Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (21 page)

“In the interests of justice,” said Petra.

“In the interest of getting the monster who murdered my niece and probably my cousin.”

Before he gets to you.

Leon said, “If you ever catch him and need a live witness, don't lock me up.”

“Stop being so dramatic,” said Petra. “We'll put you somewhere safe.” Winging that one, movie stuff. She had no authority to make the promise.

“Sure,” said Leon. “Sure, that makes me feel so comforted.”

Mac said, “Cut to the chase. Where can we find Selden?”

“Marcella told me he lived in the Valley. Panorama City. Went back and forth between there and Venice. If your gang people don't have their heads totally up their asses, they'll have files on him.”

The Valley to Venice route, and something else Leon had said early, tweaked something in Petra's consciousness.

“Selden doesn't look like a gangbanger. How so?”

“No tattoos and he's a fat-boy—soft. He told Marcella he went to college for at least a year, some government-funded gang-rehab thing. Maybe he did, when you first meet him he comes across not-stupid.”

“He into photography?” said Petra.

Leon tensed up tighter than ever. Struggled to make eye contact with Petra. “You've got him?”

“Tell me about the photography.”

Leon licked his lips. “That's him. Carries around a camera, claims to be taking pictures. That's how he hooked up with Marcella in the first place. Told her she was beautiful, wanted her to model. If she'd had any self-awareness, she'd have known he was bullshitting her. Sandy, that would've been a different story. She's got great bones. And with black and white you couldn't see the yellow in her eyes.”

They took Leon back to the station, put him in a holding cell and found the mug books.

One look confirmed it.

Omar Arthur Selden aka Omar Ancho aka Oliver Arturo Rudolph. Gang monikers: Zippy, Heavy O, Shutterbug. Longtime VVO member.

Petra had an aka that wasn't in the files.

Ovid Arnaz.

The quiet young man she'd encountered on Brooks. In his four-year-old arrest photo for robbery he looked nondescript. The charge had been pled down to larceny and Selden had done three years.

A year after his release, he'd met Marcella Douquette on Ocean Front Walk.

Petra's jaw ached as she recalled how smoothly he'd spun the story about renting the shack for a summer photography project. Claiming he'd been afraid to go out at night in a “sketchy” neighborhood.

Knowing the name of the landlord. She'd verified Leon and the girls' residency but not Arnaz/Selden's.

Meaning maybe he'd never even lived there.

Meaning he'd watched her arrive from next door. Had probably been staying in the neighboring unit—an empty, moldering unit—so he could stake out Marcella's digs. Hoping to spot Lyle Leon so he could finish the job.

She'd had the bastard, right
there.

She remembered Selden's reaction to Marcella's postmortem shot. Not a trace of emotion.

Claiming he'd seen it before. Visiting the coroner's as part of a photojournalism class.

She'd swallowed it whole, had barely glanced at his I.D., the Valley address he'd given her. The numbers matched a vacant storefront not far from the revitalized NoHo arts district. Plenty of galleries there, so maybe he really was into photography. The possibility didn't make her feel one bit better.

Mac said, “You couldn't be expected to know.”

But she'd seen happier faces at funerals.

CHAPTER

32

THURSDAY, JUNE 20, 3:00 P.M., THIRD SUBBASEMENT, DOHENY LIBRARY

I
t would help,” said Klara Distenfield, “if you could be a bit more specific about what you're after and why.”

Isaac, smiling up at her from his worktable, said, “Sorry, that's all I can say.”

“Boy,” said Klara. “Talk about high intrigue.”

She was a senior research librarian, forty-one years old, bright and sophisticated, with thick calves, a soft, heavy bosom, long, wavy, flaming red hair that she barretted at the sides, and a peach-blush complexion.

Klara had a soft spot for graduate students. Isaac's reputation had preceded him, and the divorced mother of two gifted kids had made sure to be available when he had reference questions.

Isaac had fantasized wildly about her, on and off, since the first time they met.

Lately, Petra's faced had nudged Klara's out. Still, when he spotted her, filling out one of those flowered dresses . . .

Today's dress was pale green printed with white peonies and yellow butterflies, some sort of clingy material, not silk, trying to be silk . . .

Klara said, “Earth to Isaac,” and flashed a generous mouthful of white teeth.

“Sorry,” he said. “I know it sounds oblique, but I really can't say more.”

“Official police business, huh?”

Did she just wink?

He said, “Nothing exciting.”

“Do they treat you well over there?”

“Very well.”

“Still,” she said, “it must be quite a contrast to here.” She motioned with one soft arm, taking in the book-lined stacks.

“It's different,” he said.

Klara leaned against the table and nibbled on the eraser of her pencil. Her breasts swung, luxuriant, barely fettered.

Older women, he just loved the way they . . . what was
wrong
with him?

What was wrong was he was a sexual retardate. But for a couple of unfortunate encounters with hookers set up by Flaco Jaramillo, he was a damned virgin.

Klara said, “Are you okay, Isaac? You look kind of fatigued.”

“I'm fine.”

“If you say so.” She rolled the pencil against one hip. “Well, that's all I've managed to come up with, so far.”

She aimed her gold-green eyes at the computer printout she'd laid on his work surface. Hundreds of historical events tied in with June 28. Nothing he hadn't seen already.

Perhaps the clue was in here, among all that history, but if it was he was missing it.

“I really appreciate the time, Klara.”

“My pleasure.” She shifted even closer and his nose filled with the sweet scent of soap and water. Concern widened her eyes and smoothed out her laugh lines. “You really do look
tired.
Especially there.” A pale hand indicated the skin beneath his eyes. A fingertip grazed his right cheek and electric current sizzled along his thighs. He crossed his legs, hoping Klara hadn't noticed his erection.

She smiled.
Had she?

“I'm at the top of my game,” he told her. “Energy-wise.”

“Well, that's good. It's refreshing to hear some confidence from you. You grad students fall into two groups: slackers and slaves. You're the latter, Isaac. You're here all the time. Alone.”

His spot was in the remotest corner of the subbasement, surrounded by old and ancient books on botany. Since Leavey Library had opened, all the undergrads studied there. Doheny—huge, grand, restored magnificently—served grad students and faculty but everyone did their research on-line.

Once in a while someone wandered up there looking for an obscure text. Mostly he had the place to himself. So different from home, sharing that cell of a room with his brothers, the street noise . . .

“I enjoy the solitude,” he said.

“I know you do.” Klara pushed a wave of copper hair away from her face. Not a beautiful face, not by a long shot. More . . . pleasant. Clean-looking.

“My daughter, Amy, wants to be a physician. A surgeon, no less. She's smart enough, but I tell her, ‘You're twelve, there's time to decide.' She is a straight-A student, though. So maybe.”

“You must be proud of her,” said Isaac.

“I am. Proud of her brother, too.” A new kind of smile. Open, maternal. Suddenly Isaac couldn't banish the vision of nursing at those pendulous . . . and then there they were, blocking his vision as she leaned down.

Presented her mouth to him.

Like stepping off a precipice, he moved in. Her tongue tasted lemony, the sweet lemon of hard candies. Had she schemed to do this? That possibility excited him further and he felt he'd burst out of his pants.

Now she was in his lap, a soft, substantive weight, arms curling around him. His hands found her back, her breasts, reached under her dress, touched smooth flesh. Smooth thighs, warm and moist lifted and she was allowing him, she wasn't stopping him.

Then she took hold of his hand, placed it over the silky material. Butterflies jumped. Even as she pushed him down, she said, “Oh, Isaac, I'm sorry. This is wrong.”

He tried to pull away but she held his hand fast. Sandwiched the other between her legs. Looked him straight in the eye and said, “This won't happen again.”

With a clumsy shifting of haunches, her eyes aimed at the ceiling, she rolled off her panties.

CHAPTER

33

FRIDAY, JUNE 21, 3:49 P.M., DETECTIVES' ROOM, HOLLYWOOD DIVISION

N
o TGIF end of week joy for Petra. She sat at her desk, wondered why Isaac hadn't shown up today or yesterday.

She asked Barney Fleischer if he'd seen the kid.

“Wednesday,” he said. “Last night. He was here until around eight.”

“All by himself?”

“I was here,” said Barney. “Have you heard about Schoelkopf?”

“No, what?”

“Split from his wife, the third one.” The old man smiled serenely.

“It's L.A.” said Petra.

“Always has been.”

She sat back down. Exhausted from the meeting.

Such fun, detecting.

With Omar Selden I.D.'d as the prime suspect for Paradiso, the logical step would've been running an immediate search for the mass killer. Instead, Petra had been ordered to clear paper, specifying how she'd come up with Lyle Leon as a witness. Then: sit tight until notified further by the Homicide Special Squad.

The call came on Thursday. Big-time meeting tomorrow at two
P.M.

They'd adjourned an hour ago, at three. She and Mac Dilbeck and three golden downtown boys. The agenda, actually written on the whiteboard:
“intradivisional interfacing.”

The three H-S detectives had turned out to be relaxed types, nothing but praise for the way Hollywood had come up with Selden. Petra figured it for total b.s. but smiled prettily. The confab ended up being Petra and Mac fact-sharing and the hotshots reciting everything they knew about VVO and other Westside/Valley gangs. They'd brought props—an easel, charts, statistics. The last sheet on the easel was a crater-pored blowup of Omar Selden's soft, glaring face.

Seeing him like that, there was no other way to think of Selden but as a Seriously Bad Guy. Petra realized how close she'd been to evil and fought not to shiver.

At two fifty-eight, the head Downtown guy announced the plan, obviously preordained: The new San Fernando Valley Gang Unit would search for Omar Selden because, even if Selden was the shooter, he'd been accompanied by other bangers and the takedown required specialists. H-S would handle “formal liaisoning” with the gang squad and get back to Mac about a follow-up meeting for the entire “apprehension team.”

Don't call us, we'll call you.

Petra raised the issue of the missing Sandra Leon. The head Downtown guy said, “Wouldn't you say she's probably dead? We bring Selden in alive, maybe we'll find out the details. That's why it's important to do it right.”

She left the conference room more worn-out than if she'd driven all over town looking for Omar.

Now she sat at her desk, thinking about the June brainings because there was nothing left to think about on Paradiso. The kill-date was seven days away and she and Isaac hadn't sat down for a while.

She'd dropped the ball. But Paradiso had been the here and now, she could be forgiven.

Seven days; Lord help the next victim. Unless Isaac was wrong.

How could he be? The wound-stats were nearly identical.

That old gnawing feeling surfaced under her breastbone. Retrieving the June 28 files, she reviewed the cases yet again.

Concentrating on Marta Doebbler, lured out of the theater. Because she'd met Kurt Doebbler and he was weird.

Then: old man Solis and the phony cable guy. Coral Langdon, the dead dog. The more Petra thought about her dog-walking-killer scenario, the better it felt.

Nothing in common between the victims except a calculating, psychopathic flavor to the killings. Someone extremely clever, calculating, willing to shift his approach . . . chameleonlike.

Heterogeneous victims. Not a sexual thing? Or an ambisexual killer.

Or did it have to do with the challenge? Fun of the hunt?

Even so, there had to be
something
that tied the six dead people together.

She strained to come up with a unifying factor.

Half an hour later, it was killer six, detective zero.

Seven more days. Had the creep selected his quarry? What criteria did he use? What was it that
marked
them?

Why crack their skulls? A lot riskier than shooting or stabbing. That had to mean something.

Alex Delaware had told her about cannibals eating their victims' brains in order to capture their souls. Was this some new-age cannibal thing?

Or was the killer boasting:
I'm the brain.

A self-styled genius? Lots of psychos had inflated self-esteem. This one had gotten away with it for years, maybe he really was smart.

If so, her best weapon was a Big Brain on her side. Which she already had. But where was he?

All that youthful exuberance, the way Isaac had latched on to her like a puppy, why keep his distance now? Because she'd put him off? Or was it something to do with that facial bruise? No way did she buy his story about walking into a wall.

Some babysitter I am.

Was Isaac in trouble? She imagined a host of worst-case scenarios, pictured headlines, stories, her name paired with “neglectful cop.”

Councilman Reyes demanding her badge.

Now her stomach was a sloshing sack of acid.

Stop it, he's fine.
Working on his dissertation, gonna be a double-doctor one day. Why hang around here? You've given him no reason.

Or was Isaac making himself scarce because he couldn't figure out June 28? If a genius couldn't untangle the pattern, how could she hope to?

She placed the six files back in a drawer. Tried to rationalize away the stress-ache by reminding herself that she
had
produced Omar Selden.

The old-fashioned way. That would be useless for June 28. . . .

She shifted her thoughts to Eric.

She hadn't seen him since early Wednesday morning when he'd slipped away—limped away—from the station as Lyle Leon was being booked. Drawing Petra into the stairwell, kissing her briefly, then hurrying off.

One call since then. The message slip had greeted her when she arrived this morning.

I'll be in touch soon. E.

Off doing his thing, whatever that was. Did that mean a prolonged retreat into one of those long, dark silences of his?

She tried to retrieve the taste of his lips on hers. Failed. Satisfaction over Selden began to tarnish. Because collaring the bastard wouldn't bring back Marcella Douquette and the other Paradiso victims.

She phoned the Biostatistics Department at USC, was told Isaac was rarely in, but she could leave a message.

To heck with it, she'd kill the next hour driving the streets and pretending to be observing her turf. No, better to walk, bleed off nervous energy.

Collecting her purse, she left the station. Out in the parking lot, she saw two guys loitering by her car.

A pair of suits she didn't recognize. Dark suits, badges on their breast pockets. Then she realized she had seen them before. The pair that had been shmoozing and laughing in the lot a couple of nights ago.

That time, they'd ignored her.

Now, they were waiting for her.

She walked straight up to them. Two mustachioed guys, one fair-skinned, one swarthy. Blue tie, blue tie.

The light one said, “Detective Connor? Lew Rodman, the gang squad.”

All business, no smile. The 'stache above his bloodless lips was the color of summer weeds. His partner's was a black pencil line so thin it could've been grease pencil.

Gang guys wanting to talk to her directly about Selden instead of going through Metro? She
had
come up with the I.D. Nice to be appreciated.

She smiled. “Good to meet you guys. So what's the plan on Omar?”

Rodman and Grease Pencil exchanged glances.

Pencil said, “Who's Omar?”

Nothing appreciative in their eyes.

Petra said, “What's this about?”

Rodman said, “Can we talk somewhere private?”

“If you tell me what it's about.”

Rodman looked at Pencil. The dark-skinned man said, “It's about an intern you supervise named Isaac Gomez.”

“Isaac? Is he okay?”

“That,” said Pencil, “is what we're trying to find out.”

Their bronze Crown Victoria was parked at the far end of the lot. The car was stifling, meaning they'd been here for a while. Petra got in the back and Rodman and Pencil, identified as Detective II Bobby Lucido, sat in front and cracked their windows. Petra's was inoperative and they made no effort to give her air.

She said, “It's sweltering, push the release.” Rodman moved, a click sounded and now she could breathe.

Lucido looked over the seat, checked her out. His hair was gelled and thinning, runways of scalp alternating with thick, black strands. “So what can you tell us about Gomez?”

“Nothing,” said Petra, “until you tell me why you want to know.”

Lucido gave a disgusted look and showed her the back of his head. She heard him breathe. He made eye contact again.

“You're his babysitter.”

Petra didn't answer.

Lucido smiled at her, a mustachioed gecko. “Here's the situation: Gomez has been spotted consorting with a known drug dealer and all-around very bad guy.”

The facial bruise. The kid really was in trouble.

Lucido said, “You don't seem surprised.”

Petra said, “Of course I am. You're kidding.”

“Yeah, we're a stand-up team,” said Rodman. “Doing the Laugh Factory tonight, the Ice House tomorrow.”

Petra said, “Who's the alleged bad guy?”

“You don't know?”

She felt her face go hot. “I'm his babysitter for official police stuff. Meaning he hangs around, rides along, plays with his computer at his desk. What I
know
is he's a genius, accepted to med school, going to get a Ph.D. at twenty-two for fun. You want to tell me what's going on, fine. You want drama, go take acting lessons.”

The black line bisecting Lucido's face dipped, then rose. “A Ph.D. for fun.”

Rodman said, “No telling.”

Petra stared at both of them.

“Well,” said Lucido, “maybe he likes all kinds of fun.”

He turned away from her again and Petra heard paper shuffling. Something passed over the seat.

Eight-by-eleven black-and-white glossy of Isaac and a skinny guy sitting together. Really skinny guy, the sunken cheeks and droopy eyes of a junkie. The two of them huddled in what looked to be a restaurant booth. Plywood booth, no food in front of them. Maybe a cheap bar. The junkie wore black clothes and had a pathetic bit of fuzz over his top lip. Aggressively bizarre haircut: skinned on top, skunk stripes at the side, a very long, eely braid hanging over his right shoulder.

Isaac looked like Isaac: neat, clean, button-down shirt. But different around the eyes.

More intense than she'd ever seen him. Angry?

He and Junkie sat close together. The camera had caught them in the middle of something serious.

Petra said, “Who's the skinny one?”

“Flaco Jaramillo,” said Bobby Lucido. “That's ‘skinny' in Spanish. Flaco Jaramillo aka Mousy aka Kung Fu—'cause of the braid. His real name's Ricardo Isador Jaramillo. Known dope dealer and there's talk he kills people for money though he never got called up for that.”

“Which gang?”

“He's not a banger,” said Rodman. “But he deals with bangers from East L.A. and Central.”

Omar Selden had bragged to Marcella about doing odd-jobs for various gangs. Could there be some connection?

Petra studied the photo some more. “Where was it taken?”

“All these questions,” said Bobby Lucido.

“If it's answers you want, you came to the wrong place.”

“How'd you come to work with Gomez?”

“He was assigned to me by my captain. Who got his orders from Deputy Chief Randy Diaz, who got his from Councilman Reyes.”

“Yeah, yeah, we read all the p.r. bullshit. What we want to know is his connection to a sack-of-scum like Flaco Jaramillo.”

“Then ask him,” said Petra. “The only side of him that I've seen is a well-behaved graduate student, Detective Lucido.”

“Call me Bobby. This is Lew. The place we got the photo is on Fifth near L.A. Cantina Nueva. Dealers, border
coyotes,
freelance scum, your basic bottom-feeding dive.”

Petra flicked the edge of the photo with her fingernail. “You have an undercover guy there?”

“Let's just say we're in a position to take pictures,” said Lew Rodman. “And Flaco's the subject of lots of them. So when your boy showed up, looking all preppy, he got noticed. Especially when he slides right into Flaco's booth, is clearly a k.a. of Flaco. We got curious and followed him, figuring to run his tags. Turns out he has no car, takes the bus. We did a nice slow MTA tail, that was fun. Got Gomez's home address, traced it to Gomez's father, finally I.D.'d the kid yesterday but didn't know he was connected. Then someone in our detail was looking at the picture, recognized Gomez's name from a story in the paper. Reyes giving him some kind of award for being smart.”

Petra said, “Obviously, he knows Jaramillo but that's a long way from being a k.a.”

“They associate, they're known associates,” said Rodman. “We're
not
getting Ph.D.'s but we do know how to add. Your boy's palling around with Bad News Boy in a back booth at Cantina Nueva.”

“Any evidence Gomez is engaged in criminal activity?”

Bobby Lucido said, “He talked to Flaco, Flaco got up and went behind the bar, sat back down. A few minutes later, Gomez left with a briefcase.”

“He always carries a briefcase.”

“Bet he does,” said Bobby Lucido.

Petra's gut churned. “So what do you want from me?”

“Nothing yet. Just continue to do what you've been doing. But keep an eye out for anything sketchy. The situation changes, we'll let you know.”