Jonathan Kellerman: Billy Straight

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.

“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.

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?”