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 date book.
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.
The first time I made love to Allison Gwynn, I felt like an adulterer.
Totally irrational. Robin and I had been living apart for months. And now she was with Tim Plachette.
But when the touch, the feel, the smell of someone is imbedded in your DNA...
If Allison sensed my unease, she never said a word.
I met her shortly before my years with Robin started to unravel. I'd been helping Milo on a twenty-year-old murder. Years before, at the age of seventeen, Allison had been sexually abused by a man who figured in the case. Her college mentor was an old friend of mine, and he asked her if she'd talk to me. She thought about it and agreed.
I liked her right away - admired her courage, her honesty, her gentle manner. Her looks were too notable to miss, but back then I appreciated them as an abstraction.
Ivory skin, soft but assertive cheekbones, a wide, strong mouth, the most gorgeous, waist-length black hair I'd ever seen. Huge eyes, blue as midnight, projected a sharp curiosity. Like me, she was a psychologist. Those eyes, I figured, would serve her well.
She grew up in Beverly Hills, the only daughter of an assistant attorney general, went to Perm, continued there for a Ph.D. In her senior year, she met a Wharton whiz, fell in love, married young, and moved back to California. Within months of receiving her state license, her husband was diagnosed with a rare malignancy, and she was widowed. Eventually, she pulled herself together and built up a Santa Monica practice. Now she combined clinical work with teaching nights at the U, and volunteering at a hospice for the terminally ill.
Keeping busy. I knew that tune.
Seated, her high waist and willowy arms and swan neck implied height, but like Robin, she was a small, delicately built woman - there I go again, comparing.
Unlike Robin, she favored expensive makeup, considered clothes-shopping a recreational activity, had no problem flashing strategic glints of diamond jewelry.
One time she confessed it was because she'd been late to enter puberty, had hated looking like a child all through high school. At thirty-seven, she appeared ten years younger.
I was the first man she'd been with in a long time.
When I called her, it had been months since we'd spoken. Surprise brightened her voice. 'Oh, hi.'
I talked around the issue, finally asked her to dinner.
She said, 'As in a date?'
'As in.'
'I thought there... was someone.'
'So did I,' I said.
'Oh. Is this recent?'
'This isn't a rebound thing,' I said. 'I've been single for a while.' Hating the awkwardness - the self-pity - of all that.
'Giving yourself time,' she said.
Saying the right thing. Trained to say the right thing. Maybe this was a mistake. Even back in grad school, I'd avoided dating women in my field, wanting to know about other worlds, worried that intimacy with another therapist would be too confining. Then I met Robin, and there'd been no need to look anywhere..
'Anyway,' I said. 'If you're busy-'
She laughed. 'Sure, let's get together.'
'Still a carnivore?'
'You remember. Did I gorge myself that badly? Don't answer that. No, I haven't gone vegetarian.'
I named a steakhouse not far from her office. 'How about tomorrow night?'
'I've got patients until eight, but if you don't mind a late dinner, sure.'
'Nine,' I said. 'I'll pick you up at your office.'
'Why don't I meet you there?' she said. 'That way I won't have to leave my car.'
Setting up an escape plan.
I said, 'Terrific'
'See you then, Alex.'
A date.
Even though Alison
would be bringing her own wheels, I washed and vacuumed the Seville, got compulsive about it, and ended up squatting at the grille wielding a toothbrush. An hour later, grubby and sweaty and reeking of Armor All, I took a long run, stretched, showered, shaved, shined up a pair of black loafers, and pulled out a navy blazer.
Soft, single-breasted Italian model, two Christmases old... a gift from Robin. I yanked it off, switched to a black sport coat, decided it made me look like an undertaker and returned to the blue. Next step: slacks. Easy. The featherweight gray flannels I usually wore when I testified in court. Add a yellow tab-collar shirt and a tie and I'd be - which tie? I tried on several, decided neckwear was too stuffy for the occasion, switched to a lightweight navy crewneck and decided that was too damn Hollywood.
Back to the yellow shirt. Open-necked. No, the tabs didn't look good that way. And the damn thing was already sweat-stained under the arms.
My heartbeat had kicked up, and my stomach was flipping around. This was ridiculous. What would I tell a patient in the same predicament?
Be yourself.
Whoever that was.
I reached the restaurant first, thought about waiting in the Seville and greeting Allison as she approached the door. I figured that might alarm her and went inside. The place was lit at tomb level. I sat at the bar, ordered a beer, and watched sports on TV - I can't remember the sport - had barely gotten through the foam when Allison arrived, freeing a black tide of hair from her sweater and looking around.
I got to her just as the maitre d' looked up. When she saw me, her eyes widened. No look-over; just focusing on my face. I smiled, she smiled back.
'Well, hello.' She offered her cheek, and I pecked. The sweater was lavender cashmere, and it matched the clinging dress that sheathed her from breastbone to knee. Matching shoes with big heels. Diamond earrings, diamond tennis bracelet, a short strand of silver pearls around her white neck.
We sat down. She ordered a glass of merlot, and I asked for a Chivas. The red leather booth was roomy, and I sat far enough away to avoid intrusiveness, close enough to smell her. She smelled great.
