“I wouldn’t take odds on it,” I said. “Whether or not he was Shull’s confederate, once I started asking about him, Shull would’ve seen him as a liability.”
“Petra says no one can confirm seeing the two of them together, so whatever they collaborated on, it was private.”
“One thing I’d wager: Shull financed Kevin’s magazine and got himself an outlet for his writing. Ten to one he’s been trying for years to get in print at real magazines, piled up the rejection slips.”
“Kevin was his vanity press,” he said.
“Shull used Kevin as a front because Kevin was young, edgy, and impressionable, and if anything went wrong with GrooveRat- as it did- Shull would be spared public embarrassment. Right after Baby Boy’s murder, Kevin called Petra, trying to get gory details. Either Shull put him up to it- aiming for psychic souvenirs- or Kevin suspected something about his teacher and was checking it out. Either way, he’d be in trouble.”
He frowned.
I said, “What’s next?”
“More of the same. This is Stahl’s second day on surveillance. He called in an hour ago, and all Shull’s done so far is spend a few hours on campus, run errands, come home. He’s still there, but Stahl figures he’ll likely get going soon. He usually begins night-crawling around now.”
“Where does he crawl?”
“All over town. Clubs, bars, restaurants. He drives a lot, moves around constantly- which fits, these guys are always mileage freaks. Tonight, Stahl switched cars to a rental SUV, just in case. Petra’s run out of things to do, so she may join in. A two-person surveillance is always better. I showed Shull’s photo to the gallery people and Szabo and Loh. No one recognized him, why would they? He wears the uniform, black-on-black, your prototypical L.A. Guy. His name doesn’t show up on Szabo’s invite list, either, but I’ll keep looking.”
“What kind of girl did Shull pick up?” I said.
“Stahl didn’t say. The main thing is, he didn’t kill her. Stahl describes Shull’s general demeanor during the pickup as relaxed. He’s certain Shull’s unaware we’re looking at him. So maybe he’ll slip up, actually make a move on someone.”
“Caught in the act,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “A boy can dream.”
The next morning Milo phoned, and said, “Boring night. Shull just drove around. Up in the hills, then out to the beach all the way into Ventura County. He turned off on Las Posas, got on the 101 north, went another ten miles, returned, stopped at an all-night coffee shop in Tarzana- he likes cheapie-eats places, probably thinks of himself as slumming. Then he drove home alone, went to bed.”
“Restless,” I said. “The tension could be building up.”
“Well,” he said, “let’s see if he blows.”
Just as I was leaving for a jog, Allison phoned to say she’d had to add three appointments to her patient schedule, wouldn’t be through until 9:30 P.M.
“Crises?” I said.
“When it rains it pours. Are you up for a later reservation?”
We’d arranged an eight o’clock dinner date at the Hotel Bel Air. Fabulous food, impeccable service, and when the weather was kind, which was often in L.A., you could dine outside and watch swans glide on lagoons. Years ago, I’d seen Bette Davis glide across the patio. That night I’d been with Robin. She and I used to hit the Bel Air on special occasions. I thought the fact that I was ready to take Allison was a healthy sign.
“How about ten?” I said. “Will you have the energy?”
“If I don’t, I’ll fake it,” she said.
I laughed. “You’re sure? We can do it another time.”
“ ‘Another time’ isn’t a concept I admire,” she said. “Sorry for the shuffle.”
“A crisis is a crisis.”
“Finally,” she said. “Someone who gets it.”
45
Night three of the surveillance found Petra stationed up the road from A. Gordon Shull’s house. Not nearly as close as Stahl had gotten because fewer vehicles were parked on the street, and she had to blend in. But she still had a nice clear view of the gates.
Stahl had suggested she take the hillside position while he stayed down in the city in the rental SUV. Just about the only thing he’d said to her all of yesterday. He seemed more distant than ever, if that was possible.
He was down on Franklin, in a Bronco. A cute, shiny, black thing Petra had admired in the station parking lot.
“Nice, Eric.”
Stahl’s response was to produce an oily rag, bend down and rub the cloth on the greasy asphalt, flick off flecks of grit and begin dirtying the Bronco’s side panels and windows. Soon the poor thing looked as if it had been driven all day from Arizona.
“Schoelkopf must’ve been in a good mood,” said Petra. “Okaying cool wheels.”
Stahl picked up more parking lot dirt, continued to filthy the Bronco. “I didn’t ask him.”
“You paid for this with your own money?”
“Yup.”
“You might still be able to collect,” she said. “If you put in the voucher soon.”
Stahl did something with his head that might’ve been a nod. If you were looking for a nod. He opened the Bronco’s driver door, said, “Let me know when you’re all set.” Got in. Drove off.
They maintained contact every hour, using a tactical band on the radio.
Four calls tonight, so far, each the same:
“Nothing.”
“Okay.”
It was a quarter to eleven and Shull, whom they assumed was home, hadn’t emerged.
Staying in, just as he had last night?
That had been a downer. Sitting, waiting, fighting drowsiness. The crushing boredom Petra detested. At least Shull wasn’t out killing anyone.
Then she flashed an evil grin. Too bad Shull wasn’t out for the kill. This case had been nothing but false starts and dead ends and way too much of nothing and Lord forgive her, she craved some action, was willing to trade public safety for a little adrenaline fix.
What’s a little attempted murder between friends?
A voice in her head said, Naughty girl.
She said, “Up yours,” just to hear the sound of her own voice.
At 11 P.M. she shared another two-word communication with Eric the Dead. Sat back and stared at the black sky above the gates.
She’d avoided fluids well before the surveillance but by now, her bladder was cramping.
Not easy for a girl.
Not that she’d ever complain to anyone.
She was considering her urinary options when Shull’s gate swung open and headlights stared out at the night. The BMW or the Expedition?
She was down in her seat when it passed.
Neither. A Cadillac- dark gray, shiny.
Despite her surprise, she was able catch to the license number. Whispered it out loud in order to commit it to memory.
Stahl had said only two vehicles were registered to Shull. Interesting. She got back on the tac band, told Stahl what to look for. He’d be the primary tail, now, because she was going to call in the plates.
Soon she had it: Five-year-old Sedan DeVille registered to William F. Trueblood, Pasadena address.
Shull’s rich stepfather.
She put Trueblood’s name into the system, got two more DMV hits: a one-year-old Eldorado and a 1952 Jaguar.
Stepdaddy gets a new Caddy, donates the old one to Junior. William F. Trueblood hadn’t bothered to change the registration. Meaning he was probably still paying the license fees and the insurance.
Nice gift for Gordie, free and clear. The Cadillac offered Shull the use of a completely legal, unregistered set of wheels.
Spoiled brat.
Petra started up her Honda, turned around, headed down to the city. The first clean, safe rest room she spotted was at a French-type café on Franklin, seven blocks west of Beachwood. She left her car with the valet, tipped him, and told him to keep it there. The restaurant had a bar and a few tables, was jammed and noisy and rich with the smell of ratatouille and shellfish. She elbowed her way through a crush of laughing, flirting pretty people, picking up bits of stale pickup dialogue and smiling, despite herself. Then resenting the fact that some people had lives and she didn’t.