The clerk said, “You've got messages, but it's crazy; can't go up to check.” No one answered in the squad room. She hung up, and Wil took his jacket off the mantel. His forehead was as dark and slick as licorice and he wiped it and dialed the phone. A number she recognized: Downtown Sheriff's. Ron's HQ.

“Good old tans again,” he said. “Their solve rate's about twice ours, but they don't have to deal with the gangbanger-no-witness bullshi- Hello, this is Detective Fournier, Hollywood LAPD. Could you please-”

Petra took the shoe boxes out to her car. In the dark, Balch's street was silent and peaceful, happy families cozy in front of the big screen. If they only knew. She filled her nose with warm, piney air. What was the weather like in Duluth, Minnesota? What would Helen Balch think when the ex's face was all over the tube?

When she got back, Wil was smiling.

“No ID on the body, but they've got the head- thank you, Boy Scouts- and the description fits Moran to a T. I know we've been cranking up the overtime, and I was looking forward to some shut-eye, Petra, but I think we need at least to check this Russian out. Maybe we can't solve Lisa right away, but wouldn't it be nice to solve something?”

“It would be loverly,” said Petra. “Do you mind if we stop on the way for some grub? There's a Chinese place on Hawthorne that Mr. Balch patronized. I doubt he's got good taste, but who knows?”

71

Kathy Bishop awoke at nine, sweating, chilled, in terrible pain. Stu punched the call button and held her hand. She looked at him, but from her face he couldn't tell what she saw. Where the hell were the nurses- he wanted to run over to the station but didn't want to leave Kathy.

Finally they came, and he had to control himself from screaming at them.

Now Kathy was sedated, back asleep, and he realized it hadn't taken that long after all.

Get a grip.

The room felt like a cell; he'd left only for an hour, when Mother had vanned all the kids over at five-thirty and they'd gone for burgers and fries at a local McDonald's. All six were quieter than usual, even the baby. He assured them they could see Mommy soon, played around, told jokes, thought they were buying the Daddy-as-usual bit but wasn't sure. He felt out of it, some imposter inhabiting Daddy's body.

The kids started acting up, and Mother said, “Let's go, troops.”

On the way out, Stu noticed other diners staring and he filled with anger.

What's wrong, turkeys, never seen a big family before?

He stayed hot all the way to St. Joe's. Weird; he'd never had a short fuse before.

Meanwhile, Petra and Wil were chasing what looked to be a multiple killer and he was calling airlines, catching guff and bureaucratese, turning up empty, no record of Balch booking any flights, but with all the turndowns he'd received, who knew?

He used to be able to worm stuff out of bureaucrats. Mormon charm, Kathy called it, kissing his forehead and favoring him with her come-hither wink. He loved that wink.

Not an ounce of charm in him tonight. He held Kathy's hand. Limp, lifeless. But for the warmth of her skin, he might have panicked.

Breathing evenly. The machines said she was fine.

No more airlines to call, not a damn thing to do but wait.

For what? More pain?

Too wound-up to sleep, he got up and paced the room. He needed to sleep, needed to be together for Kathy… the stack of TV Guides sat on an end table. Maybe stupid, derivative Dack Price plotlines would get him drowsy.

He was into the second volume when he felt his posture slacken and his eyelids droop. The third made the room grow dim.

Then something filtered through the fatigue.

Words, sentences- something a little different.

Now he was sitting up. Wide-awake.

Rereading… wondering… should he call Petra?

Strange- maybe nothing. But…

He didn't even know where Petra was. So out of touch. Could his judgment be trusted?

He'd try to find her. Worse came to worst, he'd have wasted some time.

Wasting time was his new hobby anyway.

72

The white cop was taking him seriously.

Finally. Which is what Zhukanov told him when the guy appeared at the counter, just before closing time, showing his badge and the picture of the kid.

“Finally.”

“Pardon, sir?”

“I talk to one of you, but he don't call back. A black guy.”

The white cop stared. “Yes, sir, I know.”

“What do you want?” demanded Zhukanov.

“Double-checking on the identification, sir.” The cop leaned his elbows on the counter and put the newspaper clipping down. Big guy, blond, ruddy, dark suit, dark tie. He reminded Zhukanov of a colonel he'd worked with on crowd control back home, a real sadist, loved to twist limbs, knew how to do maximal damage with just a flick of a wrist… Borokovsky. This guy looked a lot like Borokovsky. Was he of Rus-sian descent? His card said Detective D. A. Price, but everyone changed their names.

“Double-checking? I already tell you he been here, no one calls me, it's on the TV.”

“It's a homicide investigation, sir, we have to be careful,” said the blond cop, looking over Zhukanov's shoulder at the shelves of toys.

Calling me sir but probably thinking I'm some kind of joke, a clown. The fat guy thought so too, and look where he was.

Having had several hours to think about it, Zhukanov felt good about killing the fat guy- great, even; the Siberian wolf dispatches its prey, paints its muzzle with blood, howls at the moon. While cutting the guy up, Zhukanov had felt like howling.

Moving him into the car, then dragging him out had been torture; Zhukanov's back and shoulders and arms still throbbed. Getting the bastard into pieces turned out to be not so easy, either. He should've sharpened the kitchen knives better; that cleaver should've gone right through the joints, not stuck like that.

The head, though, had been less of a problem than he expected. Rolling away like a soccer ball, eyes open. That was funny. He felt like kicking it, but you had to get rid of the head and the fingers, let the cops have the rest of the carcass. His plan had been to take the head somewhere it would never be found, but the Boy Scouts had ruined it, hiking through the forest, yelling like drunks. So now the cops had the head; maybe they'd learn who the fat guy was. Big deal. No connection to him; he'd cleaned all the blood. And here was a cop leaning over the very same counter, no clue.

Zhukanov fought not to smile. He'd tossed the knives into five separate storm drains from Valencia to Van Nuys. The fat man's clothing and billfold ended up in Dumpsters near Fairfax and Melrose- let the Yids get blamed.

No bills in the billfold, just a driver's license and a nice picture of a naked girl with her legs spread that Zhukanov pocketed. The license he slipped down another drain. The fat man's name was Moran. So what.

When he got home he washed his bloody clothes, took a shower, had something to eat, worked with the broken gun for a while, still couldn't figure out what was wrong with it. Then a few glasses of vodka and he was out like a light by three. Five hours later, he was back at the shack waiting for the Yids to return with the kid. If they didn't, he'd go over to the motor vehicle department on Monday.

But the car showed up, all right, pulling behind the Yid church at nine. Prayer time for the Yids, Zhukanov knew, usually till eleven or so. He kept going back to the alley every fifteen minutes; finally spotted the old guy who'd hidden the kid coming out with an old woman. They drove off, and he followed them in his car. They never noticed- too busy yapping.