Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (25 page)

CHAPTER

38

W
ith a pounding heart, trying not to look panicked, Petra scanned Lankershim, found a Mexican café across the boulevard that had a clear diagonal view of the gallery's entrance. They lucked out by scoring a window booth, ordered food they'd never touch, coffee they would.

Rummaging through her purse, she found the head Downtown hotshot's number and tried to reach him. Machine at his desk number, no answer on his cell. She waited out the tape, recited clearly and slowly, hoped her fear didn't seep into the message. A call to Parker Center trying to reach the guy was no more helpful, even after she convinced the desk that she was legit. Out, no forwarding.

Same for his cohorts; all three hotshots were checked out for the weekend.

The big, aloof gang sergeant was gone, too. Yet another tape answered at the Valley gang unit's main extension.

Multiple murderer on his way and all the experts were mellowing for the weekend. Some task force. If Joe Taxpayer only knew . . .

She phoned Mac Dilbeck's house and his wife, Louise, said, “Aw, honey, he took the grandkids to Disneyland, didn't take a phone. Something you want me to tell him?”

“Not important,” said Petra. “We'll talk tomorrow.”

What next . . . informing Schoelkopf was proper procedure but out of the question. He'd kill the whole deal, discipline her for insubordination, and Omar would get away. Worse: A no-show at the gallery might make Omar suspicious and motivate a serious rabbit.

Upon arriving at NoHo, she'd spotted three uniforms: a black-and-white one block east, near a chained parking lot, the officers shmoozing, and a single female cop on foot patrol up near Chandler Boulevard. The woman had clipped hair, thin lips, shorts that exposed dimpled knees. An LAPD T-shirt above her equipment-laden belt, the whole blend-in thing.

Calling in any of them was too risky. With twenty-five minutes to go, there wasn't even time to explain the basics and she couldn't risk having Omar spot blue and bolt.

Besides, nothing was more dangerous than a poorly designed operation.

That left her and Eric. He sat across from her, looking calm. Serene, even. She pressed
End
on her cell, pocketed the little contraption.

Tried to take his example and
calm down.

Any way you cut it, she was in trouble. Might as well catch a bad guy.

They planned it this way: Omar Selden had never met Eric, so Eric would be the inside guy, returning to the gallery alone, pretending to browse, not talking much. Petra would remain across the street in the café, her eyes fixed on Flash Image's front door. As soon as she spotted Selden, she'd connect with Eric's cell, ring twice, hang up.

After that, it would all be improvisation.

Twenty minutes after Xenia's call, Eric left his breakfast burrito minus two bites on the table, drained his coffee cup, and walked out.

Petra watched him ease his way across Lankershim. Gliding. A graceful man. In another world, he'd have been great at ballet.

Eric in leotards. That made her smile. She
needed
to smile because her gut was churning, her temples were pounding, and her hands had gone cold.

She rubbed them together. Her fingers felt fuzzy. Slipping her right hand down into her gun pocket, she traced the outlines of her Glock.

Their waitress, matronly, smiling, Latina, came over, saw her nearly untouched food. “Everything okay?”

“Great,” said Petra, cutting into her own burrito. “My boyfriend got called away. I'll take the check.”

“Nice girlfriend.”

My boyfriend.

Alone again, Petra pushed rice and beans and chicken enchilada around her plate. Closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Opened them to see Omar Selden's stocky frame approaching the gallery from the south end of the boulevard.

Twenty yards away. With a girl. Her frame was blocked by Omar's.

She autodialed Eric, beeped twice. Kept her eye on Omar. He had a rolling, flat-footed walk, appeared loose, casual, not a care in the world.

Fresh haircut—a skin job—made him look like a banger. His baggy brown T-shirt was marked “XXXXL” in big white letters on the back. Under it were even baggier knee-length khaki shorts and brown sneakers.

Color-coordinated killer.

Petra could see the girl's legs but she remained mostly out of view. Damn, a complication.

She squinted, kept her eyes on both of them. Then Omar stepped ahead momentarily and she got a partial look at his companion.

Petite, long blond hair, nice figure. A black halter top with a shoelace back exposed smooth bronze skin. Ultralow, tight jeans showcased slim but curvy hips, denim lifting and cupping ass cheeks too firm to be anything but young.

Spiky, open-backed shoes. Hot Little Mama on a Sunday morning stroll.

The girl's skinny arm snaked around Omar's torso, reached midway across his broad waistline.

Petra watched as the two of them nearly reached the gallery and the girl turned.

Tossing her hair and laughing at something Omar had said.

Sandra Leon.

Petra got the check, tossed money on the table, stuck her hand in her gun pocket and left the café.

Someone called after her and her chest constricted.

The waitress stood in the café's doorway, holding a white bag. “You hardly ate anything. I packed it for you to-go!”

Rushing back, Petra snatched the food.

“Thanks, you're a doll.”

“Sure. Have a real nice day.”

When the woman returned to the café, Petra placed the bag by the curb and made her way toward the gallery. Thinking how funny it would be if that female foot officer happened by and tried to bust her for littering.

It was time to stop thinking about anything else but the job she had to do.

Omar Selden was bent over the metal desk, signing
Club.
Flanked by a stoic Eric and a grinning Xenia.

No sign of Sandra. Probably in the ladies' room. Good, maybe this could go smoothly.

Petra walked toward them. Omar looked up.

Eric said, “I decided to buy both of them.”

Omar smiled. Barely glanced at Petra. No sign of recognition.

Not good, pal. An artist should be more discerning.

“Okay,” he said. “Signed.” Trying to be casual, but pleased at the celebrity.

“Cool,” said Xenia. “I love your signature, Omar.”

Petra was a few feet away when a voice behind her said, “Hey!”

Sandra Leon. Stepping out from behind one of the partitions. Staring right into Petra's face.

Less yellow in her eyes, but still jaundiced.

Up close, way too much makeup. The things you noticed.

Petra held up a pacifying hand.

Sandra screamed,
“Cops, Omar! They're cops!”

Selden dropped his pen, looked up, stupefied for less than a second. Then a foxy gleam brightened his eyes and he reached under the baggy brown T-shirt.

Petra had her gun out. Sandra was pounding her back, still screaming. She shoved the girl hard with one hand, concentrated on keeping her Glock steady.

“Easy, Omar.”

Selden cursed. More screaming: Xenia's horror-flick shrieks.

Omar got his hand out of his shirt. Aimed a black matte gun, a Glock, too, plastic, one of those fool-the-metal detector deals.

Pointed straight at Petra's face.

Eric had moved directly behind Omar. Expressionless.

Petra saw his shoulder twitch, but no other sign of movement.

Eric's arm jumped, ever so slightly.

Still expressionless.

Pop pop pop.

Omar stiffened. His face scrunched with pain and surprise and his mouth made a little stunned O. Then blood began seeping out of his nose, his ears. Gushed from his mouth as he toppled over.

Facedown on the desk. Pinning his artwork.

Color on the photos, now.

Xenia had backed away and stood against the wall. Her hand covered her mouth but that did little to squelch the pitch and volume of her shrieks. A golden puddle of urine settled and pooled at her feet. She sat down heavily in her own water.

Sandra Leon had rebounded from the shove and was up on her feet, flailing at Petra. Long sharp nails, jet-black, caught in Petra's jacket sleeve.

When Sandra tried to head-butt Petra, Petra slapped the girl hard across the face. The blow stunned her, gave Petra time to spin her around, bend an arm back, and kick her behind the knees. Easy, no weight to her. She pushed the girl down on the floor, kept a knee in the small of that smooth, shoelaced back, and got her cuffs out. Making sure she was nowhere near Sandra's teeth, all that saliva teeming with virus.

“Bitch cunt murderer!” Sandra was screaming. “Murdering cunt!”

Xenia, sounding half-comatose, said, “I'm calling the police.”

CHAPTER

39

A
slew of black-and-whites arrived with sirens blaring. Then crime-scene techs, the coroners.

The usual, but this felt different to Petra. This was
hers.

And Eric's. He hadn't blinked during the shooting or since.

Someone you could depend upon.

Still, it threw her off.

In charge was a Valley lieutenant, soon supplanted by a captain. Both started off treating Petra and Eric like criminals but eventually eased up.

Last to show up was the officer-involved shooting team. Two Internal Affairs detectives with all the emotional resonance of statuary. Questioning Eric and Petra separately, Eric first.

Petra watched from ten feet away, knew the story he was telling, the one they'd prepared. It had been
his
idea to go looking for Selden; he'd had to overcome Petra's reluctance. Once the meet had been set up, she'd made multiple attempts to call for backup, finally decided there was no choice but to go ahead.

The fact that Eric had done all the shooting backed that up.

Clear and present danger, protecting a sister officer.

In the best of circumstances, he'd be suspended with pay, for as long as it took to sort out the paperwork. If the media got hold of it—some P.C. moron at the
Times
or one of the throwaway weeklies trying to manufacture a racial thing or a police brutality thing—it could get ugly and go on longer. That would mean lawyers, the police union, maybe suspension without pay.

Petra had tried to talk him out of being the scapegoat.

He said, “That's the way I'm telling it. Back me up.” Gave her arm a short, hard squeeze and left to face the turmoil.

She stood by as the shooting investigators double-teamed him. Watched as they came up against his stoicism and started passing glances between them.

She knew what they were thinking.
This is weird.

Cops, even hardened vets, usually reacted to blowing out the back of someone's head with a modicum of emotion. For all the feeling he was displaying, Eric might've just filed his nails.

Because he had to. Because he was protecting her. She couldn't remember the last time someone had protected her.

At three-forty
P.M
., with the scene still cordoned and active, the head Downtown hotshot showed up, wearing a freshly pressed suit and tie. Meaning he'd been out by the pool or playing golf or whatever, had finally been reached, rushed home to dress for the occasion.

Before he stepped into the mess, he looked around. At the media vans congregated outside the yellow tape.

Hoping to be noticed. When it didn't happen, he frowned, spotted Petra, came toward her.

She told him the story. He said, “Messy,” left, conferred with the techies.

Sandra Leon had been on the scene for hours, mostly stashed in a rear storage room of the gallery under guard. Petra ached to interview her, knew it would never happen.

Now, two uniforms escorted Sandra to a cruiser and put her in the back. Downtown strode over, opened the door, said something, stepped back with a stunned, angry expression. The girl had dissed him, probably with the foulest language possible.

He told the driver to leave, and the black-and-white rolled away. Glided past Petra. Through the side window, Sandra Leon glared at her, twisting her body so she could maintain eye contact through the rear glass.

Petra stared back. Received a clearly enunciated “Fuck you” as the girl diminished. Disappeared.

CHAPTER

40

MONDAY, JUNE 24, 10:12 A.M., DETECTIVES' ROOM, HOLLYWOOD DIVISION

F
inally released for duty by the shooting team, Petra arrived at work to find Kirsten Krebs's little butt perched on a corner of her desk. Right atop Petra's blotter. She'd wrinkled some papers.

From across the room, Barney Fleischer shot her a sympathetic smile. Did the old guy ever leave?

Krebs arched her back, as if posing for a boudoir shot. One of her fingers twirled blond hair. What was she doing up here on the second floor?

When she saw Petra, she smirked. Nicotine teeth. “Captain Schoelkopf wants you.”

“When?”

“Now.”

Petra sat down at her desk. Krebs's thigh was inches away.

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Comfortable, Kirsten?”

Krebs got off the desk and left, pissed off. Then she flashed a knowing smile. Like she was in on some private joke.

Why was a downstairs receptionist delivering Schoelkopf's message personally? Did Krebs have some special rapport with the captain?

Were she and Schoelkopf . . . could it be?

Why not? Two misanthropes finding common ground.

Schoelkopf's third marriage kaput. Because of a woman even younger than the latest wife?

The captain and Krebs, wouldn't that be great. . . . She glanced over at Barney Fleischer. The old guy's back was to her. Punching the phone with a pencil eraser. He misdialed, hung up, started again.

Petra cleared her throat. Barney didn't acknowledge her.

Time for fun.

Schoelkopf sat back in his tufted, leatheroid desk throne. The two side chairs usually positioned for visitors had been shoved into the corner. The room smelled of pineapple juice but there was no sign of the liquid anywhere. Freaky.

When Petra made a move for one of the chairs, Schoelkopf said, “Leave it alone.”

She drew back. Stayed standing.

“You fucked up,” he said, without preamble. His desktop was clear. No photos, no papers, just a blotter and pens and a digital clock that displayed time and date on both sides.

He removed a plastic-wrapped cigar from a drawer and held it suspended between his index fingers.

No smoking in the building but he played with it for a while. She'd never known him to smoke. Kirsten sucked cigarettes. A nicotine-fiend's gift?

“You fucked
up,
Connor.”

“What can I say, sir?”

“You can say ‘I. Fucked. Up.' ”

“Is this confession time, sir?”

Schoelkopf bared his teeth. “Confession's good for the soul, Connor. If you had one, you'd understand.”

Anger tightened her throat.

He said, “You're amoral, aren't you?”

Petra's hands clenched.
Keep your mouth shut, girl.

Schoelkopf gave an airy wave, as if her control didn't impress him. “You contravened direct orders and fucked up a well-thought-out task force agenda.”

“Sorry,” she said.

“Don't think you're going to get any credit for Paradiso. Or publicity.”

“Publicity?”

“TV interviews, all that shit.”

“That's fine with me.”

“Sure it is. You and I both know that's what floats your boat.”

“Getting on TV?”

“Any kind of attention. You're an attention junkie, a media hound, Connor. You learned it from Bishop—Mr. Hair-Dye Screen Actor's Guild. You and him, Ken and Barbie. Big fashion show, huh? The big pity is you messed up a good detective like Stahl. He's in deep shit because of you.”

Stu Bishop had been her first Homicide partner, a brilliant, photogenic DIII widely rumored to be in line for a deputy chief promotion. He'd trained her well. Did have a SAG card because he played occasional bit parts on cop shows.

He'd retired to take care of a wife with cancer and a slew of kids, and bringing him up now felt like sacrilege. Petra's face burned like a habanero pepper, her eyes were gritty and dry. But her heartbeat had slowed. Going into attack mode, her body marshaling its reserves.

She was prepared, ready, to spring for the bastard's throat but kept all the rage in a tiny little zone of her prefrontal lobes.

Eric had it right.
Say nothing, show nothing.

But she couldn't resist. “Detective Bishop's hair color was natural, sir.”

“Right,” said Schoelkopf. “You're amoral and sneaky, Connor. First you sneak to the media with that picture of Leon instead of doing it the right way. Then you ignore task force instructions and sneak in your own little grandstand play. You're
toast,
get it? Suspended. Without pay, if it's up to me. Leave your gun and badge with Sergeant Montoya.”

Petra tried to stare him down. He wasn't biting, had opened another desk drawer, busied himself with shuffling whatever was inside.

She said, “This isn't fair, sir.”

“Yadda yadda. Go.”

As she turned to leave, she noticed the date numerals on his desk clock: 24.

Four days until June 28 and she was being cut off. From her files, her phone, access to data banks.

From Isaac.

Fine, she'd adapt. Call the phone company and have her calls forwarded to her home number. Take what she needed from her desk and work from home.

Petra Connor, Private Eye. Absurd. Then she thought of Eric, going out on his own.

“Bye,” she told the captain.

The lilt in her voice made him look up. “Something funny?”

“Nothing, sir. Enjoy your cigar.”

When she returned to her desk, the top was cleared—even the blotter Krebs had sat on was gone.

She tried a drawer. Locked.

Her key didn't fit.

Then she saw it. Brand-new lock, shiny brass. “What the—”

Barney Fleischer said, “Schoelkopf had a locksmith in while you were in his office.”

“Bastard.”

The old guy stood up, looked around, came over. “Meet me downstairs, near the back door. Couple of minutes.”

He returned to his desk. Petra left the detectives' room, descended the stairs to the ground floor. Less than a minute later, slow, plodding footsteps sounded and Barney came into view, wearing an oversized tweedy sports coat and draping a longer garment over one arm.

A raincoat, a wrinkled gray thing that he usually stashed in his locker. Once in a while, she'd seen it draped over his chair. Had never actually witnessed him wearing it. Not today, that was for sure. The heat had burned through the marine layer this morning, temperatures rising to the high eighties.

The old man looked as if he was ready for winter.

He paused three steps from the bottom, eyed the top of the stairwell, descended all the way. Unfurling the raincoat, he produced half a dozen blue folders.

Doebbler, Solis, Langdon, Hochenbrenner . . .
all six.

“Thought you might need this.”

Petra took the files. Kissed Barney full on parched lips. He smelled of onion rolls. “You're a saint.”

“So they tell me,” he said. Then he climbed back up the stairs, whistling.

Back home, she cleared away her easel and paints and set up a workstation on her dinette table.

Stacking the files, laying out her notepad, a fresh legal tablet and pens.

Eric had left her a note on the kitchen counter:

P,
Appts. at Parker until ???
Love, E.

Love . . .
that started all kinds of gears grinding.

Time to concentrate on something she could control. She started with the phone company, put in the forwarding request. The operator started off friendly, came back a few seconds later with a whole different attitude.

“The number you're forwarding from is a police extension. We can't do that.”

“I'm an LAPD detective,” said Petra, rattling off her badge number.

“I'm sorry, ma'am.”

“Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

“Here's my supervisor.”

A steely-voiced, older-sounding woman came on, with a manner so rigid Petra wondered if she was really a department plant.

Same message, no give.

Petra hung up, wondering if she'd done herself even more harm.

Maybe the Fates were telling her something. Even so, she'd work June 28. To do otherwise would drive her crazy.

She got herself a can of Coke, sipped and flipped through her notes. The calls she'd put in Friday.

Marta Doebbler's friends. Dr. Sarah Casagrande in Sacramento, Emily Pastern in the Valley.

Emily, with the barking dog.

This time the woman answered. No noise in the background. Still perky, until Petra told her what it was all about.

“Marta? It's been . . . years.”

“Six years, ma'am. We're taking a fresh look at the case.”

“Like that show on TV—
Cold Case
whatever.”

“Something like that, ma'am.”

“Well,” said Pastern. “No one talked to me when it happened. How'd you get my name?”

“You were listed in the file as someone Ms. Doebbler had gone out with that night.”

“I see . . . what was your name again?”

Petra repeated it. Cited her credentials again, as well. Committing yet another breach of regulations.

Impersonating an active officer of the law . . .

Emily Pastern said, “So what do you want from me now?”

“Just to talk about the case.”

“I don't see what I could tell you.”

“You never know, ma'am,” said Petra. “If we could just meet for a few minutes—at your convenience.” Working up her own perkiness.
Praying
Pastern wouldn't call the station and check her bona fides.

“I guess.”

“Thanks very much, Ms. Pastern.”

“When?”

“Sooner the better.”

“I've got to go out at three to pick up my kids. How about in an hour?”

“That would be perfect,” said Petra. “Name the place.”

“My house,” said Pastern. “No, let's make it at Rita's—it's a little coffee place. Ventura Boulevard, south side, two blocks west of Reseda. They've got an outdoor patio. I'll be there.”

Wanting distance from her home. Somewhere out in the open, well within her comfort zone.

Petra said, “See you there.”
Don't be the suspicious type, Emily.

She got out of the morning's black pantsuit and searched her closet for something more . . . welcoming.

Her first try was one of the few dresses she owned, a short-sleeved, gray silk A-line patterned with nearly invisible lavender squiggles. Too clingy, way too
party.
The black Max Mara jersey affair with the cap sleeves and the price tag still attached was even less appropriate.

Back to basics. A slate-blue pantsuit, free of lapels, some cute reverse stitching along the hems. Tiny hyphens of celluloid laced into the stitches. When she'd bought it at the Neiman's summer sale two seasons ago, she'd thought it way too frou-frou. But on her it looked subtle, a bit dressy.

Maybe Emily Pastern would be impressed.

She made it to the Valley with time to spare, drove around a bit, pulled up in front of Rita's Coffees and Sweets right on time.

The place was a pair of cute, tile-roofed bungalows combined into one establishment. One of a group of little Spanish-style structures assembled around a small patch of foliage, several steps up from the sidewalk. At the center of the green patch was a gurgling fountain. Older buildings, from the twenties or earlier.

Tarzana had been farmland back then, and Petra wondered if the houses had been built for migrant workers. Now they housed teeny, trendy retail businesses.

Giovanna Beauty, Leather and Lace Boutique, Optical Allusions. Even the premises of Zoë, Psychic Adviser looked cute.

The outdoor patio was off to the right of the coffee house, surrounded by low wooden fencing with a latched gate. One woman sat there, visible from her bosom up.

Pretty strawberry blonde, hair pinned loosely, mid- to late thirties, wearing a long, gauzy sleeveless smock the color of daybreak.

Behind her, through open French doors, Petra spied groupings of well-put-together women sitting indoors, laughing, sipping. The West Valley was ten degrees hotter than the city. Torrid. But Emily Pastern wanted an al fresco meet.

Petra climbed the stairs and the woman watched her as she unlatched the gate.

“Ms. Pastern?”

Pastern nodded, gave a small wave.

So far, so good.

As Petra made it to the gate, she saw that Pastern had chosen the table farthest from the restaurant. The pale blue top was worn over fashionable jeans and white clogs. Pastern had milky skin, lots of freckles, eyes the color of the iced tea or whatever it was that filled her brandy snifter.

Lying at her feet was why she wanted the patio. Needed the patio.

The biggest hunk of canine flesh Petra had ever seen. Blue-brindle and massively boned in repose, ears clipped to nubs. Body and face a mass of loose skin and acromegalic bone. Head shaped like that of a hippo, resting on the flagstone floor.

Big
as a hippo.

She stopped as the dog glanced up. Drooled. Checked Petra out with tiny, red-rimmed eyes. Intelligent eyes. Lord, the thing was huge. An upper lip flapped. Teeth fit for a shark.

Emily Pastern bent in her chair and whispered something to the dog. The beast's eyes closed and it returned to sleep or whatever it was protective dogs did during their downtime.

Petra hadn't budged.

“It's okay,” said Pastern. “Just sit down on this side.” Indicating the seat farthest from the dog. “She's fine if you don't try to get too friendly with her too fast.”

The dog cocked an eyelid.

“Really,” said Pastern. “It's okay.”

Giving wide berth to the behemoth, Petra settled in a chair.

“Good girl,” Pastern whispered to the dog.