Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

Karma; a purpose for everything.

Eric wore mirrored ski shades, yesterday’s black jeans, and soft shoes, had traded his white T-shirt for a black V-neck and put on his black nylon baseball jacket with the custom gun pocket.

His limp had subsided a bit but his gait was still a bit off. No need for the cane, he insisted. Only a few more days of antibiotics.

The pink-haired girl who worked at the gallery had smiled at him more than once from behind the scratched metal desk she used as a work station. Petra hooked her arm around his as they both stared at the same photo.

The parking lot of the Paradiso.

Flat stretch of blacktop, devoid of cars, bounded by posts and chains.

Different light. Longer shadows than the others.

Dated a week before the murder.

The title: Club.

Take it home for only two hundred bucks.

Pink Hair came up to them. She wore a short green dress that did little for her hair- how could anything go with bubble-gum? Clearly a wig, cheaper than Petra’s blond tresses, probably Darnel. For some reason that made her feel smug.

Pink said, “Ovid is acute, isn’t he?”

“Perfect aim,” said Petra. “Where’s he from?”

“Ovid? He’s from here.”

“L.A.?”

“Right here in the Valley.”

“How’d you find him?”

“He was part of a student class at Northridge,” said Pink. “But he’s the only one we took on. Way better than anyone else.”

Eric leaned in closer to the photo, studied the details.

Pink Hair said, “Are you guys interested?”

Petra said, “Are we, honey?”

Eric said, “Hmm.”

“What I like,” said Pink Hair, “is that it’s pure line and shadow, no clutter of humanity.”

“Who needs people?” said Petra.

“Exactly.” The girl smiled, hoping for a shared ethos.

Eric wandered over to the next print. Full-on shot of a theater on Broadway, downtown. One of the old ornate dowagers. Its marquee now read Jewelry! Gold! Wholesale!

Selden had an eye.

Petra eyed the Paradiso photo. “I really like this one, honey.”

Eric shrugged. Stepped backward and positioned himself midway between the two photos.

Pink Hair said, “Everything’s priced good.”

Petra said, “We need personalized signatures.”

Pink Hair’s smooth little brow mustered up a shallow furrow. “Pardon?”

“These just have generic initials. We want it signed to us personally,” Petra explained. “After we meet the artist. We do that with everything we collect.” She favored the girl with a cool smile. “Art’s more than buying and selling. It’s about chemistry.”

“Sure- ”

Eric said, “Maybe I like this better.” Pointing to the theater.

“I like this one, honey.”

Pink Hair said, “You could take both.”

Silence.

“I guess I could ask Ovid. About signing it to you. Especially if you buy two.”

“We begin any collection with a single piece,” said Petra. “Take our time to see how we live with it. After that…”

She looked Pink up and down.

Pink said, “Well, sure… so which one- ”

Petra said, “I assume you’ve got some stretch on the price.”

“Well… we could give ten percent courtesy.”

“We always get twenty percent courtesy. On this, we were thinking more like twenty-five.”

“I’m not the gallery owner,” said Pink. “Twenty-five off would be…”

“One-fifty,” said Eric, keeping his back to them.

Pink said, “What I meant is it would be a lot. More than we usually give.”

“Whatever,” said Petra. She began to walk away.

Pink Hair said, “I guess I could call the owner.”

“If that works for you.” Petra continued toward the exit. “We’ll check out the other galleries, maybe come back if- ”

“Hold on… I mean, the owner’s my boyfriend, I’m sure he won’t mind.” Big smile. A sprig of fake hair protruded above one ear, haloed by artful gallery lighting. “You guys look like serious collectors, it’ll be okay.”

Eric swiveled. Turned robot eyes on her. Petra thought the girl would swoon.

“One-fifty,” he said.

“Sure, great.”

Petra said, “When can we meet the artist?”

“Um, that’s the thing, I don’t know… let me try to arrange it. If you leave a deposit- ”

“We’ll leave you fifty,” said Eric, producing two twenties and a ten.

Pink took the money. “Great. I’ll take your number and let you know… I’m Xenia?”

Turning it into a question, as if unsure of her own identity.

“Vera,” said Petra, arching an eyebrow as she scrawled her cell number. “This is Al.”

“Vera and Al, great,” said Pink Hair. “You won’t regret it. I think one day Ovid’s going to be famous.”

Back on Lankershim, strolling north along with the Saturday throng, Eric said, “Al and Vera.”

“ ’Cause we’re silky smooth.”

He smiled.

Petra said, “You’re very good.”

“At what?”

“Acting.”

“Then I can get a job as a waiter.” A beat. “Provide us some income.”

She gripped his arm harder. “You’ve got the military cushion and once you get going privately, you’ll probably double your income.”

“If I get going.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Eric?”

“Private clients means kissing butt,” he said. “Charm.”

“You can be charming.”

He stared straight ahead, kept walking.

“When you want to,” said Petra.

Suddenly, he veered out of the pedestrian stream, guided her toward the facade of a vintage boutique. Placed his hands on her shoulders. Something new in his eyes.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m running on empty,” he said. “You make me feel… fuller.”

“Baby,” she said, hugging his waist.

He pressed his cheek to hers, touched the back of her neck softly.

She said, “You’re good for me, too.”

They stood there as people moved past them, drawing a few stares, a few smiles, mostly apathy. Clanking sunglasses. Then weapons, as their gun pockets brushed.

The percussion made them break the embrace.

Petra smoothed down her jacket, fooled with her wig. “If Pinkie actually phones for a meet with Omar, I’ll have to notify the task force. Which will cause all kinds of complications.”

Eric said, “The task force should be grateful.”

“And I should be rich and famous.” She frowned. “This whole thing’s nuts. I get them their suspect, hand them everything, and they’re futzing around. The rationale is they’ve got to proceed cautiously in order to get Selden’s associates. But if we had Omar in custody, we’d have a better chance of doing that.”

“True.”

“Sandra’s probably dead, right?”

He said, “That’s where I’d put my money.”

“Stupid kid,” said Petra. “Stupid case.”

From inside her purse, her cell phone squawked.

“Vera? This is Xenia, from the gallery. Guess what? I managed to find Ovid and he’s real close by. He can be there in a half hour to meet you and sign your print.”

“Great,” said Petra, her mind racing.

“Do you think you might like two? Al really liked Theater, didn’t he? Personally, it’s my favorite. My- The owner says you can have it for the same price as Club. ”

“Sounds like a deal.”

“It’s an awesome deal.”

“I’ll ask Al. Let you know when we show up.”

“Okay,” said Xenia. “But I’d seriously think about both of them. Ovid’s a seriously talented artist.”

With a pounding heart, trying not to look panicked, Petra scanned Lankershim, found a Mexican café across the boulevard that had a clear diagonal view of the gallery’s entrance. They lucked out by scoring a window booth, ordered food they’d never touch, coffee they would.