He reaches out and touches my shoulders. “Don’t worry, you’re safe with me.”
He means it. It makes me feel good.
Why does it also make me bend over, so low my forehead’s almost touching the floor and now my eyes hurt, too, and I can’t stop myself from rocking back and forth and my body’s shaking and I’m crying.
Like a damn baby, I just can’t stop it!
With everything that’s happened, why cry now?
CHAPTER
55
Wil Fournier returned from Schoelkopf’s office, thinking, Could have been worse.
The captain had been irritable but distracted, a meeting this afternoon with Deputy Chief Lazara. “Including your case, which I assume is stagnating.” Schoelkopf’s face started to redden.
Wil headed him off by volunteering the Russian’s tip.
“When did this come in?”
“Late last night. The guy’s a lowlife, I figured I’d do some checking on him first—”
“Check later, it’s a solid tip and I want you back in Venice, searching for the kid. Where’s Barbie?”
Wil wondered about that himself. “Don’t know.”
Schoelkopf glared at him. “Tight team you guys are running. How’s Ken’s wife?”
“I imagine she’s being operated on right now, sir.”
“She’ll probably be okay, young woman like that—okay, back to the beach, Fournier. If the kid’s there, I want him found.” Schoelkopf picked up his phone.
Straight to the media. No one could see him, but he’d put on a media smile.
Before leaving for Venice, Fournier followed up on the two tips from Watson. Nothing new from one old woman, but the second, a Mrs. Kraft, said she was pretty sure the boy lived in a trailer park on the south end of town.
“Low-class place,” she said. “They started it years ago for retired people, but trash moved in.”
“The boy’s family is trash?” said Wil.
“If he lives there, they probably are.”
“But you don’t know a name?”
“No, sir, I’m just saying I think he lived there because I think I seen him around there. When I was out with my dog. My dog’s a sweetie pie, but the boy didn’t come near Jet, like he was afraid of animals. This happened twice. I’m not sure it’s him, but I think so.”
“Okay, thanks, Mrs. Kraft,” said Fournier. “What’s the name of the trailer park?”
“Sleepy Hollow,” she said. “Like that book, the ghost story.”
He called the Watson sheriff and got a busy signal. Could you believe that? Just as he tried again, Brian Olson, the D at the next desk, waved at him. “Someone for you on my line.”
Fournier went over to Olson’s desk and Olson used the break to get coffee.
“Fournier.”
“Detective? This is Sheriff Albert McCauley from Watson, California. Woulda got back to you sooner, but I was attending a firearms conference up in Sacramento. Ever been to one of those? Very educational.” Low, drawling voice. Plenty of free time.
“Not yet,” said Wil.
“Educational,” McCauley repeated. “So. What can I do for you?”
Fournier had left detailed messages. What was this, Mayberry RFD? He told McCauley about the boy and the trailer park.
“Runaway, huh?” said the sheriff. “Yeah, the Hollow’s a scruffy place. Not much crime, though. Anywhere in Watson, for that matter. Quiet here. Only real problems we get is when the migrants blow in and hit the tequila.”
The kid had run from something, thought Fournier. “If you could check, Sheriff—”
“Sure, no problem. Got some things to catch up on first, then I’ll go over and talk to the Hollow manager, see if he can ID this boy. You say it was in the L.A. paper?”
“Two days ago.”
“Don’t usually read the L.A. papers. Not too friendly to law enforcement, are they?”
“Depends,” said Wil, noncommittal. “I can fax you the drawing.”
“Sure. Do that.”
Wil thanked him again and hung up, resolving to call the Sleepy Hollow manager himself if he didn’t hear back from McCauley by late afternoon.
He spent another two hours following up with shelters and social workers, and headed west, having lunch at an Italian place on the Third Street Mall in Santa Monica, then drove to Venice.
A beautiful afternoon at the beach was wasted talking to shopkeepers, restaurant managers, old folks, bodybuilders, Rollerbladers. Tourists who looked at him like he was crazy. Some people were scared of him, despite the suit and a flip of the badge. Black skin. Maybe one day he’d get used to the reaction, but probably not.
Sleazeball Zhukanov was back behind his souvenir counter, and the first time Wil passed the stand he ignored the Russian’s hostile stare. On the way back, he stopped, asked Zhukanov if he’d seen anything.
The Russian shook his head and pushed stringy hair out of his face. Greasy face full of pits. Pus pimple in the fold of his left nostril. Zhukanov’s beard was a poor excuse for facial hair, unevenly trimmed, a blemish, not an adornment. The guy didn’t believe in deodorant, either. Who’d buy toys from him?
Zhukanov’s eyelids drooped. “Not yet, but I keep eyes open.”
“Do that.” Wil started to walk away.
Zhukanov said, “How can I call you without number?”
Wil fished out a business card and placed it on the counter, ignoring Zhukanov’s outstretched palm. Hatred filled the Russian’s eyes. He picked a troll doll off the rack and put the tiny figure’s neck between two fingers. Wil left, wondering if he’d decapitate the thing.
It was already 6:30 and he was due at the Cave by 8 for Val Vronek’s signal about the fat biker’s arrival. The value of that seemed less than iffy, probably just another fool out for the twenty-five thou, but digging dry wells was part of the job.
He called into the station. Nothing from Sheriff McCauley, so either the Watson lawman had checked out Sleepy Hollow and located the kid in question or hadn’t bothered yet. Either way, Wil was annoyed.
The only message was from Petra, 818 area code. He returned it. The mobile customer you are trying to reach is either away from the vehicle or . . .
Obtaining a number for the Sleepy Hollow RV Park and Recreational Facility, he phoned, got another taped message, another drawling voice.
Quiet place, McCauley had said. More like Zombie Town.
He called Leanna, asked her phone machine whether she was free for a late dinner tonight, let’s say nine-thirty, ten. Another try at Petra’s 818 cell phone, same outcome. It was nearly seven, and he was ready to kill the first machine he met. He walked along the beach, found a quiet bench, and sat down to enjoy the ocean for a while, watching the seagulls and the pelicans. He loved those pelicans, the way they just cut through the air, no effort, very cool birds. God, it was gorgeous here, if you concentrated on the water, forgot about the people.
Then he found himself turning around. Scanning the walkway. Just in case the kid happened by. Wouldn’t that be something, a precious accident. Unable to relax now, he found another bench, one that put his back to the water and his eyes on business.
At 7:45 he was on Hollywood Boulevard, drinking an Orange Whip at a snack stand a few storefronts down from the Cave. The nightcrawlers were already out. Punks, dopers, he-shes, she-hes, all kinds of its, more dumb tourists, small groups of marines on leave—those kids always got into trouble. With their shaved heads, they looked just like skinners; maybe some of them were. As he sucked down the sweet, freezing drink, he saw something that really cracked him up: pudgy girl, around nineteen, shaved head except for one of those rooster-comb deals, leading a guy of the same age around on a leash. Saying, “Get going, get going.” The guy was skinny, pale, mute, had a romantic smile on his face.
Fournier sipped a little more Whip, tossed the cup, and ambled by the Cave. Harleys were lined up in front of the bar. Even from here you could hear the music, some kind of country r
ock, way too much bass.
A half-open door offered a glimpse of dark room. Wil kept walking, made it to the corner, pretended to examine the cheesy clothes in a store window, turned around. When he reached the bar the second time, Val Vronek was coming out, all leathered and chained, looking almost as greasy as the Russian.
The undercover man paused just left of the doorway, lit up a cigarette, caught Wil’s eye for a half second. His left cheek twitched, and he gave his head a very small shake.
No Fat Boy.
Wil took a stroll. Fifteen minutes later, Vee communicated the same thing, made sure no one was watching, flashed ten fingers three times. See you in thirty.
Half hour later, still no sign of the guy. Val lit up a cigarette, walked to one of the Harleys, checked the chain lock, loped down the street to the corner. A few minutes later, Wil followed. He found the undercover D in the darkened doorway of an apartment building just off the Boulevard. Black windows, city condemnation notice on the door.
“Sorry. Guy was probably full of shit,” said Vee. “Or maybe he watches TV.”
“What was on TV?”
“Your kid, didn’t you see it?”
“Haven’t been sitting in a bar all day.”
Vee smiled. “Six o’clock news, Dubba. Some tipster put him in Venice. Maybe Fat Boy decided I wasn’t worth dealing with and went there straight.”
“Just came from Venice,” said Wil. And the tipster. Had any of the bikers on the walkway matched Fat Boy’s description? No, he would have noticed that. He hoped.
Vee said, “If he shows up, I’ll call you. Gotta get back to scroteville.” His face was glassy with sweat.
“Hot gig?” said Wil.
“Hell would be a vacation, Dubba. And the smell’s something else. Not that you’ll ever get a chance to know, being dusky.”
Wil chuckled. “Hey, membership has its privileges.”
Leaving Vronek his beeper number in case Fat Boy showed up, he drove home, wondering if Leanna had called back. Maybe she’d tried his apartment, thinking him back already. Logical, it was nearly nine-thirty—he’d sure given the citizens full service today.
The beep came just as he pulled into his driveway.
He read the number. Sheriff McCauley. Gee thanks, pard, finally moseyed on down to the ol’ Holler, didja?
Collecting his mail, he entered his ground floor flat, checked the phone. No Leanna. Uncapping a bottle of Heineken, he called McCauley.
“Complications,” said the sheriff. No more drawl; none of that country-bumpkin friendliness. “Got a tentative ID on your kid. The manager ID’d him. Name’s Billy Straight. William Bradley Straight, twelve years old, approximately five feet, seventy-five, eighty pounds. No one’s seen him for months. The mother was unemployed, living on welfare, always months behind on the rent. No father that anyone’s ever seen. Not a good situation, but the boy never gave any trouble.”
Gone for months, but no one in peaceful, quiet Zombieville had bothered to report it, thought Wil. Even country lanes could be mean streets.
“What did the mother say about his disappearance, Sheriff?”
“That’s the complication. When I went over to talk to her, I found her dead in the trailer, looks like a couple days or so. Contusions to the occipital portion of the skull, some lividity, beginnings of rigor, some blowfly maggots. The trailer was hot, probably hastened the process, but neighbors saw her two mornings ago, so that helps fix the TOD.”
Bye-bye, Andy Griffith; hello, Quincy.
“. . . there was blood on the edge of a dresser, so it looks like she fell backwards and hit her head on the counter. Or was pushed—she’s got some old bruises on her, too. There was a boyfriend living with her for a while, and all of a sudden he’s gone. Biker type, loser with a petty record—we got an ID on him, too, from fellows at the local bar. Buell Erville Moran, white male, thirty years old, six-one, two-ninety—”
“Brown hair, blue eyes, reddish muttonchop sideburns,” said Wil.
“You’ve got him?”
“No, but we want him.”
CHAPTER
56
There was enough skin on Estrella Flores’s face for Petra to make the ID. The maid’s throat had been slashed ear to ear, but no other wounds were evident. None of the overkill butchery visited upon Lisa.
Made sense, she supposed: Lisa was passion; this was snipping loose ends.
Balch or Ramsey? Or both? Neither was no longer a viable choice.
Dr. Boehlinger wanted to stay, but Sepulveda had Deputy Forbes drive him back to L.A., a match made in hell that caused Petra to grin inwardly despite the horror of the situation.
Poor Estrella. Talk about wrong place, wrong time. Still wearing her pink uniform. She’d probably been taken care of on Tuesday or Wednesday, driven up here on Wednesday.
Had to be late Wednesday or Thursday morning, the day Balch had been spotted leaving, because she’d interviewed him Wednesday evening and the Lexus had been parked in front of the Player’s Management building. Empty. Clean. In contrast with the mess in the office. Had the deed already been done? Had Estrella been lying in that trunk during the interview?
She and Ron stood back as the local techs worked, hustling to finish up before darkness changed the game. Ramsey’s Montecito spread was huge, the house old and stately, cream stucco and red tile, real Spanish, no bell tower, none of the crazy angles of the Calabasas castle. Giant oaks shaded the acre closest to the building. The landscaping took the shade into account: ferns, clivia, camellia, azalea. Lovely pathways of degraded granite had been laid out expertly.
The property dipped, leading the eye down to the pond, a hundred-foot disc of green water set out in full light. White and pink lilies claimed half the surface; flame-colored dragonflies zoomed past like tiny aircraft; a bronze heron stooped to drink. Cattails and more lilies in the background, yellow, white with amethyst centers. Petra could see the missing foliage that had tipped Dr. B. to the grave.
Precise eyes indeed.
The techs were concentrating on the black Lexus. The interior was onyx leather; black carpeting covered the trunk. Not the easiest surfaces for spotting bloodstains, but one of the criminalists thought he saw a patch the size of a dime on the inside of the trunk door, and Luminol confirmed it. Nothing on the car seats, but the test brought up Rorschach-like blots of blood all over the carpet.
“I’d say about a pint,” said Captain Sepulveda. “If that. Meaning he killed her somewhere else, wrapped her in something, and it leaked out. Then he shampooed the trunk—I could smell it. Figured if it looked clean, it was.”
Talking softly. Unhappy about being drawn in. Petra wondered if he’d ever been a homicide D.
He said, “We better get some warrants for the house and the grounds—who knows what else is out here.” He turned to face Petra, and his slit eyes must have focused on her, though she couldn’t see enough iris to tell. “I’m going to talk to a judge right now. What’s next for you?”
“Balch drove the car up here, so he’s obviously a suspect,” she said. “I’m calling this in to my captain, asking to put out a warrant. Whether or not Balch was working for Ramsey remains to be seen, but I don’t doubt this murder’s related to ours. I need Balch and Ramsey located ASAP.”
Telling, not asking.
“Fine,” said Sepulveda. “I should be back within the hour. Any questions, talk to Sergeant Grafton.” He indicated a slim, attractive, dark-haired woman in plainclothes taking notes by the side of the pond.
He left, and Ron handed Petra the cell phone. She phoned Wil Fournier first. Away from his desk. She left the number. Schoelkopf was out, too—meetings all afternoon—but she convinced a clerk to track him down. He called five minutes later.
“I was with Lazara, this better be good.”
“Seems pretty good to me, sir.” She told him.
“Shit—okay, we pick up both of them pronto.”
“Ramsey’s hiding behind Lawrence Schick.”
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“I know that, so we yank the bastard the hell out from behind Schick’s skirts. Just to talk, not an arrest. You stay there, be an eagle eye, don’t lose control of the situation. And keep the goddamn phone line open.”
“Balch lives in Rolling Hills Estates,” said Petra. “His office is in Studio City. I’ve got both addresses.”
“Go.”
She read off the numbers. Schoelkopf clicked off.
Ron said, “I should call in, too. Hector, and my mom. We’re not getting out of here for a while.”
She returned the phone. Nifty little Ericsson. “Is this private gear or department?”
“Private.”
“I’ll reimburse you.”
He smiled and punched numbers. The Lexus was being winched to a tow truck; techs were setting up tape and post perimeters near the burial site; Sergeant Grafton paced off the area, pointing and instructing.
A Santa Barbara County coroner’s station wagon drove up and two men in white got out with a folding stretcher. Estrella Flores’s corpse was small. Those bowed legs, the gaping throat wound exposing a corrugated flash of trachea.
Ron couldn’t find De la Torre, but he connected with his mother, and Petra walked away to give him privacy, thinking about the call she’d have to make to Javier Flores. Schoelkopf had ordered her to keep the line open. To hell with him. It was Ron’s phone; let the department buy her one.
The tow truck backed out, manipulating the Lexus around oaks. Moments later, the coroner’s guys carried the body to the wagon and followed. The garden looked trampled, fronds and leaves bent over, broken. Petra smelled a hint of ocean, Pacific currents managing to make it this far inland. Lilies swayed. The yellow tape danced.
Ron came back and gave her the phone.
“Well,” she said, “it started out as a nice day.”
“Still is.” He moved closer to her and his fingers touched hers for a second. Taking hold of her index finger, he squeezed gently and let go. He was staring straight ahead. Drummer’s hands tapped a beat on the side of his thighs, but his eyes seemed serene.
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