Twisted

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe look at the data.” Now he was blushing again. “That was totally presumptuous of me. You’re the professional, what do I know? Sorry, I won’t bother you again- ”

“Do you know anything about pink Kmart sneakers?”

“Pardon?”

She told him about the unidentified girl.

His posture relaxed. Thinking- analyzing- did that to him. “You’re thinking she might’ve been the intended victim and the others were i

“At this point, Isaac, I’m not thinking anything. I just think it’s odd that no one’s come forth to I.D. her.”

“Hmm… yes, that would imply some kind of… turmoil in her background… It sounds as if you took the shoe-thing as far as you could… I’ll give it some thought. I’m sure I won’t come up with anything, but I’ll give it a try.”

“I’d appreciate it,” she said. Not meaning a word but keeping the damn smile on high-beam.

Nearly nine P.M. The kid was working late, too. And not getting paid for it.

She said, “How about some di

“Thanks, but I need to get home. My mother made di

“Okay,” she said. “Maybe another time.” The genius still lived with his folks… the Union District, she recalled. Probably some shabby little apartment. Huge contrast to the green lawns and towering trees at USC. Getting all that attention as boy-genius. Working here, his own desk in the detectives’ room. No reason not to stay late.

“Make me a copy of that list,” she said.

“You’re not dismissing it?”

“Let me think about it some more.”

Biiiiig smile. “Will do. Have a nice evening, Detective Co

“You, too.” Professor Gomez.

He left and Petra’s mind shifted back to the Paradiso slaughter.

Gun as “weapon of choice.” At least in that way it was typical.

Which, for some reason, made her feel worse.

CHAPTER 6

A copy of the list was on Petra ’s desk the following afternoon.

Yellow Post-it in the upper right-hand corner: “Detective C: Thanks. I. G.”

She put it aside and spent the next two days talking to Missing Persons cops throughout California, faxing morgue shots of the girl in the pink shoes, getting a few callbacks but no leads. She thought about expanding to neighboring states. The chubby girl appeared Hispanic, so the Southwest seemed a good bet.

Phoning her way through Arizona and Nevada took another full day, then she moved on to New Mexico, where a Santa Fe P.D. detective named Darrel Two Moons said, “She might be a girl who went missing from the San Ildefonso pueblo last year.”

“Our vic had a recent abortion.”

“Even better,” said Two Moons. “There was a rumor of an unwanted pregnancy. A married man, not a good guy. We’ve been wondering if he got rid of her, but so far no body. It’s the tribal police’s case but they called us in. Send the photo.”

“The father,” said Petra. “Is he the kind of guy who’d drive to L.A. to shoot her?”

“In terms of amorality, sure. Would he work that hard? Can’t say.”

Twenty minutes later, Two Moons’s partner, a guy named Steve Katz, called back and said, “I know Darrel talked to you about Cheryl Ruiz. Sorry, the picture’s not her. Also, the tribal police didn’t think to tell us they found Cheryl. She took Greyhound to Mi

“Interagency cooperation. So what else is new?” said Petra.

“Yeah,” said Katz. “L.A., huh? I used to be NYPD, worked midtown Manhattan. I remember what it’s like to be busy.”

“Miss it?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how long the night stretches. On what else I’ve got going on in my life.”

Another shift full of nothing made her grouchy. Some nice, athletic sex with a touch of romance wouldn’t have hurt, but it had been a week since Eric’s last call, she wasn’t even sure where he was.

Time to pack it in; go home; take a long, hot, gel-lubed bath; maybe actually cook herself something decent and healthy. That meant stopping off to buy veggies and whatever and she decided she just wasn’t up to cold, fluorescent supermarket aisles and other lonely people. She’d snarf whatever was in the fridge, hopefully have the energy to take a stab at her O’Keeffe project.

Big, tall New York buildings that turned the city into a shady warren.

Buildings, no people. Painted long before tall New York buildings meant target.

What a world.

Just as she locked up her desk, her cell phone squawked from inside her purse. She fumbled past her gun, tissues, makeup, caught it on the third ring.

“Hi,” said a voice she’d once thought flat, mechanical, freakishly unemotional.

Nothing about the tone and timbre had changed, but he meant something different to her now. We hear with our brains, not our ears.

She said, “Hi. Where’d they send you now?”

“I sent myself. I’m down in the parking lot.”

Her heart leapt. One sentence could do that to her?

“The parking lot? Here?”

“Right here.”

She said, “I’m coming down.”

Eric stood next to Petra’s Accord, half-concealed in the shadows. Arms at his side, looking in her direction, not moving. He had on a black nylon windbreaker, half-zipped over a white T-shirt, pipestem black jeans. Those black, crepe-soled shoes he liked for stakeouts.

He looked even thi

A middle-sized, ski

How could she ever have thought him anything but sexy?

She hurried to him and they embraced. He pulled away first, touched her face. Buried his face in her hair, held her tight- the pressure of a needy child.

She said, “You okay?”

“Now, I am.”

“Why didn’t you come upstairs?”

“Technically, I’m not here.”

She took his face in her hands, kissed his eyelids, held him at arm’s length.

“Where are you supposed to be?”

“Jerusalem.”

“What, you went AWOL?”

“Technically.”

“Meaning?”

“The Israelis took a break because they’ve got business to take care of in Jenin. A chance came up to hitch a ride on a plane.”

“A plane.”

His smile was fleeting, barely perceptible. “You know. With wings.”

“How long can you stay?”

“I need to leave tomorrow P.M.”

“One night,” said Petra.

“Is that okay?”

“Of course.” She kissed his nose. “You have a car?”

He shook his head. “Took a taxi.”

They got into the Accord. Petra started up the engine and noticed the dark smudges under his eyes. “How long have you been in transit?”

“Twenty-three hours.”

“Some hitch.”

“Part of it was a hitch. I flew commercial from Heathrow. Old ladies in wheelchairs were getting frisked while guys who look like Usama’s favorite swimming sperm walked right through. You hungry?”

Petra wanted to play house but no food in the apartment meant di