I also love corn, steamed sweet, but we never had it at home. Once, when I was in sixth grade, the school threw a Thanksgiving brunch out in the play yard—turkey and corn and sweet potatoes with marshmallows for anyone who paid. Everything piled high on long tables, moms in aprons spooning it out. I went into town to have a look, even though I had no money to buy anything. I hung around till the end, found a couple of loose quarters and played some ski-bowl, but lunch was out of the question—five dollars.
But one of the PTA ladies saw me looking at the corn and gave me a whole ear, daisy-yellow and shiny with butter, along with a turkey leg big enough for a family. I took it under a tree and ate, and that was the best Thanksgiving I ever had.
Now I move closer to the vegetable patch and look around.
Clear.
Quickly, I hop over the rope, go straight to the corn, break off three ears, and stuff them in my pockets. They stick out, so I tuck them under my T-shirt, hop back over like nothing happened, and walk slowly till I find a bathroom.
I go into one of the stalls, close the door, sit on the toilet lid, and take out one of the corns, peeling off the leaves and that hairy stuff and wondering what it’ll taste like raw.
It’s pretty good. Hard, crunchy, not nearly as delicious as steamed corn with butter, but it does have a sweet corn taste. I eat two ears quickly, the third more slowly, chewing hard and getting every bit down while reading the cuss-word graffiti all over the walls. When I’m finished, I lick all the corn taste from the cobs, toss them into the corner of the stall, take a leak, and use the bathroom sink to wash my face and hands. Then I roll up my jeans and wash the sides of my legs, too.
My stomach hurts, but differently.
Too full. I pigged out.
Your lunch is now mine, gorilla.
Revenge is as sweet as corn!
CHAPTER
17
Walking back to the squad room, Stu said, “He only beat her once. What a guy.”
“Going over us, to Schoelkopf,” said Petra. “Manipulative.” Being collegial, then telling herself to hell with it. Say what was really on her mind.
She stopped and leaned against a locker. “Why’d you bring up the book?”
Stu leaned, too. “It was something tangible, and I didn’t want one of his lectures on wishful thinking versus evidence.”
“We got a lecture anyway.”
He shrugged.
She said, “He thinks the book’s bull. You agree with him, don’t you?”
He straightened and, with one hand, pinched the knot of his tie. “Do I think it’s thunder and lightning? No, but the lab will run prints on the book, and if it’s a homeless guy, there’s a chance he’s got a file somewhere so maybe we can locate him. If it turns out to be nothing, we’re no worse off.”
She didn’t answer.
He said, “What’s the matter?”
“It threw me, your bringing it up like that.”
“Hey, even I can be full of surprises.” His eyes didn’t yield. He walked away, not looking back to see if she’d followed.
Petra stood there, hands clenched. She recalled Kathy’s curtness last night on the phone. If it was a marital thing, she couldn’t expect him to let it ride. Okay, cool down, concentrate on the job. But she hated surprises.
Of the twenty-five other Hollywood detectives on the morning roster, six were at their desks, sorting mug shots, typing at newly donated and still-baffling computers, muttering into phones, reading murder books. All looked up as Petra and Stu entered, and shot sympathetic looks.
Any detective who loved mysteries going into the job had a quick change of heart. The Ramsey case was the worse kind of whodunit. The room smelled exactly like what it was: a windowless space seasoned by mostly male frustration.
A black D-II named Wilson Fournier said, “Knew you were gonna have fun when the boss came in early chewing gum but with no gum in his mouth.”
Petra smiled at him, and he resumed scanning gangbanger photos. Stu was at his desk facing hers, at the rear. She sat down and waited.
Stu said, “What do you want to do about looking for similars?”
“Not much.”
He hooked his thumbs under his suspender straps. His 9mm was nestled in a high shoulder holster. Petra was wearing hers the same way. It hurt her arm, and she removed it.
“The way I see it,” said Stu, “we’ve got two choices. Go over to Parker and pull microfiche all week, then we’d still have to get on the horn in order to check out Burbank and Atwater and Glendale or any county district. Or do it all telephonically with every homicide D we can find. Schoelkopf said two or three years; let’s do two. We could get lucky and move through it within the week. Personally, I’d rather talk to real people than deal with the files downtown, but it’s up to you.”
“The realer the better,” said Petra. “How do we prioritize? Do I call around first or try to reach this Darrell?”
“Let’s devote mornings to the scut, do real work in the afternoon.” He glanced at his watch. “You check out Darrell, and I’ll start nosing around the studios.”
Petra stared down the length of the room. “Speaking of real people, we can start with our colleagues here. It’s a waste of time, but so’s the rest of it.”
“Charity begins at home. Go for it.”
She stood up, pushed hair back from her face, cleared her throat dramatically. Three of the six detectives looked up.
“Gentlemen,” she announced, and the remaining three stopped what they were doing.
“As you know, Detective Bishop and I have been assigned a fascinating case, one so fascinating that word has come from above to be extra thorough. In order to establish the proper context.” Snickers. “Because we will—quote unquote—be graded.”
Grim looks all around.
“Detective Bishop and I desire a good grade, and so we request your help in locating the unknown perpetrator of this nefarious crime—who, of course, is totally unknown and must be sought out with the utmost care so as not to prejudice the investigation.”
Knowing smiles. She described the crime scene, Lisa’s wounds, and said, “Any 187’s within the last two years bear any resemblance?”
Head shakes.
A detective named Markus said, “Where was O.J. at the time?”
Laughter.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” She sat down to light applause.
Stu was clapping, too. He looked fine now, the blue eyes warm again. Maybe he was just sleep-deprived.
“Six down,” he said. “A few hundred to go—how about we divide up the districts on the vertical. I take east of here and you take west?”
There was lots more crime east of Hollywood—more detectives, more files. He was giving himself the lion’s share of the scut. Feeling guilty? Petra said, “You’ve got all the studios; I’ve only got Darrell. I’ll take east.”
“No, it’s okay,” he said. “I told Kathy not to expect me soon.” He blinked rapidly, as if his eyes hurt, and picked up the phone.
A divorce after all this time? Petra wanted to reach out to him. She said, “Noon break before we go our separate ways? Musso and Frank?”
He hesitated. Then: “Sure, we deserve it.” Starting to punch numbers, he stopped himself. “Someone should also call those sheriff’s guys—De la Torre and Banks—find out if they learned anything about Lisa’s DV complaint.”
“The news broadcast said she never filed a formal complaint.”
“There you go,” said Stu. “The news broadcast always tells the truth.”
She called Downtown Sheriff’s Homicide and asked for Hector De la Torre or Detective Banks, not remembering—or knowing—the younger one’s first name. Banks came on the line, greeting her with surprising warmth. “Thought you might call.”
“Why’s that?”
“Last night’s news. Unfortunately, I’ve got nothing for you so far. Agoura substation has no previous complaints on file—not even the one she went public on
—so it looks like she never called it in.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“My pleasure,” he said, sounding nervous. “No messy interdepartmental competition here. Our guys beat your guys in boxing last month, so we’re feeling secure . . . anyway, you have my sympathy. They replayed it on the news early this morning, too. Made the house look even fancier than it was. Nothing on his little car museum, though.”
What a gabby guy.
“Just Jacuzzi bubbles and horses and golf.”
“Interesting, isn’t it?” said Banks. “People getting life handed to them on a platter and still manage to mess it up royal . . . anything else you need?”
“Actually,” she said, suddenly inspired, “if you’ve got time, we’ve been directed to do a file search on similar homicides over a two-year period. Do you have easy access to county data?”
Banks laughed. “This is L.A.—nothing’s easy. But sure, we’ve learned to walk without scraping our knuckles on the sidewalk. Similars? As in the unknown lurking perp? Why?”
“The brass is nervous.”
“Oh. Sure, I’ll check for you.”
“Really appreciate it, Detective Banks.”
“Ron.”
“This is scut, Ron. Don’t put your schedule out of joint.”
“Do you have a direct number?”
She gave it to him, and he said, “By similar I’m assuming crime-scene layout, wound type and quantity, idiosyncrasies, victim characteristics. Anything unusual about the crime scene I should know about?”
“No,” she said, feeling protective of her information. “Just your basic butchery.”
“Okay, then. Get back to you if anything comes up. Either way.”
“Thanks, Ron.”
“Sure . . . um . . . listen, I know this kind of case there isn’t going to give you much spare time, but if some does come up . . . I mean if you want to get together—maybe just for a cup of coffee . . . if I’m out of line, just say so.”
Stumbling like a high school kid.
The warmth of his greeting made sense now.
He wasn’t remotely her type—whatever that was. She could barely remember his face, had been concentrating on Ramsey’s. Had he been wearing a wedding ring? He had mentioned taking his kids to the zoo.
At least he had kids. Didn’t hate kids.
She must have taken too long, because he came back with “Listen, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to—”
“No, no, that’s fine,” she heard herself saying. “Sure, when things ease up a bit. That would be fine.”
God help her.
CHAPTER
18
Paragon Studios took up three blocks of the north side of Melrose, east of Bronson, a confusion of faded tan towers and corrugated steel hangars, all surrounded by fifteen-foot walls, one of the last major film lots actually located in Hollywood.
The rococo front gates were open, and Stu Bishop, anxiety polluting his head, tried to look businesslike as he inched the unmarked Ford toward the guardhouse.
Two vans in front of him, one of them taking its time.
Petra had left the station before him, taking her personal car.
Petra trusted him a little less than she had yesterday.
Couldn’t blame her, the way he’d tossed the library book thing at Schoelkopf without warning her. Impulsive. Had the noise in his life finally gotten too loud?
Truth was, he didn’t think the book was worth a darn, had used Petra to fend off the captain. Schoelkopf had preached anyway.
All the preaching Stu had endured. Teachers, elders. Father. Easton Bishop, M.D., was never more at home than when declaring absolute truths to a mute audience of eight kids. Stu had avoided that kind of authoritarianism with his children, trusting them to learn by example, knowing Kathy was the main influence. Kathy . . . dear God.
Stu believed in a forgiving God, but he lived his own life as if the Lord were a harsh, unyielding perfectionist. It made him careful, a sin avoider. So why now, at this point in his life, was everything coming apart?
Stupid question.
The second van passed through and Stu drove right up. The guard, Ernie Robles, was someone he knew from his four weeks as a bit player (“nonspeaking squad room inhabitant, lots of typing and phoning”) on L.A. Cop. Decent fellow, relaxed attitude, no police experience, just a rent-a-cop from way back.
He was scribbling on his clipboard as Stu stopped and let the Ford idle.
“Hey, how’s it going, Detective Bishop! Beautiful day, huh?”
And it was. Warm and clear, the sky as blue as one of the matte-painting backdrops the film crews used to make L.A. look heavenly. Stu hadn’t noticed.
He said, “Gorgeous, Ernie.”
Robles picked up the clipboard. “Got a part? Where?”
“Where do you think?”
“The Cop lot? They’re not filming.”
“Nope, all wrapped for this year, but there’s someone I’ve got to see—oh, by the way, here’s something I picked up for you at the station.”
He handed Robles what looked like a thin, glossy magazine. Bright yellow letters rimmed with red blared THE SENTINEL at the top. Below that was a high-quality photo of a nasty-looking black USP semiautomatic pistol with silencer and black-tipped brass bullets. Promo from Heckler & Koch; stacks of them left at each police station. Stu had thumbed through it at a red light. Features on Benelli shotguns, HK training, the PSG1—“a $10,000 rifle & worth it!” Stu appreciated what guns did but found them boring.
Robles was already thumbing through, looking at the pictures.
“Hot off the press, Ernie.”
“Look at some of this stuff! Hey, man, thanks.”
Stu drove through.
He parked and walked to the Element Productions complex, where he found Scott Wembley easily enough. The assistant director was stepping out of a low, unimpressive bungalow, long arms dangling, licking his lips.
Lunch hour. Wembley was alone, probably headed for the commissary.
Stu came up from behind him. “Hi, Scott.”
Wembley turned and stopped and his long, pale face froze. “Stu. Hey.”
Like most A.D.’s, Wembley was just a kid, a couple of years out of UC Berkeley with a fine arts degree, tolerating the low pay and long hours and abuse by those who mattered for the impressive-sounding title and the chance to make connections.
Like many kids, he lacked spine and judgment.
They shook hands. Wembley was wearing film-lot preppy: baggy Gap jeans and an oversized plaid button-down shirt that looked too warm for the weather and too expensive for his budget. A steel Rolex made Stu wonder even more.
The kid looked even thinner than last year, had a bony, somewhat androgynous face fit for a Calvin Klein ad. Pimples on his cheeks. That was new.
The palm Stu grasped was soft and cold and wet. Sweat beaded Wembley’s unlined forehead. Too-warm shirt. Long-sleeved shirt, buttoned at the cuffs.
And, of course, the eyes. Those pupils. Poor Scotty hadn’t learned a thing.
During Stu’s month on the set, Wembley had tried to get next to him, asking questions incessantly, wanting to know what the streets were really like. Because he was doing a screenplay, like everyone else, even though his real dream was to be Scorsese—directors had all the control.
Stu had answered him patiently, finding the kid a touching combination of Gen-X bravado and utter ignorance.
Then, the last Friday of the shoot, after working hours, he’d stuck around to finish some paperwork, using an empty soundstage as his office. Loud sighs brought him to a corner of the giant room, where he discovered Wembley huddled on the floor, half hidden by prop walls, a spike of heroin embedded in his arm.
The kid didn’t hear him approach, had his eyes closed, veins popping like angel-hair pasta on his long, skinny arm. The needle was one of those cheap plastic disposable things.
Stu said, “Scott!” sharply, and the kid’s eyes opened on a junkie’s worst p
ossible scenario. Yanking out the needle, Wembley tossed it to the ground, where it plunked and spotted the concrete with milky liquid.
“Oh man,” said Stu.
Wembley burst into tears.
Moral conundrum.
In the end, Stu chose not to bust the kid, even though that was a clear violation of departmental regulations: “Upon witnessing a felony . . .”
Pretended to believe Wembley when the kid insisted it was his first time, he was just experimenting. Two other puncture marks on Wembley’s arms proved otherwise, but both had the sooty look of old tracks, so at least the kid wasn’t mainlining regularly—yet. Stu confiscated the dope kit he found in the pocket of Wembley’s bomber jacket and tossed the works in a Dumpster on the lot—putting him in greater legal jeopardy than Wembley, but thank God the kid wasn’t smart enough to know that.
He drove Wembley to Go-Ji’s coffee shop on Hollywood Boulevard, plunked him down in a rear booth, and filled him full of strong, black coffee—technically, as much of a drug to Stu—then let the stupid kid glance around the putrid restaurant and see what advanced junkies looked like.
The load in the syringe must have been light, because Wembley was rattled and clear-eyed. Or maybe fear had out-adrenalized the opiate.
He ordered the kid a hamburger, forced him to eat while he delivered the requisite stern lecture. Soon, Wembley was mumbling sad biography—the horrors of growing up with affluent, multimarried Marin County parents who refused to set limits, post-college loneliness and alienation and fear of the future. Stu pretended to take it seriously, wondering if his own kids would be like that when they reached that age. By the end of an hour, Wembley was taking solemn vows of chastity, charity, and loyalty to the flag.
Stu drove him back to the studio. The kid looked ready to kiss him, almost girlishly grateful, and Stu wondered if he was gay, on top of everything else.
After that, Wembley avoided him on the set. It didn’t matter. Wembley was in his debt big-time, and if the kid didn’t drop out and move back home, he was someone Stu might be able to use one day.
Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor) Page 13