Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (6 page)

CHAPTER

8

T
he bus that Isaac took to the Union District was a big, loose-in-the-rivets, half-empty, diesel-fed dinosaur that rumbled and bumped through dark city streets, brakes squeaking, belching pollution. Brightly lit; a crime-reduction measure.

By car, the ride from Hollywood would be twenty minutes. Using the MTA, an easy hour.

He sat at the back, read the latest edition of Davison's
Abnormal Psychology.
His fellow riders were mostly cleaning women and restaurant workers, a few drunks. Nearly all Latino, mostly illegal, he figured. Just as his parents had been until the Doctors had intervened.

And now he was wearing his father's hand-me-down suit and playing at scholar.

There but for the grace . . .

When he got home, his father would probably be at work. Lately, Papa had been taking a second shift dipping sheets into noxious vats, wanting to earn a little extra money. Isaiah, home from his roofing job, would be sleeping, and Joel, of late a gadabout, might or might not be around.

His mother would be in the kitchen, changed from her uniform to a faded housedress and slippers. A pot of
albondigas
soup simmering on the stove. A rack of tamales, both savory and sweet, fresh out of the oven.

Isaac had barely eaten all day, taking care to be hungry for her food. He'd learned the hard way his freshman year, eating a late lunch on campus and arriving home with insufficient appetite. Not a word of protest from Mama as she wrapped his uneaten dinner in foil. But those sad looks . . .

Tonight, he'd gorge as she sat and watched him. Eventually, he'd try to get her to talk about her day. She'd claim it was boring and want to know about the exciting world he lived in. He'd resist, then finally parcel out a few details. Not the crime stuff. The numbers and polysyllables.

A few well-chosen polysyllables always impressed Mama. When he tried to simplify his language, she stopped him, told him she understood.

She didn't have a clue what he was talking about. In any language
multiple regression analysis
and
percentage of variance accounted for
were incomprehensible except to the initiated. But he knew better than to patronize her.

Sensitive guy that he was.

One of the initiated.

Whatever that meant.

He'd dozed off and dreamed when the bus came to a quick stop. Jolted awake, he looked up in time to see the driver throw out a homeless man who'd failed to produce the fare.

Angry words and clenched fists shot through the bus's wheezing door as the wretchedly filthy evictee stood in the gutter and howled vengeance. Isaac watched the man, bent over in shame, turned tiny by the bus's departure.

The driver cursed and put on speed.

The cusp of violence. So much of the crime Isaac had studied began that way.

Not the June 28 murders, though. They were something different, he was sure of it. You could lie with numbers, but the numbers he'd divined weren't lying.

Now to convince Detective Connor.

Petra.

Thinking of her by name was unsettling; it reminded him that she was a woman.

He sat lower in his seat, wanting to sink out of view. Not that any of his co-riders were the least bit interested in him. Some were regulars and surely recognized him, but no one spoke.

The geek in the borrowed suit.

Occasionally someone—a woman not unlike his mother—smiled as he boarded. But for the most part everyone wanted to rest.

The Somnolent Express.

Before being wakened, his dreams had been pleasant. Something featuring Detective Connor.

Petra.

Had he been in it? He wasn't sure.

She
had. Lithe and graceful, that efficient helmet of black hair.

The crisp features. Ivory skin, blue vein tracings at the periphery . . .

She wasn't anywhere close to the contemporary female ideal: blond, busty, bubbly. She was the antithesis of all that, and Isaac respected her doubly for being herself, not giving in to crass social pressures.

A serious person. There seemed to be very little that amused her.

She always dressed in black. Her eyes were dark brown, but in a certain light, they appeared black as well. Searching eyes—
working
eyes—not vehicles for flirtation.

The overall impression was a young Morticia Addams, and Isaac had heard other detectives refer to her as Morticia. But also as “Barbie.” That he didn't get.

There was plenty about Hollywood Division, about police work in general, that continued to elude him. His professors thought academia was complex, but now, after time spent with cops, it was all he could do not to burst out in laughter at departmental meetings.

Petra was no Barbie.

Just the opposite. Focused, intense.

He'd lain awake in bed more than once, imagining what her breasts looked like, only to shake himself out of that, appalled at his vulgarity.

Small, firm breasts—stop.

Still . . . she was a beautiful woman.

CHAPTER

9

P
etra stayed at her desk until well after midnight, forgetting about Isaac and his theories and anything else that didn't relate to the Paradiso shootings.

She talked to some Hollywood gang cops and their cohorts in Ramparts. They'd heard nothing about the killings being turf-related but promised to keep checking. Then she attempted to recontact all eighteen kids she'd interviewed in the parking lot.

Twelve were home. In five cases, scared and/or indignant parents tried to block access. Petra charmed her way past all of them but the teens reiterated complete ignorance.

Among the six she didn't reach were her two nervous ones, Bonnie Ramirez and Sandra Leon. No answer at either number, no machines.

She got on the computer, figuring to surf her way through some more missing kid sites. Her mail tag was up so she checked that first.

Departmental garbage and an e-mail from Mac Dilbeck.

p: luc and i were out in the field today nothing at our end, what about yours? there's talk if we don't make progress of giving it over to HOMSPEC wouldn't that be fun. maybe we should pick your genius kids brain we could use a good brain to pick around here. m.

She e-mailed back:

nothing plus nothing equals you-know-what. going home. tomorrow i check out a couple of nervous w's. planning to take the genius along. though if you want him you can have him. p.

But once she logged off and got her purse from her locker, the thought of an empty apartment repelled her. Filling herself a cup of detective-room coffee, she bought some insomnia.

Someone had left half a box of sweet rolls out by the machine. The pastries looked none too fresh—the custard ones were hardening around the edges. But the apple seemed passable so she brought it back to her desk along with the mocha-flavored Liquid Plumber.

Kaplan and Salas had left and no one had replaced them. She sat there alone, going through old messages and nonessential mail, filling out a long-overdue pension form and one for departmental health insurance.

What remained was Isaac's summary.

June 28.

She separated the Hollywood cases from the others, copied down the vics' names, got back on the computer, and logged on to the station's stat file.

Just as Isaac claimed, all four remained open. Of the four primary D's assigned to the case, she recognized two.

Neil Wahlgren had caught the most recent murder—Curtis Hoffey, the twenty-year-old male hustler. Jewell Blank, the runaway teen bludgeoned in Griffith Park had been assigned to Max Stokes.

Neil had transferred to one of the Valley divisions, wanting to cut down on drivetime. A while back—not too long after Hoffey. And Max Stokes had retired nearly a year ago.

Meaning both cases could have gotten short shrift.

Both Neil and Max were competent, by-the-books guys. Would they have taken the time to work whodunits hard knowing they were leaving soon?

Petra wanted to think so.

The cases were certain to have been transferred but the computer didn't list the newly assigned detectives.

Onward to the next one. Coral Langdon, the woman who'd died with her dog up in the Hollywood Hills.

That one had been handled by Shirley Lenois. Seeing her name made Petra's eyes ache.

When Petra had started at Hollywood, Shirley had been the only other female Homicide D. A short, stocky, fifty-two-year-old woman with a corona of yellow-gray hair, Shirley looked more like a substitute teacher than a detective. Married to a motorcycle vet in Traffic Division, she had five kids and treated Petra like the sixth, going out of her way to make things smooth for the Homicide virgin.

Making sure there were tampons in the ladies' room because no one else would give a damn.

Last December, Shirley had died in a skiing accident up at Big Bear. Stupid tree, stupid goddamn tree.

Petra cried silently for a while, then wiped her eyes and moved on to the fourth Hollywood murder. First of the six, chronologically. The killing that began Isaac's alleged series.

Marta Doebbler, the woman who'd gone to the theater with her friends. Six years ago, well before Petra's time. Two detectives she'd never heard of, a DIII named Conrad Ballou and DII named Enrique Martinez.

Cops were leaving the department faster than they were coming in. Maybe another couple of retirees.

Maybe Ballou and Martinez had done their best, anyway.

Sometimes that didn't matter.

CHAPTER

10

W
hen Petra showed up at ten the following morning, Isaac was at his corner desk, poring over documents, pretending not to notice her arrival.

She felt hungover and queasy, in no mood for babysitting.

By ten-twenty, she'd swallowed two cups of coffee and was ready to pretend to be human. She got up, waved Isaac toward the door, and he followed her, carrying his briefcase over. No more suit, but not the button-down and khakis. Dark blue slacks, navy shirt, a navy tie. Dressing for ride-along. That monotone thing young guys did nowadays. Cute, though on Isaac it looked a bit like a costume.

They exited the building together but didn't talk. Petra left her Accord in its spot and took the unmarked she'd signed out from the motor pool. No-smoking regulations had been in effect for years, but the car reeked of stale cigars, and when she started the engine, it protested before kicking in.

“Bad equipment,” she told Isaac. “Talk to Councilman Reyes about that.”

“We don't talk on a regular basis.”

She steered out onto the street. He wasn't smiling. Had she offended him? Too bad.

“What we're going to do today,” she said, “is recontact two witnesses. Both are sixteen-year-old girls, both seemed nervous when I interviewed them the first time. One might have a reason to be nervous that has nothing to do with the case. She's got leukemia.”

Isaac said, “That would do it.”

“You okay?”

“Sure.”

“I'm asking because you seem a bit quiet.”

“I don't have anything to say.” A beat. “As opposed to most of the time.”

“Nah,” she said, “you're not gabby, you're smart.”

More silence.

She steered the unmarked clunker through smoggy Hollywood streets. Isaac looked out the window.

Eric did that when she drove. Eric noticed things.

She said, “Smart people have a right to talk, Isaac. It's the dummies who get on my nerves.”

Finally, a smile. But it faded quickly. “I'm here to observe and to learn. I appreciate your taking the time.”

“No prob.” She headed down Hollywood Boulevard to Western, then over to Los Feliz, figuring to catch the Golden State Freeway then switch to the 10 East all the way to Boyle Heights. “The first girl is named Bonnie Anne Ramirez. She lives on East 127th. You know the area?”

“Not well. It's mostly Mexican, there.”

And he was Salvadoran.

Telling her subtly,
We're not all alike?

Petra said, “Bonnie's sixteen but she's got a two-year-old baby. The father's some guy named George who doesn't sound like a prince. They don't live together. Bonnie dropped out of school.”

No comment for half a block, then Isaac said, “She was nervous?”

“A defiant nervousness. Which could just mean she doesn't like the police. She has no record, but in a neighborhood like that you could get away with plenty of stuff without having your name on a file.”

“That's the truth,” said Isaac. “The FBI estimates that for every crime an apprehended criminal commits, another six go undetected. My preliminary research shows it's probably higher.”

“Really.”

“Most crime doesn't even come close to being reported. The higher the crime rate in a given area, the more that's true.”

“Makes sense,” said Petra. “The system doesn't come through, people stop believing.”

“Poor people are dispirited in general. Take my neighborhood. In fifteen years, we've had our apartment broken into three times, my bike's been stolen, my father's been mugged and had his car ripped off, my little brother's been held up for lunch money, and I can't tell you how many times my mother's been threatened by drunks or junkies when she comes home from work. We've been spared anything serious, but you hear gunshots at least twice a week and sirens a lot more often than that.”

Petra said nothing.

“It used to be worse,” he went on. “When I was a little kid, before the CRASH units got active. There were blocks you just didn't walk. Wear the wrong shoes and you were dead. CRASH worked pretty well. Then, after the Ramparts scandal, antigang policing was cut back and the bad stuff started to rise again.”

His mouth set and his hands had balled.

Petra drove for a while. “I can see why you'd study crime.”

“Maybe that was a mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

“The more I get into it, the more it seems to be a waste of time. Most of my professors are still hung up on what they call ‘root causes.' To them that means poverty. And race, even though they consider themselves liberal. The truth is, most poor people just want to live their lives, like anyone else. The problem isn't poor people, it's
bad
people who prey on the poor because the poor lack resources.”

Petra mumbled assent. Isaac didn't seem to have heard. “Maybe I should've gone straight to med school. Get out, finish my specialty training, make some money, and move my parents to a decent neighborhood. Or at least get my mom a car so she doesn't have to fend off the drunks and the junkies.” A beat. “Not that my mother would ever learn to drive.”

“Scared?”

“She's kind of set in her ways.”

“Mothers can be like that,” said Petra.
How would you know?
“Okay, here we go. The freeway looks pretty good.”

Bonnie Ramirez lived with her mother, three older brothers, and little Rocky in a tiny, yellow clapboard bungalow that sat behind rusting chain link. Block after block of similar homes comprised the tract. Built for returning GI's, the houses ranged from decrepit to sparkling.

Effort had been made to keep up the Ramirez home: the two-pace lawn was sunken and brown but trimmed, and impatiens in uneven beds struggled with the early, spring heat. A baby stroller sat on the wooden porch, along with a plaster pedestal spray-painted gold that served no apparent purpose.

Bonnie wasn't home and her mother was caring for Rocky. The toddler slept in a crib set up in the nine-by-nine living room. The floors were wood and the ceilings were low. The house smelled of good food and Pine Sol and just the merest whiff of dirty diaper.

Anna Ramirez was a short, broad woman with hair dyed red, puffy cheeks, and flabby arms. The cheeks were so bountiful they pushed her eyes up and turned them to slits. It gave her a suspicious look, even though she took pains to be cordial. Her voice and speech inflections were that same Boyle Heights singsong.

She invited them to sit and brought out cans of soda and a bowl of pretzels and told them Bonnie's dad was a Vietnam vet who'd survived the war only to die in a heavy equipment accident while excavating the foundation for a downtown office building. Removing his photo from the wall, she brandished it like a religious article. Nice-looking guy in full-dress uniform. But bad skin—unfortunate legacy for Bonnie.

Petra said, “Any idea when Bonnie's returning?”

Anna Ramirez shook her head and frowned. “You just missed her. She comes and goes. She was out last night, slept till ten, left.”

“Out late?”

“Always.”

Rocky stirred in his crib.

Petra said, “I don't want to wake him.”

“It's okay,” said Anna. “He sleeps good.” She glanced at the pretzel bowl in Petra's lap and Petra ate one.

“Can I get you something else to eat, Officer?”

“No, thanks, ma'am. Do you know why we're here?”

“That shooting in Hollywood. Bonnie told me about it.”

“What'd she say?”

“That it happened out in the parking lot. She heard the shots but didn't see anything. She said she talked to a lady cop. That was you?”

Petra nodded.

Anna Ramirez looked over at Isaac. Studied him. “You look like my nephew Bobby.”

Isaac smiled weakly.

Petra said, “One of the kids who was shot was a girl we still haven't been able to identify.”

“No parents asking about her?”

“No one's come forth, ma'am.”

“That's sad.”

Little Rocky peeped. Shifted. Bellowed. Anna Ramirez went over and removed him from the crib. Poor kid was flushed and dyspeptic-looking. Swaddled in too many blankets for the heat.

Anna sat back down and lay her grandson across her commodious lap. Rocky burped, frowned, went back to sleep. Circular dumpling of a face, curly black hair. Very cute. Petra noticed that his nails were trimmed and the blankets were spotless.

She said, “He's beautiful.”

Anna Ramirez sighed. “Very active. So . . . this girl . . .”

“I was wondering if Bonnie knew her,” said Petra. Realizing she'd used the singular since entering the house. Should she include Isaac? He was sitting there, upright and stiff, looking like someone waiting for a job interview.

“You didn't ask Bonnie if she knew her?”

“I did and she said no. I'm just following up.”

Anna Ramirez frowned. “You don't believe her.”

“It's not that—”

“It's okay. Sometimes I don't believe her.”

Petra hoped her smile was empathetic.

Anna said, “Her brothers all finished school, two of them are in J.C., but Bonnie never liked school. Down deep, she's a good girl . . .” She glanced down at Rocky. “This was kind of a— So now I'm being Mama again, so okay, it's okay. It's hard to tell Bonnie anything, but I'm insisting she's definitely gonna have to get at least her GED. What kind of job can you get without that?”

Petra nodded.

Anna sighed again.

“Anyway, ma'am, when she gets home, if you'd be so kind as to give me a call.”

“Sure,” said Anna. “This girl, you think she could've been with Bonnie?”

“I really can't say, ma'am.”

“What did she look like?”

“Short, a little heavy. She wore pink sneakers.”

“That could be Jacqui,” said Anna Ramirez. “Jacqui Olivares. She's short and she used to be much fatter till she lost weight. But she's still not skinny. And she's got problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Two kids. A boy and a girl. And she's only seventeen.”

“Have you ever seen her in pink sneakers?”

Anna touched a finger to her mouth. Rocky stirred again and she bounced him gently on her knees, smoothed sweaty hair off his little brow.

“No,” she said, “I never noticed that. But Jacqui doesn't come around here no more. I told Bonnie I didn't want her here.”

“Bad influence,” said Petra.

“You bet.”

“I have a picture of the unidentified victim, ma'am, but I need to warn you it's not pretty.”

“A dead picture?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I seen dead people, saw my Rudy dead, go ahead.”

Petra produced the least deathly of the morgue shots and handed it to her. Anna said, “That's not Jacqui, I never seen this girl.”

The address Sandra Leon had given wasn't far from the Ramirez home, but when they got there, Petra knew she'd been had.

The numbers matched a boarded-up bodega on a run-down stretch of abandoned homes backed by weed-choked alleys. Graffiti everywhere. Angry young men with shaved heads and eye-filling tattoos cruised the rutted streets, bopping, staring, sneering.

Petra got out of there fast, drove to Soto Avenue, not far from the county morgue, and into the lot of a busy-looking gas station where she bought coffee for herself and a Coke for Isaac. He tried to pay her back but she wouldn't hear it. As they drank, she got the number for Western Pediatrics Hospital, asked for Oncology, and waited a long time to be connected.

The secretary on the other end said “That's confidential” when she asked for Sandra Leon's address.

Petra lied easily. “I have reason to believe that Ms. Leon is in danger.”

“Because of her illness?”

“Because of a crime. A multiple murder that she witnessed.”

Long pause. “You need to speak to her physician.”

“Please connect me.”

“The last name is . . . Leon . . . okay, here it is, Sandra no-middle-name. That would be Dr. Katzman. I'll put you through.”

What Petra got on the other end of the line was a soft, male voice on tape. “This is Dr. Bob Katzman. I'll be traveling for the next two weeks, but I will be picking up messages. If this is a medical emergency, the Oncology on-call extension is . . .”

Petra hung up and reconnected to the secretary. “Dr. Katzman's gone for two weeks. All I need is Sandra Leon's address.”

“You're with the police?”

I am the police, honey.
“Detective Connor.” Petra spelled it. “Hollywood Division, here's my badge number and you can call to verify—”

“No, that's okay, I'll give you Medical Records.”

Five minutes later, Petra had the address Sandra Leon had listed on her intake form.

The girl had signed herself into care.

“Is she an emancipated minor?”

“I wouldn't know,” said the records clerk.

“Is there any adult's name on the form?”

“Um . . . doesn't seem to be, Detective.”

“Who pays her bills?”

“CCS—Children's Cancer Service, it's a county fund.”

“No family members,” said Petra.

“She's not the only one,” said the clerk. “We get runaways all the time. This is Hollywood.”

The other address Sandra had used was on Gower north of Hollywood. Minutes from the station. If you were in an energetic mood, you could walk.

Petra got back on the freeway. “See what I mean,” she told Isaac. “Tedious.”

“I think it's interesting,” he said.

“What is?”

“The process. How you go about putting it all together.”

Petra didn't believe she'd put anything together. She glanced over at Isaac. Not a trace of irony on his face.