Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor)

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Somehow, Balch had figured it out and finished them both off.

  But then why bother taking Moran to Angeles Crest while leaving Zhukanov right here where he was sure to be found?

  Look what I can do!

  Zhukanov’s gut wound matched Lisa’s and Ilse’s. But Moran didn’t fit. So the Russian probably had dispatched Moran. And Balch had finished off Zhukanov.

  There could only be one reason: The Russian knew something vital about William Bradley Straight.

  All Zhukanov had told Wil was that the boy had bought a hat from him.

  Not enough to kill for.

  Had the Russian held back? Did he know more?

  She shot her theories at Wil, who was up in front, examining the inside wall beneath the counter, looking for more bloodstains.

  She was talking at manic speed, couldn’t believe the edge in her voice. Wil listened, said, “You think Zhukanov saw the boy again? Got a fix on his location? But how would Balch find out?”

  “I don’t know—but if it was him, he took Zhukanov by surprise. Maybe force. Or Zhukanov was plastered. Or he pulled some kind of scam on Zhukanov. The guy was crazy for the reward. It could have clouded his judgment.”

  “A scam,” said Wil. “Someone who’d be legit asking about the boy?”

  “Yes,” said Petra. “A social worker—a cop. Maybe Balch impersonated a cop.”

  Wil thought about that. “A suit and a fake badge is all it’d take. Yeah, Zhukanov’s greed would do the rest. But for Balch to risk killing him now, when he knows we’re going to be looking for him?”

  “We haven’t caught him. He may not even know we’re on to him,” said Petra. “And if it leads to the boy, it could seem worth it. That tells me Zhukanov may very well have learned something more about the boy.”

  She returned to the stockroom, searching nervously, frantically. Toys, stupid toys—imagine a hairbasket like Zhukanov peddling playthings to little kids . . . nothing in the pocket of the Planet Hollywood jacket . . . the card table, the receipts—she grabbed them all up, started scanning.

  Ten slips in, she found an invoice form, no sale marked, no date. Just a single line of shaky printing.

  2RTRM34

  License number? Had the Russian seen William Straight in a car and copied down the plate? Everyone knew you could bribe info out of DMV. The papers had covered a big bribery scandal a few months ago. A guy like Zhukanov would know his way around that sort of thing. Pay up, get the address.

  She looked for a phone in the shack. None in either room. What a hovel. Fournier was still looking for blood. She borrowed his phone—what was the night number for DMV traces . . . yeah, yeah, she remembered it. When the clerk came on, she had to fight from barking orders at the woman. This one was a stickler for regulations.

  Lord save me from rule books.

  But a little assertiveness finally made her cooperate, and a few computer clicks later Petra had it: Samuel Morris Ganzer, 23 Sunrise Court, Venice.

  Birthdate in 1925.

  An old man.

  Had William found himself a protector?

  CHAPTER

  77

  The Lincoln was parked inches from the back of the house, and its front bumper gave him a great boost to the window.

  Drapes on this one too, but not drawn tightly; he had a perfect view of the kitchen, helped along by a small light over the stove. The living room, too, separated only by a waist-high counter. A floor lamp there cast charcoal shadows on gray carpet. Enough light to see the front door. Red glow off to the right side. Alarm. Too bad. But better to know up front.

  Three doors to the left, probably bedrooms and bathroom. Not much space between them. Small rooms, better for stabbing.

  And that was the entire layout. Excellent . . .

  No sign of the boy since he’d first ventured out onto the porch. The old guy, either. Both bedroom doors closed. The boy and the old man—with or without wife—fast asleep? Or maybe the old guy was a queer and the boy was sleeping with him.

  That would sure explain taking him home.

  Sleep made it a helluva lot easier: Burst in, throw the bedroom doors open, boom boom boom, gone even before the time delay kicked in on the alarm.

  Knock stuff over on the way out, maybe steal something, to make it look like a gang thing.

  He got down from the car, checked the alley for intruders, examined the house’s rear door. Two dead bolts. Bad. But putting a little weight on the wood, he felt some give. One or two good shoves would take it off the hinges. Probably ruin his shoulder, but he was used to pushing his way through obstacles. The door was nothing compared to a defensive line.

  Okay, then. Here come da blitz. The knife if it worked, the gun ready for backup. Either way, he could do it in seconds, run out the back, fade into the night.

  One last look through the kitchen window.

  He was scared, had to admit it. This was different, not like Lisa, the German girl, Sally, the stupid Russian. All those times, he’d set up the scenes.

  But there were times you had to improvise.

  He climbed up on the Lincoln’s bumper again. Nothing different, but still he hesitated. Up again, down again. Compulsive. When his anxiety rose, he handled it with repetition. Like his mother’s head banging. The stupid bitch. She deserved to die in that stupid helmet.

  Okay, one last look—this time, he saw the boy—see, it pays to be thorough!

  Coming out of the middle door to the left. A bathroom, just as he’d guessed.

  Skinny little thing, light enough to drop-kick. He watched him emerge, go into the kitchen, open the refrigerator, take something out—a carrot.

  Would he wash it? The sink was right below the window. Duck.

  Crouched next to the outer wall, he heard plumbing kick in. Hygienic little sucker.

  The water stopped. He waited, finally raised his head, peeked in, again. The kid was standing in the living room, back to the kitchen window, eating the carrot. Finishing half of it, he walked to the front door, punched the alarm panel—damn, too far to make out the code.

  Opening the door, the kid stepped out again. But only for a few seconds, and here he was again, back inside, closing the door, turning, about to face the window.

  Could he see anything out here in the darkness? Probably not, unless it was right up against the glass, but be extra careful, duck again.

  Another thirty seconds passed before he dared another look. The kid was still standing in the living room, munching on the carrot, visible in profile.

  Just another face.

  The kid finished the carrot, bent, and picked something up. A magazine. He eats healthy, washes, reads. Such a good little citizen.

  But not careful. Because the light on the front alarm panel was green.

  He’d forgotten to trigger the goddamn alarm!

  God was wonderful!

  The blitz was on!

  CHAPTER

  78

  “Sunrise Court,” said Petra, thumbing through her Thomas Guide.

  Wil took his penlight out of his mouth. “I know it, one of the walk streets.” He was outside the stand, recording the details of the Zhukanov crime scene.

  “Which direction?” she said.

  “North, five, six blocks.”

  The license number and Samuel Ganzer’s name hadn’t impressed him. “Could be Zhukanov’s boss, a customer. Zhukanov could’ve recorded the license for a check authorization.”

  “Could be,” said Petra, having only instinct to back her up. She closed the map book. “So you’ll stay here, keep Zhukanov company?”

  “Sure. Maybe he’ll teach me Russian.”

  CHAPTER

  79

  It’s almost eleven. Sam should be back soon. I thought I’d stay up till he got here, but now I’m tired; guess I’ll go to sleep.

  He’s probably having a good time with Mrs. Kleinman. I could eat another carrot, but I’m not really hungry . . . maybe I’ll take another shower. No,
I already had one, don’t want to use up too much of Sam’s water.

  I go to turn off the living room lamp—maybe I’ll take some magazines to bed—uh-oh, I forgot to switch the alarm back on.

  I head for the panel, reach out for the buttons, and from behind me comes an explosion, then a crash—from the back of the house. Oh no, did I leave the stove on or something?

  But I don’t smell gas or anything burning, and when I turn, I see a big black space where the kitchen door was and the door’s down on the floor and a guy’s coming through the space, he’s in the house, now, seeing me, throwing open the door to Sam’s room, looking in, coming out—

  Coming at me.

  Dressed all in black.

  Weird orange-pink skin and yellow hair.

  Big.

  He looks right at me. I don’t know him, but he knows me!

  PLYR 1!

  How?

  Oh God, no oh no—he’s coming right at me and he’s got a knife—a big pink man with a knife. I want to scream, but my mouth is frozen. I reach for the doorknob, touch only air, and he’s coming faster, closer, such a big knife—I run to the left, but that just puts me in a corner, nowhere to go, bookshelves behind me. I have to do something—throw something, that worked before—books.

  I start pulling them off the shelves and heaving them at him as hard as I can. A few hit him, but he keeps coming, walking slower, smiling, taking his time, holding the knife out in front of him, waving it back and forth.

  I keep pulling out books and throwing them, they hit him in the face, the chest, the stomach, he laughs, pushes them away, keeps coming, the room’s dark, but he can see me, he keeps coming straight at me.

  I try to shove the dusty couch at him, but it’s too heavy.

  He laughs.

  I pick up the music stand and throw it.

  That surprises him. He loses his balance, and I run around him into the kitchen, toward the back door.

  Suddenly I’m down on the floor.

  Something around my leg.

  He’s pulling me by the ankle, I see his knees bend, see the bottom of his chin, his arm, the knife’s coming down—

  I twist around like a snake, just keep moving, moving, maybe if I move he’ll miss and I can get out through the back door. He’s squeezing my ankle, hurting it, I punch at him, keep twisting, get close enough to the arm that’s holding my ankle and bite it, bite it hard, Billy Snake Billy Viper.

  He shouts and lets go and I want to run out the back, but he’s blocking the way—where where where—the only choice is fake him out, move to the left then the right, into the bathroom, next best thing get in there, lock myself in.

  I jump up, run faster than I’ve ever run before across the kitchen he’s running too breathing hard I make it into the bathroom slam the door lock it squeeze in between the toilet and the bathtub cold floor breathing fast my chest hurts so bad—

  No sound.

  Then he laughs again. I hear footsteps. Slow footsteps; he’s relaxed. I’m trying to breathe slower, but every breath makes a squeaky sound.

  Through the door I hear: “Stupid little shit. You cornered yourself.”

  He’s right.

  The bathroom has no window.

  Now he’s kicking the door it shakes the wood swells like a balloon that cracks right in the middle I jump up open the medicine cabinet feel in the darkness for something sharp a razor blade scissors anything no razor blade no scissors here’s something pointy a nail file I think it’s not sharp but I grab it he kicks part of his leg comes through black sweats black tennis shoes I stab down at the pants the nail file hits bone but it slides off doesn’t go in he yells calls me a little bastard—

  Another explosion much louder.

  Something comes through the door flying by me the mirror on the medicine cabinet door shatters I feel pain in the back of my head put my hand there warm and sticky needles glass needles.

  A gun—he’s got a gun, too.

  I throw myself into the tub he shoots again now the door is full of holes splintering and now I can see part of him on the other side his legs and shoes and his pants he’s still shooting I’m lying facedown in the tub as low as I can go but a bullet hits the tub and the porcelain shatters and part of the wall falls off this is it I’m trapped finished I did my best it wasn’t good enough I hate you everyone—another explosion the bullet goes into something above my head stuff falls down on me dust tiles I’m getting buried.

  Now there’s no door just him big huge the knife in one hand the gun in another.

  He turns on the light.

  I’ve still got the nail file. He sees it and laughs.

  Puts the gun in his pocket.

  Oh no the knife.

  I curl up don’t want to see it just don’t let me feel it.

  He takes hold of my hair pulls me up so I’m on my knees pulls my head back.

  I piss my pants and shit slides out of me running down my leg thank you God for nothing you don’t exist you liar—

  Another explosion.

  More and moreandmoreandmore I can’t stand the noise I don’t get it what’s he doing—

  He drops me and I fall into the tub hard.

  A woman’s voice says, “My God!”

  Then: “It’s okay, honey.”

  A hand touches the back of my neck.

  I scream.

  CHAPTER

  80

  Red puffs sparked from Balch’s back, neck, posterior skull. Later, Petra learned she’d shot him nine times within a two-foot diameter, each bullet lethal, a tight little circle of death.

  He fell on his face next to the bathtub, stayed there, the gun at his side. She kicked the weapon across the floor. Kicked him to make sure he was dead, though maybe that wasn’t the only reason. The knife had fallen to one side. Big ugly commando thing with a black hard-rubber handle. She kicked it away, too, stepped over the black-sweat-suited corpse. Bits of blood-pinkened bone gritted the tile floor. The bathroom door was a splinter of frame barely hanging from one hinge.

  The boy was huddled fetally in the tub.

  What was left of the tub. Ragged chunks of porcelain had been torn loose; glass shards and dust and broken tiles were everywhere. Blood had flowed over Balch’s back and wormed onto the floor. The place looked as if it had been through a war—how could the idiot think he’d get away with this?

  He’d come close.

  She’d had trouble finding a space within eyeshot of the house, and even though she saw no sign of intrusion, something pinged in her gut and she double-parked around the corner.

  She got out of the car, smelling sea air, expecting another dead end.

  Then gunshots raped the silence and she pulled out her gun and ran around to the back, found the door kicked in, a dimly lit kitchen beyond the threshold, off to the left another ravaged door, black-sweatsuited bulk nearly filling the opening—an upraised knife, a child’s limp legs.

  “Stop!” she screamed, but it was no warning; she was already shooting.

  When she got to the boy, he refused to uncurl, whimpered when she talked to him, screamed when she touched him. Such a skinny little thing! His long hair was bloodstained, porcupined with glass fragments. Twelve, but the size of a ten-year-old. A yellow pool had spread underneath him. She smelled feces, saw the stain covering the seat of his jeans.

  The urge to pick him up, hold him, rock him in her arms was so strong it made her palate ache. She got down on the floor, talked to him, finally managed to stroke his hair without repulsing him.

  He stopped shaking, went rigid, then limp. She cradled his head, and now he let her. She knew how to comfort. At that moment she thought, crazily, of Nick. You were wrong, you prick.

  When the boy was breathing regularly, she lay him down gently in the tub and called for an ambulance and uniformed backup, Code 3. Returning, she stayed with him, picking glass out of his scalp, getting splinters in her finger—it didn’t matter; it felt okay. Calling him William, using a soothin
g tone, not really knowing what she was saying, wanting to calm him down, but how could you comfort a kid who’d been through this?

  She heard sirens. Pacific Division cops burst in; then came the paramedics. Only when the boy was up on a stretcher did she allow herself to leave him. Fetal again, so small under the shock blanket. An old man rushed in, looking stunned. The paramedics seemed pained as they carried the boy out.

  She watched them carry him away, ignored the old man’s questions. The uniforms’ too. Walking straight to Balch’s body, she turned it over.

  Not Balch. A stranger.

  The shock punched her in the heart, and she broke out into a sweat.

  A second jolt hit her, even stronger. Recognition.

  Ramsey.

  His mustache was gone and his skin was different—some kind of salmon-pink theatrical makeup was smeared all over his face and down his neck, flaking around his nostrils. Dark shadows around his eyes—gray makeup. The bushy blond wig had been jarred loose, revealing a crescent of black curls. Blond tint in the eyebrows—he’d even done the eyebrows.

  Blue eyes, dull as sewer water.

  Mouth open, the same old death gape. She looked down his mouth, saw the tongue curled back, blood collecting at the bottom of his throat.

  Thinking about what he’d put the boy through, Lisa, Ilse, the Flores woman, she would have welcomed the chance to kill him again.

  CHAPTER

  81

  They found Gregory Balch’s body the next day, buried under dirt, hay, and horse manure in the barn behind the Calabasas house, his throat cut, just like Estrella Flores’s.

  Entombed in dung. You didn’t need to be a shrink to interpret.

  After tearing the pink palace apart, the closest they got to a motive was a single piece of notepaper in Ramsey’s bedroom rolltop. One of those FROM THE DESK OF things. In the center, he’d written: