'When's the last time Kevin was here, Ms Tyler?'
'Oh, my... I couldn't tell you. The family almost never comes in.'
'How long have you been working here, Ms Tyler?'
'Two years.'
'During that time have you ever met Randolph Drummond?'
'Who's he?'
'A relative,' said Petra.
'Publishing, huh?' said Tyler. 'The police... what, some kind of porno - no, don't answer that.' She laughed, ran a finger across her mouth. 'I don't want to know.'
They had her call Franklin Drummond's cell phone, but the attorney didn't answer.
'Sometimes,' she said, 'he turns it off during the ride home.'
'The man likes his privacy,' said Petra.
'The man works hard.'
They drove out onto Ventura Boulevard. Petra was hungry, and she looked for a semi-inviting, cheap eatery. Two blocks west, she spotted a falafel stand with two picnic tables. Leaving the unmarked in a loading zone, she bought a spiced lamb shwarma in a soft pita and a Coke and ate as Stahl waited in the car. When she was halfway through the sandwich, Stahl got out and took a seat across from her.
Traffic roared by. She munched.
Stahl just sat. His interest in food matched his hunger for human discourse. When he did eat, it was always something boring on white bread that he brought from home in a clean, brown bag.
Whatever home was for Eric.
She ignored him, enjoyed her food, wiped her lips, and stood. 'Let's go.'
Ten minutes later they pulled up to the home where Kevin Drummond had pursued his ever-shifting fancies.
It was a beautifully tended, extrawide ranch house perched on the uppermost lot of a hilly street south of Ventura Boulevard. Jacarandas shaded the sidewalks. Like most nice L.A. neighborhoods, not a sign of humanity.
Lots of wheels. Three or four vehicles for each house. At Franklin Drummond's, that meant a new-looking, gunmetal Baby Benz sharing circular-driveway space with a white Ford Explorer, a red Honda Accord, and something low-slung under a beige car cover.
The man who opened the door was loosening his tie. Midforties, stocky build, a broad, rubbery face topped by wavy salt-and-pepper hair, a nose that looked as if it had spent some time in the ring. Gold-rimmed eyeglasses sat atop the meaty bridge. Behind the lenses, cool brown eyes looked them over.
With three grown sons, Franklin Drummond had to be older than his brother's forty-four. But he looked younger than Randolph.
'Yes?' he said. The tie was royal blue silk. It loosened easily, and Frank Drummond let it drape over his barrel
chest. Petra noticed a wee gold chain dangling from the back. Brioni label. Drummond's shirt was tailored and baby blue with a starched white collar, and his suit pants were gray pinstripe.
Petra told him they were looking for his son.
Frank Drummond's eyes narrowed to paper cuts, and his chest swelled. 'What's going on?'
'Have you heard from Kevin recently, sir?'
Drummond stepped out of the house and closed the door behind him. 'What's this about?'
Wary but unruffled. This guy was a working lawyer. A one-man firm, accustomed to taking care of his own business. Any sort of subterfuge would bounce right off him, so Petra kept it straight and simple.
'It's Kevin's magazine we're interested in,' said Petra. 'GrooveRat. A couple of the people he covered have been murdered.'
As she said it, it sounded far-fetched. All this time searching for a nerdy little wanna-be, and it would probably turn into nothing.
'So?' said Frank Drummond.
'So we'd like to talk to him,' said Stahl.
Drummond's eyes tilted toward Stahl. Unlike his brother, he was unimpressed by Stahl's zombie demeanor. 'Same question.'
'These are general inquiries, sir,' said Petra.
'So find him and inquire away,' he said. 'He doesn't live here anymore.'
'When's the last time you saw him?' said Petra.
'Why should I get into this?'
'Why not, sir?'
'General principles,' said Frank Drummond. 'Keep
your mouth shut, flies don't enter.'
'We're not flies, sir,' said Petra. 'Just doing our job, and it would really help us if you could direct us to Kevin.'
'Kevin lives by himself.'
'In the apartment on Rossmore?'
Drummond glared at her. 'If you know that, why are you here?'
'Does Kevin pay his own rent?'
Drummond's lips pursed. He clicked his tongue. 'I don't see that Kevin's financial arrangements are relevant to your investigation. If you want to read the magazine, go ask him, and I'm sure he'll be happy to share. He's proud of it.'
The tiniest rise in pitch on 'the magazine' and 'proud.'
'He wasn't home,' Petra said.
'So try again. It's been a long day-'
'Sir, if you're paying his rent, we thought you might know about his comings and goings.'
'I pay,' said Drummond, 'and that's the extent of it.'
Petra smiled. 'The joys of parenthood?'
Drummond didn't take the bait. He reached for the door handle.
'Sir, why does Kevin call himself "Yuri"?'
'Ask him.'
'No idea?'
'He probably thinks it sounds cool. Who cares?'
'So you don't see your son, at all?' said Petra.
Drummond retracted his arm, began to fold both limbs across his chest and changed his mind. 'Kevin's twenty-four. He has his own life.'
'You wouldn't happen to have any copies of GrooveRat, would you?'
'Not hardly,' said Drummond. The two words were ripe with scorn - the same flavor of contempt Petra had just heard from Uncle Randolph.
Macho-man put-down of Kevin's latest nonsense.
This father, that uncle, two jock brothers. Growing up eccentric and unathletic would've been tough for poor Kevin. Traumatic enough to twist him in the worst possible way?
' "Not hardly"?' said Petra.
'Kevin took all his things with him when he moved out.'
'When was that?'
'After he graduated.'
Randolph Drummond had received a copy of the zine around then. At the advent of the maiden issue. Junior and Dad had experienced a parting of the ways. Creative differences, or Dad tired of Junior slacking off?
'Is Kevin in school, sir?'
'No.' Frank Drummond's mouth got tight.
'Is there some reason these questions bother you, sir?'
'You bother me. Because I think you're bullshitting me. If you're after the magazine, why all these questions about Kevin? If he's under suspicion for something -well, that's just crap. Kevin's a gentle kid.'
Making that sound like a character flaw.
Twenty-four-year-old kid.
Petra said, 'Any idea who, besides Kevin, wrote for GrooveRat?'
Drummond shook his head and worked at looking bored.
'How did Kevin finance his baby?'
Drummond's right hand moved to the lovely blue tie,
squeezed it into a ribbon, let go. 'If you want copies, I'm sure Kev's got some in his apartment. If you see him, tell him to call his mother. She misses him.'
'As opposed to,' said Stahl, as they drove away.
'What do you mean?'
'His mother misses him. His father doesn't.'
'Dysfunctional family,' said Petra. 'Kevin was the resident sissy. So where does that take us?'
'Frank was evasive.'
'Or just a lawyer who likes asking questions, not answering them. We made it pretty obvious we're after more than back issues. Which is fine with me. Shake things up a bit, see what happens.'
'What could happen?' said Stahl.
'I don't know. What bodiers me is we're spending all this time chasing a kid and his stupid magazine.'
'You said he was a ghoul.'
'I did?'
'At the meeting,' said Stahl. 'You said Yuri wanted the gory details. Was a ghoul.'
'True,' said Petra. 'So?'
A half block of silence.
Stahl said, 'Let's give his apartment another try.'
It was close to 6 P.M. Petra, used to working nights, often found herself showering at this hour, then wolfing a bowl of cereal. All the paper and meetings on the Armenian case and breaking in Stahl and today's lunch with Milo and Alex and this entire futile afternoon had played havoc with her bio clock. She felt queasy and fatigued.
'Sure,' she said. 'Why not?'
Kevin Drummond was still out, but a press of the manager's button produced a high-pitched 'Yes?'
Petra identified herself and the door buzzed open and the detectives found themselves face-to-face with a short, stout woman in her fifties, wearing a white blouse over black leggings and sneakers. Eyeglasses dangled from a chain around her neck. A jumbo roller topped a mass of too-black hair. Freshly waved locks hung down to her shoulders. She said, 'Is everything okay?'
'Mrs Santos?'
'Guadalupe Santos.' Open smile. Someone with a pleasant demeanor. Finally.
'We're looking for one of your tenants, Mrs Santos. Unit fourteen, Kevin Drummond.'
'Yuri?' said Santos.
'That's what he calls himself?'
'Yes. Is everything okay?'
'What kind of tenant is Yuri?'
'Nice boy. Quiet. Why do you want him?'
'We'd like to talk to him as part of an investigation.'
'I don't think he's here. I saw him... hmm... maybe two, three days ago. I met him out back, taking out the garbage. I was. He got into his car. His Honda.'
DMV had reported a five-year-old Civic. But remembering the red Accord in Frank Drummond's driveway, Petra said, 'What color?'
'White,' said Guadalupe Santos.
'So Mr Drummond's been gone for three days.'
'Maybe he goes in and out when I'm sleeping, but I never see him.'
'No problems from him.'
'Easy tenant,' said Santos. 'His daddy pays his rent six months in advance, he don't make noise. Wish they were all like that.'
'He have any friends? Regular visitors?'
'No girlfriends, if that's what you mean. Or boyfriends.' Santos smiled uneasily.
'Is Yuri gay?'
Santos laughed. 'No, just kidding. This is Hollywood, you know.'
Stahl said, 'No visitors at all?'
Santos turned serious. Stahl's contagious amiability. 'Now that I think about it, you're right. No one. And he doesn't come and go much. Not the neatest guy, but that's his business.'
Petra said, 'You've been up to his apartment.'
'Twice. He had a leaky toilet. And another time I had to show him how to work the heater - not too mechanical.'
'A slob, huh?' said Petra.
'Not like dirty,' said Santos. He's just one of those -howyoucallit - holds on to everything?'
'Pack rat?'
'That's it. It's a single, and he's got it all filled up with boxes. I couldn't tell you what's in them, it just looked like he never throws anything out - oh yeah, I did see what was in one of them. Those little cars - Matchboxes. My son used to collect them but not as many as Yuri's got. Only Tony outgrew it. He's in the Marines, over at Camp Pendleton. Training sergeant, he spent time over in Afghanistan, my Tony.'
Petra offered a congratulatory nod and a moment of respect for Sergeant Tony Santos. Then: 'So Yuri collects stuff.'
'Lots of stuff. But like I said, not dirty.'
'What kind of work does he do?'
'I don't think he does any,' said Guadalupe Santos. 'With his daddy paying the rent and all that, I figured him for... you know.'
'What?'
'Someone with... I don't want to say problems. Someone who can't work regular.'
'What kind of problems?' said Petra.
'I don't want to say... he's just real quiet. Walks with his head down. Like he doesn't want to talk.'
Big difference from the pushy guy who'd hectored Petra. Kevin chose his moments.
She showed Kevin Drummond's DMV picture to Santos. Blurred picture, five years old. Skinny kid with dark hair and a nondescript face. Brown and brown, 6'2", ISO, needs corrective lenses.
