“I've told you everything I know.”
Petra took out her pad and a number 3 pencil. “I draw a little. Let's see if we can come up with something.”
32
“Rapist! Police!”
Why are they screaming that? I throw on my clothes. The screams get far away, I crack open the door, look out, see nothing, and run out the back.
It sounds like they're out in front, still screaming “Rapist!” which is crazy. I'd never rape anyone; I know what it feels like to be hunted.
I run behind the garage, climb over the wooden fence into the next yard. Lights on in that house- colors, a TV behind the curtains; I hear someone laughing.
I run through the yard to the next street, then back up to Hollywood Boulevard, where I turn down another street, then up again, moving back and forth so no one will see me, walking, not running, blend in, blend in… no sirens. The cops haven't come yet.
If those women keep lying about rape, they might send up helicopters with those big white beams. That could turn me into a bug on paper… then I realize they never saw me; why should anyone think I'm the one?
I slow down even more, pretend everything's great. I'm on another quiet street. People locked inside thinking they're safe.
Or maybe worried they're not.
I'll keep going west, away from the park and Hollywood. Stupid women with plants all over the place who leave food to rot.
The next busy street is Sunset. Weirdos, lots more kids than Hollywood, even more cars. Lots of restaurants, clubs. Across the street a place called Body Body Body! with a plastic sign of a naked lady. Then something called the Snake. Club with a big line out in front and two big fat guys not letting anyone in.
Is that guy in that red car looking at me weird?
I turn off to the next quiet street, back and forth again. Now my feet are hurting; I've been walking all day. West, maybe the beach. The beach is clean, isn't it?
I have no money. No way to protect myself.
Should have taken the pineapple knife.
33
Stu studied the drawing of the boy.
He'd blown in just before 4 P.M., no explanation. Petra burned to have it out with him, but this new development, a potential witness, meant they had to stay on task.
“Good work,” he said. “Don't show Harold.”
Harold Beatty was a sixty-year-old Rampart narc who sometimes doubled as a sketch artist. All the faces he drew looked exactly the same. The Beatty Family, other D's called them behind his back.
Stu played with his suspenders and the casual gesture angered Petra further. She wanted acknowledgment that this could be something.
Because she wasn't confident it would lead anywhere.
At least the drawing was good. Guiding Magda Solis through every feature, Petra had produced a highly detailed, carefully shaded rendering. The librarian stared at the finished product and whispered, “Amazing.”
A nice-looking boy with big, wide-set eyes- Petra left them medium-shaded to accommodate either brown or blue- a narrow nose with pinched nostrils, thin mouth, pointy chin with a dimple. Solis wasn't sure of the boy's eye color, but she was sure of the dimple.
Straight hair, light brown, thick, brushed to the right, sheathing the forehead to the eyebrows, hanging over the ears, fringing wildly at the shoulders. A skinny neck sprouted from a T-shirt. Solis said he was small, well under five feet, eighty pounds tops, wore T-shirts, jeans, tennis shoes with holes in them, sometimes an old ratty sweater.
Oh yeah, and a watch, one of those cheap digital things.
That interested Petra. Was the timepiece an old Christmas present? Something he'd boosted? Where was his home? How long ago had he run away?
A kid. When she applied for detective, she'd been offered the choice of Juvey or Auto Theft, had chosen hot cars. No one asking why…
Stu said, “He looks grim,” and that was true. The boy's expression was beyond hurt; he looked burdened. Solis's phrase was “crushed by life.”
“He takes food from the fridge, showers,” said Stu. “Print match to ours. Unbelievable.”
“Maybe it's providence,” said Petra. “Maybe God's rewarding you for all that piety and church time.”
“Sure,” said Stu. His voice rasped. She'd never heard him this angry.
What was the big deal? She always kidded him about religion. Before she could say a thing, he stood up and buttoned his jacket. “Okay, let's go tell Schoelkopf.”
Turning his back on her, yet again. Since he'd waltzed into the squad room, they hadn't shared a second of eye contact.
“Let's do it later,” said Petra. “I've got paperwork-”
He wheeled suddenly. “What's your problem with doing it by the book, Petra? He made it clear he wanted to be informed, and now there's something to inform him about.”
He'd made it to the door when Petra caught up with him and stage-whispered. “What the hell's going on?”
“Nothing's going on. We're going to inform Schoelkopf.”
“Not that. What's with you?”
He kept going, didn't answer.
“Goddamn you, Bishop, you're acting like a complete goddamn jerk!”
He stopped, worked his jaws. His hands were fisted. Never had she cursed at him. She prepared herself for an explosion. This would be interesting.
Instead, his face slackened. “Goddamn me? You could be right.”
In Schoelkopf's office, they both clung to frozen calm.
The captain glanced at the drawing and put it down. “You did this, Barbie? Hidden talent… maybe we should retire Harold.”
He sat back and put his feet on his desk. New shoes, Italian, the soles still black. “It ain't fish and loaves, but maybe it's half of something.” He ripped the drawing out of Petra's pad. “Talk to Juvey officers, see if anyone knows this kid. Also shelters, church groups, welfare workers, whoever's dealing with runaways nowadays. I'll make copies for P.I.”
“Public Information? You're going to the press with it?” said Petra.
“You've got a better way of publicizing it?”
“Are we sure we want to publicize it right away?”
“Why the hell not?”
“When we first found the book, you thought it was weak- pointed out the unlikelihood of anyone reading in the dark. So what's the chance the boy actually saw anything? But if we let the world know what he looks like and he's a Hollywood street kid, we could set off a hunting frenzy. Also, if the killer knows Hollywood, he could get to him first-”
“I don't believe this,” said Schoelkopf. “Maternal instincts.” The feet returned to the floor. He looked ready to spit. “You want to solve a crime or mother some runaway?”
A sickle of rage cut through Petra. A serene voice that couldn't possibly be hers said, “I want to be cautious, sir. All the more so if he is a witness-”
Schoelkopf waved her silent. “You talk about the killer like it's an abstraction. We're dealing with Ram-fucking-sey. You're telling me he's gonna find a runaway before we do? Gimme a break- tell you what, Barb, if you're worried about child welfare, keep an eye on Ramsey. That might even work out to our benefit- he goes after the kid, we nab him, just like on TV.” Schoelkopf's laugh was metallic. “Yeah, that's definitely part of your assignment. Surveil Ramsey. Who knows, you could be a hero.”
Petra's lungs felt wooden. She tried to breathe, tried not to show the effort.
“So we're using the boy as bait,” said Stu, and now Petra heard the father of six speaking.
“You too?” said Schoelkopf. “We're tracking down a potential witness to a homicide- Jesus, I can't believe I'm having this discussion. What the fuck have we talked about since the beginning of this case? Being careful. What the fuck do you think will happen if the kid is righteous and we make no effort to find him? Don't waste any more of my time. You two produced the lead, now develop it!”