Petra watched him ease his way across Lankershim. Gliding. A graceful man. In another world, he’d have been great at ballet.
Eric in leotards. That made her smile. She needed to smile because her gut was churning, her temples were pounding, and her hands had gone cold.
She rubbed them together. Her fingers felt fuzzy. Slipping her right hand down into her gun pocket, she traced the outlines of her Glock.
Their waitress, matronly, smiling, Latina, came over, saw her nearly untouched food. “Everything okay?”
“Great,” said Petra, cutting into her own burrito. “My boyfriend got called away. I’ll take the check.”
“Nice girlfriend.”
My boyfriend.
Alone again, Petra pushed rice and beans and chicken enchilada around her plate. Closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Opened them to see Omar Selden’s stocky frame approaching the gallery from the south end of the boulevard.
Twenty yards away. With a girl. Her frame was blocked by Omar’s.
She autodialed Eric, beeped twice. Kept her eye on Omar. He had a rolling, flat-footed walk, appeared loose, casual, not a care in the world.
Fresh haircut- a skin job- made him look like a banger. His baggy brown T-shirt was marked “XXXXL” in big white letters on the back. Under it were even baggier knee-length khaki shorts and brown sneakers.
Color-coordinated killer.
Petra could see the girl’s legs but she remained mostly out of view. Damn, a complication.
She squinted, kept her eyes on both of them. Then Omar stepped ahead momentarily and she got a partial look at his companion.
Petite, long blond hair, nice figure. A black halter top with a shoelace back exposed smooth bronze skin. Ultralow, tight jeans showcased slim but curvy hips, denim lifting and cupping ass cheeks too firm to be anything but young.
Spiky, open-backed shoes. Hot Little Mama on a Sunday morning stroll.
The girl’s skinny arm snaked around Omar’s torso, reached midway across his broad waistline.
Petra watched as the two of them nearly reached the gallery and the girl turned.
Tossing her hair and laughing at something Omar had said.
Sandra Leon.
Petra got the check, tossed money on the table, stuck her hand in her gun pocket and left the café.
Someone called after her and her chest constricted.
The waitress stood in the café’s doorway, holding a white bag. “You hardly ate anything. I packed it for you to-go!”
Rushing back, Petra snatched the food.
“Thanks, you’re a doll.”
“Sure. Have a real nice day.”
When the woman returned to the café, Petra placed the bag by the curb and made her way toward the gallery. Thinking how funny it would be if that female foot officer happened by and tried to bust her for littering.
It was time to stop thinking about anything else but the job she had to do.
Omar Selden was bent over the metal desk, signing Club. Flanked by a stoic Eric and a grinning Xenia.
No sign of Sandra. Probably in the ladies’ room. Good, maybe this could go smoothly.
Petra walked toward them. Omar looked up.
Eric said, “I decided to buy both of them.”
Omar smiled. Barely glanced at Petra. No sign of recognition.
Not good, pal. An artist should be more discerning.
“Okay,” he said. “Signed.” Trying to be casual, but pleased at the celebrity.
“Cool,” said Xenia. “I love your signature, Omar.”
Petra was a few feet away when a voice behind her said, “Hey!”
Sandra Leon. Stepping out from behind one of the partitions. Staring right into Petra’s face.
Less yellow in her eyes, but still jaundiced.
Up close, way too much makeup. The things you noticed.
Petra held up a pacifying hand.
Sandra screamed, “Cops, Omar! They’re cops!”
Selden dropped his pen, looked up, stupefied for less than a second. Then a foxy gleam brightened his eyes and he reached under the baggy brown T-shirt.
Petra had her gun out. Sandra was pounding her back, still screaming. She shoved the girl hard with one hand, concentrated on keeping her Glock steady.
“Easy, Omar.”
Selden cursed. More screaming: Xenia’s horror-flick shrieks.
Omar got his hand out of his shirt. Aimed a black matte gun, a Glock, too, plastic, one of those fool-the-metal detector deals.
Pointed straight at Petra’s face.
Eric had moved directly behind Omar. Expressionless.
Petra saw his shoulder twitch, but no other sign of movement.
Eric’s arm jumped, ever so slightly.
Still expressionless.
Pop pop pop.
Omar stiffened. His face scrunched with pain and surprise and his mouth made a little stunned O. Then blood began seeping out of his nose, his ears. Gushed from his mouth as he toppled over.
Facedown on the desk. Pinning his artwork.
Color on the photos, now.
Xenia had backed away and stood against the wall. Her hand covered her mouth but that did little to squelch the pitch and volume of her shrieks. A golden puddle of urine settled and pooled at her feet. She sat down heavily in her own water.
Sandra Leon had rebounded from the shove and was up on her feet, flailing at Petra. Long sharp nails, jet-black, caught in Petra’s jacket sleeve.
When Sandra tried to head-butt Petra, Petra slapped the girl hard across the face. The blow stunned her, gave Petra time to spin her around, bend an arm back, and kick her behind the knees. Easy, no weight to her. She pushed the girl down on the floor, kept a knee in the small of that smooth, shoelaced back, and got her cuffs out. Making sure she was nowhere near Sandra’s teeth, all that saliva teeming with virus.
“Bitch cunt murderer!” Sandra was screaming. “Murdering cunt!”
Xenia, sounding half-comatose, said, “I’m calling the police.”
CHAPTER 39
A slew of black-and-whites arrived with sirens blaring. Then crime-scene techs, the coroners.
The usual, but this felt different to Petra. This was hers.
And Eric’s. He hadn’t blinked during the shooting or since.
Someone you could depend upon.
Still, it threw her off.
In charge was a Valley lieutenant, soon supplanted by a captain. Both started off treating Petra and Eric like criminals but eventually eased up.
Last to show up was the officer-involved shooting team. Two Internal Affairs detectives with all the emotional resonance of statuary. Questioning Eric and Petra separately, Eric first.
Petra watched from ten feet away, knew the story he was telling, the one they’d prepared. It had been his idea to go looking for Selden; he’d had to overcome Petra’s reluctance. Once the meet had been set up, she’d made multiple attempts to call for backup, finally decided there was no choice but to go ahead.
The fact that Eric had done all the shooting backed that up.
Clear and present danger, protecting a sister officer.
In the best of circumstances, he’d be suspended with pay, for as long as it took to sort out the paperwork. If the media got hold of it- some P.C. moron at the Times or one of the throwaway weeklies trying to manufacture a racial thing or a police brutality thing- it could get ugly and go on longer. That would mean lawyers, the police union, maybe suspension without pay.
Petra had tried to talk him out of being the scapegoat.
He said, “That’s the way I’m telling it. Back me up.” Gave her arm a short, hard squeeze and left to face the turmoil.
She stood by as the shooting investigators double-teamed him. Watched as they came up against his stoicism and started passing glances between them.
She knew what they were thinking. This is weird.
Cops, even hardened vets, usually reacted to blowing out the back of someone’s head with a modicum of emotion. For all the feeling he was displaying, Eric might’ve just filed his nails.