Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01

by Billy Straight

  Zhukanov floundered, found it, grabbed too low. Cold metal, a sting, grope-grope, finally he touched the warmth of wood.

  He yanked upward. Pushed the blade. No strength, not even a thrust, just a weak, womanish poke and—

  Must have missed, because the fat man was still choking him, cursing . . . gargling. And now the shaking had stopped.

  Now the bastard wasn’t making any sounds.

  A look of surprise on his face. The blubbery lips formed into a tiny O.

  Like saying, “Oh!”

  Where was the knife?

  Suddenly, the hand around Zhukanov’s throat opened and air rushed into his windpipe and he retched and choked; finally realized he could breathe, but his throat felt as if someone had used it for a lye funnel.

  The fat man was no longer facing him; he was flopped down on the counter, arms hanging over.

  Where was the knife?

  Nowhere in sight. Losing everything. Must be the vodka.

  Then he saw the slow red leak from under the fat man’s shoulder. No gush, no big arterial spurt, just seepage. Like one of those summer tides when the waves got gentle.

  He took hold of the fat man’s hair and lifted the massive head.

  The knife was still embedded in the guy’s neck, just off-center from the Adam’s apple, tilting downward. Diagonal slice through jugular, trachea, esophagus, but gravity was pulling the blood back down into the body cavity.

  Zhukanov panicked. What if someone had seen?

  Like the kid in Griffith Park, watching, thinking he was protected by darkness.

  But there was no one. Just this fat, dead piece of shit and Zhukanov holding his head up.

  A hunter with a trophy. For the first time in a long time, Zhukanov felt strong, territorial, a Siberian wolf.

  The only bad thing was the size of the bastard, and now he had to be moved.

  Letting the head flop down again, he turned off the lights in the shack, checked the cut on his hand—just a nick—vaulted over the counter, and scanned the walkway in all directions just to make sure.

  The stained-glass window in the Yid place was a multicolored patch in the darkness, but no old Yids out in front. Yet.

  Removing the knife, he wiped it with his handkerchief, then eased the corpse down to the ground. Wiping blood off the counter, he stuffed the kerchief into the neck wound. Having to roll it up into a tight ball, because the slash was only a couple of inches wide.

  Small cut but effective. Small blade—it was the angle that had done it, the fat guy leaning forward to strangle him, Zhukanov giving that little girly poke upward and then suddenly the guy’s weight had reversed the trajectory, forcing the knife down into his throat, severing everything along the way.

  Making sure the handkerchief plug was secure, he inhaled deeply and prepared himself for the tough part. Mother of Christ, his neck hurt. He could feel it starting to swell around the neckline of his T-shirt, and he yanked down, ripping some elastic. Looser, but he still felt like the fat guy was choking him.

  Another look around. Dark, quiet, all he needed was old Yids flooding out.

  Okay, here goes.

  Taking hold of the fat guy’s feet, he started to pull the corpse.

  The damn thing only budged an inch, and Zhukanov felt horrid pain in his lower back.

  Like dragging an elephant. Bending his knees, he tried again. Another vertebral warning, but he kept going—what was the choice?

  It took forever to get the bastard out of view, and by then Zhukanov was sweating, out of breath, every muscle in his body aflame.

  And now he could hear voices. The Yids coming out.

  He yanked, dragged, breathed, yanked, dragged, breathed, frantic to get the corpse well back from the walkway. Had he gotten all the blood off the counter?

  He rushed back, found a few stains, used his shirt, turned off the lights, and slammed down the shutter.

  Now he could hear them louder, old voices jabbering.

  He got the corpse halfway to the back of the shack. Stopped when his chest clogged up. Bent his knees again, resumed.

  Yank, drag, breathe.

  By the time he reached the alley, all he could hear was the ocean, no voices; all the Yids gone home.

  He dragged the corpse next to the shack’s garbage bins. Not a commercial Dumpster, because the boss was too cheap. Two wooden shipping crates that some Mexican illegals emptied every week for ten bucks.

  Okay . . . now what?

  Leave him there, concealed by darkness, fetch the car, load the bastard in it, and take him somewhere to dump—where did the West Hollywood guys go for that?—Angeles Crest Forest. Zhukanov had a vague notion where that was; he’d find it.

  Another forest. If the old man could see him now.

  David had finished off Goliath, and soon Goliath would be rotting in some gulley.

  No, wait, before that he had to triple-check for bloodstains—inside the shack and out, along the side of the shack, where the pig had been dragged.

  He’d get the car, load the guy, keep him there while he gave the shack a thorough going over. Ditch the knife, the clothes he was wearing. The nunchucks and the baseball bat, too? No. No reason to panic. Why would anyone connect him to the fat bastard, even if they found the corpse?

  Just the blood, the knife, his clothes.

  Get it done before sunrise.

  The guy would leak all over his trunk, but he’d clean it. Running it through again, he decided it was a good plan.

  He stretched, fingered the tender, hot flesh of his neck. Slow down, slow everything down, it’s over—why had the bastard invited trouble like that?

  Zhukanov thanked him for starting up. He hadn’t felt this good since leaving Moscow.

  Okay, time to get the car. He’d taken three steps when light caught his eye.

  The back door of the synagogue opening—someone still there!

  He pressed himself against one of the wooden bins, tripping over the corpse’s legs, nearly falling on his ass.

  Forcing himself not to curse aloud, he breathed through his nose and watched as an old Yid came out of the synagogue. Zhukanov could see him clearly, illuminated by the light inside. Short, thickset, one of those beanies on his head.

  The Yid reached in and the blessing of darkness returned. But just for one second, because now the guy was opening a car door.

  Not the driver’s door, the left rear door. Someone in back of the car sat up. Got out. Stretched. Just like Zhukanov had just done. The Yid talked to him.

  Shorter than the Yid—a kid.

  Hiding in back—had to be the kid. Why else would he be hiding?

  The right size, and he’d been lying low—who else could it be?

  The kid got back in the rear seat, lay down, disappeared.

  So he’d been here all along. Hidden by the Yids—made sense; twenty-five grand would make them come in their pants.

  We’ll see about that.

  The Yid’s car started up and the headlights went on. Staying in the shadows, Zhukanov ran toward it. The Yid started backing out just as Zhukanov got close enough to read the license plate.

  Bunch of letters and numbers. Zhukanov mouthed the magic formula soundlessly. At first his brain refused to cooperate.

  But the old Yid helped him, taking a long time to back the car out and straighten up, and by the time he finished, Zhukanov had it all memorized.

  No time to get his old car to follow. He’d write the number down, call the Department of Motor Vehicles. Giving out addresses was illegal, but he knew a clerk at the Hollywood branch, wiseass louse from Odessa who’d do it for fifty bucks.

  Given the payoff, an excellent investment.

  CHAPTER

  65

  By 10 p.m. the search of the Montecito house had turned up nothing.

  “The place is just about empty,” Sepulveda told Petra. “A little furniture in the living room and one bedroom; the rest of the rooms have nothing.”

  “Check
for secret passages?” she said, only half in jest.

  Sepulveda stared at her. “I’ll let you know if the Phantom of the Opera shows up.”

  She and Ron headed back to L.A. She’d been running up his cell-phone bill, talking to airline supervisors, some of them impressed by her title, others skeptical. So far no, no flights under Balch’s name had turned up, and a 9:50 call from Wil let her know he was meeting with the same results. Thoroughness would demand paperwork, the proper forms. Tomorrow. She was exhausted, angry at Schoelkopf for keeping the news about Balch under wraps.

  The kid he publicizes, but this scares him.

  She and Ron talked about it till they got to Oxnard. Bosses were always easy targets. When they reached Camarillo, the car turned silent and she saw he had his eyes closed.

  He awoke when she stopped the car in front of his house.

  “Rise and shine,” she said.

  He smiled groggily, apologized, then leaned over to kiss her.

  She shifted her hips in the seat and met him halfway. One of his hands passed behind her head, pressing gently. The other found its way to her breast. He was smoother when fatigued.

  He squeezed her softly then began to remove his hand. She held it in place. The next kiss lasted a long time. He was the first to pull away, and now he looked wide awake.

  She said, “Some first date.”

  “Second. The first was the deli.”

  “True.” She realized she’d thought of that as getting acquainted.

  He said, “Well, you’ve got plenty to do. I won’t keep you.”

  She initiated a third kiss. He didn’t try to feel her; kept both hands above the neck. Then he cupped her chin. With Nick she hadn’t liked that—too confining. He did it differently. She traveled his mouth with her tongue, and he made a small, baritone noise of contentment.

  “Oh, man,” he said. “I really want to see you again—I know it’s not a good time to be thinking about going out.”

  “Call,” she said. “If I say I’m too busy, it’ll be the truth.”

  He kissed the tip of her chin. “You are so pretty. The first time I saw you, I—” Shaking his head, he got out, groped in his pocket for his keys, and waved.

  “Wait,” she called out as he turned and started toward his front door.

  He stopped.

  “Your phone.”

  He laughed, returned to the driver’s side, took it.

  “Make sure you send me the bill,” she said. “It’s going to be huge.”

  “Sure,” he said. Then he kissed her again.

  Back on the 101, she could barely keep her eyes open. Exhaustion even in the face of all that adrenaline meant she was severely sleep-deprived. She’d go home, take some caffeine, squeeze in another hour or so of phone work, then enough.

  By the time she reached her apartment, it was 11:23. One message on her machine. She let it sit there, changed into a flannel nightie, and got extra-strong coffee going. Realized she still hadn’t called Stu. Too late now. She felt lousy. One day this case would be over, but Kathy’s experience would last forever. Would Stu remember her as being neglectful during his crisis?

  The message turned out to be him, phoning at 11:09, and asking her to call back up to midnight. The St. Joe’s operator was reluctant to put her through this late, but finally she heard Stu say, “Petra?”

  “So sorry for not calling sooner. How’s Kathy?”

  “Fine,” he said. “Resting.” Someone who didn’t know him would have thought he sounded okay.

  “Everything went smoothly?”

  “Very smoothly—they did a mastectomy. One breast. The surgeon says she’ll have total recovery.”

  “That’s great.”

  “I got through four years of TV Guide—”

  “Don’t worry about that, Stu. How can I help?”

  “Thanks, but we’re okay,” he said.

  “You’re sure? Do the kids need anything?”

  “Just their mom,” he said, and his voice changed. “They’ll get through it, Petra. We’ll all get through it.”

  “I know you will.” One breast . . .

  “Anyway,” said Stu, “how was your day?”

  Apart from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play? Keeping her at arm’s length. He’d cried once in her arms, probably vowed never to lose it again.

  “Actually, a huge amount of stuff hit the fan, Stu.” She told him about Estrella Flores, the bloodstained Lexus, Balch’s attempt to rabbit by charter. Then William Bradley Straight, ID’d but still unaccounted for, left without a mother.

  “Poor kid,” he said. “I leave you alone for one day, and look at all the trouble you get yourself into.”

  Everything coming together, and he had nothing to do with it. She wanted to tell him it was okay, but it wasn’t.

  “Balch,” he said. “He fits that well?”

  “As well as Ramsey does.”

  Stu didn’t pick up on that. He was the veteran. Maybe she should focus.

  “So we track Balch,” she said.

  “Any idea where he is?”

  “My bet is some other state or out of the country, but S. says we can’t publicize it, yet. Near arrest of an innocent man, and all that scared the hell out of him. But it’s nuts, right? With the Straight kid we go media-wild, but on Balch we’re gagged, giving him a head start. Oh yeah, something else: Karlheinz Lauch died a year ago, but the similarities between Lisa and Ilse Eggermann got me thinking. Eggermann was picked up in Redondo and dumped in the Marina. Balch lives in Rolling Hills Estates, right down the coast.”

  “A serial?”

  “Wouldn’t it be weird if he was some big-time creep and this is just the tip of the iceberg?”

  Silence. “The number-two man strikes out to achieve dominance . . . another inadequate psychopath.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hold on,” he said, and Petra heard him talking to someone. “That was the night nurse. Okay, what can I do to help?”

  “Right now? Just stay with Kath—”

  “She’s sleeping,” he said sharply. “I want to work tonight, Petra. What airlines have you checked?”

  “Wil and I split them up. We haven’t gotten through to some of them. They want paper. I figured—”

  “What about international carriers?” he said. “Does Balch have a passport?”

  “Don’t know—”

  “I’ve already made contact with the passport office on Eggermann. I’ll do international—and the domestic carriers you haven’t reached. You sound bushed, get some sleep. I’ll talk to you in the A.M.”

  CHAPTER

  66

  Let them think he’d rabbited to Vegas.

  Let them think they were dealing with someone stupid.

  It would help him tie everything up. He liked being neat.

  Not as bad as Lisa. She was compulsive, wanting everything just so. Irregularities set her off. That vicious mouth . . .

  She hated surprises. So he gave her one.

  The German girl too. Little stupid Sally.

  One more surprise left, and the stupid cops were making it a little easier, leaking “anonymous tips.” Venice Beach. Ocean Front Walk. Could the kid still be there? Maybe. Sometimes those runaways bunked down.

  How far could a street kid go? If he’d tunneled deep, could he be found?

  Should he forget about the kid? Was he overreacting? Obsessing? Sometimes he did that, like the way he’d worry a hidden pimple till it got infected and festered and he’d have to lance it himself, coat it with Neosporin, live with the pain. No one knew that about him.

  Maybe the kid hadn’t even been in the park. If he’d seen something, wouldn’t he have turned himself in, tried to collect the reward?

  But that assumed he read the papers, watched TV, knew what was going on in the world. Some of those kids were so stoned-out or brain-damaged, they didn’t have a clue.

  Not much of a witness. Should he just let it ride? Live with the uncertaint
y?

  He considered it for a long time. The idea bothered him. Big loose end.

  He could at least check it out. He thought a long time about how to do it without putting himself in danger, finally came up with the plan.

  Perfect. And ironic. The hardest thing to pull off, irony, according to the bullshit-artist acting coaches.

  What’s my motivation?

  Self-preservation.

  CHAPTER

  67

  Sam’s house has a living room, a kitchen, two bedrooms with a bathroom in between. I got a real bed. The sheets felt new. Sam slept in the other room, and I could hear him snoring through the wall.

  It’s only a few blocks from the shul, on what Sam calls a walk street. Instead of a road to drive through, there’s a sidewalk, maybe twice as wide as a regular one.

  “I should walk,” said Sam, driving there. “But at night there are too many nuts out.” He parks in an alley around the back.

  He’s got an alarm with panels on the front door and the door to the kitchen. I looked the other way while he punched the code, so he wouldn’t think I was up to something. He said, “I’m ready to hit the hay,” and showed me my room. On the bed were a new toothbrush and toothpaste and a glass.

  “No pajamas, Bill. Didn’t know your size.” He looked embarrassed, standing in the doorway, not coming in.

  I said, “Thanks. This is great. I mean it.”

  He clicked his teeth together, like his false teeth didn’t fit. “Listen, I want you to know I don’t usually have guests—never did before.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “What I’m getting at, Bill, is you don’t have to worry about something funny going on. I like women. Stick around long enough and you’ll see that.”

  “I believe you,” I said.

  “Okay . . . better get some sleep.”

  The bedroom is painted light green and has old, dark furniture, a gray carpet, and two pictures on the wall hanging crooked. One’s a black-and-white photograph of a woman with her hair tied up and a guy with a long black beard. The other one’s a painting of some trees that looks like it was cut out of a magazine. The room has that old-guy smell and it’s a little hot.