Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (11 page)

“I agree,” said Petra. “Except here we’ve got a domestic-violence thing that’s gone public in the post–O.J. era. He knows he’ll come under scrutiny, has a reason to protect himself.”

“Still,” said De la Torre, “too damn cute. The guy does a crime show, probably thinks he knows all the angles.” He grunted and smoked.

Petra thought of the way Ramsey had checked her out. Then sidled next to her. None of them had mentioned it. Should she? No point.

“I hate cop shows,” said De la Torre. “Bastards catch all the bad guys by the third commercial and damage my self-esteem.”

“He’s not a cop on the show,” said Banks. “He’s a P.I., this macho do-gooder who protects people when the police can’t.”

“Even worse.” De la Torre pulled his mustache.

“Lots of tears, but he turned pretty businesslike when he ordered Balch to call the guardhouse,’’ Banks said. “The wife’s not even cold and he’s covering his rear with the media.”

“Hey,” said De la Torre, “he’s a big fucking
star
.” He blew smoke at the ground. “So . . . what can we do for you guys?”

“Check out local files, see if there’ve been any other domestic-violence calls—or anything else on him,” said Stu. “But quietly, at this point. We can’t afford even a hint that he’s being investigated.”

“So what was that, a condolence call with four D’s?”

“You bet.”

“He’ll buy that?”

“Maybe. He’s used to special treatment.”

“Okay,” said Banks. “We flip paper quietly. Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of,” said Stu. “Open to suggestions, though.”

“My
suggestion,
” said De la Torre, “is we keep the hell outta your hair, go to church, and pray for you. Because this ain’t gonna be any slam dunk.”

Petra said, “Pray away. We’ll take any help we can get.”

Banks smiled at her. “I noticed you talking by the glass. He say what the fifth car was?”

Petra studied his eyes for a moment. “His daily wheels. A Mercedes.”

“Think it’s sponge-and-solvent time?”

“Could be,” said Petra. “With all that blood, there’d be a good chance of transfer.”

“What about shoe prints at the scene?”

“Nothing,” said Stu. “He managed to avoid
stepping
in the blood.’’

“Meaning he stepped back. Or pushed her away. Either would mean he was prepared.’’

Stu thought about that, his lips compressed. “I’d like to warrant that Mercedes, all right, but we’re not even close to that without evidence.”

“What if the guy learned something from his show?” said De la Torre. “Some ultra-high-tech way to really zap something clean. These celebrities, there’s always someone to clean up after them. Some walking-around guy, manager, agent, guesthouse bum, whatever—but hey, what am I moanin’ about? It’s your case. Good luck.”

Handshakes all around, and the sheriffs were gone.

“They seem decent,” said Petra.

They returned to the Ford. As Stu started it up, she said, “Did I go too far in terms of leaning on Ramsey?’’

“Hope not.’’

“What’d you think about all those other hot rods?”

“Predictable. People in the industry are in an eternal quest for the Best.”

He sounded angry.

“Think he’s it?”

“Probably. I’ll notify the family when we get back.”

“I can do it,” said Petra, suddenly craving contact with Lisa’s family. Contact with
Lisa.

“No, I don’t mind.” He began driving. His starched collar was tinged with grime and his blond beard was coming in like new straw. Neither of them had slept for over twenty-four hours. Petra felt fine.

“No sweat for me either, Stu. I’ll call.”

She expected an argument, but he sagged and said, “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“You did notification on Gonzales and Chouinard, and Chouinard was no party.”

Dale Chouinard was a construction worker beaten to death outside a Cahuenga Boulevard tavern. Petra had informed his twenty-four-year-old widow that her four kids under six were orphans. Had thought she’d done okay, comforting the woman, holding her, letting her sob it out. Then, in the kitchen, Mrs. Chouinard went berserk, striking out at Petra, nearly clawing out an eye.

She said, “At least no one can slug me over the phone.”

“I really don’t mind doing it, Petra,” he said.

But she knew he did. He’d told her, early in their partnership, that it was the part of the job he hated most. Maybe if she’d go the extra mile, he’d see her for the perfect partner she was and open up about what was bugging him.

“I’m doing it, pard. If it’s okay with you, I’ll talk to the maid, too.”

“Lisa’s?”

“I meant Ramsey’s, if I can get her out of the house without being obvious about making Ramsey a suspect. But I can do Lisa’s, too.”

“Wait on Ramsey’s,” said Stu. “Too tricky.” He pulled out his notebook and flipped pages. “Lisa’s maid is Patricia . . . Kasempitakpong.” He enunciated the unmanageable name very slowly. “Probably Thai. The blues are holding her, but if she asks to leave, they can’t stop her from flying back to Bangkok. Or calling the
National Enquirer.
”

“I’ll go right after I call the family.”

He gave her the Doheny Drive address.

She said, “Cooperative of the sheriffs, letting us lead with Ramsey.’’

“All the bad press both departments have been getting, maybe someone’s finally getting smart.”

“Maybe.” Last month the sheriffs had been exposed for releasing several murderers through clerical error, giving county-jail prisoners gourmet food at taxpayer expense, and losing track of millions of dollars. Half a year before that, some deputies had been busted for off-duty armed robbery and a rookie had been found naked and dazed, roaming the hills near the Malibu substation.

Stu said, “The address reminds me—just a few blocks from Chasen’s. Which they’re tearing down in order to build a shopping center.”

“Aw gee,” said Petra. “No more celebrity dinners for us, pard.”

“I actually got to go there once,” he said. “Handled security for a wedding reception, big entertainment lawyer’s daughter, major stars all over the place.”

“I didn’t know you did that kind of thing.”
Also.

“Years ago. Mostly it was a drag. That time, though, at Chasen’s, was okay. They fed me. Chili, ribs, steak. Great place, class atmosphere. Reagan’s favorite restaurant . . . all right, you’ll take the Thai maid and notify the parents, I’ll try to figure out a way of discreetly asking some industry types about Ramsey, run DMV on the Mercedes, check back with the coroner and the techs before I go home. If they come up with any good forensics, I’ll let you know. So far so good?”

“I’ll also call the phone company, pull Lisa’s records.”

“Good idea.”

Basic procedure.

“Stu, if Ramsey is the guy, how can we touch him?”

No answer.

Petra said, “I guess what I’m saying is what’s the chance of something like this improving the quality of our lives? And how do we do our best by Lisa?”

He fooled with his hair, straightened his rep tie.

“Just take it step by step,” he finally said. “Do the best we can. Just like what I tell my kids about school.”

“We’re just kids on this one?”

“In a way.”

CHAPTER

The monkeys are the worst screamers. It’s only 6
A.M.
and they’re already complaining.

In four hours the zoo will open. I’ve been up here when it’s full of people, heard mostly noise, but sometimes I catch words, like little kids, whining for something.
“Ice scream!” “Lions!”

When people are in the zoo, the animals get quiet, but at night they really go at it—listen to those monkeys screech—and here’s another one, deep, something heavy and tired, maybe a rhino. Like,
Let me out of here! We’re stuck here ’cause of people; don’t people suck?

If they did ever get out, the carnivores would go straight for the herbivores, the slow ones, the weak ones, killing and eating them and picking at the bones.

About a month ago, I explored the barbed wire fence around the zoo, found a gate up on top, above Africa. A sign said
ZOO PERSONNEL ONLY
—
GATE TO BE LOCKED AT ALL TIMES
, and there was a lock on it but it was left open. I took it off, walked through, put it back, found myself in this parking lot full of little tan dune-buggy things the zoo people drive around in. Across the lot were some buildings that smelled like animal shit, with cement floors that had just been hosed down. On the other side were more thick plants and a pathway with another sign:
AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY.

I made like I belonged and walked right into the zoo, climbed into the big walk-in birdcage with all the people, saw the little kids whining. Then I checked out the whole zoo. I had a pretty good time that day, studying and reading the signs that teach about their natural habitats and diets and endangered species. I saw a two-headed king snake in the reptile house. No one looked at me weird. For the first time in a long time I felt relaxed and normal.

I’d brought some of my money roll with me and bought a frozen banana and caramel corn and a Coke. I ate too fast and got a stomachache, but it didn’t matter; it was like a clear patch of blue sky had opened up in my brain.

Maybe I’ll try to get in today.

Maybe I shouldn’t. I need to make sure I’m not an endangered species.

I can’t stop thinking of that woman, what the guy did to her.

Horrible, horrible, the way he hugged her,
chuck chuck.
Why would anyone want to do that?

Why would God
allow
it?

My stomach starts to kill and I take five deep breaths to quiet it down.

Walking all night my feet didn’t hurt too much, but now they do and my sneakers feel tight. I pull them off; also my socks. I must be growing; the shoes have been getting tighter for a while. They’re old, the ones I came with, and the soles have thin spots, almost worn through.

I’ll give my feet some air, wiggle my toes before I unroll my plastic.

Ahh . . . that feels good.

There’s no water up in Five for bathing. Wouldn’t it be cool to get into the zoo, jump in the sea lion tank and flip around? The sea lions, freaking out, not knowing what’s going on—I have to control myself not to laugh out loud.

I stink from piss. I hate stinking, don’t want to turn into one of those shopping-cart guys; you can smell them a block away.

I always loved to shower, but after Moron moved in, the hot water was always gone. Not because he used it. Mom wanted to smell good for him, so she started taking half an hour in the shower, then putting on perfume spray, the works.

Why would she want to impress him? Why would she want to be with
all
those losers?

I’ve spent a lot of time wondering about that and the only thing I keep coming back to is she doesn’t like herself very much.

I
know
that’s true, because when she breaks something or makes any kind of mistake, like cutting herself shaving her legs, she cusses herself out, calls herself names. I’ve heard her crying at night, drunk or stoned, calling herself names. Not so much since Moron moved in, because he threatens to smack her.

I used to go into the bedroom and sit next to her, touch her hair, say, “What’s the matter, Mom?” But she always moved away from me and said, “Nothing, nothing,” sounding angry, so I stopped trying.

Then one day I realized she was crying about
me.
About having me without planning to, trying to raise me, figuring she wasn’t much good at it.

I was her sadness.

I thought about that for a long time, too, decided my best bet was to learn as much as possible so I could get a good career and be able to take care of myself and her. Also, maybe if she saw I was doing okay, she wouldn’t feel like such a failure.

The sun is up all the way, hot and orange through the trees. I’m really tired, but there’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep. Time to unroll the plastic.

I use plastic dry cleaning bags to wrap and carry things and to protect them from rain and dirt. Each sheet is printed with a warning that babies can suffocate in them and they’re thin, easy to tear. But if you layer them three at a time, they’re really strong and excellent for protection. Mostly I find them in the trash, keep them rolled up in all five Places, under rocks, my cave, wherever.

One good thing about Five is a tree: a huge eucalyptus tree with round, silver-blue leaves that smell like cough drops. I know it’s a eucalyptus because that time in the zoo I went to the koala house and it was full of exactly the same species and they were labeled
EUCALYPTUS POLYANTHEMUS: SILVER DOLLAR GUM.
The sign said koalas ate eucalyptus polyanthemus, could live off them, and I wondered what it would be like if I got stuck up in Five with nothing to eat but trees. I asked a zoo girl, and she smiled and said she didn’t know but she preferred hamburgers.

This particular tree has a trunk so thick I can barely reach around it, and branches droop down, touch the ground, keep going. Inside, it’s like being in a silver-blue cloud, and hidden behind the branches, right next to the trunk is a big, flat gray rock. It looks heavier than it is and I can lift it and prop something underneath it to keep it partly open, the way you jack up a tire. It didn’t take long to scoop out dirt and create a hiding hole. Once the rock’s back down, it works like a trapdoor.

Lifting it now is a little harder, because my arms are sore from carrying my Place Two stuff all night, but I use one of my shoes to prop up the rock and pull out my Five stuff wrapped in plastic: two pairs of Calvin Klein underwear that I got last month at a Los Feliz yard sale, too big, with
LARRY R.
inked inside the waistband; after I soaked them in the Fern Dell stream, they came out gray but clean. A spare flashlight and two AA batteries; an unopened package of beef jerky that I took from a Pink Dot on Sunset. A half-gallon bottle of Coke and an unopened box of Honey Nut Cheerios that I bought the next day at the same market ’cause I felt bad about taking the jerky. Some old magazines I found behind someone’s house on Argyle Street
—Westway
s
, People, Reader’s Digest—
and the old 1-percent-fat Knudsen milk carton that I use to keep pens and pencils, folders, rolled-up notebook paper, and other stuff in.