46
At 9 P.M., as I left to pick up Allison at her office, the phone rang. I decided to let the service pick up but as I drove, my cell phone beeped.
Milo said, “I’m on my way to Pasadena, got a panic call from Kipper’s girlfriend, Stephanie Cranner. Kipper knocked her around pretty badly, then took some pills. I 911’d Pasadena PD, but I wanna go over there, myself. She seemed like a nice kid . . . here we go, good, freeway’s nice and clear. Here’s the latest on the main stuff: my baby Ds came through. I had them go over every single name on the Levitch invitation list, call each invitee, make sure they were actually there. Turns out one couple—old folks from San Gabriel—couldn’t make it and gave their tickets away. Guess what? They’re on the board of Charter College and pals of Mr. and Mrs. William Trueblood.”
“Shull got the tickets. Who’d he go with?”
“No one, only one ticket was used. It’s not proof positive Shull was actually there, he could always claim he gave the ticket away, too. But it was enough—along with my assurances that we’re highly likely to pull a DNA match to the hairs on Mehrabian to nudge Judge Foreman into granting me a limited warrant for Shull’s house. After I’m through in Pasadena, I’m driving out to Foreman’s house. After that, we converge on Faithful Scrivener. Foreman lives out in Porter Ranch, so I’m figuring at least three, four hours before everything’s in place.”
“Where’s Shull, now?”
“Last time I talked to Petra he was still home, but that was hours ago. The plan’s for an early-morning surprise, say 2 A.M. If he night crawls, Stahl and Petra tail and we take the house. If he’s home, we all party.”
“How limited is the warrant?”
“I’ve requested permission to confiscate all written materials as well as personal belongings of victims, low E guitar strings, and weapons. Reason I’m calling is I want to know if you’ve got any other suggestions before I complete the application.”
“Audio- and videotapes,” I said. “Sketch pads, drawings, paintings. Any medium in which Shull might express himself.”
“You’re saying he re-creates the killings.”
“There’s a good chance he does.”
“Okay,” he said. “Thanks . . . this is good, I’m up for it. Time to give him a bad review.”
As I neared Montana Street, the cell beeped again. This time I ignored it.
Thinking what a beautiful night it was. Wondering what Allison would be wearing.
47
Slow night; a couple of drive-by trawlers, no takers, and some of the women were lounging in the shadows, smoking.
Petra left her Accord two blocks down, continued on foot, found a vantage point near some garbage bins outside a toy warehouse and watched for a while. The air stank of vinyl and fuel. Every so often jumbo jets roared overhead, assaulting the sky.
She took her 9 mm. out of her purse and transferred it to the lightweight mesh holster that rode her hip, concealed by a loose, black jacket. Richard Tyler markdown, a real bargain. Way too nice for this kind of thing but the way her life had been going a bit of couture was her sole link to civilization.
What would Tyler think, seeing his duds on Prostie Avenue?
She decided to make her move, walked toward the hookers, aiming for nonchalance but feeling the chill of anxiety. As she passed the first two women, both black, they dangled their cigarettes and stared. One said, “Hey, sister, you like to munch?”
Giggles.
“Cause I ready for anything.”
Petra continued walking. One of the women called out: “You ain’t even thinking of setting up here, Skinnylegs, cause this is private property and you dressed for Beverly Hills.”
More laughter, but an edge to it.
Someone with a high, nasal voice said, “Privates property.”
Receptive audience for the wisecrack. Petra looked for the comedian. A big smirk said it was her quarry: the stocky brunette white girl in the red vinyl ensemble.
Smiling at Petra. Petra smiled back and the woman cocked a hip. The hot pants were tight, ruby sausage casing for flaccid pale flesh. The woman’s face was broad, coarse, appeared well beyond middle age, though Petra guessed her age as late twenties.