The pad shut. The cop was annoyed, but he smiled. “Sir, I understand your frustration. Sometimes things get busy and we don’t dot every i. If that happened to you, I’m—”
“Dot every i is important,” said Zhukanov, not sure what that meant. “But also money.”
“Money?” said the cop.
“Twenty-five thousand.”
“That,” said the cop. “Sure. If we find the boy and he helps us, it’s yours. At least that’s what I was told.”
“No one tell me.”
“I’ve seen the forms, sir. My captain signed them. If you’d like to call him—”
“No, no,” said Zhukanov. “I just wanna get it square, you know? Maybe I know something more than I told the black guy, but what if kid runs, you don’t find him? What happens?”
“If your information’s solid, you’ll get partial payment,” said the cop. “Part of the twenty-five thousand. That’s the way we always do it. I’m not saying you could get all of it, but—”
“How much part of it?”
“I don’t know, sir, but generally in these situations it’s around a third to a half—I’d guess ten, twelve thousand. And if the boy is there, you’d get all twenty-five—why don’t you speak to my captain—”
“No, no,” said Zhukanov, thinking, If the old Yid did take the kid home with him, the kid could still run; better not dawdle anymore. “I want you should write it down.”
“Write what?”
“What you say. Twelve, fifteen to Zhukanov just for telling, all twenty-five if kid show up.”
“Sir,” said the blond cop, sighing, “I’m not in a position—oh, all right, here you go.”
Ripping a sheet out of his pad, he said, “How do you spell your name?”
Zhukanov told him.
The blond cop printed neatly:
This stipulates that to the best of my knowledge, Mr. V. Zhukanov is due $12,000.00 because of information he has offered about a missing boy, unknown identity, related to L. Ramsey, PC 187. Should Mr. V. Zhukanov’s information lead directly to this boy and this boy’s information lead to apprehension of a suspect, he would be due $25,000.00.
Det. D. A. Price, Badge # 19823
“Here,” said the cop, “but to be honest, I can’t promise you this means much—”
Zhukanov snatched the paper, read it, and stuffed it down his pants pocket. Now he had a contract. If the bastards gave him trouble, he’d hire Johnnie Cochran, sue the hell out of them.
“I know where he is,” he said. “Enough for the twenty-five.”
The blond cop waited, pen poised.
“The Yids—the Jews from over there got him.” Zhukanov pointed south. “They got a church. The old Jew hid him in there, took him home.”
“You saw this?” said the cop. He straightened and his shoulders widened.
“You bet. I looked for the car, followed it to the old guy’s house this morning.”
“Good detective work, Mr. Zhukanov.”
“In Russia, I was policeman.”
“Really. Well, it paid off, sir. Thank you. And believe me, I’ll do everything I can to make sure you get every penny of that twenty-five thousand.”
“You bet,” said Zhukanov. The wolf triumphs!
The blond cop said, “What’s the address?”
“Twenty-three Sunrise Court.” Twenty-five-thousand-dollar address.
“That’s here in Venice?”
“Yeah, yeah, right here.” Idiot, didn’t know his own city. Zhukanov hooked a thumb. “From alley, you go to Speedway, then to Pacific, then five blocks over.”
“Great,” said the cop, closing the pad. “You’ve been a tremendous help, sir—when you say the alley, you mean the one back there?”
“Yeah, yeah—I show you.”
Vaulting over the counter—adrenaline-charged, despite his aching limbs, Zhukanov led the blond cop around the side of the shack, past the shipping-carton trash boxes. If the guy only knew what had been in there yesterday.
“Over there,” he pointed, “is Jew church where I see car. Okay?”
“What kind of car, sir?”
“Lincoln. White, brown roof.”
“Year?”
“Don’t matter, I got something better for you.” Grinning, Zhukanov recited the license number. The cop scrawled in the darkness. “Other way is where he went.”
“North,” said the cop.
“Yeah, yeah, right up to Speedway and then Pacific, five blocks.”
The cop repeated the instructions, a real dummy.
“That’s it,” said Zhukanov. Go find him, you stupid bastard. I’m giving him to you on a platter!
The cop put his pad away and shot out a hand. “Thank you, sir.”
They shook. Firm, manly shake. If the cop only knew the hand he was grasping had been bloody up to the elbow a few hours ago. Zhukanov tried to break the clasp, get the guy moving, but he couldn’t pull away—the cop was holding on to him, yanking him close—what the hell was this? The cop was grinning, like he was going to kiss him, this wasn’t right, this was wrong.
Zhukanov struggled, struck out.
A hand grabbed his wrist, twisted it, something broke, and pain devoured him from fingertip to the bottom of his ear. One quick move, just like Colonel Borokovsky. He cried out involuntarily, and something big and meaty exploded in the middle of his face and he went down.
Then more pain, even worse, burning, searing, like a fire igniting his bowels.
Starting right under his navel, then spreading upward, like a burning rope. Then he felt cold, a strange cold—cold air blowing . . . inside him, deep inside, and knew he’d been split open, filleted—the way he’d split the fat bastard and now it had happened to him and he couldn’t do a damn thing, just lie there and take it.
The last thing he felt was a hand going through his pocket.
Fishing out the contract. Liar! Cheater! The money was hi—
CHAPTER
73
Being alone here is different from the park. Different from Watson.
I’ve got all these rooms, these books, someone who trusts me. Once in a while I hear footsteps out on the sidewalk or someone talking or laughing, a car driving by. But they don’t bother me; I’m here, locked in. I can sleep without waking up to see what’s around. I can read without a flashlight.
I’ve thought about it a lot, and Sam’s right. Tomorrow I’ll find a phone and call the police, tell them about PLYR 1. Maybe I can call Mom, too. Tell her I’m okay, not to worry, I’m doing just fine, one day I’ll come back, be able to support her.
What would she do? Cry? Get mad? Beg me to come back?
Or worse: not beg me? She must miss me a little.
I stop thinking about it, stretch my feet out on the couch, pull the knit blanket up over my knees, start in on the next Life magazine. The main article’s all about John Kennedy and his family, happy and handsome on the beach.
California beach, same sand that’s just a little way up. I could walk over, look at it, pretend to be John Kennedy, come back. But I told Sam I’d stay here, and he gave me the alarm code.
1-1-2-5. I get up and try it. Green light.
Red light, green light, red light.
Green light. I open the door, smell the salt, that beach smell. No one’s out; most of the houses are dark.
I go out to the porch. Feel cold, scared.
Back in the house. Why does just going outside scare me?
I’ll try again later. Back to the Kennedys.
CHAPTER
74
The owner of the Chinese restaurant had no memory of Balch. Petra and Wil ordered some spring rolls to go, ate them in her car, agreed to drive separately to Venice, meet on Pacific and Rose, walk to Zhukanov’s stand together.
She called the desk at Hollywood station.
“Detective Bishop for you half an hour ago,” said the clerk. Had Stu gotten hold of flight information on Balch?
This operato
r refused to put Petra through. “No calls to surgical patients past nine, ma’am.”
“I’m a police detective returning another detective’s call. Stuart Bishop.”
“Is Mr. Bishop the patient?”
“No, his wife is.”
“Then I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t put you through.”
“Let me speak to your supervisor, please.”
“I am the supervisor. The rules are for our patients’ welfare and comfort. If you’d like, I can have a message slip sent up to the room telling him you called.”
“Fine, I’ll wait.”
“Can’t do that, ma’am. It’ll take time. We’re understaffed, and I need to keep all the lines open. If it’s important, I’m sure he’ll call back.”
“Sure,” said Petra. “Have a nice night.”
She got back in the car, drove on, hoping it wasn’t that important. Even if they found a flight reservation, she had doubts Balch had actually shown up. The call to Westward Charter had to be a fake-out. Balch had been too careful about everything else to slip up like that.
Meaning what?
He was anywhere but Las Vegas. Site of his second wedding. Tomorrow, she’d try to get hold of Amber Leigh. And Helen. Find out why they’d divorced the guy. His kinks, bad habits, what might lead him to murder blondes.
Anywhere but . . . the cabin in the woods? Homicidal Thoreau? If no leads showed up soon, Schoelkopf would probably go straight to America’s Most Wanted. Maybe that was the best way to handle it. Take the heat off her and Wil. Off William Bradley Straight, now motherless, poor, poor kid.
And now the guy who’d probably turned him into an orphan had been butchered like the squalid ton of pork he was.
One less felon heard from. Petra felt grim satisfaction about that.
Not that it would stop her from going after the butcher.
CHAPTER
75
Dinky little house. Light on in the front room, but dim. The Lincoln parked in back.
So the old man was home with the kid. Was he married? Zhukanov hadn’t mentioned anything about seeing a wife, but that didn’t mean anything; the old guy could’ve gone to temple, left her behind. Maybe she was sick, an invalid.
Easy.
On balance, the walk street was probably an advantage. No cars to hide behind, but no drivers interrupting. No pedestrians either during the half hour he’d watched the house from three different spots.
He tried the back alley again, rubber soles swallowing his footsteps. The newish running shoes; he’d walked around in them, made sure there was no squeak.
Out of the cheap-suit cop getup and into black sweats and a black windbreaker with pockets. The van, rented from a fly-by-night place down near the airport, a perfect dressing room. He’d paid cash, used no ID, leaving the guy who ran the rental lot five hundred in cash as collateral. Five hundred he’d never see again. Worth it. The van was parked four blocks away, east of Main, on a residential street.
Pleasant stroll to Sunrise Court; the beach air was tangy, invigorating. He’d never lived on the beach. Maybe one day . . .
From the back he could see that the kitchen light was still on. Ten thirty-eight. Someone up, or just a security measure? Probably the latter; he’d seen no trace of any movement.
Why had the old guy taken the kid in? A relative? The drawing didn’t show a Jewish-looking kid, but you could never tell. No, if it was a family thing, wouldn’t they be pushing the kid to collect the money?
A good samaritan? Religious convictions? Giving the kid sanctuary in the temple? Did Jews believe in that? He had no idea. Returning to the front, he hid behind a clump of shrubbery, continued to watch the house.
How to do it?
The only way was a blitz. Home invasion. Gangbangers were getting into that, especially the Asians. A small place like this, how many rooms could there be?
A knife would be best because of the sound factor, but running from room to room stabbing was risky; even with weak prey, there was the risk of escape.
The alternative was the Glock, but that meant noise. Venice was high-crime, he’d heard about gangs on Ocean Front, had seen gang types during today’s surveillance. So the neighbors were probably used to hearing gunshots at night. But a street like this, the houses close together, bursting in, doing it, ditching the gun, taking the escape route he’d plotted back to the van.
Risky.
But fun—admit it. The risk was part of the fun. That and simply being able to do it.
A zapperoo commando blitz then—one hand on the knife, the other on the gun. If it was just the kid and the old man and they were close together, the knife would probably work. So he’d start with the knife, have the gun ready for complications.
One thing he’d decided for sure: Rear entry was best. Ha ha.
Another advantage of the walk street: Everyone parked in back, so walking through the alley wouldn’t be viewed as deviant. If he was spotted, he’d affect a relaxed stroll, pretend to belong, jangle his keys, and head for one of the cars. The way he looked—white male, sweats—wouldn’t be threatening, he hoped.
His knees hurt. Too much squatting. The Percs were no longer doing the trick. Lisa had claimed coke was a good anesthetic; dentists used to smear it on gums. Always wanting him to try it. Screw that. He bought it for her, spooned it up her cute little nose, tried to get some satisfaction from her body while she was high, but no way would he do it—Percs were as far as he went.
Maintain the upper edge.
He waited. Nothing. Okay, back again, ready to blitz.
He was just about to leave when the front door opened and someone came out.
On the patio, looking around.
The kid!
Perfect! He’d sprint across the sidewalk, grab him, cut his throat, be off—God was good!
But just as he got ready to spring, the kid ran back inside.
Scared?
You’ve got good reason, sonny.
CHAPTER
76
“That’s the place,” said Wil, waiting, the phone to his ear.
Ocean Front Walk was dark and deserted, and Petra could barely make out the souvenir stand. As they got closer, she saw it was a tiny, ramshackle thing, roll-down shutter over the front.
“Okay,” Wil said to the phone. To Petra: “Got a home address for him. West Hollywood. Of course.”
They were twenty feet away from the shack. No one on the walkway for at least a hundred yards. They’d passed one homeless guy at the corner of Paloma and Speedway, and Petra saw another sitting on a bench to the north, but he got up and shuffled away. The tide whispered secrets and the beach looked like ice.
They were about to turn around when she noticed something. Two inches of space beneath the shutter. Closed but not locked?
Gun out, she hurried over, Wil following. Loops for a lock were welded to the lower-right-hand corner of the steel roll and a ring was bolted to the counter. But no lock in sight. She peered through the two inches. Dark, but she could make out stuff wrapped in plastic hanging from racks . . . Postcards. Hats. Just like the kind William Straight wore.
She backed clear across Ocean Front, watched the stand while talking to Wil in a low voice: “Clear sign of illegal entry, our duty to investigate.”
“Absolutely,” he said. “But what if the guy’s some nut and he’s lurking inside there—let’s check the back first.”
Whipping out penlights, they snaked along the north side of the stand. Too damn dark, too damn quiet. Petra liked using her brains, psyching out bad guys. She could do without this TV cop stuff.
Behind the building were two huge wooden packing crates, slats over plank sides. Her penlight said they came from the docks at Long Beach.
The stand’s back door was bolted, a nice big padlock in place. Off, definitely off. Unless it hadn’t been a thought-out burglary, just something impulsive . . . the packing crates stank of garbage. The neighboring buildings all utilized commercial Dumpst
ers. City regulations—the Russian saving money?
One good thing about the crates, though—the slats offered an easy foothold. She got a toe in, hoisted herself up the first one, looked inside. Nothing.
She found Zhukanov in the second crate, lying on his back atop a heap of trash, mouth open in the dead man’s stupid gape, one arm spread, the other pinioned under his head at an angle that would have been excruciatingly painful had he been alive.
Bisected, disemboweled. The penlight turned his intestines into overfed eels.
Same killing wound as Lisa.
Balch had never left town at all; the charter call, a fake-out just as she’d suspected—so what had Stu phoned about?
No time to think about that. She ran the light over the trash, saw the blood now, a huge crimson oblong, spattered on paper refuse.
Wil had found blood, too. Specks and drips on the front of the crate, another large stain on the ground. She’d been standing right in it, damnit! How could she have missed it?
They phoned it in to Pacific Division, were told to safeguard the scene—it might be a while before anyone showed up, because a shooting had just gone down in Oakwood and some of those victims were still breathing.
Inside the stand, they found no evidence of break-in, just crappy toys, a rear stockroom with a chair and a card table full of receipts and sales slips, no apparent system. A Planet Hollywood jacket hung from a nail in the wall. On adjoining nails were nunchucks, half a baseball bat with a leather thong, tarnished brass knuckles.
The Russian, equipped for battle. Someone had taken him by surprise.
Several bottles in the corner might explain it. Cheap-looking Rus-sian labels, cloudy vodka. One of the bottles was nearly empty. Zhukanov drunk, his defenses down? Bolstered by booze when he killed Moran?
If he had killed Moran. Maybe he’d been Moran’s crime buddy, a drug connection, whatever, and the two had colluded to collect the twenty-five thousand.
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