Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

“Stay here and rest. I can get plenty of backup.”

“Like who?”

“How about the Belgian?” she said.

He laughed. Headed for her closet. Knowing where she kept her spare nine millimeter.

She said, “I really am calling Mac.” Reached for the phone to prove it.

“Mac’s a good man.” He found the automatic on an upper shelf, nestled in its hard-shell case, between two black sweaters. Found the black nylon holster she favored, adjusted the strap and set himself up.

Petra said, “You really don’t need to do this.”

“Yeah, but it’s fun.”

She dialed Mac’s number.

Ventura Boulevard at five forty-three A.M. was a dark and ghostly stretch buzzed by intermittent traffic. The Jaguars and SUVs in the fenced lot were gray mounds. Some grace time until the sun rose, but not that much. Which could be good or bad, depending on how this shook out.

Mac Dilbeck arrived in his old Cadillac DeVille, parked two blocks west, as arranged, near a dormant medical building. He wore a navy sweatshirt, black slacks, dark shoes. First time Petra had seen him without a suit and tie. His hair was parted and brushed but white stubble clouded his chin. Luc Montoya arrived in a company car, an unmarked he’d taken home. Off the case, but this morning he was on it. Tense but smiling; this was more fun than yet another dummy-homicide.

Eric’s presence elicited raised eyebrows from the two of them but no comment.

Protocol called for blues, but this was the whole team. Four detectives, a quartet who rarely fired their weapons, filled their days mostly talking on the phone and filing paper. The Paradiso shooting had been a vicious drive-by. If this was a serious ambush, it could go beyond ugly.

But Petra, having cruised by the felafel stand twice from the north side of the boulevard, was feeling relaxed. Neither she nor Eric had spotted anyone at or near the little kiosk. And Eric was a spotter.

If the man claiming to be Lyle Leon was righteous and really scared, there’d be only one place to hide: behind the stand. No easy escape from there: a high block wall rose to the south, at least twelve feet of impediment. Beyond that, another half-acre of British car storage.

No cars parked nearby, so if Leon was waiting for her, he had no simple flight plan.

Mac reviewed strategy. Clipped, businesslike, that combat-sergeant manner of his. Petra would cross Ventura on rubber-soled shoes, approaching the stand from the north, her gun out but keeping it close to her body so as not to attract attention from the occasional motorist. Once at the building, she’d press herself up against the white stucco walls before announcing herself. Anyone behind the stand would have to slip around, show himself at least partially. The three other detectives, approaching simultaneously from east and west would be ready for trouble.

No rescue word. There’d be no time to scream.

The big question mark, as she saw it, was a drive-by from Ventura. Eric knew that and she could tell it bothered him. He kept quiet. She felt better knowing he’d be scoping out the boulevard.

“You okay?” Mac asked her.

“Let’s do it.”

Feeling cool and competent, she walked briskly toward the kiosk. Before she got there a man stepped out from behind the building, arms in the air, fingers wiggling. Spreading his legs, he leaned against an outdoor table.

Mac and Montoya swarmed him and Eric did the initial pat down.

The guy said “A welcoming party” in that same smooth phone voice. “It’s so nice to be appreciated.”

After the guy was cuffed, Eric patted him down again. That was Eric.

Same long, craggy face as the mug shot.

She said, “It’s him.”

Lyle Leon wore a maroon Jacquard silk shirt tucked into baggy, cinch-waisted, black nylon cargo pants and lace-up boots with healthy heels. Like pirates used to wear…

The eraserhead coif had been mowed down to a conservative bristle. No more soul patch and a little dark hole centered his right earlobe where the earring had once sparkled.

The shirt was a work of art. Petra checked the label. Stefano Ricci. She’d spotted one of those in a Melrose vintage boutique. Five hundred bucks used.

Leon smiled at her. Well-built and relatively clean cut. Bereft of cosmetic affectations, a good-looking guy.

Eric handed her the fat wallet he’d found in a pocket of the cargo pants. Inside was a Cal driver’s license that looked real and fifteen hundred dollars, in fifties and twenties. The address on the license was a Hollywood Boulevard number Petra knew to be a mail drop.

Leon said, “Can we talk now?”

The five of them piled into Mac’s Caddy and drove around the corner, to a residential side street. Nice, well-kept houses, a hint of daylight turned everything lilac-gray, almost pretty.

Petra imagined some citizen spotting the old car, phoning it in, Hollywood D’s having to explain to a nervous Valley uniform.

Lyle Leon sat sandwiched in back, between her and Luc. Good cologne- clean, laced with cinnamon. Trying to smile but his mouth wasn’t buying it.

Definitely scared.

Motivation. She liked that. “Tell us your story, Mr. Leon.”

“Marcella was my niece. Sandra’s my third cousin. I was supposed to take care of both of them but it got out of control.”

“Where are their parents?” said Petra.

“Marcella’s father died years ago and her mother left.”

“Left the Players?”

Lyle said, “Can we keep them out of it?”

“That depends on how the story goes.”

“It doesn’t go there, ” said Leon. “We’re thieves but we don’t hurt anyone.”

Petra said, “Why’d Marcella’s mother leave?”

“She said she needed space, ended up hooking in Vegas. Marcella was the youngest of four kids. One of my cousins took them all in. Later, it got to be too much and I got Marcella.”

“What Sandra’s story?”

“Sandra’s father’s in jail in Utah for another couple of years and her mother’s got mental problems. What’s the difference? I was put in charge of them and it got out of control. The problem was Venice. We went there last summer, then again this year. The deal was we’d be working Ocean Front walk a couple of hours a day, have the rest of the day to enjoy the beach. The girls loved it.”

“Working how?”

“Selling merchandise. Sunglasses, hats, tourist stuff.”

From the front, Mac said, “You sell tourist junk while they pick pockets?”

Petra felt Leon tense up against her shoulder. Mac was a vet but he was approaching this wrong. Challenging the guy. Leon was a con, maybe worse, but let him talk.

She said, “So you moved to Venice last summer?”

Leon stayed tight. “Picking pockets is crude, sir. We practiced a time-honored American tradition. Buy low, sell high.”

He’d been busted for selling useless house products to old people. Petra pictured fake gold chains that disintegrated into dust, sunglasses that melted in the summer heat.

She said, “The girls loved Venice but it turned out to be a problem.”

“Marcella met a person.” A beat later: “She got pregnant.”

“And had an abortion,” said Petra.

“You know about that.”

“The autopsy showed it.”

“I didn’t know an autopsy could do that… okay, so you know I’m telling the truth.”

“About Marcella getting pregnant? Sure.”

“The abortion,” said Leon, “was what started the problem. Supposedly. That’s not what he said the first time around. Just the opposite, he was furious she hadn’t taken precautions. I had to pay him off, he seemed fine with that. Then he showed up this summer, wanting to know where the baby is. I told him there was no baby and he went nuts.”