7
For two weeks of double shifts, most of which she neglected to file as overtime, Petra drove herself crazy, trying to track down as many members of Baby Boy’s final audience as she could, coming up only with the few names on the freebie list- most of whom hadn’t bothered to show up- and the stragglers she’d already talked to. She had a go with the Snake Pit’s absentee owner- a dentist from Long Beach – reinterviewed the custodians, the bouncers, the cocktail waitresses, Lee’s band- all pickup musicians- and the diminutive, poorly shod Jackie True. All useless.
She even tried to contact the members of Tic 439, the band that had sparked visions of comeback in Baby Boy’s head. Here, she encountered another side of the music biz: layers of insulation, from the receptionists of record- company executives on up to the band’s manager, an unctuous-sounding stoner named Beelzebub Lawrence, who finally deigned, after Petra called him a dozen times, to speak to her over the phone. Music pounded in the background, and Lawrence spoke softly. The two-minute conversation strained Petra ’s hearing and her patience.
Yeah, Baby Boy had been brilliant.
No, he had no idea who’d want to hurt him.
Yeah, the guys had dug jamming with him.
No, they hadn’t had contact with him since the recording session.
Petra said, “He really added something to their sound, didn’t he?” She’d bought the CD, found it an execrable mix of whiny lyrics and plodding rhythm. Only Baby Boy’s guitar, sweet and sustaining, on two tracks, lent any sense of musicality to the mess.
Beelzebub Lawrence said, “Yeah, he was cool.”
The coroner was finished with Baby Boy’s corpse, but no one had come forward to claim it. Even though it wasn’t her job, Petra did some genealogical research that led her to Edgar Ray Lee’s closest living relative. A great-aunt named Grenadina Bourgeouis, ancient-sounding and feeble.
Senile, too, it soon became clear. The phone chat rattled the old woman and left Petra ’s head spinning. She called Jackie True and apprised him of the situation.
He said, “Baby wanted to be cremated.”
“He talked about dying?”
“Doesn’t everybody?” said True. “I’ll handle it.”
It was nearly 4 A.M. on a Monday, and she was mentally exhausted but too jumpy to sleep. She took a deep breath, sat back in her chair, drank cold coffee from the cup that had been sitting there for hours. Caffeine; that’ll help the old nerves, smart girl.
The detective room was quiet, just her and a D II named Balsam pecking away at an antiquated computer. Balsam was Petra ’s age but carried himself like an old man. Old man’s taste in music, too. He’d brought a boom box, but it wasn’t booming. Tuned to an easy-listening station. Some eighties hair-band song redone with strings and a harp. Petra was transported to a department-store elevator.
Her notes on Baby Boy were spread out before her, and she gathered them up, began replacing them in the folder. Making sure each page was in its right place. You couldn’t be too careful…
What difference did it make? This one wasn’t going to close anytime in the near future.
Her phone rang. “Connor.”
“Detective?” said a male voice.
“Yes, this is Detective Connor.”
“Good, this is Officer Saldinger. I’m over at Western and Franklin, and we could use one of you guys.”
“What’s the problem?” said Petra.
“Your line of work,” said Saldinger. “Lots of blood.”
8
After Robin’s drop-in, our contact was limited to polite phone calls and forwarded mail accompanied by even more polite notes. If she needed to talk about Baby Boy or anything else of substance, she’d found another audience.
I thought about visiting Spike. I’d adopted him, but he ended up disdaining me and competing for Robin’s attention. No custody struggle, I knew the score. Still, from time to time I missed his little bulldog face, the comical egotism, the awe-inspiring gluttony.
Maybe soon.
I’d heard nothing about the murder since Petra ’s first call, and weeks later, I spotted her name in the paper.
Triple slaying in the parking lot of a dance club off Franklin Boulevard. Three A.M. ambush of a carload of Armenian gang members from Glendale, by members of a rival faction from East Hollywood. Petra and a partner I didn’t know, a detective named Eric Stahl, had arrested a fifteen-year-old shooter and a sixteen-year-old driver after “a prolonged investigation.”
Petra spending her time on something she could solve?
Maybe so, but she was driven; failure would stick in her gut.
For the next few weeks, I concentrated on spending time with Allison, helping kids, banking some income. One consultation kept me particularly busy: a two-year-old girl accidentally shot in the leg by her four-year-old brother. Lots of family complications, no easy answers, but things finally seemed to be settling down.
I convinced Allison to take off some time, and we spent a four-day weekend at the San Ysidro Ranch in Montecito, imbibing sun and great food. When we drove back to L.A. I convinced myself I was doing okay on all fronts.
The day after I got back, Milo phoned, and said, “Don’t you sound chipper.”
“Been working on chipper.”
“Don’t overdo it,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you to forget the morose underpinnings of our relationship.”
“God forbid,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Something decidedly un-chipper. I’ve got a weird one, so naturally I thought of you.”
“Weird in what way?”
“Apparently motiveless, but we psychologically astute types know better, don’t we? An artist- a painter- murdered the night of her big opening. Last Saturday. Someone strangled her. Ligature- thin, with corrugations, probably a wound metal wire.”
“Sexual assault?”
“There was some posing but no evidence of assault. You have time?”
“For you, always.”
