Jonathan Kellerman - Billy Straight

She smiled, not minding his touch but unable to think about anything but work, all the things she had to do.

She borrowed the phone, tried Wil again. Still no answer, but Schoelkopf picked up.

“Ramsey was just here with Schick,” she said.

“And?”

She summed up the interview, told him about Balch’s call to Westward Charter.

“Well, that pretty much clinches it, doesn’t it. Balch. Shit. And you guys were certain it was Ramsey. Can you imagine the field day the press would’ve had with that-near prosecution of an innocent man. Okay, no release of information till you hear from me, Barbie. Nothing. Understood?”

You’re the one with a direct line to Public Information, jerk. “Of course, sir.”

“I mean it. Tighter than a… whatever. I’ll handle Vegas for you-I know people in Metro over there. They keep a pretty tight handle on hotels and motels. If he’s there, we’ll find him. Meanwhile, you call the airlines. Get Fournier on that too.”

“Haven’t been able to reach Fournier,” said Petra.

“I saw him this afternoon. Try his home. What’s going on over there now?”

“They just started to search the house.”

“Keep an eye on those hicks. Flores is clearly the fruit of Lisa’s tree, so it’s our case.”

“What about Flores’s son in El Salvador?”

“What about him?”

“He’s worried about her. I promised to let him know.”

“I said keep it all under wraps for now. Another day or two isn’t going to improve his quality of life. They find evidence in the house, let me know right away.”

He clicked off.

Ron remained silent.

Petra said, “Don’t say I never took you anywhere interesting. Your kids okay?”

“Fine.”

“If you want to head back, I’ll find a ride somehow.”

“No, I’ll stay. Anything to do besides wait?”

“Call the airlines.” She looked at the phone. “Your bill is going to rival the national debt.”

He laughed. “You’ll get an invoice.”

He’d stuck with her all day, remaining in the background. The guy was a veteran, it had to be hard, and all she did was keep borrowing the damn phone. “You’re sure Alicia and Bee are okay?”

“Mom’s taking them out for pizza; she’ll sleep over.”

“Nice mom.”

“The best,” he said. “After my dad died, I thought she’d fall apart. Her whole life seemed wrapped up in his. She was pretty depressed at first, but then she came out of it, took up paddle tennis, joined a library group, went on some tours. She misses him-they had a great marriage-but she’s doing okay.”

“When did your dad die?”

“Two years ago.”

“Mine too.”

He reached over, squeezed her hand, let go.

Petra said, “I have no mother. She died in childbirth.”

Ron said nothing. Smart man. She didn’t look at him; didn’t want that level of contact right now.

The third try at Fournier’s house paid off. He said, “Been trying that 818 number for a couple hours, where are you?”

She told him everything.

“Unreal,” he said. “So Balch could be anywhere by now.”

“He was stupid enough to call Westward Charter using his real name, so maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“How do you want to divide it?”

“Any way you want. Also, S. wants a total seal on it.”

“We put a want out on Balch, but don’t tell anybody?”

“Not till he hears from upstairs.”

“Great,” said Wil. “So where does this put the kid?”

“Lower priority.”

He snorted. “Of course it is, now that I have a name for him. The Watson tips panned out: William Bradley Straight, twelve years old, lived in a low-life trailer park, missing a few months. If he did see Lisa get murdered, that’s not his only problem. Someone killed his mama, push-and-shove case. Got a probable suspect, her boyfriend, some hairbasket named Buell Moran. And guess what: He’s been spotted in Hollywood, showing the kid’s picture.”

“Oh no,” said Petra. “Going after the twenty-five thou.”

“It would motivate me, and I don’t live in a trailer.”

“Lord,” said Petra. William Bradley Straight. A kid with a survival plan, thinking he had a chance. Pathetic. What had they done to him?

“Okay,” said Wil. “Let’s divide up those airlines.”

When she hung up, Ron said, “What’s wrong?”

“Another orphan.”

Bound volumes of TV Guide, each with a no circulation tag.

An hour into the surgery, Stu found himself going crazy in the waiting room. Leaving the hospital, he drove to a branch in downtown Burbank, used his badge and good manners, finally convinced the librarian to let him check out a decade’s worth.

Now here he was back at St. Joe’s, waiting with other worried people.

Hundreds of Adjustor plot summaries.

Dack Price comes to the aid of a woman harassed by street thugs.

Dack Price helps expose drug dealing at a local high school.

A woman claiming to be Dack’s sister, abandoned at birth…

Dack Price saves a political reformer’s reputation when blackmailers…

The same old garbage, over and over.

No mention of any parks, let alone Griffith. Rarely was the setting ever mentioned, except when it was considered exotic: Dack Price investigates several murders aboard a submarine.

He kept turning pages, sitting by Kathy’s bedside as she slept off the anesthesia.

Snoring. Kathy never snored. A padded dressing was taped to her chest like some bulletproof vest. The IV dripped, a catheter drained, machines graphed and beeped the saga of his wife’s physiology. Stu had watched the blood pressure for a while until he was certain it was normal. At the last temperature check, Kathy’d registered a slight fever. Normal reaction, the nurse claimed.

The room was a private with a view, courtesy of Father’s clout. Cheerful wallpaper, ten-dollar Tylenol. The nurses seemed smart and efficient.

Drizak had taken Kathy’s left breast.

Stu knew the minute the surgeon came out in his greens. Droning on about lymphovascular invasion, nodal status, margins of excision, best efforts at breast conservation.

“So you did a mastectomy.”

“The bottom line is we want to save your wife’s life.”

“Did you?”

“Pardon?”

“Did you save her life?”

The surgeon scratched his chin. “The prognosis is excellent, Mr. Bishop, given proper follow-up, radiotherapy. She went through it like a trouper.”

Stu thanked him, pumped his hand, and grateful for the lack of outward anguish, the surgeon walked away with a bounce in his step.

The breast didn’t matter to Stu-not as an object-but how would Kathy react to the loss?

What to tell the kids?

Mommy was sick, now she’d be getting better.

No good; when the side effects of radiation showed up, they’d think he lied.

Kathy stirred and moaned. Stu put the book down, leaned over the bed rails, and kissed her forehead lightly. She didn’t react. He touched her hand. Cold and limp. Why wasn’t the blood circulating to her extremities?

He checked the machines. Normal; everything normal.

Her padded chest proved it, rising and falling.

It was 8 P.M. Surgery had been delayed twice because of emergencies-Kathy wheeled up to the OR, then down, the entire process repeated again. Waiting in the hall on a gurney as the priority patients were rushed through.

A car crash and a shooting.

Stu watched Burbank officers come up to the surgical floor, accompanying the med techs as they wheeled in the shooting victim. Young Hispanic kid, sixteen, seventeen, bad color, vacant eyes. Stu knew DOA when he saw it. Another stupid drive-by.