Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor)

by Jonathan Kellerman

  The forms listed little by way of investment. He’d deducted depreciation on the Saddlewax house, which had been purchased fourteen years ago, and his car leases—Buicks, then Caddies, now the Lexus—but no other real estate. For thirteen years, alimony had been paid monthly to Helen Balch, of Duluth, Minnesota. For the last nine, he’d also divvied up to Amber Leigh Balch.

  Helen’s name conjured up a middle-aged woman, the dutiful first wife. The house bought fourteen years ago—right after the marriage? If so, dissolution had taken place one year later.

  Amber Leigh sounded like an industry pseudonym. Petra saw a homewrecker with big hair, long legs—probably blond, because Lisa and Ilse said he liked blondes. Big-chested bimbo, a face not quite pretty enough. That hadn’t lasted long, either.

  Two thousand a month to Helen; fifteen hundred to Amber.

  His take-home was a little over eight thou a month. Lease payments on the Lexus were six hundred. Take away that and spousal support, and he cleared thirty-nine hundred a month. For the last few years, he’d received tax refunds of twenty grand or so. Not poverty, but chicken feed by industry standards. By Ramsey standards.

  No obvious signs of big-ticket hobbies or conspicuous expenditures. Did he play the track? Sniff coke? Had he accumulated a money stash? Augmented it with skim?

  She searched every corner of the room, found no bankbooks or investment material. Unlike Lisa, no plans. Had she been his launderer?

  Then she’d demanded more. Or tried to blackmail Balch. Money and passion; had to be.

  A door slammed. She looked out the window and saw Wil heading for the garage. He pushed a remote and the door slid open. No car that she could see. She returned to the tax files, labeling each carton. Onward.

  The first of the empty bedrooms was just that. In the second, though, she found more booty on the closet shelf: three shoe boxes of loose photos. First came thirty-year-old professional shots of football teams, high school and college, the faces too small to make out, then home-camera jobs showing Ramsey and Balch in full athletic gear, giant padded shoulders, tight waists.

  Tall, Dark, and Handsome and his flaxen-haired buddy, both grinning, cocky, ready to take on the world.

  After that came wedding snaps, Balch still lean and tan, wearing a powder-blue tux, a ruffled shirt, and an unsure expression. Helen turned out to be slender, attractive, with short dark hair and a prim mouth. Later photos showed her aging well, staying slim, sometimes wearing glasses. Holding a baby.

  Wrapped in pink. A daughter. Balch had never mentioned a child during the interview, but why would he, they’d been focusing on other people’s lives. Petra remembered how he punted away personal questions. At the time, it had seemed aw-shucks. Now she understood.

  Twenty or so pictures of the child, no name on the back of any of the pictures. A pretty dark-haired girl who favored her mother. Snapshots up till age eight or so, then nothing.

  The divorce, or had it been worse—a death? Yet another loss in Balch’s miserable life?

  Box number two contained smaller versions of the celeb shots Petra had seen on Balch’s office wall. Mostly Ramsey, a few of Balch. Various photographers, Hollywood and the Valley.

  The last box was nearly empty. Just a wedding portrait, photographer’s stamp from Las Vegas—a Vegas connection. Balch in a dark suit and white banded-collar shirt, pink-faced, puffy, slightly off-kilter, towering over Amber Leigh, who was tiny and Asian, with incredible cheekbones and breasts that screamed augmentation. Not what Petra had pictured, but definitely bimboistic.

  He married dark-haired women but killed blondes.

  Beneath the photo was an envelope dated three years ago.

  Loopy childish handwriting addressed to Mr. G. Balch at the Saddlewax address. On the return side, Caitlin Balch, no address; Duluth, Minnesota, postmark.

  The same handwriting on a single sheet of lined notepaper.

  Dear Dad,

  Well, Im graduating from Junior High and I won an award for band, but I don’t think you care about that. You never call or come here anymore and you never send the alemoney on time and with Mom being sick that makes it really hard for us. Im only writing this because Mom said I should, you should know when your daughter graduates.

  You don’t care. Right?

  Your daughter (I guess)

  Caitlin Lauren Balch

  Pathetic. Had he ever answered? No further correspondence said probably not.

  No shots of Lisa. Or Ilse Eggermann. That would have been too much to hope for.

  If he’d been obsessed with either of the dead women, he’d probably destroyed the evidence. Or taken it with him to play with.

  Petra bound all the shoe boxes with rubber bands and was carrying them out when she heard Wil shout.

  He’d laid it all out on the floor of the garage.

  Six handguns—two revolvers and four automatics—three rifles, two shotguns, one an expensive Mossler. Boxes of ammo for everything. The garage smelled of gun oil.

  Tool rack on a wall above an empty workbench, two large toolboxes full of assorted gizmos, a pair of fishing-tackle boxes, six fishing rods, seven reels.

  “Deep-sea and lake,” said Wil, appreciatively. “Good lures, too. Hand-tied. And look at this.”

  Knives. Petra counted thirty-two.

  Bucks, fighting daggers, long-bladed boning knives Wil said he’d taken from the tackle boxes.

  “The man likes to shoot and cut, Petra. There’s blood on the boning blade. Might be trout; then again, maybe not.”

  “Fishing and hunting,” said Petra. “Maybe he’s got himself a little cabin up in the woods.”

  “That’s all we need, one of those nature boy–survivalist deals. Better take our time with all this. I’m gonna put on fresh gloves, get my video cam.”

  It was 8:14 when they finished. The house had grown almost unbearably hot, and Petra’s nose had gotten accustomed to the smell.

  Wil said, “We earned our keep,” and clicked the TV on, again, switching channels from an oral-sex pretzel to local news. “Just in case something broke. It seems to be the way we find out anything.”

  The news was all crime—a nine-year-old girl abducted in Willow Glen, a drive-by in Florence, and another db out in Angeles Crest, but nothing on Lisa or William Bradley Straight.

  “Work, work, work,” said Wil, yawning and pulling down his sleeves. He’d folded his linen jacket and placed it on the mantel, over a protective layer of LAPD plastic. He looked as tired as Petra felt.

  He yawned again, and she said, “I know we’re supposed to start casting the net on Balch, but I for one need some food—”

  He held up a silencing finger. Something on the TV had turned him wide-awake.

  “. . . white male,” the reporter was saying. “No name has been released yet, but sheriff’s deputies have described the victim as unusually large, over six feet and three hundred pounds or more. The body parts were separated, but hadn’t yet been scattered in this remote area of the forest. The Boy Scouts who may have disturbed the killer report seeing a car drive off quickly, with its lights off. That’s it for now, Chuck. We’ll keep you posted.”

  Fournier gunned the remote, speeding through channels. Three other news shows, but either the dismemberment had already been covered or only one station had the story so far.

  “What?” said Petra.

  “Six feet, three hundred pounds,” he said. “Maybe it’s a coincidence, but that’s real damn close to the size of Buell Moran, the fool who was looking for the Straight kid. The one who probably killed the kid’s mother. I mean, I know this country’s got an obesity problem, but . . . We were figuring he’d heard about the beach tip and headed west. If he did, maybe he met someone he thought could help him but didn’t. I’m not saying it is him—lots of bikers get dumped in Angeles Crest, plenty of them are big—but it’s too cute to ignore.”

  “Much too cute,” said Petra. “Enter it in a baby contest.”

  “And here’s ano
ther thing, Petra. Dismemberment and Angeles Crest reminds me of something I dealt with years ago, working on those Russian cases. Russians loved to cut up the bodies. We walked in on one of them doing it. They concentrate on the head and the fingertips, think it screws up IDs. And they were using Angeles Crest, had just discovered it. The guy who gave me the tip on the kid is Russian. First time I met him, I had a feeling about him. Con eyes.”

  “Why would he kill Moran?”

  “How about competition for the twenty-five? Let’s say both of them got a serious case of the greeds, both are lowlifes, no impulse control. The Russian—Zhukanov’s his name—sees Moran showing the kid’s picture around, gets worried. Or maybe Moran approaches him, tells Zhukanov he’s the kid’s father, has some rights here. Zhukanov says, Enough of this noise. Those Russians are mean, Petra. The guy we caught playing human jigsaw had been paid two hundred bucks. Imagine what twenty-five thou would motivate.”

  “If Zhukanov was threatened enough to kill Moran,” said Petra, “it might mean he learned something new about the Straight boy’s whereabouts, more than he told you. Let me phone in to see if any new messages came in on that.”

  The clerk said, “You’ve got messages, but it’s crazy; can’t go up to check.” No one answered in the squad room. She hung up, and Wil took his jacket off the mantel. His forehead was as dark and slick as licorice and he wiped it and dialed the phone. A number she recognized: Downtown Sheriff’s. Ron’s HQ.

  “Good old tans again,” he said. “Their solve rate’s about twice ours, but they don’t have to deal with the gangbanger-no-witness bullshi— Hello, this is Detective Fournier, Hollywood LAPD. Could you please—”

  Petra took the shoe boxes out to her car. In the dark, Balch’s street was silent and peaceful, happy families cozy in front of the big screen. If they only knew. She filled her nose with warm, piney air. What was the weather like in Duluth, Minnesota? What would Helen Balch think when the ex’s face was all over the tube?

  When she got back, Wil was smiling.

  “No ID on the body, but they’ve got the head—thank you, Boy Scouts—and the description fits Moran to a T. I know we’ve been cranking up the overtime, and I was looking forward to some shut-eye, Petra, but I think we need at least to check this Russian out. Maybe we can’t solve Lisa right away, but wouldn’t it be nice to solve something?”

  “It would be loverly,” said Petra. “Do you mind if we stop on the way for some grub? There’s a Chinese place on Hawthorne that Mr. Balch patronized. I doubt he’s got good taste, but who knows?”

  CHAPTER

  71

  Kathy Bishop awoke at nine, sweating, chilled, in terrible pain. Stu punched the call button and held her hand. She looked at him, but from her face he couldn’t tell what she saw. Where the hell were the nurses—he wanted to run over to the station but didn’t want to leave Kathy.

  Finally they came, and he had to control himself from screaming at them.

  Now Kathy was sedated, back asleep, and he realized it hadn’t taken that long after all.

  Get a grip.

  The room felt like a cell; he’d left only for an hour, when Mother had vanned all the kids over at five-thirty and they’d gone for burgers and fries at a local McDonald’s. All six were quieter than usual, even the baby. He assured them they could see Mommy soon, played around, told jokes, thought they were buying the Daddy-as-usual bit but wasn’t sure. He felt out of it, some imposter inhabiting Daddy’s body.

  The kids started acting up, and Mother said, “Let’s go, troops.”

  On the way out, Stu noticed other diners staring and he filled with anger.

  What’s wrong, turkeys, never seen a big family before?

  He stayed hot all the way to St. Joe’s. Weird; he’d never had a short fuse before.

  Meanwhile, Petra and Wil were chasing what looked to be a multiple killer and he was calling airlines, catching guff and bureaucratese, turning up empty, no record of Balch booking any flights, but with all the turndowns he’d received, who knew?

  He used to be able to worm stuff out of bureaucrats. Mormon charm, Kathy called it, kissing his forehead and favoring him with her come-hither wink. He loved that wink.

  Not an ounce of charm in him tonight. He held Kathy’s hand. Limp, lifeless. But for the warmth of her skin, he might have panicked.

  Breathing evenly. The machines said she was fine.

  No more airlines to call, not a damn thing to do but wait.

  For what? More pain?

  Too wound-up to sleep, he got up and paced the room. He needed to sleep, needed to be together for Kathy . . . the stack of TV Guides sat on an end table. Maybe stupid, derivative Dack Price plotlines would get him drowsy.

  He was into the second volume when he felt his posture slacken and his eyelids droop. The third made the room grow dim.

  Then something filtered through the fatigue.

  Words, sentences—something a little different.

  Now he was sitting up. Wide-awake.

  Rereading . . . wondering . . . should he call Petra?

  Strange—maybe nothing. But . . .

  He didn’t even know where Petra was. So out of touch. Could his judgment be trusted?

  He’d try to find her. Worse came to worst, he’d have wasted some time.

  Wasting time was his new hobby anyway.

  CHAPTER

  72

  The white cop was taking him seriously.

  Finally. Which is what Zhukanov told him when the guy appeared at the counter, just before closing time, showing his badge and the picture of the kid.

  “Finally.”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “I talk to one of you, but he don’t call back. A black guy.”

  The white cop stared. “Yes, sir, I know.”

  “What do you want?” demanded Zhukanov.

  “Double-checking on the identification, sir.” The cop leaned his elbows on the counter and put the newspaper clipping down. Big guy, blond, ruddy, dark suit, dark tie. He reminded Zhukanov of a colonel he’d worked with on crowd control back home, a real sadist, loved to twist limbs, knew how to do maximal damage with just a flick of a wrist . . . Borokovsky. This guy looked a lot like Borokovsky. Was he of Rus-sian descent? His card said Detective D. A. Price, but everyone changed their names.

  “Double-checking? I already tell you he been here, no one calls me, it’s on the TV.”

  “It’s a homicide investigation, sir, we have to be careful,” said the blond cop, looking over Zhukanov’s shoulder at the shelves of toys.

  Calling me sir but probably thinking I’m some kind of joke, a clown. The fat guy thought so too, and look where he was.

  Having had several hours to think about it, Zhukanov felt good about killing the fat guy—great, even; the Siberian wolf dispatches its prey, paints its muzzle with blood, howls at the moon. While cutting the guy up, Zhukanov had felt like howling.

  Moving him into the car, then dragging him out had been torture; Zhukanov’s back and shoulders and arms still throbbed. Getting the bastard into pieces turned out to be not so easy, either. He should’ve sharpened the kitchen knives better; that cleaver should’ve gone right through the joints, not stuck like that.

  The head, though, had been less of a problem than he expected. Rolling away like a soccer ball, eyes open. That was funny. He felt like kicking it, but you had to get rid of the head and the fingers, let the cops have the rest of the carcass. His plan had been to take the head somewhere it would never be found, but the Boy Scouts had ruined it, hiking through the forest, yelling like drunks. So now the cops had the head; maybe they’d learn who the fat guy was. Big deal. No connection to him; he’d cleaned all the blood. And here was a cop leaning over the very same counter, no clue.

  Zhukanov fought not to smile. He’d tossed the knives into five separate storm drains from Valencia to Van Nuys. The fat man’s clothing and billfold ended up in Dumpsters near Fairfax and Melrose—let the Yids get blamed.


  No bills in the billfold, just a driver’s license and a nice picture of a naked girl with her legs spread that Zhukanov pocketed. The license he slipped down another drain. The fat man’s name was Moran. So what.

  When he got home he washed his bloody clothes, took a shower, had something to eat, worked with the broken gun for a while, still couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it. Then a few glasses of vodka and he was out like a light by three. Five hours later, he was back at the shack waiting for the Yids to return with the kid. If they didn’t, he’d go over to the motor vehicle department on Monday.

  But the car showed up, all right, pulling behind the Yid church at nine. Prayer time for the Yids, Zhukanov knew, usually till eleven or so. He kept going back to the alley every fifteen minutes; finally spotted the old guy who’d hidden the kid coming out with an old woman. They drove off, and he followed them in his car. They never noticed—too busy yapping.

  And now he had an address without paying for it. Twenty-three Sunrise Court.

  He didn’t write it down, the way he had with the license number, because now he was smart; no one would get it unless they paid for it.

  And now look how calm he was, facing the white cop. Though if the guy had just showed the badge, no picture of the kid, he might’ve figured it had something to do with Moran—what the hell would he have done then?

  “I tell the black guy,” he said. “He never call me back.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. We’ve been quite busy—”

  “You busy looking for the kid,” said Zhukanov, “but I see him.”

  “You saw him several days ago, sir.”

  “Maybe,” said Zhukanov, smiling.

  “Maybe?”

  “Maybe I see him again.”

  The blond cop pulled out a little notepad. “When, sir?”

  “I tell your black buddy the first time; he never call me back.”

  The blond cop frowned, leaned a little closer. “Sir, if you have information—”