But then why bother taking Moran to Angeles Crest while leaving Zhukanov right here where he was sure to be found?
Look what I can do!
Zhukanov’s gut wound matched Lisa’s and Ilse’s. But Moran didn’t fit. So the Russian probably had dispatched Moran. And Balch had finished off Zhukanov.
There could only be one reason: The Russian knew something vital about William Bradley Straight.
All Zhukanov had told Wil was that the boy had bought a hat from him.
Not enough to kill for.
Had the Russian held back? Did he know more?
She shot her theories at Wil, who was up in front, examining the inside wall beneath the counter, looking for more bloodstains.
She was talking at manic speed, couldn’t believe the edge in her voice. Wil listened, said, “You think Zhukanov saw the boy again? Got a fix on his location? But how would Balch find out?”
“I don’t know-but if it was him, he took Zhukanov by surprise. Maybe force. Or Zhukanov was plastered. Or he pulled some kind of scam on Zhukanov. The guy was crazy for the reward. It could have clouded his judgment.”
“A scam,” said Wil. “Someone who’d be legit asking about the boy?”
“Yes,” said Petra. “A social worker-a cop. Maybe Balch impersonated a cop.”
Wil thought about that. “A suit and a fake badge is all it’d take. Yeah, Zhukanov’s greed would do the rest. But for Balch to risk killing him now, when he knows we’re going to be looking for him?”
“We haven’t caught him. He may not even know we’re on to him,” said Petra. “And if it leads to the boy, it could seem worth it. That tells me Zhukanov may very well have learned something more about the boy.”
She returned to the stockroom, searching nervously, frantically. Toys, stupid toys-imagine a hairbasket like Zhukanov peddling playthings to little kids… nothing in the pocket of the Planet Hollywood jacket… the card table, the receipts-she grabbed them all up, started scanning.
Ten slips in, she found an invoice form, no sale marked, no date. Just a single line of shaky printing. 2RTRM34
License number? Had the Russian seen William Straight in a car and copied down the plate? Everyone knew you could bribe info out of DMV. The papers had covered a big bribery scandal a few months ago. A guy like Zhukanov would know his way around that sort of thing. Pay up, get the address.
She looked for a phone in the shack. None in either room. What a hovel. Fournier was still looking for blood. She borrowed his phone-what was the night number for DMV traces… yeah, yeah, she remembered it. When the clerk came on, she had to fight from barking orders at the woman. This one was a stickler for regulations.
Lord save me from rule books.
But a little assertiveness finally made her cooperate, and a few computer clicks later Petra had it: Samuel Morris Ganzer, 23 Sunrise Court, Venice.
Birthdate in 1925.
An old man.
Had William found himself a protector?
CHAPTER
77
The Lincoln was parked inches from the back of the house, and its front bumper gave him a great boost to the window.
Drapes on this one too, but not drawn tightly; he had a perfect view of the kitchen, helped along by a small light over the stove. The living room, too, separated only by a waist-high counter. A floor lamp there cast charcoal shadows on gray carpet. Enough light to see the front door. Red glow off to the right side. Alarm. Too bad. But better to know up front.
Three doors to the left, probably bedrooms and bathroom. Not much space between them. Small rooms, better for stabbing.
And that was the entire layout. Excellent…
No sign of the boy since he’d first ventured out onto the porch. The old guy, either. Both bedroom doors closed. The boy and the old man-with or without wife-fast asleep? Or maybe the old guy was a queer and the boy was sleeping with him.
That would sure explain taking him home.
Sleep made it a helluva lot easier: Burst in, throw the bedroom doors open, boom boom boom, gone even before the time delay kicked in on the alarm.
Knock stuff over on the way out, maybe steal something, to make it look like a gang thing.
He got down from the car, checked the alley for intruders, examined the house’s rear door. Two dead bolts. Bad. But putting a little weight on the wood, he felt some give. One or two good shoves would take it off the hinges. Probably ruin his shoulder, but he was used to pushing his way through obstacles. The door was nothing compared to a defensive line.
Okay, then. Here come da blitz. The knife if it worked, the gun ready for backup. Either way, he could do it in seconds, run out the back, fade into the night.
One last look through the kitchen window.
He was scared, had to admit it. This was different, not like Lisa, the German girl, Sally, the stupid Russian. All those times, he’d set up the scenes.
But there were times you had to improvise.
He climbed up on the Lincoln’s bumper again. Nothing different, but still he hesitated. Up again, down again. Compulsive. When his anxiety rose, he handled it with repetition. Like his mother’s head banging. The stupid bitch. She deserved to die in that stupid helmet.
Okay, one last look-this time, he saw the boy-see, it pays to be thorough!
Coming out of the middle door to the left. A bathroom, just as he’d guessed.
Skinny little thing, light enough to drop-kick. He watched him emerge, go into the kitchen, open the refrigerator, take something out-a carrot.
Would he wash it? The sink was right below the window. Duck.
Crouched next to the outer wall, he heard plumbing kick in. Hygienic little sucker.
The water stopped. He waited, finally raised his head, peeked in, again. The kid was standing in the living room, back to the kitchen window, eating the carrot. Finishing half of it, he walked to the front door, punched the alarm panel-damn, too far to make out the code.
Opening the door, the kid stepped out again. But only for a few seconds, and here he was again, back inside, closing the door, turning, about to face the window.
Could he see anything out here in the darkness? Probably not, unless it was right up against the glass, but be extra careful, duck again.
Another thirty seconds passed before he dared another look. The kid was still standing in the living room, munching on the carrot, visible in profile.
Just another face.
The kid finished the carrot, bent, and picked something up. A magazine. He eats healthy, washes, reads. Such a good little citizen.
But not careful. Because the light on the front alarm panel was green.
He’d forgotten to trigger the goddamn alarm!
God was wonderful!
The blitz was on!
