Twisted

“Got out early?” said Isaiah. “Sounds like probation or something.”

Isaac stashed his briefcase well under the bed, took off his shirt, and put on a fresh T. He lifted the shade and stared down the air shaft. Stories below, garbage flecked the pavement.

Isaiah shielded his eyes. “Cut that out, man.”

Isaac dropped the shade.

“I stink bad. Can you smell it?”

“No.”

“You lie, bro.”

“Go back to sleep.”

When Isaac reached the door, his brother called out: “You got a call. Some lay-dee.”

“Detective Co

“I said a lady.”

“Detective Co

“Yeah? She cute?”

“Who called?”

“Wasn’t no detective.” Isaiah gri

“Who?”

“You getting excited?”

“Why would I?”

“ ’Cause she sounded excited, bro.”

“Who?” said Isaac. Knowing. Dreading.

“Wa

Isaac stood there.

Isaiah’s eyebrows bounced. “Someone named Klara.”

He’d never given her his home number. She’d probably gotten it from the BioStat office. Or Graduate Records. Now, it starts…

He forced his voice calm. “What’d she want?”

“To talk to you, bro.” Isaiah snickered. “I stuck her number under your pillow. Eight one eight- you messin’ with a Valley girl?”

Isaac retrieved the scrap of paper, made a second attempt to leave.

“She cute? She white? She sounded real white.”

“Thanks for taking the message,” said Isaac.

“You better thank me, man. She was hot to go.” Isaiah sat up again. New clarity in his eyes. “She the one you did that other night, right? She sounded like she could be fun. She give good head?”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Isaac.

Isaiah’s mouth hung open and his face turned old. He sank down hard, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. One hand drooped over the side. Blackened with tar, the fingernails cracked, filthy beyond redemption.

“Yeah, I’m stupid.”

Isaac said, “Sorry, man. I’m just tired.”

Isaiah rolled over. Faced the wall.

CHAPTER 37

SATURDAY, JUNE 22, 2:00 P.M., LANKERSHIM BOULEVARD, FLASH IMAGE GALLERY, NOHO ARTS DISTRICT

No more talk of moving in together. Friday night, after di

A moody quartet was the main act, sleepy-eyed guys stretching old standards with an ear toward atonality. By eleven, Petra was bushed. The two of them returned to her place- her small place- and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Saturday morning, they awoke feeling fresh and horny.

The next few hours had been lovely. Now they were checking out the NoHo galleries for some co

Eric’s suggestion.

“You sure?” she’d said.

“Why not?”

Why not, indeed. Doing police work- even unauthorized, probably futile police work- was easier than thinking about the other stuff.

The square mile encompassing Lankershim just south of Magnolia had been a breeding ground for board-ups and petty crime for years. Transformed by creative types and obliging developers into an arts district, the area was an amalgam of pretty and seedy. Petra had been there several times for the street fair and to browse galleries. The fair had great ethnic food and crappy tourist trinkets. The galleries were an interesting mix of talent and self-delusion.

On a nonfair Sunday, NoHo was peaceful and gray, livened in spots by the colorful signage of clubs and cafés and exhibitions. Foot traffic was moderate, for the most part people looked happy.

They took Petra’s car, parked on a side street, and went hunting. Eight galleries featured photography and five were closed. Of the remaining three, one was showing hand-manipulated Polaroid landscapes- dreadful stuff- by a Latvian émigré. Another combined photocollages of Asian women with woodblocklike oil paintings.

Flash Image, a half-width storefront next to a defunct theater academy, was all black-and-white camera work. The bright, pencil-thin room had warped wood floors. Water marks browned the acoustical ceiling. Very good lighting and hand-lettered partitions showed a real attempt to spruce up what had obviously been a dump. The smell of mildew interfered.

This month’s exhibit was: “i-mage: local artists do l.a.”

An alphabetical list of half a dozen photographers was posted on the front partition.

First on the list: ovid arnaz.

The multiple murderer was good with a camera.

His contribution to the show: half a dozen street scenes, unframed and mounted on board. Buildings and sidewalks and sky and bare trees, no people. From the cool light and chopped shadows, probably winter. The lack of activity said early morning.

Night owl prowling empty city streets with a Nikon?

Good use of structure, Omar. Decent composition.

The photos were dated and signed OA, the initials graffiti-square. Dated six months ago; she’d been right about winter. The posted prices ranged from a hundred-fifty to three hundred dollars. The two best prints- a long shot of the Sepulveda Basin and a fisheye up-shot view of the Carnation Building on Wilshire- were red-dotted.

In order to look casual, they moved on to the other pictures in the exhibit- all throwaway pretense- and returned to Selden’s work.

Petra’s black hair was tucked under a white-blond wig she’d used for undercover jobs back in her auto-theft days. Posing as a shady maybe-hooker type, out to buy a Mercedes cheap. Real hair, nice quality, courtesy LAPD. She’d found it tucked in her closet, under a pile of winter clothes, had to shake out the dust and comb out the tangles.

Her duds were a long-sleeved black jersey top under a black denim jacket, tight black jeans, loafers, and big-framed Ray-Bans. The shades were leftovers from her marriage- one of Nick’s twenty pairs. She’d ripped up the clothes he’d left behind, always wondered why she hadn’t stepped on the sunglasses.

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!