“The Paradiso thing’s been carrying me over to days and nights.”
“And I screwed up your biorhythm. Sorry, go back to sleep.”
She was up now. “What’s the desk guy have his shorts all bunched about?”
“The Paradiso thing,” said Gil.
When he told her the specifics of the message, she thanked him. Really meant it.
Lyle Mario Leon, scamster of old people, last known roommate of Marcella Douquette and Sandra Leon and the prime suspect for multiple murder had phoned her three times.
Every hour on the hour between two and four A.M. Needing to talk to her. Refusing to tell the desk officer why but insisting it was crucial.
Finally, during his five o’clock call Leon mentioned Paradiso and Mr. Desk intercommed Petra’s extension, got no answer, went looking for her in the detectives’ room. Told Gil to try her at home.
Eric said, “What’s up?”
Too tired to answer, she stared at the cell number Leon had left. Probably a nontraceable rental. She punched the phone, got a recorded message:
“This is A-1 auction services. Our offices are closed now, but…”
Real urgent. Dammit! Probably some crank-yanker fueled by the news coverage…
Or maybe she’d reached a wrong number.
She tried again, got the same message, waited until it was finished and said, “This is Detective Connor- ”
“Good, it’s you,” a man’s voice broke in. “Thanks for calling back.” Smooth voice but not like Dr. Katzman’s. This guy sounded coached in Smooth, as if he’d taken voice lessons. Young-sounding, too. Lyle Leon was forty-one.
Tensing with distrust, Petra said, “Who is this?”
“Lyle Leon. You ran my picture all over TV so now we need to meet, Detective.”
“Now?”
“You nearly killed me.”
“You sound pretty alive to me, sir.”
“I’m not kidding,” said Leon. “You don’t understand.”
“Educate me.”
“I know who killed Marcella. Killed everyone.”
He wouldn’t give details, insisted on a face-to-face, got progressively edgier as the conversation stretched. She told him to meet her at the station in an hour.
“No way, too public. I can’t take the chance.”
“Of what?”
“Being the next victim.”
“Of who?”
“It’s complicated. Now that they know who I am, I’m a target. I’m scared shitless, not ashamed to admit it. I’ve done some things in my life but this… it’s a whole new game. I’ll meet you somewhere off the beaten path. With lots of space all around- how about a park?”
“Oh, sure,” said Petra. “I just waltz into some dark park at this hour because you claim to be someone with information.”
“I’ve got more than information, Detective. I’ve got all the answers.”
“Give me a hint.”
“I can’t risk that. I need to know you’ll protect me.”
“From who?”
Long pause. “Detective, I can solve your case, but we have to do this my way. How about Rancho Park- a relatively open area, right off Motor- ”
“Not possible, sir.”
“Okay, okay,” said Leon. “Somewhere else, then. You make a suggestion. Bring other detectives with you, I don’t care about that. I just don’t want to be seen at the Wilcox station because for all I know they’re watching the place.”
“Who’s they, sir?”
Silence.
“Your fellow Players?” said Petra.
Laughter. “I wish. Them I could deal with.”
“Who, then?”
“Okay, not a park. But nowhere in Hollywood or in Venice.”
“Why not Venice?”
Leon ignored the question. “Would the Valley be okay?”
“There’s an all-night coffee shop at Ventura near Lankershim.”
“Too public… how about Encino?”
“If you told me exactly what you are afraid of, sir, I could- ”
“You were there. In the parking lot, after the shooting. All those bodies. And you’re asking me that?”
“Give me a name, sir. I’ll make sure that whoever- ”
“This is my final offer: There’s a Jaguar-Land Rover dealer in Encino, on Ventura, west of Sepulveda. Nearby is a felafel joint. It’s closed right now but they keep their benches out, chained to the ground. The car lot keeps its lights on so some of the benches are illuminated. I’ll wait on a dark one. When I see you approach I’ll step out with my arms up, so you can make sure this isn’t an ambush.”
“Sounds pretty theatrical,” said Petra.
“Life is theater, Detective. Say in an hour?”
Petra knew the exact spot, she’d eaten there. No back alley approach, even with backup there’d be limits to how careful she could be.
Sidewalk café. The similarities to Tel Aviv were creepy. But this was too good to lose. She’d figure out a way.
She said, “An hour it is.”
CHAPTER 30
Eric said, “Sure it could be an ambush.”
“I call for uniform backup at this hour,” said Petra, “everything goes crazy.”
“Maybe it needs to.”
He’d watched her get dressed, hadn’t commented until she asked him what he thought about the call. Now he got out of bed, limped to the chair, and reached for his own clothes.
“What are you doing?”
“Backing you up.”
“How long’s it been since you slept?”
“Once I’m up, I’m up.” He turned his dark eyes on her.
“It’s not necessary,” she said. “Mac Dilbeck’s the primary. I’ll call, let him decide.”
“You’re the one the guy’s expecting.”
“That’s only because my name was attached to the news story.” The story she’d provided.
Eric finished dressing. “Where’s your extra gun?”
“Stay here and rest. I can get plenty of backup.”
“Like who?”
“How about the Belgian?” she said.
He laughed. Headed for her closet. Knowing where she kept her spare nine millimeter.
She said, “I really am calling Mac.” Reached for the phone to prove it.
“Mac’s a good man.” He found the automatic on an upper shelf, nestled in its hard-shell case, between two black sweaters. Found the black nylon holster she favored, adjusted the strap and set himself up.
Petra said, “You really don’t need to do this.”
“Yeah, but it’s fun.”
She dialed Mac’s number.
Ventura Boulevard at five forty-three A.M. was a dark and ghostly stretch buzzed by intermittent traffic. The Jaguars and SUVs in the fenced lot were gray mounds. Some grace time until the sun rose, but not that much. Which could be good or bad, depending on how this shook out.
Mac Dilbeck arrived in his old Cadillac DeVille, parked two blocks west, as arranged, near a dormant medical building. He wore a navy sweatshirt, black slacks, dark shoes. First time Petra had seen him without a suit and tie. His hair was parted and brushed but white stubble clouded his chin. Luc Montoya arrived in a company car, an unmarked he’d taken home. Off the case, but this morning he was on it. Tense but smiling; this was more fun than yet another dummy-homicide.
Eric’s presence elicited raised eyebrows from the two of them but no comment.
Protocol called for blues, but this was the whole team. Four detectives, a quartet who rarely fired their weapons, filled their days mostly talking on the phone and filing paper. The Paradiso shooting had been a vicious drive-by. If this was a serious ambush, it could go beyond ugly.
But Petra, having cruised by the felafel stand twice from the north side of the boulevard, was feeling relaxed. Neither she nor Eric had spotted anyone at or near the little kiosk. And Eric was a spotter.
If the man claiming to be Lyle Leon was righteous and really scared, there’d be only one place to hide: behind the stand. No easy escape from there: a high block wall rose to the south, at least twelve feet of impediment. Beyond that, another half-acre of British car storage.