Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 by Twisted Page B

Joseph Columbo, a New York mafioso, was gunned down. Ten years later, Ayatollah Mohammad Beheshti, a founder of the Iranian Islamic Party, was killed in a bomb explosion. Though I suppose his being a bad guy would depend upon your political persuasion.”
    â€œAnything of a more wacko criminal nature? A Ted Bundy, a Hillside Strangler?”
    â€œNo, nothing like that, sorry,” he said. “In terms of historical events, there’s been plenty of misery on June 28, but no more than any other day. At least I can’t find any statistically significant difference. History’s based on tragedy and upheaval, as well as on the accomplishments of notable people.”
    He rolled the papers into a tight tube, drummed his thigh. “I can’t believe I missed similarities in the weapon dimensions.”
    â€œStop beating yourself up,” said Petra.
    She switched on the radio, tuned to a station that played harder rock than she was accustomed to. Filled her head with thunder-drums and guitar feedback and screaming testosterone-laden vocals, until the mountains got higher and static buried the noise.
    June 4.
    She drove faster.
    They were well past Angeles Crest now, zipping past canyon after canyon at eighty-five miles an hour, passing low, gray-brown bowls of high-desert to the east. A small-craft airport hugged the freeway, followed by scatters of white-box storage buildings and factories. Then tracts of red-tile-roofed houses in the distance, laid out neatly in the dirt. Between the structures, Petra spied tiny green lawns, the occasional turquoise pool. Lots of space between developments. Antelope Valley was booming but there was still plenty of room to move.
    A sign heralding the approach of Palmdale came into view and Petra pronounced the city’s name.
    Isaac said, “It used to be called Palmenthal. Founded by Germans and Swiss. It got anglicized around the turn of the century.”
    Petra said, “Really.”
    â€œAs if you needed to know that.”
    â€œHey,” she said. “Education’s good for the soul. Where do you pick up stuff like that?”
    â€œI had an advanced geography placement in high school, mostly independent study. I researched several cities in L.A. County and the surrounding areas. It was a surprise, you’d think everything had Hispanic roots, but many places didn’t. Eagle Rock—that used to be called the Switzerland of the West. Back when the air was good.”
    â€œAncient history,” said Petra.
    He said, “Extraneous information tends to float in my head and sometimes it seeps out through my mouth.”
    â€œAnd sometimes,” she said, “you come up with interesting stuff.”
    She exited at the first Palmdale exit, checked her Thomas Guide, and drove toward the address on Conrad Ballou’s retirement forms, around three miles east.
    Knowing about Ballou’s alkie-burnout history, she figured him to be living in a depressing pensioner’s SRO or worse, and the first few neighborhoods she passed were pretty sad. But then the environment took a swing upward—the same kind of tile-roofed tracts she’d spotted from the freeway, some big houses, gated enclaves.
    Ballou’s place was a medium-sized Spanish house in a pretty development named Golden Ridge Heights, where the trees—palms and paper-barked things—had grown sizable and some of the lawns sported mature shrubbery. Lots of motor homes and motorcycle trailers, pickups, and SUVs. The streets were wide, clean, and quiet, and the houses had rear yards that looked out to desert panorama. Sharp-edged mountains served as a backdrop. Too quiet for Petra’s taste, but she imagined warm, silent, star-studded nights and thought that might not be too bad.
    She pulled to the curb and crows scattered. A ten-year-old Ford half-ton sat in Ballou’s driveway. The neighbors on both sides sported basketball hoops over the garage, yards that