Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (16 page)

Petra said, “Diversity in the workplace.”

The Chino guard laughed.

“They use violence?” she asked him.

“Not that I've heard. They concentrate on scams, run a lot of welfare schemes. They like to think of themselves as actors because the boss tried to be one.”

The boss was a failed actor with a forty-year history of property crimes. Robert Leroy Leon, sixty-three, aka The Director. Currently residing at Lompoc. Lots of visitors but no Sandra.

Mac had been dead-on: The girl had slipped, blurted out a partial truth.

Petra pressed the Chino guy for everything he knew about The Players. He gave her the names of some possible members but not much more. She wrote down copious notes and booted up her computer.

Logging on to Google, she plugged in “The Players” and came up with 1,640,000 hits. “Players scams” pulled up exactly one website, a protest against corporate malfeasance.

It was nearly seven
P.M.
and she was suddenly tired and overwhelmed. She was staring at the screen and wondering where to go next when Isaac's voice drew her away from all those zeros.

“Hi,” he said.

Her eyes shot to the bruise on his cheek. Faded—no, covered up. He'd tried to mask it with makeup. The result was clumsy, a flaking splotch.

“Hey,” she said. “I hope the other guy came out of it worse.”

CHAPTER

22

I
saac blushed through the makeup.

“No big deal,” he said, too casually. “The hallway was dark when I got home and I bumped into the wall.”

“Oh,” said Petra.

A few flakes of makeup had landed on the shoulder of his blue shirt. He saw her looking at them and flicked them away. “I was wondering if there was anything I could do for you.”

It was seven thirty-two
P.M.
“Working late?” said Petra.

“I had obligations on campus all day, figured I'd come by here, see if you needed me.”

One million six hundred forty thousand hits.

Petra smiled. “As a matter of fact . . .”

She gave him the info on Sandra Leon and The Players and watched him hurry over to his laptop.

Thrilled to be busy.

She was worn-out and hungry.

She returned to Shannons, took the same stool at the bar and ordered a Bud and a corned beef sandwich. The flat screen was tuned to an infomercial. None of the boozers at the bar were interested in buying cubic zirconium mystical bracelets.

New bartender on shift, a woman, and she didn't squawk when Petra asked her to put on Fox News and format it so the running border was visible.

“Yeah, it's annoying,” the woman said. “You want to read something and it cuts everything in half.”

Three other boozers nodded agreement. Older guys, grizzled, in wrinkled work uniforms. The bar smelled of their sweat. The color in their faces said St. Patrick's Day had started early.

One looked at Petra and smiled. Not a lecherous leer, paternal. Crazily, she thought about her dad, the shockingly rapid Alzheimer's fade.

She chewed on her sandwich, drank her beer, ordered another, shot her eyes to the TV when she heard “Tel Aviv.”

Charred and twisted outdoor furniture, ambulance howls, Hasidic types cleaning up body parts. The death toll had risen to three—one of the wounded had succumbed to “injuries suffered in the blast.” The number of wounded was now precise: twenty-six.

Hamas and one of Arafat's groups were each claiming credit.

Credit.

Fuck
them.

The sandwich steamed up at her. Her nose filled with brine and her stomach began churning. She threw money on the bar and left.

The female bartender called out, “Everything okay, honey?”

When Petra reached the door, the woman shouted: “Can I at least wrap it to go?”

She drove around the city, aimlessly, recklessly. Listening to the horn blares of those she'd offended and not giving a damn.

Spaced out, she pushed the Accord through traffic as if it was on tracks. Not looking at people the way she usually did. Off the job—a job that never really ended.

But tonight, it had. Tonight, she wanted nothing to do with cons, scumbags, felons, and miscreants. Had no patience to look for furtive glances, suspicious moves, the sudden popcorn-burst of violence that changed everything.

Twenty-six injured.

Eric had phoned her, so he had to be okay.

But Eric was stoic about pain. After the stabbing, when he'd come to, he'd refused analgesics. Perforated, and he claimed he didn't feel a thing. The doctors couldn't believe he could tolerate it.

Propped up in that hospital bed, so pale . . .

His parents and her and the bimbo waiting silently.

Bye bye blondie, I won.

What was the prize?

She made it home without causing a collision and painted like a demon for four hours straight, working till her eyes crossed. Just after midnight, without stopping to appraise her progress, she switched off the lights, stumbled to bed, stripped off her clothes while lying down. Asleep before she took three breaths.

At four-fourteen
A.M.
, she was jolted awake by the phone.

“It's me,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, stupidly. Clearing her head. “How
are
you?”

“Fine.”

“You're not hurt? Thank God—”

“It's minor—”

“You—oh, God—”

“Tiny piece of shrapnel in the calf. Your basic flesh wound.”

“Oh, God, Eric—”

“In and out, it's really no big deal.”

Now she was sitting up, heart racing, hands frigid. “Shrapnel in your leg is no big deal!”

“I was lucky,” he said. “The first asshole had packed his vest with nuts and bolts and ragged sheet metal. The second used ball bearings and they passed straight through.”

“They? More than one wound?”

“A couple of small punctures, I'm fine, Petra.”

“A couple meaning two?”

Silence.

“Eric?”

“Three.”

“Three ball bearings through your leg.”

“No bone or tendon damage, just muscle. It feels like I worked out too hard.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“The hospital.”

“Which one? Where? Tel Aviv?”

Silence.

“Damn you,” said Petra. “What, I'm going to phone the goddamn PLO and give away state secrets?”

“Tel Aviv,” he said. “I can't talk long. It's an ongoing investigation.”

“Like they don't know whodunit.”

Silence.

Petra said, “You're the one who spotted the first one, right?”

He didn't answer.

“Right?” she demanded.

“It was pretty obvious, Petra. Ninety degrees outside he's wearing an overcoat and looking like he's about to throw up.”

“A kid? They use kids for that, right?”

“Early twenties,” said Eric. “A punk. An asshole.”

“You were with Army guys and cops. Anyone else spot him?”

Silence.

“Answer me, Eric.”

“They were distracted.”

“So you're the hero.”

“Bad word.”

“Tough,” she said. “You're the hero. I want you to be my hero.”

He didn't respond.

Shut up, girl. You should be comforting him, not playing dependent diva.

“Sorry,” she said. “I'm just . . . I didn't know . . . I was
worried.
”

“I can be
your
hero,” he said. “It's the other people who bug me.”

CHAPTER

23

MONDAY, JUNE 17, 10:34 A.M., DETECTIVES' ROOM, HOLLYWOOD DIVISION

I
saac was waiting for Petra when she arrived. She walked past him and continued to the ladies' room.

Needing to compose herself. Frazzled, despite the weekend.

Because of the weekend, all the dread she'd suffered solo.

Determined to put the bombing—and work—out of her mind, she'd sustained herself with catch-up chores and manic bouts of painting that were proving monumentally depressing. Her O'Keeffe copy was a gloomy mess. The old gal had been a genius, Petra knew she could never approach that level.

But simply copying shouldn't be
this
hard.

Impulsively, she'd slathered black paint all over the canvas, then regretted it and sat at her easel crying.

Long time since she'd cried. Not since rescuing Billy and giving him up to his new life. What the hell was happening to her?

She covered the black with white, then followed with a coat of magenta because she'd heard that someone—some famous artist—used that shade for primer.

With the reek of turpentine stinging her nose, she washed her brushes, took a long, too-hot bath that left her body red and stinging and tight.

Maybe a run would help. Or at least a walk. No, to hell with that, she'd eat ice cream.

She finished off Sunday with shopping and phone calls to her five brothers. And their wives and kids. Five happy families. Their complete, hectic, domesticated lives.

A brief call from Eric late Sunday night brought a glow to her cheeks but left her feeling abandoned when he hung up without saying he missed her.

He'd be staying longer in Israel than planned, was booked for some high-level embassy meetings and whatnot. Then maybe on to Morocco and Tunisia. Quiet places for the Mideast, but there were rumors, that's all he could say.

In his absence, she turned to the papers and the TV news, seeking vicarious contact. Nothing more about the bombing.

Geopolitical business as usual.

At some level, aren't we all statistics?

Now she stood at the ladies' room mirror, blew her nose, primped her hair.

Thirty years old and my face is starting to sag.

Arching her back in order to flaunt whatever bosom Fate had provided her, she batted her lashes, fluffed her hair, struck a vixen pose.

Hey sailor.

Then she thought of the dead sailor, Darren Hochenbrenner, brained and left in a skid-row alley.

The other June killings.

Eleven days until June 28 and she was no further along than when Isaac had presented her with his little gift.

The kid was out there, looking eager.

She straightened her posture, put on a businesslike expression, erased all traces of femme fatale—as if there'd been any to begin with.

He stayed at his desk until she beckoned him over.

“What's up?”

“As far as I can tell, law enforcement doesn't know much about The Players. Currently, there are five alleged members in prison. Alleged, because all five deny membership in any group.”

Petra took out her notepad.

Isaac said, “I've got it saved, can print it out for you.”

She put the pad away. “Who's in prison?”

“The two you found—John and Charles—are grandsons of Robert Leon. A nonrelative named Anson Cruft was convicted of possession of false identification papers, and a woman named Susan Bianca who ran a legal brothel in Nevada then tried the same thing in San Luis Obispo is locked up for pandering. She's a younger sister of Robert Leon's second wife, Katherine Leon. Robert's kind of interesting. Forty years ago, he did some fashion modeling, then he got a few small parts on soap operas, here in Hollywood. But after that, nothing. Somewhere along the line, he turned to crime. How he started is unclear. He's Guatemalan but has lived here most of his life. His first wife was Mexican, the daughter of a Nuestra Familia gangster. She died of cancer and he doesn't seem to have ever hooked up with N.F. At least that's what the prison people say. He did manage a porno theater in San Francisco, as well as some strip clubs and adult bookstores. That's where he met Katherine, she was a dancer. I suppose any of those environments could've put him in contact with other criminal types, but maybe it's a gang thing.” He shrugged. “That's all I know.”

“That's all, huh?”

“Your best bet is probably to talk to local police.”

“I was kidding, Isaac. You did great, that's more than I could've pulled up.”

The compliment seemed to zip right past him and he remained grave.

She turned to her own computer, pulled up Robert Leon's file on NCIC. The most recent mug shot showed a lean, silver-haired guy with a long, seamed face. Thick wavy hair combed straight back, jet-black mustache.

Sixty-three but he looked younger. Good bone structure, she could see hints of the young male model. On soap operas he'd be cast as a Latin lover.

Leon had smirked for the booking officer. Despite the wise-guy quality to the smile, it managed to be engaging.

Above the smile, the hard eyes of a seasoned con.

“Did you come across any sibs for the brothers?” she asked.

“Not specifically,” said Isaac, “but I did find a story in a free San Francisco weekly that said Robert Leon had lots of kids. Kind of a gypsy king situation, but they're not ethnic Gypsies.”

“Anything else interesting in the article?”

“Not really. It wasn't very well written. Hippie prose—kind of a retro-sixties thing. I'll print it, too.”

Petra, born in 1973, considered all the hippie stuff quaint history. What could it mean to him?

“Okay, thanks,” she said. “You've given me something to work with.”

“On June 28, I haven't come up with anything new.” He hesitated.

“What?”

“Maybe I made something out of nothing.”

“You didn't,” said Petra. “It's definitely something. Let me run with what you've given me on Leon and his gang, then let's get together later—say four or five—and brainstorm the June 28 stuff. If you're free.”

“I am,” he said. “Definitely. I've got some things to do on campus but I can be back by then.”

His smile was big as the ocean.

Petra phoned Lompoc a second time and got the details on Robert Leon's visitors. Three names interested her. An eighteen-year-old female named Marcella Douquette with a Venice address on Brooks, and two guys in their forties who'd listed residences here in Hollywood: Albert Martin Leon, forty-five, Whitley Avenue; Lyle Mario Leon, forty-one, Sycamore Drive.

She tried all three phone numbers. Disconnected.

Back to NCIC. Albert and Lyle had both done time for nonviolent crimes, Albert in Nevada and Lyle in San Diego. Mug shots showed a clear resemblance to Robert Leon—the same leanness, the wavy hair. Albert's was already gray and he wore it parted in the middle and down to his shoulders. No looker; his nose was mashed and off-center and his eyes crowded the misshapen cartilage. His stats said his body was full of scars. He was a bad-check artist.

Lyle Leon's hair was still dark. Clipped at the sides, bushy and squared-off on top—an eraserhead-do far too young for his age. An earring and a bristly soul patch said this guy thought himself quite the hipster. He'd been busted for peddling worthless cleaning solutions to old folk, had done less than a year in San Diego.

Smalltime hustler trying to look like the Big Dude?

There was no mention of the relationship between either man and Robert Leon. Given the age difference, the patriarch might've sired sons early. Or Albert and Lyle were Robert's cousins, whatever.

No criminal record for Marcella Douquette. The girl was young, give her time.

Maybe none of it meant a thing, but it was time to do some legwork.

Albert and Lyle Leon's addresses were bogus. Same setup as Sandra's: multiunit apartments, no record of either man ever living there. Neither con was on parole and neither had registered any motor vehicles, so there was no way to trace them.

Petra drove to Venice. The Brooks Avenue house was one of three clapboard single units on a dirt lot in definite gang territory. Teeny little shacky thing, sitting askew on a raised foundation. Tar-paper roof, ragged boards. The surrounding lot cordoned by chain link and full of litter: spare tires, an old washing machine, rolls of plastic tarp, soda bottles, beer cans, splintered parts of wooden pallets.

It was one
P.M.
and the shaved-head crowd was sleeping in. Petra could smell the ocean—a nice, salty fragrance with just the slightest undertone of rot. The shack was a total dive but only a quick hop to the beach. Venice Beach, where deviance was the norm and scamsters worked the tourists every Sunday.

Perfect for The Players and their ilk. Petra's chest twitched. Maybe she was finally on to something.

She got out of the car, looked up and down the block, let her fingers settle atop the spot on her hip where her gun rested. A platter of soupy, gray fog pressed down on the ocean—the usual June gloom—and the entire neighborhood was washed in newspaper-photo tones.

Maybe that's why the head-basher chose June to do his thing. Depressed over ugly weather.

She waited some more, took in Marcella Douquette's alleged residence from a distance and made sure no low-riders were cruising. The chain-link fence was locked and bolted but low, barely at waist level.

Petra approached the property, waited for the requisite pit bull to show. Nothing.

She checked out the street one more time, got a toehold in a chain-link diamond, and was over.

No doorbell, no answer to her assertive knocks. She was about to walk around behind the shack when the door to the neighboring unit opened and a man stepped out, squinting.

Hispanic, mid-twenties, bare-chested, wispy crew cut. Wispy mustache to match. Like that old actor . . . Cantinflas.

He wore baggy blue swim trunks and nothing else. His soft, hairless chest—all of him—was the color of mocha ice cream. Nicely burgeoning potbelly. Outsized outie navel that resembled a summer squash—sue
that
obstetrician.

No tattoos or scars that she could see. No macho-swagger either. Just a sleepy-looking, flabby guy getting up at 1:20
P.M.

She gave him a businesslike nod.

He nodded back, sniffed the air.Yawned.

She went up to him. “You live here for a while, sir?”

His reply was too soft to make out so Petra got closer and said, “Pardon?”

“Just for the summer.”

“When did you start living here?”

The guy stared at her. She flashed the badge. He yawned again. Through the door to his shack she saw a gray-carpeted room with a blue couch and a pumpkin-colored beanbag. Outsized black leather case atop the couch. The window shades were drawn. Mildew from the carpet wafted out to the stagnant June air.

“I started May one,” he said. “Why?”

“Why May?” said Petra.

“That's when school was over.”

“College?”

“Cal State Northridge.” He hitched his swim trunks. They slid back down. “What's up?”

Petra evaded the question with a smile. “What're you studying?”

“Photography. Photojournalism. I live in the Valley, figured Venice would be a good place to get shots for my portfolio.” He frowned. “What's going on?”

Petra looked up at the sky. “How does the fog affect your photography?”

“With the right filters you can do cool stuff.” Another frown. “Are there problems? 'Cause I didn't realize how sketchy the neighborhood was but now I see where it's at.”

“Problems?”

“I wouldn't leave my equipment in the house, alone.”

“Bad neighbors?”

“The whole neighbor
hood.
I don't go out much at night. Probably, I'll leave at the end of the month.”

“No lease?”

“Month to month.”

“Who's the landlord?”

“Some corporation. I got it from an ad at the C-SUN bulletin board.”

“Cheap?” said Petra.

“Real cheap.”

Petra said, “I'm trying to track down a young woman named Marcella Douquette.”

“She the one next door?”

“There's a girl living next door?”

“Used to be. Haven't seen her for a while.”

“How long's a while?”

He scratched his chin. “Maybe a couple of weeks ago.”

Right around the time of the Paradiso shootings.

Petra said, “Could I have your name please, sir?”

“Mine?”

“Yes.”

“Ovid Arnaz.”

“Mr. Arnaz, I've got a photo here. Not the kind of thing you'd take. From the Coroner's Office. You up for looking at it?”

“I've been to the coroner's,” said Ovid Arnaz. “For a class. We met with crime photographers.”

“Strong stuff.”

Arnaz stretched his neck. “It was interesting.” He glanced at the shack next door. “What, she's dead?”

Petra showed him the least disturbing postmortem of the girl in the pink sneakers.

Ovid Arnaz regarded it without a trace of emotion. “Yup,” he said. “That's her.”

Petra phoned Pacific Division, explained the situation to an amiable sergeant, and within five minutes three patrol cars had sped to the scene. The tech van took another twenty minutes to arrive, during which the uniforms stood around and Petra talked more to Ovid Arnaz.

On the quiet side, but he turned out to be a first-rate source. Photographer's memory, keen eye for details.

He remembered Marcella Douquette's pink shoes—she always wore them—and described her face and body to a T. More important, he reported that she'd lived with two other people. Another girl, pretty, slender, blond, who had to be Sandra. And an older guy with a weird, bushy haircut and a soul patch.