Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01
Read Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 Online
Authors: Billy Straight
STRAIGHT
A NOVEL
JONATHAN
KELLERMAN
BALLANTINE BOOKS
NEW YORK
Don’t miss these thrilling suspense novels from Jonathan Kellerman!
To Faye. For Faye. At the core, it’s always Faye.
“Unique is she, my constant dove, my perfect one.’’
S
ONG OF
S
ONGS, 6:9
CHAPTER
In the park you see things.
But not what I saw tonight.
God, God . . .
I wanted to be dreaming but I was awake, smelling chili meat and onions and the pine trees.
First, the car drove up to the edge of the parking lot. They got out and talked and he grabbed her, like in a hug. I thought maybe they were going to kiss and I’d watch that.
Then all of a sudden, she made a weird sound—surprised, squeaky, like a cat or dog that gets stepped on.
He let go of her and she fell. Then he bent down next to her and his arm started moving up and down really fast. I thought he was punching her, and that was bad enough, and I kept thinking should I do something. But then I heard another sound, fast, wet, like the butcher at Stater Brothers back in Watson chopping meat
—chuck chuck chuck.
He kept
doing
it, moving his arm up and down.
I wasn’t breathing. My heart was on fire. My legs were cold. Then they turned hot-wet.
Pissing my pants like a stupid baby!
The
chuck chuck
stopped. He stood up, big and wide, wiped his hands on his pants. Something was in his hand and he held it far from his body.
He looked all around. Then in my direction.
Could he see me, hear me
—smell
me?
He kept looking. I wanted to run but knew he’d hear me. But staying here could trap me—how could he see anything behind the rocks? They’re like a cave with no roof, just cracks you can look through, which is the reason I picked them as one of my places.
My stomach started to churn around, and I wanted to run so badly my leg muscles were jumping under my skin.
A breeze came through the trees, blowing up pine smell and piss stink.
Would it blow against the chili-burger’s wrapping paper and make noise? Would he smell me?
He looked around some more. My stomach hurt so bad.
All of a sudden he jumped ran back to the car, got in, drove away.
I didn’t want to see when he passed under the lamp at the corner of the parking lot, didn’t want to read the license plate.
PLYR 1.
The letters burned into my mind.
Why did I look?
Why?
I’m still sitting here. My Casio says 1:12
A.M.
I need to get out of here, but what if he’s just driving around and comes back—no, that would be stupid, why would he do that?
I can’t stand it. She’s down there, and I smell like piss and meat and onions and chili. Real dinner from the Oki-Rama on the Boulevard, that Chinese guy who never smiles or looks at your face. I paid $2.38 and now I want to throw it up.
My jeans are starting to get sticky and itchy. Going over to the public bathroom at the other end of the lot is too dangerous . . . that arm going up and down. Like he was just doing a job. He wasn’t as big as Moron, but he was big enough. She trusted him, let him hug her . . . what did she do to make him so mad . . . could she still be
alive
?
No way. Impossible.
I listen carefully to see if she’s making any sounds. Nothing but the freeway noise from across the east side of the park and traffic from the Boulevard. Not much traffic tonight. Sometimes, when the wind blows north, you hear ambulance sirens, motorcycles, car honks. The city’s all around. The park looks like the country, but I know the difference.
Who is she?—forget that, I don’t want to know.
What I
want
is to put tonight on rewind.
That squeaky sound—like he took the air right out of her. For sure she’s . . . gone. But what if she
isn’t
?
Even if she isn’t, she will be soon, all that
chucking.
And what could I do for her, anyway? Breathe into her mouth, put my face in her blood?
What if he comes back while I’m doing it?
Would
he come back? That would be stupid, but there are always surprises. She sure found that out.
I can’t help her. I have to put this all out of my mind.
I’ll sit here for ten more minutes—no, fifteen. Twenty. Then I’ll get my Place Two stuff together and move.
Where to? Place One, up near the observatory, is too far, and so are Three and Four, even though Three would be good ’cause it has a stream for washing. That leaves Five, in the fern tangle behind the zoo, all those trees. A little closer, but still a long walk in the dark.
But it’s also the hardest one to find.
Okay, I’ll go to Five. Me and the animals. The way they cry and roar and smash against their cages makes it hard to sleep, but tonight I probably won’t sleep anyway.
Meantime, I sit here and wait.
Pray.
Our Father in heaven, how about no more surprises?
Not that praying ever got me anything, and sometimes I wonder if there’s anyone up there to pray to or just stars—humongous balls of gas in an empty black universe.
Then I get worried that I’m blaspheming.
Maybe some kind of God
is
up there; maybe He’s saved me lots of times and I’m just too dumb to know it. Or not a good enough person to appreciate Him.
Maybe God saved me
tonight,
putting me behind the rocks, instead of out in the open.
But if he had seen me when he drove up, he probably would’ve changed his mind and not done anything to her.
So did God
want
her to . . .
No, he just would’ve gone somewhere else to do it . . . whatever.
In case You saved me, thank You, God.
In case You’re up there, do You have a plan for me?
CHAPTER
Monday, 5 a.m.
When the call came into Hollywood Division, Petra Connor was well into overtime but up for more action.
Sunday, she’d enjoyed unusually peaceful sleep from 8
A.M.
to 4
P.M.,
no gnawing dreams, thoughts of ravaged brain tissue, empty wombs, things that would never be. Waking to a nice, warm afternoon, she took advantage of the light and spent an hour at her easel. Then, half a pastrami sandwich and a Coke, a hot shower, and off to the station to finalize the stakeout.
She and Stu Bishop rolled out just after dark, cruising alleys and ignoring minor felonies; they had more important things on their minds. Selecting a spot, they sat watching the apartment building on Cherokee, not talking.
Usually they chatted, managed to turn the boredom into semi-fun. But Stu had been acting weird lately. Remote, tight-lipped, as if the job no longer interested him.
Maybe it was five days on graveyard.
Petra was bugged, but what could she do—he was the senior partner. She put it aside, thought about Flemish pictures at the Getty. Amazing pigments, superb use of light.
Two hours of butt-numbing stasis. Their patience paid off just after 2
A.M.
and another imbecilic but elusive killer hooked up.
Now she sat at a scabrous metal desk opposite Stu, completing the paperwork, thinking about going back to her apartment, maybe doing some sketching. The five days had energized her. Stu looked half-dead as he talked to his wife.
It was a warm June, well before daybreak, and the fact that the two of them were still there at the tail end of a severely understaffed graveyard shift was a fluke.
Petra had been a detective for exactly three years, the first twenty-eight months in Auto Theft, the remaining eight in daytime Homicide with Stu.
Her partner was a nine-year vet and a family man. Day shift suited his lifestyle and his biorhythms. Petra had been a nighthawk from childhood, before the deep blue midnights of her artist days, when lying awake at night had been inspirational.
Well before her marriage, when listening to Nick’s breathing had lulled her to sleep.
She lived alone now, loved the black of night more than ever. Black was her favorite color; as a teenager she’d worn nothing but. So wasn’t it odd that she’d never asked for nighttime assignments since graduating the academy?
