgar Ray Lee was.

  AKA Baby Boy. The driver’s license in his pocket just stated the basics: male Caucasian, a DOB that put him at fifty-one. Height: six-two, weight: two-seventy. Petra thought he looked bigger than that.

  As she recorded the data in her pad, she overheard someone— one of the morgue drivers— remark that the guy was a guitar god, had jammed with Bloomfield, Mayall, Clapton, Roy Buchanan, Stevie Ray Vaughan.

  Petra turned and saw a ponytailed and bearded ex-hippie type in morgue coveralls staring at the body. White ponytail. Wet-eyed.

  “Talented,” she said.

  “Those fingers,” said the driver, as he unfolded a black plastic body bag.

  “You play?” Petra asked him.

  “I noodle. He played. He— those fingers were . . . magic.” The driver dabbed at his eye, yanked angrily at the bag, virtually ripped it open. Zzzzzzzip.

  “Ready?” he said.

  “In a sec.” Petra crouched by the body, took in the details, again. Jotted in her pad.

  Yellow T-shirt, blue jeans, shaved head, tiny chin beard. Tattoos blued both arms.

  Ponytail walked away looking disgusted. Petra continued studying. Edgar Ray Lee’s mouth hung open exposing broken and rotted teeth that made Petra think: Junkie? But she spotted no track marks among the tattoos.

  Baby Boy hadn’t been dead more than an hour, but his face had already taken on that greenish gray pallor. The EMTs had cut the shirt around the stab wound. Three-inch vertical slit up the belly, gaping at the edges.

  She sketched the wound and slipped the pad back into her purse. She was stepping away when a photographer behind her announced, “I want to make sure my lighting was okay.” He moved in, lost his balance, fell on his ass. Slid feetfirst into the blood pool.

  His camera landed on the asphalt and rattled ominously, but that wasn’t Petra’s concern.

  Crimson splotches and speckles decorated her pants. Both trouser legs ruined.

  The photographer lay there, stunned. Petra did nothing to help him, muttered something sharp that widened his eyes and everyone else’s.

  She stamped away from the scene.

  Her own damn fault, going for color.

  3

  Petra worked the case hard, doing all the usual procedural things as well as researching Baby Boy Lee on the Internet. Soon, she felt immersed in her victim’s world, wondered what it had been like to be Edgar Ray Lee.

  The bluesman had started out upper-middle class, the only child of two professors at Emory University in Atlanta. Ten years as a child prodigy on violin and cello had ended when Edgar’s teenage rebellion aimed him at guitar and landed him on a Greyhound to Chicago, where he found a whole new lifestyle: Living on the streets and in borrowed cribs, sitting in with the Butterfield Blues Band, Albert Lee, B. B. King, and any other genius who happened to be passing through. Developing his chops but picking up bad habits.

  The older musicians recognized the chubby kid’s talent right away, and one of them gave him the nickname that stuck.

  Baby Boy spent two decades scratching a living as a sessions sideman and a bar-band front man, endured big promises that petered, cut records that went nowhere, finally recorded a top-40 hit with a Southern band called Junior Biscuit. The song, penned, sung and guitar-riffed by the big man, was a gut-wrenching lament entitled “A Cold Heart”— the very same ditty Baby Boy had played moments before his death.

  The song made it to 19 on the Billboard Top 100, stayed on the charts for a month. Baby Boy bought himself a nice car and a whole bunch of guitars and a house in Nashville. Within a year, all the money was gone, as Lee kicked up his pattern of voracious womanizing and dining, and polydrug use. The next several years were a blur of fruitless rehab stints. Then: obscurity.

  No relatives called about the case. Lee’s parents were both dead, he’d never married or sired a child. That, God help her, made her care about him deeply, and the image of his corpse stayed in her head.

  • • •

  The usual procedural things were: having Baby Boy’s apartment taped off before dropping in for a personal look-through, interviewing Baby Boy’s band mates, his manager, the owner of the Snake Pit, bouncers and bartenders and cocktail waitresses, the few patrons who’d stuck around to gawk at the crime scene and had gotten their names on a list.

  No one had any idea who’d want to hurt Baby Boy. Everyone loved Baby Boy, he was a great big kid, naÏve, good-natured, would give you the shirt off his back— would give you his guitar, for God’s sake.

  The high point of usual procedure was an hour in a tiny, close interview room, in the company of star witness Linus Brophy.

  When Petra first heard about an eyewitness, her hopes had surged. Then she’d talked to the homeless man and realized his account was next to worthless.

  Brophy’s description boiled down to a tall man.

  Age? No idea.

  Race? No idea.

  Clothing? Not a clue.

  It was real dark, Detective Lady.

  If that wasn’t enough to endear her to Brophy, the bum had a media jones, kept pestering her, wanting to know if someone from TV would be talking to him. Petra wondered how long till Brophy tried to peddle a screenplay. Hawking his story to the tabloids: I WATCHED ALIENS MURDER BABY BOY LEE.

  Only problem was, the tabs couldn’t care less. Because comeback attempt notwithstanding, Baby Boy was no celebrity. It had been eighteen years since the hit with Junior Biscuit, and in the age of rock-as-porn, Lee was just what MTV didn’t want.

  The gawkers from the scene said volumes. All were kids young enough to be Baby Boy’s offspring and every single one admired him only by association: last year Baby Boy had played backup guitar on an album by a twenty-something 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. Oi
ly 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 cloisonné 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.

  Petra hadn’t spoken to Alex for a while. She’d considered calling him when Billy’s breaking-away had caused her to wonder about her skills as a . . . friend. Alex had been Billy’s therapist. But she hadn’t followed through. Too busy.

  No, that wasn’t the real reason. Solid or not, Delaware was still a shrink and Petra was worried she couldn’t keep the sadness out of her voice and he’d pick up on it and want to do his thing. She was in no mood to be shrunk.

  Now, shielded by homicide, she could make contact with impunity.

  • • •

  The next morning, at ten, she dialed the white house. Alex picked up and said, “Hey, Petra, what’s up?”

  They exchanged small talk, Alex inquired about Billy, Petra lied and said everything was going great. Then she said, “I’m actually calling Robin. Her name came up in the date book of the victim on a case I just picked up.”

  “Baby Boy Lee?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Robin worked on his guitars. He’s been here a few times. Sweet guy.”

  “You know him pretty well?”

  “No,” said Alex. “He came by once in a while. Friendly, always smiling. But a bluesman’s smile.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Sad, resigned. Robin told me he’d had some hard luck. A couple of times I walked in and found him playing. Best show I’ve seen all year. He had an incredible sense of phrasing— not a lot of notes but the right ones.”

  Talking like a music guy— nearly word for word, the same thing Petra had heard from the big man’s band mates.

  She remembered: Alex played guitar.

  “Lots of hard luck,” she said. “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “That’s about it. Robin worked on his guitars for free because he was always broke. He’d always make a show of writing out an IOU and handing it to her, but to my knowledge she never collected. Any idea who did it?”

  “Nope. That’s why I’m following everything up. Robin around?”

  Several seconds passed. Then: “She doesn’t live here anymore, Petra. We separated a few months ago.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mutual decision, it’s working out,” he said. But he didn’t sound as if he meant it. “I’ll give you her number.”

  Petra’s cheeks had grown hot. Not embarrassment. Anger. Another castle crumbles.

  “Sure,” she said.

  “She’s got a place in Venice. Rennie Avenue, north of Rose. It’s a side-by-side duplex, the studio’s in the southern unit.”

  Petra copied the address and thanked him.

  “I don’t think she’s in town, Petra. She spent a good part of last year touring with the Kill Famine Tour and has been moving around.” Pause. “She met a guy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Petra blurted.

  “It happens,” he said. “We’d agreed to . . . try out our independence. Anyway, this guy, he’s a vocal coach, and he travels quite a bit, too. They’re in Vancouver. I know because she called to let me know she’s taking Spike to a vet, there. Toothache.”

  Petra remembered the pooch. Cute little French bulldog. A chance to change the subject. “Ouch. Hope he feels better.”

  �
��Me, too . . . anyway, they’re due back tomorrow, I think.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Sure. Good luck on the case. Say hi to Robin for me.”

  “Will do,” said Petra, itching to break the connection. “You take care now.”

  “You, too.”

  He hung up. Petra shut out the call and went over the details of Baby Boy’s demise for the umpteenth time. Then she left the station and got herself some lunch. Greasy hamburger at a Vine Street joint she was certain would disappoint.