Jonathan Kellerman - Billy Straight

Everything coming together, and he had nothing to do with it. She wanted to tell him it was okay, but it wasn’t.

“Balch,” he said. “He fits that well?”

“As well as Ramsey does.”

Stu didn’t pick up on that. He was the veteran. Maybe she should focus.

“So we track Balch,” she said.

“Any idea where he is?”

“My bet is some other state or out of the country, but S. says we can’t publicize it, yet. Near arrest of an innocent man, and all that scared the hell out of him. But it’s nuts, right? With the Straight kid we go media-wild, but on Balch we’re gagged, giving him a head start. Oh yeah, something else: Karlheinz Lauch died a year ago, but the similarities between Lisa and Ilse Eggermann got me thinking. Eggermann was picked up in Redondo and dumped in the Marina. Balch lives in Rolling Hills Estates, right down the coast.”

“A serial?”

“Wouldn’t it be weird if he was some big-time creep and this is just the tip of the iceberg?”

Silence. “The number-two man strikes out to achieve dominance.. another inadequate psychopath.”

“Exactly.”

“Hold on,” he said, and Petra heard him talking to someone. “That was the night nurse. Okay, what can I do to help?”

“Right now? Just stay with Kath-”

“She’s sleeping,” he said sharply. “I want to work tonight, Petra. What airlines have you checked?”

“Wil and I split them up. We haven’t gotten through to some of them. They want paper. I figured-”

“What about international carriers?” he said. “Does Balch have a passport?”

“Don’t know-”

“I’ve already made contact with the passport office on Eggermann. I’ll do international-and the domestic carriers you haven’t reached. You sound bushed, get some sleep. I’ll talk to you in the A.M. ”

Let them think he’d rabbited to Vegas.

Let them think they were dealing with someone stupid.

It would help him tie everything up. He liked being neat.

Not as bad as Lisa. She was compulsive, wanting everything just so. Irregularities set her off. That vicious mouth…

She hated surprises. So he gave her one.

The German girl too. Little stupid Sally.

One more surprise left, and the stupid cops were making it a little easier, leaking “anonymous tips.” Venice Beach. Ocean Front Walk. Could the kid still be there? Maybe. Sometimes those runaways bunked down.

How far could a street kid go? If he’d tunneled deep, could he be found?

Should he forget about the kid? Was he overreacting? Obsessing? Sometimes he did that, like the way he’d worry a hidden pimple till it got infected and festered and he’d have to lance it himself, coat it with Neosporin, live with the pain. No one knew that about him.

Maybe the kid hadn’t even been in the park. If he’d seen something, wouldn’t he have turned himself in, tried to collect the reward?

But that assumed he read the papers, watched TV, knew what was going on in the world. Some of those kids were so stoned-out or brain-damaged, they didn’t have a clue.

Not much of a witness. Should he just let it ride? Live with the uncertainty?

He considered it for a long time. The idea bothered him. Big loose end.

He could at least check it out. He thought a long time about how to do it without putting himself in danger, finally came up with the plan.

Perfect. And ironic. The hardest thing to pull off, irony, according to the bullshit-artist acting coaches.

What’s my motivation?

Self-preservation.

Sam’s house has a living room, a kitchen, two bedrooms with a bathroom in between. I got a real bed. The sheets felt new. Sam slept in the other room, and I could hear him snoring through the wall.

It’s only a few blocks from the shul, on what Sam calls a walk street. Instead of a road to drive through, there’s a sidewalk, maybe twice as wide as a regular one.

“I should walk,” said Sam, driving there. “But at night there are too many nuts out.” He parks in an alley around the back.

He’s got an alarm with panels on the front door and the door to the kitchen. I looked the other way while he punched the code, so he wouldn’t think I was up to something. He said, “I’m ready to hit the hay,” and showed me my room. On the bed were a new toothbrush and toothpaste and a glass.

“No pajamas, Bill. Didn’t know your size.” He looked embarrassed, standing in the doorway, not coming in.

I said, “Thanks. This is great. I mean it.”

He clicked his teeth together, like his false teeth didn’t fit. “Listen, I want you to know I don’t usually have guests-never did before.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“What I’m getting at, Bill, is you don’t have to worry about something funny going on. I like women. Stick around long enough and you’ll see that.”

“I believe you,” I said.

“Okay… better get some sleep.”

The bedroom is painted light green and has old, dark furniture, a gray carpet, and two pictures on the wall hanging crooked. One’s a black-and-white photograph of a woman with her hair tied up and a guy with a long black beard. The other one’s a painting of some trees that looks like it was cut out of a magazine. The room has that old-guy smell and it’s a little hot.

I brush my teeth and look in the mirror. The scratches on my face aren’t too bad, but my chest hurts, my eyes are pink, and my hair looks nasty.

I strip down to my underpants, get under the covers, and close my eyes. At first it’s quiet, then I hear music from Sam’s room. Like a guitar, but higher. A mandolin. A bluegrass band at the Sunnyside had one of those.

He plays the same song over and over; it sounds sad and old.

Then he stops and the snoring begins. I think of Mom. That’s all I remember till morning.

Now it’s Saturday, and I wake up before he does and go into the living room. The curtains are closed and the house is dark. I pull a living room curtain aside and see a couple of metal chairs on Sam’s front porch, then a low wall, houses across the walk street. The sky is getting blue and some gulls are flying. It’s weird, but I swear I can smell the salt through the windows.

The living room has more books than any place I’ve seen except a library. Three walls are covered with bookshelves, and you can barely walk ’cause of all the magazines on the floor. In one corner’s a couch with a knitted blanket thrown over it, a TV, and a music stand holding a song by some guy named Smetana.

I sit down on the couch and dust shoots up. No morning stomachache. It’s the best sleep I’ve had in my life, and I decide to say thank you by making breakfast.

In a box on the kitchen counter I find whole wheat bread and I toast four slices. There’s a coffee machine, but I don’t know how to use it, so I just pour milk and orange juice into glasses and set them out on the table, along with paper napkins, forks, spoons, knives. In the refrigerator are fruits and vegetables, butter, some sour cream, eggs, and a big jar of something silvery-looking, like out of a science lab. Pickled herring. I take out the eggs, hoping Sam likes them scrambled.

They’re frying up when I hear him coughing. He comes in, wearing this light blue bathrobe, rubs his eyes, and pushes at his teeth. “Thought I heard something-what, you’re a gourmet?”

“Is scrambled okay?”

He turns his back on me, puts his hand to his mouth, and coughs some more. “Excuse me. Yeah, scrambled is great. Usually I don’t cook Saturday-it’s my Sabbath. I’m not that religious, but I usually don’t cook. Maybe ’cause my mother never did.”

“Sorry-”