Stahl slipped the card in a jacket pocket. Great paper, heavy weight, silky gloss.
Baby sister had climbed socially.
He headed for the door.
Alma Trueblood said, “You’d better do something about that narcolepsy of yours. I’m sure your superiors wouldn’t be pleased to hear about it.”
37
Milo called late in the afternoon. “Petra and I figured it’s time to give Drummond’s parents another try. No prints in the Honda other than Kevin’s on the steering wheel and the driver’s door handle, and a few scattered smudges from various Inglewood tow-yard folk. No blood, no body fluids, no weapons. No link to Erna Murphy, either, but Petra did find someone who saw her getting into a small, light car the night she was killed. Walking distance from the kill spot. Kevin’s car wasn’t towed till the next day.”
“Who’s the witness?” I said.
“Speedfreak hustler,” he said. “It’s not sterling, but it does firm up the time frame: Kevin picks her up, finishes her off, cuts town.”
“After wiping Erna’s prints from his car. Had it been washed recently?”
“Hard to tell with it sitting in the yard all this time. Lab guys did say the passenger door appeared to be too clean, as in wipedown. That’s an indication of criminal intent, which is why we want to lean on Mommy and Daddy. Your suggestions and your presence would be appreciated. Psychological strategy and all that.”
“When?” I said.
“After dark. Couple of hours. I’ll pick you up, Petra’ll meet us there.”
“Not Stahl?”
“Petra’s got him on the computer. See you in two. Start warming up the old insight machine.”
When it comes to dealing with people, you can only rehearse so much. But the three of us tried, sitting in Petra’s Accord on a quiet, Encino street. The spot was two blocks west of Franklin and Teresa Drummond’s house, in the shade of a shaggy, anthropomorphic pepper tree. The moonlight was feeble, just enough to transform branches to grasping limbs. From time to time a car drove by, but no one noticed us.
Petra filled us in on the Drummonds. “Does any of that sound like breeding ground for a psycho killer, Alex?”
“So far,” I said, “it sounds like upper-middle-class suburban life.”
She nodded, ruefully. “I figure we focus on Frank- his being dominant and all that. If we ignore him, we run the risk of alienating him right from the start.”
“He’ll come to the door alienated,” I said. “You can start off being polite, but at some point you may need to get more assertive.”
“Threatening?” said Milo.
“If they do know where Kevin’s gone, they’re vulnerable to an aiding and abetting charge,” I said. “Frank’s an attorney. He may try to bluster his way through it, but I’d watch for signs of anxiety. As well as too much hostility- overreacting can be a cover.”
“So, what, we ask them to sell out their kid to save their own butts?”
“However they feel about Kevin, they may not be willing to put themselves in criminal jeopardy. At some point, I’d also focus on the financial angle. They bankrolled Kevin’s magazine, so they bear indirect responsibility for whatever flowed from that. At the least, it won’t help Frank’s practice. In that regard, the mother might also be your target. Work on her guilt by showing her Erna’s photos.”
“Who is maybe Cousin Erna,” said Milo. To Petra: “Stahl still hasn’t come up with any link, there?”
“Nope,” she said. “Like I told you, he located Erna’s dad, but he’s comatose, on his way out. While he was at the rest home, he did run into a relative. Donald Murphy’s sister, a real battle-ax named Alma Trueblood. More like she ran into Stahl. She says Erna had been strange all her life, refused family help.”
She turned to me. “So we study their reactions. Three of us, two of them should make that feasible. Do we tell them Alex is a psychologist?”
“What for?” said Milo.
“Let them know the case has kicked up a notch, Kevin’s being thought of as a psycho.”
Both of them waited for my answer.
I said, “No, I’ll just stay in the background. If you don’t mind giving me some leeway, I’ll cut in if I feel the timing’s right.”
“Fine with me,” said Petra.
Milo nodded.
She said, “You guys ready?”
A stocky man in a too-tight red Lacoste shirt, baggy khakis, black socks and bedroom slippers came to the door. Fleshy face, broad nose, wavy graying hair, keen, angry eyes. A tightly coiled man, ready to pounce.
Petra said, “Evening, Mr. Drummond.”
A ripple coursed through Frank Drummond’s jaw. He looked at Milo and me.
“A battalion? What now?”
Petra said, “We found Kevin’s car.”
Franklin Drummond blinked. I’d hung back, kept most of my body concealed behind Milo’s bulk, but I was studying Drummond intently. He must’ve sensed it because his eyes fixed on mine, and his mouth worked.
“Where?” he said.
“It was impounded, sir,” said Petra. “Parked illegally near LAX. We’re canvassing various airlines, right now, to find out where Kevin’s gone. If you know…”
“LAX,” said Drummond. Sweat broke at his hairline. The brown eyes were seized by a clutch of rapid blinks. “Goddamn.”
“May we come in, please?”
Drummond rolled his meaty shoulders and stood taller. Snapping back into litigator stance. “I have no idea where Kevin is.”
Petra said, “That must concern you, sir.”
Drummond didn’t answer. She went on: “At this point, Kevin’s disappearance is being regarded as a criminal matter.”
“You people are ridiculous.”
Petra edged closer to Drummond. Milo and I followed. Full-court press. “If you know where your son’s gone, it’s in his interest and yours that you tell us.”
Drummond’s jaws clenched.
A voice behind him called out, “Frank?” Rapid footsteps. Muffled, yet percussive.
“It’s all right,” he said. But the footsteps continued, and Terry Drummond’s face appeared over her husband’s right shoulder. Half her face. She was an inch or so taller than him. Boosted by high-heeled backless sandals. Four-inch heels, not much thicker than darning needles. The percussion.
Plush carpeting contributed the muffling.
I looked at the heels again. Putting herself through foot agony in the privacy of her own home.
“Go back in,” Frank Drummond ordered her.
“What?” she insisted.
Petra told her about the Honda.
“Oh, no!”
Frank said, “Terry.”
“Frank, please-”
“Ma’am, Kevin could be in danger,” said Petra.
Frank wagged a finger in her face. “Now, you listen-”
“Frank!” Terry Drummond reached around, grabbed his hand, pushed down, and lowered it.
“This is inexcusable,” Frank Drummond said.
“May we come in?” said Petra. “At this point, it’s either that or the station.”
Drummond pressed his fists together and grimaced. Isometric exercise; no gain without emotional pain. “What do you mean ‘this point’?”
“We found evidence in Kevin’s car of criminal intent.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Let’s talk inside,” said Petra.
Drummond didn’t respond.
His wife said, “Enough, Frank. Let them in.”
Drummond’s nostrils flared. “Make it short,” he said.
But all the fight had been taken out of him.
The living room spoke of financial success acquired through achievement rather than legacy. The coffered ceiling was several feet too high for the modestly proportioned space. A faux-marble finish glossed the walls. Prefab moldings were slathered like whipped cream. The furniture was heavy, machine-carved, blond, bleached by too many crystal light fixtures. Machined copies of Persian rugs were arranged haphazardly over a bed of thick, beige wall-to-wall.