Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (24 page)

“I really do think it's nice, Isaac. Mothers are important.”

He frowned.
Klara, her kids . . .

“You okay?” said Petra.

“Tired.”

“You're too young for that.”

“Sometimes,” he said, “I don't feel very young.”

Petra watched him tramp off, lugging the laptop and his briefcase. Something was definitely weighing him down. That junkie, Jaramillo, putting on some kind of pressure? Maybe she'd disobey the Downtown gang guys and confront the kid.

No, that would be a
really
bad idea.

Still, they'd put her in a bad position. Drafting her into the unpaid job of keeping an eye on the kid with no authority to do anything.

Babysitting, just as it had been all along.

Could she let Isaac go down without a warning? Could she afford not to?

Meanwhile, she'd use him on the June 28 killings.

The mess he'd foisted on her in the first place.

Her head hurt. Time for dinner. Another solitary night. Maybe Eric would call sometime during the weekend.

As she cleared her desk, he phoned, as if she'd conjured him. “Free?”

“Just about. What's up?”

“Doing things,” he said. “I'd like to tell you about them.”

“I'd like to hear about them.”

They met just after six at a Thai café on Melrose near Gardner, a place favored by faux-depressed hipsters and wannabe performers. But the food was good enough to override the self-conscious atmosphere.

Petra figured she and Eric fit in, at least superficially. He was wearing a white V-neck T-shirt, black jeans that drooped on his skinny frame, the crepe-soled black oxfords he favored on stakeout, his oversized, multizone military wristwatch.

Eric was as far as you could get from hip. But add up the clothes, the close-cropped haircut, the indoor complexion, the deep-set eyes and emotionless face and he looked every bit the misunderstood
artiste.

With her black Donna Karan pantsuit and matching loafers, she figured she'd be taken for a stylish career woman. Maybe someone in the entertainment biz.

Hah!

The place was already starting to fill but they got seated immediately, served quickly, ate their papaya salads and
panang
curry with silent enthusiasm.

“So,” said Petra, “what you been doing?”

Eric put down his fork. “Looking seriously into private work. The licensing requirements don't seem too tough.”

“Don't imagine they would be.” He'd done military special op work, spent a tour as an M.P. detective before signing on with LAPD. All that had taught him endless patience for surveillance. Perfect for private work.

“The question,” he said, “is do I go out on my own or hook up with an established p.i.”

“So you're definitely doing it.”

“Don't know.”

“Whatever you decide is okay,” she said.

He rolled the fork's handle.

Petra's warning system, already primed by too much frustration at work, went on full alert. “Something else on your mind?”

The frost in her voice made him look up.

“Not really.”

“Not really?”

He said, “Are you upset?”

“Why would I be?”

“At me. For quitting.”

She laughed. “No way. Maybe I'll join you.”

“Bad day?”

One eye started to itch and she rubbed it.

He said, “Paradiso?”

“That, other stuff.”

He waited.

She was in no mood to talk. Then she was, pouring it out: shunted aside on Paradiso, Schoelkopf dissing her in front of the others. Zero progress on the June 28 killings, with the target date a week away.

“Someone's going to die, Eric, and I can't do a thing about it.”

He nodded.

“Any ideas?” she said.

“Not about that. As far as Selden, you're right about the photography angle.”

“Think so?”

“Definitely.”

“You'd pursue it?”

“If it was my case.”

“Well,” she said, “go and tell the geniuses in charge.”

“Geniuses are rarely in charge.” His eyes slitted and he picked at his salad. Petra wondered if he was thinking about Saudi Arabia. Or a sidewalk café in Tel Aviv.

An uneasy expression slithered onto his face.

“What?” she said.

He looked at her blankly.

“You're holding back, Eric.”

He rolled the fork some more and she braced herself for yet another put off.

He said, “If I go out on my own, it'll mean less money. Until I build up a clientele. I haven't been LAPD long enough to get a city pension, all I have is my military pension.”

“That's decent money.”

“It pays the bills but I couldn't buy a house.” He returned to his food, chewed slowly—excruciatingly slowly, the way he always did. Petra, a rapid eater, table habits borne of growing up with five ravenous brothers, typically sat idly as he finished. Most of the time it amused her. Or she rationalized that she should learn to emulate him. Now she wanted to flip his switch onto High, squeeze some emotion out of him.

She said, “A house would be nice but it's not necessary.”

He placed the fork on the table. Shoved his plate away. Wiped his mouth. “Your place is small. So's mine. I thought . . . if the two of us . . .” His shoulders rose and fell.

Petra's chest grew warm. She touched his wrist. “You want to move in together?”

“No,” he said. “Not the right time.”

“Why not?” she said.

“Don't know,” he said, looking about twelve years old.

She thought about the magnitude of his loss. What it took for him to express himself emotionally even at this level. Heard herself saying, “I don't know either.”

CHAPTER

36

FRIDAY, JUNE 21, 8:23 P.M., THE GOMEZ APARTMENT, UNION DISTRICT

T
he kitchen was hot and fragrant, not even a trace of Isaiah's asphalt leaking through the savory steam.

His mother washed dishes, pivoted to accept Isaac's cheek peck. “You're early.” Not true; it sounded like an accusation. “No more work?”

“It's the weekend, Ma.”

“You're not too busy to eat with us?”

“I smelled your food from miles away.”

“This? It's not fancy, just tamales and soup.”

“Still smells great.”

“A new kind of beans, black ones but bigger. I saw them in the market, the Korean said they would be good.” She shrugged. “Maybe he's right.”

“Sounds pretty fancy to me.”

“When someone gets married, I'll make a real meal.” She began puttering at the stove. “Also rice with onions and a little chicken. This time I added more chicken stock and some carrots. I do that for Dr. Marilyn and it comes out good. I cooked a fresh whole chicken to get the stock and put the white meat in the tamales. Whatever's left is in the refrigerator. Mostly skin, but you can snack on it now if you're hungry.”

“I'll wait. Where's Dad?”

“On the way home. The Toyota acted up again, he had to take it to Montalvo. Hopefully he won't get robbed blind.”

“Anything serious?”

“Montalvo
claims
some kind of filter, I don't know that kind of thing.” She scurried to the refrigerator, poured him a glass of lemonade. “Here, drink.”

He sipped the cool, overly sweet liquid.

“Have another glass.”

He complied.

“Joel's not coming home,” said his mother. “A night class. On Friday. Can you believe that?”

Isaac figured Joel was lying. If it kept going like this, maybe he'd talk to him. He drained the second glass of lemonade, headed for his room.

“Isaiah's sleeping, so go in quiet.”

“Did he eat already?”

“He ate some but he'll come to the table for more.” Small smile. “He loves my tamales. Especially with raisins.”

“I do, too, Mom.”

She stopped, turned. Her mouth was set tartly and Isaac prepared himself for a guilt trip.

She said, “It's nice you're here, my doctor.” Returning to the stove. “For a change.”

He removed his shoes and cracked the bedroom door carefully but Isaiah sat up in the top bunk.

“Man . . .” Rubbing his forehead, as if trying to restore focus. “It's you.”

“Sorry,” said Isaac. “Go back to sleep.”

Isaiah sank down on two elbows, glanced at the brittle shade that yellowed the solitary window. Air shaft light glared through. The security bulb, yellow-gray. The asphalt smell was strong in here.

Isaiah said, “You're here, bro.”

“Got out early,” said Isaac.

Isaiah laughed wetly. Coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Isaac wondered about his lungs, the alveoli clogged with all that . . .

“Got out early?” said Isaiah. “Sounds like probation or something.”

Isaac stashed his briefcase well under the bed, took off his shirt, and put on a fresh T. He lifted the shade and stared down the air shaft. Stories below, garbage flecked the pavement.

Isaiah shielded his eyes. “Cut that out, man.”

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

N
o 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 ornate 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.”