When the woman returned to the café, Petra placed the bag by the curb and made her way toward the gallery. Thinking how funny it would be if that female foot officer happened by and tried to bust her for littering.
It was time to stop thinking about anything else but the job she had to do.
Omar Selden was bent over the metal desk, signing Club. Flanked by a stoic Eric and a grinning Xenia.
No sign of Sandra. Probably in the ladies’ room. Good, maybe this could go smoothly.
Petra walked toward them. Omar looked up.
Eric said, “I decided to buy both of them.”
Omar smiled. Barely glanced at Petra. No sign of recognition.
Not good, pal. An artist should be more discerning.
“Okay,” he said. “Signed.” Trying to be casual, but pleased at the celebrity.
“Cool,” said Xenia. “I love your signature, Omar.”
Petra was a few feet away when a voice behind her said, “Hey!”
Sandra Leon. Stepping out from behind one of the partitions. Staring right into Petra’s face.
Less yellow in her eyes, but still jaundiced.
Up close, way too much makeup. The things you noticed.
Petra held up a pacifying hand.
Sandra screamed, “Cops, Omar! They’re cops!”
Selden dropped his pen, looked up, stupefied for less than a second. Then a foxy gleam brightened his eyes and he reached under the baggy brown T-shirt.
Petra had her gun out. Sandra was pounding her back, still screaming. She shoved the girl hard with one hand, concentrated on keeping her Glock steady.
“Easy, Omar.”
Selden cursed. More screaming: Xenia’s horror-flick shrieks.
Omar got his hand out of his shirt. Aimed a black matte gun, a Glock, too, plastic, one of those fool-the-metal detector deals.
Pointed straight at Petra’s face.
Eric had moved directly behind Omar. Expressionless.
Petra saw his shoulder twitch, but no other sign of movement.
Eric’s arm jumped, ever so slightly.
Still expressionless.
Pop pop pop.
Omar stiffened. His face scrunched with pain and surprise and his mouth made a little stunned O. Then blood began seeping out of his nose, his ears. Gushed from his mouth as he toppled over.
Facedown on the desk. Pinning his artwork.
Color on the photos, now.
Xenia had backed away and stood against the wall. Her hand covered her mouth but that did little to squelch the pitch and volume of her shrieks. A golden puddle of urine settled and pooled at her feet. She sat down heavily in her own water.
Sandra Leon had rebounded from the shove and was up on her feet, flailing at Petra. Long sharp nails, jet-black, caught in Petra’s jacket sleeve.
When Sandra tried to head-butt Petra, Petra slapped the girl hard across the face. The blow stunned her, gave Petra time to spin her around, bend an arm back, and kick her behind the knees. Easy, no weight to her. She pushed the girl down on the floor, kept a knee in the small of that smooth, shoelaced back, and got her cuffs out. Making sure she was nowhere near Sandra’s teeth, all that saliva teeming with virus.
“Bitch cunt murderer!” Sandra was screaming. “Murdering cunt!”
Xenia, sounding half-comatose, said, “I’m calling the police.”
CHAPTER 39
A slew of black-and-whites arrived with sirens blaring. Then crime-scene techs, the coroners.
The usual, but this felt different to Petra. This was hers.
And Eric’s. He hadn’t blinked during the shooting or since.
Someone you could depend upon.
Still, it threw her off.
In charge was a Valley lieutenant, soon supplanted by a captain. Both started off treating Petra and Eric like criminals but eventually eased up.
Last to show up was the officer-involved shooting team. Two Internal Affairs detectives with all the emotional resonance of statuary. Questioning Eric and Petra separately, Eric first.
Petra watched from ten feet away, knew the story he was telling, the one they’d prepared. It had been his idea to go looking for Selden; he’d had to overcome Petra’s reluctance. Once the meet had been set up, she’d made multiple attempts to call for backup, finally decided there was no choice but to go ahead.
The fact that Eric had done all the shooting backed that up.
Clear and present danger, protecting a sister officer.
In the best of circumstances, he’d be suspended with pay, for as long as it took to sort out the paperwork. If the media got hold of it- some P.C. moron at the Times or one of the throwaway weeklies trying to manufacture a racial thing or a police brutality thing- it could get ugly and go on longer. That would mean lawyers, the police union, maybe suspension without pay.
Petra had tried to talk him out of being the scapegoat.
He said, “That’s the way I’m telling it. Back me up.” Gave her arm a short, hard squeeze and left to face the turmoil.
She stood by as the shooting investigators double-teamed him. Watched as they came up against his stoicism and started passing glances between them.
She knew what they were thinking. This is weird.
Cops, even hardened vets, usually reacted to blowing out the back of someone’s head with a modicum of emotion. For all the feeling he was displaying, Eric might’ve just filed his nails.
Because he had to. Because he was protecting her. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had protected her.
At three-forty P.M., with the scene still cordoned and active, the head Downtown hotshot showed up, wearing a freshly pressed suit and tie. Meaning he’d been out by the pool or playing golf or whatever, had finally been reached, rushed home to dress for the occasion.
Before he stepped into the mess, he looked around. At the media vans congregated outside the yellow tape.
Hoping to be noticed. When it didn’t happen, he frowned, spotted Petra, came toward her.
She told him the story. He said, “Messy,” left, conferred with the techies.
Sandra Leon had been on the scene for hours, mostly stashed in a rear storage room of the gallery under guard. Petra ached to interview her, knew it would never happen.
Now, two uniforms escorted Sandra to a cruiser and put her in the back. Downtown strode over, opened the door, said something, stepped back with a stunned, angry expression. The girl had dissed him, probably with the foulest language possible.
He told the driver to leave, and the black-and-white rolled away. Glided past Petra. Through the side window, Sandra Leon glared at her, twisting her body so she could maintain eye contact through the rear glass.
Petra stared back. Received a clearly enunciated “Fuck you” as the girl diminished. Disappeared.
CHAPTER 40
MONDAY, JUNE 24, 10:12 A.M., DETECTIVES’ ROOM, HOLLYWOOD DIVISION
Finally released for duty by the shooting team, Petra arrived at work to find Kirsten Krebs’s little butt perched on a corner of her desk. Right atop Petra’s blotter. She’d wrinkled some papers.
From across the room, Barney Fleischer shot her a sympathetic smile. Did the old guy ever leave?
Krebs arched her back, as if posing for a boudoir shot. One of her fingers twirled blond hair. What was she doing up here on the second floor?
When she saw Petra, she smirked. Nicotine teeth. “Captain Schoelkopf wants you.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Petra sat down at her desk. Krebs’s thigh was inches away.
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“Comfortable, Kirsten?”
Krebs got off the desk and left, pissed off. Then she flashed a knowing smile. Like she was in on some private joke.
Why was a downstairs receptionist delivering Schoelkopf’s message personally? Did Krebs have some special rapport with the captain?
Were she and Schoelkopf… could it be?
Why not? Two misanthropes finding common ground.