'Roomed with her a couple of times.' Lynnette's eyes were huge and black and wounded. Her hair was long and dark and greasy. A tattooed star the size of a sheriff's badge decorated the left side of her neck. A vein ran through the center of the body art, pulsing
the blue ink. Slow pulse, steady, unperturbed. She sat on the edge of a lower bunk, Bible at one arm, bag of Fritos at the other. Her back curved like that of an old woman. The downturn of her mouth said she'd given up on personal safety. 'What happened to her?'
'I'm afraid she's dead, ma'am.'
Lynnette's pulse remained sluggish. Then her eyes drooped with amusement.
Milo said, 'Something funny, ma'am?'
Lynnette shot him a crooked grin. 'Only thing funny is "ma'am." So what, someone offed her?'
'We're not sure.'
'Maybe her boyfriend did it.'
'What boyfriend would that be?'
'Don't know. She just told me she had one and that he was real smart.'
'When did she tell you this?' said Milo.
Lynnette scratched her arm. 'Had to be a long time ago.' To Petrello: 'Had to be not the last time I was here, maybe a few times before that?'
'Months,' said Petrello.
'I been traveling,' said Lynnette. 'Had to be months.'
'Traveling,' said Milo.
Lynnette smiled. 'Seeing the U.S.A. Yeah, had to be months - could be six, seven, dunno. I just remember it cause I thought it was bullshit. Cause like who'd want her? She was a skank.'
'You didn't like her.'
'What was to like?' said Lynnette. 'She was a whack job, would start off having a conversation with you, then space out, start walking around, talking to herself.'
'What else did she say about this boyfriend?' said Milo.
'Just that.'
'Smart.'
'Yeah.'
'No name?'
'Nope.'
Milo stepped closer to the bed. Diane Petrello interposed herself between him and Lynnette, and he retreated. 'If there's anything you can tell us about the boyfriend, I'd greatly appreciate it.'
Lynnette said, 'I don't know nothin'.' A second later: 'She said he was smart, that's it. Bragging on herself. Like, he's smart so I'm smart. She said he was gonna come take her out of here.' She puffed her lips. 'Right.'
'Out of Dove House?'
'Out of here. The life. The street. So maybe he did. So look what happened to her.'
We got back in the car. Milo said, 'What do you think?' 'Erna Murphy liked pretty art,' I said. 'That would be a point of contact with someone like Kevin, the self-assigned arbiter of art. Julie Kipper's paintings certainly qualified as pretty. Erna would've been attracted to them. Maybe he directed her to the show. Used her as some sort of distraction.'
'CoCo Barnes opens the back door and maybe she forgets to lock it.' He rubbed his face. 'A psychotic advance woman. Think he could've used Erna for more than just that? What if he had her actually do Julie? Erna was big enough to overpower someone Julie's size, especially in the closed confines of that bathroom. A woman
would also explain the lack of semen or sexual assault. And we just heard she could be lucid.'
'Relatively lucid,' I said. 'Julie's murder was too well planned and thought out for a psychotic. Not a shred of forensic evidence was left at the scene. Erna can't have been counted on to be that meticulous. No, I can't see that. There's something else going on here - "E. Murphy" wrote a review of Vassily Levitch a year ago. The prose was florid but not confused enough to be Erna's. Her name was expropriated. It's a kind of identify theft.'
'Smart boyfriend,' he said. 'Lynnette was sure Erna was being delusional about that.'
'In terms of a romantic bond, she probably was. But there was a relationship. Erna's aesthetic interests, the fact that she'd been educated, was periodically articulate, could've made her appealing to someone like Kevin Drummond. A tragic figure who'd hit rock bottom, the ultimate outsider. Even her psychosis would have appealed to him. Some fools still think being crazy is glamorous. But whatever bond they had, Kevin was careful to keep her at arm's length. His landlady never saw her around his apartment, and no one Petra's talked to has linked the two of them.'
'He idealizes her, then he kills her.'
'She ceased fitting into his worldview, became a threat.'
'Cold,' he said. 'That's one thing that does fit all of it. Cold-hearted. Like Baby Boy's song. I bought one of his CDs, been listening to it, trying to get some insights.'
'Any success?'
'He was one hell of a player, even a tone-deaf philis-tine like me can hear his soul pouring outta that guitar.
But no big insights. Did you know your name's on the album?'
'What are you talking about?'
'Tiny print, on the bottom, where he thanks everyone from Jesus Christ to Robert Johnson. Big list, Robin's in there. He calls her "the beautiful guitar lady," thanks her for keeping his instruments happy. Then he tacks you on. Something along the lines of "Thanks to Dr Alex Delaware for keeping the guitar lady happy." '
'Been a while since that was true.'
'Sorry,' he said. 'I thought you'd get a kick out of it.'
I pulled away from the curb, drove west on Hollywood Boulevard. Construction brought us to a halt. Hard-hatted crews running amok. Graft kings rejuvenating the neighborhood. Maybe one day, the shiny, sterile, fran-chised Hollywood the civic fathers lusted for would emerge. Right now, glitz coexisted with sleaze in an uneasy balance.
A few miles away, north, in the hills, was the Hollywood sign, where a starlet had ended her life decades ago, and China Maranga's body had been left to rot. I didn't suggest driving up there, and neither did Milo. Too long ago to matter.
We crawled to Vine Street. He said, 'Erna. Another soul expropriated.'
I said, 'A user. That's what this is all about.'
Encino. Petra digested the details of Milo's call. The E. Murphy ID meant the redhead's murder would end up in her basket, too.
She phoned Eric Stahl and rilled him in.
'Okay,' he said, in that infuriating, flat voice. Nothing impresses me.
'You going to keep watching Kevin?' she said.
'Probably a waste of time.'
'Why's that?'
'I don't think he'll be coming by soon,' said Stahl. 'Whatever you want.'
'I'm still watching his parents' house. No action yet, but I want to stick with it. Meantime, I think we should start delving into Erna Murphy's history. If you really think Kevin's crib is a zero, feel free to start on that.'
'Sure.'
Silence.
Petra waited him out. He said, 'Anywhere you want me to start?'
'The usual data banks - hold on, a woman just drove up to the house, could be Kevin's mother - doesn't look
like a happy camper - just do the usual, Eric, I'll talk to you later.'
She remained in her Accord and watched the woman climb out of her baby blue Corvette. The low-slung, covered thing she and Stahl had seen during their first visit to Franklin Drummond's home.
The red Honda was registered to Anna Martinez - an Hispanic maid who appeared to live in; the other three vehicles were registered to Franklin Drummond. His daily drive was the gray Baby Benz, the 'Vette was the missus's toy, no one seemed to bother with the white Explorer. Maybe spare wheels for the two younger sons when they visited from college.
Kevin drove cheap wheels. Not the favored child.
The woman flipped her hair, wiggled her butt, and alarm-locked the Corvette. Middle-aged, tall, skinny, long-legged. Big, thick features. Homely, but in a not-unsexy way. The hair was a bright, orange helmet - same color as Erna Murphy's, isn't zat interesting Dr Freud? She wore a baggy white jersey sweater embroidered with rhinestones that bobbled her big boobs, black leggings with footstraps, backless sandals with hypodermic heels.
Fuck-me shoes. Aging bimbo?
Was Kevin's mommy doing someone other than Kevin's daddy?
Petra watched her walk up to the front door, fool in her Gucci purse, remove a ring of keys.
Definitely Kevin's mom. He hadn't inherited his lanky frame from fireplug Franklin.
The car, the heels, the rest of it said Mama liked to party. A woman in touch with her sexuality. Toss that
into the family mix and Petra could only imagine what Kevin's childhood had been like.
This afternoon. Mama looked miserable. Tense. Tight neck, croquet wicket mouth. She dropped the key ring, bent, and retrieved it.
Petra got out of her car as the woman's key aimed at the lock. Made it to the woman's side before she made contact and twisted.
The woman turned. Petra flashed the badge.
'I have nothing to say to you.' Smoker's voice. Tobacco mixed with Chanel 19 emanated from the redhead's clothing.
'You are Mrs Drummond,' said Petra.
'I'm Terry Drummond.' Fear in the voice.
'Could you spare a moment to talk about Kevin?'
'No way,' said Terry Drummond. 'My husband warned me you'd be by. I have no obligation to talk to you.'
Petra smiled. The rhinestones on Terry's shirt formed the crude outline of two terriers. Kissing. Sweet. 'You certainly don't, Mrs Drummond. But I'm not here to persecute you.'
Terry Drummond's key arm tightened. 'Call it what you want. I'm going inside.'
'Ma'am, Kevin hasn't been seen for nearly a week. As a mother, I'd think you'd be concerned.'
Studying the woman for a hint that Kevin had made contact.
Tears welled up in Terry Drummond's eyes. Soft brown eyes, flecked with gold. Gorgeous eyes, really, despite the too-generous application of shadow and mascara. Petra revised her appraisal. Despite the thick features, Terry was more than attractive; even in her
anxiety she exuded oodles of sensuality. As a young woman, she'd probably been dead-on sexy.
What would it be like to have a mother like that?
Petra knew nothing about mothers; hers had died giving birth to her.
She relaxed her posture, gave Terry Drummond time to think. Terry wore big gold jewelry, a three-carat rock on her ring finger. Up close the Gucci bag looked real.
Petra saw her as someone whose body heat and flashy looks had snagged an up-and-coming lawyer. Someone who'd climbed a few notches socially, probably given up whatever entry-level career she'd had, raised three boys, immersed herself in suburban motherhood, only to see her oldest son turn out... different.
Now she was terrified. Kevin hadn't phoned home.
She said, 'It's got to be worrying, ma'am. No one's saying Kevin's guilty of anything, he's just someone we need to talk to. He could be in danger. Think about it: Has he ever disappeared like this before? Don't you think it's important that we find him?'
Terry Drummond bit back tears.'I haven't heard from him, so how could you find him?'
'How long has it been, ma'am?'
Terry shook her head. 'That's all I'm going to say.'
'Do you have any idea why we're interested in him?'
'Something to do with murder. Which is ridiculous. Kevin's gentle.' Terry's voice rose on the last word, and she flinched. Petra had a sense someone had used it as an insult when referring to Kevin.
The gentle one.
'I'm sure he is, Mrs Drummond.'
'Then why are you hounding us?'
'Not trying to, ma'am. I'm sure you know Kevin better than anyone. You care about him more deeply than anyone. So if he does get in touch, you'll offer him good advice.'
Terry Drummond cried. 'I don't need this. I don't need this one bit. If my idiot brother-in-law hadn't finked on Kevin, I wouldn't have to be dealing with this - why don't you look at him? He already killed two people.'
'Randolph?'
'His wife and child, the dirty drunk,' snarled Terry. 'Frank was always telling Randy to stop drinking. He nearly ruined us - the lawsuits. It's only cause Frank's so smart that he managed to climb back up to the top. So you can see why Randy'd have it in for us.'
'All Randy did was confirm he was Kevin's uncle,' said Petra. 'We'd have found out, anyway.'
'Why?' said Terry. 'Why are you harassing my boy? He's good, he's kind, he's smart, he's gentle, he'd never hurt anyone.' -
The woman's entire body had gone rigid, and Petra shifted gears.