Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (18 page)

CHAPTER

27

S
tupid!

Isaac hunched at his desk, faced a grubby wall. Hot and sandy-eyed and abashed, alone in the detectives' room except for that old guy, Barney Fleischer, who always seemed to be around but never seemed to be really working.

Fleischer had a radio on at low volume, some sort of easy-listening instrumental, didn't even look up when Isaac entered. By now, no one in the detectives' room noticed his comings and goings. He was a fixture to all of them.

Including Petra.

Asking her to dinner when she's rushing out on a case!
What had he been thinking?

Unlike Fleischer, Petra worked. The job mattered to her. Despite all the frustration, chasing down leads that failed to materialize.

A woman like that needed to parcel out her time carefully. Why in the world would she even contemplate stopping for dinner?

With
him.

To her, he was an assignment, nothing more.

And yet, she'd been generous with her time. Letting him ride along, sharing details of cases.

That skin, those eyes. The way her black hair just floated into place.

Stop it, stupid.

He started to wonder again about the June 28 murders. Was his hypothesis all part of an inane infatuation?

He'd been so
certain.
The thrill of discovery when he first came across the pattern had nearly blown him out of his seat.

Eureka!

Ha.

At the time, he thought he'd been careful not to leap into conjecture without calculating and recalculating, subjecting his hypotheses to multiple tests of significance. The data had seemed clear. This was
something.

But what if he'd convinced himself a mathematical quirk was meaningful because he'd been blinded by his own bullshit?

Because he'd wanted to
produce
for Petra.

Did it all boil down to preening, the ludicrous mating rituals of an absurd little game bird?

God, he hoped not.

No, it had to be real. Petra was an expert and she believed it.

Because he'd worn her down?

All his life—his academic life—he'd been told he was built for success. That the combination of brains and perseverance couldn't miss.

But perseverance could be pathological, couldn't it?

He had that in him: the blindered compulsiveness, the irrational relentlessness.

Barney Fleischer looked over his shoulder and stared and said, “Hey, there.”

“Hey, Detective Fleischer.”

“Burning the midnight oil?”

“A few hours left till then.”

“She's out, you know. Left a few minutes ago.”

“I know,” said Isaac.

Fleischer studied him and Isaac could see cold, hard appraisal in the old guy's eyes. Once a detective . . .

“Anything I can do for you, son?”

“No, thanks,” said Isaac. “I thought I'd do some paperwork. On my research.”

“Oh,” said Fleischer. He turned his music up louder, resumed whatever he'd been doing.

Isaac took out his laptop, booted up, called up a page of numbers, pretended to be concentrating. Instead, he flashed back to the agony of self-doubt.

Step back, be objective.

Six victims, nothing in common but the date. His calculations said it
had
to be meaningful, but could he be trusted to think straight?

No, no, however dorky his motives, this was real. He'd run the numbers too many times for it to be anything but real.

June 28. Today was the eighteenth.

If he was right, someone, some unsuspecting, innocent,
random
person would step out into a night full of expectations only to experience the crushing pain of a cranium pulverized to pulp.

Then nothing.

Suddenly, he wanted to be wrong. That had never happened before.

CHAPTER

28

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 19, 1:20 A.M., TERMINAL 4, LAX

T
he flight's arrival had been delayed for two hours and the baggage claim area stank of uncertainty.

All those weary loved ones sitting, pacing, peering at the board, shaking their heads, sometimes cursing, as the numbers got worse.

Petra spent the time sitting and rereading a copy of
People
magazine.

The bath she'd taken three hours ago had been okay, but she'd been too hyped up to enjoy it.

Jumping out, toweling off, spending a lot of time on her makeup and clothes, finally selecting a tight black top over gray linen slacks. The smooth, black Wonderbra gave her a lift nature hadn't.

She drove quickly to the airport, found parking after two go-rounds and still arrived early.

Then she waited.

When the arrival time was finally announced—an hour away—she left the terminal to take a walk along the dim, mostly deserted walkways of the airport's lower level.

A woman walking alone. Her gun was in her purse. No metal detectors anywhere near the baggage claim. A clear lapse of security that she welcomed tonight.

When she got back, passengers from a Mexico City flight had clogged the area. When they finally cleared, the “Landed” sign was flashing for Eric's flight and she stationed herself near the swinging doors that bottomed the arrival ramp, and peered through the glass.

Sparse flight, just a trickle of zombies bumping down the ramp. Eric was among the last passengers to appear and she spotted him well before he got to the doors.

Dark blue sweatshirt, faded jeans, sneakers, his little olive-green, Swiss mountain-climber's backpack slung over one shoulder.

Light wood cane in his left hand.

A limp.

When he saw her he straightened and waved the cane as if it were superfluous.

He came through the doors, she rushed him, hugged him, felt bones and sinew and tension. The cane bumped against her leg.

“Excuse me!” Annoyed female voice.

They were blocking the exit. Stepping aside, Petra caught a murderous glance from an all-in-black harridan who tried to engage her in extended ocular warfare. She smiled and hugged Eric again.

He said, “One suitcase.” They walked toward the carousel. Petra reached for his backpack.

He held on to it. “I'm fine.” Handing her the cane, to prove it.

They stood there, silent, as bags bumped through the chute.

Boy, this is romantic.

She got between him and the revolving luggage, kissed him hard.

On the ride home, he said, “Thanks for picking me up.”

“It was a tough decision.”

He touched her knee, withdrew.

“It's good to see you,” she said.

“Good to see you.”

“How's your leg? Really.”

“It's okay. Really.”

“How long do you have to use that thing?”

“I could probably ditch it now.”

She took Century to the 405 North. Not much traffic on the freeway. Good time to challenge the speed limits.

“Your place?” she said. Thinking she really didn't want to drive to Studio City.

“We could go to your place.”

“We could.”

When they arrived, he pronounced himself “rancid,” and took a shower. She ran the water and as it warmed, fixed him coffee. When he slipped off his sweatshirt, she saw white flesh and bones, the thin sheath of muscle that rescued him from downright scrawny. A bandage on his shoulder.

He saw her eyeing it. “A fragment nicked me. It's nothing.” He stepped out of his jeans and removed his jockeys. His left calf was encased in thick bandages.

She said, “You can get it wet?”

“There's inflammation but no infection. In a couple of days I'll find a doctor and have the dressings changed.”

He headed for the bathroom and Petra followed at a distance. Stood in the door as he hobbled into the shower, got a hard spray going, water bulleting the pebbled glass door.

Petra watched his fuzzy reflection.

To heck with this.

She stripped down and joined him.

Cruel and inconsiderate, the positions she got him into. A wounded man, no less. He cried out in gratitude and when they were done and lying naked and moist on her bed, he said, “I missed you.”

Touching her breast. Her nipple sprang erect.

“Missed you, too.”

They kissed and he got hard again. Had he really craved her? Or was it just
this
he'd desired?

Was there a difference?

She broke a long clinch. “Hungry?”

He thought about that. “Maybe I'll scrounge in your fridge.”

She placed a hand on his flat, warm chest. “Don't move. I'll fix you something.”

He made his way through the turkey sandwich, potato chips, and hastily assembled, almost-fresh salad she prepared. Eating the usual Eric way: silent, deliberate. Chewing slowly, the politely closed mouth. Not a single errant crumb, nary a grease stain on his lips.

She studied the turn of his wrists. Thin, for a man. Long, delicate fingers. He should've played an instrument. She realized she'd never heard him hum, or sing or express any interest in music.

The shower had loosened his shoulder bandage and he'd redressed the wound with ointment from his backpack, then popped an antibiotic. Petra thought the three-inch gash a lot more than “nothing.” Ragged and puffy, surrounded by puckered, reddened flesh. Horrible. What would his leg look like?

She said, “Why'd you cut the trip short?”

“To see you.”

“I wish.”

“It's true,” he said.

“Maybe partially true. Tell me the whole thing.”

It had gone down this way: Eric, an Israeli security officer, and three other foreign cops—an Englishman, an Australian, and a Belgian—sitting at the café on Hayarkon Street with iced coffees and soft drinks and, in the Englishman's case, lots of beer. Ninety degrees in Tel Aviv, with equivalent humidity. You showered, dried off, were drenched moments later.

The five of them had been training all day, watching footage, reviewing Interpol data, scanning partially declassified documents. The other cops were miserable, hated Tel Aviv.

Eric didn't mind the city. He'd been there twice before, a few years ago, running errands for the American embassy. Courier service from Riyadh to Israel via Amman, Jordan. Tight little packages, no idea what they were, but he got through Customs everywhere with no explanation. Later, he'd explored this very street, taking in the cheap beach hotels, the bars and clubs and restaurants, Thai and Romanian hookers doing the stroll.

Lots of embassies nearby. Prostitutes and diplomats, there was a match for you.

When the Israeli went off to fetch more drinks, the other policemen started in again about how much they despised the entire damn country. Too noisy, too humid, the food was too spicy, Israelis were rude.

“Too you-know-what,” said the Belgian. Obnoxious by nature, anti-Semitic by choice, he was ready to display his biases the moment the Israeli security guy's head was turned. Smirks, grimaces, tugs at the nose. Sotto voce comments about Arabs and Jews all being sand-jockeys, why not just let them blow each other to smithereens.

This was the guy Brussels had sent to work on international security cooperation. Back home, he'd been a police bureaucrat, before that an Army officer.

Belgian Army officer, when was the last time the Belgians had fought anyone? Probably back in the fifties when they were slaughtering Congolese.

Yesterday, when the Belgian and Eric were alone, both of them urinating in a men's room at police headquarters on French Hill in Jerusalem, the Belgian aimed his wienie away from the urinal and began spraying the floor. Laughing and saying, “I piss on all of them.”

When the first bomber showed up, the Israeli officer was still off ordering refills. Eric would forever swear he'd smelled the asshole before he actually saw him.
Felt
his fear, an instant flick of some primeval nerve filament.

Whatever the reason, he'd been the first to catch on.

Turning and watching the guy wend his way through the tables. Young, pudgy, hair spiked up and blond-tipped to look like an Israeli beach bum.

But
wrong.
The long, black coat in ninety-degree weather. The sweating, the warp-speed eyes.

Eric said, “We've got trouble,” and cocked his head and prepared to move.

The Belgian said, “This whole fucking country is troub—”

Eric got up. Slowly, casually. Taking his empty glass in hand, as if ready for replenishment.

The asshole in the coat got closer.

The Australian and the Belgian were oblivious but the Englishman followed Eric's sidelong glance and caught on right away. He started to rise, the unspoken message: flank him, take him down together.

Alcohol had dulled his responses and his foot caught in the leg of his chair and he lurched forward.

The Belgian laughed, said something in French.

Eric swiveled slowly, careful not to make eye contact with the bomber.

Ten feet between them, five. Eric knew what the bastard was doing: positioning himself in the middle of the crowd, wanting to maximize the slaughter.

Now they were brushing elbows. Now he really could smell the guy, putrid with anticipation.

Wild eyes. Lips moving, some sort of silent prayer.

Acne on his forehead and chin, dirt creases in his neck. A kid, twenty, tops.

The Belgian said something else. Louder. Eric knew enough French to make it out. “Hot as hell and the idiots dress like Polish refugees.”

The guy in the coat might've caught the disdain in the comment because he stopped. Glared at the Belgian. Reached inside his coat.

The Belgian started to catch on. Turned white. Blinked and stared and peed his pants.

Eric sprang, hit Black Coat hard in the throat with his right hand, used his left to twist the asshole's arm. Up and back. Way back, hard. He heard bones snap. The guy's eyes bugged and he screamed.

Fell.

His coat flapped open. Big, thick, black vest around his torso. Tug-wire at the bottom.

Trying to reach it, Eric ripped the asshole's shoulder joint, stomped on the free hand and broke it. Stomped on the guy's chest, too, hearing ribs snap.

The bomber's eyes rolled back.

Someone said, “What's going on?”

The tail end of the question was drowned out by screaming.

Scattering, upending chairs and tables. Glass shattered. Plates of food slid to the ground as people bolted in panic.

The bomber wasn't moving.

Thank God it was over.

Then the Englishman said “Shit,” and this time it was Eric's turn to follow his eyes.

To the periphery of the fleeing crowd. Another long-coated figure, same approximate age, smaller, thinner, dark-haired. Olive-drab coat, Israeli Army surplus.

Too many people between them to do anything.

Number Two shouted and reached into
his
coat.

Eric threw himself to the ground.

Hell arrived.