Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (37 page)

“Did she know this for a fact, or was she guessing?”

“She said she thought so. Thought she’d heard it somewhere. It was like . . . casual talk. People giving their opinions.”

“What kinds of opinions?”

“One, really: Ramsey’s the white man’s answer to O.J.”

“Okay, Scott. Thanks.”

“Thank me by leaving me alone.”

Petra said, “So maybe Ramsey knows Griffith.”

“But then why wouldn’t he pick a more secluded area of the park?”

“Because then he’d have to drag Lisa along on foot. Using the parking lot meant he could drive in, get out of the car, ostensibly to talk, then stab her by surprise.”

“You think he planned it.”

“I think at some time during their time together he planned it. Also, the car may have had some significance—psychologically. Ramsey collects cars, Lisa liked to have sex in them. Where better to end their relationship than in a parking lot?”

“The perfect L.A. couple . . . good point. I like that.” He put his hands on the steering wheel. He’d shaved carelessly, missing a tiny waffle of blond hair below his right ear. “Be interesting to know if any
Adjustor
episodes match the murder.”

“Life imitating bad TV?” said Petra.

“These people have no imagination. Getting the actual scripts would take time, but I can scan a few years’ worth of
TV Guide
s, see what comes up in the plot summaries.”

“Fine,” said Petra. More busywork. He looked grateful to do it.

Fournier entered the squad room, picked up a stack of message slips, and came over. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” said Stu. Nothing on his face to indicate this wasn’t just another day.

Fournier waved the stack. “Took the liberty of burglarizing your desktop, Barbie.”

“I’ll pay you later,” she said. “Anything new?”

“Still nothing on the kid from shelters, do-gooders, or Juvey, but he didn’t just blow into town. I’ve got one nice lead—Korean guy runs the Oki-Rama on Western, says the kid bought food from him once in a while over a three-, four-month period. Always at night, he noticed, because the kid looked young to be alone at that hour, never talked except to order, never made eye contact, real careful about counting his change, every penny. ‘A little banker,’ the Korean guy called him. Said the kid also came by and swiped ketchup, mustard, mayo, thought he never noticed. And guess what: Last time the kid came in was Sunday night around nine. Bought a chili-burger.”

“There you go,” said Petra, thinking about the boy on his own for three months. Managing his finances. Where’d he get the money? Where did he come from? “Let’s check the national runaway lines.”

“Already faxed the picture,” said Fournier. “They’ve got tons of files, it’ll take time. Meanwhile, the Korean wants the reward.” He laughed. “Along with everyone else. Along with the greedy types are a few just plain wackos. I got an alleged clair
voyant
from Chula Vista claiming some satanic cult murdered Lisa for her thymus gland. Seems there’s a new rage for thymus glands among the horned crowd.”

“Lisa’s thymus was intact at the time of autopsy,” said Petra.

“I told the lady she hadn’t won the jackpot. Didn’t know clairvoyants could cuss like that. One last thing: Schoelkopf blew in. They’re leaning on him from the top, and we are instructed to inform him immediately about anything remotely resembling a lead. Do we have one?”

Stu told him the rumor about Ramsey’s show filming in Griffith.

Fournier thought. “Nah, he can’t take that to the press.”

“He actually made it to the squad room?” said Petra. “Among the great unwashed?”

“For a whole five minutes, Barb. Turn up the heat and the grease spatters.”

CHAPTER

A witness.

How was it possible?

He’d awoken this morning feeling pretty good about things. Stretched, yawned, made coffee, poured some juice. Opened the paper.

And there it was.

His bowels started churning.

A kid?

The article said
maybe
he’d been there; the police were developing other leads.

Meaning the police didn’t know a damn thing or they were double bluffing, trying to draw him out.

He didn’t do well with uncertainty.

A
kid
? In the park at that hour?

Maybe it was a bogus clue, a plant to flush someone out.

No, not with a reward. If a false clue got some innocent kid picked up by some money-hungry idiot and the parents sued, there’d be big-time legal problems.

So probably a real lead . . . but how would anyone know about the kid if he hadn’t come forward?

Unless . . . some sort of physical evidence . . . had he left something behind?

Funny thing was, after doing Lisa, he’d thought he heard something. Up behind those rocks. A rustle, a scraping, above the sound of his pumping arm.

He allowed himself a moment of bliss: the look on Lisa’s face. Even in the darkness, he’d seen it. Or maybe he’d just imagined it.

He’d convinced himself that he’d imagined the scraping. Had stopped, stood still, heard nothing, returned his attention to Lisa.

So nice and inert.

He had blood on his shirt but was careful to keep his shoes clean, because shoe prints could cause problems. Asphalt was good for that, too. Stay off the dirt. Before returning to the car, he took the shoes off.

So careful, and yet . . . a kid up there that late . . . it made no sense. He stared at the picture again. White, looked to be eleven or twelve. Could be any of a thousand kids. If he existed.

Even if they found him, what could he have seen in the darkness?

No way his face had been visible in the darkness.

Right?

What about the car? A flash of license plate . . . there were some lights on the edge of the lot. Had he passed under them?

He hadn’t worried about it, had assumed no one was there.

If the kid did exist, why hadn’t he come forward? So maybe it was bogus . . .

On the other hand, this could be a problem. Not a huge one—
certainly nothing compared to Estrella, the evil-eyed bitch.

Throwaway people; L.A. was full of them.

A kid . . . consciously, he didn’t feel worried, but, Christ, his heart was hammering away like a bastard!

He ripped the page out of the paper, squeezed it into a tight sweaty ball. Thought better of it and unfolded the picture. Tried to drink coffee, but it wouldn’t go down.

Tried to cheer himself up by thinking of Lisa on the ground.

True love never dies, but she had.

So easily.

The best part had been her surprise.

Bygones be bygones, let’s hug. Then wham!

Something quite different from a hug.

“Quite different,” he said aloud, in a cultured British accent. David Niven voice—one of a thousand parts he’d never gotten to play.

No one appreciated his talent.

Lisa had, though, during the last second of her life. The look on her face: finally seeing him in a new light.

You’re capable of this?

He’d made sure to look in her eyes as he jammed the knife in and yanked up.

One of those beautiful moments when everything came together. Best role he’d ever played. Just the two of them, dancing in the dark.

The two of them and a
kid
?

What could he have done to avoid it? Gone traipsing up in those hills, scattering blood and who knew what other kinds of forensic evidence all over the place? Even the LAPD nitwits might have found something.

They’d found out about the kid.
How?

And now the reward. The old man throwing his weight around.

Maybe the kid
had
been there earlier but left before he and Lisa showed up.

Maybe, maybe, maybe—
an old song, one of the doo-wop ones he loved. Some girl group, the Chantelles or the Shirelles.

All that money would probably bring in nutcases. Bottom line was, LAPD didn’t have a clue.

“Not a bloody clue,” he said in his David Niven voice.

Not the sheriff’s clowns who’d showed up the first day or that pair from the police department. Bishop, strong and silent, yielding center stage to Connor.

Ms. Detective. Those long legs. No chest, but still, that was some piece of poon. What was she, twenty-six, -seven? That dark hair and pale skin. The kind of long, lean body that might look too bony naked but was okay with clothes on. He imagined her, white and smooth, not a scrap of fat on her, stretched out on a poolside lounge as she yielded to his hands, his mouth, his . . .

Another time, another place . . .

He laughed, stretched big arms.

Not a clue, any of them.

Except for this alleged
kid
?

Who wasn’t coming forward.

Because he didn’t exist?

Out there that late, he had to be a street punk, a runaway—maybe his mind was blown from drugs or AIDS.

Probably nothing to worry about.

He sat there for a long time, trying to convince himself. Finally reaching the ugly conclusion: It needed to be taken seriously.

He’d research it. Unlike the cops, he wasn’t bound by rules. Life had taught him to make his own rules.

After all these years, it all boiled down to one: Take what you want.

Like that night in Redondo, the German stewardess, sitting in that restaurant, arguing with that plug-ugly boyfriend.

He studied them from the bar across the room, nursing a Hei-neken, wiping suds from his false beard, wondering what a girl like that saw in someone that repulsive.

Noticing the girl because of her resemblance to Lisa. That boyfriend, a face like pigshit.

He watched them, conjuring up beauty-and-the-beast sexual fantasies that failed to arouse him. Because it was clear that they weren’t getting along, glaring at each other, not eating much.

Finally the girl got up and stomped out of the restaurant. Looking so much like Lisa—a bit taller, bigger tits, the lush body in that short blue dress, those tight, muscular legs as she marched offscreen.

Pigshit tossed bills down and followed. Big guy, but soft, a sack of fertilizer.

He watched them leave, paid for the Heineken, made sure no one was watching, and climbed down to the parking lot behind the restaurant, finding a vantage point behind his car. Pigshit was trying to get Blondie into his car, lots of hand gestures on both sides. Every time she moved, those tits bounced—from the way they responded, not an ounce of plastic. Chest like that on a skinny girl, you didn’t see it very often.

They kept arguing, then Pigshit grabbed her, she pulled away, he grabbed again, she slapped him, he slapped her, she fell, got up.

This was fun.

Now Pigshit looked like he was apologizing—the big idiot actually got down on his knees.

And what did Blondie do?

Spit on him.

Watching from behind his car, he almost laughed out loud. Uh-oh, here comes payback: Pigshit sprang up, swung at her, a giant roundhouse, but clumsy, too many drinks, he missed. Blondie ran across the lot, those wonderful tits heaving-ho, Pigshit shaking his fist but not following.

Blondie stopped at the edge of the lot, folded her hands across the wonder chest. Pigshit shook his head, got in a compact car, drove away.

Alone, she let her hands drop helplessly. Realizing it was dark, no one’s around, the pier has emptied out, try finding a cab in Redondo Beach at this hour.

The smart thing would have been to return to the restaurant. Instead, she just stood there. Crying.

Well, Fräulein, stupidity has its rewards.

His turn.

Wonderful. His second time. First had been little Sally Tosk, back in Syracuse, tenth grade, well developed since eighth. He’d watched her chest grow, almost alarmingly. Not a true blonde, a strawberry blonde, still wearing braces on her top teeth. She’d come on to him all through football season; finally he’d graced her with a date. Secret date—she had a boyfriend but wanted to slut around with him, too.

He’d driven to her house in his father’s new Buick, her parents out till late, some kind of Rotary dinner. The Tosks lived on a big piece of land beyond the city limits, used to be a farm. Sally was ready at the door, little nightie, nothing else. Gave him tongue in the living room, tit in the kitchen; they moved up to her bedroom, then she got all hysterical when he refused to say he loved her and tried to push him away, and he had to put a hand over her mouth to stop her from screaming.

Covering her mouth and her nose, and all of a sudden she was blue. He panicked. Then he started to see her in a different light and fooled with her body, just exploring. Careful not to leave anything behind, he drove home throbbing with terror and pleasure.

The Tosks came home two hours later. Big scare in town, rumors of a stalking sex maniac.

He lost sleep for weeks, because what if Sally had told someone she was meeting him? Lost weight and told his mother he had the flu.

But she hadn’t told anyone; worried about the boyfriend.

The cops talked to the boyfriend.

No leads. He attended Sally’s funeral, cried along with everyone else.

Nothing like young lust.

Sally. The German girl. Lisa.

Not that he was a serial killer. He had no compulsion.

But when the opportunity came up . . .

At Sally’s funeral, he really lost it when the dirt hit the coffin. One of Sally’s girlfriends, another cheerleader, took his hand and dried his eyes, told him later how sensitive he was.

“Dearly beloved,” he intoned in a melodious voice. Not Niven—John Houseman, someone like that.

And the Oscar goes to . . .

CHAPTER

I tell the old guy, “No, I’ve still got it, but I
wouldn’t mind some more. Have any work I can do?”

He pushes his glasses up his nose. “So you
can
talk. Want to work, eh? How old are you?”

“Old enough.”

He comes closer. “Listen, if you’re in trouble, running away from something, maybe I can help you. Because a fellow your age shouldn’t be out here all alone.”