Billy Straight

“Guess what, Wil, I'm in your neighborhood.”

“Oh?”

“Can't discuss details, but if you guessed outlaw biker crank empire I wouldn't contradict you. Just happened to be spending time in some shithole called the Cave.”

“Right up your alley, Vee, white-trash roots and all that.”

“You bet. Daddy rode high, Mama ate bugs,” sang Vronek. “That's an old country tune. Blue-eyed soul.”

“Blue-eyed soul is the Righteous Brothers.”

Vronek laughed. “The reason I'm calling is, in the course of said assignment to said shithole, something happened I thought you should know about. Late last night, some guy came in showing around the picture of that kid you've been looking for, implying anyone who could help him would get a cut of the reward.”

“Why would anyone do that?” said Fournier. “Least of all, leather-scum. If they knew where the kid was, they'd turn him in themselves, take the whole twenty-five.”

“Didn't say the guy was smart, Wil. Just there. And none of the assembled patrons jumped on the offer. It was like, ‘All those who give a shit step forward.' No big boot ballet. I pretended to be one-quarter fascinated, tried to get a feel for the guy. He came across big-time stupid.”

“Got a name?”

“Nope, the situation didn't call for that level of intimacy. Here're the vitals: white male, twenty-eight to thirty-five, brown and blue, wavy hair, reddish muttonchop sideburns, my height, add at least fifty pounds.”

“A big boy,” said Fournier.

“He came on like some heavy-duty Angel, but no one knew him. I told him I'd look out for the kid, where could I reach him? He said he'd be stopping by again tonight, around eight. You want me to, I'll come out to the sidewalk when he shows and let you know.”

“Deal, Vee. Thanks.”

“Anytime. Too bad I won't be able to buy you a drink. They don't like colored folk.”

Just as Fournier hung up, Schoelkopf called. “You're there. At least someone on Ramsey is.”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“You don't read the paper?”

“Not yet-”

“You should, this is a public case. They found the girl's car. Burned out in Venice, I had to learn it from the damn paper. Read it, then get in here.”

52

Nigger.

Not taking him seriously. Vladimir Zhukanov pulled a troll doll down from the rack and squeezed its belly. Blond-haired troll, SURF DUDE! printed on the shirt. He hated the way the damn thing smiled. Some Swede or Dane had invented the original one. This one was made in Korea, pirated. Zhukanov had bought ten gross from an old Moscow friend of his who worked the docks down in Long Beach, a hundred bucks, no questions asked.

A Georgian named Makoshvilli- they'd busted heads together while in the army, breaking up protests near the Kremlin, braining Yids, assorted cosmopolitan dirt.

He brought the trolls in a few at a time, pocketed the cash, fuck the boss.

Vladimir Zhukanov, sergeant in the Moscow police, reduced to trafficking in toys!

America, land of dreams. He'd claimed to be a Yid to get over here, paid a fortune to some immigration lawyer to lie for him, bunked down in some West Hollywood hovel full of Yids while he tried to find a niche for himself in L.A. A few months later, Yeltsin opened the gates to anyone, the bastard.

The city was all niggers and brownies. He had yet to find his niche. He'd driven a cab, tried unsuccessfully to sell his head-busting services to a Van Nuys forgery ring, managed to get into a West Hollywood car-theft ring but couldn't hot-wire fast enough so they fired him. He worked nights for a while, bouncing at a Russian club on Third Street till some punks broke his nose- five against one, stupid club owners insisting no weapons, how could they claim it was his fault?

Now this. Five bucks an hour from the Yid who owned the souvenir stand. Zhukanov skimmed at least 5 percent regularly, the Yid knew it, didn't care- he was raking it in from twenty other stands all around the city, living in Hancock Park, buying that hook-nosed wife of his diamonds.

One day, Zhukanov figured, he'd break into the house, get those diamonds.

Meanwhile, he sold toys. Till now: salvation in the form of the kid.

Had to be him. Zhukanov had done his share of hunting, knew what prey smelled like.

Handing it to the nigger cop, but the black bastard wasn't taking him seriously. No wonder this multicultural shithole had so much crime- nigger cops. Like having foxes guard chickens.

No way would he let that screw up his plans. Twenty-five grand meant out of here, maybe a quick grab for the boss's diamonds, fly to New York, Brighton Beach, Coney Island- no shortage of outfits there who'd welcome his talents; but with that kind of money he'd start his own business.

He was already self-employed: personal hunter of the kid.

How far could the little bastard have gone? He was sure to turn up again, and Sergeant Zhukanov would grab him.

A flash of optimism lightened his mood. A little vodka, maybe stop off somewhere for a nice meal.

Starting tomorrow, he'd be on full alert.

53

Friday morning, Petra woke thinking about Balch as suspect. It still made sense, but so did Ramsey.

Which one of them? Both of them? Neither of them- a horrible thought.

The report of Lisa's burned-out car was on page 5, along with a smaller reprint of her drawing, but nothing about the Venice tip or those from Watson. So Wil hadn't been forced to report yet.

As she showered and soaped her body, she realized Kathy Bishop's body was under the knife right now. She'd call Stu later. When things had settled. Meanwhile, there were some details to take care of before she set out for Montecito.

Dr. Boehlinger's hotel room didn't answer- out already, doing who knew what. A recheck of Missing Persons brought no clue to Estrella Flores's whereabouts, and by 9 A.M. she was on her way to Granada Hills to pick up Ron.

When she drove up, he was standing at the curb, holding a cell phone.

His house was a tiny Tudor on a sun-splashed side street, one story, the sharply pitched shake roof and half timbers and pseudo-gables silly but somehow touching: Someone had cared enough to lay in details. The grass was mown and edged but pale; two rosebushes flanking the stone walkway were knobby with deadheads, and half the oranges on a fifteen-foot Valencia had browned.

He was at the car door before she shifted into park. His hair was shower-moist, cowlicks sprouting like new wheat. A blue V-neck sweater, yellow button-down shirt, and off-white Dockers made him look younger- grad student, business administration. Oxblood pe

“Hi,” she said.

He got in. “Hi.” Lime-scented aftershave. He hadn't worn that the first time. That seemed like years ago. He made no move toward her now; locked the door and put the phone in his lap, explaining, “Just in case my mom needs to call.”

“I should move into the twentieth century, finally get one of those.”

“Get one of those hands-off deals,” he said. “Talk in the car, make everyone think you're psychotic, and they'll leave you alone.”

Laughing, she pulled away from the curb, wondering if she should mention the theory jolt about Balch. No, too speculative at this point. He had years on her. He was a rescuer. She wanted to look smart in front of him.

As she drove, they chatted. Small talk, but intelligent. He gave off an air of stability. Too boring for the Spanish equestrie