Then a message came through to call ID Division at Parker Center, no name.
The civilian clerk there said, “I’ll put you through to Officer Portwine.”
She knew the name but not the face. Portwine was one of the prints specialists; she’d seen his signature on reports.
He had a reedy voice and a humorless, rapid delivery. “Thanks for calling back. This could be either a major-league screwup or something interesting, hope you can tell me which.”
“What’s wrong?” said Petra.
“You sent us some material from the Lisa Boehlinger-Ramsey crime scene—food wrapper and a book. We obtained numerous prints, most likely female from the size, but no match in any of our files. I was just about to write you a report to that effect when I got another batch, supposedly from another case—burglary on North Gardner, latents from a kitchen knife and some food containers. I had a spare minute, so I looked at them, and they matched yours. So what I need to know is was there some kind of mix-up in the batch numbers, the forms getting screwed up? Because it’s bizarre, two batches coming from Hollywood, one after the other, and we get the exact same prints. We caught hell about our cataloging last year. Even though we’re careful, you know how much stuff we process. We’ve been bending over backwards, meaning if there is a problem on this one, it’s on your end, not ours.”
How could a guy talk so fast? Enduring the speech, Petra had dug her nails into her palm.
“When was the burglary?” she said.
“Last night. A Six car handled it and referred it to one of your D’s—W. B. Fournier.”
Petra looked over at Wil’s desk. Gone and checked out.
“What kind of food containers were printed?”
“Plastic orange juice jug, the prints were on the paper label. And a pineapple—that was interesting, never printed a pineapple before. There’re some other samples supposedly coming, says here a Krazy Glue tape from stainless steel plumbing fixtures, and a bottle of shampoo, also tape from . . . looks like a refrigerator, yes, a refrigerator. Sounds like a kitchen burglary. So what’s the story?”
“I don’t know a thing about the burglary. All we sent you from Ramsey were the food wrapper and the book and the victim’s clothing.”
“You’re telling me this other material isn’t yours?”
“That is exactly what I’m telling you,” said Petra.
Portwine whistled. “Two sets of prints from the same person, two different crime scenes.”
“Looks that way,” said Petra. Her heart was racing. “Do you still have the Ramsey batch—specifically, the book?”
“Nope, sent it down to evidence yesterday at seventeen hundred hours, but I did keep a copy of the prints. Some pretty distinctive ridges, that’s how I noticed the match.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Welcome,” said Portwine, grudgingly. “At least we don’t have a problem.”
She left Wil Fournier a note to get in touch. Still no message from Stu, and he didn’t pick up his cell phone.
After driving downtown to Parker Center, she smiled her way into the employee parking lot and went up to the third-floor evidence room, where she filled out a requisition for the library book. The evidence warden was a dyed-blond black woman named Sipes who was unimpressed by the fact that the victim was L. Boehlinger-Ramsey and pointed out to Petra that she hadn’t written in the case number clearly. Petra erased and rewrote and Sipes disappeared behind endless rows of beige metal shelving, returning ten minutes later, shaking her head. “That lot number hasn’t been checked in.”
“I’m sure it has,” said Petra. “Last night. Officer Portwine from ID sent it over yesterday at five P.M.”
“Yesterday? Why didn’t you say so? That would be in a different place.”
Another fifteen minutes passed before Petra had the evidence envelope in hand and Sipes’s permission to take it.
Back in the Ford, she removed the book. Our Presidents: The March of American History.
Bag lady with an interest in government and burglary. Breaking into homes stealing food? Most likely schizo. She flipped pages, looking for notes in the margin, some overlooked bit of scrap. Nothing. Remarkably, the checkout card was still in the circulation packet.
The Hillhurst branch. She remembered that. No activity for nine months.
No activity since Bag Lady had lifted it?
Petra tried to imagine her living on the street, thieving, reading. Stealing food and knowledge. There was a certain crazy romanticism to that.
Squatting to pee on a rock. Schizo Girl–Thoreau.
She drove back to Hollywood, found the Hillhurst branch in a strip mall a few blocks south of Los Feliz. Strange setup, not what Petra thought of as a library. Windowless slab, pure government gray-think, right next to a supermarket. Loose shopping carts nearly blocked the front door. A sign said it was a temporary location.
She went in carrying the evidence packet and her business card. The place was one big room, a gray-haired female librarian at a desk in the corner talking on the phone, a younger woman at the checkout desk, one patron—a very old guy in a cloth cap reading the morning paper, a furled umbrella on the table near his elbow, though the June sky was baby blue and rain hadn’t fallen in months.
Natural-birch bookshelves on rollers, reading tables of the same pale wood. Travel posters trying to take the place of windows—what a pathetic bit of pretense.
The older librarian was engrossed in her phone chat, and Petra headed for checkout. The young woman was Hispanic, tall, well dressed in a budget gray rayon suit that looked better than it deserved to, draped over her slinky form. She had a pleasant face, warm eyes, decent skin, but what caught Petra’s attention was her hair—black, thick, straight, hanging below the hem of her miniskirt. Like that country singer—Crystal Gayle.
“May I help you?”
Petra introduced herself and showed the card.
“Magda Solis,” said the woman, clearly thrown by the Homicide designation.
Petra slipped the red book out and placed it on the counter. Magda Solis’s right hand flew to her left bosom. “Oh no, has something happened to him?”
“Him?”
“The little boy who . . .” Solis looked over at the gray-haired librarian.
“The boy who stole it?” said Petra. Small body impression, small hands, not a woman, a kid—why hadn’t she thought of it? Suddenly, she thought of the painting she’d begun last night, the tree full of lost children, and fought the shudder that began at her shoulders and snaked its way down to her navel.
Solis scratched her chin. “Can we talk outside?”
“Sure.”
Solis hurried over to the older woman in a slightly flat-footed gait that managed to be graceful, arms bent tensely, glorious hair flapping. She said something that made the boss librarian frown, and returned, gnawing her lip.
“Okay, I’m on break.”
Out in the strip mall, near Petra’s Ford, she said, “I’m a trainee, didn’t want my supervisor to hear. Did something happen to him?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you know, Ms. Solis?”
“I—he’s just a little boy, maybe ten or eleven, at first I wasn’t even sure it was him. Taking the books, I mean. But he was the only one who ever read the ones that were missing—this one especially he kept coming to, over and over, and then it was gone.”
“So he took other books, too.”
Solis fidgeted. “But he always brought them back—such a serious little boy. Pretending to be doing homework. I guess he didn’t want to attract attention. I finally saw him do it—sneak something back. One that I’d marked missing. Something about oceanography, I think.”
“Pretending to do homework?”
“That’s what it looked like to me. Always the same few pages of math problems—he always did math. Algebra. So maybe he’s older. Or just gifted—from the things he read, I’ll bet he was gifted.” Solis shook her head. “He’d do a little math and
then head back to the stacks, find something, read for a couple of hours. It was obvious he just loved to read, and that’s so rare—we’re always trying to attract kids, and it’s a struggle. Even when they do come in, they goof around and make noise. He wasn’t like that. So well behaved, a little gentleman.”
“Except for stealing books.”
Solis worried her lip again. “Yes. Well, I know I should have said something, but he returned them, no harm done.”
“Why didn’t you suggest he get a library card?”
“For that he’d need ID and an adult’s signature, and he was obviously a street kid. I could tell from his clothes—he tried to look nice, damped down his hair and combed it, but his clothes were old and wrinkled, had holes in them; so did his shoes. And he wore the same couple of things over and over again. His hair was long, hanging over his forehead; looked like it hadn’t been cut in a long time.” Reaching back, she touched her own locks and smiled. “I guess we were kindred spirits—please tell me, Detective, has something happened to him?”
“He may have been a witness to something. What else can you tell me about him?”
“Small, skinny, Anglo, kind of a pointy chin. Pale complexion, like he’s anemic or something. His hair is light brown. Straight. I’m not sure about his eyes—blue, I think. Sometimes he walks with good posture, but other times he hunches over. Like a little old man—he has an old look to him. I’m sure you’ve seen that on street kids.”
“Did you ever speak to him?”
“One time, in the beginning, I came over to him and asked if there was anything I could help him with. He shook his head and looked down at the table. Got a scared look in his eyes. I left him alone.”
“A street kid.”
“Last year in college I did some volunteer work at a shelter, and he reminded me of the kids I saw there—not that they were into books. The things he read! Biographies, natural history, government—the presidents, this one, was his favorite. I mean, here was a kid society had obviously failed and he still believed in the system. Don’t you think that’s remarkable? He must be gifted. I couldn’t turn him in—does my supervisor need to know?”
Petra smiled and shook her head.
Magda Solis said, “I figured the best way I could help him was let him use the library the way he wanted. He returned everything. Except the presidents book—where did you find it?”
“Nearby,” said Petra, and Solis didn’t press her.
“How long has he been coming to the library?”
“Two, three months.”
“Every week?”
“Two to three times a week. Always in the afternoon. He’d arrive around two P.M., stay till four or five. I wondered if he chose afternoons because most kids are off from school then and he’d be less conspicuous.”
“Good thinking,” said Petra.
The librarian blushed. “I could be all wrong about him. Maybe he’s a rich kid from Los Feliz, just likes to act weird.”
“When’s the last time you saw him, Ms. Solis?”
“Let’s see . . . a few days ago—last week. Must have been last Friday. Yes, Friday. He read a big pile of National Geographics and Smithsonians—didn’t take anything.”
Last weekday before Lisa’s murder. He hadn’t returned since.
A kid. Living in the park. Reading in the dark—how? By penlight? Part of a street kid’s survival stash?
From the Griffith Park lot to the North Gardner burglary was a good four, five miles. Traveling west—why? This was a kid who’d settled down, set up a routine, not a wanderer.
Scared? Because he’d seen something?
“I don’t want to put him in danger,” said the librarian.
“On the contrary, Ms. Solis. If I find him, I can make sure he’s kept out of danger.” Solis nodded, wanting to believe. The woman had bruised eyes. Kindred spirit—had she meant something beyond untrimmed hair?
“Thanks for your help,” said Petra.
“You’re sure he’s not . . . hurt?”
He was okay last night. Breaking into a house and cutting pineapple. “He’s fine, but I do need to locate him. Maybe you can help me with that.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
Petra took out her pad and a number 3 pencil. “I draw a little. Let’s see if we can come up with something.”
CHAPTER
32
“Rapist! Police!”
Why are they screaming that? I throw on my clothes. The screams get far away, I crack open the door, look out, see nothing, and run out the back.
It sounds like they’re out in front, still screaming “Rapist!” which is crazy. I’d never rape anyone; I know what it feels like to be hunted.
I run behind the garage, climb over the wooden fence into the next yard. Lights on in that house—colors, a TV behind the curtains; I hear someone laughing.
I run through the yard to the next street, then back up to Hollywood Boulevard, where I turn down another street, then up again, moving back and forth so no one will see me, walking, not running, blend in, blend in . . . no sirens. The cops haven’t come yet.
If those women keep lying about rape, they might send up helicopters with those big white beams. That could turn me into a bug on paper . . . then I realize they never saw me; why should anyone think I’m the one?
I slow down even more, pretend everything’s great. I’m on another quiet street. People locked inside thinking they’re safe.
Or maybe worried they’re not.
I’ll keep going west, away from the park and Hollywood. Stupid women with plants all over the place who leave food to rot.
The next busy street is Sunset. Weirdos, lots more kids than Hollywood, even more cars. Lots of restaurants, clubs. Across the street a place called Body Body Body! with a plastic sign of a naked lady. Then something called the Snake. Club with a big line out in front and two big fat guys not letting anyone in.
Is that guy in that red car looking at me weird?
I turn off to the next quiet street, back and forth again. Now my feet are hurting; I’ve been walking all day. West, maybe the beach. The beach is clean, isn’t it?
I have no money. No way to protect myself.
Should have taken the pineapple knife.
CHAPTER
33
Stu studied the drawing of the boy.
He’d blown in just before 4 P.M., no explanation. Petra burned to have it out with him, but this new development, a potential witness, meant they had to stay on task.
“Good work,” he said. “Don’t show Harold.”
Harold Beatty was a sixty-year-old Rampart narc who sometimes doubled as a sketch artist. All the faces he drew looked exactly the same. The Beatty Family, other D’s called them behind his back.
Stu played with his suspenders and the casual gesture angered Petra further. She wanted acknowledgment that this could be something.
Because she wasn’t confident it would lead anywhere.
At least the drawing was good. Guiding Magda Solis through every feature, Petra had produced a highly detailed, carefully shaded rendering. The librarian stared at the finished product and whispered, “Amazing.”
A nice-looking boy with big, wide-set eyes—Petra left them medium-shaded to accommodate either brown or blue—a narrow nose with pinched nostrils, thin mouth, pointy chin with a dimple. Solis wasn’t sure of the boy’s eye color, but she was sure of the dimple.
Straight hair, light brown, thick, brushed to the right, sheathing the forehead to the eyebrows, hanging over the ears, fringing wildly at the shoulders. A skinny neck sprouted from a T-shirt. Solis said he was small, well under five feet, eighty pounds tops, wore T-shirts, jeans, tennis shoes with holes in them, sometimes an old ratty sweater.
Oh yeah, and a watch, one of those cheap digital things.
That interested Petra. Was the timepiece an old Christmas present? Something he’d boosted? Where was his home? How long ago had he run away?
<
br /> A kid. When she applied for detective, she’d been offered the choice of Juvey or Auto Theft, had chosen hot cars. No one asking why . . .
Stu said, “He looks grim,” and that was true. The boy’s expression was beyond hurt; he looked burdened. Solis’s phrase was “crushed by life.”
“He takes food from the fridge, showers,” said Stu. “Print match to ours. Unbelievable.”
“Maybe it’s providence,” said Petra. “Maybe God’s rewarding you for all that piety and church time.”
“Sure,” said Stu. His voice rasped. She’d never heard him this angry.
What was the big deal? She always kidded him about religion. Before she could say a thing, he stood up and buttoned his jacket. “Okay, let’s go tell Schoelkopf.”
Turning his back on her, yet again. Since he’d waltzed into the squad room, they hadn’t shared a second of eye contact.
“Let’s do it later,” said Petra. “I’ve got paperwork—”
He wheeled suddenly. “What’s your problem with doing it by the book, Petra? He made it clear he wanted to be informed, and now there’s something to inform him about.”
He’d made it to the door when Petra caught up with him and stage-whispered. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on. We’re going to inform Schoelkopf.”
“Not that. What’s with you?”
He kept going, didn’t answer.
“Goddamn you, Bishop, you’re acting like a complete goddamn jerk!”
He stopped, worked his jaws. His hands were fisted. Never had she cursed at him. She prepared herself for an explosion. This would be interesting.
Instead, his face slackened. “Goddamn me? You could be right.”
In Schoelkopf’s office, they both clung to frozen calm.
Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor) Page 22
