Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (17 page)

“Why’s that?”

“Last night’s news. Unfortunately, I’ve got nothing for you so far. Agoura substation has no previous complaints on file—not even the one she went public on—so it looks like she never called it in.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“My pleasure,” he said, sounding nervous. “No messy interdepartmental competition here. Our guys beat your guys in boxing last month, so we’re feeling secure . . . anyway, you have my sympathy. They replayed it on the news early this morning, too. Made the house look even fancier than it was. Nothing on his little car museum, though.”

What a gabby guy.

“Just Jacuzzi bubbles and horses and golf.”

“Interesting, isn’t it?” said Banks. “People getting life handed to them on a platter and still manage to mess it up royal . . . anything else you need?”

“Actually,” she said, suddenly inspired, “if you’ve got time, we’ve been directed to do a file search on similar homicides over a two-year period. Do you have easy access to county data?”

Banks laughed. “This is L.A.—nothing’s easy. But sure, we’ve learned to walk without scraping our knuckles on the sidewalk. Similars? As in the unknown lurking perp? Why?”

“The brass is nervous.”

“Oh. Sure, I’ll check for you.”

“Really appreciate it, Detective Banks.”

“Ron.”

“This is scut, Ron. Don’t put your schedule out of joint.”

“Do you have a direct number?”

She gave it to him, and he said, “By similar I’m assuming crime-scene layout, wound type and quantity, idiosyncrasies, victim characteristics. Anything unusual about the crime scene I should know about?”

“No,” she said, feeling protective of her information. “Just your basic butchery.”

“Okay, then. Get back to you if anything comes up. Either way.”

“Thanks, Ron.”

“Sure . . . um . . . listen, I know this kind of case there isn’t going to give you much spare time, but if some does come up . . . I mean if you want to get together—maybe just for a cup of coffee . . . if I’m out of line, just say so.”

Stumbling like a high school kid.

The warmth of his greeting made sense now.

He wasn’t remotely her type—whatever that was. She could barely remember his face, had been concentrating on Ramsey’s. Had he been wearing a wedding ring? He
had
mentioned taking his kids to the zoo.

At least he
had
kids. Didn’t
hate
kids.

She must have taken too long, because he came back with “Listen, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, that’s fine,” she heard herself saying. “Sure, when things ease up a bit. That would be fine.”

God help her.

CHAPTER

Paragon Studios took up three blocks of the north
side of Melrose, east of Bronson, a confusion of faded tan towers and corrugated steel hangars, all surrounded by fifteen-foot walls, one of the last major film lots actually located in Hollywood.

The rococo front gates were open, and Stu Bishop, anxiety polluting his head, tried to look businesslike as he inched the unmarked Ford toward the guardhouse.

Two vans in front of him, one of them taking its time.

Petra had left the station before him, taking her personal car.

Petra trusted him a little less than she had yesterday.

Couldn’t blame her, the way he’d tossed the library book thing at Schoelkopf without warning her. Impulsive. Had the noise in his life finally gotten too loud?

Truth was, he didn’t think the book was worth a darn, had used Petra to fend off the captain. Schoelkopf had preached anyway.

All the preaching Stu had endured. Teachers, elders.
Father.
Easton Bishop, M.D., was never more at home than when declaring absolute truths to a mute audience of eight kids. Stu had avoided that kind of authoritarianism with his children, trusting them to learn by example, knowing Kathy was the main influence. Kathy . . . dear God.

Stu believed in a forgiving God, but he lived his own life as if the Lord were a harsh, unyielding perfectionist. It made him careful, a sin avoider. So why now, at this point in his life, was everything coming apart?

Stupid question.

The second van passed through and Stu drove right up. The guard, Ernie Robles, was someone he knew from his four weeks as a bit player (“nonspeaking squad room inhabitant, lots of typing and phoning”) on
L.A. Cop.
Decent fellow, relaxed attitude, no police experience, just a rent-a-cop from way back.

He was scribbling on his clipboard as Stu stopped and let the Ford idle.

“Hey, how’s it going, Detective Bishop! Beautiful day, huh?”

And it was. Warm and clear, the sky as blue as one of the matte-painting backdrops the film crews used to make L.A. look heavenly. Stu hadn’t noticed.

He said, “Gorgeous, Ernie.”

Robles picked up the clipboard. “Got a part? Where?”

“Where do you think?”

“The
Cop
lot? They’re not filming.”

“Nope, all wrapped for this year, but there’s someone I’ve got to see—oh, by the way, here’s something I picked up for you at the station.”

He handed Robles what looked like a thin, glossy magazine. Bright yellow letters rimmed with red blared
THE SENTINEL
at the top. Below that was a high-quality photo of a nasty-looking black USP semiautomatic pistol with silencer and black-tipped brass bullets. Promo from Heckler & Koch; stacks of them left at each police station. Stu had thumbed through it at a red light. Features on Benelli shotguns, HK training, the PSG1—“a $10,000 rifle & worth it!” Stu appreciated what guns did but found them boring.

Robles was already thumbing through, looking at the pictures.

“Hot off the press, Ernie.”

“Look at some of this stuff! Hey, man, thanks.”

Stu drove through.

He parked and walked to the Element Productions complex, where he found Scott Wembley easily enough. The assistant director was stepping out of a low, unimpressive bungalow, long arms dangling, licking his lips.

Lunch hour. Wembley was alone, probably headed for the commissary.

Stu came up from behind him. “Hi, Scott.”

Wembley turned and stopped and his long, pale face froze. “Stu. Hey.”

Like most A.D.’s, Wembley was just a kid, a couple of years out of UC Berkeley with a fine arts degree, tolerating the low pay and long hours and abuse by those who mattered for the impressive-sounding title and the chance to make connections.

Like many kids, he lacked spine and judgment.

They shook hands. Wembley was wearing film-lot preppy: baggy Gap jeans and an oversized plaid button-down shirt that looked too warm for the weather and too expensive for his budget. A steel Rolex made Stu wonder even more.

The kid looked even thinner than last year, had a bony, somewhat androgynous face fit for a Calvin Klein ad. Pimples on his cheeks. That was new.

The palm Stu grasped was soft and cold and wet. Sweat beaded Wembley’s unlined forehead. Too-warm shirt. Long-sleeved shirt, buttoned at the cuffs.

And, of course, the eyes. Those pupils. Poor Scotty hadn’t learned a thing.

During Stu’s month on the set, Wembley had tried to get next to him, asking questions incessantly, wanting to know what the streets were
really
like. Because he was doing a screenplay, like everyone else, even though his real dream was to be Scorsese—directors had all the control.

Stu had answered him patiently, finding the kid a touching combination of Gen-X bravado and utter ignorance.

Then, the last Friday of the shoot, after working hours, he’d stuck around to finish some paperwork, using an empty soundstage as his office. Loud sighs brought him to a corner of the giant room, where he discovered Wembley huddled on the floor, half hidden by prop walls, a spike of heroin embedded in his arm.

The kid didn’t hear him approach, had his eyes closed, veins popping like angel-hair pasta on his long, skinny arm. The needle was one of those cheap plastic disposable things.

Stu said, “Scott!” sharply, and the kid’s eyes opened on a junkie’s worst possible scenario. Yanking out the needle, Wembley tossed it to the ground, where it plunked and spotted the concrete with milky liquid.

“Oh man,” said Stu.

Wembley burst into tears.

Moral conundrum.

In the end, Stu chose not to bust the kid, even though that was a clear violation of departmental regulations: “
Upon witnessing a felony
. . .”

Pretended to believe Wembley when the kid insisted it was his first time, he was just experimenting. Two other puncture marks on Wembley’s arms proved otherwise, but both had the sooty look of old tracks, so at least the kid wasn’t mainlining regularly—yet. Stu confiscated the dope kit he found in the pocket of Wembley’s bomber jacket and tossed the works in a Dumpster on the lot—putting him in greater legal jeopardy than Wembley, but thank God the kid wasn’t smart enough to know that.

He drove Wembley to Go-Ji’s coffee shop on Hollywood Boulevard, plunked him down in a rear booth, and filled him full of strong, black coffee—technically, as much of a drug to Stu—then let the stupid kid glance around the putrid restaurant and see what advanced junkies looked like.

The load in the syringe must have been light, because Wembley was rattled and clear-eyed. Or maybe fear had out-adrenalized the opiate.

He ordered the kid a hamburger, forced him to eat while he delivered the requisite stern lecture. Soon, Wembley was mumbling sad biography—the horrors of growing up with affluent, multimarried Marin County parents who refused to set limits, post-college loneliness and alienation and fear of the future. Stu pretended to take it seriously, wondering if his own kids would be like that when they reached that age. By the end of an hour, Wembley was taking solemn vows of chastity, charity, and loyalty to the flag.

Stu drove him back to the studio. The kid looked ready to kiss him, almost girlishly grateful, and Stu wondered if he was gay, on top of everything else.

After that, Wembley avoided him on the set. It didn’t matter. Wembley was in his debt big-time, and if the kid didn’t drop out and move back home, he was someone Stu might be able to use one day.

And now the day had arrived.
Ta dum!

“Good to see you, Scott.”

“You too.” The kid lied miserably. His mouth trembled and he sniffed. Red nose. Those eyes. Stupid little idiot.

“How’ve you been?”

“Great. What can I do for you, Detective?”

Stu put his arm around Wembley’s bony shoulder. “Actually, quite a bit, Scott. Let’s find somewhere to talk.”

He ushered Wembley to a bench and said, “I need information on Cart Ramsey. Discreet information.”

“All I know is what’s been on the news.”

“No rumors around the lot?”

“Why would there be?”

“Because no one gossips more than industry folk.”

“Well, if there is gossip, I haven’t heard it.”

“You’re telling me no one’s said anything about Ramsey?”

Wembley chewed his cheeks. “Just . . . whatever everyone else is saying.”

“Which is?”

“He did her.”

“Why do they say that, Scott?”

“He beat her up, right? Maybe he wanted to get back together and she said no.”

“That your theory or someone else’s?”

“Everyone’s. Isn’t it yours?” said Wembley. “Otherwise, why would you be here?”

“Does Ramsey have any sort of reputation?”

Wembley snickered. “Not as an actor—no. I don’t know shit about him. The whole thing doesn’t interest me.”

“Well,” said Stu. “Now it does, Scott. It interests you a lot.”

CHAPTER

I had a pretty good time today, getting that corn
and being left alone. I’ll go back to Five, make some plans.

I head back toward the open fence, see someone waving.

The geeky grandparents. Standing right where the road curves off.

The old guy holds up his camera. They’re both waving, and the woman calls out, “Young man? Could you help us for a second?”

I don’t want to attract attention by running away or acting weird, so I go over to them.

“Hey, big fella,” says the guy. What a dork. He’s wearing a Dodgers T-shirt and shorts and socks and shoes and a light blue hat. His skin’s pink and he has a big lumpy nose, like the guys at the Sunnyside.

His camera is huge, in a big black case full of buckles and snaps, and his wife’s got one just like it.

“Sorry to bother you, my friend, but you seem like a nice guy,” he says, giving me a smile full of yellow teeth.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Polite,” she says, smiling. “Not everyone we’ve met is polite. I’m sure he can do it, honey.”

He clears his throat and taps his camera case. “This is a Nikon camera from Japan. My wife and I were wondering if you could do us a favor and take a picture of us, so we could have one together.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks a lot, son.” He reaches into his shorts and takes out a dollar bill.

“You don’t have to pay me,” I say.

“No, dear, we insist,” says the wife, and even though her eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, something changes on her face—just for a second, her mouth turns down. Like she’s sad. Full of pity. Like she knows I need the money.

I’m thinking, maybe if I look poor enough, she’ll give me more, and I hunch over a little but all she does is pat my hand.

“Take it. Please.”

I pocket the dollar.

“All righty,” he says. “So now we’ve got a business deal.” More teeth. “Okay, hon, where’s the best spot?”

“Right where we were, the sun’s perfect.” She points and walks up the hill a bit, stamps her foot, and touches her own camera. Why they need two cameras is a good question, but I guess some people don’t trust machines. Or their memory. They probably want to make sure they capture everything they see, maybe to show the grandkids.

She says, “Okay!” Kind of sings it out. She’s short, skinny, wears a man’s jacket over her Dodgers T-shirt and green pants.

He takes his camera out of his case and gives it to me and goes up next to her. It looks expensive, and I’m nervous holding it.