Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

He looked, Isaac decided, like some Hollywood director’s notion of an evil Chinese guy.

He looked up as Isaac approached. Sleepily, Isaac thought.

Isaac stood there until Flaco motioned him in.

Quick soul shake. “Bro.”

“Hey.” Isaac slid across from him. He’d stopped at a pharmacy, bought a tube of cover-up makeup, done his best to hide the bruise. A patchy job at best, but if you weren’t looking for it, maybe you wouldn’t notice.

Nothing could be done about the swelling, but between Flaco’s short attention span and the bar’s poor lighting, he hoped he wouldn’t have to explain.

“Whussup?” Flaco’s voice slurred. His long sleeves were buttoned at the wrist. Usually, he rolled them up. Hiding needle marks? Flaco always denied shooting, made a point of preferring inhalation, but who knew?

He’d always been restless; unable to leave well enough alone.

Isaac said, “The usual.”

“The motherfuckin’ usual but you’re motherfuckin’ here. ”

Isaac shrugged.

“You always do that,” said Flaco. “With the shoulders. You do that when you wanna hide something, man.”

Isaac laughed.

“Yeah, it’s funny, asshole.” Flaco’s head rolled.

“I need a gun,” said Isaac.

Flaco’s head rose. Slowly. “Say what?”

Isaac repeated it.

“A gun.” Flaco snickered. “What, like to shoot down planes, you gonna be one of them terrorists?” His cheeks puffed as he tried to imitate cannon fire. Feeble puffs resulted. He coughed. Definitely on something.

“For protection,” said Isaac. “The neighborhood.”

“Someone fuck with you? Tell me who, I kill their ass.”

“No, I’m cool,” said Isaac. “But you know how it is. Things get better, then they get worse. Right now, it’s worse.”

“You having problems, man?”

“I’m cool. Want to keep it that way.”

“A gun… you mama… those tamales.” Flaco licked his lips. “Those were fine. Kin you get me some more?”

“Sure.”

“Yeah?”

“No problem.”

“When?”

“Whenever you want them.”

“I come over knock on your door, you invite me in, introduce me to you mama, get me some of them sweet tamales?”

“Absolutely,” said Isaac, knowing it would never happen.

Flaco knew it, too. “A gun,” he said, suddenly reflective. “It’s like a… you know a… responsibility.”

“I can handle it.”

“You know how to shoot?”

“Sure,” Isaac lied.

“Bullshit, motherfucker.”

“I can handle it.”

“You end up shooting off your ass- you shoot your own cojones off, man, I ain’t gonna cry.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Bang bang,” said Flaco. “No, I don’t think so, man. What for you need to mess with motherfucking guns ?”

“I’m going to get one,” said Isaac. “One way or the other.”

“You stupid, man.” Then Flaco realized what he’d said and cracked up.

Isaac started to get up. Flaco clamped a hand over his wrist. “Have a drink, bro.”

“No, thanks.”

“You turnin’ me down?”

Isaac swung around in the booth, faced Flaco full-on. “The way I see it, you’re doing the turning down.”

Flaco’s smile dropped. His hand remained clawed over Isaac’s wrist. Another 187 tattoo. On the other hand. Larger, fresher. Black ink. A tiny grinning skull nested in the upper circle of the 8. “You ain’t gonna drink with me?”

“One drink,” said Isaac. “Then I’m going. Got to take care of business.”

Flaco slid out of the booth, teetered to the bar, returned with two beer-and-shots. As the two of them drank, he drew a white plastic shopping bag out of the black denim jacket and lowered it beneath the table.

Isaac glanced down. Jewelry Mart logo on the bag, a vendor called Diamond World.

“Happy birthday, motherfucker.”

Isaac took the bag from Flaco. Heavy. At the bottom was something swaddled in toilet paper. Keeping his hands low, he unwrapped it partially.

A shiny little thing. Squat, square-barreled, perfectly malevolent.

FRIDAY, JUNE 14, 4:34 P.M. DETECTIVES’ ROOM, HOLLYWOOD DIVISION

Petra left two additional messages with Dr. Robert Katzman, the last unmistakably cross.

Then she regretted her tone. Even if she finally reached the oncologist, big deal. He’d treated Sandra Leon for leukemia, what else could he tell her?

Then again, she was sure the Oncology clerk had gotten antsy talking about Sandra. But who said that related to the girl with the pink shoes or any other aspect of Paradiso?

She went downstairs, found Kirsten Krebs idling by the watercooler in a tank top and jeans, told Krebs to put Katzman through immediately if he called back.

Krebs stared at the floor and said, “Yeah, fine.” When she thought Petra was out of earshot, she muttered, “What- ever. ”

Petra returned to her desk feeling aimless. She’d slept fitfully, burdened with too much of nothing. Just two weeks until June 28. No sign of Isaac for a few days. Had the kid lost his youthful enthusiasm about the nefarious plot? Or was it something to do with that bruise?

Either way, who cared?

Unfortunately, she did. She turned to the file copies, reviewed the two she knew the best- Doebbler and Solis- for new insights and failed to come up with any.

It stayed that way until she reviewed the coroner’s report on Coral Langdon, the dog walker, and found something she’d missed the first few times around. Stuck in the middle of a small-print hair-and-fiber list stapled under some lab results.

Two types of canine hair had been found on Langdon’s clothing. No mention of that in the coroner’s nonquantitative summary. The pathologist hadn’t deemed it important. Maybe it wasn’t.

The presence of cockapoo hair was self-explanatory. Little Brandy had been bludgeoned along with her mistress.

Stupid little bitch. The world is my toilet.

But along with the champagne-colored curls raked from Coral’s purple, cashmere blend, size M, Robinsons-May cardigan and her black, size 8 poly-cotton Anne Klein pants, was a smaller, but substantial number of straight, coarse hairs.

Short, dark brown and white. Canine. No DNA had been analyzed to determine the breed.

No reason to get that fancy. There were plenty of reasonable explanations, including maybe Coral Langdon had owned two dogs. Except according to the file she hadn’t. Detective Shirley Lenois might have missed the June 28 link, but Shirley had been a dog person, owned three Afghan hounds, would have been sure to note the presence of a second pet.

Perhaps little Brandy had hung with a canine buddy, picked up hairs, transferred them to Coral.

Or a stray dog had come upon both corpses, sniffed around.

Or, Coral Langdon, walking alone, at night, in the Hollywood Hills, in the company of a pint-sized pooch that provided zero protection, had encountered another dog walker.

The two of them stop to swap dog chat. Dog people were like that, being devoted to your pet was grounds for instant rapport.

Because of that, dogs could be a great ruse for bad guys. Petra recalled a case she’d worked early in her grand-theft-auto days. Pleasant-looking frat-boy-type thief- what was his name- who always took along a lumbering, seventy-pound bulldog… Monroe. She remembered the dog’s moniker but not the guy’s. What did that say?

Frat-boy’s modus was to “chance” upon women pulling late-model luxury wheels into shopping center parking lots. As they got out of their cars, he’d saunter by, Monroe in tow. The women would get one look at the stubby dog’s wrinkled frog face and melt. Chitchat would ensue, Frat-boy- Lewis something- was brilliant at putting on the wholesome dog guy act, though Monroe really belonged to his sister. The women would coo and pet the stoic, panting beast, then walk off happy. Fifty percent of the time they forgot to lock their cars and/or set the alarms.