Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 Read Free

“The vics are two boys and two girls.”
    â€œHow old?”
    â€œWe I.D.’d three: fifteen, fifteen, and seventeen. The fourth, one of the girls, had no paper on her.”
    â€œNothing at all?”
    Dilbeck shook his head. “Some poor parents are going to worry a lot and then hear the bad news. It stinks, doesn’t it? Maybe I
should
fold my tent.”
    He’d been talking retirement for as long as Petra had known him.
    She said, “I’ll fold before you will.”
    â€œProbably,” he admitted.
    â€œI’d like a look at the bodies before they get taken away.”
    â€œLook to your heart’s content and then have a go at that nearest group, the one over there.”
    Petra learned what she could about the victims.
    Paul Allan Montalvo, two weeks from his sixteenth birthday. Chubby, round-faced, plaid shirt, black sweatpants. Smooth olive skin where it wasn’t distorted by a gunshot under his right eye. Two other holes in his legs.
    Wanda Leticia Duarte, seventeen. Gorgeous, pale, with long black hair, rings on eight of her fingers, five ear-pierces. Three chest shots. Left side, bingo.
    Kennerly Scott Dalkin, fifteen, looked closer to twelve. Fair-skinned, freckled, shaved head the color of putty. Black leather jacket and skull pendant hanging from a leather thong around the neck that had been pierced by a bullet. His getup and scuffed Doc Martens said he’d been aiming for tough, hadn’t even come close. In his wallet was a card proclaiming him to be a member of the honor society at Birmingham High.
    The unidentified girl was probably Hispanic. Short, busty, with shoulder-length curly hair dyed rust at the tips. Tight white top, tight black jeans—Kmart house brand. Pink sneakers—the shoes Petra had spied—not much larger than a size five.
    Another head shot, the puckered black hole just in front of her right ear. Four others in her torso. The pockets of her jeans had been turned inside out. Petra inspected her cheap leatherette purse. Chewing gum, tissues, twenty bucks cash, two packets of condoms.
    Safe sex. Petra kneeled by the girl’s side. Then she got up to do her job.
    Eighteen know-nothings.
    She addressed them as a group, tried coming on gently, being a pal, stressing the importance of cooperation to prevent something like this from happening again. Her reward was eighteen blank stares. Pressing the group elicited a few slow head shakes. Maybe some of it was shock, but Petra sensed she was boring them.
    â€œNothing you can tell me?” she asked a slim, redheaded boy.
    He scrunched his lips and shook his head.
    She had them form a line, took down names and addresses and phone numbers, acted casual as she checked out their nonverbal behavior.
    Two nervous ones stood out, a serious handwringer and a nonstop foot-tapper. Both girls. She held them back, let the others go.
    Bonnie Ramirez and Sandra Leon, both sixteen. They dressed similarly—tight tops, low riders, and high-heeled boots—but didn’t know each other. Bonnie’s top was black, some sort of cheap crepelike fabric, and she’d caked her face with makeup to cover up gritty acne. Her hair was brown, frizzy, tied up in a complicated ’do that had probably taken hours to construct but managed to look careless. Still wringing her hands, as Petra reiterated the importance of being open and honest.
    â€œI
am
honest,” she said. Fluent English, that musical East L.A. tincture that stretches final words.
    â€œWhat about the car, Bonnie?”
    â€œI told you, I didn’t see it.”
    â€œNot at all?”
    â€œNothing. I gotta go, I really gotta go.”
    Wring, wring, wring.
    â€œWhat’s the rush, Bonnie?”
    â€œGeorge’s only babysitting till one and it’s way after that.”
    â€œYou’ve got a kid?”
    â€œTwo years old,” said Bonnie Ramirez, with a mixture of pride and amazement.
    â€œBoy or