Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

“All these questions,” said Bobby Lucido.

“If it’s answers you want, you came to the wrong place.”

“How’d you come to work with Gomez?”

“He was assigned to me by my captain. Who got his orders from Deputy Chief Randy Diaz, who got his from Councilman Reyes.”

“Yeah, yeah, we read all the p.r. bullshit. What we want to know is his connection to a sack-of-scum like Flaco Jaramillo.”

“Then ask him,” said Petra. “The only side of him that I’ve seen is a well-behaved graduate student, Detective Lucido.”

“Call me Bobby. This is Lew. The place we got the photo is on Fifth near L.A. Cantina Nueva. Dealers, border coyotes, freelance scum, your basic bottom-feeding dive.”

Petra flicked the edge of the photo with her fingernail. “You have an undercover guy there?”

“Let’s just say we’re in a position to take pictures,” said Lew Rodman. “And Flaco’s the subject of lots of them. So when your boy showed up, looking all preppy, he got noticed. Especially when he slides right into Flaco’s booth, is clearly a k.a. of Flaco. We got curious and followed him, figuring to run his tags. Turns out he has no car, takes the bus. We did a nice slow MTA tail, that was fun. Got Gomez’s home address, traced it to Gomez’s father, finally I.D.’d the kid yesterday but didn’t know he was connected. Then someone in our detail was looking at the picture, recognized Gomez’s name from a story in the paper. Reyes giving him some kind of award for being smart.”

Petra said, “Obviously, he knows Jaramillo but that’s a long way from being a k.a.”

“They associate, they’re known associates,” said Rodman. “We’re not getting Ph.D.’s but we do know how to add. Your boy’s palling around with Bad News Boy in a back booth at Cantina Nueva.”

“Any evidence Gomez is engaged in criminal activity?”

Bobby Lucido said, “He talked to Flaco, Flaco got up and went behind the bar, sat back down. A few minutes later, Gomez left with a briefcase.”

“He always carries a briefcase.”

“Bet he does,” said Bobby Lucido.

Petra’s gut churned. “So what do you want from me?”

“Nothing yet. Just continue to do what you’ve been doing. But keep an eye out for anything sketchy. The situation changes, we’ll let you know.”

“All of a sudden I’m working for you?”

Lucido said, “You’re working for the department. Same as us. You got a problem with any of this, feel free to complain.”

Petra felt an urge to bolt and twisted the door handle. It didn’t budge. Why would it? She was in the suspect seat.

Before she could say anything, Lew Rodman laughed and pushed another release button.

As she got out, Lucido said, “So who’s Omar?”

Petra leaned into his window. He drew away and she stuck her head in the car.

“You guys from the Valley?”

Lucido shook his head. “Central Gang.”

“Then you don’t need to know.”

Petra watched the Crown Victoria drive off the parking lot.

Isaac into something really bad.

She changed her mind about walking, decided to get her stuff, play hooky. As she reached the station’s back door, someone called her name.

She turned.

And there he was, Mr. Double Life, waving with the hand that wasn’t gripping his briefcase. Wearing what appeared to be the same clothes he’d had on in Nueva Cantina.

Had he been watching her chat with the Gang D’s? Could the kid be that savvy?

He trotted up to her. The bruise was paler but still swollen and covered with pancake makeup.

“Hey,” she said. “Been a while.”

“Sorry, I’ve been burning the midnight oil.”

Bet you have. “Dissertation stuff?”

“Mostly. Some June 28 research. Nothing to show on that, unfortunately. The librarian’s still looking.” He frowned. “To be honest, I’ve been wondering if I was wrong. Maybe I made too big a deal out of what was actually a statistical artifact.”

“You didn’t,” said Petra. She eyed the bruise conspicuously.

Isaac’s hand rose toward the spot, dropped back down. “You’re convinced it’s genuine.”

“Seems that way.” She showed him her watch. Tiny black numerals in the calendar window declared 21.

“I know,” he said. He shifted the briefcase to his left hand. His shoulders drooped.

Petra said, “You look a little beat.”

“The buses were running late so I took an alternate route, ended up walking a few extra blocks.”

Did you, indeed?

Petra said, “Must be hard, without a car.”

“You get used to it. I heard one of the Leons’ face was on TV. My father saw it on the news. I’d mentioned to my parents that you were working the case. I hope that wasn’t indiscreet.”

“Nope,” said Petra. “My name was on the broadcast.”

“So is Leon the shooter?”

She shook her head, unsure how much to tell him- now.

Engine noise made her look over his shoulder. A black SUV had entered the lot and it nosed aggressively into the first empty slot. At the wheel was one of the Downtown hotshots. Square-shouldered and confident as a movie cop. His buddy rode shotgun, same demeanor. Reflective sunglasses on both of them. The motor gunned, then turned off. Petra said, “Let’s talk later,” and held the door open for Isaac.

Reverse chivalry, he thought, as he entered the station. To her I’m nothing but a kid.

Hotshot I said, “Hi, ready for the meeting?”

“What meeting?”

“In five. We called.”

“When?”

“Fifteen minutes ago.”

While she’d been sitting in Rodman and Lucido’s car. Short notice, like she was their handservant.

She said, “What’s up?”

Hotshot II said, “Let’s meet and find out.”

Isaac set up his computer at his corner desk. Two other detectives were in the room, Barney Fleischer and a heavy man he didn’t know, wearing an X-shaped, leather gun harness that bit into a tight green polo shirt.

He plugged in, logged on to the Doheny Library database, pretended to have something to do.

Pretended nothing had happened with Klara.

But it had and now he’d fouled things up personally and professionally.

Taking advantage of a vulnerable woman, which by itself was sleazy. The bigger issue was mixing business with… pleasure and the risk of a screwup on the June 28 investigation.

He tried to rationalize it away by telling himself that Klara had taken advantage of him. The impressionable student wanting only peace and quiet and musty books, not the clashing of thighs, the moaning…

It had been great. The second time, not the first. The first had been over before he could digest the fact that his head throbbed with surprise and orgasm. Klara had kept moving and he’d stayed hard. Cupping his face in both her hands, she’d whispered, “Yes, keep going, keep it going.”

Which, of course, had only charged him up further.

The second time had felt fantastic. For Klara, too, if writhing and mewling and having to muffle her own cries with her hand counted for anything. Afterward, she remained in place, straddling him, trapping his detumescence. Kissing his neck, scratching the back of his shirt with her fingernails, loose strands of red hair tickling his face until he could no longer stand it and he turned his head and she took it for fatigue and said, “You poor guy. All my weight on you, I’m so fat.”

She was smiling but looked about to cry, so he said, “Not at all,” and kissed her and grabbed hold of her pillowy hips through the butterfly dress.

“God, I’m still tingling,” she said. Then the tears came. “I’m so sorry, Isaac. What do you need with a fat, hysterical old woman?”