Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

But tonight, it had. Tonight, she wanted nothing to do with cons, scumbags, felons, and miscreants. Had no patience to look for furtive glances, suspicious moves, the sudden popcorn-burst of violence that changed everything.

Twenty-six injured.

Eric had phoned her, so he had to be okay.

But Eric was stoic about pain. After the stabbing, when he’d come to, he’d refused analgesics. Perforated, and he claimed he didn’t feel a thing. The doctors couldn’t believe he could tolerate it.

Propped up in that hospital bed, so pale…

His parents and her and the bimbo waiting silently.

Bye bye blondie, I won.

What was the prize?

She made it home without causing a collision and painted like a demon for four hours straight, working till her eyes crossed. Just after midnight, without stopping to appraise her progress, she switched off the lights, stumbled to bed, stripped off her clothes while lying down. Asleep before she took three breaths.

At four-fourteen A.M., she was jolted awake by the phone.

“It’s me,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, stupidly. Clearing her head. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

“You’re not hurt? Thank God- ”

“It’s minor- ”

“You- oh, God- ”

“Tiny piece of shrapnel in the calf. Your basic flesh wound.”

“Oh, God, Eric- ”

“In and out, it’s really no big deal.”

Now she was sitting up, heart racing, hands frigid. “Shrapnel in your leg is no big deal!”

“I was lucky,” he said. “The first asshole had packed his vest with nuts and bolts and ragged sheet metal. The second used ball bearings and they passed straight through.”

“They? More than one wound?”

“A couple of small punctures, I’m fine, Petra.”

“A couple meaning two?”

Silence.

“Eric?”

“Three.”

“Three ball bearings through your leg.”

“No bone or tendon damage, just muscle. It feels like I worked out too hard.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“The hospital.”

“Which one? Where? Tel Aviv?”

Silence.

“Damn you,” said Petra. “What, I’m going to phone the goddamn PLO and give away state secrets?”

“Tel Aviv,” he said. “I can’t talk long. It’s an ongoing investigation.”

“Like they don’t know whodunit.”

Silence.

Petra said, “You’re the one who spotted the first one, right?”

He didn’t answer.

“Right?” she demanded.

“It was pretty obvious, Petra. Ninety degrees outside he’s wearing an overcoat and looking like he’s about to throw up.”

“A kid? They use kids for that, right?”

“Early twenties,” said Eric. “A punk. An asshole.”

“You were with Army guys and cops. Anyone else spot him?”

Silence.

“Answer me, Eric.”

“They were distracted.”

“So you’re the hero.”

“Bad word.”

“Tough,” she said. “You’re the hero. I want you to be my hero.”

He didn’t respond.

Shut up, girl. You should be comforting him, not playing dependent diva.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m just… I didn’t know… I was worried. ”

“I can be your hero,” he said. “It’s the other people who bug me.”

MONDAY, JUNE 17, 10:34 A.M., DETECTIVES’ ROOM, HOLLYWOOD DIVISION

Isaac was waiting for Petra when she arrived. She walked past him and continued to the ladies’ room.

Needing to compose herself. Frazzled, despite the weekend.

Because of the weekend, all the dread she’d suffered solo.

Determined to put the bombing- and work- out of her mind, she’d sustained herself with catch-up chores and manic bouts of painting that were proving monumentally depressing. Her O’Keeffe copy was a gloomy mess. The old gal had been a genius, Petra knew she could never approach that level.

But simply copying shouldn’t be this hard.

Impulsively, she’d slathered black paint all over the canvas, then regretted it and sat at her easel crying.

Long time since she’d cried. Not since rescuing Billy and giving him up to his new life. What the hell was happening to her?

She covered the black with white, then followed with a coat of magenta because she’d heard that someone- some famous artist- used that shade for primer.

With the reek of turpentine stinging her nose, she washed her brushes, took a long, too-hot bath that left her body red and stinging and tight.

Maybe a run would help. Or at least a walk. No, to hell with that, she’d eat ice cream.

She finished off Sunday with shopping and phone calls to her five brothers. And their wives and kids. Five happy families. Their complete, hectic, domesticated lives.

A brief call from Eric late Sunday night brought a glow to her cheeks but left her feeling abandoned when he hung up without saying he missed her.

He’d be staying longer in Israel than planned, was booked for some high-level embassy meetings and whatnot. Then maybe on to Morocco and Tunisia. Quiet places for the Mideast, but there were rumors, that’s all he could say.

In his absence, she turned to the papers and the TV news, seeking vicarious contact. Nothing more about the bombing.

Geopolitical business as usual.

At some level, aren’t we all statistics?

Now she stood at the ladies’ room mirror, blew her nose, primped her hair.

Thirty years old and my face is starting to sag.

Arching her back in order to flaunt whatever bosom Fate had provided her, she batted her lashes, fluffed her hair, struck a vixen pose.

Hey sailor.

Then she thought of the dead sailor, Darren Hochenbrenner, brained and left in a skid-row alley.

The other June killings.

Eleven days until June 28 and she was no further along than when Isaac had presented her with his little gift.

The kid was out there, looking eager.

She straightened her posture, put on a businesslike expression, erased all traces of femme fatale- as if there’d been any to begin with.

He stayed at his desk until she beckoned him over.

“What’s up?”

“As far as I can tell, law enforcement doesn’t know much about The Players. Currently, there are five alleged members in prison. Alleged, because all five deny membership in any group.”

Petra took out her notepad.

Isaac said, “I’ve got it saved, can print it out for you.”

She put the pad away. “Who’s in prison?”

“The two you found- John and Charles- are grandsons of Robert Leon. A nonrelative named Anson Cruft was convicted of possession of false identification papers, and a woman named Susan Bianca who ran a legal brothel in Nevada then tried the same thing in San Luis Obispo is locked up for pandering. She’s a younger sister of Robert Leon’s second wife, Katherine Leon. Robert’s kind of interesting. Forty years ago, he did some fashion modeling, then he got a few small parts on soap operas, here in Hollywood. But after that, nothing. Somewhere along the line, he turned to crime. How he started is unclear. He’s Guatemalan but has lived here most of his life. His first wife was Mexican, the daughter of a Nuestra Familia gangster. She died of cancer and he doesn’t seem to have ever hooked up with N.F. At least that’s what the prison people say. He did manage a porno theater in San Francisco, as well as some strip clubs and adult bookstores. That’s where he met Katherine, she was a dancer. I suppose any of those environments could’ve put him in contact with other criminal types, but maybe it’s a gang thing.” He shrugged. “That’s all I know.”

“That’s all, huh?”

“Your best bet is probably to talk to local police.”