“The Players.”
“I messed up too severely to be allowed to stay. That’s why I’m living out of my car. I can’t stay in any of their properties anymore. Which is fine, it’s time for a change. I don’t even want to be in California. Too crowded.”
Mac said, “You’re very much going to be in California. Right here in L.A., friend. Material witness.”
Leon nodded, dropped his head. “I knew this might happen but I had to come forward.”
“In the interests of justice,” said Petra.
“In the interest of getting the monster who murdered my niece and probably my cousin.”
Before he gets to you.
Leon said, “If you ever catch him and need a live witness, don’t lock me up.”
“Stop being so dramatic,” said Petra. “We’ll put you somewhere safe.” Winging that one, movie stuff. She had no authority to make the promise.
“Sure,” said Leon. “Sure, that makes me feel so comforted.”
Mac said, “Cut to the chase. Where can we find Selden?”
“Marcella told me he lived in the Valley. Panorama City. Went back and forth between there and Venice. If your gang people don’t have their heads totally up their asses, they’ll have files on him.”
The Valley to Venice route, and something else Leon had said early, tweaked something in Petra’s consciousness.
“Selden doesn’t look like a gangbanger. How so?”
“No tattoos and he’s a fat-boy- soft. He told Marcella he went to college for at least a year, some government-funded gang-rehab thing. Maybe he did, when you first meet him he comes across not-stupid.”
“He into photography?” said Petra.
Leon tensed up tighter than ever. Struggled to make eye contact with Petra. “You’ve got him?”
“Tell me about the photography.”
Leon licked his lips. “That’s him. Carries around a camera, claims to be taking pictures. That’s how he hooked up with Marcella in the first place. Told her she was beautiful, wanted her to model. If she’d had any self-awareness, she’d have known he was bullshitting her. Sandy, that would’ve been a different story. She’s got great bones. And with black and white you couldn’t see the yellow in her eyes.”
They took Leon back to the station, put him in a holding cell and found the mug books.
One look confirmed it.
Omar Arthur Selden aka Omar Ancho aka Oliver Arturo Rudolph. Gang monikers: Zippy, Heavy O, Shutterbug. Longtime VVO member.
Petra had an aka that wasn’t in the files.
Ovid Arnaz.
The quiet young man she’d encountered on Brooks. In his four-year-old arrest photo for robbery he looked nondescript. The charge had been pled down to larceny and Selden had done three years.
A year after his release, he’d met Marcella Douquette on Ocean Front Walk.
Petra’s jaw ached as she recalled how smoothly he’d spun the story about renting the shack for a summer photography project. Claiming he’d been afraid to go out at night in a “sketchy” neighborhood.
Knowing the name of the landlord. She’d verified Leon and the girls’ residency but not Arnaz/Selden’s.
Meaning maybe he’d never even lived there.
Meaning he’d watched her arrive from next door. Had probably been staying in the neighboring unit- an empty, moldering unit- so he could stake out Marcella’s digs. Hoping to spot Lyle Leon so he could finish the job.
She’d had the bastard, right there.
She remembered Selden’s reaction to Marcella’s postmortem shot. Not a trace of emotion.
Claiming he’d seen it before. Visiting the coroner’s as part of a photojournalism class.
She’d swallowed it whole, had barely glanced at his I.D., the Valley address he’d given her. The numbers matched a vacant storefront not far from the revitalized NoHo arts district. Plenty of galleries there, so maybe he really was into photography. The possibility didn’t make her feel one bit better.
Mac said, “You couldn’t be expected to know.”
But she’d seen happier faces at funerals.
CHAPTER 32
THURSDAY, JUNE 20, 3:00 P.M., THIRD SUBBASEMENT, DOHENY LIBRARY
It would help,” said Klara Distenfield, “if you could be a bit more specific about what you’re after and why.”
Isaac, smiling up at her from his worktable, said, “Sorry, that’s all I can say.”
“Boy,” said Klara. “Talk about high intrigue.”
She was a senior research librarian, forty-one years old, bright and sophisticated, with thick calves, a soft, heavy bosom, long, wavy, flaming red hair that she barretted at the sides, and a peach-blush complexion.
Klara had a soft spot for graduate students. Isaac’s reputation had preceded him, and the divorced mother of two gifted kids had made sure to be available when he had reference questions.
Isaac had fantasized wildly about her, on and off, since the first time they met.
Lately, Petra’s faced had nudged Klara’s out. Still, when he spotted her, filling out one of those flowered dresses…
Today’s dress was pale green printed with white peonies and yellow butterflies, some sort of clingy material, not silk, trying to be silk…
Klara said, “Earth to Isaac,” and flashed a generous mouthful of white teeth.
“Sorry,” he said. “I know it sounds oblique, but I really can’t say more.”
“Official police business, huh?”
Did she just wink?
He said, “Nothing exciting.”
“Do they treat you well over there?”
“Very well.”
“Still,” she said, “it must be quite a contrast to here.” She motioned with one soft arm, taking in the book-lined stacks.
“It’s different,” he said.
Klara leaned against the table and nibbled on the eraser of her pencil. Her breasts swung, luxuriant, barely fettered.
Older women, he just loved the way they… what was wrong with him?
What was wrong was he was a sexual retardate. But for a couple of unfortunate encounters with hookers set up by Flaco Jaramillo, he was a damned virgin.
Klara said, “Are you okay, Isaac? You look kind of fatigued.”
“I’m fine.”
“If you say so.” She rolled the pencil against one hip. “Well, that’s all I’ve managed to come up with, so far.”
She aimed her gold-green eyes at the computer printout she’d laid on his work surface. Hundreds of historical events tied in with June 28. Nothing he hadn’t seen already.
Perhaps the clue was in here, among all that history, but if it was he was missing it.
“I really appreciate the time, Klara.”
“My pleasure.” She shifted even closer and his nose filled with the sweet scent of soap and water. Concern widened her eyes and smoothed out her laugh lines. “You really do look tired. Especially there.” A pale hand indicated the skin beneath his eyes. A fingertip grazed his right cheek and electric current sizzled along his thighs. He crossed his legs, hoping Klara hadn’t noticed his erection.
She smiled. Had she?
“I’m at the top of my game,” he told her. “Energy-wise.”
“Well, that’s good. It’s refreshing to hear some confidence from you. You grad students fall into two groups: slackers and slaves. You’re the latter, Isaac. You’re here all the time. Alone.”
His spot was in the remotest corner of the subbasement, surrounded by old and ancient books on botany. Since Leavey Library had opened, all the undergrads studied there. Doheny- huge, grand, restored magnificently- served grad students and faculty but everyone did their research on-line.
Once in a while someone wandered up there looking for an obscure text. Mostly he had the place to himself. So different from home, sharing that cell of a room with his brothers, the street noise…
“I enjoy the solitude,” he said.
“I know you do.” Klara pushed a wave of copper hair away from her face. Not a beautiful face, not by a long shot. More… pleasant. Clean-looking.