Read Online Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 by Twisted - Free Book Online Page A

that when she drove. Eric noticed things.
    She said, “Smart people have a right to talk, Isaac. It’s the dummies who get on my nerves.”
    Finally, a smile. But it faded quickly. “I’m here to observe and to learn. I appreciate your taking the time.”
    â€œNo prob.” She headed down Hollywood Boulevard to Western, then over to Los Feliz, figuring to catch the Golden State Freeway then switch to the 10 East all the way to Boyle Heights. “The first girl is named Bonnie Anne Ramirez. She lives on East 127th. You know the area?”
    â€œNot well. It’s mostly Mexican, there.”
    And he was Salvadoran.
    Telling her subtly,
We’re not all alike?
    Petra said, “Bonnie’s sixteen but she’s got a two-year-old baby. The father’s some guy named George who doesn’t sound like a prince. They don’t live together. Bonnie dropped out of school.”
    No comment for half a block, then Isaac said, “She was nervous?”
    â€œA defiant nervousness. Which could just mean she doesn’t like the police. She has no record, but in a neighborhood like that you could get away with plenty of stuff without having your name on a file.”
    â€œThat’s the truth,” said Isaac. “The FBI estimates that for every crime an apprehended criminal commits, another six go undetected. My preliminary research shows it’s probably higher.”
    â€œReally.”
    â€œMost crime doesn’t even come close to being reported. The higher the crime rate in a given area, the more that’s true.”
    â€œMakes sense,” said Petra. “The system doesn’t come through, people stop believing.”
    â€œPoor people are dispirited in general. Take my neighborhood. In fifteen years, we’ve had our apartment broken into three times, my bike’s been stolen, my father’s been mugged and had his car ripped off, my little brother’s been held up for lunch money, and I can’t tell you how many times my mother’s been threatened by drunks or junkies when she comes home from work. We’ve been spared anything serious, but you hear gunshots at least twice a week and sirens a lot more often than that.”
    Petra said nothing.
    â€œIt used to be worse,” he went on. “When I was a little kid, before the CRASH units got active. There were blocks you just didn’t walk. Wear the wrong shoes and you were dead. CRASH worked pretty well. Then, after the Ramparts scandal, antigang policing was cut back and the bad stuff started to rise again.”
    His mouth set and his hands had balled.
    Petra drove for a while. “I can see why you’d study crime.”
    â€œMaybe that was a mistake.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThe more I get into it, the more it seems to be a waste of time. Most of my professors are still hung up on what they call ‘root causes.’ To them that means poverty. And race, even though they consider themselves liberal. The truth is, most poor people just want to live their lives, like anyone else. The problem isn’t poor people, it’s
bad
people who prey on the poor because the poor lack resources.”
    Petra mumbled assent. Isaac didn’t seem to have heard. “Maybe I should’ve gone straight to med school. Get out, finish my specialty training, make some money, and move my parents to a decent neighborhood. Or at least get my mom a car so she doesn’t have to fend off the drunks and the junkies.” A beat. “Not that my mother would ever learn to drive.”
    â€œScared?”
    â€œShe’s kind of set in her ways.”
    â€œMothers can be like that,” said Petra.
How would you know?
“Okay, here we go. The freeway looks pretty good.”
    Bonnie Ramirez lived with her mother, three older brothers, and little Rocky in a tiny, yellow clapboard bungalow that sat behind rusting chain link. Block after block of similar homes