She backed clear across Ocean Front, watched the stand while talking to Wil in a low voice: “Clear sign of illegal entry, our duty to investigate.”
“Absolutely,” he said. “But what if the guy's some nut and he's lurking inside there- let's check the back first.”
Whipping out penlights, they snaked along the north side of the stand. Too damn dark, too damn quiet. Petra liked using her brains, psyching out bad guys. She could do without this TV cop stuff.
Behind the building were two huge wooden packing crates, slats over plank sides. Her penlight said they came from the docks at Long Beach.
The stand's back door was bolted, a nice big padlock in place. Off, definitely off. Unless it hadn't been a thought-out burglary, just something impulsive… the packing crates stank of garbage. The neighboring buildings all utilized commercial Dumpsters. City regulations- the Russian saving money?
One good thing about the crates, though- the slats offered an easy foothold. She got a toe in, hoisted herself up the first one, looked inside. Nothing.
She found Zhukanov in the second crate, lying on his back atop a heap of trash, mouth open in the dead man's stupid gape, one arm spread, the other pinioned under his head at an angle that would have been excruciatingly painful had he been alive.
Bisected, disemboweled. The penlight turned his intestines into overfed eels.
Same killing wound as Lisa.
Balch had never left town at all; the charter call, a fake-out just as she'd suspected- so what had Stu phoned about?
No time to think about that. She ran the light over the trash, saw the blood now, a huge crimson oblong, spattered on paper refuse.
Wil had found blood, too. Specks and drips on the front of the crate, another large stain on the ground. She'd been standing right in it, damnit! How could she have missed it?
They phoned it in to Pacific Division, were told to safeguard the scene- it might be a while before anyone showed up, because a shooting had just gone down in Oakwood and some of those victims were still breathing.
Inside the stand, they found no evidence of break-in, just crappy toys, a rear stockroom with a chair and a card table full of receipts and sales slips, no apparent system. A Planet Hollywood jacket hung from a nail in the wall. On adjoining nails were nunchucks, half a baseball bat with a leather thong, tarnished brass knuckles.
The Russian, equipped for battle. Someone had taken him by surprise.
Several bottles in the corner might explain it. Cheap-looking Rus-sian labels, cloudy vodka. One of the bottles was nearly empty. Zhukanov drunk, his defenses down? Bolstered by booze when he killed Moran?
If he had killed Moran. Maybe he'd been Moran's crime buddy, a drug connection, whatever, and the two had colluded to collect the twenty-five thousand.
Somehow, Balch had figured it out and finished them both off.
But then why bother taking Moran to Angeles Crest while leaving Zhukanov right here where he was sure to be found?
Look what I can do!
Zhukanov's gut wound matched Lisa's and Ilse's. But Moran didn't fit. So the Russian probably had dispatched Moran. And Balch had finished off Zhukanov.
There could only be one reason: The Russian knew something vital about William Bradley Straight.
All Zhukanov had told Wil was that the boy had bought a hat from him.
Not enough to kill for.
Had the Russian held back? Did he know more?
She shot her theories at Wil, who was up in front, examining the inside wall beneath the counter, looking for more bloodstains.
She was talking at manic speed, couldn't believe the edge in her voice. Wil listened, said, “You think Zhukanov saw the boy again? Got a fix on his location? But how would Balch find out?”
“I don't know- but if it was him, he took Zhukanov by surprise. Maybe force. Or Zhukanov was plastered. Or he pulled some kind of scam on Zhukanov. The guy was crazy for the reward. It could have clouded his judgment.”
“A scam,” said Wil. “Someone who'd be legit asking about the boy?”
“Yes,” said Petra. “A social worker- a cop. Maybe Balch impersonated a cop.”
Wil thought about that. “A suit and a fake badge is all it'd take. Yeah, Zhukanov's greed would do the rest. But for Balch to risk killing him now, when he knows we're going to be looking for him?”
“We haven't caught him. He may not even know we're on to him,” said Petra. “And if it leads to the boy, it could seem worth it. That tells me Zhukanov may very well have learned something more about the boy.”
She returned to the stockroom, searching nervously, frantically. Toys, stupid toys- imagine a hairbasket like Zhukanov peddling playthings to little kids… nothing in the pocket of the Planet Hollywood jacket… the card table, the receipts- she grabbed them all up, started scanning.
Ten slips in, she found an invoice form, no sale marked, no date. Just a single line of shaky printing.
2RTRM34
License number? Had the Russian seen William Straight in a car and copied down the plate? Everyone knew you could bribe info out of DMV. The papers had covered a big bribery scandal a few months ago. A guy like Zhukanov would know his way around that sort of thing. Pay up, get the address.
She looked for a phone in the shack. None in either room. What a hovel. Fournier was still looking for blood. She borrowed his phone- what was the night number for DMV traces… yeah, yeah, she remembered it. When the clerk came on, she had to fight from barking orders at the woman. This one was a stickler for regulations.
Lord save me from rule books.
But a little assertiveness finally made her cooperate, and a few computer clicks later Petra had it: Samuel Morris Ganzer, 23 Sunrise Court, Venice.
Birthdate in 1925.
An old man.
Had William found himself a protector?
77
The Lincoln was parked inches from the back of the house, and its front bumper gave him a great boost to the window.
Drapes on this one too, but not drawn tightly; he had a perfect view of the kitchen, helped along by a small light over the stove. The living room, too, separated only by a waist-high counter. A floor lamp there cast charcoal shadows on gray carpet. Enough light to see the front door. Red glow off to the right side. Alarm. Too bad. But better to know up front.
Three doors to the left, probably bedrooms and bathroom. Not much space between them. Small rooms, better for stabbing.
And that was the entire layout. Excellent…
No sign of the boy since he'd first ventured out onto the porch. The old guy, either. Both bedroom doors closed. The boy and the old man- with or without wife- fast asleep? Or maybe the old guy was a queer and the boy was sleeping with him.
That would sure explain taking him home.
Sleep made it a helluva lot easier: Burst in, throw the bedroom doors open, boom boom boom, gone even before the time delay kicked in on the alarm.
Knock stuff over on the way out, maybe steal something, to make it look like a gang thing.
He got down from the car, checked the alley for intruders, examined the house's rear door. Two dead bolts. Bad. But putting a little weight on the wood, he felt some give. One or two good shoves would take it off the hinges. Probably ruin his shoulder, but he was used to pushing his way through obstacles. The door was nothing compared to a defensive line.
Okay, then. Here come da blitz. The knife if it worked, the gun ready for backup. Either way, he could do it in seconds, run out the back, fade into the night.