A Cold Heart by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
gave a terrible smile and twisted the doorknob. An Hispanic kid who looked around twelve held out a greasy bag, and I jogged to the door, took the food, reached into my pocket for money, grabbed too many bills, thrust them at him.
'Thanks, man,' he said, and hurried down the stairs.
I said, 'Hungry?'
'Anything but,' said Robin. As she turned to leave, I thought of a million things to say.
What came out was: 'Petra's as good as they come. She'll keep working at it.'
'I know she will. Thanks for listening. Bye, Alex.'
'Anytime,' I said.
But that wasn't true, anymore.
For two weeks of double shifts, most of which she neglected to file as overtime, Petra drove herself crazy, trying to track down as many members of Baby Boy's final audience as she could, coming up only with the few names on the freebie list - most of whom hadn't bothered to show up - and the stragglers she'd already talked to. She had a go with the Snake Pit's absentee owner - a dentist from Long Beach - reinterviewed the custodians, the bouncers, the cocktail waitresses, Lee's band - all pickup musicians - and the diminutive, poorly shod Jackie True. All useless.
She even tried to contact the members of Tic 439, the band that had sparked visions of comeback in Baby Boy's head. Here, she encountered another side of the music biz: layers of insulation, from the receptionists of record-company executives on up to the band's manager, an unctuous-sounding stoner named Beelzebub Lawrence, who finally deigned, after Petra called him a dozen times, to speak to her over the phone. Music pounded in the background, and Lawrence spoke softly. The two-minute conversation strained Petra's hearing and her patience.
Yeah, Baby Boy had been brilliant.
No, he had no idea who'd want to hurt him.
Yeah, the guys had dug jamming with him.
No, they hadn't had contact with him since the recording session.
Petra said, 'He really added something to their sound, didn't he?' She'd bought the CD, found it an execrable mix of whiny lyrics and plodding rhythm. Only Baby Boy's guitar, sweet and sustaining, on two tracks, lent any sense of musicality to the mess.
Beelzebub Lawrence said, 'Yeah, he was cool.'
The coroner was finished with Baby Boy's corpse, but no one had come forward to claim it. Even though it wasn't her job, Petra did some genealogical research that led her to Edgar Ray Lee's closest living relative. A great-aunt named Grenadina Bourgeouis, ancient-sounding and feeble.
Senile, too, it soon became clear. The phone chat rattled the old woman and left Petra's head spinning. She called Jackie True and apprised him of the situation.
He said, 'Baby wanted to be cremated.'
'He talked about dying?'
'Doesn't everybody?' said True. 'I'll handle it.'
It was nearly 4 A.M. on a Monday, and she was mentally exhausted but too jumpy to sleep. She took a deep breath, sat back in her chair, drank cold coffee from the cup that had been sitting there for hours. Caffeine; that'll help the old nerves, smart girl.
The detective room was quiet, just her and a D II named Balsam pecking away at an antiquated computer.
Balsam was Petra's age but carried himself like an old man. Old man's taste in music, too. He'd brought a boom box, but it wasn't booming. Tuned to an easy-listening station. Some eighties hair-band song redone with strings and a harp. Petra was transported to a department-store elevator. Women's sportswear, floor three...
Her notes on Baby Boy were spread out before her, and she gathered them up, began replacing them in the folder. Making sure each page was in its right place. You couldn't be too careful...
What difference did it make? This one wasn't going to close anytime in the near future.
Her phone rang. 'Connor.'
'Detective?' said a male voice.
'Yes, this is
'Thanks, man,' he said, and hurried down the stairs.
I said, 'Hungry?'
'Anything but,' said Robin. As she turned to leave, I thought of a million things to say.
What came out was: 'Petra's as good as they come. She'll keep working at it.'
'I know she will. Thanks for listening. Bye, Alex.'
'Anytime,' I said.
But that wasn't true, anymore.
For two weeks of double shifts, most of which she neglected to file as overtime, Petra drove herself crazy, trying to track down as many members of Baby Boy's final audience as she could, coming up only with the few names on the freebie list - most of whom hadn't bothered to show up - and the stragglers she'd already talked to. She had a go with the Snake Pit's absentee owner - a dentist from Long Beach - reinterviewed the custodians, the bouncers, the cocktail waitresses, Lee's band - all pickup musicians - and the diminutive, poorly shod Jackie True. All useless.
She even tried to contact the members of Tic 439, the band that had sparked visions of comeback in Baby Boy's head. Here, she encountered another side of the music biz: layers of insulation, from the receptionists of record-company executives on up to the band's manager, an unctuous-sounding stoner named Beelzebub Lawrence, who finally deigned, after Petra called him a dozen times, to speak to her over the phone. Music pounded in the background, and Lawrence spoke softly. The two-minute conversation strained Petra's hearing and her patience.
Yeah, Baby Boy had been brilliant.
No, he had no idea who'd want to hurt him.
Yeah, the guys had dug jamming with him.
No, they hadn't had contact with him since the recording session.
Petra said, 'He really added something to their sound, didn't he?' She'd bought the CD, found it an execrable mix of whiny lyrics and plodding rhythm. Only Baby Boy's guitar, sweet and sustaining, on two tracks, lent any sense of musicality to the mess.
Beelzebub Lawrence said, 'Yeah, he was cool.'
The coroner was finished with Baby Boy's corpse, but no one had come forward to claim it. Even though it wasn't her job, Petra did some genealogical research that led her to Edgar Ray Lee's closest living relative. A great-aunt named Grenadina Bourgeouis, ancient-sounding and feeble.
Senile, too, it soon became clear. The phone chat rattled the old woman and left Petra's head spinning. She called Jackie True and apprised him of the situation.
He said, 'Baby wanted to be cremated.'
'He talked about dying?'
'Doesn't everybody?' said True. 'I'll handle it.'
It was nearly 4 A.M. on a Monday, and she was mentally exhausted but too jumpy to sleep. She took a deep breath, sat back in her chair, drank cold coffee from the cup that had been sitting there for hours. Caffeine; that'll help the old nerves, smart girl.
The detective room was quiet, just her and a D II named Balsam pecking away at an antiquated computer.
Balsam was Petra's age but carried himself like an old man. Old man's taste in music, too. He'd brought a boom box, but it wasn't booming. Tuned to an easy-listening station. Some eighties hair-band song redone with strings and a harp. Petra was transported to a department-store elevator. Women's sportswear, floor three...
Her notes on Baby Boy were spread out before her, and she gathered them up, began replacing them in the folder. Making sure each page was in its right place. You couldn't be too careful...
What difference did it make? This one wasn't going to close anytime in the near future.
Her phone rang. 'Connor.'
'Detective?' said a male voice.
'Yes, this is
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