Jonathan Kellerman - Billy Straight

Another forest. If the old man could see him now.

David had finished off Goliath, and soon Goliath would be rotting in some gulley.

No, wait, before that he had to triple-check for bloodstains-inside the shack and out, along the side of the shack, where the pig had been dragged.

He’d get the car, load the guy, keep him there while he gave the shack a thorough going over. Ditch the knife, the clothes he was wearing. The nunchucks and the baseball bat, too? No. No reason to panic. Why would anyone connect him to the fat bastard, even if they found the corpse?

Just the blood, the knife, his clothes.

Get it done before sunrise.

The guy would leak all over his trunk, but he’d clean it. Running it through again, he decided it was a good plan.

He stretched, fingered the tender, hot flesh of his neck. Slow down, slow everything down, it’s over-why had the bastard invited trouble like that?

Zhukanov thanked him for starting up. He hadn’t felt this good since leaving Moscow.

Okay, time to get the car. He’d taken three steps when light caught his eye.

The back door of the synagogue opening-someone still there!

He pressed himself against one of the wooden bins, tripping over the corpse’s legs, nearly falling on his ass.

Forcing himself not to curse aloud, he breathed through his nose and watched as an old Yid came out of the synagogue. Zhukanov could see him clearly, illuminated by the light inside. Short, thickset, one of those beanies on his head.

The Yid reached in and the blessing of darkness returned. But just for one second, because now the guy was opening a car door.

Not the driver’s door, the left rear door. Someone in back of the car sat up. Got out. Stretched. Just like Zhukanov had just done. The Yid talked to him.

Shorter than the Yid-a kid.

Hiding in back-had to be the kid. Why else would he be hiding?

The right size, and he’d been lying low-who else could it be?

The kid got back in the rear seat, lay down, disappeared.

So he’d been here all along. Hidden by the Yids-made sense; twenty-five grand would make them come in their pants.

We’ll see about that.

The Yid’s car started up and the headlights went on. Staying in the shadows, Zhukanov ran toward it. The Yid started backing out just as Zhukanov got close enough to read the license plate.

Bunch of letters and numbers. Zhukanov mouthed the magic formula soundlessly. At first his brain refused to cooperate.

But the old Yid helped him, taking a long time to back the car out and straighten up, and by the time he finished, Zhukanov had it all memorized.

No time to get his old car to follow. He’d write the number down, call the Department of Motor Vehicles. Giving out addresses was illegal, but he knew a clerk at the Hollywood branch, wiseass louse from Odessa who’d do it for fifty bucks.

Given the payoff, an excellent investment.

By 10 p.m. the search of the Montecito house had turned up nothing.

“The place is just about empty,” Sepulveda told Petra. “A little furniture in the living room and one bedroom; the rest of the rooms have nothing.”

“Check for secret passages?” she said, only half in jest.

Sepulveda stared at her. “I’ll let you know if the Phantom of the Opera shows up.”

She and Ron headed back to L.A. She’d been running up his cell-phone bill, talking to airline supervisors, some of them impressed by her title, others skeptical. So far no, no flights under Balch’s name had turned up, and a 9:50 call from Wil let her know he was meeting with the same results. Thoroughness would demand paperwork, the proper forms. Tomorrow. She was exhausted, angry at Schoelkopf for keeping the news about Balch under wraps.

The kid he publicizes, but this scares him.

She and Ron talked about it till they got to Oxnard. Bosses were always easy targets. When they reached Camarillo, the car turned silent and she saw he had his eyes closed.

He awoke when she stopped the car in front of his house.

“Rise and shine,” she said.

He smiled groggily, apologized, then leaned over to kiss her.

She shifted her hips in the seat and met him halfway. One of his hands passed behind her head, pressing gently. The other found its way to her breast. He was smoother when fatigued.

He squeezed her softly then began to remove his hand. She held it in place. The next kiss lasted a long time. He was the first to pull away, and now he looked wide awake.

She said, “Some first date.”

“Second. The first was the deli.”

“True.” She realized she’d thought of that as getting acquainted.

He said, “Well, you’ve got plenty to do. I won’t keep you.”

She initiated a third kiss. He didn’t try to feel her; kept both hands above the neck. Then he cupped her chin. With Nick she hadn’t liked that-too confining. He did it differently. She traveled his mouth with her tongue, and he made a small, baritone noise of contentment.

“Oh, man,” he said. “I really want to see you again-I know it’s not a good time to be thinking about going out.”

“Call,” she said. “If I say I’m too busy, it’ll be the truth.”

He kissed the tip of her chin. “You are so pretty. The first time I saw you, I-” Shaking his head, he got out, groped in his pocket for his keys, and waved.

“Wait,” she called out as he turned and started toward his front door.

He stopped.

“Your phone.”

He laughed, returned to the driver’s side, took it.

“Make sure you send me the bill,” she said. “It’s going to be huge.”

“Sure,” he said. Then he kissed her again.

Back on the 101, she could barely keep her eyes open. Exhaustion even in the face of all that adrenaline meant she was severely sleep-deprived. She’d go home, take some caffeine, squeeze in another hour or so of phone work, then enough.

By the time she reached her apartment, it was 11:23. One message on her machine. She let it sit there, changed into a flannel nightie, and got extra-strong coffee going. Realized she still hadn’t called Stu. Too late now. She felt lousy. One day this case would be over, but Kathy’s experience would last forever. Would Stu remember her as being neglectful during his crisis?

The message turned out to be him, phoning at 11:09, and asking her to call back up to midnight. The St. Joe’s operator was reluctant to put her through this late, but finally she heard Stu say, “Petra?”

“So sorry for not calling sooner. How’s Kathy?”

“Fine,” he said. “Resting.” Someone who didn’t know him would have thought he sounded okay.

“Everything went smoothly?”

“Very smoothly-they did a mastectomy. One breast. The surgeon says she’ll have total recovery.”

“That’s great.”

“I got through four years of TV Guide- ”

“Don’t worry about that, Stu. How can I help?”

“Thanks, but we’re okay,” he said.

“You’re sure? Do the kids need anything?”

“Just their mom,” he said, and his voice changed. “They’ll get through it, Petra. We’ll all get through it.”

“I know you will.” One breast…

“Anyway,” said Stu, “how was your day?”

Apart from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play? Keeping her at arm’s length. He’d cried once in her arms, probably vowed never to lose it again.

“Actually, a huge amount of stuff hit the fan, Stu.” She told him about Estrella Flores, the bloodstained Lexus, Balch’s attempt to rabbit by charter. Then William Bradley Straight, ID’d but still unaccounted for, left without a mother.

“Poor kid,” he said. “I leave you alone for one day, and look at all the trouble you get yourself into.”