Petra bound all the shoe boxes with rubber bands and was carrying them out when she heard Wil shout.
He'd laid it all out on the floor of the garage.
Six handguns- two revolvers and four automatics- three rifles, two shotguns, one an expensive Mossler. Boxes of ammo for everything. The garage smelled of gun oil.
Tool rack on a wall above an empty workbench, two large toolboxes full of assorted gizmos, a pair of fishing-tackle boxes, six fishing rods, seven reels.
“Deep-sea and lake,” said Wil, appreciatively. “Good lures, too. Hand-tied. And look at this.”
Knives. Petra counted thirty-two.
Bucks, fighting daggers, long-bladed boning knives Wil said he'd taken from the tackle boxes.
“The man likes to shoot and cut, Petra. There's blood on the boning blade. Might be trout; then again, maybe not.”
“Fishing and hunting,” said Petra. “Maybe he's got himself a little cabin up in the woods.”
“That's all we need, one of those nature boy-survivalist deals. Better take our time with all this. I'm gonna put on fresh gloves, get my video cam.”
It was 8:14 when they finished. The house had grown almost unbearably hot, and Petra's nose had gotten accustomed to the smell.
Wil said, “We earned our keep,” and clicked the TV on, again, switching channels from an oral-sex pretzel to local news. “Just in case something broke. It seems to be the way we find out anything.”
The news was all crime- a nine-year-old girl abducted in Willow Glen, a drive-by in Florence, and another db out in Angeles Crest, but nothing on Lisa or William Bradley Straight.
“Work, work, work,” said Wil, yawning and pulling down his sleeves. He'd folded his linen jacket and placed it on the mantel, over a protective layer of LAPD plastic. He looked as tired as Petra felt.
He yawned again, and she said, “I know we're supposed to start casting the net on Balch, but I for one need some food-”
He held up a silencing finger. Something on the TV had turned him wide-awake.
“… white male,” the reporter was saying. “No name has been released yet, but sheriff's deputies have described the victim as unusually large, over six feet and three hundred pounds or more. The body parts were separated, but hadn't yet been scattered in this remote area of the forest. The Boy Scouts who may have disturbed the killer report seeing a car drive off quickly, with its lights off. That's it for now, Chuck. We'll keep you posted.”
Fournier gunned the remote, speeding through channels. Three other news shows, but either the dismemberment had already been covered or only one station had the story so far.
“What?” said Petra.
“Six feet, three hundred pounds,” he said. “Maybe it's a coincidence, but that's real damn close to the size of Buell Moran, the fool who was looking for the Straight kid. The one who probably killed the kid's mother. I mean, I know this country's got an obesity problem, but… We were figuring he'd heard about the beach tip and headed west. If he did, maybe he met someone he thought could help him but didn't. I'm not saying it is him- lots of bikers get dumped in Angeles Crest, plenty of them are big- but it's too cute to ignore.”
“Much too cute,” said Petra. “Enter it in a baby contest.”
“And here's another thing, Petra. Dismemberment and Angeles Crest reminds me of something I dealt with years ago, working on those Russian cases. Russians loved to cut up the bodies. We walked in on one of them doing it. They concentrate on the head and the fingertips, think it screws up IDs. And they were using Angeles Crest, had just discovered it. The guy who gave me the tip on the kid is Russian. First time I met him, I had a feeling about him. Con eyes.”
“Why would he kill Moran?”
“How about competition for the twenty-five? Let's say both of them got a serious case of the greeds, both are lowlifes, no impulse control. The Russian- Zhukanov's his name- sees Moran showing the kid's picture around, gets worried. Or maybe Moran approaches him, tells Zhukanov he's the kid's father, has some rights here. Zhukanov says, Enough of this noise. Those Russians are mean, Petra. The guy we caught playing human jigsaw had been paid two hundred bucks. Imagine what twenty-five thou would motivate.”
“If Zhukanov was threatened enough to kill Moran,” said Petra, “it might mean he learned something new about the Straight boy's whereabouts, more than he told you. Let me phone in to see if any new messages came in on that.”
The clerk said, “You've got messages, but it's crazy; can't go up to check.” No one answered in the squad room. She hung up, and Wil took his jacket off the mantel. His forehead was as dark and slick as licorice and he wiped it and dialed the phone. A number she recognized: Downtown Sheriff's. Ron's HQ.
“Good old tans again,” he said. “Their solve rate's about twice ours, but they don't have to deal with the gangbanger-no-witness bullshi- Hello, this is Detective Fournier, Hollywood LAPD. Could you please-”
Petra took the shoe boxes out to her car. In the dark, Balch's street was silent and peaceful, happy families cozy in front of the big screen. If they only knew. She filled her nose with warm, piney air. What was the weather like in Duluth, Minnesota? What would Helen Balch think when the ex's face was all over the tube?
When she got back, Wil was smiling.
“No ID on the body, but they've got the head- thank you, Boy Scouts- and the description fits Moran to a T. I know we've been cranking up the overtime, and I was looking forward to some shut-eye, Petra, but I think we need at least to check this Russian out. Maybe we can't solve Lisa right away, but wouldn't it be nice to solve something?”
“It would be loverly,” said Petra. “Do you mind if we stop on the way for some grub? There's a Chinese place on Hawthorne that Mr. Balch patronized. I doubt he's got good taste, but who knows?”
71
Kathy Bishop awoke at nine, sweating, chilled, in terrible pain. Stu punched the call button and held her hand. She looked at him, but from her face he couldn't tell what she saw. Where the hell were the nurses- he wanted to run over to the station but didn't want to leave Kathy.
Finally they came, and he had to control himself from screaming at them.
Now Kathy was sedated, back asleep, and he realized it hadn't taken that long after all.
Get a grip.
The room felt like a cell; he'd left only for an hour, when Mother had vanned all the kids over at five-thirty and they'd gone for burgers and fries at a local McDonald's. All six were quieter than usual, even the baby. He assured them they could see Mommy soon, played around, told jokes, thought they were buying the Daddy-as-usual bit but wasn't sure. He felt out of it, some imposter inhabiting Daddy's body.
The kids started acting up, and Mother said, “Let's go, troops.”
On the way out, Stu noticed other diners staring and he filled with anger.
What's wrong, turkeys, never seen a big family before?
He stayed hot all the way to St. Joe's. Weird; he'd never had a short fuse before.
Meanwhile, Petra and Wil were chasing what looked to be a multiple killer and he was calling airlines, catching guff and bureaucratese, turning up empty, no record of Balch booking any flights, but with all the turndowns he'd received, who knew?
He used to be able to worm stuff out of bureaucrats. Mormon charm, Kathy called it, kissing his forehead and favoring him with her come-hither wink. He loved that wink.
Not an ounce of charm in him tonight. He held Kathy's hand. Limp, lifeless. But for the warmth of her skin, he might have panicked.
Breathing evenly. The machines said she was fine.
No more airlines to call, not a damn thing to do but wait.