Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01

by Billy Straight

“And you?”

  Banks said, “Smoked turkey on a kaiser roll. Potato salad.”

  “Something to drink?”

  “Coffee.”

  Alone again, she said, “How often do you get to be with them?”

  “They live with me.”

  “Oh.”

  “Their mom’s Spanish—from Spain. She trains horses, teaches riding. She went back to work at a resort in Majorca and gave me custody. She visits every few months, is still trying to figure out where she’s going to live.”

  “Must be tough,” said Petra.

  “It is. I’m trying to tell them Mommy loves them, cares about them, but what they know is she isn’t there. It’s been really tough. I just got them into therapy; hopefully it’ll help.”

  Most cops ran from anything psychiatric unless they were filing for disability. Banks’s easy admission interested her.

  She watched him eat another pickle. Narrow hands; the free one continued to drum. The fingers long but sturdy. Impeccable nails.

  He chewed slowly. Everything about him seemed slow and deliberate. Except the hands. All his tension filtered down to his fingertips. “She was always after me to grow a mustache. My ex. Said it was muy macho.” He laughed. “So after she’s gone, I do it. Guess a therapist would have something to say about that. Anyway, she’s still trying to find herself. Hopefully, she will soon.”

  “How long’s it been?”

  “Final decree was just over a year ago. I’m able to feel sorry for her now, see her as someone with serious problems, but— Oh, by the way, I talked to the Carpinteria sheriff and he said Lisa Ramsey never filed any DV complaint on Ramsey there, either. They’ve got no calls to the house, period.”

  Whiplash change of subject. He knew it and blushed, and Petra groped for a way to rescue him.

  The waitress solved that problem, setting down his coffee hard enough to slosh the saucer and barking, “Your food’s coming up.”

  She hurried off, and Petra said, “Thanks for checking, Ron.”

  “Least I could do.”

  The two of them worked on their drinks. The restaurant was almost full, the usual mixture of soup-sipping old folk and Gen-X depressives showing they didn’t care about dietary fat. Behind the stocked case, countermen sliced and wrapped and cracked jokes, the briny aromas of herring and cured meat and stuffed derma yielding to sweetness as fresh rye loaves came out of the kitchen on steel trays.

  Suddenly, Petra felt hungry, a little more relaxed.

  “How about you?” said Banks. “Been married?”

  “Divorced two and a half years ago, no kids.” Getting that out of the way before he could ask. “So you’ve got them full-time. Must be challenging.”

  “My mom helps out—picks them up from school and baby-sits when I have to work late. They’re great girls, sweet, smart, into sports—Alicia does soccer, gives the boys a run. Bee’s not sure if she likes soccer or T-ball, but she’s pretty coordinated.”

  Sports dad. Her father had gone that route with all five kids. Football for the boys, softball for Petra. Every Sunday, into a hideous uniform. She hated the entire experience, faked enthusiasm to please him, stuck with it for three summers. Years later he told her she’d done him a big favor quitting; he’d yearned for some free time on weekends.

  Single father—was that why she’d gotten together with Banks?

  He seemed so unguarded. What was he doing as a cop? She asked him how he got into law enforcement.

  “My dad was a fireman—it was either that or police work,” he said. “Always wanted one of the two.”

  “I don’t want to sound chauvinistic, but why the sheriff’s and not LAPD?”

  He grinned. “Wanted to do real police work—seriously, back then Lulu—my ex—was talking about opening up her own equestrian school one day, we figured we’d be living somewhere unincorporated, so I applied to the sheriff. How about you?”

  She gave him a very spare version of the artist-to-detective transition.

  He said, “You paint? Beatrix is kind of artistic. Or at least she seems that way to me. Her mom tried to do pottery. I’ve still got the wheel at home—just sitting there, as a matter of fact. Want it?”

  “No thanks, Ron.”

  “You’re sure? It seems a waste.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I just paint.”

  “Oh, okay. What kinds of things do you paint?”

  “Anything.”

  “And you actually did it professionally.”

  “I wasn’t exactly Rembrandt.”

  “Still, you must be good.”

  She gave him a rundown of her ad agency days, her mouth running while her brain thought: How cute, each of us shifting the focus to the other. In her case, defensiveness, but Banks seemed really interested in her. Polar opposite of Nick. All the other men she’d dated since Nick—artists, then cops. Even when they talked about you, it was really just a ploy to get it back to me me me.

  This one seemed different. Or was she just flattering herself?

  She ended her recitation: “Like I said, no big deal.”

  “Still,” he said, “it’s tough making any kind of living creatively. I had an uncle did some sculpture, could never make a dime—ah, here comes the food, whoa, look at those portions!”

  He ate slowly, and that prevented Petra from wolfing. Good influence, Detective Banks.

  In between bites, they chatted about work. Dry stuff: benefits, insurance, the usual gripes, comparing blue and tan bureaucracies, good-natured kidding about intramural sports competitions. Finding more common ground than differences. She noticed he wasn’t wearing his gun.

  When their sandwiches were gone, they each ordered apple pie à la mode. Petra finished hers first, tried idly to pick up crumbs with the tines of her fork.

  “You like to eat,” said Banks. “Thank God.”

  The fork paused midair. She put it down.

  He blushed again. “I—no offense—what I mean is, I think that’s great. Seriously. It sure doesn’t show—at least as far as I can—” He shook his head. “Oh, Lord, I am not good at this.”

  She found herself laughing. “It’s okay, Ron. Yes, I do have a healthy appetite when I remember to sit down for a meal.”

  He continued to shake his head, wiped his mouth with his napkin, folded it neatly, and placed it next to his plate. “Whatever I just gargled out, please take it as a compliment.”

  “So taken,” said Petra. “You’re saying love of food’s a healthy thing.”

  “Exactly. Too many girls these days get crazy about food. I think about that because I have daughters. My ex always bugged them, obsessed with being skinny—” He stopped himself again. “Not too cool, bringing her up every minute.”

  “Hey, she was a big part of your life. It’s normal.” Implying that she’d done the same with Nick. But she hadn’t. She’d never talked about him to anyone.

  “Was,” he said. “Past tense.” He raised one hand and sliced air vertically. “So . . . how’s the case coming?”

  “Not too brilliantly.” She talked about it without giving him details. Liking him but not forgetting that he was non–LAPD.

  He said, “Situations like that, publicity, no way you can do your job properly.”

  “Ever have one like that?”

  “Once in a while.” Touching his napkin, he looked away. Wary, too?

  “Once in a while?” she echoed.

  “You know us country bumpkin lawmen, runnin’ down rustlers, protectin’ the pony express.”

  “Ah,” said Petra. “Anything I’d have heard about?”

  “Well,” he said, “Hector and I did do some work on the County Gen slasher.”

  Mega-case, three years ago. Wacko killer cutting up nurses on the grounds of the county hospital, four victims in three months. The bad guy turned out to be an orderly who’d served time for rape and assault. He’d faked his way through personnel screening—worked the surgical floors, of all things. Before he w
as caught, the nurses had threatened to strike.

  “That was yours?”

  “Hector’s and mine.”

  “Now I’m impressed.”

  “Believe me, it was no big sherlock,” he said. “Everything pointed to an insider. It was just a matter of flipping paper, checking time cards, eliminating negatives till we found the positive.”

  Petra remembered the feminist frustration, media noise—hadn’t there been an initial task force? “Were you on it from the beginning?”

  He blushed again. “No, they called us in after a few months.”

  “So you two are rescuers.”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “And sometimes we get rescued. You know how it is.”

  What she knew was that the County Gen slasher was a major case and that he was a rescuer, top dog. And that’s who the sheriff had sent for the notification call to Ramsey?

  Why was he being so cagey about it? Modest? Or sent by the tans to pump her for details?

  “Any ideas on Ramsey?” she said.

  “Like I said at his house, the guy rang my bell, but I’m not a big one for bells.” He smiled. “Give me time cards anytime.”

  She smiled back. He drummed the table. Rubbed the spot where his mustache had been. The waitress gave him the check and, over Petra’s protests, he insisted on paying for it. “Hey, you put up with me, you deserve a sandwich.”

  “Nothing to put up with,” she heard herself say.

  They left the deli and he walked her to her car. A warm night; still a bit of foot traffic on Fairfax and the newsstand across the street was crowded with browsers. The food smells from Katz’s followed them. He didn’t walk close to her, seemed to be consciously avoiding it.

  “So,” he said, when they got to the Ford. “This was great. I—is there some place you’d like to go? If you’re not too tired, I mean—maybe some music. Are you into music?”

  “I’m a little bushed, Ron.”

  The crushed look on his face said the evening was personal, nothing to do with the case, and she felt bad for suspecting him.

  “Sure,” he said. “You’d have to be.”

  He held out his hand and they shook briefly. “Thanks a lot, Petra, I really appreciate it.”

  Had a man ever thanked her before just for spending time? “Thank you, Ron.”

  He tilted forward, as if ready to kiss her, then rocked back, gave a small, salutelike wave, and turned, hands in pockets.

  “What kind of music do you like?” she said. Figuring country; it had to be traditional country.

  He stopped, faced her again, shrugged. “Mostly rock. Old stuff—blues, Steve Miller, Doobie Brothers. Used to play that kind of stuff in a band.”

  “Really?” She fought a giggle. “Did you have long hair?”

  “Long enough,” he said, walking back to her. “Don’t get me wrong—we weren’t professionals. I mean, we did a few club dates, played the Whiskey way back when. That’s where I met my—” Clamping a hand over his mouth.

  “Sure,” said Petra, laughing, “and not just her, right? You met tons of babes. That’s why you joined a band in the first place. Don’t tell me—drums.” Those active hands.

  “You got it.”

  “Drummers always get the girls, right?”

  “Don’t ask me,” said Banks. “I was always too busy trying to keep the beat.”

  “Still play?”

  “Not for years. My old kit’s rusting in the garage.”

  Along with the potter’s wheel, bikes, probably piles of old toys, kid stuff, heaven knew what else. Petra pictured a small house full of Levitz furniture. Far cry from the horse ranch that had never materialized.

  “So where do you go to listen to music?” she said.

  “Used to go to the Country Club, in Reseda. It’s not a country place, it’s rock—”

  “I know where it is.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “What about this side of the hill?” she said.

  “Don’t know,” he said. “Don’t go out much.” The admission embarrassed him, and he looked at his watch.

  “Need to get back?” she said.

  “No, they’re asleep by now. I called them before I left. My mom’s staying over. I just want to phone, make sure everything’s okay—”

  “Call from my place,” she said. “It’s not far from here.”

  Thinking: He’d told his mother he’d be late. Big plans or blind optimism?

  For some reason, she didn’t care.

  While he talked to his mother, she fixed her makeup. Thankfully, the apartment was in decent shape. She’d barely lived in it since the case broke. She invited him to take off his jacket and hung it up. Standing in the kitchen, they each had a glass of red wine. He complimented her decor. At his insistence, she showed him her art. Not the works in progress, her old portfolio, color blowups of pictures she’d sold through the co-op gallery.

  He was impressed; didn’t try to touch her.

  They moved to the living room and went through her small CD collection, trying to find something they both owned, coming up only with Eric Clapton’s Derek and the Dominos.

  Sitting two feet apart on Petra’s couch, they listened to half the album, then his hand shifted six inches closer to hers and remained there. She covered her half of the distance and their fingers touched, then entwined.

  Sweaty hands, but neither of them dared wipe. She found herself gripping his knuckles too hard and reduced the pressure.

  He breathed faster but didn’t move.

  During “Bell Bottom Blues” he tilted his head toward her and they kissed.

  Closed-mouthed, mutual garlic, for what seemed like a long time, then a wide, open exploration full of clicking teeth and swirling tongues, hands on back of neck, soft lips—he had very soft lips; she was glad the mustache was gone. When they broke, they were both robbed of air.

  He was ready for more, but the hunger in his eyes shook Petra and she pulled away. They listened to the rest of the song sitting still, holding hands again. She was wet, her nipples ached, her body demanded loving, but she didn’t want it, not with him, not now. One more song and she got up to use the bathroom. When she returned he was standing, jacket on.

  She sat down again, an invitation, but he remained on his feet, in front of her, reaching down to touch her hair, her cheek, her chin. She looked up, saw his bottom teeth pinching his upper lip.

  She was trembling now, and had he tried again, who knew what would have happened.

  He just stood there.

  She got up, put her arm in his, and walked him to the door.

  He said, “I’d really like to see you again.”

  More confidence in his voice, but still unsure.

  “I’d like that, too.”

  A half hour later, alone in her bed, naked, having touched herself and bathed, someone’s late-night TV squeaking through the darkness, she thought of everything she needed to do in the morning.

  CHAPTER

  37

  The sun comes up behind me, orange. Brighter than in the park, no trees to cover it. The ocean is roaring, gray. The black plastic’s too thin; I’m cold.

  No one’s out on the beach yet, so I just lie there watching the sun and the few cars up on the coast highway going back and forth. The thick poles that hold up the pier are black with tar and crusted with barnacles. I see one that’s open, reach over and poke it, and it closes.

  The Jacques Cousteau book had a chapter about barnacles. They stay where they are, eat whatever floats by. They make their own glue and it’s as good as Krazy Glue. Sometimes they’re impossible to move.

  Okay, now it’s warming up a little; I better move. I get up and shake the sand out of my hair, fold the plastic and tuck it behind one of the poles, using a rock to weigh it down.

  Time to get some new stuff. Food, money. A hat. I remember that sunburn. Maybe some sunscreen, too.

  Where should I go? Should I leave L.A.? Not up north, ’cause that’s closer
to Watson. Down south, like to San Diego? But what if that doesn’t work out? The next stop would be Mexico and there’s no way I’m going to any foreign country.

  If I stay in L.A., where will I hide?

  I think about it for a long time and get really scared. Same feeling like when I watched PLYR—I need to stop thinking about that . . .

  It’s stupid to even be thinking of a plan. I have no future. Even if I survive for a few months a year, two years, so what? I’d still be a kid, no schooling, no money, no control over anything.

  Still no one out on the beach. It looks so tan and peaceful. The ocean, too, gray as steel except where the tide comes rolling in, throwing up spray, like spitting at the sky.

  Spitting at God . . .

  Wouldn’t it be nice to just walk into the water, let yourself be carried away? Maybe you’d drown. Or maybe there’d be a miracle and you’d wash up like one of those bottles with a message in it on some island with palm trees. Girls wearing just grass skirts, long black hair down to their butts, and you’d come out of the ocean like some god and they’d be all thrilled to see you, fight with each other to be your girlfriend, take care of you, feed you some barbecued pig with an apple in its mouth and fruit that they just pick from the trees, no one has to work.

  Either way, no worries.

  I get up, walk across the beach to the tide line, roll my pants up and stand there, let the waves trickle over my toes.

  Cold. My feet get numb and they look like white wax.

  How long would it take before you stopped feeling cold? Before your body stopped feeling anything?

  I read in a nature book that gazelles and wildebeest chased by lions stop feeling pain, so their death becomes easier.

  That didn’t happen to me with the pervs, so maybe it’s just animals.

  Or maybe I just didn’t get . . . close enough.

  If you didn’t feel or worry, you could just give yourself up like some sacrifice—like Jesus did.

  I must have walked, because now I’m in the water up to my knees and my pants are getting wet and kind of ballooning and swirling around. Not so cold anymore. It feels clean. I keep going. The water’s sloshing against my belt and I stand there and look across the ocean; maybe I’ll see a boat or a whale spouting.