“When’s the last time you saw him, Ms. Solis?”
“Let’s see… a few days ago-last week. Must have been last Friday. Yes, Friday. He read a big pile of National Geographic s and Smithsonian s-didn’t take anything.”
Last weekday before Lisa’s murder. He hadn’t returned since.
A kid. Living in the park. Reading in the dark-how? By penlight? Part of a street kid’s survival stash?
From the Griffith Park lot to the North Gardner burglary was a good four, five miles. Traveling west-why? This was a kid who’d settled down, set up a routine, not a wanderer.
Scared? Because he’d seen something?
“I don’t want to put him in danger,” said the librarian.
“On the contrary, Ms. Solis. If I find him, I can make sure he’s kept out of danger.” Solis nodded, wanting to believe. The woman had bruised eyes. Kindred spirit- had she meant something beyond untrimmed hair?
“Thanks for your help,” said Petra.
“You’re sure he’s not… hurt?”
He was okay last night. Breaking into a house and cutting pineapple. “He’s fine, but I do need to locate him. Maybe you can help me with that.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
Petra took out her pad and a number 3 pencil. “I draw a little. Let’s see if we can come up with something.”
CHAPTER
32
“Rapist! Police!”
Why are they screaming that? I throw on my clothes. The screams get far away, I crack open the door, look out, see nothing, and run out the back.
It sounds like they’re out in front, still screaming “Rapist!” which is crazy. I’d never rape anyone; I know what it feels like to be hunted.
I run behind the garage, climb over the wooden fence into the next yard. Lights on in that house-colors, a TV behind the curtains; I hear someone laughing.
I run through the yard to the next street, then back up to Hollywood Boulevard, where I turn down another street, then up again, moving back and forth so no one will see me, walking, not running, blend in, blend in… no sirens. The cops haven’t come yet.
If those women keep lying about rape, they might send up helicopters with those big white beams. That could turn me into a bug on paper… then I realize they never saw me; why should anyone think I’m the one?
I slow down even more, pretend everything’s great. I’m on another quiet street. People locked inside thinking they’re safe.
Or maybe worried they’re not.
I’ll keep going west, away from the park and Hollywood. Stupid women with plants all over the place who leave food to rot.
The next busy street is Sunset. Weirdos, lots more kids than Hollywood, even more cars. Lots of restaurants, clubs. Across the street a place called Body Body Body! with a plastic sign of a naked lady. Then something called the Snake. Club with a big line out in front and two big fat guys not letting anyone in.
Is that guy in that red car looking at me weird?
I turn off to the next quiet street, back and forth again. Now my feet are hurting; I’ve been walking all day. West, maybe the beach. The beach is clean, isn’t it?
I have no money. No way to protect myself.
Should have taken the pineapple knife.
CHAPTER
33
Stu studied the drawing of the boy.
He’d blown in just before 4 P.M., no explanation. Petra burned to have it out with him, but this new development, a potential witness, meant they had to stay on task.
“Good work,” he said. “Don’t show Harold.”
Harold Beatty was a sixty-year-old Rampart narc who sometimes doubled as a sketch artist. All the faces he drew looked exactly the same. The Beatty Family, other D’s called them behind his back.
Stu played with his suspenders and the casual gesture angered Petra further. She wanted acknowledgment that this could be something.
Because she wasn’t confident it would lead anywhere.
At least the drawing was good. Guiding Magda Solis through every feature, Petra had produced a highly detailed, carefully shaded rendering. The librarian stared at the finished product and whispered, “Amazing.”
A nice-looking boy with big, wide-set eyes-Petra left them medium-shaded to accommodate either brown or blue-a narrow nose with pinched nostrils, thin mouth, pointy chin with a dimple. Solis wasn’t sure of the boy’s eye color, but she was sure of the dimple.
Straight hair, light brown, thick, brushed to the right, sheathing the forehead to the eyebrows, hanging over the ears, fringing wildly at the shoulders. A skinny neck sprouted from a T-shirt. Solis said he was small, well under five feet, eighty pounds tops, wore T-shirts, jeans, tennis shoes with holes in them, sometimes an old ratty sweater.
Oh yeah, and a watch, one of those cheap digital things.
That interested Petra. Was the timepiece an old Christmas present? Something he’d boosted? Where was his home? How long ago had he run away?
A kid. When she applied for detective, she’d been offered the choice of Juvey or Auto Theft, had chosen hot cars. No one asking why
…
Stu said, “He looks grim,” and that was true. The boy’s expression was beyond hurt; he looked burdened. Solis’s phrase was “crushed by life.”
“He takes food from the fridge, showers,” said Stu. “Print match to ours. Unbelievable.”
“Maybe it’s providence,” said Petra. “Maybe God’s rewarding you for all that piety and church time.”
“Sure,” said Stu. His voice rasped. She’d never heard him this angry.
What was the big deal? She always kidded him about religion. Before she could say a thing, he stood up and buttoned his jacket. “Okay, let’s go tell Schoelkopf.”
Turning his back on her, yet again. Since he’d waltzed into the squad room, they hadn’t shared a second of eye contact.
“Let’s do it later,” said Petra. “I’ve got paperwork-”
He wheeled suddenly. “What’s your problem with doing it by the book, Petra? He made it clear he wanted to be informed, and now there’s something to inform him about.”
He’d made it to the door when Petra caught up with him and stage-whispered. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on. We’re going to inform Schoelkopf.”
“Not that. What’s with you?”
He kept going, didn’t answer.
“Goddamn you, Bishop, you’re acting like a complete goddamn jerk!”
