Jonathan Kellerman - Billy Straight

Zhukanov’s eyelids drooped. “Not yet, but I keep eyes open.”

“Do that.” Wil started to walk away.

Zhukanov said, “How can I call you without number?”

Wil fished out a business card and placed it on the counter, ignoring Zhukanov’s outstretched palm. Hatred filled the Russian’s eyes. He picked a troll doll off the rack and put the tiny figure’s neck between two fingers. Wil left, wondering if he’d decapitate the thing.

It was already 6:30 and he was due at the Cave by 8 for Val Vronek’s signal about the fat biker’s arrival. The value of that seemed less than iffy, probably just another fool out for the twenty-five thou, but digging dry wells was part of the job.

He called into the station. Nothing from Sheriff McCauley, so either the Watson lawman had checked out Sleepy Hollow and located the kid in question or hadn’t bothered yet. Either way, Wil was annoyed.

The only message was from Petra, 818 area code. He returned it. The mobile customer you are trying to reach is either away from the vehicle or…

Obtaining a number for the Sleepy Hollow RV Park and Recreational Facility, he phoned, got another taped message, another drawling voice.

Quiet place, McCauley had said. More like Zombie Town.

He called Leanna, asked her phone machine whether she was free for a late dinner tonight, let’s say nine-thirty, ten. Another try at Petra’s 818 cell phone, same outcome. It was nearly seven, and he was ready to kill the first machine he met. He walked along the beach, found a quiet bench, and sat down to enjoy the ocean for a while, watching the seagulls and the pelicans. He loved those pelicans, the way they just cut through the air, no effort, very cool birds. God, it was gorgeous here, if you concentrated on the water, forgot about the people.

Then he found himself turning around. Scanning the walkway. Just in case the kid happened by. Wouldn’t that be something, a precious accident. Unable to relax now, he found another bench, one that put his back to the water and his eyes on business.

At 7:45 he was on Hollywood Boulevard, drinking an Orange Whip at a snack stand a few storefronts down from the Cave. The nightcrawlers were already out. Punks, dopers, he-shes, she-hes, all kinds of its, more dumb tourists, small groups of marines on leave-those kids always got into trouble. With their shaved heads, they looked just like skinners; maybe some of them were. As he sucked down the sweet, freezing drink, he saw something that really cracked him up: pudgy girl, around nineteen, shaved head except for one of those rooster-comb deals, leading a guy of the same age around on a leash. Saying, “Get going, get going.” The guy was skinny, pale, mute, had a romantic smile on his face.

Fournier sipped a little more Whip, tossed the cup, and ambled by the Cave. Harleys were lined up in front of the bar. Even from here you could hear the music, some kind of country rock, way too much bass.

A half-open door offered a glimpse of dark room. Wil kept walking, made it to the corner, pretended to examine the cheesy clothes in a store window, turned around. When he reached the bar the second time, Val Vronek was coming out, all leathered and chained, looking almost as greasy as the Russian.

The undercover man paused just left of the doorway, lit up a cigarette, caught Wil’s eye for a half second. His left cheek twitched, and he gave his head a very small shake.

No Fat Boy.

Wil took a stroll. Fifteen minutes later, Vee communicated the same thing, made sure no one was watching, flashed ten fingers three times. See you in thirty.

Half hour later, still no sign of the guy. Val lit up a cigarette, walked to one of the Harleys, checked the chain lock, loped down the street to the corner. A few minutes later, Wil followed. He found the undercover D in the darkened doorway of an apartment building just off the Boulevard. Black windows, city condemnation notice on the door.

“Sorry. Guy was probably full of shit,” said Vee. “Or maybe he watches TV.”

“What was on TV?”

“Your kid, didn’t you see it?”

“Haven’t been sitting in a bar all day.”

Vee smiled. “Six o’clock news, Dubba. Some tipster put him in Venice. Maybe Fat Boy decided I wasn’t worth dealing with and went there straight.”

“Just came from Venice,” said Wil. And the tipster. Had any of the bikers on the walkway matched Fat Boy’s description? No, he would have noticed that. He hoped.

Vee said, “If he shows up, I’ll call you. Gotta get back to scroteville.” His face was glassy with sweat.

“Hot gig?” said Wil.

“Hell would be a vacation, Dubba. And the smell’s something else. Not that you’ll ever get a chance to know, being dusky.”

Wil chuckled. “Hey, membership has its privileges.”

Leaving Vronek his beeper number in case Fat Boy showed up, he drove home, wondering if Leanna had called back. Maybe she’d tried his apartment, thinking him back already. Logical, it was nearly nine-thirty-he’d sure given the citizens full service today.

The beep came just as he pulled into his driveway.

He read the number. Sheriff McCauley. Gee thanks, pard, finally moseyed on down to the ol’ Holler, didja?

Collecting his mail, he entered his ground floor flat, checked the phone. No Leanna. Uncapping a bottle of Heineken, he called McCauley.

“Complications,” said the sheriff. No more drawl; none of that country-bumpkin friendliness. “Got a tentative ID on your kid. The manager ID’d him. Name’s Billy Straight. William Bradley Straight, twelve years old, approximately five feet, seventy-five, eighty pounds. No one’s seen him for months. The mother was unemployed, living on welfare, always months behind on the rent. No father that anyone’s ever seen. Not a good situation, but the boy never gave any trouble.”

Gone for months, but no one in peaceful, quiet Zombieville had bothered to report it, thought Wil. Even country lanes could be mean streets.

“What did the mother say about his disappearance, Sheriff?”

“That’s the complication. When I went over to talk to her, I found her dead in the trailer, looks like a couple days or so. Contusions to the occipital portion of the skull, some lividity, beginnings of rigor, some blowfly maggots. The trailer was hot, probably hastened the process, but neighbors saw her two mornings ago, so that helps fix the TOD.”

Bye-bye, Andy Griffith; hello, Quincy.

“… there was blood on the edge of a dresser, so it looks like she fell backwards and hit her head on the counter. Or was pushed-she’s got some old bruises on her, too. There was a boyfriend living with her for a while, and all of a sudden he’s gone. Biker type, loser with a petty record-we got an ID on him, too, from fellows at the local bar. Buell Erville Moran, white male, thirty years old, six-one, two-ninety-”

“Brown hair, blue eyes, reddish muttonchop sideburns,” said Wil.

“You’ve got him?”

“No, but we want him.”

There was enough skin on Estrella Flores’s face for Petra to make the ID. The maid’s throat had been slashed ear to ear, but no other wounds were evident. None of the overkill butchery visited upon Lisa.

Made sense, she supposed: Lisa was passion; this was snipping loose ends.

Balch or Ramsey? Or both? Neither was no longer a viable choice.

Dr. Boehlinger wanted to stay, but Sepulveda had Deputy Forbes drive him back to L.A., a match made in hell that caused Petra to grin inwardly despite the horror of the situation.

Poor Estrella. Talk about wrong place, wrong time. Still wearing her pink uniform. She’d probably been taken care of on Tuesday or Wednesday, driven up here on Wednesday.

Had to be late Wednesday or Thursday morning, the day Balch had been spotted leaving, because she’d interviewed him Wednesday evening and the Lexus had been parked in front of the Player’s Management building. Empty. Clean. In contrast with the mess in the office. Had the deed already been done? Had Estrella been lying in that trunk during the interview?