Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02

by Twisted

  Petra remembered one case Milo Sturgis had worked. Family man, clerk at a Good Guys store, mistaken for a VVO dropout and hit while strolling his two-year-old near Ocean Park. The baby spattered with blood, wide-eyed, mute. The shooter, a fourteen-year-old turned out to be learning disabled. Nearsighted, never taken in for a damn eye checkup.

  Lyle Leon said, “Once I paid him off, I thought we were free of him. The whole year I never heard from him again so I figured it was okay to return to Venice—the girls had really enjoyed the summer. Then stupid Marcella spots Selden on the walkway. I turn my head for a second and she’s winking at him. And he’s winking back, soon they’re off on the sand, talking. Couple of days later—couple of nights later—he drops by.”

  Leon shook his head. “You saw Marcella. Fat, dumpy, those stupid shoes she insisted on wearing. Sandra’s a hard-body, put her in a thong bikini, some Rollerblades, she’d turn heads. So who does Selden develop a thing for? Marcella. And Marcella falls for it.”

  Teenagers, thought Petra. Even scam artists couldn’t control them.

  Then she flashed on Leon’s leering description of Sandra and wondered where his head was at. Hepatitis A. Unhealthy sexual practices.

  Tension filled the car. Mac and the others wondered, too.

  “Sandra’s a hard-body,” she said.

  “Hey,” said Leon. “I’m being objective. Sandra could attract attention if she wanted to.”

  If he wanted her to. Using the girl as a distraction while he and Marcella pulled the scam of the moment. But Marcella had picked up an unwelcome admirer.

  She said, “Sandra has hepatitis.”

  Leon was silent.

  “You knew, Mr. Leon. You showed up with her at the clinic. Did you ever get her any serious medical help?”

  “It’s self-limiting. That’s medical talk for it goes away by itself.”

  “You’re a doctor, too,” said Petra.

  “Listen,” said Leon, “I took good care of those girls. For ten years, on and off, they lived with me and ate well and learned to read and I never touched them. Not once.”

  Petra recalled the cramped quarters of the Brooks Avenue shack. A grown man and two hormone-suffused girls.

  And the blue ribbon for fatherhood goes to . . .

  She said, “So Omar Selden and Marcella reignited their affair.”

  “It wasn’t an affair,” said Leon. “The first summer she snuck away to be with him and he fucked her silly. Idiot doesn’t use a condom and he’s amazed when she gets knocked up. For all I know, he shared her with his friends, wasn’t even the father. One thing he made painfully clear: He wasn’t going to be a father. He threatened me until I paid him off and promised to finance the abortion. Thousand bucks, out of my pocket. A year later, Marcella winks at him and he’s back. The week before the murder, I’m alone in the house ’cause I let the girls go to a concert, some new band at the Troubador. I dropped them off at ten, was supposed to pick them up at two A.M. By eleven I’m back in Venice, mellowing out. At eleven-thirty, the door explodes and Selden is standing over me. He kicked it in, is standing over me, saying where’s my son? Idiot assumed it was a son, all that macho bullshit. I told him there was no baby, I’d done exactly what he wanted. He says ‘No way, man, I never said that.’ I try to reason with him.”

  Leon sucked in his breath. His cheek twitched.

  “First I think he’s listening, then suddenly, he swells up—I swear you could see him inflate, like he’s hooked up to a bicycle pump. All red in the face, veins bulging, screaming that I’m a murderer.”

  A longer tremor, snakelike, coursed from Leon’s brow down to his chin. His lips trembled.

  “That’s when I realize he’s nuts. Last summer he was freaking out because she was pregnant, couldn’t wait for her to get rid of it. Now he’s screaming for his kid. I try to calm him down, he grabs my hair, yanks my head back, suddenly he’s got a gun out and he’s jamming it against my throat, grinding. It hurt like hell. He starts talking in this insane whisper about how he’s going to blow my tongue out for lying. Finally, I manage to talk him down.”

  “What deal did you make with him?” said Petra.

  Leon didn’t answer.

  “I’m sure you’re a persuasive fellow, Lyle, but charm alone wouldn’t talk a guy like Selden down.”

  Leon stared straight ahead.

  Mac said, “You did something you’re ashamed of. We can all live with that if this sad story leads somewhere.”

  Leon tightened up again.

  “The deal was,” he said, “that I’d let him have another go at Marcella. So he could knock her up again. Have his fucking baby.”

  No one spoke. The Caddy felt hot and close. Leon’s cinnamon cologne had turned sour, polluted by fear-sweat.

  He said, “I never intended to follow through. We made an appointment, for the following night, and the idiot left looking happy. The moment I was sure he was really gone, I packed all our stuff out of there, picked up the girls at the Troubador, and left.”

  “Where’d you go?” said Petra.

  “Another place.”

  “Where?”

  “We have places,” said Leon.

  “What kind of places?”

  “Houses, apartments, short-term rentals.”

  “Give us an address, Mr. Leon, or face a Hindering an Investigation charge.”

  Leon twisted to face her. “I call you and I’m hindering?”

  “You call us and tell us a self-aggrandizing story.”

  “I tell you how I screwed up and it’s self-aggrandizing?”

  “Stop echoing.”

  Leon said, “That’s what shrinks do and it works.”

  Petra got in his face. “You’re not a shrink! Give us an address now!”

  “Okay, okay . . . I took them to a place in Hollywood.” He recited an address on North McCadden. “If you go there, it’ll be vacant. I’m scared as hell, living out of my car.”

  The sympathy ploy. She said, “Then I guess you shouldn’t drive too far.”

  “Listen to me—” He touched her wrist. She glared and he pulled back. “Selden won’t let go of this. You saw what he did to Marcella. To those other kids. On top of that, I don’t know where Sandy is. The day after Marcella was killed, she disappeared. All she had to do was stay put in the apartment for one day, but when I got back she was gone.”

  “Back from where?”

  “I had business to take care of.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Getting some cash together, what’s the difference? The plan was for Sandy to wait and then we’d leave L.A. Instead, she split on her own.” Leon’s eyes shut. “I’m thinking, somehow she got spotted by Selden or one of his homeboys.”

  “Selden’s everywhere?”

  “He’s like a mad dog on scent. The thing that scares me is I don’t know how much Marcella told him. About where we stay, what we do.”

  “Maybe Sandra figured it was smarter not to stick around with you.”

  “No,” said Leon. “No way. She didn’t take anything with her. Not her clothes or her frog—she’s got a stuffed frog she sleeps with every night. I got it for her when she was little, told her it came from her mother. No way would she leave without it.”

  “She have any money?”

  “I always let her keep some in her purse. But not much. A hundred bucks, a hundred fifty.”

  Enough for a bus ticket.

  Leon said, “I’m scared she left for a short while, got abducted.”

  “Left for what?”

  Leon hesitated. “Sandra had gotten into stuff.”

  “Drug stuff?”

  He nodded. Downcast, every bit the failed parent. Then Petra remembered: The Players saw themselves as performers.

  “Which drugs?”

  “Weed, pills.”

  Petra said, “So you’re figuring she went somewhere to score dope, got spotted by Selden.”

  “Had to be. For all I know her sourc
e was someone who knew Selden and tipped him off.”

  “You’re making him sound like the Godfather.”

  “It had to go down that way,” Leon insisted. “There’s no other explanation.”

  “Unless you killed Marcella. Sandra, too.”

  The accusation didn’t ruffle Leon. “Why,” he said quietly, “would I do that?”

  “Maybe there’s more to your relationship with the girls than you’ve told us.”

  “Ask anyone,” he said. “Anyone who knows.”

  “Should I ask Robert Leon?”

  “You can try.”

  “Meaning he won’t talk to me.”

  “Robert will talk, but he won’t tell you anything.”

  “You visited him six weeks ago,” said Petra. “Was that to give him a report on the state of the business? How well you were taking care of the girls?”

  “We’re family. I visit.”

  “What does Robert think about Marcella’s murder?”

  “He’s not happy,” said Leon. “No one is.”

  “That put you in additional danger?”

  Leon shook his head. “Not physically. I told you, we’re not violent.”

  “Not physically, but . . .”

  Leon gazed at the Caddy’s dome light. “Financially. I’m screwed. I’m going to have to leave.”

  “The Players.”

  “I messed up too severely to be allowed to stay. That’s why I’m living out of my car. I can’t stay in any of their properties anymore. Which is fine, it’s time for a change. I don’t even want to be in California. Too crowded.”

  Mac said, “You’re very much going to be in California. Right here in L.A., friend. Material witness.”

  Leon nodded, dropped his head. “I knew this might happen but I had to come forward.”

  “In the interests of justice,” said Petra.

  “In the interest of getting the monster who murdered my niece and probably my cousin.”

  Before he gets to you.

  Leon said, “If you ever catch him and need a live witness, don’t lock me up.”

  “Stop being so dramatic,” said Petra. “We’ll put you somewhere safe.” Winging that one, movie stuff. She had no authority to make the promise.

  “Sure,” said Leon. “Sure, that makes me feel so comforted.”

  Mac said, “Cut to the chase. Where can we find Selden?”

  “Marcella told me he lived in the Valley. Panorama City. Went back and forth between there and Venice. If your gang people don’t have their heads totally up their asses, they’ll have files on him.”

  The Valley to Venice route, and something else Leon had said early, tweaked something in Petra’s consciousness.

  “Selden doesn’t look like a gangbanger. How so?”

  “No tattoos and he’s a fat-boy—soft. He told Marcella he went to college for at least a year, some government-funded gang-rehab thing. Maybe he did, when you first meet him he comes across not-stupid.”

  “He into photography?” said Petra.

  Leon tensed up tighter than ever. Struggled to make eye contact with Petra. “You’ve got him?”

  “Tell me about the photography.”

  Leon licked his lips. “That’s him. Carries around a camera, claims to be taking pictures. That’s how he hooked up with Marcella in the first place. Told her she was beautiful, wanted her to model. If she’d had any self-awareness, she’d have known he was bullshitting her. Sandy, that would’ve been a different story. She’s got great bones. And with black and white you couldn’t see the yellow in her eyes.”

  They took Leon back to the station, put him in a holding cell and found the mug books.

  One look confirmed it.

  Omar Arthur Selden aka Omar Ancho aka Oliver Arturo Rudolph. Gang monikers: Zippy, Heavy O, Shutterbug. Longtime VVO member.

  Petra had an aka that wasn’t in the files.

  Ovid Arnaz.

  The quiet young man she’d encountered on Brooks. In his four-year-old arrest photo for robbery he looked nondescript. The charge had been pled down to larceny and Selden had done three years.

  A year after his release, he’d met Marcella Douquette on Ocean Front Walk.

  Petra’s jaw ached as she recalled how smoothly he’d spun the story about renting the shack for a summer photography project. Claiming he’d been afraid to go out at night in a “sketchy” neighborhood.

  Knowing the name of the landlord. She’d verified Leon and the girls’ residency but not Arnaz/Selden’s.

  Meaning maybe he’d never even lived there.

  Meaning he’d watched her arrive from next door. Had probably been staying in the neighboring unit—an empty, moldering unit—so he could stake out Marcella’s digs. Hoping to spot Lyle Leon so he could finish the job.

  She’d had the bastard, right there.

  She remembered Selden’s reaction to Marcella’s postmortem shot. Not a trace of emotion.

  Claiming he’d seen it before. Visiting the coroner’s as part of a photojournalism class.

  She’d swallowed it whole, had barely glanced at his I.D., the Valley address he’d given her. The numbers matched a vacant storefront not far from the revitalized NoHo arts district. Plenty of galleries there, so maybe he really was into photography. The possibility didn’t make her feel one bit better.

  Mac said, “You couldn’t be expected to know.”

  But she’d seen happier faces at funerals.

  CHAPTER

  32

  THURSDAY, JUNE 20, 3:00 P.M., THIRD SUBBASEMENT, DOHENY LIBRARY

  It would help,” said Klara Distenfield, “if you could be a bit more specific about what you’re after and why.”

  Isaac, smiling up at her from his worktable, said, “Sorry, that’s all I can say.”

  “Boy,” said Klara. “Talk about high intrigue.”

  She was a senior research librarian, forty-one years old, bright and sophisticated, with thick calves, a soft, heavy bosom, long, wavy, flaming red hair that she barretted at the sides, and a peach-blush complexion.

  Klara had a soft spot for graduate students. Isaac’s reputation had preceded him, and the divorced mother of two gifted kids had made sure to be available when he had reference questions.

  Isaac had fantasized wildly about her, on and off, since the first time they met.

  Lately, Petra’s faced had nudged Klara’s out. Still, when he spotted her, filling out one of those flowered dresses . . .

  Today’s dress was pale green printed with white peonies and yellow butterflies, some sort of clingy material, not silk, trying to be silk . . .

  Klara said, “Earth to Isaac,” and flashed a generous mouthful of white teeth.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I know it sounds oblique, but I really can’t say more.”

  “Official police business, huh?”

  Did she just wink?

  He said, “Nothing exciting.”

  “Do they treat you well over there?”

  “Very well.”

  “Still,” she said, “it must be quite a contrast to here.” She motioned with one soft arm, taking in the book-lined stacks.

  “It’s different,” he said.

  Klara leaned against the table and nibbled on the eraser of her pencil. Her breasts swung, luxuriant, barely fettered.

  Older women, he just loved the way they . . . what was wrong with him?

  What was wrong was he was a sexual retardate. But for a couple of unfortunate encounters with hookers set up by Flaco Jaramillo, he was a damned virgin.

  Klara said, “Are you okay, Isaac? You look kind of fatigued.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “If you say so.” She rolled the pencil against one hip. “Well, that’s all I’ve managed to come up with, so far.”

  She aimed her gold-green eyes at the computer printout she’d laid on his work surface. Hundreds of historical events tied in with June 28. Nothing he hadn’t seen already.

  Perhaps the clue was in here, amo
ng all that history, but if it was he was missing it.

  “I really appreciate the time, Klara.”

  “My pleasure.” She shifted even closer and his nose filled with the sweet scent of soap and water. Concern widened her eyes and smoothed out her laugh lines. “You really do look tired. Especially there.” A pale hand indicated the skin beneath his eyes. A fingertip grazed his right cheek and electric current sizzled along his thighs. He crossed his legs, hoping Klara hadn’t noticed his erection.

  She smiled. Had she?

  “I’m at the top of my game,” he told her. “Energy-wise.”

  “Well, that’s good. It’s refreshing to hear some confidence from you. You grad students fall into two groups: slackers and slaves. You’re the latter, Isaac. You’re here all the time. Alone.”

  His spot was in the remotest corner of the subbasement, surrounded by old and ancient books on botany. Since Leavey Library had opened, all the undergrads studied there. Doheny—huge, grand, restored magnificently—served grad students and faculty but everyone did their research on-line.

  Once in a while someone wandered up there looking for an obscure text. Mostly he had the place to himself. So different from home, sharing that cell of a room with his brothers, the street noise . . .

  “I enjoy the solitude,” he said.

  “I know you do.” Klara pushed a wave of copper hair away from her face. Not a beautiful face, not by a long shot. More . . . pleasant. Clean-looking.

  “My daughter, Amy, wants to be a physician. A surgeon, no less. She’s smart enough, but I tell her, ‘You’re twelve, there’s time to decide.’ She is a straight-A student, though. So maybe.”

  “You must be proud of her,” said Isaac.

  “I am. Proud of her brother, too.” A new kind of smile. Open, maternal. Suddenly Isaac couldn’t banish the vision of nursing at those pendulous . . . and then there they were, blocking his vision as she leaned down.

  Presented her mouth to him.

  Like stepping off a precipice, he moved in. Her tongue tasted lemony, the sweet lemon of hard candies. Had she schemed to do this? That possibility excited him further and he felt he’d burst out of his pants.

  Now she was in his lap, a soft, substantive weight, arms curling around him. His hands found her back, her breasts, reached under her dress, touched smooth flesh. Smooth thighs, warm and moist lifted and she was allowing him, she wasn’t stopping him.