Jonathan Kellerman - Billy Straight

Sharing the bust, Wil found out he liked Homicide, transferred.

He was sure the souvenir vendor had run angles.

The way Zhukanov had leaned over his counter giving him the eye, all that junk hanging from every inch of the stall. Trying to stay cool, like the whole thing didn’t matter to him, he was just a citizen trying to do his civic duty. But Wil’s mention of the twenty-five grand raised sweat on the Russian’s pitted nose.

Absolutely certain he’d seen the kid. It sounded to Wil like he’d practiced all day convincing himself. Because how could he be that sure? Petra’s drawing was good, but to Wil the kid didn’t look that distinctive.

He smiled to himself. All white kids looked the same, right?

He was noncommittal with the Russian, took notes as Zhukanov pointed north, up Ocean Front, where the kid had supposedly disappeared. But when Wil traipsed there, showing the picture to cafe owners, none of them knew a thing. Most of the other businesses were closed for the evening, so he supposed a revisit was called for. But he doubted it would produce anything. This whole case had a futile smell to it.

He retraced his steps and the Russian was still there, way past closing time, waving as Wil passed him and headed toward his car. Leanna was due at Loew’s in twenty minutes-five-course dinner, wine. He’d met her at a club, those huge brown eyes “Sir!” Zhukanov called out.

“Yes, Mr. Zhukanov?”

“I will keep my eyes open for you. I call you when I see him again.”

Just what Wil needed, some Moscow mafioso playing junior detective.

Now here it was, the next morning, and all he could think about was the sun on Leanna’s shoulders. Beautiful morning.

He’d arrived at seven on the dot, energized. A bunch more crank tipster messages on his desk, but the Russian hadn’t called, so maybe the kid was gone from Venice or, more likely, he’d never been there.

Those two tips from Watson interested him a lot more. Two righteous-sounding old women both thought they might have seen the boy in town. He was still waiting for a callback from the Watson sheriff.

His phone rang. A new day dawns.

“Hey, Dubba-yew, it’s Vee.”

“Vee, long time.”

Val Vronek was a D-II Wil had worked Narcotics with at Wilshire, now handling hush-hush major crime stuff from downtown. Vronek loved undercover-his favorite thing, posing as a biker meth dealer. Big and heavy, he’d grown his hair shoulder-length, raised a beard that looked like a health hazard.

“Guess what, Wil, I’m in your neighborhood.”

“Oh?”

“Can’t discuss details, but if you guessed outlaw biker crank empire I wouldn’t contradict you. Just happened to be spending time in some shithole called the Cave.”

“Right up your alley, Vee, white-trash roots and all that.”

“You bet. Daddy rode high, Mama ate bugs,” sang Vronek. “That’s an old country tune. Blue-eyed soul.”

“Blue-eyed soul is the Righteous Brothers.”

Vronek laughed. “The reason I’m calling is, in the course of said assignment to said shithole, something happened I thought you should know about. Late last night, some guy came in showing around the picture of that kid you’ve been looking for, implying anyone who could help him would get a cut of the reward.”

“Why would anyone do that?” said Fournier. “Least of all, leather-scum. If they knew where the kid was, they’d turn him in themselves, take the whole twenty-five.”

“Didn’t say the guy was smart, Wil. Just there. And none of the assembled patrons jumped on the offer. It was like, ‘All those who give a shit step forward.’ No big boot ballet. I pretended to be one-quarter fascinated, tried to get a feel for the guy. He came across big-time stupid.”

“Got a name?”

“Nope, the situation didn’t call for that level of intimacy. Here’re the vitals: white male, twenty-eight to thirty-five, brown and blue, wavy hair, reddish muttonchop sideburns, my height, add at least fifty pounds.”

“A big boy,” said Fournier.

“He came on like some heavy-duty Angel, but no one knew him. I told him I’d look out for the kid, where could I reach him? He said he’d be stopping by again tonight, around eight. You want me to, I’ll come out to the sidewalk when he shows and let you know.”

“Deal, Vee. Thanks.”

“Anytime. Too bad I won’t be able to buy you a drink. They don’t like colored folk.”

Just as Fournier hung up, Schoelkopf called. “You’re there. At least someone on Ramsey is.”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“You don’t read the paper?”

“Not yet-”

“You should, this is a public case. They found the girl’s car. Burned out in Venice, I had to learn it from the damn paper. Read it, then get in here.”

Nigger.

Not taking him seriously. Vladimir Zhukanov pulled a troll doll down from the rack and squeezed its belly. Blond-haired troll, SURF DUDE! printed on the shirt. He hated the way the damn thing smiled. Some Swede or Dane had invented the original one. This one was made in Korea, pirated. Zhukanov had bought ten gross from an old Moscow friend of his who worked the docks down in Long Beach, a hundred bucks, no questions asked.

A Georgian named Makoshvilli-they’d busted heads together while in the army, breaking up protests near the Kremlin, braining Yids, assorted cosmopolitan dirt.

He brought the trolls in a few at a time, pocketed the cash, fuck the boss.

Vladimir Zhukanov, sergeant in the Moscow police, reduced to trafficking in toys!

America, land of dreams. He’d claimed to be a Yid to get over here, paid a fortune to some immigration lawyer to lie for him, bunked down in some West Hollywood hovel full of Yids while he tried to find a niche for himself in L.A. A few months later, Yeltsin opened the gates to anyone, the bastard.

The city was all niggers and brownies. He had yet to find his niche. He’d driven a cab, tried unsuccessfully to sell his head-busting services to a Van Nuys forgery ring, managed to get into a West Hollywood car-theft ring but couldn’t hot-wire fast enough so they fired him. He worked nights for a while, bouncing at a Russian club on Third Street till some punks broke his nose-five against one, stupid club owners insisting no weapons, how could they claim it was his fault?

Now this. Five bucks an hour from the Yid who owned the souvenir stand. Zhukanov skimmed at least 5 percent regularly, the Yid knew it, didn’t care-he was raking it in from twenty other stands all around the city, living in Hancock Park, buying that hook-nosed wife of his diamonds.

One day, Zhukanov figured, he’d break into the house, get those diamonds.

Meanwhile, he sold toys. Till now: salvation in the form of the kid.

Had to be him. Zhukanov had done his share of hunting, knew what prey smelled like.

Handing it to the nigger cop, but the black bastard wasn’t taking him seriously. No wonder this multicultural shithole had so much crime-nigger cops. Like having foxes guard chickens.

No way would he let that screw up his plans. Twenty-five grand meant out of here, maybe a quick grab for the boss’s diamonds, fly to New York, Brighton Beach, Coney Island-no shortage of outfits there who’d welcome his talents; but with that kind of money he’d start his own business.

He was already self-employed: personal hunter of the kid.

How far could the little bastard have gone? He was sure to turn up again, and Sergeant Zhukanov would grab him.

A flash of optimism lightened his mood. A little vodka, maybe stop off somewhere for a nice meal.

Starting tomorrow, he’d be on full alert.

Friday morning, Petra woke thinking about Balch as suspect. It still made sense, but so did Ramsey.