Free Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 by Twisted Page B

World.” Another grin. “If that matters.”
    â€œIt doesn’t,” said Petra, “unless you know Sandra Leon.”
    â€œIs she an attractive young lady who appreciates art?” said Hawkins.
    â€œShe’s a sixteen-year-old girl who may have witnessed a murder.”
    Hawkins turned serious. “No, I don’t know any Sandra Leon.”
    â€œIs there an in-house landlord or manager?”
    â€œI wish. These luxury accommodations are shepherded by Franchise Realty headquartered in the golden city of Downey. I was just on the phone with their answering machine. Little insect problem. I can give you the number, know it by heart.”
    Back in the car, Petra called the company. The previous occupant of unit eleven had been a family named Kim and they’d been there for five years. No Leons had rented any apartments in the building during the seven years Franchise had managed the place.
    She hung up, told Isaac. “Sandra lied twice. And that makes me
real
interested in her.”
    Back on the phone, she left a detailed message for Dr. Bob Katzman.
    Isaac said, “Now what?”
    Petra said, “Now we return to the station and I try to locate little Ms. Leon. When I hit a wall, which will probably be sooner rather than later, I’ll take a closer look at those files of yours.”
    â€œI’ve been looking into June 28 to see if there’s some sort of historical significance. The best criminal link I’ve come up with is that John Dillinger was born on that day. I suppose that could be inspirational to a sociopath. But Dillinger was a bank robber, a grandstander, very dramatic, the epitome of a conspicuous felon. From what I can tell, this killer’s just the opposite. He’s been picking a variety of victims in order to embed his pattern.”
    This killer. Pattern.
The kid was convinced of one dark hand behind all six cases. Ah, impetuous youth.
    As Petra began the short drive back to Wilcox, Isaac said, “Something else took place on June 28. The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. June 28, 1914. Essentially, that began World War One.”
    â€œThere you go,” said Petra. “Someone’s declared war on the good folk of L.A.”

CHAPTER
    11
    I t was the wound pattern that snagged her.
    Six P.M. As predicted, she’d hit the wall on Leon sooner rather than later. She phoned a nearby Mr. Pizza and called out for a small deep-dish with everything on it.
    Across the room, Isaac remained at his corner desk, scribbling, punching his laptop, jotting down notes. Making a big show out of being inconspicuous. When the pie came, she went over and offered him a slice. He said no thanks, tailed her back to her desk, hung around as she opened the greasy box.
    Petra selected a slice and began picking cheese off the pointed end.
    Isaac said “Have a good evening” and left the station.
    She poured herself more coffee, played with strings of mozzarella, picked up one of the files. Drank and ate and began to read. Getting grease on the folders. Being a little cavalier about it.
    Until she came to the autopsy reports.
    Six autopsy reports written by six separate coroners. The language was nearly identical.
    Compression injuries of the occipital skull.
    Hit from behind.
    In every autopsy report, the weapon was described as heavy and tubular, approximately 77 centimeters in diameter in three murders, 75 in one, 78 in two. Which was close enough, given varying bone densities in people of different ages and sexes.
    Two pathologists had been willing to speculate that the bludgeon was metal or hard plastic, because no imbedded wood fragments had been found.
    What
had
been found was lots of blood and bone frags and gobbets of brain matter.
    To Petra the weapon sounded like a length of pipe. Seventy-seven centimeters matched three inches on her old-fashioned ruler. Nice, hefty chunk of pipe.
    Deep compression injuries, all that