Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (2 page)

CHAPTER

2

I
t happened the day she started painting again. Forcing herself to get up by ten and using the daylight to copy a Georgia O'Keeffe she'd always loved. Not flowers or skulls; a gray, vertical New York city scene from O'Keeffe's early days.

Pure genius, no way could she hope to capture it, but the struggle would be good. It had been months since she'd lifted a brush and starting out was rough. But by two
P.M.
, she was in the groove, doing pretty well, she thought. At six, she sat down to appraise her work and fell asleep on the living room couch.

A call from the station woke her up at one-fifteen
A.M.

“Multiple one eighty-sevens at the Paradiso Club, Sunset near Western, all hands on deck,” said the dispatcher. “It's probably on TV already.”

Petra flicked on the tube as she headed for the shower. The first network she tried was running the story.

A bunch of kids shot outside the Paradiso. Some sort of hip-hop concert, an altercation in the parking lot, gun-barrel poking out of a car window.

Four bodies.

By the time Petra got there the area had been cordoned and the victims were covered with coroner's tarp. A quartet of bundles, lying at random angles under a blue-black Hollywood sky. The corner of one of the tarps had blown loose, revealing a sneakered foot. Pink sneaker, smallish.

High-intensity lights turned the parking lot glossy. What looked to be over a hundred kids, some of whom were way too young to be out this late, had been divided into several groups, shunted off to the side and guarded by uniformed officers. Five groups, all potential witnesses. The Paradiso, a movie theater–turned–evangelical church–turned–concert venue, could seat over a thousand. These kids were the chosen few.

Petra looked for other detectives, spotted Abrams, Montoya, Dilbeck, and Haas. Now that she was here, five D's for five groups.

MacDonald Dilbeck was a DIII with over thirty years' experience and he'd be the boss on this one.

She headed over to him. When she was ten yards away, he waved.

Mac was a sixty-one-year-old ex-Marine with silver, Brylcreemed hair and a gray sharkskin suit just as glossy. Skinny, rounded lapels marked the garment as a vintage collectible, but she knew he'd bought it new. A five-eight fireplug, Mac wore Aqua Velva, a faux-ruby high school ring, and an LAPD tie-bar. He lived in Simi Valley and his civilian ride was an old Caddy. On weekends he rode horses and Harleys. Married for forty years,
Semper Fi
tattoo on his biceps. Petra judged him smarter than most doctors and lawyers she'd met.

He said, “Sorry for screwing up your vacation.” His eyes were tired but his posture was perfect.

“Looks like we need all the help we can get.”

Mac's mouth turned down. “It was a massacre. Four children.”

He drew her away from the bodies, toward the double-width driveway that led out to Western Avenue; they faced thin, early-morning traffic. “The concert ended at eleven-thirty, but kids hung around in the parking lot smoking, drinking, the typical shenanigans. Cars were leaving but one reversed direction and backed up toward the crowd. Slowly, so no one noticed. Then an arm stuck out and started shooting. Security guard was too far to see it but he heard a dozen shots. Four hits, all fatal, looks like a nine millimeter.”

Petra glanced at the nearest group of kids. “They don't look hardcore. What kind of concert was it?”

“Your basic lightweight hip-hop, dance remixes, some Latin stuff, nothing gangsta.”

Despite the horror, Petra felt a smile coming on. “Nothing
gangsta
?”

Dilbeck shrugged. “Grandkids. From what we're hearing, it was a well-behaved crowd, couple of ejections for alcohol but nothing serious.”

“Who got ejected?”

“Three boys from the Valley. White, harmless, their parents picked them up. This wasn't about that, Petra, but what it
was
about, who knows? Including our potential witnesses.”

“Nothing?” said Petra.

Dilbeck covered his eyes with one hand, used the other to blanket his mouth. “These are the kids unlucky enough to be sticking around when the black-and-whites arrived. All we've got out of them is a relatively consistent description of the shooter's car. Small, black or dark blue or dark gray, most likely a Honda or a Toyota, with chrome rims. Not a single digit of license plate. When the shooting started, everyone dropped or ducked or ran.”

“But all these kids hung around.”

“Uniforms arrived within two minutes, Code Three,” said Dilbeck. “Didn't let anyone leave.”

“Who called it in?”

“At least eight people. The official informant's a bouncer.” He frowned. “The vics are two boys and two girls.”

“How old?”

“We I.D.'d three: fifteen, fifteen, and seventeen. The fourth, one of the girls, had no paper on her.”

“Nothing at all?”

Dilbeck shook his head. “Some poor parents are going to worry a lot and then hear the bad news. It stinks, doesn't it? Maybe I
should
fold my tent.”

He'd been talking retirement for as long as Petra had known him.

She said, “I'll fold before you will.”

“Probably,” he admitted.

“I'd like a look at the bodies before they get taken away.”

“Look to your heart's content and then have a go at that nearest group, the one over there.”

Petra learned what she could about the victims.

Paul Allan Montalvo, two weeks from his sixteenth birthday. Chubby, round-faced, plaid shirt, black sweatpants. Smooth olive skin where it wasn't distorted by a gunshot under his right eye. Two other holes in his legs.

Wanda Leticia Duarte, seventeen. Gorgeous, pale, with long black hair, rings on eight of her fingers, five ear-pierces. Three chest shots. Left side, bingo.

Kennerly Scott Dalkin, fifteen, looked closer to twelve. Fair-skinned, freckled, shaved head the color of putty. Black leather jacket and skull pendant hanging from a leather thong around the neck that had been pierced by a bullet. His getup and scuffed Doc Martens said he'd been aiming for tough, hadn't even come close. In his wallet was a card proclaiming him to be a member of the honor society at Birmingham High.

The unidentified girl was probably Hispanic. Short, busty, with shoulder-length curly hair dyed rust at the tips. Tight white top, tight black jeans—Kmart house brand. Pink sneakers—the shoes Petra had spied—not much larger than a size five.

Another head shot, the puckered black hole just in front of her right ear. Four others in her torso. The pockets of her jeans had been turned inside out. Petra inspected her cheap leatherette purse. Chewing gum, tissues, twenty bucks cash, two packets of condoms.

Safe sex. Petra kneeled by the girl's side. Then she got up to do her job.

Eighteen know-nothings.

She addressed them as a group, tried coming on gently, being a pal, stressing the importance of cooperation to prevent something like this from happening again. Her reward was eighteen blank stares. Pressing the group elicited a few slow head shakes. Maybe some of it was shock, but Petra sensed she was boring them.

“Nothing you can tell me?” she asked a slim, redheaded boy.

He scrunched his lips and shook his head.

She had them form a line, took down names and addresses and phone numbers, acted casual as she checked out their nonverbal behavior.

Two nervous ones stood out, a serious handwringer and a nonstop foot-tapper. Both girls. She held them back, let the others go.

Bonnie Ramirez and Sandra Leon, both sixteen. They dressed similarly—tight tops, low riders, and high-heeled boots—but didn't know each other. Bonnie's top was black, some sort of cheap crepelike fabric, and she'd caked her face with makeup to cover up gritty acne. Her hair was brown, frizzy, tied up in a complicated 'do that had probably taken hours to construct but managed to look careless. Still wringing her hands, as Petra reiterated the importance of being open and honest.

“I
am
honest,” she said. Fluent English, that musical East L.A. tincture that stretches final words.

“What about the car, Bonnie?”

“I told you, I didn't see it.”

“Not at all?”

“Nothing. I gotta go, I really gotta go.”

Wring, wring, wring.

“What's the rush, Bonnie?”

“George's only babysitting till one and it's way after that.”

“You've got a kid?”

“Two years old,” said Bonnie Ramirez, with a mixture of pride and amazement.

“Boy or girl?”

“Boy.”

“What's his name?”

“Rocky.”

“Got a picture?”

Bonnie reached for her sequined handbag, then stopped herself. “What do you care? George said if I don't get home on time he'll like just leave and Rocky sometimes gets up like in the night, I don't wanna him to be all like scared.”

“Who's George?”

“The father,” said the girl. “Rocky's a George, too. Jorge, Junior. I call him Rocky to make him different from George 'cause I don't like how George acts.”

“How does George act?”

“He doesn't give me nothing.”

Sandra Leon's blouse was skin-hugging champagne satin, off one shoulder. Smooth, bare shoulder stippled by goose bumps. She'd stopped tapping her foot, switched to hugging herself tightly, bunching soft, unfettered breasts to the center of her narrow chest. Dark skin clashed with a huge mass of platinum blond hair. Deep red lipstick, an appliqué mole above her lip. She wore cheap, fake-o gold jewelry, lots of it. Her shoes were rhinestone mules. Parody of sexy; sixteen going on thirty.

Before Petra could ask, she said, “I don't know nothing.”

Allowing her eyes to drift to the victims. To pink sneakers.

Petra said, “Wonder where she got those shoes.”

Sandra Leon looked everywhere but at Petra. “Why would I know?” Biting her lip.

“You okay?” said Petra.

The girl forced herself to meet Petra's gaze. Her eyes were dull. “Why wouldn't I be?”

Petra didn't answer.

“Can I go now?”

“You're sure there's nothing you want to tell me?”

The dull eyes narrowed. Sudden hostility; it seemed misplaced. “I don't even have to talk to you.”

“Says who?”

“The law.”

“You have experience with the law?” said Petra.

“Nope.”

“But you know the law.”

“My brother's in jail.”

“Where?”

“Lompoc.”

“For what?”

“Stealing a car.”

“Your brother's your legal expert?” said Petra. “Look where he is.”

Sandra shrugged. The platinum hair shifted.

A wig.

That made Petra take a closer look at her. Notice something else about the girl's eyes. Dull because they were yellow around the edges.

“You okay?”

“I will be when you let me go.” Sandra Leon righted her hairpiece. Slipped a finger under the front and smiled. “Leukemia,” said the girl. “They gave me chemo at Western Peds. I used to have real nice hair. They say it'll grow back but maybe they're lying.”

Tears filled her eyes. “Can I go now?”

“Sure.”

The girl walked away.

CHAPTER

3

O
ver the next week, five detectives worked the Paradiso shootings, interviewing family members of the dead teens, recontacting potential witnesses. None of the victims had gang affiliations, all were praised as good kids. No relatives had criminal histories; no one had anything of value to say.

The girl in the pink sneakers remained unidentified, a personal failure for Petra. She'd volunteered to do the trace, worked at it, came up empty. One interesting fact from the coroner: The girl had undergone an abortion within the last few months.

Petra asked Mac Dilbeck if she could go to the media and he said sure. Three stations ran sketchy renderings of the girl's face on the evening news. A few calls came in, nothing serious.

She worked the shoes, figuring maybe an item like that was unusual. Anything but: Kmart special, made in Macao, shipped to the States in huge lots for over a year, she even found them for resale on eBay.

She tried to recontact Sandra Leon because Sandra had given off an uneasy vibe, though maybe it was just tension about being sick. Resolving to go gently with the poor kid, Lord knew what she'd been through with her leukemia. The phone rang but no one answered.

Ten days after the mass murder, the team still hadn't developed any leads, and at the next sit-down Mac Dilbeck informed them they'd been cut from five D's to three: he'd remain as the principal and Luc Montoya and Petra would do backup.

After the meeting, Petra asked him, “What does that mean?”

Mac collected his papers and didn't look up. “What does what mean?”

“Backup.”

“I'm open to ideas.”

“The unidentified girl,” said Petra. “I'm wondering if she's the key. No one's reported her missing.”

“Funny, isn't it,” said Mac.

“Maybe someone wanted her really gone.”

Mac smoothed his glossy hair. “You want to try to chase her down some more?”

“I can try.”

“Yeah, it's a good idea.” He frowned.

“What?”

He touched the front of his flat, seamed brow. “I got a big fat what-if floating around in here. As in what if there was no motive. Just a bunch of bad guys out to kill some people.”

“Wouldn't that be lovely,” said Petra.

“It could be, though.”

“It sure could.”

Two days of working the anonymous girl proved maddening. Petra was at her desk eating a hot dog when the sound of a throat clearing made her look up.

Isaac Gomez. Again.

He stood off to the side, wearing his usual blue button-down shirt, pressed khakis, and penny loafers. Black hair parted and plastered down like a choir boy's. Smooth, brown face all freshly scrubbed. He held a stack of old murder books to his chest and said, “I hope I'm not bothering you, Detective Connor.”

Of course, he was. Of course, she smiled up at him.

Every time she saw Isaac, Petra thought of a Diego Rivera kid grown up. The hair straight as brush-bristle; the nutmeg skin; the huge, liquid, almond eyes; the clear hints of Indian blood in the elevated cheekbones and finely boned nose.

Isaac was five-ten, maybe one-fifty, with square shoulders, bony wrists, and a deliberate but awkward way of moving.

Chronologically, he was twenty-two.

Twenty-two and a year from his Ph.D. Lord only knew how old he was intellectually. But when conversation veered away from facts and figures, he could end up mired in aw-shucks adolescence.

Petra was sure he was a virgin.

“What's up, Isaac?”

She expected a smile—the embarrassed smile she seemed to elicit from him. Nothing about happiness, everything about the jitters. More than once, when they were together, she'd spotted a tenting of khaki in his crotch area. The flush around the ears, the quick cover-up using a textbook or his laptop. When that happened, she pretended not to notice.

No smile this evening. He looked tense.

Eight-fourteen
P.M.
The detectives' room was nearly empty, reasonable people had gone home. She'd been playing with the computer, logging on to missing kids' databases, still trying to trace the girl in the pink shoes.

“You're sure I'm not intruding?”

“I'm sure. What are you doing here at this hour?”

Isaac shrugged. “I got involved . . . started with one thing and ended with another.” He hefted the pile of blue notebooks. His eyes looked hot.

“Why don't you put those down,” said Petra. “Pull up a chair.”

“I'm sorry if this is disruptive, Detective Connor. I know you're working Paradiso, and under normal circumstances I wouldn't intrude.” Flicker of smile. “I guess that's not true. I've intruded quite a bit, haven't I?”

“Not at all,” Petra lied. The truth was, babysitting Brain Boy could be a butt-aching disruption when things got busy. She motioned to a side chair and he sat.

“What's up?”

Isaac played with a collar button. “I was working on my multiple regression analysis—plugging in new variables . . .” He shook his head. Hard. As if emptying it of extraneous information. “You don't need to hear all that. The essential point is I was searching for additional ways to organize my data and, serendipitously, I came across something I thought you should see.”

He stopped. Took a breath.

She said, “What, Isaac?”

“It's going to sound . . . on the surface, it may look like nothing, some kind of coincidence . . . but I've done statistical tests—several tests, each one covering the mathematical weaknesses of the others—and it's obvious to me that it's not just factitious, not just a quirk. As far as I can tell, this is real, Detective Connor.”

Unblemished, brown cheeks were suddenly slick with sweat.

Petra sat there.

“It's totally weird,” he went on, suddenly sounding like a kid, “but I'm sure it's real.”

He began flipping open murder books. Started off talking softly, at a near whisper. Ended up shooting out words, like an automatic weapon.

Assault-brain.

Petra listened. Brilliant or not, the kid was an amateur, this had to be nonsense.

As if reading her mind, he said, “I promise you, it's genuine.”

She said, “Why don't you tell me about those statistical tests of yours?”