1-1-2-5. I get up and try it. Green light.
Red light, green light, red light.
Green light. I open the door, smell the salt, that beach smell. No one's out; most of the houses are dark.
I go out to the porch. Feel cold, scared.
Back in the house. Why does just going outside scare me?
I'll try again later. Back to the Kennedys.
74
The owner of the Chinese restaurant had no mem- ory of Balch. Petra and Wil ordered some spring rolls to go, ate them in her car, agreed to drive separately to Venice, meet on Pacific and Rose, walk to Zhukanov's stand together.
She called the desk at Hollywood station.
“Detective Bishop for you half an hour ago,” said the clerk. Had Stu gotten hold of flight information on Balch?
This operator refused to put Petra through. “No calls to surgical patients past nine, ma'am.”
“I'm a police detective returning another detective's call. Stuart Bishop.”
“Is Mr. Bishop the patient?”
“No, his wife is.”
“Then I'm sorry, ma'am, I can't put you through.”
“Let me speak to your supervisor, please.”
“I am the supervisor. The rules are for our patients' welfare and comfort. If you'd like, I can have a message slip sent up to the room telling him you called.”
“Fine, I'll wait.”
“Can't do that, ma'am. It'll take time. We're understaffed, and I need to keep all the lines open. If it's important, I'm sure he'll call back.”
“Sure,” said Petra. “Have a nice night.”
She got back in the car, drove on, hoping it wasn't that important. Even if they found a flight reservation, she had doubts Balch had actually shown up. The call to Westward Charter had to be a fake-out. Balch had been too careful about everything else to slip up like that.
Meaning what?
He was anywhere but Las Vegas. Site of his second wedding. Tomorrow, she'd try to get hold of Amber Leigh. And Helen. Find out why they'd divorced the guy. His kinks, bad habits, what might lead him to murder blondes.
Anywhere but… the cabin in the woods? Homicidal Thoreau? If no leads showed up soon, Schoelkopf would probably go straight to America's Most Wanted. Maybe that was the best way to handle it. Take the heat off her and Wil. Off William Bradley Straight, now motherless, poor, poor kid.
And now the guy who'd probably turned him into an orphan had been butchered like the squalid ton of pork he was.
One less felon heard from. Petra felt grim satisfaction about that.
Not that it would stop her from going after the butcher.
75
Dinky little house. Light on in the front room, but dim. The Lincoln parked in back.
So the old man was home with the kid. Was he married? Zhukanov hadn't mentioned anything about seeing a wife, but that didn't mean anything; the old guy could've gone to temple, left her behind. Maybe she was sick, an invalid.
Easy.
On balance, the walk street was probably an advantage. No cars to hide behind, but no drivers interrupting. No pedestrians either during the half hour he'd watched the house from three different spots.
He tried the back alley again, rubber soles swallowing his footsteps. The newish running shoes; he'd walked around in them, made sure there was no squeak.
Out of the cheap-suit cop getup and into black sweats and a black windbreaker with pockets. The van, rented from a fly-by-night place down near the airport, a perfect dressing room. He'd paid cash, used no ID, leaving the guy who ran the rental lot five hundred in cash as collateral. Five hundred he'd never see again. Worth it. The van was parked four blocks away, east of Main, on a residential street.
Pleasant stroll to Sunrise Court; the beach air was tangy, invigorating. He'd never lived on the beach. Maybe one day…
From the back he could see that the kitchen light was still on. Ten thirty-eight. Someone up, or just a security measure? Probably the latter; he'd seen no trace of any movement.
Why had the old guy taken the kid in? A relative? The drawing didn't show a Jewish-looking kid, but you could never tell. No, if it was a family thing, wouldn't they be pushing the kid to collect the money?
A good samaritan? Religious convictions? Giving the kid sanctuary in the temple? Did Jews believe in that? He had no idea. Returning to the front, he hid behind a clump of shrubbery, continued to watch the house.
How to do it?
The only way was a blitz. Home invasion. Gangbangers were getting into that, especially the Asians. A small place like this, how many rooms could there be?
A knife would be best because of the sound factor, but running from room to room stabbing was risky; even with weak prey, there was the risk of escape.
The alternative was the Glock, but that meant noise. Venice was high-crime, he'd heard about gangs on Ocean Front, had seen gang types during today's surveillance. So the neighbors were probably used to hearing gunshots at night. But a street like this, the houses close together, bursting in, doing it, ditching the gun, taking the escape route he'd plotted back to the van.
Risky.
But fun- admit it. The risk was part of the fun. That and simply being able to do it.
A zapperoo commando blitz then- one hand on the knife, the other on the gun. If it was just the kid and the old man and they were close together, the knife would probably work. So he'd start with the knife, have the gun ready for complications.
One thing he'd decided for sure: Rear entry was best. Ha ha.
Another advantage of the walk street: Everyone parked in back, so walking through the alley wouldn't be viewed as deviant. If he was spotted, he'd affect a relaxed stroll, pretend to belong, jangle his keys, and head for one of the cars. The way he looked- white male, sweats- wouldn't be threatening, he hoped.
His knees hurt. Too much squatting. The Percs were no longer doing the trick. Lisa had claimed coke was a good anesthetic; dentists used to smear it on gums. Always wanting him to try it. Screw that. He bought it for her, spooned it up her cute little nose, tried to get some satisfaction from her body while she was high, but no way would he do it- Percs were as far as he went.
Maintain the upper edge.
He waited. Nothing. Okay, back again, ready to blitz.
He was just about to leave when the front door opened and someone came out.
On the patio, looking around.
The kid!
Perfect! He'd sprint across the sidewalk, grab him, cut his throat, be off- God was good!
But just as he got ready to spring, the kid ran back inside.
Scared?
You've got good reason, sonny.
76
“That's the place,” said Wil, waiting, the phone to his ear.
Ocean Front Walk was dark and deserted, and Petra could barely make out the souvenir stand. As they got closer, she saw it was a tiny, ramshackle thing, roll-down shutter over the front.
“Okay,” Wil said to the phone. To Petra: “Got a home address for him. West Hollywood. Of course.”
They were twenty feet away from the shack. No one on the walkway for at least a hundred yards. They'd passed one homeless guy at the corner of Paloma and Speedway, and Petra saw another sitting on a bench to the north, but he got up and shuffled away. The tide whispered secrets and the beach looked like ice.
They were about to turn around when she noticed something. Two inches of space beneath the shutter. Closed but not locked?
Gun out, she hurried over, Wil following. Loops for a lock were welded to the lower-right-hand corner of the steel roll and a ring was bolted to the counter. But no lock in sight. She peered through the two inches. Dark, but she could make out stuff wrapped in plastic hanging from racks… Postcards. Hats. Just like the kind William Straight wore.