Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (36 page)

The walk to the missus’s suite took her past the echoes of Chinese porcelain, the gilded cases, one filled with animalier bronzes, the other teeming with Japanese inro, jade, ivory, mixed-metal vases.

All irreplaceable. Like the boulle chest. It was illegal to kill tortoises now. Unborn babies, yes, but not reptiles.

She knocked on the missus’s door, received the expected faint reply, and went in.

The missus was in bed, wearing the cream satin bed jacket with the covered buttons—what a quest it had been finding a proper dry cleaner for that—hair wrapped in a white French towel, no makeup but still beautiful. Rosewater scent sweetened the enormous room. The only items on the nightstand were a Limoges tissue-box holder and a black satin eye mask. The bed covers were barely mused; even in sleep the woman was genteel.

But the missus was acting strange—staring straight ahead, not smiling at Mildred.

Bad dreams again?

The room was still dark, both sets of drapes drawn. Mildred stood there, not wanting to intrude, and a second later the missus turned to her. “Good morning, dear.”

“Morning, ma’am.”

Her face so thin, so white. Tired, very tired. So it probably wouldn’t be a good day.

Midred resolved to try to get her out of the house a bit—a drive to Huntington Gardens? Last month the two of them had spent a glorious hour strolling at the missus’s snail’s pace. A week later Mildred had suggested they repeat it, perhaps the art gallery, but the missus demurred.
Maybe another time, dear.

Once upon a time, a driver had wheeled the Cadillac and the Lincoln. The Cadillac was gone; Mildred wrestled with the Lincoln . . . how much petrol was in the tank?

If not a drive, at least a stroll out in back, some fresh air. Maybe after lunch.

“Here’s some breakfast for you, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Mildred.” Saying it automatically, so politely that Mildred knew the missus wasn’t hungry, probably wouldn’t touch a thing.

The body needed sustenance. That was simple logic. Yet, despite all her education, the college degree from Wellesley—the finest women’s school in America—the missus sometimes seemed unaware of the basics. During those moments, Mildred felt she was the older sister, caring for a child.

“You do need to eat, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Mildred. I’ll do my best.”

Mildred put the food down, drew the drapes, fetched the bed tray, and set it up. She noticed a kink in the drapery pleats, straightened it, and looked out the window. The blue-tiled pool that him had modeled after Mr. Hearst’s at San Simeon was empty and streaked with brown. The boxwood knot garden—too painful to see. Mildred looked away but not before being assaulted by a distant view of downtown Los Angeles. All that steel and glass, hideous from up close, but this far perhaps it did have a certain . . . stature.

When she turned fully, the missus was wiping her eyes.

Crying? Mildred hadn’t heard a sniffle.

The missus pulled a tissue out of the porcelain box and blew her nose inaudibly. Another cold? Or
had
she been crying?

“Here you go, ma’am, toast just the way you like it.”

“Forgive me, Mildred, it’s a beautiful breakfast but . . . maybe in a bit, please leave it.”

“Some coffee to stimulate the appetite, ma’am?”

The missus started to refuse, then said, “Yes, please.”

Mildred took hold of the cozy-wrapped pitcher and directed an ebony stream into the Royal Worcester cup. The missus lifted the coffee. Her hands were shaking so, she needed both to keep it steady.

“What’s the matter, ma’am?”

“Nothing. Everything’s fine, Mildred—what a beautiful rose.”

“Giant blossoms this year, ma’am. It’s going to be a good year for roses.”

“Yes, I’m sure it will . . . thank you for going to the trouble.”

“No trouble at all, ma’am.”

The same dialogue they exchanged every morning. Hundreds of mornings. A ritual but not a formality, because the missus’s gratitude was genuine, she was gracious as royalty—more gracious. Look what royalty had become! It was hard to think of her as an American. More of an . . . international.

The missus reached for another tissue and patted her eyes. Mildred picked up the first tissue, dropping it in the Venetian wastebasket beneath the end table, noticed something in there.

A newspaper. Today’s!

“I got up very early and brought it up, Mildred—don’t be cross.”

“Early, ma’am?” Mildred had been up at six, taking her own bath, ten minutes of secret bubbles, ten minutes later. She hadn’t heard a thing—the missus’s escape concealed by running water!

“I went outside to check the trees. All those winds—the Santa Anas we had last night.”

“I see, ma’am.”

“Oh, Mildred, it’s fine.” The soft eyes blinked.

Mildred crossed her arms over her apron. “How early is early, ma’am?”

“I don’t really know, dear—six, six-thirty. I suppose I went to sleep too early and my rhythm was off.”

“Very well,” said Mildred. “Would you be wanting anything else, ma’am?”

“No thank you, dear.” Now the missus’s hands were shaking again. Holding tight to the covers. Smiling, but it looked forced. Mildred prayed it wasn’t another downturn. She looked down at the newspaper.

“You can take it,” said the missus. “If you want to read it.”

Mildred folded the horrid thing under her arm. Read it, indeed! She’d throw it out with the kitchen trash.

CHAPTER

When the lock clicked on the back door to the
Jewish church, my brain froze and I couldn’t move.

What would the Jews do to me? Now I was finished.

As the back door opened, I jumped under the big table, crawled into the cabinet, and closed the door quietly. I could hear footsteps from inside.

Just one person walking—yes, just one.

The cabinet was empty and smelled of wood and old clothes. My mouth tasted of crackers and fear. I pushed myself into a corner and didn’t move. Praying whoever was in here wouldn’t open the
doors.

The sign said no prayers till tomorrow; did the Jews have secret prayers?

Whoever it was out there walked around, stopped, walked some more.

Now he was close to me. If he did open the cabinet, I’d jump out, I’d scream like a maniac, surprise him and escape.

Escape, how? Not through the back door, unless he’d left it unlocked.

The front—could you open it from inside? The bathroom window again—that would take time. My stomach started to hurt really bad. I felt like I was being suffocated.

I didn’t even do anything really wrong—just ate some of their food, and it wasn’t that good. Crackers with an onion taste, some
butterfly-shaped cookies that were stale.

I didn’t even mess with the silver bottle with the Jewish star on it, just shook it to see what would fall out. Even though the lock looked dinky. I thought about breaking it, but the bottle looked nice and I didn’t want to damage it.

This was a Jewish place, but it was still a church, so maybe God was here, too.

I’d tell him all that if he caught me.

No I wouldn’t, I’d yell and scream and run to the bathroom, lock myself in, get that window up.

I remembered what Moron said about Jews being out to kill Christians . . . that’s got to be crazy, but what if . . .

Now he’s farther away. Back and forth, back and forth—what’s he doing?

Uh-oh, he’s coming closer again. I hear rattling—he’s shaking the silver bottle. Now it sounds like he’s scraping the top of the table—probably cleaning up the cracker crumbs . . . now he walks away. Maybe he’ll see no one stole anything and just leave—

Now he’s walking back—

The door opens.

I don’t jump out and yell.

I just push myself harder into the corner.

A face stares at me. An old face, kind of fat. Glasses with thick black frames, a big nose, red, kind of big ears.

A funny-looking old guy. He steps back. He’s wearing old guy’s clothes: a white shirt and baggy light blue pants and one of those zippered tan jackets. His fingers are really thick and his hands look too big for the rest of him.

He doesn’t look mad. More surprised. I keep pushing myself into the corner. The wood is hard against my back and my butt, but I can’t stop pushing.

He steps back some more, says, “It’s okay,” in a deep grumbly voice.

I just sit there.

“It’s okay. Come on out, I don’t bite.”

Then he peeks in closer, smiling, showing me his teeth, like trying to prove they’re not for biting kids. The pervert grandpa smiled that way, too.

He’s giving me room to get out, but I can’t move, I just can’t move.

He starts saying it’s okay, if I’m hungry I should eat right, not junk.

I figure if he gives me troubles I can just push him down. Even with those big, thick hands, he’s an old guy.

Finally, my body relaxes and I crawl out. He grabs my arm and he’s pretty strong and I try to kick him and he lets go and I run to the front of the synagon, but the door’s locked with one of those locks you need a key for so now I’m stuck.

I go back. He’s sitting down on a church bench. He laughs, holds out a box of chocolate doughnuts, tries to give it to me, but no way will I get close enough to him to take it.

Not just because he’s Jewish, because he’s a person and you can’t trust anyone.

He starts talking again, telling me he’ll unlock the back door for me, I don’t have to crawl through the window.

Then he pulls out money! Two twenty-dollar bills—forty dollars!

What’s he trying to buy?

I don’t take it, and he puts it down on the floor along with the doughnuts and gets up and unlocks the door and goes to the bathroom.

I grab up everything and race out of there.

Outside, I breathe again. Inside my pocket, the money weighs a ton and the first doughnut I eat, walking through the alley, tastes fantastic. I eat another one. Then my stomach starts to hurt, and I decide to save the rest for later.

Stores are opening and more people are walking and skating, and the first thing I do is buy a hat, a Dodgers hat with an adjustable band in back. I fit it to my head and bend the brim over my face so it’ll keep the sun off, and also to hide it.

Because buying it is a strange experience. The place I find it is this little shack a ways up from the synagon. The guy who sells it to me is ugly, with bad skin, mirrored sunglasses, and long greasy blond-and-gray hair. He looks at me funny. Like he knows me.

I guess he could be from Hollywood, but I never saw him before. He’s got a weird accent, like a bad guy from a spy movie—Russian, he sounds like a Russian spy.

So why’s he looking at me like that? I mean, I can’t be sure he really is, because of the mirrored sunglasses. But it seems like he is—the way he turns his head toward me and just keeps it there. Taking a long time to give me my change.

As I turn away, he says, “Hey, you, kid,” but I leave, pushing the hat down over my face. When I turn around a few moments later, he’s in front of the shack, still looking in my direction, so I duck between some buildings and walk through the alley a little, then back to Ocean Front, too far for him to see me.

The ocean has turned pure blue, and my bones finally feel warm. I smell corn dogs and popcorn, know I have money to buy them, but I’m still full from the crackers and the doughnuts. All these people, and I’m walking along with them, like it’s a moving sidewalk and we’re all together doing some dance; no one’s bothering anyone.

The corn-dog smell makes me feel I’m at a carnival. I was at a school carnival once. Had no money to buy corn dogs or anything. This feels like a warm bright dream.

I reach the end of the walkway and there’s no place to go but sand.

The whole beach is like the end of the world.

I figure I’ll try the other end, turn around, walk for a while, until I spot the ugly Russian guy coming my way. He’s in the crowd, but he’s not part of it. Everyone else seems to be having a good time. He looks angry. And his eyes are all over the place. Looking for something—me?

Another perv?

I don’t want to find out. Slipping back over to the alley, I walk back in the direction I came from, checking over my shoulder a few times. I see a couple of people, but not him. Then the alley’s empty again and here’s the synagon. There’s a huge old white Lincoln Continental with a brown top parked there. Must be the old guy’s.

Jew canoes, Moron called them. Cadillacs and Lincoln Continentals.

Soft cars, he used to say, for soft people.

But the old guy had a strong grip.

The way he just gave me all that money—forty dollars, like it was nothing. So the Jews are rich. But he didn’t want anything from me.

Maybe I can get some more money from him.

I’m still out in the alley thinking about it when he comes out, sees me, and gives a surprised smile. He’s really short. This time I notice that his teeth are too white; they have to be false.

Mom had some false teeth made up for the back of her mouth where the rotten ones fell out, but she never put them in and her face started to get saggy.

He holds out his hands, like he’s confused.

“What?” he says. “You already spent it all?”

CHAPTER

Stu let her comfort him, then, abrupt as a power
failure, he broke the embrace. It was the first time they’d ever touched.

“Back to work,” he said.

Back at their desks, he told her, “I heard from one of my studio sources.”

Scott Wembley had called last night. He gave her the basics, leaving out the whining in the A.D.’s voice: “It’s no big deal, Detective, but you said call for anything.”

“What do you have, Scott?”

“A few of us were sitting around schmoozing and Ramsey came up and someone said they thought his show sometimes shot in Griffith Park. Mountain areas, the horse trails—it’s just across the freeway from Burbank.”

“Recent shoot?”

“I don’t know. That’s all I know.”

“Who brought it up?”

“Another A.D., and don’t ask me where she heard it from, ’cause I didn’t pump her—you said be subtle, right?”