Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (32 page)

“Ah,” said Petra. “Anything I’d have heard about?”

“Well,” he said, “Hector and I did do some work on the County Gen slasher.”

Mega-case, three years ago. Wacko killer cutting up nurses on the grounds of the county hospital, four victims in three months. The bad guy turned out to be an orderly who’d served time for rape and assault. He’d faked his way through personnel screening—worked the surgical floors, of all things. Before he was caught, the nurses had threatened to strike.

“That was yours?”

“Hector’s and mine.”

“Now
I’m
impressed.”

“Believe me, it was no big sherlock,” he said. “Everything pointed to an insider. It was just a matter of flipping paper, checking time cards, eliminating negatives till we found the positive.”

Petra remembered the feminist frustration, media noise—hadn’t there been an initial task force? “Were you on it from the beginning?”

He blushed again. “No, they called us in after a few months.”

“So you two are rescuers.”

“Sometimes,” he said. “And sometimes we get rescued. You know how it is.”

What she knew was that the County Gen slasher was a major case and that he was a rescuer, top dog. And that’s who the sheriff had sent for the notification call to Ramsey?

Why was he being so cagey about it? Modest? Or sent by the tans to pump her for details?

“Any ideas on Ramsey?” she said.

“Like I said at his house, the guy rang my bell, but I’m not a big one for bells.” He smiled. “Give me time cards anytime.”

She smiled back. He drummed the table. Rubbed the spot where his mustache had been. The waitress gave him the check and, over Petra’s protests, he insisted on paying for it. “Hey, you put up with me, you deserve a sandwich.”

“Nothing to put up with,” she heard herself say.

They left the deli and he walked her to her car. A warm night; still a bit of foot traffic on Fairfax and the newsstand across the street was crowded with browsers. The food smells from Katz’s followed them. He didn’t walk close to her, seemed to be consciously avoiding it.

“So,” he said, when they got to the Ford. “This was great. I—is there some place you’d like to go? If you’re not too tired, I mean—maybe some music. Are you into music?”

“I’m a little bushed, Ron.”

The crushed look on his face said the evening was personal, nothing to do with the case, and she felt bad for suspecting him.

“Sure,” he said. “You’d have to be.”

He held out his hand and they shook briefly. “Thanks a lot, Petra, I really appreciate it.”

Had a man ever thanked her before just for spending time? “Thank
you,
Ron.”

He tilted forward, as if ready to kiss her, then rocked back, gave a small, salutelike wave, and turned, hands in pockets.

“What kind of music do you like?” she said. Figuring country; it had to be traditional country.

He stopped, faced her again, shrugged. “Mostly rock. Old stuff—blues, Steve Miller, Doobie Brothers. Used to play that kind of stuff in a band.”

“Really?” She fought a giggle. “Did you have long hair?”

“Long enough,” he said, walking back to her. “Don’t get me wrong—we weren’t professionals. I mean, we did a few club dates, played the Whiskey way back when. That’s where I met my—” Clamping a hand over his mouth.

“Sure,” said Petra, laughing, “and not just her, right? You met tons of babes. That’s why you joined a band in the first place. Don’t tell me—drums.” Those active hands.

“You got it.”

“Drummers always get the girls, right?”

“Don’t ask
me,
” said Banks. “I was always too busy trying to keep the beat.”

“Still play?”

“Not for years. My old kit’s rusting in the garage.”

Along with the potter’s wheel, bikes, probably piles of old toys, kid stuff, heaven knew what else. Petra pictured a small house full of Levitz furniture. Far cry from the horse ranch that had never materialized.

“So where do you go to listen to music?” she said.

“Used to go to the Country Club, in Reseda. It’s not a country place, it’s rock—”

“I know where it is.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“What about this side of the hill?” she said.

“Don’t know,” he said. “Don’t go out much.” The admission embarrassed him, and he looked at his watch.

“Need to get back?” she said.

“No, they’re asleep by now. I called them before I left. My mom’s staying over. I just want to phone, make sure everything’s okay—”

“Call from my place,” she said. “It’s not far from here.”

Thinking: He’d told his mother he’d be late. Big plans or blind optimism?

For some reason, she didn’t care.

While he talked to his mother, she fixed her makeup. Thankfully, the apartment was in decent shape. She’d barely lived in it since the case broke. She invited him to take off his jacket and hung it up. Standing in the kitchen, they each had a glass of red wine. He complimented her decor. At his insistence, she showed him her art. Not the works in progress, her old portfolio, color blowups of pictures she’d sold through the co-op gallery.

He was impressed; didn’t try to touch her.

They moved to the living room and went through her small CD collection, trying to find something they both owned, coming up only with Eric Clapton’s
Derek and the Dominos.

Sitting two feet apart on Petra’s couch, they listened to half the album, then his hand shifted six inches closer to hers and remained there. She covered her half of the distance and their fingers touched, then entwined.

Sweaty hands, but neither of them dared wipe. She found herself gripping his knuckles too hard and reduced the pressure.

He breathed faster but didn’t move.

During “Bell Bottom Blues” he tilted his head toward her and they kissed.

Closed-mouthed, mutual garlic, for what seemed like a long time, then a wide, open exploration full of clicking teeth and swirling tongues, hands on back of neck, soft lips—he had very soft lips; she was glad the mustache was gone. When they broke, they were both robbed of air.

He was ready for more, but the hunger in his eyes shook Petra and she pulled away. They listened to the rest of the song sitting still, holding hands again. She was wet, her nipples ached, her body demanded loving, but she didn’t want it, not with him, not now. One more song and she got up to use the bathroom. When she returned he was standing, jacket on.

She sat down again, an invitation, but he remained on his feet, in front of her, reaching down to touch her hair, her cheek, her chin. She looked up, saw his bottom teeth pinching his upper lip.

She was trembling now, and had he tried again, who knew what would have happened.

He just stood there.

She got up, put her arm in his, and walked him to the door.

He said, “I’d really like to see you again.”

More confidence in his voice, but still unsure.

“I’d like that, too.”

A half hour later, alone in her bed, naked, having touched herself and bathed, someone’s late-night TV squeaking through the darkness, she thought of everything she needed to do in the morning.

CHAPTER

The sun comes up behind me, orange. Brighter than
in the park, no trees to cover it. The ocean is roaring, gray. The black plastic’s too thin; I’m cold.

No one’s out on the beach yet, so I just lie there watching the sun and the few cars up on the coast highway going back and forth. The thick poles that hold up the pier are black with tar and crusted with barnacles. I see one that’s open, reach over and poke it, and it closes.

The Jacques Cousteau book had a chapter about barnacles. They stay where they are, eat whatever floats by. They make their own glue and it’s as good as Krazy Glue. Sometimes they’re impossible to move.

Okay, now it’s warming up a little; I better move. I get up and shake the sand out of my hair, fold the plastic and tuck it behind one of the poles, using a rock to weigh it down.

Time to get some new stuff. Food, money. A hat. I remember that sunburn. Maybe some sunscreen, too.

Where should I go? Should I leave L.A.? Not up north, ’cause that’s closer to Watson. Down south, like to San Diego? But what if that doesn’t work out? The next stop would be Mexico and there’s no way I’m going to any foreign country.

If I stay in L.A., where will I hide?

I think about it for a long time and get really scared. Same feeling like when I watched
PLYR
—I need to stop thinking about that . . .

It’s stupid to even be thinking of a plan. I have no future. Even if I survive for a few months a year, two years, so what? I’d still be a kid, no schooling, no money, no control over anything.

Still no one out on the beach. It looks so tan and peaceful. The ocean, too, gray as steel except where the tide comes rolling in, throwing up spray, like spitting at the sky.

Spitting at God . . .

Wouldn’t it be nice to just walk into the water, let yourself be carried away? Maybe you’d drown. Or maybe there’d be a miracle and you’d wash up like one of those bottles with a message in it on some island with palm trees. Girls wearing just grass skirts, long black hair down to their butts, and you’d come out of the ocean like some god and they’d be all thrilled to see you, fight with each other to be your girlfriend, take care of you, feed you some barbecued pig with an apple in its mouth and fruit that they just pick from the trees, no one has to work.

Either way, no worries.

I get up, walk across the beach to the tide line, roll my pants up and stand there, let the waves trickle over my toes.

Cold.
My feet get numb and they look like white wax.

How long would it take before you stopped feeling cold? Before your body stopped feeling anything?

I read in a nature book that gazelles and wildebeest chased by lions stop feeling pain, so their death becomes easier.

That didn’t happen to me with the pervs, so maybe it’s just animals.

Or maybe I just didn’t get . . . close enough.

If you didn’t feel or worry, you could just give yourself up like some sacrifice—like Jesus did.

I must have walked, because now I’m in the water up to my knees and my pants are getting wet and kind of ballooning and swirling around. Not so cold anymore. It feels clean. I keep going. The water’s sloshing against my belt and I stand there and look across the ocean; maybe I’ll see a boat or a whale spouting.

A few birds are out there, flying around, diving. I take another step. Just one, but it makes a big difference, the ground drops out from under me and all of a sudden
I’m up to my neck, trying to step back, but I can’t get a hold on to anything and now I feel the water moving under me and I’m in over my head, swallowing water, choking—up again, I can see the top of the water, the beach is getting smaller. I start to swim, but it doesn’t help. Something’s pushing me forward, I have no control, start kicking, waving my arms around, knowing this is stupid, you have to stay calm stay calm, but I’m being pushed out, forced, I don’t want this! I’m tiny, weaker than a barnacle, because I have no glue. Why am I thinking about Mom now, how bad she’ll feel, so cold, my eyes burn, my throat burns, my eyes got to keep them open but ohnocan’tkeepmyheadabov

Up in the air again, coughing spitting, eyes burning, throat hurts like a knife scraping it and I’m still being carried out by the—no, the beach is getting closer—

The ocean tosses me up, the sand gets even closer. Releasing me, like Jonah? No, no, here I go under again, swallowing so much water I think I’ll explode, then up, coughing, vomiting, rocks in the water, hitting me, stinging.

The ocean playing with me. Which way will it throw me now?

Stones scraping the bottom of my body. The ground. Sand.

Back on shore.

Sand sticks to my soaked clothes. Salt in the scratches makes them burn. I roll away from the water.

Safe.

Another chance.

God?

Or did even the ocean think I was trash, spit me back like bad food?

I hurry back toward the pier, still coughing and spitting up salt water, collapse, stay there trying to get a little sun, dry out. A few people are out on the beach now. I just mind my own business. After an hour I’m drier, but still wet, my chest hurts and I’m scratched up by the sand but . . . I’m here.

I need to concentrate. Money and a hat. Some food. Sunscreen.

Mostly dry, I take a walk up to the pier. There’s a Ferris wheel, some bumper cars, and a merry-go-round, but they’re all shut and locked and there’s nothing to take there. A few restaurants, but they’re closed, too, and the only food around is dry bits of popcorn stuck to the floor.

All the way at the end of the pier is a bait shack that’s open, some dirty-looking guy behind a counter and big white bathtub-type tanks full of anchovies, some of them already dead and floating to the top. A few people are fishing, mostly old Chinese guys and a few black guys. No one’s catching anything; everyone looks bored.

The two garbage cans I find are full of fish guts and they stink so bad I almost puke. I leave the pier.

Up above the beach is a street full of fancy-looking restaurants and hotels; nothing there for me. North is a small park with some old people and homeless guys, and if you keep looking, the street just seems to disappear. All those trees—too much like you-know-where.

So I walk south and things start to look a little more familiar—
motels and apartment buildings, weirdos who could be from the Boulevard. I find half a doughnut on the street and it looks okay so I eat it. Next block, I see part of a Twix bar left on the sidewalk, but it’s too melted and gross-looking and I only eat a small bit of it.

A while later, a sign says I’m in Venice. Small houses, people, lots of Mexicans. I walk down a street. At the end is the ocean again, and soon I’m on this big wide path called Ocean Front Walk, like a giant sidewalk, the ocean on one side, stores on the other, all sorts of people—punks, blacks, beautiful bikini-girls on roller skates, their butt cheeks hanging out, guys looking at them. Young guys—like college students—old people sitting on benches, bikers with tattoos, lots of big, mean-looking dogs. Some Arnold Schwarzenegger–type guys are exercising in these fenced-off areas, their bodies all greased up so the muscles look like grapefruit trying to burst through the skin. Lifting weights, rubbing chalk on their hands, being huge and cool, showing off.