Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor)

by Jonathan Kellerman

  This was a Jewish place, but it was still a church, so maybe God was here, too.

  I’d tell him all that if he caught me.

  No I wouldn’t, I’d yell and scream and run to the bathroom, lock myself in, get that window up.

  I remembered what Moron said about Jews being out to kill Christians . . . that’s got to be crazy, but what if . . .

  Now he’s farther away. Back and forth, back and forth—what’s he doing?

  Uh-oh, he’s coming closer again. I hear rattling—he’s shaking the silver bottle. Now it sounds like he’s scraping the top of the table—probably cleaning up the cracker crumbs . . . now he walks away. Maybe he’ll see no one stole anything and just leave—

  Now he’s walking back—

  The door opens.

  I don’t jump out and yell.

  I just push myself harder into the corner.

  A face stares at me. An old face, kind of fat. Glasses with thick black frames, a big nose, red, kind of big ears.

  A funny-looking old guy. He steps back. He’s wearing old guy’s clothes: a white shirt and baggy light blue pants and one of those zippered tan jackets. His fingers are really thick and his hands look too big for the rest of him.

  He doesn’t look mad. More surprised. I keep pushing myself into the corner. The wood is hard against my back and my butt, but I can’t stop pushing.

  He steps back some more, says, “It’s okay,” in a deep grumbly voice.

  I just sit there.

  “It’s okay. Come on out, I don’t bite.”

  Then he peeks in closer, smiling, showing me his teeth, like trying to prove they’re not for biting kids. The pervert grandpa smiled that way, too.

  He’s giving me room to get out, but I can’t move, I just can’t move.

  He starts saying it’s okay, if I’m hungry I should eat right, not junk.

  I figure if he gives me troubles I can just push him down. Even with those big, thick hands, he’s an old guy.

  Finally, my body relaxes and I crawl out. He grabs my arm and he’s pretty strong and I try to kick him and he lets go and I run to the front of the synagon, but the door’s locked with one of those locks you need a key for so now I’m stuck.

  I go back. He’s sitting down on a church bench. He laughs, holds out a box of chocolate doughnuts, tries to give it to me, but no way will I get close enough to him to take it.

  Not just because he’s Jewish, because he’s a person and you can’t trust anyone.

  He starts talking again, telling me he’ll unlock the back door for me, I don’t have to crawl through the window.

  Then he pulls out money! Two twenty-dollar bills—forty dollars!

  What’s he trying to buy?

  I don’t take it, and he puts it down on the floor along with the doughnuts and gets up and unlocks the door and goes to the bathroom.

  I grab up everything and race out of there.

  Outside, I breathe again. Inside my pocket, the money weighs a ton and the first doughnut I eat, walking through the alley, tastes fantastic. I eat another one. Then my stomach starts to hurt, and I decide to save the rest for later.

  Stores are opening and more people are walking and skating, and the first thing I do is buy a hat, a Dodgers hat with an adjustable band in back. I fit it to my head and bend the brim over my face so it’ll keep the sun off, and also to hide it.

  Because buying it is a strange experience. The place I find it is this little shack a ways up from the synagon. The guy who sells it to me is ugly, with bad skin, mirrored sunglasses, and long greasy blond-and-gray hair. He looks at me funny. Like he knows me.

  I guess he could be from Hollywood, but I never saw him before. He’s got a weird accent, like a bad guy from a spy movie—Russian, he sounds like a Russian spy.

  So why’s he looking at me like that? I mean, I can’t be sure he really is, because of the mirrored sunglasses. But it seems like he is—the way he turns his head toward me and just keeps it there. Taking a long time to give me my change.

  As I turn away, he says, “Hey, you, kid,” but I leave, pushing the hat down over my face. When I turn around a few moments later, he’s in front of the shack, still looking in my direction, so I duck between some buildings and walk through the alley a little, then back to Ocean Front, too far for him to see me.

  The ocean has turned pure blue, and my bones finally feel warm. I smell corn dogs and popcorn, know I have money to buy them, but I’m still full from the crackers and the doughnuts. All these people, and I’m walking along with them, like it’s a moving sidewalk and we’re all together doing some dance; no one’s bothering anyone.

  The corn-dog smell makes me feel I’m at a carnival. I was at a school carnival once. Had no money to buy corn dogs or anything. This feels like a warm bright dream.

  I reach the end of the walkway and there’s no place to go but sand.

  The whole beach is like the end of the world.

  I figure I’ll try the other end, turn around, walk for a while, until I spot the ugly Russian guy coming my way. He’s in the crowd, but he’s not part of it. Everyone else seems to be having a good time. He looks angry. And his eyes are all over the place. Looking for something—me?

  Another perv?

  I don’t want to find out. Slipping back over to the alley, I walk back in the direction I came from, checking over my shoulder a few times. I see a couple of people, but not him. Then the alley’s empty again and here’s the synagon. There’s a huge old white Lincoln Continental with a brown top parked there. Must be the old guy’s.

  Jew canoes, Moron called them. Cadillacs and Lincoln Continentals.

  Soft cars, he used to say, for soft people.

  But the old guy had a strong grip.

  The way he just gave me all that money—forty dollars, like it was nothing. So the Jews are rich. But he didn’t want anything from me.

  Maybe I can get some more money from him.

  I’m still out in the alley thinking about it when he comes out, sees me, and gives a surprised smile. He’s really short. This time I notice that his teeth are too white; they have to be false.

  Mom had some false teeth made up for the back of her mouth where the rotten ones fell out, but she never put them in and her face started to get saggy.

  He holds out his hands, like he’s confused.

  “What?” he says. “You already spent it all?”

  CHAPTER

  43

  Stu let her comfort him, then, abrupt as a power failure, he broke the embrace. It was the first time they’d ever touched.

  “Back to work,” he said.

  Back at their desks, he told her, “I heard from one of my studio sources.”

  Scott Wembley had called last night. He gave her the basics, leaving out the whining in the A.D.’s voice: “It’s no big deal, Detective, but you said call for anything.”

  “What do you have, Scott?”

  “A few of us were sitting around schmoozing and Ramsey came up and someone said they thought his show sometimes shot in Griffith Park. Mountain areas, the horse trails—it’s just across the freeway from Burbank.”

  “Recent shoot?”

  “I don’t know. That’s all I know.”

  “Who brought it up?”

  “Another A.D., and don’t ask me where she heard it from, ’cause I didn’t pump her—you said be subtle, right?”

  “Did she know this for a fact, or was she guessing?”

  “She said she thought so. Thought she’d heard it somewhere. It was like . . . casual talk. People giving their opinions.”

  “What kinds of opinions?”

  “One, really: Ramsey’s the white man’s answer to O.J.”

  “Okay, Scott. Thanks.”

  “Thank me by leaving me alone.”

  Petra said, “So maybe Ramsey knows Griffith.”

  “But then why wouldn’t he pick a more secluded area of the park?”

  “Because then he’d have to drag Lis
a along on foot. Using the parking lot meant he could drive in, get out of the car, ostensibly to talk, then stab her by surprise.”

  “You think he planned it.”

  “I think at some time during their time together he planned it. Also, the car may have had some significance—psychologically. Ramsey collects cars, Lisa liked to have sex in them. Where better to end their relationship than in a parking lot?”

  “The perfect L.A. couple . . . good point. I like that.” He put his hands on the steering wheel. He’d shaved carelessly, missing a tiny waffle of blond hair below his right ear. “Be interesting to know if any Adjustor episodes match the murder.”

  “Life imitating bad TV?” said Petra.

  “These people have no imagination. Getting the actual scripts would take time, but I can scan a few years’ worth of TV Guides, see what comes up in the plot summaries.”

  “Fine,” said Petra. More busywork. He looked grateful to do it.

  Fournier entered the squad room, picked up a stack of message slips, and came over. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” said Stu. Nothing on his face to indicate this wasn’t just another day.

  Fournier waved the stack. “Took the liberty of burglarizing your desktop, Barbie.”

  “I’ll pay you later,” she said. “Anything new?”

  “Still nothing on the kid from shelters, do-gooders, or Juvey, but he didn’t just blow into town. I’ve got one nice lead—Korean guy runs the Oki-Rama on Western, says the kid bought food from him once in a while over a three-, four-month period. Always at night, he noticed, because the kid looked young to be alone at that hour, never talked except to order, never made eye contact, real careful about counting his change, every penny. ‘A little banker,’ the Korean guy called him. Said the kid also came by and swiped ketchup, mustard, mayo, thought he never noticed. And guess what: Last time the kid came in was Sunday night around nine. Bought a chili-burger.”

  “There you go,” said Petra, thinking about the boy on his own for three months. Managing his finances. Where’d he get the money? Where did he come from? “Let’s check the national runaway lines.”

  “Already faxed the picture,” said Fournier. “They’ve got tons of files, it’ll take time. Meanwhile, the Korean wants the reward.” He laughed. “Along with everyone else. Along with the greedy types are a few just plain wackos. I got an alleged clairvoyant from Chula Vista claiming some satanic cult murdered Lisa for her thymus gland. Seems there’s a new rage for thymus glands among the horned crowd.”

  “Lisa’s thymus was intact at the time of autopsy,” said Petra.

  “I told the lady she hadn’t won the jackpot. Didn’t know clairvoyants could cuss like that. One last thing: Schoelkopf blew in. They’re leaning on him from the top, and we are instructed to inform him immediately about anything remotely resembling a lead. Do we have one?”

  Stu told him the rumor about Ramsey’s show filming in Griffith.

  Fournier thought. “Nah, he can’t take that to the press.”

  “He actually made it to the squad room?” said Petra. “Among the great unwashed?”

  “For a whole five minutes, Barb. Turn up the heat and the grease spatters.”

  CHAPTER

  44

  A witness.

  How was it possible?

  He’d awoken this morning feeling pretty good about things. Stretched, yawned, made coffee, poured some juice. Opened the paper.

  And there it was.

  His bowels started churning.

  A kid?

  The article said maybe he’d been there; the police were developing other leads.

  Meaning the police didn’t know a damn thing or they were double bluffing, trying to draw him out.

  He didn’t do well with uncertainty.

  A kid? In the park at that hour?

  Maybe it was a bogus clue, a plant to flush someone out.

  No, not with a reward. If a false clue got some innocent kid picked up by some money-hungry idiot and the parents sued, there’d be big-time legal problems.

  So probably a real lead . . . but how would anyone know about the kid if he hadn’t come forward?

  Unless . . . some sort of physical evidence . . . had he left something behind?

  Funny thing was, after doing Lisa, he’d thought he heard something. Up behind those rocks. A rustle, a scraping, above the sound of his pumping arm.

  He allowed himself a moment of bliss: the look on Lisa’s face. Even in the darkness, he’d seen it. Or maybe he’d just imagined it.

  He’d convinced himself that he’d imagined the scraping. Had stopped, stood still, heard nothing, returned his attention to Lisa.

  So nice and inert.

  He had blood on his shirt but was careful to keep his shoes clean, because shoe prints could cause problems. Asphalt was good for that, too. Stay off the dirt. Before returning to the car, he took the shoes off.

  So careful, and yet . . . a kid up there that late . . . it made no sense. He stared at the picture again. White, looked to be eleven or twelve. Could be any of a thousand kids. If he existed.

  Even if they found him, what could he have seen in the darkness?

  No way his face had been visible in the darkness.

  Right?

  What about the car? A flash of license plate . . . there were some lights on the edge of the lot. Had he passed under them?

  He hadn’t worried about it, had assumed no one was there.

  If the kid did exist, why hadn’t he come forward? So maybe it was bogus . . .

  On the other hand, this could be a problem. Not a huge one— certainly nothing compared to Estrella, the evil-eyed bitch.

  Throwaway people; L.A. was full of them.

  A kid . . . consciously, he didn’t feel worried, but, Christ, his heart was hammering away like a bastard!

  He ripped the page out of the paper, squeezed it into a tight sweaty ball. Thought better of it and unfolded the picture. Tried to drink coffee, but it wouldn’t go down.

  Tried to cheer himself up by thinking of Lisa on the ground.

  True love never dies, but she had.

  So easily.

  The best part had been her surprise.

  Bygones be bygones, let’s hug. Then wham!

  Something quite different from a hug.

  “Quite different,” he said aloud, in a cultured British accent. David Niven voice—one of a thousand parts he’d never gotten to play.

  No one appreciated his talent.

  Lisa had, though, during the last second of her life. The look on her face: finally seeing him in a new light.

  You’re capable of this?

  He’d made sure to look in her eyes as he jammed the knife in and yanked up.

  One of those beautiful moments when everything came together. Best role he’d ever played. Just the two of them, dancing in the dark.

  The two of them and a kid?

  What could he have done to avoid it? Gone traipsing up in those hills, scattering blood and who knew what other kinds of forensic evidence all over the place? Even the LAPD nitwits might have found something.

  They’d found out about the kid. How?

  And now the reward. The old man throwing his weight around.

  Maybe the kid had been there earlier but left before he and Lisa showed up.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe—an old song, one of the doo-wop ones he loved. Some girl group, the Chantelles or the Shirelles.

  All that money would probably bring in nutcases. Bottom line was, LAPD didn’t have a clue.

  “Not a bloody clue,” he said in his David Niven voice.

  Not the sheriff’s clowns who’d showed up the first day or that pair from the police department. Bishop, strong and silent, yielding center stage to Connor.

  Ms. Detective. Those long legs. No chest, but still, that was some piece of poon. What was she, twenty-six, -seven? That dark hair and pale skin. The kind of long, lean body that might look too bony naked but was okay with
clothes on. He imagined her, white and smooth, not a scrap of fat on her, stretched out on a poolside lounge as she yielded to his hands, his mouth, his . . .

  Another time, another place . . .

  He laughed, stretched big arms.

  Not a clue, any of them.

  Except for this alleged kid?

  Who wasn’t coming forward.

  Because he didn’t exist?

  Out there that late, he had to be a street punk, a runaway—maybe his mind was blown from drugs or AIDS.

  Probably nothing to worry about.

  He sat there for a long time, trying to convince himself. Finally reaching the ugly conclusion: It needed to be taken seriously.

  He’d research it. Unlike the cops, he wasn’t bound by rules. Life had taught him to make his own rules.

  After all these years, it all boiled down to one: Take what you want.

  Like that night in Redondo, the German stewardess, sitting in that restaurant, arguing with that plug-ugly boyfriend.

  He studied them from the bar across the room, nursing a Hei-neken, wiping suds from his false beard, wondering what a girl like that saw in someone that repulsive.

  Noticing the girl because of her resemblance to Lisa. That boyfriend, a face like pigshit.

  He watched them, conjuring up beauty-and-the-beast sexual fantasies that failed to arouse him. Because it was clear that they weren’t getting along, glaring at each other, not eating much.

  Finally the girl got up and stomped out of the restaurant. Looking so much like Lisa—a bit taller, bigger tits, the lush body in that short blue dress, those tight, muscular legs as she marched offscreen.

  Pigshit tossed bills down and followed. Big guy, but soft, a sack of fertilizer.

  He watched them leave, paid for the Heineken, made sure no one was watching, and climbed down to the parking lot behind the restaurant, finding a vantage point behind his car. Pigshit was trying to get Blondie into his car, lots of hand gestures on both sides. Every time she moved, those tits bounced—from the way they responded, not an ounce of plastic. Chest like that on a skinny girl, you didn’t see it very often.