Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

Sandra Leon had rebounded from the shove and was up on her feet, flailing at Petra. Long sharp nails, jet-black, caught in Petra’s jacket sleeve.

When Sandra tried to head-butt Petra, Petra slapped the girl hard across the face. The blow stunned her, gave Petra time to spin her around, bend an arm back, and kick her behind the knees. Easy, no weight to her. She pushed the girl down on the floor, kept a knee in the small of that smooth, shoelaced back, and got her cuffs out. Making sure she was nowhere near Sandra’s teeth, all that saliva teeming with virus.

“Bitch cunt murderer!” Sandra was screaming. “Murdering cunt!”

Xenia, sounding half-comatose, said, “I’m calling the police.”

A slew of black-and-whites arrived with sirens blaring. Then crime-scene techs, the coroners.

The usual, but this felt different to Petra. This was hers.

And Eric’s. He hadn’t blinked during the shooting or since.

Someone you could depend upon.

Still, it threw her off.

In charge was a Valley lieutenant, soon supplanted by a captain. Both started off treating Petra and Eric like criminals but eventually eased up.

Last to show up was the officer-involved shooting team. Two Internal Affairs detectives with all the emotional resonance of statuary. Questioning Eric and Petra separately, Eric first.

Petra watched from ten feet away, knew the story he was telling, the one they’d prepared. It had been his idea to go looking for Selden; he’d had to overcome Petra’s reluctance. Once the meet had been set up, she’d made multiple attempts to call for backup, finally decided there was no choice but to go ahead.

The fact that Eric had done all the shooting backed that up.

Clear and present danger, protecting a sister officer.

In the best of circumstances, he’d be suspended with pay, for as long as it took to sort out the paperwork. If the media got hold of it- some P.C. moron at the Times or one of the throwaway weeklies trying to manufacture a racial thing or a police brutality thing- it could get ugly and go on longer. That would mean lawyers, the police union, maybe suspension without pay.

Petra had tried to talk him out of being the scapegoat.

He said, “That’s the way I’m telling it. Back me up.” Gave her arm a short, hard squeeze and left to face the turmoil.

She stood by as the shooting investigators double-teamed him. Watched as they came up against his stoicism and started passing glances between them.

She knew what they were thinking. This is weird.

Cops, even hardened vets, usually reacted to blowing out the back of someone’s head with a modicum of emotion. For all the feeling he was displaying, Eric might’ve just filed his nails.

Because he had to. Because he was protecting her. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had protected her.

At three-forty P.M., with the scene still cordoned and active, the head Downtown hotshot showed up, wearing a freshly pressed suit and tie. Meaning he’d been out by the pool or playing golf or whatever, had finally been reached, rushed home to dress for the occasion.

Before he stepped into the mess, he looked around. At the media vans congregated outside the yellow tape.

Hoping to be noticed. When it didn’t happen, he frowned, spotted Petra, came toward her.

She told him the story. He said, “Messy,” left, conferred with the techies.

Sandra Leon had been on the scene for hours, mostly stashed in a rear storage room of the gallery under guard. Petra ached to interview her, knew it would never happen.

Now, two uniforms escorted Sandra to a cruiser and put her in the back. Downtown strode over, opened the door, said something, stepped back with a stunned, angry expression. The girl had dissed him, probably with the foulest language possible.

He told the driver to leave, and the black-and-white rolled away. Glided past Petra. Through the side window, Sandra Leon glared at her, twisting her body so she could maintain eye contact through the rear glass.

Petra stared back. Received a clearly enunciated “Fuck you” as the girl diminished. Disappeared.

MONDAY, JUNE 24, 10:12 A.M., DETECTIVES’ ROOM, HOLLYWOOD DIVISION

Finally released for duty by the shooting team, Petra arrived at work to find Kirsten Krebs’s little butt perched on a corner of her desk. Right atop Petra’s blotter. She’d wrinkled some papers.

From across the room, Barney Fleischer shot her a sympathetic smile. Did the old guy ever leave?

Krebs arched her back, as if posing for a boudoir shot. One of her fingers twirled blond hair. What was she doing up here on the second floor?

When she saw Petra, she smirked. Nicotine teeth. “Captain Schoelkopf wants you.”

“When?”

“Now.”

Petra sat down at her desk. Krebs’s thigh was inches away.

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Comfortable, Kirsten?”

Krebs got off the desk and left, pissed off. Then she flashed a knowing smile. Like she was in on some private joke.

Why was a downstairs receptionist delivering Schoelkopf’s message personally? Did Krebs have some special rapport with the captain?

Were she and Schoelkopf… could it be?

Why not? Two misanthropes finding common ground.

Schoelkopf’s third marriage kaput. Because of a woman even younger than the latest wife?

The captain and Krebs, wouldn’t that be great… She glanced over at Barney Fleischer. The old guy’s back was to her. Punching the phone with a pencil eraser. He misdialed, hung up, started again.

Petra cleared her throat. Barney didn’t acknowledge her.

Time for fun.

Schoelkopf sat back in his tufted, leatheroid desk throne. The two side chairs usually positioned for visitors had been shoved into the corner. The room smelled of pineapple juice but there was no sign of the liquid anywhere. Freaky.

When Petra made a move for one of the chairs, Schoelkopf said, “Leave it alone.”

She drew back. Stayed standing.

“You fucked up,” he said, without preamble. His desktop was clear. No photos, no papers, just a blotter and pens and a digital clock that displayed time and date on both sides.

He removed a plastic-wrapped cigar from a drawer and held it suspended between his index fingers.

No smoking in the building but he played with it for a while. She’d never known him to smoke. Kirsten sucked cigarettes. A nicotine-fiend’s gift?

“You fucked up, Connor.”

“What can I say, sir?”

“You can say ‘I. Fucked. Up.’ ”

“Is this confession time, sir?”

Schoelkopf bared his teeth. “Confession’s good for the soul, Connor. If you had one, you’d understand.”

Anger tightened her throat.

He said, “You’re amoral, aren’t you?”

Petra’s hands clenched. Keep your mouth shut, girl.

Schoelkopf gave an airy wave, as if her control didn’t impress him. “You contravened direct orders and fucked up a well-thought-out task force agenda.”

“Sorry,” she said.

“Don’t think you’re going to get any credit for Paradiso. Or publicity.”

“Publicity?”

“TV interviews, all that shit.”

“That’s fine with me.”

“Sure it is. You and I both know that’s what floats your boat.”

“Getting on TV?”

“Any kind of attention. You’re an attention junkie, a media hound, Connor. You learned it from Bishop- Mr. Hair-Dye Screen Actor’s Guild. You and him, Ken and Barbie. Big fashion show, huh? The big pity is you messed up a good detective like Stahl. He’s in deep shit because of you.”

Stu Bishop had been her first Homicide partner, a brilliant, photogenic DIII widely rumored to be in line for a deputy chief promotion. He’d trained her well. Did have a SAG card because he played occasional bit parts on cop shows.