Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02

by Twisted

  Isaac dropped the shade.

  “I stink bad. Can you smell it?”

  “No.”

  “You lie, bro.”

  “Go back to sleep.”

  When Isaac reached the door, his brother called out: “You got a call. Some lay-dee.”

  “Detective Connor?”

  “I said a lady.”

  “Detective Connor’s female.”

  “Yeah? She cute?”

  “Who called?”

  “Wasn’t no detective.” Isaiah grinned.

  “Who?”

  “You getting excited?”

  “Why would I?”

  “ ’Cause she sounded excited, bro.”

  “Who?” said Isaac. Knowing. Dreading.

  “Wanna guess?”

  Isaac stood there.

  Isaiah’s eyebrows bounced. “Someone named Klara.”

  He’d never given her his home number. She’d probably gotten it from the BioStat office. Or Graduate Records. Now, it starts . . .

  He forced his voice calm. “What’d she want?”

  “To talk to you, bro.” Isaiah snickered. “I stuck her number under your pillow. Eight one eight—you messin’ with a Valley girl?”

  Isaac retrieved the scrap of paper, made a second attempt to leave.

  “She cute? She white? She sounded real white.”

  “Thanks for taking the message,” said Isaac.

  “You better thank me, man. She was hot to go.” Isaiah sat up again. New clarity in his eyes. “She the one you did that other night, right? She sounded like she could be fun. She give good head?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Isaac.

  Isaiah’s mouth hung open and his face turned old. He sank down hard, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. One hand drooped over the side. Blackened with tar, the fingernails cracked, filthy beyond redemption.

  “Yeah, I’m stupid.”

  Isaac said, “Sorry, man. I’m just tired.”

  Isaiah rolled over. Faced the wall.

  CHAPTER

  37

  SATURDAY, JUNE 22, 2:00 P.M., LANKERSHIM BOULEVARD, FLASH IMAGE GALLERY, NOHO ARTS DISTRICT

  No more talk of moving in together. Friday night, after dinner, Petra and Eric had driven to the Jazz Bakery in Venice. Separate cars.

  A moody quartet was the main act, sleepy-eyed guys stretching old standards with an ear toward atonality. By eleven, Petra was bushed. The two of them returned to her place—her small place—and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  Saturday morning, they awoke feeling fresh and horny.

  The next few hours had been lovely. Now they were checking out the NoHo galleries for some connection to Omar Selden.

  Eric’s suggestion.

  “You sure?” she’d said.

  “Why not?”

  Why not, indeed. Doing police work—even unauthorized, probably futile police work—was easier than thinking about the other stuff.

  The square mile encompassing Lankershim just south of Magnolia had been a breeding ground for board-ups and petty crime for years. Transformed by creative types and obliging developers into an arts district, the area was an amalgam of pretty and seedy. Petra had been there several times for the street fair and to browse galleries. The fair had great ethnic food and crappy tourist trinkets. The galleries were an interesting mix of talent and self-delusion.

  On a nonfair Sunday, NoHo was peaceful and gray, livened in spots by the colorful signage of clubs and cafés and exhibitions. Foot traffic was moderate, for the most part people looked happy.

  They took Petra’s car, parked on a side street, and went hunting. Eight galleries featured photography and five were closed. Of the remaining three, one was showing hand-manipulated Polaroid landscapes—dreadful stuff—by a Latvian émigré. Another combined photocollages of Asian women with woodblocklike oil paintings.

  Flash Image, a half-width storefront next to a defunct theater academy, was all black-and-white camera work. The bright, pencil-thin room had warped wood floors. Water marks browned the acoustical ceiling. Very good lighting and hand-lettered partitions showed a real attempt to spruce up what had obviously been a dump. The smell of mildew interfered.

  This month’s exhibit was: “i-mage: local artists do l.a.”

  An alphabetical list of half a dozen photographers was posted on the front partition.

  First on the list: ovid arnaz.

  The multiple murderer was good with a camera.

  His contribution to the show: half a dozen street scenes, unframed and mounted on board. Buildings and sidewalks and sky and bare trees, no people. From the cool light and chopped shadows, probably winter. The lack of activity said early morning.

  Night owl prowling empty city streets with a Nikon?

  Good use of structure, Omar. Decent composition.

  The photos were dated and signed OA, the initials graffiti-square. Dated six months ago; she’d been right about winter. The posted prices ranged from a hundred-fifty to three hundred dollars. The two best prints—a long shot of the Sepulveda Basin and a fisheye up-shot view of the Carnation Building on Wilshire—were red-dotted.

  In order to look casual, they moved on to the other pictures in the exhibit—all throwaway pretense—and returned to Selden’s work.

  Petra’s black hair was tucked under a white-blond wig she’d used for undercover jobs back in her auto-theft days. Posing as a shady maybe-hooker type, out to buy a Mercedes cheap. Real hair, nice quality, courtesy LAPD. She’d found it tucked in her closet, under a pile of winter clothes, had to shake out the dust and comb out the tangles.

  Her duds were a long-sleeved black jersey top under a black denim jacket, tight black jeans, loafers, and big-framed Ray-Bans. The shades were leftovers from her marriage—one of Nick’s twenty pairs. She’d ripped up the clothes he’d left behind, always wondered why she hadn’t stepped on the sunglasses.

  Karma; a purpose for everything.

  Eric wore mirrored ski shades, yesterday’s black jeans, and soft shoes, had traded his white T-shirt for a black V-neck and put on his black nylon baseball jacket with the custom gun pocket.

  His limp had subsided a bit but his gait was still a bit off. No need for the cane, he insisted. Only a few more days of antibiotics.

  The pink-haired girl who worked at the gallery had smiled at him more than once from behind the scratched metal desk she used as a work station. Petra hooked her arm around his as they both stared at the same photo.

  The parking lot of the Paradiso.

  Flat stretch of blacktop, devoid of cars, bounded by posts and chains.

  Different light. Longer shadows than the others.

  Dated a week before the murder.

  The title: Club.

  Take it home for only two hundred bucks.

  Pink Hair came up to them. She wore a short green dress that did little for her hair—how could anything go with bubble-gum? Clearly a wig, cheaper than Petra’s blond tresses, probably Darnel. For some reason that made her feel smug.

  Pink said, “Ovid is acute, isn’t he?”

  “Perfect aim,” said Petra. “Where’s he from?”

  “Ovid? He’s from here.”

  “L.A.?”

  “Right here in the Valley.”

  “How’d you find him?”

  “He was part of a student class at Northridge,” said Pink. “But he’s the only one we took on. Way better than anyone else.”

  Eric leaned in closer to the photo, studied the details.

  Pink Hair said, “Are you guys interested?”

  Petra said, “Are we, honey?”

  Eric said, “Hmm.”

  “What I like,” said Pink Hair, “is that it’s pure line and shadow, no clutter of humanity.”

  “Who needs people?” said Petra.

  “Exactly.” The girl smiled, hoping for a shared ethos.

  Eric wandered over to the next print. Full-on shot of a theater on Broadway, downtown. One of the old orna
te dowagers. Its marquee now read Jewelry! Gold! Wholesale!

  Selden had an eye.

  Petra eyed the Paradiso photo. “I really like this one, honey.”

  Eric shrugged. Stepped backward and positioned himself midway between the two photos.

  Pink Hair said, “Everything’s priced good.”

  Petra said, “We need personalized signatures.”

  Pink Hair’s smooth little brow mustered up a shallow furrow. “Pardon?”

  “These just have generic initials. We want it signed to us personally,” Petra explained. “After we meet the artist. We do that with everything we collect.” She favored the girl with a cool smile. “Art’s more than buying and selling. It’s about chemistry.”

  “Sure—”

  Eric said, “Maybe I like this better.” Pointing to the theater.

  “I like this one, honey.”

  Pink Hair said, “You could take both.”

  Silence.

  “I guess I could ask Ovid. About signing it to you. Especially if you buy two.”

  “We begin any collection with a single piece,” said Petra. “Take our time to see how we live with it. After that . . .”

  She looked Pink up and down.

  Pink said, “Well, sure . . . so which one—”

  Petra said, “I assume you’ve got some stretch on the price.”

  “Well . . . we could give ten percent courtesy.”

  “We always get twenty percent courtesy. On this, we were thinking more like twenty-five.”

  “I’m not the gallery owner,” said Pink. “Twenty-five off would be . . .”

  “One-fifty,” said Eric, keeping his back to them.

  Pink said, “What I meant is it would be a lot. More than we usually give.”

  “Whatever,” said Petra. She began to walk away.

  Pink Hair said, “I guess I could call the owner.”

  “If that works for you.” Petra continued toward the exit. “We’ll check out the other galleries, maybe come back if—”

  “Hold on . . . I mean, the owner’s my boyfriend, I’m sure he won’t mind.” Big smile. A sprig of fake hair protruded above one ear, haloed by artful gallery lighting. “You guys look like serious collectors, it’ll be okay.”

  Eric swiveled. Turned robot eyes on her. Petra thought the girl would swoon.

  “One-fifty,” he said.

  “Sure, great.”

  Petra said, “When can we meet the artist?”

  “Um, that’s the thing, I don’t know . . . let me try to arrange it. If you leave a deposit—”

  “We’ll leave you fifty,” said Eric, producing two twenties and a ten.

  Pink took the money. “Great. I’ll take your number and let you know . . . I’m Xenia?”

  Turning it into a question, as if unsure of her own identity.

  “Vera,” said Petra, arching an eyebrow as she scrawled her cell number. “This is Al.”

  “Vera and Al, great,” said Pink Hair. “You won’t regret it. I think one day Ovid’s going to be famous.”

  Back on Lankershim, strolling north along with the Saturday throng, Eric said, “Al and Vera.”

  “ ’Cause we’re silky smooth.”

  He smiled.

  Petra said, “You’re very good.”

  “At what?”

  “Acting.”

  “Then I can get a job as a waiter.” A beat. “Provide us some income.”

  She gripped his arm harder. “You’ve got the military cushion and once you get going privately, you’ll probably double your income.”

  “If I get going.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Eric?”

  “Private clients means kissing butt,” he said. “Charm.”

  “You can be charming.”

  He stared straight ahead, kept walking.

  “When you want to,” said Petra.

  Suddenly, he veered out of the pedestrian stream, guided her toward the facade of a vintage boutique. Placed his hands on her shoulders. Something new in his eyes.

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m running on empty,” he said. “You make me feel . . . fuller.”

  “Baby,” she said, hugging his waist.

  He pressed his cheek to hers, touched the back of her neck softly.

  She said, “You’re good for me, too.”

  They stood there as people moved past them, drawing a few stares, a few smiles, mostly apathy. Clanking sunglasses. Then weapons, as their gun pockets brushed.

  The percussion made them break the embrace.

  Petra smoothed down her jacket, fooled with her wig. “If Pinkie actually phones for a meet with Omar, I’ll have to notify the task force. Which will cause all kinds of complications.”

  Eric said, “The task force should be grateful.”

  “And I should be rich and famous.” She frowned. “This whole thing’s nuts. I get them their suspect, hand them everything, and they’re futzing around. The rationale is they’ve got to proceed cautiously in order to get Selden’s associates. But if we had Omar in custody, we’d have a better chance of doing that.”

  “True.”

  “Sandra’s probably dead, right?”

  He said, “That’s where I’d put my money.”

  “Stupid kid,” said Petra. “Stupid case.”

  From inside her purse, her cell phone squawked.

  “Vera? This is Xenia, from the gallery. Guess what? I managed to find Ovid and he’s real close by. He can be there in a half hour to meet you and sign your print.”

  “Great,” said Petra, her mind racing.

  “Do you think you might like two? Al really liked Theater, didn’t he? Personally, it’s my favorite. My— The owner says you can have it for the same price as Club.”

  “Sounds like a deal.”

  “It’s an awesome deal.”

  “I’ll ask Al. Let you know when we show up.”

  “Okay,” said Xenia. “But I’d seriously think about both of them. Ovid’s a seriously talented artist.”

  CHAPTER

  38

  With a pounding heart, trying not to look panicked, Petra scanned Lankershim, found a Mexican café across the boulevard that had a clear diagonal view of the gallery’s entrance. They lucked out by scoring a window booth, ordered food they’d never touch, coffee they would.

  Rummaging through her purse, she found the head Downtown hotshot’s number and tried to reach him. Machine at his desk number, no answer on his cell. She waited out the tape, recited clearly and slowly, hoped her fear didn’t seep into the message. A call to Parker Center trying to reach the guy was no more helpful, even after she convinced the desk that she was legit. Out, no forwarding.

  Same for his cohorts; all three hotshots were checked out for the weekend.

  The big, aloof gang sergeant was gone, too. Yet another tape answered at the Valley gang unit’s main extension.

  Multiple murderer on his way and all the experts were mellowing for the weekend. Some task force. If Joe Taxpayer only knew . . .

  She phoned Mac Dilbeck’s house and his wife, Louise, said, “Aw, honey, he took the grandkids to Disneyland, didn’t take a phone. Something you want me to tell him?”

  “Not important,” said Petra. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  What next . . . informing Schoelkopf was proper procedure but out of the question. He’d kill the whole deal, discipline her for insubordination, and Omar would get away. Worse: A no-show at the gallery might make Omar suspicious and motivate a serious rabbit.

  Upon arriving at NoHo, she’d spotted three uniforms: a black-and-white one block east, near a chained parking lot, the officers shmoozing, and a single female cop on foot patrol up near Chandler Boulevard. The woman had clipped hair, thin lips, shorts that exposed dimpled knees. An LAPD T-shirt above her equipment-laden belt, the whole blend-in thing.

  Calling in any of them was too risky. With twenty-five minutes to go, there wasn’t
even time to explain the basics and she couldn’t risk having Omar spot blue and bolt.

  Besides, nothing was more dangerous than a poorly designed operation.

  That left her and Eric. He sat across from her, looking calm. Serene, even. She pressed End on her cell, pocketed the little contraption.

  Tried to take his example and calm down.

  Any way you cut it, she was in trouble. Might as well catch a bad guy.

  They planned it this way: Omar Selden had never met Eric, so Eric would be the inside guy, returning to the gallery alone, pretending to browse, not talking much. Petra would remain across the street in the café, her eyes fixed on Flash Image’s front door. As soon as she spotted Selden, she’d connect with Eric’s cell, ring twice, hang up.

  After that, it would all be improvisation.

  Twenty minutes after Xenia’s call, Eric left his breakfast burrito minus two bites on the table, drained his coffee cup, and walked out.

  Petra watched him ease his way across Lankershim. Gliding. A graceful man. In another world, he’d have been great at ballet.

  Eric in leotards. That made her smile. She needed to smile because her gut was churning, her temples were pounding, and her hands had gone cold.

  She rubbed them together. Her fingers felt fuzzy. Slipping her right hand down into her gun pocket, she traced the outlines of her Glock.

  Their waitress, matronly, smiling, Latina, came over, saw her nearly untouched food. “Everything okay?”

  “Great,” said Petra, cutting into her own burrito. “My boyfriend got called away. I’ll take the check.”

  “Nice girlfriend.”

  My boyfriend.

  Alone again, Petra pushed rice and beans and chicken enchilada around her plate. Closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  Opened them to see Omar Selden’s stocky frame approaching the gallery from the south end of the boulevard.

  Twenty yards away. With a girl. Her frame was blocked by Omar’s.

  She autodialed Eric, beeped twice. Kept her eye on Omar. He had a rolling, flat-footed walk, appeared loose, casual, not a care in the world.

  Fresh haircut—a skin job—made him look like a banger. His baggy brown T-shirt was marked “XXXXL” in big white letters on the back. Under it were even baggier knee-length khaki shorts and brown sneakers.