Jonathan Kellerman - Billy Straight

Sam tries to give me the rest of the money.

“I’m not finished yet.”

“I trust you, sonny-by the way, now that you work for me, are you ready to give me your name?”

That catches me by surprise, and Bill pops out.

“Nice to meet you, Bill.”

It’s been so long since anyone’s called me by my name. Since I’ve talked to anyone.

Sam shows me a paper bag. “I got you some dinner-Noah’s Bagel, just a plain one, ’cause I didn’t know if you liked onions or one of those fancy bagels. Also, cream cheese-do you like cream cheese?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Hey, you’re a working man now, need your nutrition.” He hands me the bag and walks around the shul. “You like the Pledge, huh? Running out of the stuff?”

“Almost.”

“I’ll buy some more tomorrow-that is if you want to work tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

“Go ahead, take the money.”

I do. He looks at his watch. “Time to quit, Bill. We don’t want to be accused of exploiting the working man.”

We walk outside and he locks the shul. The alley is empty, but I can hear the ocean through the space on the side of the building, people talking on the walkway. That big Lincoln of his is parked crazy, the front bumper almost touching the building. He opens the driver’s door. “So.”

“’Bye,” I say.

“See you tomorrow, Bill.” He gets in the car and I start to walk away-south, away from that Russian perv. I’m liking the feel of all that money in my pocket but wondering where to go. Back to the pier? But it was so cold. And now I have money…

I hear a loud squeak, turn, and see Sam backing the Lincoln out of the alley. He has plenty of room, but he keeps backing up and stopping, jerking the car; the brakes are squeaking.

Uh-oh, he’s gonna hit the fence-no, he misses it. I figure I should direct him before he hurts himself, but he makes it, turning the steering wheel with both hands, his head kind of pushed forward, like he’s struggling to see through the windshield.

Instead of driving forward, he backs up, stops next to me. “Hey, Bill. You really got somewhere to go for the night?”

“Sure.”

“Where? The street?”

“I’ll be fine.” I start walking. He stays next to me, driving really slowly.

“I’d give you money for a hotel, but no one’s gonna rent to a kid, and if you show all that cash, someone’s gonna take it from you.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat.

“Sure, sure… I can’t let you sleep in the shul because what if you slip and fall, we got a liability problem-you might sue us.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

He laughs. “No, you probably wouldn’t, but I still can’t-listen, I got a house, not far from here. Plenty of room; I live alone. You wanna stay for a day or two, fine. Till you figure out what to do.”

“No thanks.” That comes out kind of cold, and I don’t turn to see his face, because I know he’s going to look insulted.

“Suit yourself, Bill. Don’t blame you. Someone probably hurt you. You don’t trust no one-for all you know, I could be some crazy person.”

“I’m sure you’re not crazy.” Why did I say that?

“How can you be sure, Bill? How can you ever be sure? Listen, when I was your age-a little older-people came and took away my family. Killed all of them, except me and my brother. Nazis. Ever hear of them? Only, when I knew them, they weren’t nazis, they were my neighbors, people I lived with. My family lived in their country for five hundred years and they did that to me-I’m talking the Second World War. Goddamn nazis. Ever hear about any of that?”

“Sure,” I said. “Learned about it in history.”

“History.” He laughs, but not a funny laugh. “So who am I to tell you to trust people-you’re right, plenty of schmucks out there.” He stops driving and I stop walking. More money lands in my hand. Two tens.

“You don’t have to, Mr. Ganzer.”

“I don’t have to, but I want to-oh hell, sleep in the shul tonight. Only, don’t fall and break your neck. And if you do, don’t sue us.”

Then he jams his car into reverse and backs up all the way to the shul. It’s scary, the way he weaves and swerves all over the place. It’s a miracle he doesn’t smash into anything.

Petra opened her front door exhausted, not feeling like a night owl anymore. Thought of Kathy Bishop’s ordeal tomorrow. Real problems. No self-pity allowed for you, kid.

She popped a can of Coke, checked the phone machine. A long-distance phone service promised to be her slave if she signed up, Ron Banks had called at seven, leaving an 818 number, probably home, please get back to him. Adele, one of the civilian clerks at the station, requesting the same thing at eight-fifteen.

She would have loved to talk to Ron first. To be with him, the two of them talking, making out on the couch, wherever that led. Business first: She called Adele.

“Hi, Detective Connor. Got a message for you from Pacific Division, a Detective Grauberg. Here’s his number.”

Pacific was Ilse Eggermann territory. Had something new come up? Grauberg was out, but a D named Salant came on. “Already spoke to you guys.”

“To who?”

“Hold on-says here Captain Schoelkopf. Guess Grauberg couldn’t reach to notify, got kicked upward.”

“Notify what?”

“Got an auto carcass you were interested in. Black Porsche, registered to Lisa Boehlinger Ramsey.”

“A carcass? Gutted?”

“Gutted and left for the vultures. Probably a Tijuana taxi by now. Got a witness says it was parked there for at least four days.”

“Where?”

“Behind the bus lot near Pacific Avenue. The witness is one of the drivers.”

“Gutted right from the beginning?”

“Progressively gutted. Someone set fire to it last night. That’s how we got called in.”

Four days and not a single report.

“You can’t see it from the street,” Salant added. “Blocked by storage buildings. We get hot cars stashed there all the time.”

“Where is it now?” said Petra.

“Downtown. Have fun.”

She talked to several criminalists before locating a female named Wilkerson who was working on the Porsche. The car was a charred shell, no wheels, seats, engine, front windshield.

“Like locusts swept in,” said Wilkerson.

“What about prints?”

“Nothing so far. I’ll let you know.”

She drank Coke and tried to put together Lisa’s journey from Doheny Drive to Griffith Park. Where did Venice fit in? Just a dumping ground for the Porsche, or had Lisa driven it behind the bus yard? Meeting up with her date on a deserted street in a high-crime neighborhood?

Was the last-date scenario totally wrong? Had Lisa indeed been carjacked and abducted, forced to drive to Venice by a stranger?

Or by someone she knew? Setting out from Doheny for a date with someone else. The murderer watching, stalking, following, pulling off the snatch.

Ramsey would fit that picture.

Venice… Kelly Sposito, Darrell Breshear’s current flame, lived on Fourth Street, walking distance from the bus yard.

Where was Breshear’s home base? She looked him up in her pad. The DMV data had him on Ashland, Ocean Park, the border between Santa Monica and Venice. Very close.

Everything gravitating toward the beach. Including the boy, if Wil’s Russian tipster could be believed.

Breshear. Another former actor. Everyone performing… news of the recovered car would be in the paper tomorrow. She had to get to Breshear before he had time to construct a story.

It was nearly 10 P.M. Was he with his wife or with Kelly? Betting on the former, she got dressed again and drove west.