Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02

by Twisted

  “Including the Belgian,” said Petra.

  “The Belgian was already wearing a medal his envoy had given him. Velvet box and all. They must keep them in stock.”

  He rolled toward Petra. “I left before they got to me. Packed up and found a flight and here I am.”

  “When will you tell the department?”

  “Don’t know if I need to.”

  She stared at him.

  He said, “I’ve been thinking about leaving for a while. Except for you, I’m not happy. For a long time I figured I never would be happy but now I’m thinking there’s a chance.”

  He kissed her lips very lightly.

  She swung her arm over his shoulder, pressed his head down onto her breasts.

  “There’s more than a chance,” she said.

  “My quitting,” he said. “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Why would I mind? Who better than me to know what you mean about the job?”

  He thought about that.

  She said, “Any idea what you want to do?”

  “Maybe private work.”

  “Security?”

  “Don’t know,” he said. “Maybe basic p.i. stuff. I’ve had enough of politics.”

  “Don’t blame you.”

  “Think I’m crazy?”

  “Of course not,” she said, but she was still reeling. The contingencies. No more partnering. Not seeing him every day at work.

  Was there more to his discontent than the job?

  He said, “If I made a living at it, I could buy a house.”

  “That would be cool,” she said.

  “More space wouldn’t be bad.”

  “Not bad at all.”

  “The Valley’s probably all I could afford,” he said. “But maybe I could find a place with good natural light. I could set up a room for you. To paint?”

  “I’d love that.”

  “You’ve got major talent—have I ever told you that?”

  He hadn’t.

  She said, “Many times, my dear.”

  She pressed down gently and he nuzzled between her jaw and her collarbone. Her nightstand clock said 3:18 A.M. She’d feel dead tomorrow.

  “Maybe it’s stupid,” he said.

  “Do what makes you happy, Eric.”

  “I want to.”

  “Good night, sweetie,” she said.

  He was already asleep.

  When the phone rang, she bolted up and was surprised to find Eric in her bed. Oh, yeah, the airport, bringing him here, the horror . . .

  The damn thing continued to blare and Eric’s eyes opened and he propped himself on his elbows.

  Wide awake; his training. Petra was still woozy.

  5:15 A.M.

  She snatched up the receiver. “What!”

  “Oh, man, I woke you, sorry. It’s Gil, Petra.”

  Gilberto Morales, one of the night detectives, a guy she liked. She didn’t like him now.

  He said, “I figured I’d get a machine.”

  She grunted.

  Gil said, “I feel shitty, Petra. Normally I wouldn’t even bug you to leave a message but the desk guy was all hyped up. He came up here expecting to find you—you’re still on nights, right?”

  “The Paradiso thing’s been carrying me over to days and nights.”

  “And I screwed up your biorhythm. Sorry, go back to sleep.”

  She was up now. “What’s the desk guy have his shorts all bunched about?”

  “The Paradiso thing,” said Gil.

  When he told her the specifics of the message, she thanked him. Really meant it.

  Lyle Mario Leon, scamster of old people, last known roommate of Marcella Douquette and Sandra Leon and the prime suspect for multiple murder had phoned her three times.

  Every hour on the hour between two and four A.M. Needing to talk to her. Refusing to tell the desk officer why but insisting it was crucial.

  Finally, during his five o’clock call Leon mentioned Paradiso and Mr. Desk intercommed Petra’s extension, got no answer, went looking for her in the detectives’ room. Told Gil to try her at home.

  Eric said, “What’s up?”

  Too tired to answer, she stared at the cell number Leon had left. Probably a nontraceable rental. She punched the phone, got a recorded message:

  “This is A-1 auction services. Our offices are closed now, but . . .”

  Real urgent. Dammit! Probably some crank-yanker fueled by the news coverage . . .

  Or maybe she’d reached a wrong number.

  She tried again, got the same message, waited until it was finished and said, “This is Detective Connor—”

  “Good, it’s you,” a man’s voice broke in. “Thanks for calling back.” Smooth voice but not like Dr. Katzman’s. This guy sounded coached in Smooth, as if he’d taken voice lessons. Young-sounding, too. Lyle Leon was forty-one.

  Tensing with distrust, Petra said, “Who is this?”

  “Lyle Leon. You ran my picture all over TV so now we need to meet, Detective.”

  “Now?”

  “You nearly killed me.”

  “You sound pretty alive to me, sir.”

  “I’m not kidding,” said Leon. “You don’t understand.”

  “Educate me.”

  “I know who killed Marcella. Killed everyone.”

  He wouldn’t give details, insisted on a face-to-face, got progressively edgier as the conversation stretched. She told him to meet her at the station in an hour.

  “No way, too public. I can’t take the chance.”

  “Of what?”

  “Being the next victim.”

  “Of who?”

  “It’s complicated. Now that they know who I am, I’m a target. I’m scared shitless, not ashamed to admit it. I’ve done some things in my life but this . . . it’s a whole new game. I’ll meet you somewhere off the beaten path. With lots of space all around—how about a park?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Petra. “I just waltz into some dark park at this hour because you claim to be someone with information.”

  “I’ve got more than information, Detective. I’ve got all the answers.”

  “Give me a hint.”

  “I can’t risk that. I need to know you’ll protect me.”

  “From who?”

  Long pause. “Detective, I can solve your case, but we have to do this my way. How about Rancho Park—a relatively open area, right off Motor—”

  “Not possible, sir.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Leon. “Somewhere else, then. You make a suggestion. Bring other detectives with you, I don’t care about that. I just don’t want to be seen at the Wilcox station because for all I know they’re watching the place.”

  “Who’s they, sir?”

  Silence.

  “Your fellow Players?” said Petra.

  Laughter. “I wish. Them I could deal with.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Okay, not a park. But nowhere in Hollywood or in Venice.”

  “Why not Venice?”

  Leon ignored the question. “Would the Valley be okay?”

  “There’s an all-night coffee shop at Ventura near Lankershim.”

  “Too public . . . how about Encino?”

  “If you told me exactly what you are afraid of, sir, I could—”

  “You were there. In the parking lot, after the shooting. All those bodies. And you’re asking me that?”

  “Give me a name, sir. I’ll make sure that whoever—”

  “This is my final offer: There’s a Jaguar–Land Rover dealer in Encino, on Ventura, west of Sepulveda. Nearby is a felafel joint. It’s closed right now but they keep their benches out, chained to the ground. The car lot keeps its lights on so some of the benches are illuminated. I’ll wait on a dark one. When I see you approach I’ll step out with my arms up, so you can make sure this isn’t an ambush.”

  “Sounds pretty theatrical,” said Petra.

  “Life is theater, Detective. Say in an hour?”

&
nbsp; Petra knew the exact spot, she’d eaten there. No back alley approach, even with backup there’d be limits to how careful she could be.

  Sidewalk café. The similarities to Tel Aviv were creepy. But this was too good to lose. She’d figure out a way.

  She said, “An hour it is.”

  CHAPTER

  30

  Eric said, “Sure it could be an ambush.”

  “I call for uniform backup at this hour,” said Petra, “everything goes crazy.”

  “Maybe it needs to.”

  He’d watched her get dressed, hadn’t commented until she asked him what he thought about the call. Now he got out of bed, limped to the chair, and reached for his own clothes.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Backing you up.”

  “How long’s it been since you slept?”

  “Once I’m up, I’m up.” He turned his dark eyes on her.

  “It’s not necessary,” she said. “Mac Dilbeck’s the primary. I’ll call, let him decide.”

  “You’re the one the guy’s expecting.”

  “That’s only because my name was attached to the news story.” The story she’d provided.

  Eric finished dressing. “Where’s your extra gun?”

  “Stay here and rest. I can get plenty of backup.”

  “Like who?”

  “How about the Belgian?” she said.

  He laughed. Headed for her closet. Knowing where she kept her spare nine millimeter.

  She said, “I really am calling Mac.” Reached for the phone to prove it.

  “Mac’s a good man.” He found the automatic on an upper shelf, nestled in its hard-shell case, between two black sweaters. Found the black nylon holster she favored, adjusted the strap and set himself up.

  Petra said, “You really don’t need to do this.”

  “Yeah, but it’s fun.”

  She dialed Mac’s number.

  Ventura Boulevard at five forty-three A.M. was a dark and ghostly stretch buzzed by intermittent traffic. The Jaguars and SUVs in the fenced lot were gray mounds. Some grace time until the sun rose, but not that much. Which could be good or bad, depending on how this shook out.

  Mac Dilbeck arrived in his old Cadillac DeVille, parked two blocks west, as arranged, near a dormant medical building. He wore a navy sweatshirt, black slacks, dark shoes. First time Petra had seen him without a suit and tie. His hair was parted and brushed but white stubble clouded his chin. Luc Montoya arrived in a company car, an unmarked he’d taken home. Off the case, but this morning he was on it. Tense but smiling; this was more fun than yet another dummy-homicide.

  Eric’s presence elicited raised eyebrows from the two of them but no comment.

  Protocol called for blues, but this was the whole team. Four detectives, a quartet who rarely fired their weapons, filled their days mostly talking on the phone and filing paper. The Paradiso shooting had been a vicious drive-by. If this was a serious ambush, it could go beyond ugly.

  But Petra, having cruised by the felafel stand twice from the north side of the boulevard, was feeling relaxed. Neither she nor Eric had spotted anyone at or near the little kiosk. And Eric was a spotter.

  If the man claiming to be Lyle Leon was righteous and really scared, there’d be only one place to hide: behind the stand. No easy escape from there: a high block wall rose to the south, at least twelve feet of impediment. Beyond that, another half-acre of British car storage.

  No cars parked nearby, so if Leon was waiting for her, he had no simple flight plan.

  Mac reviewed strategy. Clipped, businesslike, that combat-sergeant manner of his. Petra would cross Ventura on rubber-soled shoes, approaching the stand from the north, her gun out but keeping it close to her body so as not to attract attention from the occasional motorist. Once at the building, she’d press herself up against the white stucco walls before announcing herself. Anyone behind the stand would have to slip around, show himself at least partially. The three other detectives, approaching simultaneously from east and west would be ready for trouble.

  No rescue word. There’d be no time to scream.

  The big question mark, as she saw it, was a drive-by from Ventura. Eric knew that and she could tell it bothered him. He kept quiet. She felt better knowing he’d be scoping out the boulevard.

  “You okay?” Mac asked her.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Feeling cool and competent, she walked briskly toward the kiosk. Before she got there a man stepped out from behind the building, arms in the air, fingers wiggling. Spreading his legs, he leaned against an outdoor table.

  Mac and Montoya swarmed him and Eric did the initial pat down.

  The guy said “A welcoming party” in that same smooth phone voice. “It’s so nice to be appreciated.”

  After the guy was cuffed, Eric patted him down again. That was Eric.

  Same long, craggy face as the mug shot.

  She said, “It’s him.”

  Lyle Leon wore a maroon Jacquard silk shirt tucked into baggy, cinch-waisted, black nylon cargo pants and lace-up boots with healthy heels. Like pirates used to wear . . .

  The eraserhead coif had been mowed down to a conservative bristle. No more soul patch and a little dark hole centered his right earlobe where the earring had once sparkled.

  The shirt was a work of art. Petra checked the label. Stefano Ricci. She’d spotted one of those in a Melrose vintage boutique. Five hundred bucks used.

  Leon smiled at her. Well-built and relatively clean cut. Bereft of cosmetic affectations, a good-looking guy.

  Eric handed her the fat wallet he’d found in a pocket of the cargo pants. Inside was a Cal driver’s license that looked real and fifteen hundred dollars, in fifties and twenties. The address on the license was a Hollywood Boulevard number Petra knew to be a mail drop.

  Leon said, “Can we talk now?”

  CHAPTER

  31

  The five of them piled into Mac’s Caddy and drove around the corner, to a residential side street. Nice, well-kept houses, a hint of daylight turned everything lilac-gray, almost pretty.

  Petra imagined some citizen spotting the old car, phoning it in, Hollywood D’s having to explain to a nervous Valley uniform.

  Lyle Leon sat sandwiched in back, between her and Luc. Good cologne—clean, laced with cinnamon. Trying to smile but his mouth wasn’t buying it.

  Definitely scared.

  Motivation. She liked that. “Tell us your story, Mr. Leon.”

  “Marcella was my niece. Sandra’s my third cousin. I was supposed to take care of both of them but it got out of control.”

  “Where are their parents?” said Petra.

  “Marcella’s father died years ago and her mother left.”

  “Left the Players?”

  Lyle said, “Can we keep them out of it?”

  “That depends on how the story goes.”

  “It doesn’t go there,” said Leon. “We’re thieves but we don’t hurt anyone.”

  Petra said, “Why’d Marcella’s mother leave?”

  “She said she needed space, ended up hooking in Vegas. Marcella was the youngest of four kids. One of my cousins took them all in. Later, it got to be too much and I got Marcella.”

  “What Sandra’s story?”

  “Sandra’s father’s in jail in Utah for another couple of years and her mother’s got mental problems. What’s the difference? I was put in charge of them and it got out of control. The problem was Venice. We went there last summer, then again this year. The deal was we’d be working Ocean Front walk a couple of hours a day, have the rest of the day to enjoy the beach. The girls loved it.”

  “Working how?”

  “Selling merchandise. Sunglasses, hats, tourist stuff.”

  From the front, Mac said, “You sell tourist junk while they pick pockets?”

  Petra felt Leon tense up against her shoulder. Mac was a vet but he was approaching this wrong. Challenging the guy. Leon was a con, maybe worse, but
let him talk.

  She said, “So you moved to Venice last summer?”

  Leon stayed tight. “Picking pockets is crude, sir. We practiced a time-honored American tradition. Buy low, sell high.”

  He’d been busted for selling useless house products to old people. Petra pictured fake gold chains that disintegrated into dust, sunglasses that melted in the summer heat.

  She said, “The girls loved Venice but it turned out to be a problem.”

  “Marcella met a person.” A beat later: “She got pregnant.”

  “And had an abortion,” said Petra.

  “You know about that.”

  “The autopsy showed it.”

  “I didn’t know an autopsy could do that . . . okay, so you know I’m telling the truth.”

  “About Marcella getting pregnant? Sure.”

  “The abortion,” said Leon, “was what started the problem. Supposedly. That’s not what he said the first time around. Just the opposite, he was furious she hadn’t taken precautions. I had to pay him off, he seemed fine with that. Then he showed up this summer, wanting to know where the baby is. I told him there was no baby and he went nuts.”

  “Who are we talking about?”

  “Omar Selden. A seriously bad person. Gangbanger, though you wouldn’t know to look at him. Half white, half Mexican, something like that. You’ll have him in your records, he did some time for robbery. But never for what he really did.”

  “Which was?”

  “Killing people,” said Leon. “Lots of them, according to what he told Marcella. Even if half true, he’s a monster.”

  “He bragged about killing to Marcella?”

  “It impressed her,” said Leon. “Stupid girl.”

  “Who’d this Selden kill?”

  “He claimed to be the head hit man for his gang—VVO. Said he’d also done freelance work in prison. A hundred bucks and he’d hit someone. I told Marcella it was bullshit ’cause that’s what I thought at the time. I was wrong.”

  VVO was Venice Vatos Oakwood. Tight band of low-grade psychopaths, supposedly inactive until last year when they’d resumed shooting people in broad daylight.