Billy Straight

17

Walking back to the squad room, Stu said, “He only beat her once. What a guy.”

“Going over us, to Schoelkopf,” said Petra. “Manipulative.” Being collegial, then telling herself to hell with it. Say what was really on her mind.

She stopped and leaned against a locker. “Why'd you bring up the book?”

Stu leaned, too. “It was something tangible, and I didn't want one of his lectures on wishful thinking versus evidence.”

“We got a lecture anyway.”

He shrugged.

She said, “He thinks the book's bull. You agree with him, don't you?”

He straightened and, with one hand, pinched the knot of his tie. “Do I think it's thunder and lightning? No, but the lab will run prints on the book, and if it's a homeless guy, there's a chance he's got a file somewhere so maybe we can locate him. If it turns out to be nothing, we're no worse off.”

She didn't answer.

He said, “What's the matter?”

“It threw me, your bringing it up like that.”

“Hey, even I can be full of surprises.” His eyes didn't yield. He walked away, not looking back to see if she'd followed.

Petra stood there, hands clenched. She recalled Kathy's curtness last night on the phone. If it was a marital thing, she couldn't expect him to let it ride. Okay, cool down, concentrate on the job. But she hated surprises.

Of the twenty-five other Hollywood detectives on the morning roster, six were at their desks, sorting mug shots, typing at newly donated and still-baffling computers, muttering into phones, reading murder books. All looked up as Petra and Stu entered, and shot sympathetic looks.

Any detective who loved mysteries going into the job had a quick change of heart. The Ramsey case was the worse kind of whodunit. The room smelled exactly like what it was: a windowless space seasoned by mostly male frustration.

A black D-II named Wilson Fournier said, “Knew you were gonna have fun when the boss came in early chewing gum but with no gum in his mouth.”

Petra smiled at him, and he resumed scanning gangbanger photos. Stu was at his desk facing hers, at the rear. She sat down and waited.

Stu said, “What do you want to do about looking for similars?”

“Not much.”

He hooked his thumbs under his suspender straps. His 9mm was nestled in a high shoulder holster. Petra was wearing hers the same way. It hurt her arm, and she removed it.

“The way I see it,” said Stu, “we've got two choices. Go over to Parker and pull microfiche all week, then we'd still have to get on the horn in order to check out Burbank and Atwater and Glendale or any county district. Or do it all telephonically with every homicide D we can find. Schoelkopf said two or three years; let's do two. We could get lucky and move through it within the week. Personally, I'd rather talk to real people than deal with the files downtown, but it's up to you.”

“The realer the better,” said Petra. “How do we prioritize? Do I call around first or try to reach this Darrell?”

“Let's devote mornings to the scut, do real work in the afternoon.” He glanced at his watch. “You check out Darrell, and I'll start nosing around the studios.”

Petra stared down the length of the room. “Speaking of real people, we can start with our colleagues here. It's a waste of time, but so's the rest of it.”

“Charity begins at home. Go for it.”

She stood up, pushed hair back from her face, cleared her throat dramatically. Three of the six detectives looked up.

“Gentlemen,” she announced, and the remaining three stopped what they were doing.

“As you know, Detective Bishop and I have been assigned a fascinating case, one so fascinating that word has come from above to be extra thorough. In order to establish the proper context.” Snickers. “Because we will- quote unquote- be graded.”

Grim looks all around.

“Detective Bishop and I desire a good grade, and so we request your help in locating the unknown perpetrator of this nefarious crime- who, of course, is totally unknown and must be sought out with the utmost care so as not to prejudice the investigation.”

Knowing smiles. She described the crime scene, Lisa's wounds, and said, “Any 187's within the last two years bear any resemblance?”

Head shakes.

A detective named Markus said, “Where was O.J. at the time?”

Laughter.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” She sat down to light applause.

Stu was clapping, too. He looked fine now, the blue eyes warm again. Maybe he was just sleep-deprived.

“Six down,” he said. “A few hundred to go- how about we divide up the districts on the vertical. I take east of here and you take west?”

There was lots more crime east of Hollywood- more detectives, more files. He was giving himself the lion's share of the scut. Feeling guilty? Petra said, “You've got all the studios; I've only got Darrell. I'll take east.”

“No, it's okay,” he said. “I told Kathy not to expect me soon.” He blinked rapidly, as if his eyes hurt, and picked up the phone.

A divorce after all this time? Petra wanted to reach out to him. She said, “Noon break before we go our separate ways? Musso and Frank?”

He hesitated. Then: “Sure, we deserve it.” Starting to punch numbers, he stopped himself. “Someone should also call those sheriff's guys- De la Torre and Banks- find out if they learned anything about Lisa's DV complaint.”

“The news broadcast said she never filed a formal complaint.”

“There you go,” said Stu. “The news broadcast always tells the truth.”

She called Downtown Sheriff's Homicide and asked for Hector De la Torre or Detective Banks, not remembering- or knowing- the younger one's first name. Banks came on the line, greeting her with surprising warmth. “Thought you might call.”

“Why's that?”

“Last night's news. Unfortunately, I've got nothing for you so far. Agoura substation has no previous complaints on file- not even the one she went public on- so it looks like she never called it in.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“My pleasure,” he said, sounding nervous. “No messy interdepartmental competition here. Our guys beat your guys in boxing last month, so we're feeling secure… anyway, you have my sympathy. They replayed it on the news early this morning, too. Made the house look even fancier than it was. Nothing on his little car museum, though.”

What a gabby guy.

“Just Jacuzzi bubbles and horses and golf.”

“Interesting, isn't it?” said Banks. “People getting life handed to them on a platter and still manage to mess it up royal… anything else you need?”

“Actually,” she said, suddenly inspired, “if you've got time, we've been directed to do a file search on similar homicides over a two-year period. Do you have easy access to county data?”

Banks laughed. “This is L.A.- nothing's easy. But sure, we've learned to walk without scraping our knuckles on the sidewalk. Similars? As in the unknown lurking perp? Why?”

“The brass is nervous.”

“Oh. Sure, I'll check for you.”

“Really appreciate it, Detective Banks.”

“Ron.”

“This is scut, Ron. Don't put your schedule out of joint.”

“Do you have a direct number?”

She gave it to him, and he said, “By similar I'm assuming crime-scene layout, wound type and quantity, idiosyncrasies, victim characteristics. Anything unusual about the crime scene I should know about?”

“No,” she said, feeling protective of her information. “Just your basic butchery.”

“Okay, then. Get back to you if anything comes up. Either way.”

“Thanks, Ron.”

“Sure… um… listen, I know this kind of case there isn't going to give you much spare time, but if some does come up… I mean if you want to get together- maybe just for a cup of coffee… if I'm out of line, just say so.”

Stumbling like a high school kid.

The warmth of his greeting made sense now.

He wasn't remotely her type- whatever that was. She could barely remember his face, had been concentrating on Ramsey's. Had he been wearing a wedding ring? He had mentioned taking his kids to the zoo.

At least he had kids. Didn't hate kids.

She must have taken too long, because he came back with “Listen, I'm sorry, didn't mean to-”

“No, no, that's fine,” she heard herself saying. “Sure, when things ease up a bit. That would be fine.”

God help her.