Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (45 page)

He unfolds it and shows it to me. I see the word
murder.
Then a drawing of a kid.

Me.

I try to read the article, but the words are jumping up and down. So is my stomach. My heart starts pushing against my chest, I feel cold, and my mouth is dry.

I keep struggling to read, but nothing makes sense, it’s like a foreign language. Blinking, I clear my eyes, but the words are still weird and jumping. I grab the paper from him and hold it close, finally start to understand.

The woman who got killed in the park has a name. Lisa. I have to think of her as Lisa now.

Lisa Boehlinger-Ramsey. Her ex-husband’s an actor, Cart Ramsey. A show called
The Adjustor.
I’ve heard of it; I think Moron used to watch it.

Someone’s offering twenty-five thousand dollars to find me.

I run for the back door. Sam doesn’t try to stop me.

As I reach for the knob, my feet freeze.

Where can I go?

It’s going to be a hot, bright day full of people out for that money; the sunlight will uncover me. Someone—maybe a bunch of them—will grab me and tie me up and turn me in.

Sam’s still standing there. “You can stay here all day, but remember, tonight’s Friday services, thirty, forty
alter kocker
—worshipers showing up a half hour before dark, nothing I can do about it.”

I’m not breathing great and my chest feels tight; I open my mouth wide to capture some air, but not much comes in. My stomach hurts worse than it ever did and my heart’s still bumping against my chest
—chuck chuck,
just like what happened to . . . Lisa.

“One thing you might consider, Bill: Twenty-five thousand’s a lot of money. If you do know something about this, why not be a good citizen and help yourself in the bargain?”

“I don’t know anything.”

He shrugs. “Fine. I accept that. It’s not you, just some kid who looks like you. But with the resemblance, how are you gonna traipse around?”

I slept so well last night, but now I’m tired, just want to lie down.

I sit down on a shul bench and close my eyes.

“To see something like that, Bill, of course you’re scared. I know. I saw terrible things too.”

I keep my eyes glued shut.

“You see things like that, you wish you didn’t, because you know it’ll change you. That’s the big difference in this world, Bill. People who’re forced to see terrible things, and everyone else, getting away with the easy life. I won’t tell you it’s good to see. It stinks—no one would choose it. The only good thing is, you can get strong from it—I don’t have to tell you that, you already got strong. Being out there, taking care of yourself, you did a good job. Considering what you been through, you did great. It’s true, Bill. You’re handling things great.”

He’s saying nice things, trying to make me feel better. Why does it feel like a punch in the stomach?

“One part of my brain,” he goes on, “is saying call the cops, protect him— No, no, don’t worry, I’m not gonna do it, I’m just telling you what’s going on in my brain. The other part—must be the strong part—is reminding me of what happened to me when I wasn’t much older than you. Remember those nazis I told you about? Some of
them
were cops—devils in uniform. So it’s not always simple, is it? A guy wants to do the right thing, not break the law, but it’s just not that simple, is it?”

He reaches out and touches my shoulders. “Don’t worry, you’re safe with me.”

He means it. It makes me feel good.

Why does it also make me bend over, so low my forehead’s almost touching the floor and now my eyes hurt, too, and I can’t stop myself from rocking back and forth and my body’s shaking and I’m crying.

Like a damn baby, I just can’t stop it!

With everything that’s happened, why cry
now
?

CHAPTER

Wil Fournier returned from Schoelkopf’s office,
thinking, Could have been worse.

The captain had been irritable but distracted, a meeting this afternoon with Deputy Chief Lazara. “Including your case, which I assume is stagnating.” Schoelkopf’s face started to redden.

Wil headed him off by volunteering the Russian’s tip.

“When did this come in?”

“Late last night. The guy’s a lowlife, I figured I’d do some checking on him first—”

“Check later, it’s a solid tip and I want you back in Venice, searching for the kid. Where’s Barbie?”

Wil wondered about that himself. “Don’t know.”

Schoelkopf glared at him. “Tight team you guys are running. How’s Ken’s wife?”

“I imagine she’s being operated on right now, sir.”

“She’ll probably be okay, young woman like that—okay, back to the beach, Fournier. If the kid’s there, I want him found.” Schoelkopf picked up his phone.

Straight to the media. No one could see him, but he’d put on a media smile.

Before leaving for Venice, Fournier followed up on the two tips from Watson. Nothing new from one old woman, but the second, a Mrs. Kraft, said she was pretty sure the boy lived in a trailer park on the south end of town.

“Low-class place,” she said. “They started it years ago for retired people, but trash moved in.”

“The boy’s family is trash?” said Wil.

“If he lives there, they probably are.”

“But you don’t know a name?”

“No, sir, I’m just saying I think he lived there because I think I seen him around there. When I was out with my dog. My dog’s a sweetie pie, but the boy didn’t come near Jet, like he was afraid of animals. This happened twice. I’m not sure it’s him, but I think so.”

“Okay, thanks, Mrs. Kraft,” said Fournier. “What’s the name of the trailer park?”

“Sleepy Hollow,” she said. “Like that book, the ghost story.”

He called the Watson sheriff and got a busy signal. Could you believe that? Just as he tried again, Brian Olson, the D at the next desk, waved at him. “Someone for you on my line.”

Fournier went over to Olson’s desk and Olson used the break to get coffee.

“Fournier.”

“Detective? This is Sheriff Albert McCauley from Watson, California. Woulda got back to you sooner, but I was attending a firearms conference up in Sacramento. Ever been to one of those? Very educational.” Low, drawling voice. Plenty of free time.

“Not yet,” said Wil.

“Educational,” McCauley repeated. “So. What can I do for you?”

Fournier had left detailed messages. What was this,
Mayberry RFD
? He told McCauley about the boy and the trailer park.

“Runaway, huh?” said the sheriff. “Yeah, the Hollow’s a scruffy place. Not much crime, though. Anywhere in Watson, for that matter. Quiet here. Only real problems we get is when the migrants blow in and hit the tequila.”

The kid had run from something, thought Fournier. “If you could check, Sheriff—”

“Sure, no problem. Got some things to catch up on first, then I’ll go over and talk to the Hollow manager, see if he can ID this boy. You say it was in the L.A. paper?”

“Two days ago.”

“Don’t usually read the L.A. papers. Not too friendly to law enforcement, are they?”

“Depends,” said Wil, noncommittal. “I can fax you the drawing.”

“Sure. Do that.”

Wil thanked him again and hung up, resolving to call the Sleepy Hollow manager himself if he didn’t hear back from McCauley by late afternoon.

He spent another two hours following up with shelters and social workers, and headed west, having lunch at an Italian place on the Third Street Mall in Santa Monica, then drove to Venice.

A beautiful afternoon at the beach was wasted talking to shopkeepers, restaurant managers, old folks, bodybuilders, Rollerbladers. Tourists who looked at him like he was crazy. Some people were scared of him, despite the suit and a flip of the badge. Black skin. Maybe one day he’d get used to the reaction, but probably not.

Sleazeball Zhukanov was back behind his souvenir counter, and the first time Wil passed the stand he ignored the Russian’s hostile stare. On the way back, he stopped, asked Zhukanov if he’d seen anything.

The Russian shook his head and pushed stringy hair out of his face. Greasy face full of pits. Pus pimple in the fold of his left nostril. Zhukanov’s beard was a poor excuse for facial hair, unevenly trimmed, a blemish, not an adornment. The guy didn’t believe in deodorant, either. Who’d buy toys from him?

Zhukanov’s eyelids drooped. “Not yet, but I keep eyes open.”

“Do that.” Wil started to walk away.

Zhukanov said, “How can I call you without number?”

Wil fished out a business card and placed it on the counter, ignoring Zhukanov’s outstretched palm. Hatred filled the Russian’s eyes. He picked a troll doll off the rack and put the tiny figure’s neck between two fingers. Wil left, wondering if he’d decapitate the thing.

It was already 6:30 and he was due at the Cave by 8 for Val Vronek’s signal about the fat biker’s arrival. The value of that seemed less than iffy, probably just another fool out for the twenty-five thou, but digging dry wells was part of the job.

He called into the station. Nothing from Sheriff McCauley, so either the Watson lawman had checked out Sleepy Hollow and located the kid in question or hadn’t bothered yet. Either way, Wil was annoyed.

The only message was from Petra, 818 area code. He returned it.
The mobile customer you are trying to reach is either away from the vehicle or . . .

Obtaining a number for the Sleepy Hollow RV Park and Recreational Facility, he phoned, got another taped message, another drawling voice.

Quiet place, McCauley had said. More like Zombie Town.

He called Leanna, asked her phone machine whether she was free for a late dinner tonight, let’s say nine-thirty, ten. Another try at Petra’s 818 cell phone, same outcome. It was nearly seven, and he was ready to kill the first machine he met. He walked along the beach, found a quiet bench, and sat down to enjoy the ocean for a while, watching the seagulls and the pelicans. He loved those pelicans, the way they just cut through the air, no effort, very cool birds. God, it was gorgeous here, if you concentrated on the water, forgot about the people.

Then he found himself turning around. Scanning the walkway. Just in case the kid happened by. Wouldn’t
that
be something, a precious accident. Unable to relax now, he found another bench, one that put his back to the water and his eyes on business.

At 7:45 he was on Hollywood Boulevard, drinking an Orange Whip at a snack stand a few storefronts down from the Cave. The nightcrawlers were already out. Punks, dopers, he-shes, she-hes, all kinds of its, more dumb tourists, small groups of marines on leave—those kids always got into trouble. With their shaved heads, they looked just like skinners; maybe some of them were. As he sucked down the sweet, freezing drink, he saw something that really cracked him up: pudgy girl, around nineteen, shaved head except for one of those rooster-comb deals, leading a guy of the same age around on a leash. Saying, “Get going, get going.” The guy was skinny, pale, mute, had a romantic smile on his face.

Fournier sipped a little more Whip, tossed the cup, and ambled by the Cave. Harleys were lined up in front of the bar. Even from here you could hear the music, some kind of country rock, way too much bass.

A half-open door offered a glimpse of dark room. Wil kept walking, made it to the corner, pretended to examine the cheesy clothes in a store window, turned around. When he reached the bar the second time, Val Vronek was coming out, all leathered and chained, looking almost as greasy as the Russian.

The undercover man paused just left of the doorway, lit up a cigarette, caught Wil’s eye for a half second. His left cheek twitched, and he gave his head a very small shake.

No Fat Boy.

Wil took a stroll. Fifteen minutes later, Vee communicated the same thing, made sure no one was watching, flashed ten fingers three times. See you in thirty.

Half hour later, still no sign of the guy. Val lit up a cigarette, walked to one of the Harleys, checked the chain lock, loped down the street to the corner. A few minutes later, Wil followed. He found the undercover D in the darkened doorway of an apartment building just off the Boulevard. Black windows, city condemnation notice on the door.

“Sorry. Guy was probably full of shit,” said Vee. “Or maybe he watches TV.”

“What was on TV?”

“Your kid, didn’t you see it?”

“Haven’t been sitting in a bar all day.”

Vee smiled. “Six o’clock news, Dubba. Some tipster put him in Venice. Maybe Fat Boy decided I wasn’t worth dealing with and went there straight.”

“Just came from Venice,” said Wil. And the tipster. Had any of the bikers on the walkway matched Fat Boy’s description? No, he would have noticed that. He hoped.

Vee said, “If he shows up, I’ll call you. Gotta get back to scroteville.” His face was glassy with sweat.

“Hot gig?” said Wil.

“Hell would be a vacation, Dubba. And the smell’s something else. Not that you’ll ever get a chance to know, being dusky.”

Wil chuckled. “Hey, membership has its privileges.”

Leaving Vronek his beeper number in case Fat Boy showed up, he drove home, wondering if Leanna had called back. Maybe she’d tried his apartment, thinking him back already. Logical, it was nearly nine-thirty—he’d sure given the citizens full service today.

The beep came just as he pulled into his driveway.

He read the number. Sheriff McCauley. Gee thanks, pard, finally moseyed on down to the ol’ Holler, didja?

Collecting his mail, he entered his ground floor flat, checked the phone. No Leanna. Uncapping a bottle of Heineken, he called McCauley.

“Complications,” said the sheriff. No more drawl; none of that country-bumpkin friendliness. “Got a tentative ID on your kid. The manager ID’d him. Name’s Billy Straight. William Bradley Straight, twelve years old, approximately five feet, seventy-five, eighty pounds. No one’s seen him for months. The mother was unemployed, living on welfare, always months behind on the rent. No father that anyone’s ever seen. Not a good situation, but the boy never gave any trouble.”

Gone for months, but no one in peaceful, quiet Zombieville had bothered to report it, thought Wil. Even country lanes could be mean streets.