“I can handle it.”
“You know how to shoot?”
“Sure,” Isaac lied.
“Bullshit, motherfucker.”
“I can handle it.”
“You end up shooting off your ass- you shoot your own cojones off, man, I ain’t gonna cry.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Bang bang,” said Flaco. “No, I don’t think so, man. What for you need to mess with motherfucking guns?”
“I’m going to get one,” said Isaac. “One way or the other.”
“You stupid, man.” Then Flaco realized what he’d said and cracked up.
Isaac started to get up. Flaco clamped a hand over his wrist. “Have a drink, bro.”
“No, thanks.”
“You turnin’ me down?”
Isaac swung around in the booth, faced Flaco full-on. “The way I see it, you’re doing the turning down.”
Flaco’s smile dropped. His hand remained clawed over Isaac’s wrist. Another 187 tattoo. On the other hand. Larger, fresher. Black ink. A tiny grinning skull nested in the upper circle of the 8. “You ain’t gonna drink with me?”
“One drink,” said Isaac. “Then I’m going. Got to take care of business.”
Flaco slid out of the booth, teetered to the bar, returned with two beer-and-shots. As the two of them drank, he drew a white plastic shopping bag out of the black denim jacket and lowered it beneath the table.
Isaac glanced down. Jewelry Mart logo on the bag, a vendor called Diamond World.
“Happy birthday, motherfucker.”
Isaac took the bag from Flaco. Heavy. At the bottom was something swaddled in toilet paper. Keeping his hands low, he unwrapped it partially.
A shiny little thing. Squat, square-barreled, perfectly malevolent.
CHAPTER 20
FRIDAY, JUNE 14, 4:34 P.M. DETECTIVES’ ROOM, HOLLYWOOD DIVISION
Petra left two additional messages with Dr. Robert Katzman, the last unmistakably cross.
Then she regretted her tone. Even if she finally reached the oncologist, big deal. He’d treated Sandra Leon for leukemia, what else could he tell her?
Then again, she was sure the Oncology clerk had gotten antsy talking about Sandra. But who said that related to the girl with the pink shoes or any other aspect of Paradiso?
She went downstairs, found Kirsten Krebs idling by the watercooler in a tank top and jeans, told Krebs to put Katzman through immediately if he called back.
Krebs stared at the floor and said, “Yeah, fine.” When she thought Petra was out of earshot, she muttered, “What-ever.”
Petra returned to her desk feeling aimless. She’d slept fitfully, burdened with too much of nothing. Just two weeks until June 28. No sign of Isaac for a few days. Had the kid lost his youthful enthusiasm about the nefarious plot? Or was it something to do with that bruise?
Either way, who cared?
Unfortunately, she did. She turned to the file copies, reviewed the two she knew the best- Doebbler and Solis- for new insights and failed to come up with any.
It stayed that way until she reviewed the coroner’s report on Coral Langdon, the dog walker, and found something she’d missed the first few times around. Stuck in the middle of a small-print hair-and-fiber list stapled under some lab results.
Two types of canine hair had been found on Langdon’s clothing. No mention of that in the coroner’s nonquantitative summary. The pathologist hadn’t deemed it important. Maybe it wasn’t.
The presence of cockapoo hair was self-explanatory. Little Brandy had been bludgeoned along with her mistress.
Stupid little bitch. The world is my toilet.
But along with the champagne-colored curls raked from Coral’s purple, cashmere blend, size M, Robinsons-May cardigan and her black, size 8 poly-cotton Anne Klein pants, was a smaller, but substantial number of straight, coarse hairs.
Short, dark brown and white. Canine. No DNA had been analyzed to determine the breed.
No reason to get that fancy. There were plenty of reasonable explanations, including maybe Coral Langdon had owned two dogs. Except according to the file she hadn’t. Detective Shirley Lenois might have missed the June 28 link, but Shirley had been a dog person, owned three Afghan hounds, would have been sure to note the presence of a second pet.
Perhaps little Brandy had hung with a canine buddy, picked up hairs, transferred them to Coral.
Or a stray dog had come upon both corpses, sniffed around.
Or, Coral Langdon, walking alone, at night, in the Hollywood Hills, in the company of a pint-sized pooch that provided zero protection, had encountered another dog walker.
The two of them stop to swap dog chat. Dog people were like that, being devoted to your pet was grounds for instant rapport.
Because of that, dogs could be a great ruse for bad guys. Petra recalled a case she’d worked early in her grand-theft-auto days. Pleasant-looking frat-boy-type thief- what was his name- who always took along a lumbering, seventy-pound bulldog… Monroe. She remembered the dog’s moniker but not the guy’s. What did that say?
Frat-boy’s modus was to “chance” upon women pulling late-model luxury wheels into shopping center parking lots. As they got out of their cars, he’d saunter by, Monroe in tow. The women would get one look at the stubby dog’s wrinkled frog face and melt. Chitchat would ensue, Frat-boy- Lewis something- was brilliant at putting on the wholesome dog guy act, though Monroe really belonged to his sister. The women would coo and pet the stoic, panting beast, then walk off happy. Fifty percent of the time they forgot to lock their cars and/or set the alarms.
Yup, canine companionship could definitely impart instant decency to a stranger.
Petra thought about how Langdon might’ve gone down. A guy with a dog- a white, middle-class-looking guy- someone who wouldn’t seem out of place in Coral Langdon’s Hollywood Hills neighborhood- shows up on the quiet, hillside road.
Coral with her fluffy pal, the guy with a larger pooch. Nothing scary, like a pit bull. Short, dark brown and white hairs- could be a pointer, a mixed-breed, whatever.
Something mellow and nonthreatening.
She stayed with the scenario, imagining Coral and Dog Guy stopping to talk. Maybe laughing as their furry buddies engaged in mutual squatting.
Exchanging cute little “aren’t dogs almost human” stories.
Coral- single, fit, and youthful for her age- might have welcomed some male attention. A bit of flirtation ensued, maybe even a phone-number exchange. No number had been found on Coral’s body, but that meant nothing. Dog Guy could’ve lifted it when his job was done.
His job.
Biding his time as he and Coral exchange amiable have-a-nice-evenings.
Coral and Brandy turn to go.
Boom.
Bashed from behind. Like all the others. A coward. A calculating, manipulative coward reluctant to face his victims.
Creative, Milo Sturgis would call it. His favorite euphemism when cases bogged down.
Petra wondered what he’d think about all this. Delaware, too.
She was pondering whether to call either of them when Kirsten Krebs stomped up to her desk and straight-armed a message slip right in her face.
“He hung up?” said Petra.
“It’s not the one you said to put through,” said Krebs. “But seeing as you’re so into your messages I brought it to you personally.”
Petra snatched the slip. Eric had phoned three minutes ago. No return number.
The message on the slip, in Krebs’s cramped writing: “Don’t believe everything you see on the news.”
“Whatever that means,” said Krebs. “He sounded kinda strange.”
“He’s a detective, here.”
Krebs remained unimpressed.
Petra said, “You told him I wasn’t here?”
“He wasn’t the one you said,” Krebs insisted.