Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (4 page)

Dad had specialized in invertebrate genetics but collected shells, skins, skulls, shards, and other bits of organic antiquity, their tiny, highway-bordering house outside of Phoenix crammed with detritus and relics, smelling like a neglected museum. A kind man, a caring father. Petra’s mother had died birthing her, but never once had Dad showed any resentment, though she was certain he must have felt something. She’d certainly punished herself, turning into a wild, angry teenager, setting up confrontations till Dad had been forced to send her to boarding school and she could luxuriate as a victim.

His will specified cremation, and she and her brothers had complied, tossing his ashes over a mesa in the dead of night.

Each one of them waiting for the other to say something.

Finally, Bruce broke the silence. “It’s over, he’s at peace. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Dad, the tissue collector, reduced to gray particles. Maybe one day, millions of years in the future, some archaeologist would find a Kenneth Connor molecule and hypothesize about what life had been like back in the twentieth century.

Now here was
this
lump of dead flesh, right next to her, fresh and pathetic.

Petra guessed the woman’s age at twenty-five to thirty. The tight jawline said not too much older; no tuck scars behind the ears that she could see.

Good cheekbones, judging by the right side. The entire left side was crimson mush. Probably a right-handed killer, the head rolling to the right as he cut her.

Except for Freshwater, her twenty-one previous cases were the typical stuff: bar shootings, one-jab knifings, beatings. Stupid men killing other stupid men.

The ugliest had been the Hernandez wedding, a Saturday affair in a VFW hall near the border of Rampart Division, the groom killing the bride’s father at the reception, using a brand-new pearloid-handled cake knife to slit the older man from sternum to groin, just
filleting
him as his new eighteen-year-old wife and a hundred other people watched in horror.

Some honeymoon.

Petra and Stu found the groom hiding out in Baldwin Park, served the warrant, brought him in. A nineteen-year-old gardener’s assistant, the knife hidden in a fertilizer sack in the back of his boss’s truck, the idiot.

Look, Dad, I solved it, no heebie-jeebies.

She imagined her father’s surprised smile at the trajectory of his shuddering, phobic baby.

Efficient.

She swallowed morning air. Sweet; you could smell the pines. Suddenly, she was tired of waiting around, itching to do something, learn something.

Finally Stu walked away from Dr. Leavitt and passed behind the tape into the outer region of the parking lot, where the police and coroner vehicles had grouped. Being his usual methodical self, telling the techs what to do, what not to do, what to take back for analysis. The coroner drove away, and the morgue attendants stayed behind, listening to rap music in their van, the bass thumping.

Everyone waiting for the photographer and K-9 units to arrive so the body could be taken away and the dogs could check out the wooded area above the parking lot.

Stu talked to a uniform, barely moving his lips, profile noble, framed by sunlight.

Chief Bishop. If he didn’t get a big movie role first.

Two weeks into their partnership, he’d taken out his wallet to pay for lunch at Musso and Frank and she’d seen the SAG card, next to a frequent-flyer Visa.

“You’re an actor?”

His Celtic skin reddened and he closed the wallet. “Purely by accident. They came to the station a few years ago, filming a
Murder Street
on the Boulevard, wanting real cops as extras. They bugged me till I finally agreed.”

Petra couldn’t resist. “So when do your hands and feet go in the cement?”

Stu’s swimming-pool-aqua eyes softened. “It’s an unbelievably stupid business, Petra. Incredibly self-centered. Do you know how they refer to themselves? The
industry.
As if they’re manufacturing steel.” He shook his head.

“What kind of roles have you had?”

“Minor walk-ons. It doesn’t even cut into my routine. A lot of the filming goes on at night, and if I’m still in town, leaving later makes the freeway ride shorter. So I don’t really lose any time.”

He grinned. It was protest-too-much time and they both knew it.

Petra smiled back wickedly. “Got an agent?”

Stu turned scarlet.

“You do?”

“If you’re going to work, you need one, Petra. They’re sharks, it’s worth the ten percent to have someone else deal with it.”

“Ever get any speaking parts?” Petra was genuinely interested, but also fighting back laughter.

“If you call ‘Freeze, scumbag, or I’ll shoot’ speaking.”

Petra finished her coffee, and Stu worked on his mineral water.

She said, “So when do you write your screenplay?”

“Come on, give me a break,” he said, opening the wallet again and taking out cash.

But the next week he took a part as an extra out in Pacoima. Everyone in L.A., even a straight guy like Stu, wanted to be something else.

Except her. She’d come to California, after a year of state college in Tucson, to attend the Pacific Art Institute, got a fine arts degree with a specialty in painting, and entered the workplace with a husband sharing her bed. Nick had a great job designing cars at the new GM future lab. She earned chump change illustrating newspaper ads, sold a few of her paintings out of a co-op gallery in Santa Monica for the price of supplies. One day it hit her: This was it; things were unlikely to change in any big way. But at least she had Nick.

Then her body failed her, Nick showed his real soul, or lack of, leaving her baffled, broken, alone. A week after he walked out, someone broke into her apartment and stole the few valuable things she owned, including her easel and her brushes.

She sank into a two-month depression, then finally dragged herself out of bed one November night and drove around the city, limp, deadened, defenseless, thinking she should eat. Her skin looked terrible and her hair was starting to fall out, but she wasn’t really hungry; the thought of food made her sick. Finding herself on Wilshire, she turned around, headed for home, spied an LAPD recruitment billboard near Crescent Heights, and amazed herself by copying down the 800 number.

It took her another two weeks to call. The police commission said the department had to actively recruit women. She got a nice warm welcome.

Entering the academy on whim, thinking it a stupid, incomprehensible
mistake,
she’d surprised herself by liking it, then loving it. Even the physical-fitness challenges, learning to use her flexibility rather than brute strength getting over the Wall. Avoiding the turtle squad and learning she had good reflexes, a natural talent for using leverage to floor hand-to-hand opponents.

Even the uniform.

Not the wimpy powder-blue top and navy pants of the cadet, the real one, all navy, all business.

She, who’d bucked so many boarding school fascists over issues of rank conformity, ended up attached to her uniform.

Lots of the guys in her academy class were buffed jocks and they had their blues tapered to second-skin tautness, emphasizing biceps, deltoids, latissimi.

Boys’ version of a push-up bra.

One night, impulsively, she’d customized her own uniform, using the old chipped Singer sewing machine she’d brought with her from Tucson, one of the few things the burglars had left behind.

She was five-seven, 132 pounds, with slim legs, boyish hips, big square shoulders, a butt she thought too flat, and a small but
natural
bust that she’d finally come to appreciate. Growing up with a father and four brothers, she’d found it valuable to learn how to sew.

She worked mostly with the shirt, because it bagged around her waist, and with those hips she needed
some
shape. The result had flattered her figure without flaunting it.

After graduation, she was even happier, though she didn’t invite anyone to the ceremony, still nervous about what Dad and her brothers would think.

A month into her probationary year, she told them, and they were all surprised, but no one put her down. By then, she was in the groove.

Everything about police work felt right. Keeping fit, cruising, roll call, shooting on the range. Even the paperwork, because one thing boarding school had taught her was good study habits and proper English, and that put her ahead of most of the buff-jocks with their pencil-chewing agony over syntax and punctuation.

Within eighteen months, she made Detective-I.

Earning the right to guard a molt.

A new car joined the others in the parking lot. Subcompact with a department emblem on the door. A woman police photographer came out lugging a professional Polaroid camera. Young, around the victim’s age, in sloppy clothes and long, too-black hair. Four pierces in one ear, two in the other, just holes, no earrings. Plain face, sunken cheeks, a spot of acne on each. Combative Generation-X eyes.

As she approached the body, Petra constructed a hypothetical identity for her: like Petra, an artistic type gone practical. At night she probably put on black duds, smoked dope, and drank stingers at Sunset Strip clubs, hanging out with failed rock musicians who took her for granted.

She opened her camera, looked down, and said, “My God, I know who this is!”

Petra said, “Who?” as she waved Stu over.

“I don’t know her name, but I know who she is. Cart Ramsey’s wife. Or maybe it’s ex-wife by now. I saw her on TV around a year ago. He hit her. It was one of those tabloid shows, showbiz exposé. She made Ramsey out to be a real asshole.”

“You’re sure this is her?”

“Hundred percent,” said the woman, peeved. Her photo badge ID’d her as Susan Rose, Photog.-I. “This is her, believe me. They said she was a beauty queen and Ramsey met her at a pageant—God, look at her, what a sick
fuck
!” The hand holding the camera tightened and the black box swayed.

Stu came over, and Petra repeated what Susan Rose had said.

“You’re sure,” he said.

“Jesus. Yeah, very.” Susan began to shoot pictures rapidly, thrusting the camera forward as if it were a weapon. “On the show she had a black eye and bruises. Fucking
bastard
!”

“Who?” said Petra.

“Ramsey. He’s probably the one who did this, right?”

“Cart Ramsey,” Stu said without inflection, and Petra found herself wondering if Stu had ever worked on Ramsey’s show. What was it called?
The Adjustor,
some private-eye hero who solved the problems of the downtrodden.

Wouldn’t that be cute?

Susan Rose removed a cartridge and dropped it into her case. Petra told her, “Thanks, we’ll get verification. Meanwhile, do your thing.”

“It’s her, believe me,” said Susan Rose, irritably. “Can I turn her over? I already got all of the front.”

CHAPTER

Two hours of walking. I’m not tripping as much.

The way he stabbed her.

PLYR 1.
There’s a bar on the Boulevard called Players where pimps hang out. Maybe they call themselves that because they fool around, don’t do real work.

What he did to her makes me think of something I saw in Watson, out in one of the dry fields behind the orange groves.

These two dogs were passing each other. One was white with brown spots, full of muscles, kind of like a pit bull but not exactly. The other was a big black mutt that didn’t walk well. The white dog looked calm, happy with life, had almost a smiley face. Maybe that’s why at first the black dog didn’t seem afraid of him. Then the white dog just turned without barking, jumped on the black dog, got his jaws around the black dog’s neck, twisted a couple of times, and the black dog was dead. That fast. The white dog didn’t eat the black dog or lick the blood or anything, he just kicked the dirt with his hind legs and walked away, like he’d done his job.

He
knew
he had the power.

I was wrong. I’m not close yet. My feet weigh a ton, and I start to feel stupid for living in the park, tell myself I’m not it’s a smart decision.

What’s the choice, something like the Melodie Anne? That’s a building on Selma, just off the Boulevard, burnt-out from a fire, with the windows boarded up. Lots of kids crash there, and late at night you can see them bringing older guys in there. Sometimes you actually see them giving the old guys blow jobs right outside in the alley, boys and girls.

I would rather kill myself than do that. Suicide is a sin, but so is living the wrong life.

I check the Casio: 4:04. I must be close. No matter how many lists I try, my head is filled with terrible pictures. Men hurting women, dogs killing dogs, planes blowing up, kids snatched from their bedrooms, drive-by shootings, blood everywhere.

I think about Mom but see Moron instead and now I’m thinking about the way he called Mom a whore all the time and she took it, just sat there.

On bad days he hit her. I used to close my eyes, grind my teeth, try to beam myself somewhere else. For a long time, I couldn’t understand why she took him in. Then I figured out she thinks she’s not worth much ’cause she’s got no education and he’s what she deserves.

She met him at the Sunnyside, which is where she finds all the losers she brings home. She wasn’t working there anymore, but she was still going there to drink and watch TV and joke with the guys shooting pool.

The other losers never stayed long and they ignored me. The first night she brought Moron home he stank up the trailer with body odor and motorcycle grease. The two of them got stoned. I was out on the sleeper couch, could smell the joints they lit up, hear them laughing, then the bed squeaking. I put my fingers in my ears and got totally under the blankets.

The next morning he came out into the front room naked, holding his shorts in one hand, flaps and folds of tattooed fat all over his body. I pretended to still be sleeping. He opened the door, grunted, put his shorts on, and went outside to pee. When he finished he said, “
Yeah,
” and cleared his throat and spit.