Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor)

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “I saw him this afternoon. Try his home. What’s going on over there now?”

  “They just started to search the house.”

  “Keep an eye on those hicks. Flores is clearly the fruit of Lisa’s tree, so it’s our case.”

  “What about Flores’s son in El Salvador?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s worried about her. I promised to let him know.”

  “I said keep it all under wraps for now. Another day or two isn’t going to improve his quality of life. They find evidence in the house, let me know right away.”

  He clicked off.

  Ron remained silent.

  Petra said, “Don’t say I never took you anywhere interesting. Your kids okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “If you want to head back, I’ll find a ride somehow.”

  “No, I’ll stay. Anything to do besides wait?”

  “Call the airlines.” She looked at the phone. “Your bill is going to rival the national debt.”

  He laughed. “You’ll get an invoice.”

  He’d stuck with her all day, remaining in the background. The guy was a veteran, it had to be hard, and all she did was keep borrowing the damn phone. “You’re sure Alicia and Bee are okay?”

  “Mom’s taking them out for pizza; she’ll sleep over.”

  “Nice mom.”

  “The best,” he said. “After my dad died, I thought she’d fall apart. Her whole life seemed wrapped up in his. She was pretty depressed at first, but then she came out of it, took up paddle tennis, joined a library group, went on some tours. She misses him—they had a great marriage—but she’s doing okay.”

  “When did your dad die?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “Mine too.”

  He reached over, squeezed her hand, let go.

  Petra said, “I have no mother. She died in childbirth.”

  Ron said nothing. Smart man. She didn’t look at him; didn’t want that level of contact right now.

  The third try at Fournier’s house paid off. He said, “Been trying that 818 number for a couple hours, where are you?”

  She told him everything.

  “Unreal,” he said. “So Balch could be anywhere by now.”

  “He was stupid enough to call Westward Charter using his real name, so maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “How do you want to divide it?”

  “Any way you want. Also, S. wants a total seal on it.”

  “We put a want out on Balch, but don’t tell anybody?”

  “Not till he hears from upstairs.”

  “Great,” said Wil. “So where does this put the kid?”

  “Lower priority.”

  He snorted. “Of course it is, now that I have a name for him. The Watson tips panned out: William Bradley Straight, twelve years old, lived in a low-life trailer park, missing a few months. If he did see Lisa get murdered, that’s not his only problem. Someone killed his mama, push-and-shove case. Got a probable suspect, her boyfriend, some hairbasket named Buell Moran. And guess what: He’s been spotted in Hollywood, showing the kid’s picture.”

  “Oh no,” said Petra. “Going after the twenty-five thou.”

  “It would motivate me, and I don’t live in a trailer.”

  “Lord,” said Petra. William Bradley Straight. A kid with a survival plan, thinking he had a chance. Pathetic. What had they done to him?

  “Okay,” said Wil. “Let’s divide up those airlines.”

  When she hung up, Ron said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Another orphan.”

  CHAPTER

  62

  Bound volumes of TV Guide, each with a no circulation tag.

  An hour into the surgery, Stu found himself going crazy in the waiting room. Leaving the hospital, he drove to a branch in downtown Burbank, used his badge and good manners, finally convinced the librarian to let him check out a decade’s worth.

  Now here he was back at St. Joe’s, waiting with other worried people.

  Hundreds of Adjustor plot summaries.

  Dack Price comes to the aid of a woman harassed by street thugs.

  Dack Price helps expose drug dealing at a local high school.

  A woman claiming to be Dack’s sister, abandoned at birth . . .

  Dack Price saves a political reformer’s reputation when blackmailers . . .

  The same old garbage, over and over.

  No mention of any parks, let alone Griffith. Rarely was the setting ever mentioned, except when it was considered exotic: Dack Price investigates several murders aboard a submarine.

  He kept turning pages, sitting by Kathy’s bedside as she slept off the anesthesia.

  Snoring. Kathy never snored. A padded dressing was taped to her chest like some bulletproof vest. The IV dripped, a catheter drained, machines graphed and beeped the saga of his wife’s physiology. Stu had watched the blood pressure for a while until he was certain it was normal. At the last temperature check, Kathy’d registered a slight fever. Normal reaction, the nurse claimed.

  The room was a private with a view, courtesy of Father’s clout. Cheerful wallpaper, ten-dollar Tylenol. The nurses seemed smart and efficient.

  Drizak had taken Kathy’s left breast.

  Stu knew the minute the surgeon came out in his greens. Droning on about lymphovascular invasion, nodal status, margins of excision, best efforts at breast conservation.

  “So you did a mastectomy.”

  “The bottom line is we want to save your wife’s life.”

  “Did you?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Did you save her life?”

  The surgeon scratched his chin. “The prognosis is excellent, Mr. Bishop, given proper follow-up, radiotherapy. She went through it like a trouper.”

  Stu thanked him, pumped his hand, and grateful for the lack of outward anguish, the surgeon walked away with a bounce in his step.

  The breast didn’t matter to Stu—not as an object—but how would Kathy react to the loss?

  What to tell the kids?

  Mommy was sick, now she’d be getting better.

  No good; when the side effects of radiation showed up, they’d think he lied.

  Kathy stirred and moaned. Stu put the book down, leaned over the bed rails, and kissed her forehead lightly. She didn’t react. He touched her hand. Cold and limp. Why wasn’t the blood circulating to her extremities?

  He checked the machines. Normal; everything normal.

  Her padded chest proved it, rising and falling.

  It was 8 P.M. Surgery had been delayed twice because of emergencies—Kathy wheeled up to the OR, then down, the entire process repeated again. Waiting in the hall on a gurney as the priority patients were rushed through.

  A car crash and a shooting.

  Stu watched Burbank officers come up to the surgical floor, accompanying the med techs as they wheeled in the shooting victim. Young Hispanic kid, sixteen, seventeen, bad color, vacant eyes. Stu knew DOA when he saw it. Another stupid drive-by.

  The cops didn’t notice him—just some guy in a sweater reading in the corner of the waiting room.

  Young-blood cops, swaggering. Like they knew what they were doing.

  Pathetic. No one had a clue. God was a comedian.

  Look at Ramsey.

  Had a wife but couldn’t keep her.

  No way was the actor going down for Lisa’s murder. Not with what they had so far. No help from TV Guide.

  He suppressed bitter laughter.

  Dack Price butchers a woman. Now a word from our sponsor.

  CHAPTER

  63

  I’m talking to Mom, trying to explain something important to her, but she’s not getting it. She’s not even listening.

  I get mad at her, start to yell; she just stands there, arms at her side, this weird look in her eyes. Like I don’t matter.

  Then her face starts to melt and blood shoots out of her eyes like from red faucets. She cups her hands to catch
the blood, splashes it all over her face, and then throws some at—

  I wake up sweating. My head hurts, my arms hurt, my stomach kills worse than ever, I can’t breathe.

  I’m in a dark box with cold, hard walls. Glass walls. Trapped, like a bug in a jar—I really can’t breathe—no air holes in the box. No matter how hard I suck in the air, it won’t feed my lungs—then I see it. Crack at the top of one glass wall. A window left a little open.

  Car window.

  I’m in Sam’s car. The backseat. Must have fallen asleep under the blankets.

  It’s making me sick being cooped up here. I want to break out, but the alley at night, who knows what’s out there? At least let me open the window a little wider—nope, electric, they don’t budge.

  My Casio says 8:19. The Jews have been praying for a while. When they finish, Sam will take me with him. He’s a stranger, and I don’t know anything about his house, but there’s no other place to hide, not with that $25,000 reward.

  Maybe I should try to get the money, like Sam suggested . . . no, the police would never give it to a kid. Even if they did, Mom and Moron would find out and take it all and I’d be back in the trailer and they’d have dope money.

  I could call the police without telling them who I was, let them know I saw PLYR 1 stab Lisa. But what if they had a way of tracing the phone and PLYR found out and went after me?

  Who saw me and gave them my face for that picture?

  No, I’ll just keep my mouth shut. If I dream about Mom again, I’ll try to figure out what it is I want to convince her of.

  CHAPTER

  64

  Land of the free, home of the stupid.

  In the cramped storage room behind the souvenir shack, Vladimir Zhukanov finished the vodka and wondered if he’d been an asshole to leave Russia.

  At least there he had a uniform, a purpose. There was always someone who needed controlling. Even more now, since capitalism was sinking its claws in. The gangs were taking over, and half the gangsters were ex-police. He could’ve found something.

  In America, he had no respect, only stupid dolls. Stupid nigger cop ignoring him, then taking his information to the TV, the black bastard.

  Anonymous tip. Meaning they didn’t want to pay him.

  One thing: It proved he’d been right about the kid. Like there’d been any doubt—that dimple in the chin, just like the drawing. Scratches on his face, what you’d expect in someone hiding in a forest. Zhukanov’s father had told him stories about forests, the war. Militiamen chasing Yids through clumps of wintering birch. Bare trees, iron sky, the marriage of bayonet and flesh, crimson stains on snow.

  Anonymous tip. The TV news meant competition for the twenty-five thousand. Only one competitor so far, but he was trouble enough. Fat guy in filthy leather, walking up and down the walkway with the kid’s picture.

  From his station behind the counter, Zhukanov watched the big pig. Up and back, up and back, walking laboriously, breathing hard in the heat. Growing visibly pissed off as the day wore on and he got nothing but head shakes and blank stares.

  The first time the guy waddled toward the souvenir shack, Zhukanov made sure to be in the back room, examining the day’s receipts, trying to figure out how much he could skim and get away with. The second time, though, he was up front, counting trolls, making sure no one had ripped him off.

  The big pig said, “Hey, man,” and shoved the picture in Zhukanov’s face. Zhukanov shook his head dismissively—it wasn’t even worth talking about—but the guy just stood there.

  “You didn’t even look at it, man.” Breath like a toilet. Zhukanov refused to dignify the question, picked up a Malibu troll. “Want to buy something?” His tone making it clear that the guy couldn’t afford a lousy toy.

  The fat guy tried to give him the evil eye. Zhukanov almost laughed out loud. Big but flabby. Back in Moscow, he’d trampled runny-shit like this half-drunk.

  Finally the guy jiggled off. What an imbecile.

  Still, it was competition. He’d have to be sharper than ever.

  Now it was dark and all the retail shops were closed; the only things open were the cafés on the north end of Ocean Front. And the Yid church a few stores south. Bunch of old Yids in there wailing, plotting, whatever the hell they did when they got together.

  He had skim money in his pocket, the vodka had awakened his senses, and he was hungry and horny and getting angrier by the minute at the nigger cop and everyone else who was conspiring to deprive him of what was rightfully his.

  Tomorrow, he’d call the newspapers and tell them the truth about the anonymous tip, how stupid cops didn’t respect dutiful citizens.

  No, no, not yet—that would focus more attention on the walkway, bring in more problems. He’d give the nigger one more chance. What was his name, he had the card, somewhere . . . not in his pockets. Maybe he’d left it in the back room.

  Slipping behind the curtain, he searched among the clutter but didn’t find it. No matter, he’d ask around, a bald nigger detective, someone would know him. Then a man-to-man talk. Maybe offer him a piece of the twenty-five. If that was the only way.

  If the nigger still didn’t cooperate, he’d go to the papers—no, the TV stations. Get in touch with one of those blondies who read the news, tell her the truth. Maybe some big-shot movie producer would be watching and say, “Hey, this is a good idea for a movie.” Arnold Schwarzenegger, a Russian cop, comes to America to show the stupid Americans how to— Did they do that one already? It sounded familiar. No matter. With movies, you had something good, you did it again.

  Publicity. That was what he needed.

  On top of the money, he’d be the hero, trying to find the kid, solve a crime, but no one listened and—

  “Hey, man,” said a voice from up front.

  Fatso.

  How had he gotten in? Then Zhukanov realized he’d forgotten to pull down the shutters and lock up. He took another swallow of vodka.

  “Hey! You back there, man?”

  Stupid asshole. Get rid of him and find some place to eat and drink. Zhukanov put on his Planet Hollywood jacket and tapped his front pockets. Cash in the right front pocket, knife in the left. Cheap Taiwan blade—he carried it with him for the walk from the shack to his car, sometimes with an unlicensed 9mm. Part of the back-room arsenal: nunchucks, a sawed-off baseball bat, age-blackened brass knuckles he’d inherited from his father. So far, the only thing he’d had to use was the bat, as a warning to kids with itchy fingers, but you never knew. The gun was back home. Cheap junk. It had jammed, and he had it on the kitchen table, trying to figure out what was wrong with it.

  “Hey!”

  Zhukanov bolted the rear door before parting the curtains. The fat bastard had his elbows on the counter, scratching a blubbery chin, sweating, eyes raw-looking and swollen. Hulking silhouette against the black beach sky, maybe tough-looking to some tourist, but all Zhukanov saw was a vat of grease.

  “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.