Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (56 page)

Pleasant stroll to Sunrise Court; the beach air was tangy, invigorating. He’d never lived on the beach. Maybe one day . . .

From the back he could see that the kitchen light was still on. Ten thirty-eight. Someone up, or just a security measure? Probably the latter; he’d seen no trace of any movement.

Why had the old guy taken the kid in? A relative? The drawing didn’t show a Jewish-looking kid, but you could never tell. No, if it was a family thing, wouldn’t they be pushing the kid to collect the money?

A good samaritan? Religious convictions? Giving the kid sanctuary in the temple? Did Jews believe in that? He had no idea. Returning to the front, he hid behind a clump of shrubbery, continued to watch the house.

How to do it?

The only way was a blitz. Home invasion. Gangbangers were getting into that, especially the Asians. A small place like this, how many rooms could there be?

A knife would be best because of the sound factor, but running from room to room stabbing was risky; even with weak prey, there was the risk of escape.

The alternative was the Glock, but that meant noise. Venice was high-crime, he’d heard about gangs on Ocean Front, had seen gang types during today’s surveillance. So the neighbors were probably used to hearing gunshots at night. But a street like this, the houses close together, bursting in, doing it, ditching the gun, taking the escape route he’d plotted back to the van.

Risky.

But fun—admit it. The risk was
part
of the fun. That and simply being able to do it.

A zapperoo commando blitz then—one hand on the knife, the other on the gun. If it was just the kid and the old man and they were close together, the knife would probably work. So he’d start with the knife, have the gun ready for complications.

One thing he’d decided for sure: Rear entry was best. Ha ha.

Another advantage of the walk street: Everyone parked in back, so walking through the alley wouldn’t be viewed as deviant. If he was spotted, he’d affect a relaxed stroll, pretend to belong, jangle his keys, and head for one of the cars. The way he looked—white male, sweats—wouldn’t be threatening, he hoped.

His knees hurt. Too much squatting. The Percs were no longer doing the trick. Lisa had claimed coke was a good anesthetic; dentists used to smear it on gums. Always wanting him to try it. Screw that. He bought it for her,
spooned
it up her cute little nose, tried to get some satisfaction from her body while she was high, but no way would he do it—Percs were as far as he went.

Maintain the upper edge.

He waited. Nothing. Okay, back again, ready to blitz.

He was just about to leave when the front door opened and someone came out.

On the patio, looking around.

The kid!

Perfect! He’d sprint across the sidewalk, grab him, cut his throat, be off—God
was
good!

But just as he got ready to spring, the kid ran back inside.

Scared?

You’ve got good reason, sonny.

CHAPTER

“That’s the place,” said Wil, waiting, the phone to
his ear.

Ocean Front Walk was dark and deserted, and Petra could barely make out the souvenir stand. As they got closer, she saw it was a tiny, ramshackle thing, roll-down shutter over the front.

“Okay,” Wil said to the phone. To Petra: “Got a home address for him. West Hollywood. Of course.”

They were twenty feet away from the shack. No one on the walkway for at least a hundred yards. They’d passed one homeless guy at the corner of Paloma and Speedway, and Petra saw another sitting on a bench to the north, but he got up and shuffled away. The tide whispered secrets and the beach looked like ice.

They were about to turn around when she noticed something. Two inches of space beneath the shutter. Closed but not locked?

Gun out, she hurried over, Wil following. Loops for a lock were welded to the lower-right-hand corner of the steel roll and a ring was bolted to the counter. But no lock in sight. She peered through the two inches. Dark, but she could make out stuff wrapped in plastic hanging from racks . . . Postcards. Hats. Just like the kind William Straight wore.

She backed clear across Ocean Front, watched the stand while talking to Wil in a low voice: “Clear sign of illegal entry, our duty to investigate.”

“Absolutely,” he said. “But what if the guy’s some nut and he’s lurking inside there—let’s check the back first.”

Whipping out penlights, they snaked along the north side of the stand. Too damn dark, too damn quiet. Petra liked using her brains, psyching out bad guys. She could do without this TV cop stuff.

Behind the building were two huge wooden packing crates, slats over plank sides. Her penlight said they came from the docks at Long Beach.

The stand’s back door was bolted, a nice big padlock in place. Off, definitely off. Unless it hadn’t been a thought-out burglary, just something impulsive . . . the packing crates stank of garbage. The neighboring buildings all utilized commercial Dumpsters. City regulations—the Russian saving money?

One good thing about the crates, though—the slats offered an easy foothold. She got a toe in, hoisted herself up the first one, looked inside. Nothing.

She found Zhukanov in the second crate, lying on his back atop a heap of trash, mouth open in the dead man’s stupid gape, one arm spread, the other pinioned under his head at an angle that would have been excruciatingly painful had he been alive.

Bisected, disemboweled. The penlight turned his intestines into overfed eels.

Same killing wound as Lisa.

Balch had never left town at all; the charter call, a fake-out just as she’d suspected—so what had
Stu
phoned about?

No time to think about that. She ran the light over the trash, saw the blood now, a huge crimson oblong, spattered on paper refuse.

Wil had found blood, too. Specks and drips on the front of the crate, another large stain on the ground. She’d been standing right in it, damnit! How could she have missed it?

They phoned it in to Pacific Division, were told to safeguard the scene—it might be a while before anyone showed up, because a shooting had just gone down in Oakwood and some of those victims were still breathing.

Inside the stand, they found no evidence of break-in, just crappy toys, a rear stockroom with a chair and a card table full of receipts and sales slips, no apparent system. A Planet Hollywood jacket hung from a nail in the wall. On adjoining nails were nunchucks, half a baseball bat with a leather thong, tarnished brass knuckles.

The Russian, equipped for battle. Someone had taken him by surprise.

Several bottles in the corner might explain it. Cheap-looking Rus-sian labels, cloudy vodka. One of the bottles was nearly empty. Zhukanov drunk, his defenses down? Bolstered by booze when he killed Moran?

If he
had
killed Moran. Maybe he’d been Moran’s crime buddy, a drug connection, whatever, and the two had colluded to collect the twenty-five thousand.

Somehow, Balch had figured it out and finished them both off.

But then why bother taking Moran to Angeles Crest while leaving Zhukanov right here where he was sure to be found?

Look what I can do!

Zhukanov’s gut wound matched Lisa’s and Ilse’s. But Moran didn’t fit. So the Russian probably
had
dispatched Moran. And Balch had finished off Zhukanov.

There could only be one reason: The Russian knew something vital about William Bradley Straight.

All Zhukanov had told Wil was that the boy had bought a hat from him.

Not enough to kill for.

Had the Russian held back? Did he know more?

She shot her theories at Wil, who was up in front, examining the inside wall beneath the counter, looking for more bloodstains.

She was talking at manic speed, couldn’t believe the edge in her voice. Wil listened, said, “You think Zhukanov saw the boy again? Got a fix on his location? But how would Balch find out?”

“I don’t know—but if it was him, he took Zhukanov by surprise. Maybe force. Or Zhukanov was plastered. Or he pulled some kind of scam on Zhukanov. The guy was crazy for the reward. It could have clouded his judgment.”

“A scam,” said Wil. “Someone who’d be legit asking about the boy?”

“Yes,” said Petra. “A social worker—a cop. Maybe Balch impersonated a cop.”

Wil thought about that. “A suit and a fake badge is all it’d take. Yeah, Zhukanov’s greed would do the rest. But for Balch to risk killing him now, when he knows we’re going to be looking for him?”

“We haven’t caught him. He may not even know we’re on to him,” said Petra. “And if it leads to the boy, it could seem worth it. That tells me Zhukanov may very well have learned something more about the boy.”

She returned to the stockroom, searching nervously, frantically. Toys, stupid toys—imagine a hairbasket like Zhukanov peddling playthings to little kids . . . nothing in the pocket of the Planet Hollywood jacket . . . the card table, the receipts—she grabbed them all up, started scanning.

Ten slips in, she found an invoice form, no sale marked, no date. Just a single line of shaky printing.

2RTRM34

License number? Had the Russian seen William Straight in a car and copied down the plate? Everyone knew you could bribe info out of DMV. The papers had covered a big bribery scandal a few months ago. A guy like Zhukanov would know his way around that sort of thing. Pay up, get the address.

She looked for a phone in the shack. None in either room. What a hovel. Fournier was still looking for blood. She borrowed his phone—what was the night number for DMV traces . . . yeah, yeah, she remembered it. When the clerk came on, she had to fight from barking orders at the woman. This one was a stickler for regulations.

Lord save me from rule books.

But a little assertiveness finally made her cooperate, and a few computer clicks later Petra had it: Samuel Morris Ganzer, 23 Sunrise Court, Venice.

Birthdate in 1925.

An old man.

Had William found himself a protector?

CHAPTER

The Lincoln was parked inches from the back of
the house, and its front bumper gave him a great boost to the window.

Drapes on this one too, but not drawn tightly; he had a perfect view of the kitchen, helped along by a small light over the stove. The living room, too, separated only by a waist-high counter. A floor lamp there cast charcoal shadows on gray carpet. Enough light to see the front door. Red glow off to the right side. Alarm. Too bad. But better to know up front.

Three doors to the left, probably bedrooms and bathroom. Not much space between them. Small rooms, better for stabbing.

And that was the entire layout. Excellent . . .

No sign of the boy since he’d first ventured out onto the porch. The old guy, either. Both bedroom doors closed. The boy and the old man—with or without wife—fast asleep? Or maybe the old guy was a queer and the boy was sleeping with him.

That would sure explain taking him home.

Sleep made it a helluva lot easier: Burst in, throw the bedroom doors open, boom boom boom, gone even before the time delay kicked in on the alarm.

Knock stuff over on the way out, maybe steal something, to make it look like a gang thing.

He got down from the car, checked the alley for intruders, examined the house’s rear door. Two dead bolts. Bad. But putting a little weight on the wood, he felt some give. One or two good shoves would take it off the hinges. Probably ruin his shoulder, but he was used to pushing his way through obstacles. The door was nothing compared to a defensive line.

Okay, then. Here come da blitz. The knife if it worked, the gun ready for backup. Either way, he could do it in seconds, run out the back, fade into the night.

One last look through the kitchen window.

He was scared, had to admit it. This was different, not like Lisa, the German girl, Sally, the stupid Russian. All those times, he’d set up the scenes.

But there were times you had to improvise.

He climbed up on the Lincoln’s bumper again. Nothing different, but still he hesitated. Up again, down again. Compulsive. When his anxiety rose, he handled it with repetition. Like his mother’s head banging. The stupid bitch. She deserved to die in that stupid helmet.

Okay, one last look—this time, he saw the boy—see, it pays to be thorough!

Coming out of the middle door to the left. A bathroom, just as he’d guessed.

Skinny little thing, light enough to drop-kick. He watched him emerge, go into the kitchen, open the refrigerator, take something out—a carrot.

Would he wash it? The sink was right below the window.
Duck.

Crouched next to the outer wall, he heard plumbing kick in. Hygienic little sucker.

The water stopped. He waited, finally raised his head, peeked in, again. The kid was standing in the living room, back to the kitchen window, eating the carrot. Finishing half of it, he walked to the front door, punched the alarm panel—damn, too far to make out the code.

Opening the door, the kid stepped out again. But only for a few seconds, and here he was again, back inside, closing the door, turning, about to face the window.

Could he see anything out here in the darkness? Probably not, unless it was right up against the glass, but be extra careful, duck again.

Another thirty seconds passed before he dared another look. The kid was still standing in the living room, munching on the carrot, visible in profile.

Just another face.

The kid finished the carrot, bent, and picked something up. A magazine. He eats healthy, washes, reads. Such a good little citizen.

But not careful. Because the light on the front alarm panel was green.

He’d forgotten to trigger the goddamn alarm!

God was
wonderful
!

The blitz was on!

CHAPTER

“Sunrise Court,” said Petra, thumbing through her
Thomas Guide.

Wil took his penlight out of his mouth. “I know it, one of the walk streets.” He was outside the stand, recording the details of the Zhukanov crime scene.