Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01

by Billy Straight

  “Lawyers,” said Motor, “produce more shit than a bear with the runs.”

  Spanky didn’t laugh. Not even a smile. “Right, Buell. That’s why they can pay for their parts and you’re trying to give me thirty bucks.”

  “Hey, man—”

  “Yeah, yeah, you wanna scrounge the parts pile, awright, but this is the last time, man. And first you gotta go over to the Bell and get me some grub.” Spanky scratched the interior of his left nostril. “Three tacos—get me the soft ones and a beef burrito, extra guac, extra sauce. And a cheese enchilada. And a jumbo Coke. You pay for my dinner, maybe I’ll let you scrounge. At least you’re producing something—no goods, but at least it’s a service. It’s all about economics, Buell.”

  The Taco Bell was three blocks away and Motor’s heels hurt with each step, all that weight pounding down, the worn-down boots not helping. His thighs chafed through filthy denim. When he got there, he was sweating from exertion. He ordered Spanky’s food, scowling at the beaner kid, who said, “Yes, sir?” and stopped smiling when he saw Motor’s face.

  He was about to leave when he saw it, on one of the tables.

  L.A. newspaper. He didn’t read newspapers—who gave a shit. But this one, the picture, made him notice.

  Fuck if it didn’t look like Sharla’s rug rat.

  He picked it up. It took him a long time to finish the article, and he had to go over it twice to be sure. He’d always had trouble reading, words not making sense, some letters upside down. His old man called him a retard, look who’s talkin’, fucking unemployed janitor, dead at forty-five from a fucked-up liver. Mom not much better in the booze-slave department, but at least she didn’t bug him. She couldn’t read good, either.

  Finally, he got through it. Was this for real? Witness to a murder? Hollywood?

  He studied the picture some more. Looked exactly like the little rat.

  Had to be the rat—he’d split, what, four months ago?

  And kids always split to Hollywood. Motor had ended up there himself, Old Brain Fry kicking his ass after he flunked tenth grade for the third time, finally telling himself, Fuck it, I’m gone.

  He took the Greyhound that time, too, stealing bucks out of Brain Fry’s jeans. Scared when he got there, the place was huge, but walking tall, letting people know he wouldn’t take shit.

  Full grown, he looked older than his age, had few problems on the streets of Hollywood, where he strong-armed money from smaller kids, mugged old farts, ripped off a Jap bike from the Roosevelt Hotel parking lot, stripped it, sold the parts, got himself an old hybrid H-D Shovelnose from one of the bikers who drank at the Cave.

  Best scoot he’d ever owned. Someone had stolen it from right under him.

  He bunked in an abandoned building on—where was it?—Argyle. Yeah, Argyle, big empty apartment fulla junkies, place smelled of puke and shit and he never slept good, always looking out in case someone was out to get him. His size helped; so did beatin’ the shit out of anyone smaller who crossed his path. And the nigger he knifed for looking at him the wrong way—that got around, he got himself a street rep.

  The black leather jacket he bought at a Van Nuys swap meet got him tight with the bikers at the Cave. Onea them sold him fake ID so he could go inside and drink. Gettin’ nice and thick with them, thinking he’d be able to join some club, then they just stopped actin’ friendly—he never really understood why.

  So kids split to Hollywood for sure.

  The rat, too? Why not? The little shit was too small to fight for himself, so he was probably whorin’ that skinny little bod, catchin’ it backdoor, probably had AIDS.

  Gone four months. Sharla still cried once in a while and he had to yell at her to shut the fuck up. Cryin’ but not doin’ a damn thing to find the rat. Pretendin’ to give a shit—what a stupid whore. Once she sat up in bed, middle of the night, shoutin’ about sick-eydas, sick-eydas, over and over, him shaking her, saying what the hell is a sick-eydas. Her looking at him, saying, Nuthin’, cowboy. I had a bad dream.

  It was time to move on, get a real chick.

  Twenty-five grand; this could be the way.

  He was already ahead of the pack: knew Hollywood, knew the rat.

  If he had to fill his scoot with blood, he’d get down there.

  It was well after dark by the time he made it back to the trailer.

  Sharla was in the kitchen, popping a beer. “Hey, cowboy, whereya been?”

  Ignoring her, he found a flashlight, went outside, taped the light to his handlebars, and began installing the scrounged parts. The plugs were brand-new; he’d lifted them when Spanky wasn’t watching. Latest Rider, too; the Fox of the Month was Jody from El Paso, Texas; those black nipples. She said she liked to putt without any panties on.

  He was doin’ good when the trailer door opened. Sharla stood there, T-shirt and shorts, no shoes. Hands on hips, onea those kiss-me smiles.

  He said, “Go inside, make me somethin’ to eat.”

  “How ’bout a kiss?”

  “Get me somethin’ to eat. Move it.”

  She gave that hurt little baby look. “What do ya wannna eat?”

  “What I want I can’t get, so cook me up twoa those TV dinners. Macaroni and cheese, Salisbury steak—go on, move!”

  She obeyed. At least one thing the bitch did good.

  By 11 P.M., he’d gotten the scoot humming, filled his gut, had three beers.

  Twenty-five g’s! Like onea them bounty hunters.

  Sharla waited for him to finish, then tried to get romantic. He pushed her head into his lap and finished quickly.

  Hoovered, zipped, ready to roll!

  She was in the bathroom washing her mouth out when he pawed through her purse, found five more bucks in change.

  He was at the door when she came after him, said, “Hey.”

  He ignored her, checked his pocket for his keys.

  “Where ya goin’, cowboy?”

  “Out.”

  “Again?” That tone of voice he hated—like a trannie about to fail.

  She took hold of his arm. “C’mon, cowboy, you just got here.”

  “And now I’m splittin’.”

  “C’mon, I don’t wanna be alone.”

  “Watch TV.”

  “I don’t wanna watch TV, I want company. And hey.” Battin’ her lashes, puttin’ his hand on her tit. “I made you happy, how ’bout me?”

  The feel of her—the way she looked and sounded—made him wanna puke. It was always that way. He’d get horny for her, then he’d finish with her and he’d think she was maggoty meat.

  He shook her hand off. She grabbed him again, got into that whining thing.

  “You want it so bad,” he said, “go fuck onea them sick-eydas.”

  “Huh?” she said. “What’re you talkin’ about? Bugs?”

  That confused Motor, and when he was confused he got mad. He backhanded her across the face, and she fell back against the kitchen counter and lay there—didn’t move, didn’t argue anymore.

  He opened the door—the night was warm—kicked it closed.

  Seconds later, he was cruising along the access road to the trailer park. When he got to the highway, he remembered to switch on his headlights.

  CHAPTER

  47

  Thursday, at 6:30 p.m., after spending more fruitless time on the Eggermann murder, Stu got ready to leave. Petra was in the ladies’ room; he supposed he should wait to say good-bye to her.

  Tomorrow, he’d go through TV Guides. Any decent-size library would have them. He’d find one near the hospital.

  He locked his desk, tried to free his mind of the Worry. Bad margins on the tumor. Lymph nodes full of cancer.

  When he was with her, he was Mr. Positive. She’d let him know right away that’s the way she wanted it.

  We’ve got to keep everything normal for their sake, honey.

  The children came first. He agreed with that—family was everything, but what kind of family would there be to
morrow?

  Mommy’s going to the hospital for a little checkup, guys. Just a couple days, everything’s fine.

  She hadn’t shed a tear, spent every day since the problem began the exact same way: car-pooling, cooking, church auxiliary. Even lovemaking. Stu’d been reluctant, but she’d insisted and he hadn’t wanted her to feel damaged.

  Nineteen years ago, she’d been homecoming queen at Hoover High, Miss Glendale the following year, then a sorority sweetheart at Occidental, a 4.0 history major.

  Just one tumor, Drizak assured him, relatively small. The family history wasn’t terrible: Kathy’s mom was healthy, but an aunt had died of breast cancer.

  All in all, a decent prognosis, Drizak claimed. But Stu was a doctor’s son, knew how imprecise medicine could be.

  Bad surprises, Father had told him more than once, are part of a surgeon’s life. That’s why we all have to trust in the Lord.

  Stu ached to trust, and for the past few days he’d been praying with the conspicuous fervor of a missionary. Inside, he was hollow as an atheist.

  All those Please, Gods; Dear Jesuses. What right did he have to petition?

  For the sake of the children. Always the children.

  A hand on his shoulder made him jump.

  “Sorry,” said Petra.

  “Thought I’d shove off.”

  Her hand remained there. “Look, if there’s anything I can do . . .”

  “Thanks, but we’re fine, Petra. I’m sure it’ll all go smoothly.”

  “What time’s the surgery?”

  “Six A.M.”

  “Don’t rush back,” she said. “Wil and I will handle everything.”

  “Okay,” he said, wondering if she’d try to hug him again. He hoped not. Not here, in front of all the others.

  “What are your plans?” he asked.

  “Thought I’d mosey over to Ramsey’s place, talk to security, see if there’s any other way out of RanchHaven.”

  “Good idea,” he said. Petra had pointed out that they’d neglected to question the night guard immediately, and he’d been appalled . . . What would he do without Kathy?

  He told Petra she was doing a great job and left.

  Walk steady; one foot in front of the other. But his knees were weak, and it felt as if someone were shoving him.

  CHAPTER

  48

  El Salvador time was an hour later than L.A., and Petra doubted Estrella Flores’s son would still be in his law office. She tried anyway, got no answer, connected with an international operator, found three more listings for Javier Floreses, and lucked out on number two.

  “I’m worried about my mother,” said the attorney in heavily accented but sound English. “Your city is dangerous. My mother doesn’t drive. Where would she go? I phoned Ramsey, but he didn’t call back. My mother told me he lives out in the country. How could she just walk out of there? She didn’t drive. Where would she go? This isn’t right!”

  Flores talked like an interrogator. Articulate, educated. So what was his mother doing cleaning houses?

  As if he was used to the question, he said, “I’ve been after her to come back and live with us, but she’s very independent. But still, she didn’t drive. Where would she go? It can’t be related to Mrs. Ramsey—is it?”

  “Your mother told you about Mrs. Ramsey?”

  “No, the last time I spoke to her was Sunday, the day before it happened. I read about it in the papers, I read American papers. What are you doing to find her, Detective?”

  “I’ve contacted every missing persons bureau, sir. I called you to make sure there was no place your mother could have gone. A relative, a—”

  “No, no one,” said Flores. “She knows no one. So you don’t think it had anything to do with Mrs. Ramsey?”

  “We have no evidence of that, sir—”

  “Please!” Flores exploded. “I’m not stupid! Could she have learned something that put her in danger?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Mr. Flores. So far, there’s no evidence of that. Did your mother ever say anything about the Ramseys that could be relevant? Especially last Sunday?”

  “No, they didn’t come up. She asked how her bank account was doing, that’s all. She wires me her money, I deposit it. She’s saving up for her own house.”

  “All her money goes to El Salvador?”

  “Except what’s taken out for American taxes.”

  “What about past conversations?” said Petra. “What was her opinion of the Ramseys?”

  “She said the wife was young, nice, not too picky.”

  “Was Mr. Ramsey picky?”

  “A little—he had these cars he wanted polished all the time. But it was a good job, better than the one she worked before. Very picky people, they always criticized.”

  “Do you remember their names?”

  “People in another part of town—Bel-Air. Hooper. Mr. and Mrs. Hooper. The man always ran his finger along the furniture, looking for dust. The woman drank too much, and they didn’t pay her well.”

  “First names?”

  “I don’t—wait, the address is here in my book, unless I threw it out when she . . . no, here it is, Hooper—here’s the number.”

  Petra copied it down. “I’ll call them, Mr. Flores.”

  “I’ll call them too,” he said. “But I don’t think my mother would have returned to them.”

  “Anything more you can tell me about the Ramseys?”

  “The one she didn’t like was the business manager—he was in charge of paying her, was always late with the check. Finally she complained to Mrs. Ramsey, and that helped.”

  “Mr. Balch?”

  “She never mentioned his name, said he was a . . . snob. Out to show he was important. Him, she didn’t like.”

  “What about Mr. Ramsey?”

  “She didn’t talk about him much. Do you think he killed the wife?”

  “Mr. Flores, at this point, I—”

  “Okay, okay, all I care about is my mother.”

  “I’ll do everything I can to find her, sir. So as far as you know, there were no conflicts with Mr. Ramsey? No reason for your mother to suddenly quit?”

  “He wasn’t home that often. It was a big house, she didn’t like being alone so much.” His voice broke. “I know there’s something wrong.”

  The moment Petra hung up the phone, it rang. The civilian clerk on duty said, “A Dr. Boehlinger called.”

  “Did he leave a message?”

  “Just to call him back. Telling, not asking.”

  Just what she needed. Clenching her jaw, she dialed Boehlinger’s hotel. He was out. Thank God for small victories.

  She phoned the Hoopers in Bel-Air. Busy. Maybe Javier Flores was already on the line.

  She tried again, connected to a husky-voiced woman. “Oh, Jesus, I just spoke to her son. No, I haven’t seen her.” Snorting laugh. “So now the police are trying to bring illegals back?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hooper.” You’re the one who hired her when she was illegal, Mrs. Hooper. Click.

  Wil Fournier came over and showed her a piece of paper. Forty or so names, all but three checked off. “Tipsters. Our little burglar’s been spotted all up and down the state, but it’s mostly garbage—who unlocked the asylum?” He loosened his tie. The tan pad of his hand was ink-stained. “One sweetheart from Frisco claims he’s the son she gave up at birth, she was just about to call Unsolved Mysteries, the money would sure come in handy because she wants to become a psychologist. One guy claims the kid’s not a kid, he’s some kind of mystic guru—an apparition, appears in times of crisis and ‘renders deliverance.’ The world may be coming to an end.”

  “He might have something there,” said Petra.

  “Long as I get my pension,” said Fournier. He tapped each of the three unchecked names. “These are possibles. Two come from the same place—some farm town called Watson, between Bakersfield and Fresno. Neither of the callers know the kid by name, but they both think th
ey’ve seen him around. They didn’t sound wacko or greedy, and two tips from a small place like that is interesting. I put in a call to the local law. Must be a real hick place, because it’s a two-man sheriff outfit and both guys were out. I talked to some woman at the desk who sounded about a hundred years old. This last one probably is greed, Russian accent, but at least the guy sounded sane. Insisted he’d seen the kid in Venice this morning, described his clothes—T-shirt, jeans—said the kid looked like he’d been sleeping on the street, had crusted salt on his face, like he’d washed with ocean water. Scratched up, too.”

  “Good eye for detail.”

  “That’s why I’m not dismissing him. He runs a souvenir stand down on Ocean Front in Venice, claims he sold the kid a hat this morning. Then the kid took off north. The guy thought it was weird, a kid being out by himself, middle of the day. And buying a hat—he never sells hats to kids.”

  “Trying to hide his face?” said Petra.

  Fournier shrugged. “Could be. If the kid read today’s paper, and we know he’s a reader. On the other hand, you’re homeless, broke, a runaway, someone’s offering twenty-five g’s for your presence, wouldn’t you turn yourself in, try to collect?”

  “He’s a child, Wil. Probably an abused child. Why should he trust anyone? Feel enough in control to scheme? And if he saw the murder, he could be too scared to think about profit.”

  “Guess so. Or maybe the kid was there but not during the murder, figures why bother. Anyway, this Russian is definitely after the money.”

  Petra read the man’s name out loud. “Vladimir Zhukanov.”

  “That’s another thing,” said Fournier. “His being Russian. I don’t want to be prejudiced, but you know the scams those guys have been pulling off.” He folded and pocketed the list. “I’ll stop by to see him—have a date in Santa Monica tonight, dinner at Loew’s. Ever been there?”

  Petra shook her head.

  “Zhukanov said he’d stay late to talk to me. One last thing: Schoelkopf called me into the office again, pumping for details. I may have to give him something, Barb. And then, boom, right in to the media and we run around like little windup toys.”