Twisted

CHAPTER 38

With a pounding heart, trying not to look panicked, Petra scanned Lankershim, found a Mexican café across the boulevard that had a clear diagonal view of the gallery’s entrance. They lucked out by scoring a window booth, ordered food they’d never touch, coffee they would.

Rummaging through her purse, she found the head Downtown hotshot’s number and tried to reach him. Machine at his desk number, no answer on his cell. She waited out the tape, recited clearly and slowly, hoped her fear didn’t seep into the message. A call to Parker Center trying to reach the guy was no more helpful, even after she convinced the desk that she was legit. Out, no forwarding.

Same for his cohorts; all three hotshots were checked out for the weekend.

The big, aloof gang sergeant was gone, too. Yet another tape answered at the Valley gang unit’s main extension.

Multiple murderer on his way and all the experts were mellowing for the weekend. Some task force. If Joe Taxpayer only knew…

She phoned Mac Dilbeck’s house and his wife, Louise, said, “Aw, honey, he took the grandkids to Disneyland, didn’t take a phone. Something you want me to tell him?”

“Not important,” said Petra. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

What next… informing Schoelkopf was proper procedure but out of the question. He’d kill the whole deal, discipline her for insubordination, and Omar would get away. Worse: A no-show at the gallery might make Omar suspicious and motivate a serious rabbit.

Upon arriving at NoHo, she’d spotted three uniforms: a black-and-white one block east, near a chained parking lot, the officers shmoozing, and a single female cop on foot patrol up near Chandler Boulevard. The woman had clipped hair, thin lips, shorts that exposed dimpled knees. An LAPD T-shirt above her equipment-laden belt, the whole blend-in thing.

Calling in any of them was too risky. With twenty-five minutes to go, there wasn’t even time to explain the basics and she couldn’t risk having Omar spot blue and bolt.

Besides, nothing was more dangerous than a poorly designed operation.

That left her and Eric. He sat across from her, looking calm. Serene, even. She pressed End on her cell, pocketed the little contraption.

Tried to take his example and calm down.

Any way you cut it, she was in trouble. Might as well catch a bad guy.

They planned it this way: Omar Selden had never met Eric, so Eric would be the inside guy, returning to the gallery alone, pretending to browse, not talking much. Petra would remain across the street in the café, her eyes fixed on Flash Image’s front door. As soon as she spotted Selden, she’d connect with Eric’s cell, ring twice, hang up.

After that, it would all be improvisation.

Twenty minutes after Xenia’s call, Eric left his breakfast burrito minus two bites on the table, drained his coffee cup, and walked out.

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.”