Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (43 page)

He’d arrived at seven on the dot, energized. A bunch more crank tipster messages on his desk, but the Russian hadn’t called, so maybe the kid was gone from Venice or, more likely, he’d never been there.

Those two tips from Watson interested him a lot more. Two righteous-sounding old women both thought they might have seen the boy in town. He was still waiting for a callback from the Watson sheriff.

His phone rang. A new day dawns.

“Hey, Dubba-yew, it’s Vee.”

“Vee, long time.”

Val Vronek was a D-II Wil had worked Narcotics with at Wilshire, now handling hush-hush major crime stuff from downtown. Vronek loved undercover—his favorite thing, posing as a biker meth dealer. Big and heavy, he’d grown his hair shoulder-length, raised a beard that looked like a health hazard.

“Guess what, Wil, I’m in your neighborhood.”

“Oh?”

“Can’t discuss details, but if you guessed outlaw biker crank empire I wouldn’t contradict you. Just happened to be spending time in some shithole called the Cave.”

“Right up your alley, Vee, white-trash roots and all that.”

“You bet. Daddy rode high, Mama ate bugs,” sang Vronek. “That’s an old country tune. Blue-eyed soul.”

“Blue-eyed soul is the Righteous Brothers.”

Vronek laughed. “The reason I’m calling is, in the course of said assignment to said shithole, something happened I thought you should know about. Late last night, some guy came in showing around the picture of that kid you’ve been looking for, implying anyone who could help him would get a cut of the reward.”

“Why would anyone do that?” said Fournier. “Least of all, leather-scum. If they knew where the kid was, they’d turn him in themselves, take the whole twenty-five.”

“Didn’t say the guy was smart, Wil. Just there. And none of the assembled patrons jumped on the offer. It was like, ‘All those who give a shit step forward.’ No big boot ballet. I pretended to be one-quarter fascinated, tried to get a feel for the guy. He came across big-time stupid.”

“Got a name?”

“Nope, the situation didn’t call for that level of intimacy. Here’re the vitals: white male, twenty-eight to thirty-five, brown and blue, wavy hair, reddish muttonchop sideburns, my height, add at least fifty pounds.”

“A big boy,” said Fournier.

“He came on like some heavy-duty Angel, but no one knew him. I told him I’d look out for the kid, where could I reach him? He said he’d be stopping by again tonight, around eight. You want me to, I’ll come out to the sidewalk when he shows and let you know.”

“Deal, Vee. Thanks.”

“Anytime. Too bad I won’t be able to buy you a drink. They don’t like colored folk.”

Just as Fournier hung up, Schoelkopf called. “You’re there. At least someone on Ramsey is.”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“You don’t read the paper?”

“Not yet—”

“You should, this is a public case. They found the girl’s car. Burned out in Venice, I had to learn it from the damn paper. Read it, then get in here.”

CHAPTER

Nigger.

Not taking him seriously. Vladimir Zhukanov pulled a troll doll down from the rack and squeezed its belly. Blond-haired troll,
SURF DUDE
! printed on the shirt. He hated the way the damn thing smiled. Some Swede or Dane had invented the original one. This one was made in Korea, pirated. Zhukanov had bought ten gross from an old Moscow friend of his who worked the docks down in Long Beach, a hundred bucks, no questions asked.

A Georgian named Makoshvilli—they’d busted heads together while in the army, breaking up protests near the Kremlin, braining Yids, assorted cosmopolitan dirt.

He brought the trolls in a few at a time, pocketed the cash, fuck the boss.

Vladimir Zhukanov, sergeant in the Moscow police, reduced to trafficking in toys!

America, land of dreams. He’d claimed to be a Yid to get over here, paid a fortune to some immigration lawyer to lie for him, bunked down in some West Hollywood hovel full of Yids while he tried to find a niche for himself in L.A. A few months later, Yeltsin opened the gates to anyone, the bastard.

The city was all niggers and brownies. He had yet to find his niche. He’d driven a cab, tried unsuccessfully to sell his head-busting services to a Van Nuys forgery ring, managed to get into a West Hollywood car-theft ring but couldn’t hot-wire fast enough so they fired him. He worked nights for a while, bouncing at a Russian club on Third Street till some punks broke his nose—five against one, stupid club owners insisting no weapons, how could they claim it was his fault?

Now this. Five bucks an hour from the Yid who owned the souvenir stand. Zhukanov skimmed at least 5 percent regularly, the Yid knew it, didn’t care—he was raking it in from twenty other stands all around the city, living in Hancock Park, buying that hook-nosed wife of his diamonds.

One day, Zhukanov figured, he’d break into the house, get those diamonds.

Meanwhile, he sold toys. Till now: salvation in the form of the kid.

Had to be him. Zhukanov had done his share of hunting, knew what prey smelled like.

Handing it to the nigger cop, but the black bastard wasn’t taking him seriously. No wonder this multicultural shithole had so much crime—nigger cops. Like having foxes guard chickens.

No way would he let that screw up his plans. Twenty-five grand meant out of here, maybe a quick grab for the boss’s diamonds, fly to New York, Brighton Beach, Coney Island—no shortage of outfits there who’d welcome his talents; but with that kind of money he’d start his own business.

He was already self-employed: personal hunter of the kid.

How far could the little bastard have gone? He was sure to turn up again, and Sergeant Zhukanov would grab him.

A flash of optimism lightened his mood. A little vodka, maybe stop off somewhere for a nice meal.

Starting tomorrow, he’d be on full alert.

CHAPTER

Friday morning, Petra woke thinking about Balch
as suspect. It still made sense, but so did Ramsey.

Which one of them? Both of them? Neither of them—a horrible thought.

The report of Lisa’s burned-out car was on page 5, along with a smaller reprint of her drawing, but nothing about the Venice tip or those from Watson. So Wil hadn’t been forced to report yet.

As she showered and soaped her body, she realized Kathy Bishop’s body was under the knife right now. She’d call Stu later. When things had settled. Meanwhile, there were some details to take care of before she set out for Montecito.

Dr. Boehlinger’s hotel room didn’t answer—out already, doing who knew what. A recheck of Missing Persons brought no clue to Estrella Flores’s whereabouts, and by 9
A.M.
she was on her way to Granada Hills to pick up Ron.

When she drove up, he was standing at the curb, holding a cell phone.

His house was a tiny Tudor on a sun-splashed side street, one story, the sharply pitched shake roof and half timbers and pseudo-gables silly but somehow touching: Someone had cared enough to lay in details. The grass was mown and edged but pale; two rosebushes flanking the stone walkway were knobby with deadheads, and half the oranges on a fifteen-foot Valencia had browned.

He was at the car door before she shifted into park. His hair was shower-moist, cowlicks sprouting like new wheat. A blue V-neck sweater, yellow button-down shirt, and off-white Dockers made him look younger—grad student, business administration. Oxblood penny loafers. Somewhere along the trajectory from rock drummer to cop he’d touched upon preppy. Dressed casually, he looked
much
younger, maybe younger than she did.

“Hi,” she said.

He got in. “Hi.” Lime-scented aftershave. He hadn’t worn that the first time. That seemed like years ago. He made no move toward her now; locked the door and put the phone in his lap, explaining, “Just in case my mom needs to call.”

“I should move into the twentieth century, finally get one of those.”

“Get one of those hands-off deals,” he said. “Talk in the car, make everyone think you’re psychotic, and they’ll leave you alone.”

Laughing, she pulled away from the curb, wondering if she should mention the theory jolt about Balch. No, too speculative at this point. He had years on her. He was a rescuer. She wanted to look smart in front of him.

As she drove, they chatted. Small talk, but intelligent. He gave off an air of stability. Too boring for the Spanish equestrienne? Or would he reveal some grub-under-the-rock dark side if she waited long enough?

You are one untrusting broad. Thank you, Nick.

“Beautiful day,” she heard him say. His hands were quiet now. No gripping of the door handle or other signs of anxiety about her driving. The loafers looked freshly polished. Sharp crease in the Dockers—wasn’t that sort of an anti-Dockers thing? Petra smiled at the thought of
him
wanting to impress
her.

By the time they reached the 101 on-ramp, they were really talking.

She sped through the west Valley—past RanchHaven—into Thousand Oaks, Newbury Park, Camarillo, the produce fields and fertilizer stink of Oxnard. At Ventura, Ron pointed out a Golf N’ Stuff on the east side of the freeway, telling her he sometimes took his girls there—they also had U-bump cars and miniboats, the latter a lot of fun if you don’t mind getting wet. Getting all enthusiastic, but the bounce went out of his voice when Petra, thinking about Balch again, said, “Sounds cute.”

“If you’re into that kind of thing,” he added, embarrassed.

“I am,” she said, hastening to salvage the conversation. “Grew up in Arizona, didn’t see too many boats, mini or otherwise. After we solve the case, let’s stop off on the way back and get wet.”

He didn’t answer. She turned her head far enough to catch the blush on his neck.

Oh, jeez. How could a size-9 shoe fit completely in a mouth?

“Or,” she said, “we could golf. But only after we solve Lisa. We’re gonna wrap the whole thing up today, right?”

“Sure,” he said, grinning. “Arizona. Didn’t they move London Bridge there?”

She exited at Santa Ynez, asking him, “Do you know Montecito?”

“Only by reputation.”

“Which is?”

“Rich.”

Pulling to the side of the grove-bordered road, she consulted her
Thomas Guide,
located Ramsey’s street two miles in, a pair of right turns and a left, and resumed driving. Montecito was ten degrees cooler than L.A., a perfect sixty-eight. Private groves bordered Santa Ynez Road. Rich indeed.

Petra had been up to Santa Barbara a few times with Nick—Sunday outings, eating seafood on the pier, scorning the sidewalk art. They’d passed Montecito on the freeway, Nick rhapsodizing about the estates, great Spanish architecture, old money, real class—it made Beverly Hills look like crap. Getting into one of his blind-ambition grooves, going on about how one day they’d have enough money to get a place there. But he’d never pulled off to show her.

She picked up speed. No town in sight yet, just the clean stretch of asphalt cutting through the umber fudge and chlorophyll of old trees, coral bursts of bougainvillea, oranges and lemons sparkling like gems. The sky was blue, the clouds were white, a clean yellow sun rose from behind the mountains, die-cut sharp, black, dabbed with lavender. What a place.

Ramsey had all this
and
the place in Calabasas, the cars, the real estate. Money wasn’t everything, but it sure made things nice. What led rich people to screw things up so badly? She looked over at Ron, and from his expression she guessed he was asking himself the same thing.

Montecito’s business district was four corners of earth-tone low-rise upscale shops. Then more road. Ramsey’s street was skinny, darkened by shaggy eucalyptus, his property at a dead end, announced by blue-gray stone posts and a high black scrollwork gate, wide open. A Carpinteria Sheriff’s car blocked the entrance, one deputy standing near the driver’s door, hand on holster, another facing the vehicle, hands on hips.

“Welcoming party?” Petra said to Ron. “Did you tell them we were coming?”

“No.”

As they got closer, the deputy at the front of the squad car walked into the center of the road and halted them with his palm. Petra stopped. By the time the deputy reached them, she had her badge out.

He studied it. A kid. Tall, husky, red crew cut, two weeks of rusty mustache, swollen biceps. He looked over at Ron.

“Banks, L.A. Sheriff’s. I spoke to Captain Sepulveda.”

“Yeah, he told us. Since the murder, we’ve been upping our patrols anyway. Good thing. Just caught a trespasser.” He hooked a thumb.

“Right now?” said Petra.

“He made it easy, left the gates open. Looks like a nutcase, verbally abusive. Claims he’s Ramsey’s father-in-law.”

Petra squinted at the cruiser. Through the rear window Dr. Boehlinger’s goateed face seethed. She watched Boehlinger butt the glass with his shoulder, then retract, clearly in pain. A surgeon. Brilliant. The deputy watching him must have said something, because Boehlinger started screaming. Too far away to hear, but his mouth was wide open. The window glass gave him a preserved look. Rage in a jar.

She said, “He
is
Ramsey’s father-in-law.”

“Come on,” said the red-haired cop. His name was Forbes.

“Dr. John Everett Boehlinger. Didn’t he have ID?”

“Yeah, that’s what his ID said, but that didn’t mean anything to us.” Forbes grimaced. “He sure doesn’t act like a doctor—got a toilet mouth.”

“What’d you catch him doing?”

“Coming out of a toolshed out back. The door was smashed—he obviously kicked it in, was carrying a shovel. Looked to us like he was planning to break a window in the house, do an unlawful entry. So he’s really her father? Come on.”

Petra nodded.

“Shit.” Forbes cracked massive knuckles. “His demeanor, we
figured a loony for sure. And he was
talking
crazy, bodies buried out here, he was gonna dig them up. We had to restrain him. Hands
and
feet. Kind of tough, hog-tying an old guy like that, but he tried to bite us.” Forbes looked at his hand, smooth and tan at the end of the buffed arm. The thought of bodily injury was a narcissistic insult. Working in a rich, quiet town, he’d actually managed to keep himself smooth.