Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (50 page)

“Hey, bro, din’ you hear me?”

Zhukanov said nothing.

“Listen, man—”

“Can’t help you.”

“How can you say that, man, you don’t know what I’m asking.”

Zhukanov started to slide down the front shutter. The fat man reached up and stopped it.

Zhukanov pulled. The fat man resisted. Flabby, but his weight gave him strength.

Zhukanov said, “Move, fatso.”

“Fuck you, shithead!”

That brought the blood to Zhukanov’s face. He could feel it, hot as winter soup. His neck veins throbbed. His hands ached from gripping the shutter.

“Go away,” he said.

“Fuck
you,
man. I got a question, you could at least try a fucking answer.”

Zhukanov went silent again.

“No big deal, bro,” said the fat man. “Maybe you’ve seen this kid since I was here. You say no, fine. So why you giving me shit?”

The shutter wouldn’t budge. The fat guy’s resistance enraged Zhukanov. “Go away,” he said very softly.

The fat guy pushed at the shutter and it shot up. Daring Zhukanov to try closing it. A bully, used to having his way.

Zhukanov remained in place, smelling him. The stench wasn’t just his breath, it was all of him. A walking garbage heap.

“Seen him?”

“Go away, asshole.”

Now it was the fat man’s turn to go red. Pig eyes bulged; spittle bubbled at the sides of his mouth. That soothed Zhukanov’s anger, turning it warm and smooth. This was starting to get funny. He laughed, said, “Stupid fat-ass piece of shit.”

The fat guy made a deep, fartlike, rumbling sound, and Zhukanov waited for the next insult, ready to throw something back, laugh in the bastard’s face again.

But the fat guy didn’t say a word, just went for him, faster than he thought possible, one huge hand shooting out and snagging him by the throat, pulling him up so hard against the counter he thought his ribs had broken. The pain nearly blinded him and he thrashed helplessly.

The fat guy’s other hand was fisted, zooming at him for a face-pulverizing punch.

Zhukanov managed to jerk his face away from the blow, but the hand around his neck kept squeezing and he could feel all the breath go out of him, hear the fat guy snarling and cursing. Ocean Front was dark, abandoned, just the waves, no one around to watch this monster strangle him to death—no one but the Yids, yards away, doing their Christ-killing chants; they wouldn’t help him anyway.

He tried to tear at the strangling hand, but his hands were sweat-slick, so weak, and the fat man’s arm was moist too, and he couldn’t get a purchase. Slipping and flailing as his field of vision funneled to a pinpoint of light, he saw the fat man’s enraged face, another fist coming at him.

A spasm of panic saved his face but brought the blow along the side of his head, hard enough to rattle his brain pan. His arms continued to wave around uselessly. He didn’t remember the knife until he’d nearly lost consciousness.

Then he remembered: pocket, front pocket, left side for the quick draw, just like they’d taught him in hand-to-hand. The fat man began shaking him harder, feeding off the pain and terror on Zhukanov’s face, not noticing as Zhukanov reached down.

Zhukanov floundered, found it, grabbed too low. Cold metal, a sting, grope-grope, finally he touched the warmth of wood.

He yanked upward. Pushed the blade. No strength, not even a thrust, just a weak, womanish poke and—

Must have missed, because the fat man was still choking him, cursing . . . gargling. And now the shaking had stopped.

Now the bastard wasn’t making any sounds.

A look of surprise on his face. The blubbery lips formed into a tiny O
.

Like saying, “Oh!”

Where was the knife?

Suddenly, the hand around Zhukanov’s throat opened and air rushed into his windpipe and he retched and choked; finally realized he could breathe, but his throat felt as if someone had used it for a lye funnel.

The fat man was no longer facing him; he was flopped down on the counter, arms hanging over.

Where was the knife?

Nowhere in sight. Losing everything. Must be the vodka.

Then he saw the slow red leak from under the fat man’s shoulder. No gush, no big arterial spurt, just seepage. Like one of those summer tides when the waves got gentle.

He took hold of the fat man’s hair and lifted the massive head.

The knife was still embedded in the guy’s neck, just off-center from the Adam’s apple, tilting downward. Diagonal slice through jugular, trachea, esophagus, but gravity was pulling the blood back down into the body cavity.

Zhukanov panicked. What if someone
had
seen?

Like the kid in Griffith Park, watching, thinking he was protected by darkness.

But there was no one. Just this fat, dead piece of shit and Zhukanov holding his head up.

A hunter with a trophy. For the first time in a long time, Zhukanov felt strong, territorial, a Siberian wolf.

The only bad thing was the size of the bastard, and now he had to be moved.

Letting the head flop down again, he turned off the lights in the shack, checked the cut on his hand—just a nick—vaulted over the counter, and scanned the walkway in all directions just to make sure.

The stained-glass window in the Yid place was a multicolored patch in the darkness, but no old Yids out in front. Yet.

Removing the knife, he wiped it with his handkerchief, then eased the corpse down to the ground. Wiping blood off the counter, he stuffed the kerchief into the neck wound. Having to roll it up into a tight ball, because the slash was only a couple of inches wide.

Small cut but effective. Small blade—it was the angle that had done it, the fat guy leaning forward to strangle him, Zhukanov giving that little girly poke upward and then suddenly the guy’s weight had reversed the trajectory, forcing the knife down into his throat, severing everything along the way.

Making sure the handkerchief plug was secure, he inhaled deeply and prepared himself for the tough part. Mother of Christ, his neck hurt. He could feel it starting to swell around the neckline of his T-shirt, and he yanked down, ripping some elastic. Looser, but he still felt like the fat guy was choking him.

Another look around. Dark, quiet, all he needed was old Yids flooding out.

Okay, here goes.

Taking hold of the fat guy’s feet, he started to pull the corpse.

The damn thing only budged an inch, and Zhukanov felt horrid pain in his lower back.

Like dragging an elephant. Bending his knees, he tried again. Another vertebral warning, but he kept going—what was the choice?

It took forever to get the bastard out of view, and by then Zhukanov was sweating, out of breath, every muscle in his body aflame.

And now he could hear voices. The Yids coming out.

He yanked, dragged, breathed, yanked, dragged, breathed, frantic to get the corpse well back from the walkway. Had he gotten all the blood off the counter?

He rushed back, found a few stains, used his shirt, turned off the lights, and slammed down the shutter.

Now he could hear them louder, old voices jabbering.

He got the corpse halfway to the back of the shack. Stopped when his chest clogged up. Bent his knees again, resumed.

Yank, drag, breathe.

By the time he reached the alley, all he could hear was the ocean, no voices; all the Yids gone home.

He dragged the corpse next to the shack’s garbage bins. Not a commercial Dumpster, because the boss was too cheap. Two wooden shipping crates that some Mexican illegals emptied every week for ten bucks.

Okay . . . now what?

Leave him there, concealed by darkness, fetch the car, load the bastard in it, and take him somewhere to dump—where did the West Hollywood guys go for that?—Angeles Crest Forest. Zhukanov had a vague notion where that was; he’d find it.

Another forest. If the old man could see him now.

David had finished off Goliath, and soon Goliath would be rotting in some gulley.

No, wait, before that he had to triple-check for bloodstains—inside the shack and out, along the side of the shack, where the pig had been dragged.

He’d get the car, load the guy, keep him there while he gave the shack a thorough going over. Ditch the knife, the clothes he was wearing. The nunchucks and the baseball bat, too? No. No reason to panic. Why would anyone connect him to the fat bastard, even if they found the corpse?

Just the blood, the knife, his clothes.

Get it done before sunrise.

The guy would leak all over his trunk, but he’d clean it. Running it through again, he decided it was a good plan.

He stretched, fingered the tender, hot flesh of his neck. Slow down, slow everything down, it’s over—why had the bastard invited trouble like that?

Zhukanov thanked him for starting up. He hadn’t felt this good since leaving Moscow.

Okay, time to get the car. He’d taken three steps when light caught his eye.

The back door of the synagogue opening—someone still there!

He pressed himself against one of the wooden bins, tripping over the corpse’s legs, nearly falling on his ass.

Forcing himself not to curse aloud, he breathed through his nose and watched as an old Yid came out of the synagogue. Zhukanov could see him clearly, illuminated by the light inside. Short, thickset, one of those beanies on his head.

The Yid reached in and the blessing of darkness returned. But just for one second, because now the guy was opening a car door.

Not the driver’s door, the left rear door. Someone in back of the car sat up. Got out. Stretched. Just like Zhukanov had just done. The Yid talked to him.

Shorter than the Yid—a kid.

Hiding in back—had to be
the
kid. Why else would he be hiding?

The right size, and he’d been lying low—who else could it be?

The kid got back in the rear seat, lay down, disappeared.

So he’d been here all along. Hidden by the Yids—made sense; twenty-five grand would make them come in their pants.

We’ll see about that.

The Yid’s car started up and the headlights went on. Staying in the shadows, Zhukanov ran toward it. The Yid started backing out just as Zhukanov got close enough to read the license plate.

Bunch of letters and numbers. Zhukanov mouthed the magic formula soundlessly. At first his brain refused to cooperate.

But the old Yid helped him, taking a long time to back the car out and straighten up, and by the time he finished, Zhukanov had it all memorized.

No time to get his old car to follow. He’d write the number down, call the Department of Motor Vehicles. Giving out addresses was illegal, but he knew a clerk at the Hollywood branch, wiseass louse from Odessa who’d do it for fifty bucks.

Given the payoff, an excellent investment.

CHAPTER

By 10 p.m. the search of the Montecito house had
turned up nothing.

“The place is just about empty,” Sepulveda told Petra. “A little furniture in the living room and one bedroom; the rest of the rooms have nothing.”

“Check for secret passages?” she said, only half in jest.

Sepulveda stared at her. “I’ll let you know if the Phantom of the Opera shows up.”

She and Ron headed back to L.A. She’d been running up his cell-phone bill, talking to airline supervisors, some of them impressed by her title, others skeptical. So far no, no flights under Balch’s name had turned up, and a 9:50 call from Wil let her know he was meeting with the same results. Thoroughness would demand paperwork, the proper forms. Tomorrow. She was exhausted, angry at Schoelkopf for keeping the news about Balch under wraps.

The kid he publicizes, but this scares him.

She and Ron talked about it till they got to Oxnard. Bosses were always easy targets. When they reached Camarillo, the car turned silent and she saw he had his eyes closed.

He awoke when she stopped the car in front of his house.

“Rise and shine,” she said.

He smiled groggily, apologized, then leaned over to kiss her.

She shifted her hips in the seat and met him halfway. One of his hands passed behind her head, pressing gently. The other found its way to her breast. He was smoother when fatigued.

He squeezed her softly then began to remove his hand. She held it in place. The next kiss lasted a long time. He was the first to pull away, and now he looked wide awake.

She said, “Some first date.”

“Second. The first was the deli.”

“True.” She realized she’d thought of that as getting acquainted.

He said, “Well, you’ve got plenty to do. I won’t keep you.”

She initiated a third kiss. He didn’t try to feel her; kept both hands above the neck. Then he cupped her chin. With Nick she hadn’t liked that—too confining. He did it differently. She traveled his mouth with her tongue, and he made a small, baritone noise of contentment.

“Oh, man,” he said. “I really want to see you again—I know it’s not a good time to be thinking about going out.”

“Call,” she said. “If I say I’m too busy, it’ll be the truth.”

He kissed the tip of her chin. “You are
so
pretty. The first time I saw you, I—” Shaking his head, he got out, groped in his pocket for his keys, and waved.

“Wait,” she called out as he turned and started toward his front door.

He stopped.

“Your phone.”

He laughed, returned to the driver’s side, took it.

“Make sure you send me the bill,” she said. “It’s going to be huge.”

“Sure,” he said. Then he kissed her again.

Back on the 101, she could barely keep her eyes open. Exhaustion even in the face of all that adrenaline meant she was severely sleep-deprived. She’d go home, take some caffeine, squeeze in another hour or so of phone work, then enough.

By the time she reached her apartment, it was 11:23. One message on her machine. She let it sit there, changed into a flannel nightie, and got extra-strong coffee going. Realized she still hadn’t called Stu. Too late now. She felt lousy. One day this case would be over, but Kathy’s experience would last forever. Would Stu remember her as being neglectful during his crisis?