Jonathan Kellerman - Billy Straight

Lisa Boehlinger-Ramsey. Her ex-husband’s an actor, Cart Ramsey. A show called The Adjustor. I’ve heard of it; I think Moron used to watch it.

Someone’s offering twenty-five thousand dollars to find me.

I run for the back door. Sam doesn’t try to stop me.

As I reach for the knob, my feet freeze.

Where can I go?

It’s going to be a hot, bright day full of people out for that money; the sunlight will uncover me. Someone-maybe a bunch of them-will grab me and tie me up and turn me in.

Sam’s still standing there. “You can stay here all day, but remember, tonight’s Friday services, thirty, forty alter kocker — worshipers showing up a half hour before dark, nothing I can do about it.”

I’m not breathing great and my chest feels tight; I open my mouth wide to capture some air, but not much comes in. My stomach hurts worse than it ever did and my heart’s still bumping against my chest — chuck chuck, just like what happened to… Lisa.

“One thing you might consider, Bill: Twenty-five thousand’s a lot of money. If you do know something about this, why not be a good citizen and help yourself in the bargain?”

“I don’t know anything.”

He shrugs. “Fine. I accept that. It’s not you, just some kid who looks like you. But with the resemblance, how are you gonna traipse around?”

I slept so well last night, but now I’m tired, just want to lie down.

I sit down on a shul bench and close my eyes.

“To see something like that, Bill, of course you’re scared. I know. I saw terrible things too.”

I keep my eyes glued shut.

“You see things like that, you wish you didn’t, because you know it’ll change you. That’s the big difference in this world, Bill. People who’re forced to see terrible things, and everyone else, getting away with the easy life. I won’t tell you it’s good to see. It stinks-no one would choose it. The only good thing is, you can get strong from it-I don’t have to tell you that, you already got strong. Being out there, taking care of yourself, you did a good job. Considering what you been through, you did great. It’s true, Bill. You’re handling things great.”

He’s saying nice things, trying to make me feel better. Why does it feel like a punch in the stomach?

“One part of my brain,” he goes on, “is saying call the cops, protect him- No, no, don’t worry, I’m not gonna do it, I’m just telling you what’s going on in my brain. The other part-must be the strong part-is reminding me of what happened to me when I wasn’t much older than you. Remember those nazis I told you about? Some of them were cops-devils in uniform. So it’s not always simple, is it? A guy wants to do the right thing, not break the law, but it’s just not that simple, is it?”

He reaches out and touches my shoulders. “Don’t worry, you’re safe with me.”

He means it. It makes me feel good.

Why does it also make me bend over, so low my forehead’s almost touching the floor and now my eyes hurt, too, and I can’t stop myself from rocking back and forth and my body’s shaking and I’m crying.

Like a damn baby, I just can’t stop it!

With everything that’s happened, why cry now?

Wil Fournier returned from Schoelkopf’s office, thinking, Could have been worse.

The captain had been irritable but distracted, a meeting this afternoon with Deputy Chief Lazara. “Including your case, which I assume is stagnating.” Schoelkopf’s face started to redden.

Wil headed him off by volunteering the Russian’s tip.

“When did this come in?”

“Late last night. The guy’s a lowlife, I figured I’d do some checking on him first-”

“Check later, it’s a solid tip and I want you back in Venice, searching for the kid. Where’s Barbie?”

Wil wondered about that himself. “Don’t know.”

Schoelkopf glared at him. “Tight team you guys are running. How’s Ken’s wife?”

“I imagine she’s being operated on right now, sir.”

“She’ll probably be okay, young woman like that-okay, back to the beach, Fournier. If the kid’s there, I want him found.” Schoelkopf picked up his phone.

Straight to the media. No one could see him, but he’d put on a media smile.

Before leaving for Venice, Fournier followed up on the two tips from Watson. Nothing new from one old woman, but the second, a Mrs. Kraft, said she was pretty sure the boy lived in a trailer park on the south end of town.

“Low-class place,” she said. “They started it years ago for retired people, but trash moved in.”

“The boy’s family is trash?” said Wil.

“If he lives there, they probably are.”

“But you don’t know a name?”

“No, sir, I’m just saying I think he lived there because I think I seen him around there. When I was out with my dog. My dog’s a sweetie pie, but the boy didn’t come near Jet, like he was afraid of animals. This happened twice. I’m not sure it’s him, but I think so.”

“Okay, thanks, Mrs. Kraft,” said Fournier. “What’s the name of the trailer park?”

“Sleepy Hollow,” she said. “Like that book, the ghost story.”

He called the Watson sheriff and got a busy signal. Could you believe that? Just as he tried again, Brian Olson, the D at the next desk, waved at him. “Someone for you on my line.”

Fournier went over to Olson’s desk and Olson used the break to get coffee.

“Fournier.”

“Detective? This is Sheriff Albert McCauley from Watson, California. Woulda got back to you sooner, but I was attending a firearms conference up in Sacramento. Ever been to one of those? Very educational.” Low, drawling voice. Plenty of free time.

“Not yet,” said Wil.

“Educational,” McCauley repeated. “So. What can I do for you?”

Fournier had left detailed messages. What was this, Mayberry RFD? He told McCauley about the boy and the trailer park.

“Runaway, huh?” said the sheriff. “Yeah, the Hollow’s a scruffy place. Not much crime, though. Anywhere in Watson, for that matter. Quiet here. Only real problems we get is when the migrants blow in and hit the tequila.”

The kid had run from something, thought Fournier. “If you could check, Sheriff-”

“Sure, no problem. Got some things to catch up on first, then I’ll go over and talk to the Hollow manager, see if he can ID this boy. You say it was in the L.A. paper?”

“Two days ago.”

“Don’t usually read the L.A. papers. Not too friendly to law enforcement, are they?”

“Depends,” said Wil, noncommittal. “I can fax you the drawing.”

“Sure. Do that.”

Wil thanked him again and hung up, resolving to call the Sleepy Hollow manager himself if he didn’t hear back from McCauley by late afternoon.

He spent another two hours following up with shelters and social workers, and headed west, having lunch at an Italian place on the Third Street Mall in Santa Monica, then drove to Venice.

A beautiful afternoon at the beach was wasted talking to shopkeepers, restaurant managers, old folks, bodybuilders, Rollerbladers. Tourists who looked at him like he was crazy. Some people were scared of him, despite the suit and a flip of the badge. Black skin. Maybe one day he’d get used to the reaction, but probably not.

Sleazeball Zhukanov was back behind his souvenir counter, and the first time Wil passed the stand he ignored the Russian’s hostile stare. On the way back, he stopped, asked Zhukanov if he’d seen anything.

The Russian shook his head and pushed stringy hair out of his face. Greasy face full of pits. Pus pimple in the fold of his left nostril. Zhukanov’s beard was a poor excuse for facial hair, unevenly trimmed, a blemish, not an adornment. The guy didn’t believe in deodorant, either. Who’d buy toys from him?