Jonathan Kellerman - Billy Straight

The corn-dog smell makes me feel I’m at a carnival. I was at a school carnival once. Had no money to buy corn dogs or anything. This feels like a warm bright dream.

I reach the end of the walkway and there’s no place to go but sand.

The whole beach is like the end of the world.

I figure I’ll try the other end, turn around, walk for a while, until I spot the ugly Russian guy coming my way. He’s in the crowd, but he’s not part of it. Everyone else seems to be having a good time. He looks angry. And his eyes are all over the place. Looking for something-me?

Another perv?

I don’t want to find out. Slipping back over to the alley, I walk back in the direction I came from, checking over my shoulder a few times. I see a couple of people, but not him. Then the alley’s empty again and here’s the synagon. There’s a huge old white Lincoln Continental with a brown top parked there. Must be the old guy’s.

Jew canoes, Moron called them. Cadillacs and Lincoln Continentals.

Soft cars, he used to say, for soft people.

But the old guy had a strong grip.

The way he just gave me all that money-forty dollars, like it was nothing. So the Jews are rich. But he didn’t want anything from me.

Maybe I can get some more money from him.

I’m still out in the alley thinking about it when he comes out, sees me, and gives a surprised smile. He’s really short. This time I notice that his teeth are too white; they have to be false.

Mom had some false teeth made up for the back of her mouth where the rotten ones fell out, but she never put them in and her face started to get saggy.

He holds out his hands, like he’s confused.

“What?” he says. “You already spent it all?”

Stu let her comfort him, then, abrupt as a power failure, he broke the embrace. It was the first time they’d ever touched.

“Back to work,” he said.

Back at their desks, he told her, “I heard from one of my studio sources.”

Scott Wembley had called last night. He gave her the basics, leaving out the whining in the A.D.’s voice: “It’s no big deal, Detective, but you said call for anything.”

“What do you have, Scott?”

“A few of us were sitting around schmoozing and Ramsey came up and someone said they thought his show sometimes shot in Griffith Park. Mountain areas, the horse trails-it’s just across the freeway from Burbank.”

“Recent shoot?”

“I don’t know. That’s all I know.”

“Who brought it up?”

“Another A.D., and don’t ask me where she heard it from, ’cause I didn’t pump her-you said be subtle, right?”

“Did she know this for a fact, or was she guessing?”

“She said she thought so. Thought she’d heard it somewhere. It was like… casual talk. People giving their opinions.”

“What kinds of opinions?”

“One, really: Ramsey’s the white man’s answer to O.J.”

“Okay, Scott. Thanks.”

“Thank me by leaving me alone.”

Petra said, “So maybe Ramsey knows Griffith.”

“But then why wouldn’t he pick a more secluded area of the park?”

“Because then he’d have to drag Lisa along on foot. Using the parking lot meant he could drive in, get out of the car, ostensibly to talk, then stab her by surprise.”

“You think he planned it.”

“I think at some time during their time together he planned it. Also, the car may have had some significance-psychologically. Ramsey collects cars, Lisa liked to have sex in them. Where better to end their relationship than in a parking lot?”

“The perfect L.A. couple… good point. I like that.” He put his hands on the steering wheel. He’d shaved carelessly, missing a tiny waffle of blond hair below his right ear. “Be interesting to know if any Adjustor episodes match the murder.”

“Life imitating bad TV?” said Petra.

“These people have no imagination. Getting the actual scripts would take time, but I can scan a few years’ worth of TV Guide s, see what comes up in the plot summaries.”

“Fine,” said Petra. More busywork. He looked grateful to do it.

Fournier entered the squad room, picked up a stack of message slips, and came over. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” said Stu. Nothing on his face to indicate this wasn’t just another day.

Fournier waved the stack. “Took the liberty of burglarizing your desktop, Barbie.”

“I’ll pay you later,” she said. “Anything new?”

“Still nothing on the kid from shelters, do-gooders, or Juvey, but he didn’t just blow into town. I’ve got one nice lead-Korean guy runs the Oki-Rama on Western, says the kid bought food from him once in a while over a three-, four-month period. Always at night, he noticed, because the kid looked young to be alone at that hour, never talked except to order, never made eye contact, real careful about counting his change, every penny. ‘A little banker,’ the Korean guy called him. Said the kid also came by and swiped ketchup, mustard, mayo, thought he never noticed. And guess what: Last time the kid came in was Sunday night around nine. Bought a chili-burger.”

“There you go,” said Petra, thinking about the boy on his own for three months. Managing his finances. Where’d he get the money? Where did he come from? “Let’s check the national runaway lines.”

“Already faxed the picture,” said Fournier. “They’ve got tons of files, it’ll take time. Meanwhile, the Korean wants the reward.” He laughed. “Along with everyone else. Along with the greedy types are a few just plain wackos. I got an alleged clair voyant from Chula Vista claiming some satanic cult murdered Lisa for her thymus gland. Seems there’s a new rage for thymus glands among the horned crowd.”

“Lisa’s thymus was intact at the time of autopsy,” said Petra.

“I told the lady she hadn’t won the jackpot. Didn’t know clairvoyants could cuss like that. One last thing: Schoelkopf blew in. They’re leaning on him from the top, and we are instructed to inform him immediately about anything remotely resembling a lead. Do we have one?”

Stu told him the rumor about Ramsey’s show filming in Griffith.

Fournier thought. “Nah, he can’t take that to the press.”

“He actually made it to the squad room?” said Petra. “Among the great unwashed?”

“For a whole five minutes, Barb. Turn up the heat and the grease spatters.”

A witness.

How was it possible?

He’d awoken this morning feeling pretty good about things. Stretched, yawned, made coffee, poured some juice. Opened the paper.

And there it was.

His bowels started churning.

A kid?

The article said maybe he’d been there; the police were developing other leads.

Meaning the police didn’t know a damn thing or they were double bluffing, trying to draw him out.

He didn’t do well with uncertainty.

A kid? In the park at that hour?

Maybe it was a bogus clue, a plant to flush someone out.

No, not with a reward. If a false clue got some innocent kid picked up by some money-hungry idiot and the parents sued, there’d be big-time legal problems.

So probably a real lead… but how would anyone know about the kid if he hadn’t come forward?

Unless… some sort of physical evidence… had he left something behind?

Funny thing was, after doing Lisa, he’d thought he heard something. Up behind those rocks. A rustle, a scraping, above the sound of his pumping arm.

He allowed himself a moment of bliss: the look on Lisa’s face. Even in the darkness, he’d seen it. Or maybe he’d just imagined it.

He’d convinced himself that he’d imagined the scraping. Had stopped, stood still, heard nothing, returned his attention to Lisa.