Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (5 page)

CHAPTER

6

A
copy of the list was on Petra's desk the following afternoon.

Yellow Post-it in the upper right-hand corner:
“Detective C: Thanks. I. G.”

She put it aside and spent the next two days talking to Missing Persons cops throughout California, faxing morgue shots of the girl in the pink shoes, getting a few callbacks but no leads. She thought about expanding to neighboring states. The chubby girl appeared Hispanic, so the Southwest seemed a good bet.

Phoning her way through Arizona and Nevada took another full day, then she moved on to New Mexico, where a Santa Fe P.D. detective named Darrel Two Moons said, “She might be a girl who went missing from the San Ildefonso pueblo last year.”

“Our vic had a recent abortion.”

“Even better,” said Two Moons. “There was a rumor of an unwanted pregnancy. A married man, not a good guy. We've been wondering if he got rid of her, but so far no body. It's the tribal police's case but they called us in. Send the photo.”

“The father,” said Petra. “Is he the kind of guy who'd drive to L.A. to shoot her?”

“In terms of amorality, sure. Would he work that hard? Can't say.”

Twenty minutes later, Two Moons's partner, a guy named Steve Katz, called back and said, “I know Darrel talked to you about Cheryl Ruiz. Sorry, the picture's not her. Also, the tribal police didn't think to tell us they found Cheryl. She took Greyhound to Minnesota, had a baby, has been living with her aunt all this time.”

“Interagency cooperation. So what else is new?” said Petra.

“Yeah,” said Katz. “L.A., huh? I used to be NYPD, worked midtown Manhattan. I remember what it's like to be busy.”

“Miss it?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how long the night stretches. On what else I've got going on in my life.”

Another shift full of nothing made her grouchy. Some nice, athletic sex with a touch of romance wouldn't have hurt, but it had been a week since Eric's last call, she wasn't even sure where he was.

Time to pack it in; go home; take a long, hot, gel-lubed bath; maybe actually cook herself something decent and healthy. That meant stopping off to buy veggies and whatever and she decided she just wasn't up to cold, fluorescent supermarket aisles and other lonely people. She'd snarf whatever was in the fridge, hopefully have the energy to take a stab at her O'Keeffe project.

Big, tall New York buildings that turned the city into a shady warren.

Buildings, no people. Painted long before tall New York buildings meant
target.

What a world.

Just as she locked up her desk, her cell phone squawked from inside her purse. She fumbled past her gun, tissues, makeup, caught it on the third ring.

“Hi,” said a voice she'd once thought flat, mechanical, freakishly unemotional.

Nothing about the tone and timbre had changed, but he meant something different to her now.
We hear with our brains, not our ears.

She said, “Hi. Where'd they send you now?”

“I sent myself. I'm down in the parking lot.”

Her heart leapt. One sentence could do that to her?

“The parking lot? Here?”

“Right here.”

She said, “I'm coming down.”

Eric stood next to Petra's Accord, half-concealed in the shadows. Arms at his side, looking in her direction, not moving. He had on a black nylon windbreaker, half-zipped over a white T-shirt, pipestem black jeans. Those black, crepe-soled shoes he liked for stakeouts.

He looked even thinner than usual. Pale and hollow-cheeked, eyes so dark and deep set they receded into the evening. Dark hair cropped even shorter—back to the military cut.

A middle-sized, skinny guy with the pallor of a seminary student. No attempt to posture, but still the James Dean thing amped big-time, filling Petra's head.

How could she ever have thought him anything but sexy?

She hurried to him and they embraced. He pulled away first, touched her face. Buried his face in her hair, held her tight—the pressure of a needy child.

She said, “You okay?”

“Now, I am.”

“Why didn't you come upstairs?”

“Technically, I'm not here.”

She took his face in her hands, kissed his eyelids, held him at arm's length.

“Where are you supposed to be?”

“Jerusalem.”

“What, you went AWOL?”

“Technically.”

“Meaning?”

“The Israelis took a break because they've got business to take care of in Jenin. A chance came up to hitch a ride on a plane.”

“A plane.”

His smile was fleeting, barely perceptible. “You know. With wings.”

“How long can you stay?”

“I need to leave tomorrow
P.M.
”

“One night,” said Petra.

“Is that okay?”

“Of course.” She kissed his nose. “You have a car?”

He shook his head. “Took a taxi.”

They got into the Accord. Petra started up the engine and noticed the dark smudges under his eyes. “How long have you been in transit?”

“Twenty-three hours.”

“Some hitch.”

“Part of it was a hitch. I flew commercial from Heathrow. Old ladies in wheelchairs were getting frisked while guys who look like Usama's favorite swimming sperm walked right through. You hungry?”

Petra wanted to play house but no food in the apartment meant dinner out.

They went to an Italian place on Third near La Brea, an old-fashioned chianti-bottles-dangling-from-the ceiling taverna, ordered veal marsala and spaghetti with clams and slices of spumoni for dessert. No wine; Eric never drank.

She asked him about Jerusalem.

He said, “I was there years ago, back during Riyadh. I thought it was beautiful then. It's more complicated now. Assholes wearing bomb-packs kind of ruin the ambience.”

He coiled pasta on his fork, paused midair. “I met a guy who knows you. Superintendent Sharavi.”

“Daniel,” said Petra. “We worked a case together. He and Milo and me.”

“That's what he said.” Eric put the fork down, took her hand in his, played with her fingers.

“You really have to go back tomorrow?”

“That's the plan.”

“Through London?”

He hesitated. The instinctive secrecy. “I'm booked on Jet Blue out of Long Beach to New York.”

“One night,” she said.

“I wanted to see you.”

Back in Petra's apartment, they sat on the couch, listened to a Diana Krall CD, and made out.

Eric started off gently, the way he had since their first few encounters. Usually it turned Petra on—the slow simmer, all the erotic ballet. Tonight she was impatient, but she slowed herself down. Then she didn't. Stripping him down to pale, bony nakedness, then ripping off her own clothes so hastily she nearly tripped on a pants leg.

Cool move, Detective Klutz.

Eric hadn't noticed. His eyes were closed and his flat chest heaved. In the flesh, he looked younger. Vulnerable.

She touched him and he opened his eyes, took hold of her shoulders, trailed his hands down her hips and cupped her ass. Lifted her adroitly and settled her on him. Taking his own initiative: moving her up and down, slowly, then faster. Kissing her nipples, biting down gently. Throwing his head back and letting out a long, deep-in-the throat sigh. Clenching his face as he held back.

She said, “Do it, baby.” But he kept fighting it. So she sped up, ground against him. And when she came, panting and gasping, her hair over her face, he was bucking up at her and shouting “God!”

Later, in bed, snuggled under the covers, she pinched his butt and said, “Didn't know you were religious.”

“Not the religion I was raised with.”

His dad was a minister. Reverend Bob Stahl, a kind and gentle man, determined to believe the best about people. Eric's mom, Mary, was no less positive. Petra had come to know both of them in the E.R. waiting room. Petra benefiting from the disapproving glances the Stahls shot at the bimbo's skimpy clothing.

Bonding some more when the bleeding crisis resolved and Eric was moved to a private room, still unconscious. The three of them sitting by Eric's bed as he slept and healed. When Petra offered to leave to give them privacy, they insisted she stay.

Once, just before Eric woke up, Mary Stahl hugged Petra and told her, “You're just the kind of girl I wish he'd bring home.”

If you only knew.

Eric began rubbing the twin soft spots just inside her shoulder blades. The places she'd told him always got sore.

“Oh, man,” she said. “I'm not sure I'm gonna let you out of here tomorrow.”

“You tie me up,” he said. “It would be an excuse.”

“Don't tempt me.”

She tried to get him talking about work.

He said, “You don't want to know.”

“That bad?”

He rolled over, stared at the ceiling.

“What?” she said.

“I look at the Israelis' situation and it worries me. They're up against September eleven every day, but they can't do what they need to do. World opinion, diplomacy, all that good stuff.”

His mouth snapped shut and he flung his arm over his eyes. Petra was sure he was going to clam up. Instead, he said, “Politics can be poison. Too much politics and you can't protect yourself.”

CHAPTER

7

E
ric, the most taciturn of men, sometimes mumbled in his sleep. But what woke Petra in the middle of the night was her own, internal voice—some kind of warning. She turned, stared at his face, saw calm. The faint, contented smile of a well-nurtured kid.

The second time she awoke it was just after noon and Eric was up and showering. By twelve-thirty Petra was cooking eggs. They ate and read the paper—Lord, wasn't this domestic.

At one-thirty, Eric kissed her and headed for the door.

“I'll drive you,” she said.

“I called a cab.”

He'd arrived with no luggage, was leaving the same way. Wearing pressed blue jeans and a dark blue button-down shirt, the same black windbreaker, the same crepe-soled shoes. Fresh duds selected from the clothing he'd left in her guest closet.

Zipping halfway across the world with nothing but a wallet. Like it was a jaunt to the market.

Here and back. To see her.

She said, “Cancel the taxi. I'm taking you.”

She hung with him in the cozy, turquoise, modern coffee shop above the Jet Blue terminal until a young man stuck his head in and announced the flight's imminent departure.

Eric got up, shrugged, looked embarrassed. Petra gave him the most intense hug she could muster. One more kiss and he was gone. She left the terminal with aching eyes.

Traffic on the 405 was ominous and she didn't arrive at the Hollywood station until six twenty-five
P.M.
Two D's were at their desks—Kaplan and Salas—and greeted her with nods.

No messages from Mac Dilbeck or anyone else on the Paradiso case. She headed for a free computer and tried some national databases for missing kids that she'd already contacted, not really expecting anything. Not getting anything.

What to do, now?

A voice from across the room said, “Detective Connor.”

Isaac Gomez, wearing an olive suit, yellow shirt, green-and-red rep tie, hair parted and shiny and brushed flat to his scalp, toted his briefcase toward her desk.

“Very spiffy,” she said. “Heavy-duty meeting?”

The predictable blush darkened his neck. “Not really. Have you had a chance to consider my hypothesis?”

Changing the subject too quickly. That pushed Petra's mischief button. “C'mon, tell me about it. You get honored again by Councilman Reyes?”

“Not hardly.” Mumbling. Tugging at his tie knot.

“Something better than being honored?”

He kicked one shoe with the other.

“C'mon, Isaac,” said Petra. “We common folk don't get the chance to hobnob with the powers-that-be. I'm living vicariously through you.” She cupped her hand around her mouth. “Is it true what they say about Reyes? Is there a slight flatulence problem?”

Isaac smiled weakly.

Petra said, “What can I do? Mr. Gomez is the soul of discretion.”

He laughed loud enough to make Kaplan and Salas turn. Then he grew serious. “A date,” he blurted. “I had to go on a lunch date.”

“
Had to?
You make it sound like homework.”

Isaac sighed. “In a sense it was. I was assigned by my mother. She thinks I need to get out more.”

“You disagree.”

“I'm social enough, Detective Connor. I just don't need— The problem is my mother was of the firm belief that once I entered college, some golden gate of sociability would open. Sometimes I think she's more concerned about that than academics.”

“Mothers care,” said Petra. What did she know? Her own had died pushing her out.

“They do—she does, but . . .” Isaac rubbed his cheek. When his hand dropped, Petra saw a red, raised spot. Fulminating zit. Brains or not, he was clinging to adolescence.

He said, “My mother's notion of maximal personal success is that I meet a girl who elevates me socially. She was never comfortable visiting my school—it was an upscale private school. She felt herself inferior, which was nonsense, she's an incredible woman. But I couldn't convince her, so she refused to have anything to do with the parents of my classmates. But I believe part of her would have liked me to hook up with one of those girls. It's the same with her employers. They're doctors, they've been mentoring me. They think she's fabulous but she won't step out of the servant role . . . there's a whole Pygmalion thing going on. It's complicated and I'm sure you're not interested.”

He bit his lip. One eyelid ticced. Poor kid was under real pressure. Petra felt bad about ribbing him.

“Hey,” she said, “you're smart in all kinds of ways. You'll do what's best for yourself.”

“I try to tell my mother. My plate's full enough, I'm not ready for a relationship.”

Petra pointed to the chair alongside her desk. He sat down heavily.

“Lousy date, huh?”

He grinned. “I'm that obvious.”

“Well,” she said, “I figure Mom sets you up with a high I.Q. beauty queen, maybe you'd forget about your plate.”

“The girl was nice enough, but not—We had absolutely nothing in common. Her family's new in our church. She's religious and modest, and for my mother, that's enough.”

“No beauty queen,” said Petra.

“She looks like a mastiff.”

“Ouch.”

“That was cruel,” said Isaac. “But so what? She was also aggressive. Sweet in church but take her to dinner and watch out.” He shook his head.

“Aggressive about what?”

“Everything. She had opinions on matters about which she knew nothing. Religion really got her going. Nuclear-strength dogma. We'd barely sat down and she was telling me I needed to go to church more often. Instructing me what to believe. And not with any particular theological elegance.”

“Oh, boy,” said Petra. “You're not even married and she's running your life.”

He laughed again. “You sound like a guy. I mean, that's something one guy would say to another.” Blushing deeply. “Not that you're not feminine, you're very feminine, it's just that— Are you married?”

“Used to be. It didn't end because I tried to run his life. I was the most perfect spouse in the universe but he was a lout.”

He said, “You're joking but I bet that's true.” He looked at her, helplessly.

“In terms of sounding like a guy,” she said, “I grew up with five brothers. You pick stuff up.”

“That must help in terms of working here—the predominantly male environment.”

Somehow the subject had changed. She said, “It does help.”

He said, “Anyway . . . about those June 28 cases. I neglected to mention that four of six took place here, in Hollywood Division. I'm not sure yet if it adds another layer of statistical significance to the—”

“We're a high-crime district, Isaac.”

“Several divisions have higher homicide rates. Ramparts, Central, Newton—”

“Maybe you've got a point, Isaac. I promise to take a look, but right now I'm kind of tied up.”

“The Paradiso shootings.”

“Exactly.”

“Has that girl been identified?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay. Sorry for—”

“She had an abortion within the last month or two. That say anything to you?”

“The obvious thing,” he said, “is a possible source of conflict. With the father.”

“Over the abortion?”

“I was thinking of the pregnancy itself. In certain situations, an unwanted pregnancy would be a pretty robust motive for homicide, wouldn't you say? Theodore Dreiser wrote a wonderful book about it—”

“She terminated the pregnancy, Isaac.”

“But maybe she kept that fact to herself.”

Petra considered that. Why not? “It's an angle. Thanks. Now all I have to do is figure out who she is.”

She flashed him a smile and turned back to the mess on her desk.

“Detective Connor . . .”

“Yes?”

“Would it be feasible for me to ride with you? To observe what you do firsthand? I promise not to be intrusive.”

“It's pretty boring, Isaac. Lots of routine, lots of dead ends.”

“That's okay,” he said. “The longer I'm here, the more I realize how ignorant I am. Writing a dissertation about crime and I don't know the first thing about it.”

“I'm not sure riding along will help you much.”

“I think it will, Detective.”

A trickle of sweat made its way down his left hairline and reached his ear. He swiped at it. How long had he been building up the courage to ask her? Behind the precocious pronouncements was so much anxiety.

“Okay,” she said. “Tomorrow morning, when I recontact some of the witnesses on the Paradiso case, you can come along. But only on one condition.”

“What's that?”

“Start calling me Petra. If you don't, I'll start calling you ‘Dr. Gomez.' ”

He smiled. “I'm a ways off from earning that.”

“I've earned my title but I'm forgoing the honor,” she said. “You're making me feel old.”