Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02

by Twisted

  “I’ve never sold dope and I’m certainly no mule. Jesus, Petra, can you imagine what would happen to my med school career if I got caught doing something like that?” He frowned. “What still might happen if your idiot colleagues keep harassing me?” He gnawed his lip. “Maybe it’s time for me to get an attorney.”

  “Do what you need to do. But I can’t imagine that any kind of publicity could help you.”

  “True, true.” He shook his head. “What a mess.”

  “If nothing happened, there won’t be a problem.”

  “How can I prove a negative?” he said.

  “Take a polygraph. If it comes to that. Once this is resolved I’ll do what I can to run interference for you. So it’s important for your sake that I don’t lose any more department brownie points. Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

  “No. Your suspension, that didn’t have anything to do with me, did it?”

  “No, that I did all by my little lonesome.”

  She got up, poured yet more coffee for herself, offered him a refill.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Any more insights on Doebbler?”

  He shook his head.

  She said, “I’ll drive you home.”

  “I can take the bus.”

  “No way,” she said. “Not at this hour. By the way, that bruise you were sporting. What really happened?”

  “My brother and I had a little scuffle,” he said. “Nothing serious, you know what it’s like with siblings.”

  “You guys are a little old for roughhousing.”

  “Isaiah’s a good guy, Petra, but life’s hard for him. He works like a dog, doesn’t get enough sleep.”

  “Last time I called you, I woke him, poor guy.”

  Isaac smiled. “He told me.” He got to his feet, lifted the briefcase.

  Petra said, “All right, I’m glad we cleared the air.”

  “Me, too.”

  They left her apartment, stepped out into the warm June air. Twenty-five hours until the killing hour.

  “I meant what I said before, Isaac. You really are the hero.”

  “On the other hand, if I hadn’t spotted the pattern, you never would have had to worry about it.”

  “Yeah, ignorance can be bliss,” she said. “But I like it better this way.”

  CHAPTER

  47

  THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 2:30 P.M., PLEXI-TECH INC., WESTRIDGE HILLS ADVANCED INDUSTRIAL PARK, WESTLAKE VILLAGE

  The plastics fabricator, a massive, white, windowless hatbox, two miles north of the freeway, was ringed by an open, unguarded asphalt lot. The space was half-filled with cars and trucks and vans. Lots of empty slots in random places. The first few rows provided a nice clear diagonal view of the smaller brick structure across the street.

  Sand-colored brick. Mirrored windows, cursory landscaping, black block lettering above the mirrored front door. Pacific Dynamics.

  Kurt Doebbler’s workplace was less welcoming than its looming neighbor. Wrought-iron fencing surrounded the property. A slot-key parking arm bisected the entry. You could walk under, but no drive-through. No front parking either. A driveway snaked down to the left of the building and continued around to the west side. Once Doebbler’s Infiniti made the turn, no visual access. Damn.

  Petra was wondering about rear entry to the building when Doebbler’s tall, angular form appeared at the top of the drive, walking slowly, almost tentatively, on long, thin legs. He wore a short-sleeved, pale-green shirt, brown slacks, white running shoes. Dunkin’ Donuts bag in one hand, steel attaché case in the other. With his black-framed glasses and loose-limbed shamble, the guy was a walking promo for the Nerd Channel.

  Nothing humorously quirky about this nerd. She watched as Doebbler strode over to Pacific Dynamics’ front door and walked in.

  That was at nine-thirty A.M. It was five hours later and nothing had happened and Petra and Eric remained at opposite ends of the Plexi-Tech lot, drinking coffee, chewing on the dry sandwiches she’d packed. Communication was cell phone speed-dials.

  A couple of those nifty, hard-to-jam, two-way radios the department had just stocked up on would’ve been nice.

  An officially sanctioned departmental investigation of Kurt Doebbler would’ve been nice.

  Hot, sunny day this far west. Chemical smell in the air, and despite the heat, the sky was sheathed by a sickly gray cloud cover. She’d phoned Eric at his folks’ home last night, just before midnight, after dropping Isaac at home. The kid was clearly dejected about being excluded from the stakeout but pulled it off with grace. Once this was over, she’d fix the misunderstanding over Flaco Jaramillo.

  At first, Eric didn’t pick up and she wondered if he’d gone to sleep early. Normally he was a night owl, but the Reverend Bob and Mrs. Stahl retired early, so maybe he’d conformed.

  Sleeping in his boyhood room in the modest, Camarillo ranch house. The pennants and poster and athletic trophies his parents had held on to. The military medals he’d wanted to throw out, arranged on a corkboard by mom.

  Just as she was about to hang up, he said, “Hi.”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No, I’m up.”

  “Sorry to pull you away, but June 28 seems to have clicked.” She told him about Otto Retzak, Doebbler’s reenacting hundred-year-old murders.

  He said, “When do you need me?”

  The next day the two of them met up at six forty-five A.M. at a taco stand on Reseda Boulevard one mile north of Ventura. A five-minute drive to Doebbler’s house on Rosita.

  Eric, a stranger to the quarry, was the obvious choice as the up close. He headed north in his Jeep, found the pale-gray traditional, continued up the street, and U-turned into a tree-shaded watch-spot. Sitting low at the wheel, shielded by windows tinted way darker than the legal limit.

  Quiet block; a few sleek women jogged by and late-model foreign sedans pulled out of driveways as men in suits left for work. The Jeep was black, unobtrusive, a perfect match for the neighborhood. If anyone asked, Eric had several alternative stories ready. Police I.D. if it came to that.

  It didn’t.

  Petra was stationed just south of Ventura, pulled over to the east curb, ready to tail Doebbler if he headed for the 101 or turned either way onto the boulevard. A left turn was most likely; Pacific Dynamics was sixteen miles west.

  At eight-fifteen, Eric called in. “Doebbler and the daughter are getting into the Infiniti. . . . He’s backing out, driving east. Unless her school is somewhere up in the hills, he should be passing you soon. I’ll have a quick look around the back of the house and catch up with you.”

  Minutes later, Doebbler’s champagne-colored sedan cruised through a green light at Ventura. Petra let two more cars pass before she pulled out and followed. Doebbler bypassed the freeway, continued north until Riverside, turned left, drove four blocks, then hung a right. Three more blocks and the Infiniti was pulling into a line of cars facing West Valley Comprehensive Preparatory Academy. A rent-a-cop directed the slow-moving motor queue. No sign of Eric. She’d call and let him know where she was. But just as she started to punch in the speed-code, she spotted a black Jeep in her rearview. Someone else’s? No, the blackout windows and the dusty grille meant Eric. He passed her without acknowledgment, drove past the motor queue, faded from view.

  Petra parked and kept her eye on Doebbler. The Infiniti was easy to spot: lone sedan in a stop-and-go parade of four-wheelers. Trim, well-coiffed moms in too-big motorized behemoths dropped off well-fed kids in school uniforms as they talked into cell phones. White shirts for the student body. Olive pants for the boys, olive-plaid skirts for the girls.

  A strawberry blonde in a blue Volvo C-70 drove past. Emily Pastern at the wheel. Two kids in the back of the convertible. Petra sank lower.

  The rent-a-cop waved. Doebbler inched forward.

  West Valley Comprehensive Prep was a small place with a big name, what looked to be four fifties-era apartments converted into a school. A s
tingy grassy area in the center, the whole thing behind high iron fencing. The kids hunched under oversized backpacks were all white, with a high proportion of blonds. The Infiniti made it to the gate and Katya Doebbler, tall for her age, her straight, dark hair pulled into a ponytail, got out and walked through the school’s gates without a word or a backward glance at her father.

  Sad-looking kid. Soon, she’d be a lot sadder.

  Doebbler pulled into the street and continued up the block. A second later, Eric called. “It’s a cul-de-sac, I’m going to hang back.”

  “I’ll pick him up,” said Petra.

  Emily Pastern unloaded her brood and got out to talk to another mother. Petra shifted into Drive, ready for Doebbler. She caught a glimpse of the bastard as he sailed by, oblivious. Sitting tall, staring straight ahead, bespectacled, sharp-jawed. Expressionless.

  Both hands on the wheel. The perfect ten-three driving position.

  Law-abiding citizen.

  Back on Reseda. A commuter rush curdled the two blocks just north of Ventura Boulevard, but Eric managed to regain the number-one position and when Doebbler made his westward turn, the Jeep was three cars behind.

  Both vehicles rolling along in the slow lane. From the center lane, five cars back, Petra watched as Eric maintained a steady tail, unobtrusive to the point of invisible. His style was silky, effortless, a surveillance ballet that never lost sight of the quarry. Her man had grace.

  Her man.

  She laughed out loud. Didn’t like the sound of that and said, “Oh, shut up.”

  Doebbler turned the trip to Westlake Village into a leisurely, slow-lane cruise. Staying on Ventura, giving every amber light the benefit of the doubt, allowing other motorists to cut in and pass, making full stops for pedestrians.

  Getting busted for a traffic violation wouldn’t do. Not when you had big plans for tonight.

  Half a mile short of his work address, Doebbler pulled into a Dunkin’ Donuts, got out and ordered, emerged with a bag.

  Junk-food breakfast? Who’da thunk?

  He returned to his car with that same robot-face.

  Scary; did it all come down to weird wiring?

  Doebbler looked around briefly, got back in the Infiniti, resumed his leisurely exploration of the broad, sun-washed western tip of the Valley.

  Five hours, eighteen minutes of boredom.

  In all that time, two interruptions.

  At ten-forty, Eric crossed the street to Pacific Dynamics and walked under the parking arm. Retracing the Infiniti’s path, he walked down the westside driveway and was gone for ten minutes.

  When he popped back up at Petra’s window, he said, “Loading dock, bolted from the outside, doesn’t appear to be in active use. The lot’s aboveground, one level’s interior, the top’s out in the open. Doebbler’s parked on top. If he drives out, he’ll have to come back the way he went in.”

  “What about on foot?”

  “Fifteen-and-a-half-foot block wall at the back. On the other side’s some kind of warehouse. Unless he’s a rock-climber, there’s no alternative exit. He leaves, we see him.”

  At eleven-fifty, Petra left for a much-needed bathroom break, driving all the way back to Ventura before she found an accommodating Denny’s. Picking up some fries for fortification, as long as she was at it. Some for Eric, too, and she hazarded a sprint to the Jeep to give it to him.

  Moments later, right after she’d settled back in her own car, thirty-three people exited Pacific Dynamics in small, chatty groups, got into their cars, and drove away. Twenty-five men, mostly in shirtsleeves, like Doebbler. Eight woman, equally casual.

  Lunchtime. No sign of the quarry.

  “Maybe he’s eating donuts,” said Petra. “Carbo-loading for his big night.” Eric’s voice through the phone was soft. “Working at his desk would fit a compulsive personality.”

  Which could apply to Eric. And her.

  She glanced two aisles up, where the Jeep was parked. “Kind of weird, having to talk to you this way. How about some phone sex?”

  “Sure,” he said. “But only as prep for the real thing.”

  By three-twenty, Doebbler still hadn’t appeared. Just to be sure they hadn’t missed something, Eric called his work number. Doebbler picked up and Eric said, “Mr. Doebbler?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Dwayne Hickham from New Jersey Life. Have you considered term—”

  Click.

  “Friendly fellow,” said Petra.

  Eric didn’t answer.

  At three fifty-three, her phone squawked. Her butt was sore, she had a hunger-headache, and her bladder was bursting. The scene through her windshield was a damned oil painting. What could Eric have to say?

  She pressed Talk. “What’s up?”

  A cheerful voice said “Detective Connor?” Teutonic accent.

  “Chief Inspector Bandorffer.”

  “Yes, this is Klaus. I thought this might be a good hour to reach you.”

  “It is, sir. What’s up?”

  “What’s up,” said Bandorffer, “is that I came across something intriguing in our records. Not a serial homicide, not a homicide at all. An assault. But it occurred on June 28 and the details are provocative.”

  “What year?” said Petra.

  “Nineteen seventy-nine. A young woman named Gudrun Wiegeland, a cake-icer at one of our finest bakeries, was attacked while walking home. She’d been decorating an elaborate wedding cake, left work shortly before midnight. Two blocks from her destination, someone hooked an arm around her neck, pulled her down onto the street, turned her over onto her stomach, and began kicking at her ribs. Then she experienced crushing pain at the back of her head. The attacker remained behind her so unfortunately she never saw him. Her injuries were serious. Three broken ribs, bruised internal organs, and a fractured skull. She was unconscious for two days, woke up and had nothing of value to tell the police. I paid her a visit today. She’s a frightened, middle-aged woman, lives with her elderly mother and collects public assistance. She rarely ventures out of her apartment.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “Fraulein Wiegeland had a reputation as a wild girl, and our men suspected a former lover, a pastry baker with a drinking problem. The two of them had engaged in public arguments. But the man was able to account for his whereabouts and the crime was never solved. I have confirmed that your Mr. Doebbler and his family were living at the Army base during that time period.”

  “How many blows were delivered to the head?” said Petra.

  “One,” said Bandorffer.

  “Our boy bashes his victims repeatedly,” said Petra.

  “Perhaps he panicked. Being young and inexperienced. If it was your boy.”

  Twenty-four years ago, Kurt Doebbler had been eighteen.

  The creepo had come across the Teller book as an adolescent and something had twisted up inside him.

  Raging hormones. Sexual confusion.

  A kink in some nerve fiber, Lord knew what else.

  Plotting and planning but unable to pull off his virgin murder. Had he dealt with failure by pulling back until eighteen years later?

  Or just the opposite?

  Other cities, other Junes. The thought was sickening. Either way, Marta’s cheating had been a catalyst. Stoking—or restoking—the fires.

  She said, “Thank you, Inspector.”

  “My pleasure, Detective. Please let me know if you come up with a solution.”

  Bandorffer hung up.

  Petra thought: Isaac had nailed it again.

  CHAPTER

  48

  THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 8:45 P.M., ROOM 19, CASA FIGUEROA MOTOR INN, FIGUEROA NEAR JEFFERSON BOULEVARD

  This is lovely,” said Klara. She rolled the bedcovers down to her waist, ran her hands over soft, white, spreading breasts, pinched her own pink nipple and watched with satisfaction as it inflated. Reaching over to the chipped nightstand, she lifted her wineglass and sipped.

  Fifteen-dollar bottle of chard
onnay; she’d insisted on paying.

  Isaac lay on his back, next to her, staring up at cottage cheese plaster-spray. Studying the brown stain where the air-conditioning vent had leaked. Brown inkblot, like a Rorschach . . .

  “Isn’t it?” said Klara, wetting her finger with wine and tracing it along his upper lip. “Lovely?”

  He nodded. In his position, that meant bobbing at the ceiling.

  She leaned over and chewed his earlobe. “You were a bit more enthusiastic five minutes ago, my dear. You were more than enthusiastic. Volcanic, I’d say.”

  Isaac smiled. The brown stain had a definite shape. Two bears, a large one and a small one, facing off. Or dancing. What did that say about his unconscious?

  “My personal Vesuvius,” said Klara. She reached down. “Ready for another eruption?”

  Isaac’s member was sore and his neck ached, but Klara had all kinds of skills, and the second time ended up being fine. Afterward, she said, “Shower time,” and sashayed into the tiny motel bathroom, flaunting the fullness of her body, unfazed by slackness of waist, drooping bosom, the occasional clot of cellulite. He liked her better for that and when she yelled, “Come on in,” he complied. And when she pulled him under the spray for a deep kiss, he didn’t mind at all.

  The shower stall was prefab fiberglass, just like the one at home but not as clean. Klara soaped him with enthusiasm, positioned his hands all over her slick, dolphin softness, threw back her head and laughed into the water.

  “Pretend it’s a waterfall,” she said. “Somewhere exotic, just the two of us.”

  She shampooed her hair with a travel bottle she’d brought, rinsed, squeezed her red hair dry and wrapped it in a towel. They returned to the queen-sized bed with its coin-slotted “Electric Fingers” gadget bolted to the fake wood headboard.

  Tawdry. Isaac was surprised at how much he liked that.

  Somehow, he wasn’t sure when the transition had occurred, he’d turned into someone else. The person he imagined when he made love to her.

  Horny Latin stud bunking down with a willing, flame-haired woman. Trysting in a cheesy, claustrophobic room with cigarette burns along the curtain hems, the odors of sin and beer and instant coffee rising from the thin, worn carpet.