76

“That's the place,” said Wil, waiting, the phone to his ear.

Ocean Front Walk was dark and deserted, and Petra could barely make out the souvenir stand. As they got closer, she saw it was a tiny, ramshackle thing, roll-down shutter over the front.

“Okay,” Wil said to the phone. To Petra: “Got a home address for him. West Hollywood. Of course.”

They were twenty feet away from the shack. No one on the walkway for at least a hundred yards. They'd passed one homeless guy at the corner of Paloma and Speedway, and Petra saw another sitting on a bench to the north, but he got up and shuffled away. The tide whispered secrets and the beach looked like ice.

They were about to turn around when she noticed something. Two inches of space beneath the shutter. Closed but not locked?

Gun out, she hurried over, Wil following. Loops for a lock were welded to the lower-right-hand corner of the steel roll and a ring was bolted to the counter. But no lock in sight. She peered through the two inches. Dark, but she could make out stuff wrapped in plastic hanging from racks… Postcards. Hats. Just like the kind William Straight wore.

She backed clear across Ocean Front, watched the stand while talking to Wil in a low voice: “Clear sign of illegal entry, our duty to investigate.”

“Absolutely,” he said. “But what if the guy's some nut and he's lurking inside there- let's check the back first.”

Whipping out penlights, they snaked along the north side of the stand. Too damn dark, too damn quiet. Petra liked using her brains, psyching out bad guys. She could do without this TV cop stuff.

Behind the building were two huge wooden packing crates, slats over plank sides. Her penlight said they came from the docks at Long Beach.

The stand's back door was bolted, a nice big padlock in place. Off, definitely off. Unless it hadn't been a thought-out burglary, just something impulsive… the packing crates stank of garbage. The neighboring buildings all utilized commercial Dumpsters. City regulations- the Russian saving money?

One good thing about the crates, though- the slats offered an easy foothold. She got a toe in, hoisted herself up the first one, looked inside. Nothing.

She found Zhukanov in the second crate, lying on his back atop a heap of trash, mouth open in the dead man's stupid gape, one arm spread, the other pinioned under his head at an angle that would have been excruciatingly painful had he been alive.

Bisected, disemboweled. The penlight turned his intestines into overfed eels.

Same killing wound as Lisa.

Balch had never left town at all; the charter call, a fake-out just as she'd suspected- so what had Stu phoned about?

No time to think about that. She ran the light over the trash, saw the blood now, a huge crimson oblong, spattered on paper refuse.

Wil had found blood, too. Specks and drips on the front of the crate, another large stain on the ground. She'd been standing right in it, damnit! How could she have missed it?

They phoned it in to Pacific Division, were told to safeguard the scene- it might be a while before anyone showed up, because a shooting had just gone down in Oakwood and some of those victims were still breathing.

Inside the stand, they found no evidence of break-in, just crappy toys, a rear stockroom with a chair and a card table full of receipts and sales slips, no apparent system. A Planet Hollywood jacket hung from a nail in the wall. On adjoining nails were nunchucks, half a baseball bat with a leather thong, tarnished brass knuckles.

The Russian, equipped for battle. Someone had taken him by surprise.

Several bottles in the corner might explain it. Cheap-looking Rus-sian labels, cloudy vodka. One of the bottles was nearly empty. Zhukanov drunk, his defenses down? Bolstered by booze when he killed Moran?

If he had killed Moran. Maybe he'd been Moran's crime buddy, a drug connection, whatever, and the two had colluded to collect the twenty-five thousand.

Somehow, Balch had figured it out and finished them both off.

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?