“If I get going.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Eric?”
“Private clients means kissing butt,” he said. “Charm.”
“You can be charming.”
He stared straight ahead, kept walking.
“When you want to,” said Petra.
Suddenly, he veered out of the pedestrian stream, guided her toward the facade of a vintage boutique. Placed his hands on her shoulders. Something new in his eyes.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m running on empty,” he said. “You make me feel… fuller.”
“Baby,” she said, hugging his waist.
He pressed his cheek to hers, touched the back of her neck softly.
She said, “You’re good for me, too.”
They stood there as people moved past them, drawing a few stares, a few smiles, mostly apathy. Clanking sunglasses. Then weapons, as their gun pockets brushed.
The percussion made them break the embrace.
Petra smoothed down her jacket, fooled with her wig. “If Pinkie actually phones for a meet with Omar, I’ll have to notify the task force. Which will cause all kinds of complications.”
Eric said, “The task force should be grateful.”
“And I should be rich and famous.” She frowned. “This whole thing’s nuts. I get them their suspect, hand them everything, and they’re futzing around. The rationale is they’ve got to proceed cautiously in order to get Selden’s associates. But if we had Omar in custody, we’d have a better chance of doing that.”
“True.”
“Sandra’s probably dead, right?”
He said, “That’s where I’d put my money.”
“Stupid kid,” said Petra. “Stupid case.”
From inside her purse, her cell phone squawked.
“Vera? This is Xenia, from the gallery. Guess what? I managed to find Ovid and he’s real close by. He can be there in a half hour to meet you and sign your print.”
“Great,” said Petra, her mind racing.
“Do you think you might like two? Al really liked Theater, didn’t he? Personally, it’s my favorite. My- The owner says you can have it for the same price as Club.”
“Sounds like a deal.”
“It’s an awesome deal.”
“I’ll ask Al. Let you know when we show up.”
“Okay,” said Xenia. “But I’d seriously think about both of them. Ovid’s a seriously talented artist.”
CHAPTER 38
With 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.”