Petra would have guessed his age as closer to fifty-four than forty-four.

Massive forearms rested on the crutches. A big man above the waist, but skimpy legs. Behind him was a bed-sitting room- the bed open and covered with a silk throw. What Petra could see appeared military-neat. The sounds of classical music- something sweet and romantic- streamed toward the detectives.

Waste of time. Handicap aside, this was no zine guy. She said, “May we come in, sir?”

“May I ask why?” said Drummond. Jovial smile but no give.

“We’re investigating a homicide and looking for a man who calls himself Yuri Drummond.”

Drummond’s smile expired. He shifted his weight on the crutches. “Homicide? Lord, why?”

His reaction made Petra’s heart beat fast. She smiled. “Could we talk inside please, sir?”

Drummond hesitated. “Sure, why not? Haven’t had a visitor since the last wave of do-gooders.”

He stamped backward on his crutches and cleared space, and Petra and Stahl stepped into the apartment. Inside, the music was louder, but barely. Kept at reasonable volume- issuing from a portable stereo on the floor. One room, just as Petra had thought, outfitted with the bed and two armchairs, a cubby kitchen. A tiny bathroom could be seen behind the arch in the rear wall.

Two plywood bookcases perpendicular to the bed were filled with hardcovers. Literary fiction and law books. Drummond had been busted for manslaughter; a jailhouse expert?

Petra said, “Do-gooders?”

“Disability pimps,” said Drummond. “State grants, private foundations. Your name gets on a list and you become a potential customer. Go on, make yourselves comfortable.”

Petra and Stahl each took a chair, and Drummond lowered himself to the bed. Keeping that smile pasted on during what looked like a painful ordeal. “Now who got homicided and why would I know anything about it?”

Petra said, “Have you heard of Yuri Drummond?”

“Sounds Russian. Who is he?”

“What about a magazine called GrooveRat?”

Drummond’s chunky knuckles whitened.

“You know it,” said Petra.

“What interest do you have in it?”

“Mr. Drummond, it would be better if we asked the questions.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it.”

“Are you the publisher?”

“Me?” Drummond laughed. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Who is?”

Drummond inched his bulk toward the bed cushions, took a long time to get comfortable. “I’m happy to cooperate with the police, but you really need to let me know what’s going on.”

“We really don’t,” said Stahl.

Stahl’s voice seemed to spook Drummond. Drummond paled and licked his lips. Then his eyes brightened with anger. “I put myself here. In this situation.” Tapping the crutches. “Little drinking-and-driving problem. But you probably know that.”

No answer from the detectives. Petra glanced at her partner. Stahl looked furious.

“Inscrutable public servants,” said Drummond. “I got caught- thank God. Served time in a hospital ward, did AA.” Another tap. “I’m telling you this because I’ve been trained to confess. But also so you’ll understand: I’m a fool but not an idiot. My head’s been clear for ten years, and I know that nothing I’ve done abrogates my rights. So don’t try to intimidate me.”

“Abrogate,” said Stahl, reaching out and touching the spine of a law book. “You like legal terminology.”

“No,” said Drummond. “On the contrary. I despise it. But I used to be an attorney.”

“Is Yuri Drummond your son?” said Petra.

“Not hardly. I told you I’ve never heard that name.”

“But you have heard of GrooveRat. The magazine Yuri Drummond edits.”

Drummond didn’t reply.

“Mr. Drummond,” said Petra. “We found you, we’ll find him. Why add to your roster of poor decisions?”

“Ouch,” said Drummond, stroking his beard.

“Sir?”

Drummond chewed his cheek. “I didn’t know he was calling himself ‘Yuri.’ But, yes, I have heard of the so-called magazine. He’s my brother’s kid. Kevin Drummond. So now he’s Yuri? What’s he done?”

“Maybe nothing. We want to talk to him about GrooveRat.”

“Well, you’ve come to the wrong place,” said Drummond.

“Why’s that?”

“Don’t see Kevin,” said Drummond. “Let’s just say it’s not a close-knit family.”

“Any idea why he took on the name Yuri?”

“Hell if I know- maybe he fancies himself subversive.”

“When’s the last time you spoke to your nephew?”

“I never speak to him.” Drummond’s smile was sour. “His father- my brother- and I used to be law partners, and my indiscretions cost Frank quite a bit of business. After I was paroled and discharged from rehab, he fulfilled his brotherly obligation by finding me this place- ten units set aside for state-funded cripples- then proceeded to shut me out completely.”

“How do you know about GrooveRat?”

“Kevin sent me a copy.”

“How long ago?”

“Years- couple of years ago. He’d just graduated college, announced he was a publisher.”

“Why would he send it to you?” said Petra.

“Back then, he liked me. Probably because no one else in the family did- wild, alkie uncle and all that. Brother Frank’s a bit stuffy. Growing up with him couldn’t have been fun for Kevin.”

“So you were Kevin’s mentor.”

Drummond chuckled. “Not remotely. He sent me the rag, I wrote him a note and told him it was dreadful, he should study accounting. Mean old uncle. I never liked the kid.”

“Why not?” said Petra.

“Not a charming lad,” said Drummond. “Mumbly, ninety-eight-pound-weakling type, kept to himself, always going off on some project.”

“Publishing projects?”

“The fancy of the moment. Tropical fish, lizards, rabbits, trading cards, God knows what. Those little Japanese robots- of course he had to have every single one. He was always collecting crap- toy cars, computer games, cheap watches, you name it. Frank and his mother indulged him. Frank and I grew up with no money. Sports was our thing, we both lettered in football in high school and college. Frank’s other boys- Greg and Brian- are super athletes. Greg’s got a scholarship to Arizona State and Brian’s playing varsity in Florida.”

“Kevin’s not athletic.”

Drummond smirked. “Let’s just say Kevin’s an indoor type.”

Talking about his nephew had brought out the cruelty. Petra thought: Drunk, this guy would be ugly. “Do you have kids of your own, Mr. Drummond?”

“No. I used to have a wife.” Drummond’s eyes squeezed shut. “She was next to me in the car when I hit the pole. My lawyer used my grief as a defense and got me a lighter sentence.”

His eyes opened. Moist.

Stahl watched him. Rigid. Unimpressed.

Petra said, “So when’s the last time you saw Kevin?”

“Like I said, years ago. I couldn’t hazard a precise guess. After my review of his so-called publication, he never called me. It wasn’t really a magazine, you know. Just something Kevin cranked out in his bedroom. Probably cost Frank another chunk of change.”

“Do you recall anything about the content?”

“I didn’t read it,” said Drummond. “I took one look, saw it was crap, and tossed it.”

“Crap about what?”

“Kevin’s take on the art world. People he considered geniuses. Why?”

“Did Kevin write the whole thing himself?”

“That’s what I assumed- what, you think he had a staff? This was amateur hour, Detective. And what the hell does it have to do with homicide?”

Petra smiled. “So you never see Kevin. Despite the fact that he lives close to you.”

“Does he?” Drummond seemed genuinely surprised.

“Right here in Hollywood.”

“Hooray for Hollywood,” said Drummond. “Makes sense.”

“Why’s that?”

“Kid always was a star-fucker.”

They spent a while longer in the apartment, going over the same territory, rephrasing, the way detectives do, when trolling for inconsistencies. Refusing Randolph Drummond’s offers of soft drinks but fetching a Diet Coke for the man when he began licking his lips. Petra did most of the talking. The few times Stahl spoke, Drummond grew uneasy. Not evasiveness, as far as Petra could tell. Stahl’s inflectionless tone seemed to spook the guy, and Petra found herself empathizing.