“That’s it,” said Zhukanov. Go find him, you stupid bastard. I’m giving him to you on a platter!
The cop put his pad away and shot out a hand. “Thank you, sir.”
They shook. Firm, manly shake. If the cop only knew the hand he was grasping had been bloody up to the elbow a few hours ago. Zhukanov tried to break the clasp, get the guy moving, but he couldn’t pull away-the cop was holding on to him, yanking him close-what the hell was this? The cop was grinning, like he was going to kiss him, this wasn’t right, this was wrong.
Zhukanov struggled, struck out.
A hand grabbed his wrist, twisted it, something broke, and pain devoured him from fingertip to the bottom of his ear. One quick move, just like Colonel Borokovsky. He cried out involuntarily, and something big and meaty exploded in the middle of his face and he went down.
Then more pain, even worse, burning, searing, like a fire igniting his bowels.
Starting right under his navel, then spreading upward, like a burning rope. Then he felt cold, a strange cold- cold air blowing… inside him, deep inside, and knew he’d been split open, filleted-the way he’d split the fat bastard and now it had happened to him and he couldn’t do a damn thing, just lie there and take it.
The last thing he felt was a hand going through his pocket.
Fishing out the contract. Liar! Cheater! The money was his.
CHAPTER
73
Being alone here is different from the park. Different from Watson.
I’ve got all these rooms, these books, someone who trusts me. Once in a while I hear footsteps out on the sidewalk or someone talking or laughing, a car driving by. But they don’t bother me; I’m here, locked in. I can sleep without waking up to see what’s around. I can read without a flashlight.
I’ve thought about it a lot, and Sam’s right. Tomorrow I’ll find a phone and call the police, tell them about PLYR 1. Maybe I can call Mom, too. Tell her I’m okay, not to worry, I’m doing just fine, one day I’ll come back, be able to support her.
What would she do? Cry? Get mad? Beg me to come back?
Or worse: not beg me? She must miss me a little.
I stop thinking about it, stretch my feet out on the couch, pull the knit blanket up over my knees, start in on the next Life magazine. The main article’s all about John Kennedy and his family, happy and handsome on the beach.
California beach, same sand that’s just a little way up. I could walk over, look at it, pretend to be John Kennedy, come back. But I told Sam I’d stay here, and he gave me the alarm code.
1-1-2-5. I get up and try it. Green light.
Red light, green light, red light.
Green light. I open the door, smell the salt, that beach smell. No one’s out; most of the houses are dark.
I go out to the porch. Feel cold, scared.
Back in the house. Why does just going outside scare me?
I’ll try again later. Back to the Kennedys.
CHAPTER
74
The owner of the Chinese restaurant had no memory of Balch. Petra and Wil ordered some spring rolls to go, ate them in her car, agreed to drive separately to Venice, meet on Pacific and Rose, walk to Zhukanov’s stand together.
She called the desk at Hollywood station.
“Detective Bishop for you half an hour ago,” said the clerk. Had Stu gotten hold of flight information on Balch?
This operator refused to put Petra through. “No calls to surgical patients past nine, ma’am.”
“I’m a police detective returning another detective’s call. Stuart Bishop.”
“Is Mr. Bishop the patient?”
“No, his wife is.”
“Then I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t put you through.”
“Let me speak to your supervisor, please.”
“I am the supervisor. The rules are for our patients’ welfare and comfort. If you’d like, I can have a message slip sent up to the room telling him you called.”
“Fine, I’ll wait.”
“Can’t do that, ma’am. It’ll take time. We’re understaffed, and I need to keep all the lines open. If it’s important, I’m sure he’ll call back.”
“Sure,” said Petra. “Have a nice night.”
She got back in the car, drove on, hoping it wasn’t that important. Even if they found a flight reservation, she had doubts Balch had actually shown up. The call to Westward Charter had to be a fake-out. Balch had been too careful about everything else to slip up like that.
Meaning what?
He was anywhere but Las Vegas. Site of his second wedding. Tomorrow, she’d try to get hold of Amber Leigh. And Helen. Find out why they’d divorced the guy. His kinks, bad habits, what might lead him to murder blondes.
Anywhere but… the cabin in the woods? Homicidal Thoreau? If no leads showed up soon, Schoelkopf would probably go straight to America’s Most Wanted. Maybe that was the best way to handle it. Take the heat off her and Wil. Off William Bradley Straight, now motherless, poor, poor kid.
And now the guy who’d probably turned him into an orphan had been butchered like the squalid ton of pork he was.
One less felon heard from. Petra felt grim satisfaction about that.
Not that it would stop her from going after the butcher.
CHAPTER
75
Dinky little house. Light on in the front room, but dim. The Lincoln parked in back.
So the old man was home with the kid. Was he married? Zhukanov hadn’t mentioned anything about seeing a wife, but that didn’t mean anything; the old guy could’ve gone to temple, left her behind. Maybe she was sick, an invalid.
Easy.
On balance, the walk street was probably an advantage. No cars to hide behind, but no drivers interrupting. No pedestrians either during the half hour he’d watched the house from three different spots.
He tried the back alley again, rubber soles swallowing his footsteps. The newish running shoes; he’d walked around in them, made sure there was no squeak.
