Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (7 page)

That left Malibu, but that was the beach—nowhere to hide.

Maybe something
near
Hollywood would be okay. I wasn’t like those other kids, thinking life was a movie. All I wanted was to be left alone, no one putting my dick in a wire cutter.

I sat there for a long time, thinking I’d been crazy to leave. Where would I live? What would I eat; where would I sleep? The weather was good now, but what would happen in the winter?

But too late to go back now. Mom would find out about the money and think of me as a thief. And Moron . . . My stomach started to hurt really bad. I started to think people were looking at me, but when I checked, no one was. My lips felt like sandpaper again. Even my eyes felt dry. It hurt to blink.

I stood up, figuring I’d just walk. Then I saw two people coming through the park holding hands, a guy and a girl, maybe twenty or twenty-five, wearing jeans and long hair and looking pretty relaxed.

I said, “Excuse me,” and smiled, asked them where Hollywood was—and Malibu, just to play it safe.

“Malibu, huh,” said the guy. He had a fuzzy little beard and his hair was longer than the girl’s.

“My parents are in there,” I said, pointing to the museum. “They took my little brother in, but I figured it was boring. They promised to take me to the beach and Hollywood if we can find it.”

“Where’re you from?” said the girl.

“Kinderhook, New York.” The first thing that spilled out.

“Oh. Well, Hollyweird’s about five, six miles that way—west—and the beach is the same direction, another fifteen miles after that. Kinderhook, huh? That a small town?”

“Uh-huh.” I had no idea. All I knew was it was Martin Van Buren’s birthplace.

“You a farm boy?”

“Not really, we live in a house.”

“Oh.” She smiled again, even wider, and looked at the guy. He seemed bored. “Well, tell your parents Hollyweird
is
weird; all kinds of freaks. Be careful, you know? During the day if you’re with your parents it should be okay, but not at night. Right, Chuck?”

“Yeah,” said Chuck, touching his little beard. “If you go, check out the Wax Museum on Hollywood Boulevard, little dude. It’s pretty cool. And the Chinese Theater, ever hear of that?”

“Sure,” I said. “Where the movie stars put their hands and feet in the cement.”

“Yeah,” said the guy, laughing. “And their minds in the gutter.”

They laughed and walked on.

The first bus I got on the driver said I needed exact change, so I had to get off and buy a lime snow-cone and get change. Which was fine, because it took care of my thirst and put a sweet taste in my mouth. Half an hour later, another bus came along and I was ready with the right coins, like someone who belonged.

The bus made a lot of stops and there was so much traffic I could see the sky turning grayish-pink through the tinted bus windows by the time the driver called out, “Hollywood Boulevard.”

It didn’t look that much different from where’d I’d just been: old buildings with cheap-looking stores and theaters. Same noise, too. Waves of noise that never stopped. Watson has its sounds—dogs barking, trucks rumbling over the highway, people yelling when they’re mad. But each noise is separate; you can make sense of things. Here in L.A., everything’s one big soup.

At the trailer park, I could walk around at night, look in windows. I’ve even seen people doing sex—not just young people, old ones, too, with white hair and flabby skin, moving around under a blanket with their eyes closed and their mouths open, holding on to each other like they’re drowning. I knew places in the groves where it was always quiet.

Hollywood didn’t look like a place where I could find quiet, but here I was.

I walked up Hollywood Boulevard, looking out for the freaks Chuck had warned me about, not sure who they really were. I saw a big tall woman with huge hands that I realized was a man, and that sure qualified; teenagers with rooster hair and black lipstick; more drunks, some of them pushing shopping carts; black people, brown people, Chinese, whatever. The restaurants sold stuff I’d never heard of, like gyros and shwarma and oki-dogs. The stores sold clothing, costumes and masks, souvenirs, boomboxes, fancy underwear for girls.

Lots of bars. One of them, called the Cave, had a row of Harleys parked in front and guys coming in and out, big and ugly, dressed like Moron. Seeing them made my stomach burn. I went past there really fast.

I saw a hamburger stand that looked normal, but the guy inside was Chinese and he didn’t look up when I stood there. One hand kept frying meat, and his face was half hidden by smoke and steam.

Two dollars forty-two cents for a burger. I couldn’t spend anything till I had a plan, but I did manage to take some ketchup packets lying out on the counter. I ducked behind a building, opened them, and sucked out the ketchup, then I kept walking to a street called Western Avenue and turned right, because I saw some mountains in the distance.

To get to them I had to pass a porno theater with XXXXX’s all over the front and posters of blond women with big, open mouths, then some really dirty buildings with wood over the windows. I saw women in short shorts talking on pay phones and giving each other cigarettes and guys hanging nearby smoking. The mountains were pretty and by now the sun was behind them, with a yellow-orange glow shooting up and spreading on top, like a hat made of melted copper.

A block later I had to cross the street because teenagers were laughing and pointing at me. I passed another alley. No weird drunks here, just lots of garbage Dumpsters and the back doors of stores and restaurants. A sweating fat guy wearing a stained white apron came out of a place called La Fiesta holding armfuls of bread wrapped in plastic. He threw them in a Dumpster and went back inside.

I waited for him to come back, but he didn’t. Looked around to make sure still no one was watching and went over to the Dumpster. To get a look inside, I had to stand on a cardboard box that didn’t feel too strong and keep hitting flies away. Once I got up there, the smell was terrible. The bread sat on top of rotten-looking vegetables with brown edges, wet paper, scraps of meat and bones and hunks of uncooked white fat. Little white worms crawled all over the meat, which smelled worse than a dead dog. But the bread looked clean.

Hot dog buns, still totally wrapped. Probably stale. When people go to restaurants they want everything superfresh. One time—the only time—Mom and Moron and I went to a restaurant, it was a Denny’s in Bolsa Chica and Moron sent his fried chicken back because he said it tasted like “warmed-over shit.” The waitress called the manager, who told Moron not to use that language. Moron stood up to show he was taller than the manager, with Mom holding on to his arm, saying, “Cowboy, c’mon, c’mon.” Finally, the manager agreed to give us our food to go for free if we left.

I reached in and grabbed two packages of buns, almost falling into the Dumpster and getting some crud on my T-shirt.

But I had the buns, and they were clean. After looking around some more, I walked a ways into the alley, found a dark spot between two other Dumpsters, tore open the first package, bit into a bun.

Stale, all right, but my chewing mushed it up and by the third mouthful it started to taste sweet. Then the smell of the Dumpster came back to me and I started to gag.

I got up, walked around, took deep breaths, and told myself it was my imagination; pretend these were homemade buns right out of the oven, baked by some TV commercial mom with a wide-awake smile and a strong interest in nutrition.

It worked a little. The rest of the bun didn’t taste great, but I got it down. Back to the mountains.

As I climbed, the road got steeper and I started to pass houses. Mowed lawns, and all sorts of trees and plants and flowers, but no people I could see, not a one. Now, after four months in L.A., I’m used to that. People here like to stay inside, especially at night, and anyone out there after dark is probably prowling for something.

At the top, Western curved and turned into another street called Los Feliz and these houses were
huge,
behind high walls with fancy metal gates and surrounded by pine trees and palms. This must have been what Hollywood was like when the movie stars lived here.

The mountains were still far away, but in front of them was a big stretch of clean green grass, a few people lying on blankets, some of them sleeping, even with all the traffic noise. Behind the grass, tons of trees.

A park.

I waited for traffic to slow down and ran across the street.

GRIFFITH PARK,
the sign said.

The only park in Watson is a dry little square in the center of town with one bench, an old cannon, and a brass sign saying it’s dedicated to men who’ve died in wars. This was different. Humongous. You could get lost in here.

CHAPTER

“Interesting,” said Stu, hearing about the library
book, but he sounded distracted.

He’d been on the phone and now it went back in his pocket. “West L.A. uniforms are with Lisa Ramsey’s maid, it’s not Beverly Hills, a few blocks away. Sunday was the maid’s day off, she just got back, Lisa hadn’t slept in her bed. Lisa’s Porsche isn’t in the garage, so it looks like she drove herself somewhere, either hooked up with the killer and switched to his vehicle or got jacked. We’ve got to hustle over to Ramsey’s place in Calabasas to do the notification, then return to interview the maid. He wasn’t at his studio office, and protocol says we make every attempt to notify in person. He lives in one of those gated-estate deals; I’ve got the address.”

They walked to their white Ford. It was Stu’s day to drive and he got behind the wheel.

“Calabasas is tan-shirt territory,” said Petra as he started the engine. He drove slowly. As usual. More slowly than any cop she’d known.

“Tan as an anchorman,” he said. “Schoelkopf called the boss sheriff out at the Malibu station to define some ground rules, but seeing as it’s a 187, they punted to their downtown Homicide boys. The jurisdiction’s ours, but they want to be there when we notify, ’cause Ramsey’s house is their turf—they don’t want to be perceived as out of the loop. A couple of their downtown Homicide investigators will meet us outside the gates.”

“Big drive from downtown to Calabasas,” said Petra. “So on some level they
do
think they’re investigating it?”

“Who knows. Maybe they can help us.”

“As in getting hold of Ramsey’s domestic-violence history?”

“That. Anything.”

As they got on the stretch of road that ran between the park and the 5 freeway, Stu said, “Schoelkopf gave me the kind of lecture I haven’t heard since I rookied: Don’t go in without permission, don’t climb any walls, treat him a hundred percent like a grieving ex, not a suspect. No searching of any kind, don’t go to the
john
if it can be construed as a search. No asking questions that might incriminate anyone, because then you’d have to Mirandize the guy and I don’t want even a hint that he’s a suspect.”

“What about getting hold of that TV tape?”

“Not even that yet, because it would show clear signs of suspicion.”

“Come on. It’s public domain,” said Petra.

Stu shrugged.

Petra said, “When do we get to detect?”

“When we know more.”

“But we’re not allowed to look for more.”

Stu gave a tight smile.

Petra said, “All this smoke because Ramsey’s VIP?”

“Welcome to Locustland. I love my job.”

Till recently he had. What was going on?

He entered the freeway heading north. A mile later, Petra said, “What about the book and that food wrapper? Potential witness?”

“If whoever was eating and/or reading just happened to be there when Lisa was killed. My religion tells me to believe in miracles, but . . .”

“And/or?”

“Could be two separate guys. Even if it’s one, the scene spells homeless guy, or woman. Lau said the body impression was small.”

“A bag lady,” said Petra.

“Whoever it was didn’t call 911, so if he/she was there, it shows a certain lack of civic responsibility. Don’t hold your breath waiting for someone to come forward.”

“So many bag ladies are schizophrenic,” said Petra. “Witnessing a murder would be terrifying to anyone, but someone already over the edge . . .”

Stu didn’t answer. Petra let him drive awhile before she said, “I was also thinking—I know it’s remote—what if whoever was behind the rock killed Lisa?”

He thought about that, then rattled off the same objections Petra had come up with.

“Plus,” he added, “I agree with your first impression: All that facial damage, the overkill, implies passion, someone she knew. If what Susie Shutterbug said about Ramsey beating up Lisa is true, he sure fits that bill.”

“But we can’t treat him like a suspect.”

“But we
can
psych him out while playing sympathetic public servant during the notification. Which is why I’m glad you’re here. He’s an actor—a bad one, but even bad ones are better at hiding their feelings than the average person.”

“What does that have to do with me?” said Petra.

“You’re good at reading people.”

Not at reading you, she thought.

Soon after they got on the 134 West, they got stuck in traffic.

Common enough situation, and whenever Petra found herself in a jam she fantasized about flying cars of the future—those VW-with-propeller gizmos predicted in Dad’s old
Popular Mechanics.

Just sitting there drove her crazy and both of them knew it. Stu was a calm driver, sometimes maddeningly so.

“We could take the shoulder,” she said.

He’d heard it a hundred times before and smiled wearily.

“We could at least put on the lights and the howler,” she added.

“Sure,” he said, shifting the car into park and gunning the engine. “Let’s use our guns, too, shoot our way out . . . so what approach should we take with Ramsey?”

“Sympathetic, like you said. Be there with tissues for his crocodile tears.”

“Crocodile,” he said. “So you’ve decided hedunit.”

“If Mormons gambled, where would you put your money?”