Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (15 page)

“I come over knock on your door, you invite me in, introduce me to you mama, get me some of them sweet tamales?”

“Absolutely,” said Isaac, knowing it would never happen.

Flaco knew it, too. “A gun,” he said, suddenly reflective. “It's like a . . . you know a . . . responsibility.”

“I can handle it.”

“You know how to shoot?”

“Sure,” Isaac lied.

“Bullshit, motherfucker.”

“I can handle it.”

“You end up shooting off your ass—you shoot your own
cojones off,
man, I ain't gonna cry.”

“I'll be fine.”

“Bang bang,” said Flaco. “No, I don't think so, man. What for you need to mess with motherfucking
guns
?”

“I'm going to get one,” said Isaac. “One way or the other.”

“You stupid, man.” Then Flaco realized what he'd said and cracked up.

Isaac started to get up. Flaco clamped a hand over his wrist. “Have a drink, bro.”

“No, thanks.”

“You turnin' me down?”

Isaac swung around in the booth, faced Flaco full-on. “The way I see it, you're doing the turning down.”

Flaco's smile dropped. His hand remained clawed over Isaac's wrist. Another 187 tattoo. On the other hand. Larger, fresher. Black ink. A tiny grinning skull nested in the upper circle of the
8.
“You ain't gonna drink with me?”

“One drink,” said Isaac. “Then I'm going. Got to take care of business.”

Flaco slid out of the booth, teetered to the bar, returned with two beer-and-shots. As the two of them drank, he drew a white plastic shopping bag out of the black denim jacket and lowered it beneath the table.

Isaac glanced down. Jewelry Mart logo on the bag, a vendor called Diamond World.

“Happy birthday, motherfucker.”

Isaac took the bag from Flaco. Heavy. At the bottom was something swaddled in toilet paper. Keeping his hands low, he unwrapped it partially.

A shiny little thing. Squat, square-barreled, perfectly malevolent.

CHAPTER

20

FRIDAY, JUNE 14, 4:34 P.M. DETECTIVES' ROOM, HOLLYWOOD DIVISION

P
etra left two additional messages with Dr. Robert Katzman, the last unmistakably cross.

Then she regretted her tone. Even if she finally reached the oncologist, big deal. He'd treated Sandra Leon for leukemia, what else could he tell her?

Then again, she was sure the Oncology clerk had gotten antsy talking about Sandra. But who said that related to the girl with the pink shoes or any other aspect of Paradiso?

She went downstairs, found Kirsten Krebs idling by the watercooler in a tank top and jeans, told Krebs to put Katzman through immediately if he called back.

Krebs stared at the floor and said, “Yeah, fine.” When she thought Petra was out of earshot, she muttered, “What-
ever.
”

Petra returned to her desk feeling aimless. She'd slept fitfully, burdened with too much of nothing. Just two weeks until June 28. No sign of Isaac for a few days. Had the kid lost his youthful enthusiasm about the nefarious plot? Or was it something to do with that bruise?

Either way, who cared?

Unfortunately, she did. She turned to the file copies, reviewed the two she knew the best—Doebbler and Solis—for new insights and failed to come up with any.

It stayed that way until she reviewed the coroner's report on Coral Langdon, the dog walker, and found something she'd missed the first few times around. Stuck in the middle of a small-print hair-and-fiber list stapled under some lab results.

Two types of canine hair had been found on Langdon's clothing. No mention of that in the coroner's nonquantitative summary. The pathologist hadn't deemed it important. Maybe it wasn't.

The presence of cockapoo hair was self-explanatory. Little Brandy had been bludgeoned along with her mistress.

Stupid little bitch. The world is my toilet.

But along with the champagne-colored curls raked from Coral's purple, cashmere blend, size M, Robinsons-May cardigan and her black, size 8 poly-cotton Anne Klein pants, was a smaller, but substantial number of straight, coarse hairs.

Short, dark brown and white. Canine. No DNA had been analyzed to determine the breed.

No reason to get that fancy. There were plenty of reasonable explanations, including maybe Coral Langdon had owned two dogs. Except according to the file she hadn't. Detective Shirley Lenois might have missed the June 28 link, but Shirley had been a dog person, owned three Afghan hounds, would have been sure to note the presence of a second pet.

Perhaps little Brandy had hung with a canine buddy, picked up hairs, transferred them to Coral.

Or a stray dog had come upon both corpses, sniffed around.

Or, Coral Langdon, walking alone, at night, in the Hollywood Hills, in the company of a pint-sized pooch that provided zero protection, had encountered another dog walker.

The two of them stop to swap dog chat. Dog people were like that, being devoted to your pet was grounds for instant rapport.

Because of that, dogs could be a great ruse for bad guys. Petra recalled a case she'd worked early in her grand-theft-auto days. Pleasant-looking frat-boy-type thief—what was his name—who always took along a lumbering, seventy-pound bulldog . . . Monroe. She remembered the dog's moniker but not the guy's. What did that say?

Frat-boy's modus was to “chance” upon women pulling late-model luxury wheels into shopping center parking lots. As they got out of their cars, he'd saunter by, Monroe in tow. The women would get one look at the stubby dog's wrinkled frog face and melt. Chitchat would ensue, Frat-boy—Lewis something—was brilliant at putting on the wholesome dog guy act, though Monroe really belonged to his sister. The women would coo and pet the stoic, panting beast, then walk off happy. Fifty percent of the time they forgot to lock their cars and/or set the alarms.

Yup, canine companionship could definitely impart instant decency to a stranger.

Petra thought about how Langdon might've gone down. A guy with a dog—a white, middle-class-looking guy—someone who wouldn't seem out of place in Coral Langdon's Hollywood Hills neighborhood—shows up on the quiet, hillside road.

Coral with her fluffy pal, the guy with a larger pooch. Nothing scary, like a pit bull. Short, dark brown and white hairs—could be a pointer, a mixed-breed, whatever.

Something mellow and nonthreatening.

She stayed with the scenario, imagining Coral and Dog Guy stopping to talk. Maybe laughing as their furry buddies engaged in mutual squatting.

Exchanging cute little “aren't dogs almost human” stories.

Coral—single, fit, and youthful for her age—might have welcomed some male attention. A bit of flirtation ensued, maybe even a phone-number exchange. No number had been found on Coral's body, but that meant nothing. Dog Guy could've lifted it when his job was done.

His job.

Biding his time as he and Coral exchange amiable have-a-nice-evenings.

Coral and Brandy turn to go.

Boom.

Bashed from behind. Like all the others. A coward. A calculating, manipulative coward reluctant to face his victims.

Creative,
Milo Sturgis would call it. His favorite euphemism when cases bogged down.

Petra wondered what he'd think about all this. Delaware, too.

She was pondering whether to call either of them when Kirsten Krebs stomped up to her desk and straight-armed a message slip right in her face.

“He hung up?” said Petra.

“It's not the one you
said
to put
through,
” said Krebs. “But seeing as you're so into your
messages
I brought it to you
personally.
”

Petra snatched the slip. Eric had phoned three minutes ago. No return number.

The message on the slip, in Krebs's cramped writing:
“Don't believe everything you see on the news.”

“Whatever that means,” said Krebs. “He sounded kinda strange.”

“He's a detective, here.”

Krebs remained unimpressed.

Petra said, “You told him I wasn't here?”

“He wasn't the one you
said,
” Krebs insisted.

“Damn . . .” Petra reread the message. “Fine. Bye.”

Krebs clamped her hands on her hips, cocked one leg, sucked in her cheeks. “If you're going to be choosy, you have to give me
detailed
instructions.” She marched away.

Don't believe everything you see on the news.

Petra headed for the locker room, where the latest cast-off TV sat.

This one was a Zenith, static-plagued, with no cable hookup, perched on a windowsill. Petra switched it on, flipped channels until she found a local broadcast.

Regional news, nothing remotely related to the Middle East.

Was Eric even there?

Don't believe . . .
okay, but he was fine, he'd called, nothing to worry about.

Why hadn't he insisted on speaking to her?

Because he didn't want to. Bad situation? Something he couldn't talk about?

Her heart pounded and her stomach hurt. She hurried back to the detectives' room. Barney Fleischer was at his desk, sports coat bunched up at his shoulders. Humming and stacking his paperwork neatly.

She said, “Does anyone around here get CNN?”

Barney said, “I prefer Fox News. Fair and balanced and all that.”

“Either way.”

“The closest place would be Shannons.”

Petra had never been to the Irish pub, but she knew where it was. Up Wilcox, just south of the Boulevard, a brief walk.

Barney said, “They've got a nice flat screen, sometimes they keep the news on when there's no game.”

She racewalked to Shannons, sat at the bar, ordered a Coke. The flat screen was a fifty-two-inch plasma set like a window into the wall above the booze-rack. Tuned to MSNBC.

Nothing about the Middle East for one complete news cycle and the running banner at the bottom of the screen was cut off. She asked the bartender if there was any way to fix that.

“We format it this way on purpose,” he said. “You format the other way, it burns lines in the screen.”

“How about for a few minutes? Or maybe we can try one of the other stations.”

He frowned at her soft drink. No way that justified special treatment. But business was slow, no one else shared the bar, so he fooled with the remote and the banner appeared.

She endured financial news, a basketball finals recap, then the international stories: an earthquake in Algeria—the Middle East—but nothing Eric would call her about.

Why couldn't he have just come out and—

The anchorwoman's voice rose in pitch and Petra's ears opened. “. . . reports that American military personnel may have been at least partly responsible for reducing the death toll from a suicide bombing in Tel Aviv . . .”

A beachside café on a restaurant-chocked avenue that paralleled the Mediterranean. People trying to enjoy themselves on a hot, sunny day. Israelis, a couple of German tourists, some foreign workers from Thailand. Unnamed American “security officers.”

Scumbag with a bomb vest under his raincoat approaches from across the street.

Scumbag's black raincoat on a hot day would've tipped off anyone with the slightest powers of observation.

It had. He'd been wrestled to the ground, put out of commission before having a chance to yank the detonator cord on his plastique-and-ball-bearing-and-nail-stuffed vest.

Score one for the good guys.

Moments later, Scumbag Number Two saunters over, gets twenty feet away and pulls his plug. Turning himself to jihadburger. Taking two Israelis with him—a mother and her teenage daughter.

And:
“Scores are reported injured . . .”

Two evil shit-heads. But for someone's sharp eyes, it could've been worse.

Someone.

Scores injured could cover a lot of territory.

Eric had to be in good enough shape to call.

Why hadn't he insisted on talking to her, dammit?

“Seen enough?” said the bartender. “Can I format it back?”

Petra tossed him a ten and left the bar.

CHAPTER

21

B
ack at the station, she ran upstairs to the locker room, flicked on the old Zenith, caught the four
P.M.
broadcast on KCBS. The Tel Aviv bombing was the third-ranked story, after the legislature's credibility problems and a new bank fraud scandal in Lynwood.

Same bare-bones facts, nearly identical wording. What had she expected?

She entered the detectives' room, nearly collided with Kirsten Krebs.

“
There
you are. He's on hold.”

Petra ran to her desk and picked up. “Connor.”

“The irate detective,” said a mellow voice. Dr. Bob.

“Sorry about that, Dr. Katzman. It's been a tough week.”

“I imagine you get plenty of those.”

You, too, being a cancer doctor.
“Thanks for returning. As I mentioned, Sandra Leon was a witness to a murder and we're having trouble tracking her down.”

“Unfortunately, I can't help you with that,” said Katzman. “She's no longer my patient. And I could never track her down either.”

“Where's she getting her chemotherapy?”

“Hopefully nowhere, Detective. Sandra doesn't have leukemia. Though she wanted us to think she did.”

“She lied about being sick?”

“Lying,” said Katzman, “appears to be one of her primary skills. I guess I misspoke when I said she was no
longer
my patient. She never was under my care in the first place. That's why I have no problem talking to you.”

“Talk away, doctor.”

“She showed up last year with a letter from a physician in Oakland saying she'd been diagnosed with AML—acute myelogenous leukemia—was in remission and needed to be followed. The letter also stated that she was an emancipated minor living with some cousins and would require financial assistance. Our social worker sent her to all the right agencies and booked her for an appointment with me. Sandra kept her appointments with the agencies but was a no-show at Oncology Clinic.”

“What kind of agencies are we talking about?”

“There are several county and state programs set up for kids with cancer. They offer medication, transportation and housing vouchers, wigs when the patients lose their hair. Co-payment for treatment.”

“Ah,” said Petra.

“You bet,” said Katzman. “And once a child's registered, the family also gets hooked into the general welfare system. Which gets you access to food stamps, et cetera.”

“So Sandra got goodies but didn't show up for her appointment.”

“For the agencies it wasn't a problem, technically. All they require is that a patient be diagnosed, not actively undergoing treatment. I found out later that on some of the application forms, she
was
listed as an active patient.”

“Forms Sandra filled out herself.”

“You've got the picture.”

“Did you ever see her?”

“Months after talking to the social worker. The first time she didn't show, we phoned the number she listed on her intake form, but it was disconnected. That concerned me but I figured she'd moved. Or changed her mind and went to another doc. Then some of her forms came in for me to sign off on and I went back and checked and wondered what was going on. I sent the social worker out on a home visit. The address Sandra gave us turned out to be a mail drop.”

“Where?”

“I wouldn't know,” said Katzman. “Maybe Loretta, the social worker, would.”

“Last name, please,” said Petra.

“Loretta Brainerd. So Sandra witnessed a murder?”

“Murders,” said Petra. “The Paradiso shootings.”

“I heard about that,” said Katzman.

“In Baltimore?”

“I left the day before it happened.”

“You finally saw her,” said Petra. “How'd you find her?”

“I had CCS—Children's Cancer Services—send her a letter to the effect that she'd lose her benefits if she didn't show up for her checkup. She was there the next day, right on time. In tears, all apologetic. Going on and on about some family crisis, having to travel suddenly.”

“Travel where?”

“If she said, I don't recall. To tell the truth I wasn't listening. I was annoyed because I felt she was jerking me around. Then, when she turned on the faucet, I wasn't sure. She's a pretty good actress. Most important, I wanted to check her out medically because I didn't like what I saw. Her complexion was yellow, especially the eyes. Jaundice can be a sign of relapse—infiltration of the disease into the liver. I ordered a full panel blood workup. Depending on what that turned up, I was ready to do a bone marrow aspiration and a lumbar puncture—more intrusive tests, even the most compliant patients don't like them. But when I mentioned that to Sandra, she stayed calm. That made me wonder if she'd ever been through them in the first place. I ordered the tests back stat, scheduled her for a five
P.M.
recheck that day. She said she was hungry so I gave her some money to get a hamburger in the cafeteria. She and her cousin.”

“Her cousin?”

“Another girl, around the same age,” said Katzman. “The two of them showed up with a man, some guy in his forties. He dropped them off at the clinic and left but the cousin stayed. The blood workup came back negative for leukemia but positive for Hepatitis A—viral hepatitis. Which isn't as bad as Hep C but it should be followed. I was ready to admit her for observation but she didn't show for the recheck. Big surprise. That's when I phoned the doctor from Oakland. He'd never heard of her. Wasn't even an oncologist—a family practitioner working out of some Medi-Cal clinic. She must've gotten hold of some stationery and forged the letter.”

“Is she in danger from the hepatitis?”

“Not unless her resistance gets bad and something else hits her. Hep A is generally self-limiting. That's doctor-talk for goes away on its own.”

“Her eyes are still yellow,” said Petra.

“She came in . . . I'd guess four months ago. By six months, patients are usually better.”

“How do you catch it?”

“Poor sanitation.” Katzman paused. “Prostitutes and other promiscuous people are at risk if they engage in anal sex.”

“You figure Sandra for promiscuous?”

“She was flirtatious, but that's all I can say.”

“During the time she was in the system,” said Petra, “how much money did she squeeze out?”

“I couldn't begin to tell you.”

“The cousin,” said Petra. “What do you remember about her?”

“Quiet girl. Sandra was more outgoing, nice-looking kid, despite the jaundice. The cousin just sat there.”

“Was she about Sandra's age?”

“Maybe a little younger.”

“Shorter than Sandra? Chubby? Curly reddish hair?”

Silence. “That sounds familiar.”

“Did she happen to wear pink sneakers?”

“Yes,” said Katzman. “Bright pink. I remember that.” He sounded amazed that the memory had returned.

Petra said, “What else can you tell me about their relationship?”

“I wasn't noticing. I was concentrating on Sandra's jaundice.”

Petra tensed; had she touched the girl that night in the parking lot?

“Would you consider her contagious, Doctor?”

“I wouldn't exchange body fluids with a Hep A, but you're not going to get it by shaking hands.”

“What can you tell me about the adult male who came with the girls?”

“All I remember is his dropping them off in the waiting room and leaving. I noticed because I'd stepped out to see a patient off. I was planning to have a talk with him—responsible adult and all that—but he was gone before I could turn around.”

“What'd he look like?” said Petra.

“All I really saw was his back.”

“You noticed his age,” said Petra. “In his forties.”

“Amend that to ‘middle aged.' From the way he carried himself. Thirty to fifty.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Sorry,” said Katzman. “I'd be getting into the realm of fantasy.”

Lots of that going around.
Petra said, “Would Loretta Brainerd know more about any of this?”

“I wouldn't think so, but feel free to ask her.”

“Thanks, Doctor.”

“There is one thing,” said Katzman. “Sandra gave her age as fifteen, but my guess is she's older. Closer to eighteen or nineteen. I can't back that up scientifically; it's just something that came to me after I realized I'd been conned. There was a certain . . . I wouldn't say sophistication . . . a certain confidence.” He laughed. “About her confidence game.”

She called Brainerd. The social worker barely remembered Sandra Leon.

Hanging up, Petra thought back to the parking lot interview. The girl had just witnessed the violent death of her “cousin” but had displayed no shock, no grief, none of the emotionality you'd expect from a teenage girl confronted by tragedy. On the contrary, she'd been dry-eyed. Tapping her foot . . . impatient. As if Petra was taking up her precious time.

The only thing that had sparked anxiety in the girl's eyes had been initial eye contact with Petra.

Cool about the homicide but nervous about the cops.

Claiming to be fifteen when she faked her patient status, but that night she'd given her age as sixteen.

Her dress and makeup fit with Katzman's guess that she was older.

Dolled up fancier than the girl in the pink sneakers. Party garb, down to the appliqué mole. Celebrating what?

An adult male had accompanied both girls. Sandra had mentioned a convict brother, a car thief. Petra flipped through her notepad, found her hastily scrawled shorthand.

Bro. GTA. Lompoc.

She called the state prison, spoke to an assistant warden, learned that two “Leons” resided within the walls: Robert Leroy, age sixty-three, fraud and grand theft, and Rudolfo Sabino, age forty-five, manslaughter and mayhem. The warden was kind enough to check both inmates' visitors' lists. No one had been to see Rudolfo Leon for over three years. Sad case, he was HIV positive and suffering from dementia. The older man, Robert Leroy Leon, had a bevy of visitors but no Sandra, no one close to the girl in approximate age and appearance.

Another lie?

Sandra Leon had progressed, officially, from witness to Person of Interest.

Petra paged Mac Dilbeck and told him about the scam.

He said, “She knew the vic but wasn't upset. So maybe she knew it was going to happen.”

“That's what I'm thinking.”

“Good work, Petra. Nothing else on this adult male?”

“Not yet. I'm wondering about something else. Leon quoted me her rights and I asked her if she had experience with the law. She told me a story about a brother locked up at Lompoc. Turns out to be another load of b.s., but why would she volunteer the information when it would tie her in with a criminal? Why not just dummy up?”

“Maybe your question threw her off,” said Mac. “She's a liar but still in training. So she blurted out a half-truth, covered with a phony detail.”

“A relative in the system,” said Petra, “but not a brother. Maybe even a brother but not at Lompoc. That cancer scam was sophisticated, not the kind of thing a virgin would try. This girl's had experience, I wonder if she's part of a criminal enterprise—a family thing.”

“Some kind of gypsy thing? Like the Tinkers. Like those Somalians we busted last year. Yeah, why not? If there's an Inmate Leon somewhere in the system for scamming, that would be really interesting.”

“Robert Leon's locked up for fraud and theft but he's too old to be her brother.”

“Interesting.”

“Maybe the murder's related to some scam thing and the girl in the pink shoes was the intended victim,” she said. “They set it up to look like some gang thing. Sandra wasn't freaked out because she knew.”

“Cold,” said Dilbeck. “Very cold. Okay, time to check the entire system, state and federal pens, even county jails.”

“Who's going to do it?”

“You mind?”

“I'm doing it solo?”

“Well,” said Mac, “Montoya's already been assigned a fresh case and the rest of my day is committed: meeting with the hotshots downtown. Gonna sit there while they explain why they're so much smarter than we are. Course, if you want to trade places . . .”

“No, thanks,” said Petra. “I'll go fetch my magic wand.”

She ran cons named Leon through NCIC and the rest of the data banks, came up with way too many hits. Time for a little logic. Sandra Leon had brought Katzman a letter from a clinic in Oakland, meaning she, or someone she knew, had spent some time there.

She focused on Bay Area Leons, which narrowed the search to twelve.

Two inmates—John B., twenty-five, Charles C., twenty-four—fit the brother age-range. Both were from Oakland and when she pulled up their stats, she knew she'd earned her share of the taxpayers' money.

John's middle name was “Barrymore,” and Charles's was “Chaplin.”

Katzman's take on Sandra:
She's a pretty good actress.

Then she learned that the men were brothers and allowed herself a grin.

A passing detective said, “You're sure happy.”

Petra said, “Once in a while.”

John Barrymore Leon was serving a five-year sentence at Norco for mail fraud and Charlie Chaplin Leon had earned himself two years at Chino for theft—breaking into vending machines in an Oakland arcade.

The wardens at Norco were unavailable and the guard supervisor was new on the job. But his counterpart at Chino turned out to be a font of information. The Leons were members of an Oakland-based crime group called The Players, and several of their cousins had done penitentiary time. His estimate of their membership was fifty to sixty, most related by blood, but some who'd married in or had been informally adopted. The majority were Hispanic—Guatemalan Americans—but there were plenty of whites and blacks and at least two Asians.