A Cold Heart Page 4

  She shook her head. “Transitions. Now I’m being presumptuous—”

  “Hey,” I said. “The first time we went out I changed shirts three times.”

  She stared up at me. I touched her chin and raised it. She removed my hand.

  “Saying the right thing,” she said. “With people like us, you never know if it’s the training.”

  “Occupational hazard,” I said.

  She threw her arms around me and kissed me deeply. Her tongue was gingery and nimble. I held her tight, stroked her face, her neck, her back, chanced roaming lower and when she didn’t stop me, dropped both my hands and cupped her rear. She moved my right hand around to her front, sandwiched it between cotton-sheathed thighs. I explored her heat and she did something with her hips that was pure intent. Lifting the black dress, I peeled down her panties, felt the angle of her legs widen. I kissed her, I strummed her. One of her hands was tangled in my hair, holding fast. The other fumbled at my zipper. Finally, she freed me and we were on the hardwood floor of her living room and I was in her and she was clutching me and we were moving together as if we’d been doing it all our lives.

  • • •

  She kissed my face and said, “I’m going to go out on a limb. With you it’s not just the training. You’re a sweet man.”

  • • •

  The feelings came later. After we’d slept and eaten leftovers and renewed our dehydrated bodies with gulps of water and were finally heading north on Pacific Coast Highway. Taking Allison’s Jaguar because it was a convertible. I was at the wheel and Allison stretched out on the reclined passenger seat, bundled up in a big, white Irish sweater, hair loose, flapping like an ebony banner, face to the wind.

  One hand rested on my knee. Beautiful fingers, long and tapered. Smooth and white.

  No scars. Robin, though a master of tools, hurt herself from time to time.

  I gave the Jag more gas, sped past black ocean and gray hillside, the headlights of other adventurers. Stealing peeks at Allison’s face when the road straightened. My scalp still ached where she’d yanked my hair, and the stretch of brow from which she’d licked my sweat pinged with electricity.

  I put on even more speed and she stroked my knee and I got hard, again.

  Beautiful woman, sensuous woman.

  Fast car, gorgeous California night. Perfect.

  But this idiot’s joy was muffled by the wagging finger of doubt— some notion that I’d cheated.

  Beyond stupid. Robin’s with Tim.

  And now I’m with Allison.

  Things changed. Change was good.

  Right?

  5

  A hundred hours since Baby Boy had bled out in the alley and Petra had turned up nothing. The clammy, sour smell of whodunit permeated her sinuses. She found herself wishing for a slam-dunk bar stabbing but picked up no other cases. The crime drop that had become the department’s big-time cap feather meant adequate staffing. It would be a while before the homicide dial rotated back to her.

  She went over the file till her head hurt. Asked a couple of the guys if they had any ideas. A young D-I named Arbogast said, “You should listen to his music.”

  Petra had bought a few CDs, spent the early-morning hours with Baby Boy’s bruised voice and wailing guitar licks. “For a clue?”

  “No,” said Arbogast. “Cause he rocked.”

  “Guy was a fucking genius,” another detective agreed. An older one— Krauss. Petra would’ve never taken him for a blues fan. Then she realized he was around Baby Boy’s age, had probably grown up with Baby Boy’s music.

  A genius dies but the mainstream press couldn’t care less. Not even a phone call from the Times, despite uniformly good reviews of Baby Boy’s music Petra found while surfing the Web. She left a message for the newspaper’s music critic, on the off chance something in Baby Boy’s past could point her in a new direction. Jerk never phoned back.

  She did get pestered by a handful of self-styled “rock journalists,” young-sounding guys claiming to represent outlets with names like Guitar Buzz, Guitar Universe, and Twenty-first-Century Guitar, each one wanting details for obituaries. No one had anything to say about Lee other than to praise his playing. The word “phrasing” kept coming up— Alex had used the term— and Petra figured out that meant how you put notes and rhythm together.

  Her phrasing on this one stank.

  The rock writers lost interest when she asked questions instead of answering theirs. Except for one guy who kept bugging her for details, a character named Yuri Drummond, publisher of a local magazine called GrooveRat, which had run a profile on Baby Boy last year.

  Drummond alienated Petra immediately by calling her by her first name and proceeded to compound the annoyance by rooting around rudely for forensic details. “How many stab wounds? How much blood did he actually lose?”

  Guy had the ghoulish curiosity and nasal voice of a hormonally stormed teenager, and Petra wondered about a prank caller. But when he asked her if anything had been scrawled on the alley wall, she stiffened.

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Well, you know,” said Drummond. “Like the Manson murders— Helter Skelter.”

  “Why would the Manson murders be related to Mr. Lee’s murder?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought . . .”

  “Have you heard anything about Mr. Lee’s murder, Mr. Drummond?”

  “No.” Drummond’s voice rose in pitch. “What would I know?”

  “When did you interview Mr. Lee?”

  “No, no, I never met him.”

  “You said you ran a profile on him.”

  “We ran an in-depth profile and listed his discography.”

  “You profiled him in depth without meeting him.”

  “Exactly,” said Drummond, sounding cocky. “That’s the whole point.”

  “What is?”

  “GrooveRat’s into the psychobiosocial essence of art and music, not the cult of personality.”

  “Psycho-bio-social,” said Petra.

  “In plain words,” said Drummond, condescending, “we don’t care who someone screws, only the groove they put out.”

  “Hence the title of your magazine.”

  Silence.

  Petra said, “Do you have information about who Baby Boy Lee was screwing?”

  “You’re saying there was a sexual angle to—”

  “Mr. Drummond, what exactly was the focus of this profile?”

  “The music,” pronounced the little snip, letting the unspoken “duh” hang in the air.

  “Baby Boy’s phrasing,” said Petra.

  “Baby Boy’s whole groove— the mind-set he put himself into to get the sound he did.”

  “You didn’t think talking to him would help that?” Petra pressed, wondering why she was wasting time with this loser. Knowing the sad answer: nothing else on her plate.

  “No,” said Drummond.

  “Did Baby Boy Lee turn down an interview with you?”

  “No, we never asked him. So tell me, what kind of blade are we talking about—”

  “What was Baby Boy’s groove?” said Petra.

  “Pain,” said Drummond. “That’s why his being killed is so— it fits. So what can you tell me about how it went down?”

  Petra said, “You want gory details.”

  “Right,” said Drummond.

  “Do you have any idea who killed him?”

  “Why would I? Listen, you really should help us. The public’s got a right to know, and we’re the best messenger.”

  “Why’s that, Mr. Drummond?”

  “Because we understood him. Were they? The details. Gory.”

  “Were you at the Snake Pit, Saturday night?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not a big enough fan?”

  “I was at the Whiskey— showcase for a bunch of new bands— hey, what’re you saying?” Drummond’s voice had climbed even higher, and now he sounded twelve. Petra visualized some acne-plagued scarecrow
in a slovenly room. The kind of creepazoid with too much leisure time who’d phone the local supermarket, clutching the phone with sweaty hands: “Excuse me, do you have pig’s feet?” “Yes, we do.” “Then wear shoes and no one’ll notice yuka yuka yuka.”

  Drummond said, “If I knew what was gonna happen, I’d have been there. Absolutely.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “To see his last show. What do they call that— a swan song?”

  “Yuri,” said Petra. “What is that, Russian?”

  Drummond hung up.

  • • •

  On Friday, just after 6 P.M., the downstairs clerk beeped Petra’s extension. “There’s a Ms. Castagna here to see you.”

  “I’ll be right down,” said Petra, surprised.

  When she got to the ground floor, Robin was by herself in the lobby, staring at some Wanted posters, hands on hips, her back to Petra. Her hair was longer than Petra remembered it, the mass of auburn curls trailing down her back like a heap of grapes. Alex’s hair was curly, too. If the two of them had bred, they might’ve created another Shirley Temple.

  Then Petra thought: all those years together, and they never had bred. Never tied the knot, either. Because of her own state, she found herself wondering about things like that.

  She approached Robin, taking in Robin’s outfit the way women do with other women. Black corduroy overalls over a red T-shirt with high-cut sleeves, black suede tennis shoes. Red bandana hanging out of a rear pocket.

  Kind of a rock ’n’ roll caj thing. On the wrong body the overalls could be deadly; Robin’s curves made them look fine.

  When Petra was a few steps away, she said, “Hi, there,” and Robin turned and Petra saw that she’d been biting her lip and her dark eyes were moist.

  “Petra,” she said. They hugged. “I just got back to town, picked up your message this morning. I had to be in Hollywood for a session, so I figured I’d stop by. This is terrible.”

  “Sorry to tell you like that, but I didn’t know when you’d be back.”

  Robin shook her head. “I heard about it yesterday, in Vancouver.”

  “Local papers cover it?”

  “Don’t know,” said Robin. “I got it backstage. The music grapevine. I was shocked. We all were, I had no idea you were involved.”

  “I am, indeed,” said Petra. “Anything you can tell me?”

  “What can I say? He was such a sweetie-pie.” Robin’s words quivered and faded. She held back tears. “A big old sweet guy and a supremely talented man.”

  “Anything else on the grapevine buzz? Like who’d want to do this to him? Even the flimsiest rumor.”

  Robin gave another headshake, rubbed a smooth, tan arm. “Baby was the last person I’d peg with any enemy, Petra. Everyone liked him.”

  Not everyone, thought Petra. “As I said in the message, your name was in his book. What was it, an appointment to fix some guitars?”

  “They’re fixed. He was coming by to pick them up.” Robin smiled. “I’m surprised he actually wrote it down. Time was a pretty plastic concept for Baby.”

  “You’ve been working on his gear for a while.”

  “Years. And often. Baby played so hard, his fingertips wore grooves in the fretboard. I was always planing boards down, refretting, doing neck-sets. These two were beyond that, needed complete new boards.”

  “A Fender Telecaster. And a J-45,” said Petra. “Someone told me that’s a Gibson.”

  Robin smiled. “Gibson acoustic. I’d already refinished it a couple of times because Baby let it get too dry and the lacquer cracked and flaked off and his pick nearly wore a hole in the top. This time I put in the second replacement fretboard. The Tele was simpler, just setup. I finished them both early, right before I left town, because I always tried to finish early for Baby.”

  “Why’s that?” said Petra.

  “Because Baby got sounds out of a guitar that no one else did, and I wanted to contribute my small bit. I knew I’d be traveling to Vancouver, so I left a message at his apartment to pick them up on Wednesday. He never got back to me, but that’s not unusual. As I said, Baby and punctuality were strangers. Most of them are like that.”

  “ ‘Them’ meaning musicians.”

  “Musicians,” Robin repeated, and her lips curled upward.

  Petra said, “So he never called, but he did jot down the appointment.”

  “Guess so. Typically, Baby just dropped in. Petra, what do I do with the guitars, now? They’re not evidence, are they?”

  “Are they worth anything?”

  “Clean, they’d be very pricey. With all the modifications . . . a lot less.”

  “No value-added because Baby played them?” said Petra. “I read how Eric Clapton auctioned some guitars off, and they went way above estimates.”

  “Baby wasn’t Clapton.” Tears trickled from Robin’s eyes. She produced the red bandana and dabbed them dry. “How could someone do this?”

  “It stinks,” said Petra. “I can’t see how the guitars would be evidence, but sit tight. If I need them, I’ll let you know.”

  Thinking: Maybe she should pick them up. On the slim chance she caught the bad guy and they brought him to trial and some defense attorney wanted to make a stink about the chain of evidence . . .

  Robin was saying, “I hope you get whoever did it.”

  “What else can you tell me about Baby Boy?” said Petra.

  “Easygoing. A big kid. People took advantage of his good nature. If he got hold of a dollar, it floated right out of his pocket.”

  “Doesn’t seem as if he’s made too many dollars, recently,” said Petra, remembering what Alex had told her about Baby’s perennial IOUs to Robin. Figuring quoting Alex right now might be a distraction.

  “Things were tough for him,” said Robin. “Had been for a while. He got a boost when a new pop band asked him to play on their album. Guys young enough to be his kids, but he was so up for it. Thought this might be a big break. The album did great, but I doubt they paid him much.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Robin kicked one suede tenny with the other. “He seemed broke— as usual. He hadn’t paid me in a long time. Used to write out these elaborate IOUs— minicontracts, really. Both of us pretending we were being businesslike. Then he’d pick up his gear and offer a few dollars in partial payment and I’d say forget it and he’d argue but eventually give in. And that would be it till the next time. It went on for so long, I stopped expecting to get paid. But when he cut the album with those kids, he called me and promised he’d be settling up. ‘Closing out my tab, sweet Lil Sis,’ was the way he put it. He used to say if he’d had a little sister, he would’ve wanted her to be just like me.”

  Another swipe of the bandana.

  “But the tab never got closed,” said Petra.

  “Not a penny. That’s how I know the gig didn’t produce serious money. If Baby’d been flush, I would’ve been high on his list, right after rent and food.”

  “His rent was paid up, and there was food in his fridge— diet food.”

  Robin winced. “That again? Onstage, he flaunted his weight— shook his belly, wiggled his butt, made jokes about being heavy. But the poor guy hated being big, was always resolving to trim down.” She sniffed. “For all he’d been through, he never stopped wanting to better himself. Once, when he was feeling pretty down, he told me: ‘God made a mess when he created me. My job’s cleaning it up.’ “

  She broke down, crying, and Petra put an arm around her shoulder. A couple of uniforms walked through the front doors and swaggered across the lobby, jangling gear. Not even bothering to notice the weeping woman. They saw plenty of that.

  6

  The Thursday after Baby Boy Lee’s murder, my doorbell rang. I’d been typing court reports all afternoon, ran out of words and wisdom, and called out for Chinese food.

  Grabbing tip money, I trudged from my office to the living room, threw open the door, and faced Robin. She’d never surrendered h
er key but was acting like a guest.

  Which, I suppose, she was.

  She saw the tip money and smiled. “I can’t be bought that easily.”