Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

“He’s like a mad dog on scent. The thing that scares me is I don’t know how much Marcella told him. About where we stay, what we do.”

“Maybe Sandra figured it was smarter not to stick around with you.”

“No,” said Leon. “No way. She didn’t take anything with her. Not her clothes or her frog- she’s got a stuffed frog she sleeps with every night. I got it for her when she was little, told her it came from her mother. No way would she leave without it.”

“She have any money?”

“I always let her keep some in her purse. But not much. A hundred bucks, a hundred fifty.”

Enough for a bus ticket.

Leon said, “I’m scared she left for a short while, got abducted.”

“Left for what?”

Leon hesitated. “Sandra had gotten into stuff.”

“Drug stuff?”

He nodded. Downcast, every bit the failed parent. Then Petra remembered: The Players saw themselves as performers.

“Which drugs?”

“Weed, pills.”

Petra said, “So you’re figuring she went somewhere to score dope, got spotted by Selden.”

“Had to be. For all I know her source was someone who knew Selden and tipped him off.”

“You’re making him sound like the Godfather.”

“It had to go down that way,” Leon insisted. “There’s no other explanation.”

“Unless you killed Marcella. Sandra, too.”

The accusation didn’t ruffle Leon. “Why,” he said quietly, “would I do that?”

“Maybe there’s more to your relationship with the girls than you’ve told us.”

“Ask anyone,” he said. “Anyone who knows.”

“Should I ask Robert Leon?”

“You can try.”

“Meaning he won’t talk to me.”

“Robert will talk, but he won’t tell you anything.”

“You visited him six weeks ago,” said Petra. “Was that to give him a report on the state of the business? How well you were taking care of the girls?”

“We’re family. I visit.”

“What does Robert think about Marcella’s murder?”

“He’s not happy,” said Leon. “No one is.”

“That put you in additional danger?”

Leon shook his head. “Not physically. I told you, we’re not violent.”

“Not physically, but…”

Leon gazed at the Caddy’s dome light. “Financially. I’m screwed. I’m going to have to leave.”

“The Players.”

“I messed up too severely to be allowed to stay. That’s why I’m living out of my car. I can’t stay in any of their properties anymore. Which is fine, it’s time for a change. I don’t even want to be in California. Too crowded.”

Mac said, “You’re very much going to be in California. Right here in L.A., friend. Material witness.”

Leon nodded, dropped his head. “I knew this might happen but I had to come forward.”

“In the interests of justice,” said Petra.

“In the interest of getting the monster who murdered my niece and probably my cousin.”

Before he gets to you.

Leon said, “If you ever catch him and need a live witness, don’t lock me up.”

“Stop being so dramatic,” said Petra. “We’ll put you somewhere safe.” Winging that one, movie stuff. She had no authority to make the promise.

“Sure,” said Leon. “Sure, that makes me feel so comforted.”

Mac said, “Cut to the chase. Where can we find Selden?”

“Marcella told me he lived in the Valley. Panorama City. Went back and forth between there and Venice. If your gang people don’t have their heads totally up their asses, they’ll have files on him.”

The Valley to Venice route, and something else Leon had said early, tweaked something in Petra’s consciousness.

“Selden doesn’t look like a gangbanger. How so?”

“No tattoos and he’s a fat-boy- soft. He told Marcella he went to college for at least a year, some government-funded gang-rehab thing. Maybe he did, when you first meet him he comes across not-stupid.”

“He into photography?” said Petra.

Leon tensed up tighter than ever. Struggled to make eye contact with Petra. “You’ve got him?”

“Tell me about the photography.”

Leon licked his lips. “That’s him. Carries around a camera, claims to be taking pictures. That’s how he hooked up with Marcella in the first place. Told her she was beautiful, wanted her to model. If she’d had any self-awareness, she’d have known he was bullshitting her. Sandy, that would’ve been a different story. She’s got great bones. And with black and white you couldn’t see the yellow in her eyes.”

They took Leon back to the station, put him in a holding cell and found the mug books.

One look confirmed it.

Omar Arthur Selden aka Omar Ancho aka Oliver Arturo Rudolph. Gang monikers: Zippy, Heavy O, Shutterbug. Longtime VVO member.

Petra had an aka that wasn’t in the files.

Ovid Arnaz.

The quiet young man she’d encountered on Brooks. In his four-year-old arrest photo for robbery he looked nondescript. The charge had been pled down to larceny and Selden had done three years.

A year after his release, he’d met Marcella Douquette on Ocean Front Walk.

Petra’s jaw ached as she recalled how smoothly he’d spun the story about renting the shack for a summer photography project. Claiming he’d been afraid to go out at night in a “sketchy” neighborhood.

Knowing the name of the landlord. She’d verified Leon and the girls’ residency but not Arnaz/Selden’s.

Meaning maybe he’d never even lived there.

Meaning he’d watched her arrive from next door. Had probably been staying in the neighboring unit- an empty, moldering unit- so he could stake out Marcella’s digs. Hoping to spot Lyle Leon so he could finish the job.

She’d had the bastard, right there.

She remembered Selden’s reaction to Marcella’s postmortem shot. Not a trace of emotion.

Claiming he’d seen it before. Visiting the coroner’s as part of a photojournalism class.

She’d swallowed it whole, had barely glanced at his I.D., the Valley address he’d given her. The numbers matched a vacant storefront not far from the revitalized NoHo arts district. Plenty of galleries there, so maybe he really was into photography. The possibility didn’t make her feel one bit better.

Mac said, “You couldn’t be expected to know.”

But she’d seen happier faces at funerals.

THURSDAY, JUNE 20, 3:00 P.M., THIRD SUBBASEMENT, DOHENY LIBRARY

It would help,” said Klara Distenfield, “if you could be a bit more specific about what you’re after and why.”

Isaac, smiling up at her from his worktable, said, “Sorry, that’s all I can say.”

“Boy,” said Klara. “Talk about high intrigue.”

She was a senior research librarian, forty-one years old, bright and sophisticated, with thick calves, a soft, heavy bosom, long, wavy, flaming red hair that she barretted at the sides, and a peach-blush complexion.

Klara had a soft spot for graduate students. Isaac’s reputation had preceded him, and the divorced mother of two gifted kids had made sure to be available when he had reference questions.

Isaac had fantasized wildly about her, on and off, since the first time they met.

Lately, Petra’s faced had nudged Klara’s out. Still, when he spotted her, filling out one of those flowered dresses…

Today’s dress was pale green printed with white peonies and yellow butterflies, some sort of clingy material, not silk, trying to be silk…

Klara said, “Earth to Isaac,” and flashed a generous mouthful of white teeth.

“Sorry,” he said. “I know it sounds oblique, but I really can’t say more.”

“Official police business, huh?”