Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor)

by Jonathan Kellerman

  The captain glanced at the drawing and put it down. “You did this, Barbie? Hidden talent . . . maybe we should retire Harold.”

  He sat back and put his feet on his desk. New shoes, Italian, the soles still black. “It ain’t fish and loaves, but maybe it’s half of something.” He ripped the drawing out of Petra’s pad. “Talk to Juvey officers, see if anyone knows this kid. Also shelters, church groups, welfare workers, whoever’s dealing with runaways nowadays. I’ll make copies for P.I.”

  “Public Information? You’re going to the press with it?” said Petra.

  “You’ve got a better way of publicizing it?”

  “Are we sure we want to publicize it right away?”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “When we first found the book, you thought it was weak—pointed out the unlikelihood of anyone reading in the dark. So what’s the chance the boy actually saw anything? But if we let the world know what he looks like and he’s a Hollywood street kid, we could set off a hunting frenzy. Also, if the killer knows Hollywood, he could get to him first—”

  “I don’t believe this,” said Schoelkopf. “Maternal instincts.” The feet returned to the floor. He looked ready to spit. “You want to solve a crime or mother some runaway?”

  A sickle of rage cut through Petra. A serene voice that couldn’t possibly be hers said, “I want to be cautious, sir. All the more so if he is a witness—”

  Schoelkopf waved her silent. “You talk about the killer like it’s an abstraction. We’re dealing with Ram-fucking-sey. You’re telling me he’s gonna find a runaway before we do? Gimme a break—tell you what, Barb, if you’re worried about child welfare, keep an eye on Ramsey. That might even work out to our benefit—he goes after the kid, we nab him, just like on TV.” Schoelkopf’s laugh was metallic. “Yeah, that’s definitely part of your assignment. Surveil Ramsey. Who knows, you could be a hero.”

  Petra’s lungs felt wooden. She tried to breathe, tried not to show the effort.

  “So we’re using the boy as bait,” said Stu, and now Petra heard the father of six speaking.

  “You too?” said Schoelkopf. “We’re tracking down a potential witness to a homicide—Jesus, I can’t believe I’m having this discussion. What the fuck have we talked about since the beginning of this case? Being careful. What the fuck do you think will happen if the kid is righteous and we make no effort to find him? Don’t waste any more of my time. You two produced the lead, now develop it!”

  “Fine,” said Stu, “but if Petra spends her time on surveillance, our manpower on the rest of the case—”

  “Doesn’t sound like too much else is going on with the case—”

  “Actually, there is something—those similars you told us to look for.” Stu told him about Ilse Eggermann, the search for Karlheinz Lauch.

  Schoelkopf hid his surprise with a satisfied smile. “So . . . there you go. Okay, you need more manpower—’scuse me, person power. Tell Fournier he’s on it too. The kid’s already his anyway, big bad burglar. The three of you do some real work. At the very least we’ll keep the streets safe from refrigerator bandits.”

  Fournier said, “What do I do with my other 187’s?”

  “Ask him,” said Stu. “You were the one complaining about no glory. Here’s your chance.”

  “Yeah, I’m the Pineapple Protector—okay, how do we divide it?”

  Petra said, “I’m supposed to keep an eye on Ramsey. I’ve already interviewed him, so recontacts are reasonable. But hell if I’m going to sit outside the gates at RanchHaven all day.”

  Fournier said, “Don’t blame you.” He palmed his shaven head.

  She knew him casually, had nothing against him. Stu said he was bright. Hope so; she needed to educate him quickly.

  She began. Fournier took notes. Stu was looking distracted again.

  The final arrangement was Petra would follow up on Estrella Flores and Greg Balch, maybe take another shot at Ramsey, Stu would stay with the Eggermann case, and Fournier would contact Hollywood Juvey, local shelters and crash pads, try to find the boy.

  Before the last word was out of Petra’s mouth, Stu got up and walked away.

  Fournier said, “He all right?”

  “Just a little tired,” said Petra. “Too much fun.”

  Back at her desk, she called Missing Persons at every LAPD substation, found several Floreses but no Estrella. She copied down the two who were similar in age—Imelda, sixty-three, from East L.A. and Doris, fifty-nine, from Mar Vista, phoned their families, came up negative.

  Same for the sheriffs’ bureaus. What now? Had Flores bolted back to the old country? Where was that? Mexico? El Salvador? Then she remembered something Ramsey had told her. Greg Balch had hired the new maid, so maybe he’d found Flores, too.

  Another reason to chat with ol’ Greg.

  But first she owed a call to Ron Banks, to let him know the Ramsey DV had gone down out of L.A. County.

  He was at his desk, said, “Oh, hi! Haven’t gotten back to you because I haven’t found any complaints yet.”

  “You won’t,” she said. “I just found out Ramsey has a second home in Montecito, Ron. The beating happened there.” Something else she hadn’t done yet, follow up on that . . .

  “Oh, okay,” said Banks. “That’s Carpinteria Sheriff’s.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, about last time. Asking you out. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. The last thing you need is distraction—”

  “It’s okay, Ron.”

  “That’s nice of you to say, but—”

  “It’s fine, Ron. Really.”

  “It was unprofessional. My excuse is I’ve only been divorced a year, not really good at this kind of thing, and—”

  “Let’s get together,” she said, scarcely believing it.

  Silence. “You’re sure—I mean . . . great, I appreciate it—you name it.”

  “How about tonight—where do you live?”

  “Granada Hills, but I’ll be coming from downtown, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “Do you like deli food?”

  “I like anything.”

  “How about Katz’s on Fairfax? Say eight.”

  “Fantastic.” He almost sang the word.

  She could do that to someone!

  CHAPTER

  34

  A sky full of stars. The ocean roars louder than the zoo animals.

  I’m at the beach, under the pier, smelling tar and salt, cold, even wrapped in the black plastic sheet.

  Wet sand all around, but I found a dry patch near these big thick poles that hold up the pier. I can’t sleep, watching and listening to the waves come in and out, but I don’t feel tired. The ocean is black as the sheet, little dots of moonlight drawing a slanted line across the water. It’s cold, much colder than in the park. If I stay here I’ll need to get a real blanket.

  A while ago some bent-over guy walked by on the sand, near the edge of the water. Just one guy on the empty beach, and the way he walked, clapping his hands together, jumping up and down every few seconds, I knew he was crazy.

  When the sun comes out I’ll have to leave.

  Two nights ago I saw PLYR kill that woman and now I’m here. Weird. And I didn’t even try; it just happened.

  I was weaving between Sunset and side streets, passing so many restaurants my nose was stuffed with food smells, guys in red jackets parking cars, people laughing. My stomach was still full, but my mouth started watering.

  I had no idea where I was going to end up, just knew I couldn’t stand still. I came to a part of Sunset that looked fancier—shinier people, huge billboards advertising movies and clothes and liquor. Then more clubs, more big fat guys standing in front of the door, arms folded over their chests.

  The club where it happened was called A-Void, on a dark corner next to a liquor store, painted black with all these black rocks glued to the front. The fat guy there smoked and looked bored. No one was trying to get in. A plastic sign over the door advertised the band
s who were playing: Meat Members, Elvis Orgasm, the Stick Figures.

  The liquor store was open and a guy in a turban was sitting behind the register. I thought about buying some gum, taking other stuff, but he looked suspicious at me when I stepped through the door so I left. Just then, this tall skinny guy with really long fuzzy black hair and pimples came out of A-Void carrying some drums, ran over to a black van parked around the corner, opened the back door, and put the drums in. The van was full of dents and scrapes, stickers all over the side. He didn’t lock it.

  He made two more trips and then he went back inside and stayed there.

  He never locked it.

  The fat guy had gone inside, too.

  I slid around the corner, looked in the van’s passenger window. It had only front seats; the rest was storage.

  I opened the door. No alarm rang.

  All I found on the seat was junk—candy wrappers, empty cans and bottles, pieces of paper. Maybe the radio, if I could sell it—how do you take one out?

  Then I heard voices and saw the skinny guy standing on the corner, his back to the van. Talking to a short girl with yellow hair with a pink streak through the middle of it. She might’ve seen the van if she looked at it, but she was paying attention to him. It looked like they were arguing. He turned.

  Too late to jump out.

  I jumped in, closed the door, threw myself in back, and hid behind the drums. They were half covered by this thick sheet of black plastic and I got under it, knocking my bones against metal. It really hurt; I had to bite my lip not to cry out.

  The plastic was cold and smelled like bleach.

  The back door opened again and the van shook as something landed near me.

  Slam. Another slam.

  I heard the girl’s voice from up front: “You guys were hot.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No really, I mean it, Wim.”

  “We sucked and everyone knows we sucked, so don’t bullshit me—did you bring my jacket?”

  “Uh . . . sorry, I’ll go back and get it.”

  “Shit! Get in there fast!”

  Another open and slam.

  Cough. “Fucking witch . . .” The motor went on and the metal floor beneath me started to vibrate and I tried to hold on to something so I wouldn’t roll, but the drums were round and I didn’t want to make noise so I pressed against the floor like a spider.

  The radio went on. He tried a bunch of different channels, said “Fuck this shit!,” turned it off.

  A rubbing sound, then a click, and I smelled something familiar.

  Weed. Back in the trailer I went to sleep with my nose full of it, wondering if it would give me brain damage.

  Slam. “Here you go, honey.”

  “Do you know what that is? Lambskin from fucking Mongolia or Tibet or some place. And those nailheads are, like, hammered by hand and put in by blind peasants who say special prayers or something—I gave my fucking blood for that, and you leave it in there! Shit!”

  “I’m sorry, Wim!”

  They both smoked. No one talked. The motor was running, and I was just pressing my fingers to the floor, trying not to move or breathe, wondering where this was going to take me. No way out, because the drums blocked the back door.

  At least it was warm.

  She said, “Gimme another taste—ah, that’s good shit.”

  “Hey, don’t give it a blow job—give it back.”

  “Where you wanna go, Wim?”

  “Where? Europe—where the fuck do you think? Home, I need to crash.”

  “You don’t wanna go over to the Whiskey?”

  “Fuck no, why would I wanna do that?”

  “You said—remember?”

  “Huh?”

  “Before we left we were talking, you know, maybe like afterwards we’d check out the Whiskey, someone you know might be there, maybe you’d jam—”

  “That was then, this is now . . . someone I know. Right. Knowing is fucking bullshit. Doing is the name of the game and tonight we did fucking nothing—man, I can’t believe how bad we sucked. Skootch was, like, brain-dead and that guy in the second row I’m pretty sure was maybe from Geffen and he left early—fuck, I’m gonna die without being famous!”

  “You will be fam—”

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  The van started moving, going awhile—south—then turning right, which meant west again. Wim drove angry, speeding, making sharp turns, fast stops.

  It took a while for the girl to talk again. “Hey, Wim?”

  Grunt.

  “Wim? What you said before?”

  “Whuh?”

  “About not giving head to the joint? But there are other joints, right?” Giggle.

  “Yeah, right, I had a triumphant night and now I’m ready to be romantic—just shut up and let me get us home—I can’t believe how bad we sucked!”

  After that no one talked at all.

  I tried to follow each turn, drawing a map in my head, but with all those turns I lost track.

  Finally, he stopped and I thought, I’m cooked. He’s going to get his drums, find me, take his anger out on me.

  I felt around under the plastic, wanting something to swing with, touched cold metal, but it wouldn’t come free. Totally cooked.

  Open. Slam. Footsteps. That got softer. Disappeared.

  I got out from under the plastic. The van smelled like one big joint.

  It was parked on a quiet street full of apartments.

  I climbed into the front seat, unrolled the window. This could be anywhere. Maybe he’d even taken me back to Hollywood. The air outside was cold, so I crawled in back again, managed to pull the black plastic sheet loose, folded it, tucked it under my arm, returned to the front, and got out.

  A new smell.

  Salt. A fishy salt.

  Once when I was little, Mom took me to the beach, a long bus ride from Watson. I don’t know exactly what beach it was and we never went back there, but the sand was smooth and warm and she bought snow-cones for both of us. It was hot and dry and crowded and we stayed there all day, me digging holes in the sand, Mom just sitting there in her bikini listening to the radio. She didn’t bring any sunscreen and we both got burned. I’m lighter than her and got it worse, turning blistery, feeling like my whole body was on fire. All the way back on the bus I screamed, Mom telling me to be quiet, but not like she meant it—she was pink as bubble gum, knew the pain was real.

  Back in the trailer, she tried to give me wine, but I wouldn’t take it, the smell bothered me, and even though I must have been only four or five, I’d seen her drunk, was afraid of alcohol. She tried to force me, pushing the bottle up against my lips and holding one of my hands down, but I just kept twisting my head, pretending my mouth was glued shut, till finally she left me alone and I just lay there, every inch of my body roasting while she finished the wine herself.

  Smelling the salt, I remembered all that.

  And more: Mom sitting on a towel; her bikini was black. Maybe she was hoping some guy would notice her, but no one did, probably ’cause of me.

  So here I was. The beach.

  Nowhere to go after that.

  CHAPTER

  35

  Still no answer at Greg Balch’s office. Petra decided to eyeball the place.

  At 6 P.M., she drove out of the station lot, picking up Cahuenga at Franklin and taking it over the hill.

  Studio City was the Valley, but to her it had always seemed un-Valley-like. North of Ventura Boulevard, the neighborhood was the usual grid of anonymous apartment tracts, but to the south were pretty hills up to Mulholland, winding trails, stilt houses that had survived the quake. The commercial mix along Ventura was a little shabby in spots, some strip-mall development, but also plenty of antique shops, recording studios, sushi bars, jazz clubs, a few gay bars—definitely funkier than the rest of the Valley.

  Nothing avant-garde about Player’s Management’s home base, though. The company occupied a dreary two-story bo
x the color of chocolate milk, set back from the street and fronted by a parking lot. Weeds whiskered through the asphalt, gutters sagged, stucco corners were chipped. H. Carter Ramsey wasn’t much of a landlord.

  Balch’s black Lexus was the only vehicle in the lot. So he was in, not answering the phone—orders from the boss to discourage the media? She peeked inside the car. Empty.

  Two tenants took up the ground floor of the chocolate cube, a travel agency sporting the green tree flag of Lebanon and advertising discount flights to the Middle East and a wholesale-to-the-public beauty-supply store. Both closed.

  Rusting open steps on the right side climbed to a cement walkway, and three mustard-colored doors were in need of refinishing. Suite A housed Easy Construction, Inc.; B was something called La Darcy Hair Removal; and tucked in back was Player’s Management. No windows on the west wall. Oppressive.

  She knocked, got no answer, knocked again, and Balch opened.

  He was wearing a black zip-up velvet sweat suit with white piping and looked genuinely surprised to see her. Odd. Ramsey had to have called him. Maybe he was an actor, too.

  “Hi.” He offered a soft hand. “C’mon in. Detective Conners, was it?”

  “Connor.”

  He held the door for her. The suite consisted of two low-ceilinged rooms connected by a door, now open. The rear space looked bigger, messy. Piles of paper all over the cheap green carpet; take-out cartons. The front room was furnished with a gold couch and a scruffy oak desk piled with yet more paper. Flagrantly grained fake rosewood walls were covered with photographs, mostly black-and-whites, the kind you saw at every dry cleaner’s in town—big airbrushed smiles of stars and has-beens, dubious autographs.

  But only one celeb in these. Ramsey as cowboy, police officer, soldier, Roman centurion. An especially ludicrous shot of young H. Cart decked out like some kind of space alien—plastic body suit armored by exaggerated pecs, rubbery-looking antennae protruding from his puffy sixties mop-top. No mustache; wide, white, hire-me smile. A passing resemblance to Sean Connery. The guy had been a looker.

  A color photo at the top showed Ramsey decades later dressed in a nifty sport jacket, turtleneck, looking flinty, striking an action pose with a 9mm. Dack Price: The Adjustor. She should probably watch the damn show.