Free Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 by Twisted Page A

Detective.”
    â€œWho pays her bills?”
    â€œCCS—Children’s Cancer Service, it’s a county fund.”
    â€œNo family members,” said Petra.
    â€œShe’s not the only one,” said the clerk. “We get runaways all the time. This is Hollywood.”
    The other address Sandra had used was on Gower north of Hollywood. Minutes from the station. If you were in an energetic mood, you could walk.
    Petra got back on the freeway. “See what I mean,” she told Isaac. “Tedious.”
    â€œI think it’s interesting,” he said.
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œThe process. How you go about putting it all together.”
    Petra didn’t believe she’d put anything together. She glanced over at Isaac. Not a trace of irony on his face.
    He said, “I also find it interesting the way people relate to you. Bonnie’s mother, for example. She clearly saw you as an authority figure and that caused her to be respectful. She’s a conventional woman, proud of her husband’s military service, takes her responsibilities seriously.”
    â€œAs opposed to her daughter.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œGeneration gap,” said Petra.
    â€œGenerational breakdown,” he said. “People in Bonnie’s generation see themselves as free from convention and regulation.”
    â€œYou think that’s bad?”
    Isaac smiled. “I’ve been instructed by my dissertation committee not to make value judgments until the data are all in.”
    â€œWe ain’t in school. Go a little crazy.”
    He fingered his tie. “I think an extremely open society is a double-edged sword. Some people take advantage of freedom in a healthy way, others can’t cope. On balance, I’d opt for too much freedom. Sometimes, when I can get my father to talk, he tells us about El Salvador. I know the difference between democracy and the alternatives. There’s no country as great as America in the twenty-first century.”
    â€œExcept for people who can’t cope with too much freedom.”
    â€œAnd they,” said Isaac, “have you to contend with.”
    Gower Street. Unit eleven of a twenty-unit apartment complex the color of honeydew melon set midway between Hollywood Boulevard and Franklin Avenue.
    â€œOkay,” said Petra, getting out of the car. “Let’s see what our little fibber has to say for herself.”
    When she scanned the mailboxes near the front door, unit eleven was registered to
Hawkins, A.
    No
Leon
on any of the slots.
    The front door was unlocked. They climbed the stairs and walked to the rear of the hallway where number eleven was tucked. Petra rang the bell and a very tall, black man in a green sweater and brown slacks answered the door. White snowflakes were printed at the neck and cuffs of the sweater, a ski-thing in June. An intricate zigzag cornrow sheathed his high-domed head—one of those architectural masterpieces NBA pros liked to sport. Rapidograph pen in one hand, ink stains on his fingertips. What Petra could see of the apartment was spare and well-kept. Drafting table pushed up against a window. A cloud of incense drifted out to the hall.
    â€œYes?” said the man, twirling the pen.
    â€œAfternoon, sir,” said Petra, flashing the badge. “I’m looking for Sandra Leon.”
    â€œWho?”
    Petra repeated the name. “She listed this apartment as her address.”
    â€œMaybe she lived here once upon a time, but not for at least a year, because that’s how long I’ve been here.”
    â€œA year,” said Petra.
    â€œTwelve months and two weeks to be exact.” Twirl, twirl. Big grin. “I promise you, my name’s not Sandra.”
    Petra smiled back. “What would it be, sir?”
    â€œAlexander Hawkins.”
    â€œArtist?”
    â€œWhen I’m allowed to be. Mostly I work at a travel agency—Serenity Tours, over at Crossroads of the