Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02

by Twisted

  Casa Figueroa. Two stories of mud-colored, spray-stucco under a fake tile roof. Thirty-two AAA-sanctioned rooms looking down on a kidney-shaped swimming pool, individual entrances for each unit. Klara had paid with her Discover card, taken the key from the clerk with panache, swung her rear as she led Isaac up the stairs.

  Not a trace of shame. That made it easier for him. Still, if his mother, or anyone from church, had seen him . . .

  She’d done all the planning. Arranged a babysitter for her gifted daughter and son, brought the wine and condoms and a roll of quarters for the vibrating bed.

  And a Hershey bar that she broke in half. “Dessert, m’dear?”

  They both ate candy.

  “Fattening,” said Klara, licking chocolate from her lips. “But loaded with good stuff, too, like antioxidants. We deserve some fun. Solving a big case like that.”

  She’d found him at six P.M., down in the stacks, working on his data and trying not to think of what Petra was doing. Marching right up to him, she took his hand and slipped it under her dress.

  No panties.

  Isaac’s face got hot. She knew she had him and grinned. “Pack your books, sir, we’re out of here.”

  They watched twenty minutes of an atrocious show on USA Network as Klara combed out her hair. At the commercial break, she said, “Time to go home, sweetie. Domestic obligations and all that. We’ll do this again.” Her tongue thrust between his lips, sweet with chocolate. “Sooner rather than later.”

  As Isaac walked her to her car, she said, “It really is fantastic. The way we solved all those murders. I mean, just think of it, Isaac. People like us—book people—turning out to be the real detectives.”

  “You’re the master sleuth, Klara.”

  She slapped his shoulder lightly. “Of course I’m not! I was merely the tool of your intellect.”

  They reached her car and she rested her head on his shoulder. Sensing that she needed more praise, he said, “Klara, I couldn’t have done anything without you.”

  She stood there pressed against him in the dim, tacky motel parking lot. Finally, she straightened and unlocked her car. “I read it again,” she said. “That horrible little book.” She shuddered. “How could anyone be so evil?”

  Isaac shrugged.

  “I mean it,” she said. “How do you explain something like that?”

  “Retzak claimed he was abused.”

  “Lots of people are abused, but they don’t end up like that.”

  “True.”

  She took his hand, played with his fingers. “I know you need to be discreet and all, but was that guy, the one the police are focusing on, abused? Because there’d have to be parallels, right? Between him and Retzak. Otherwise why imitate Retzak and not just do his own thing?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Don’t know much about him.”

  “Well,” she said, “one thing we do know: He’s evil. And you’ve made a major contribution to getting him off the streets.”

  “The police will do that.”

  “Hopefully, they’ll be competent,” she said. “Because I have to tell you, I haven’t always found that to be the case. One time, years ago, there was a burglary in my neighborhood—one of my neighbors, a woman living alone—and all the police did was fill out reports.”

  “The detective on this case is great,” said Isaac. Sounding defensive.

  Klara said, “I hope he is. Anyway, when you can tell me more, please do, the whole thing fascinates me. I was a history major at Smith, but I’ve always been curious about psychology. About what transforms people. It’s the greatest mystery of all, right?” She touched his cheek. “One day, you’ll be a physician. Not a psychiatrist, but who knows, maybe you’ll get closer to figuring it out.”

  “Right now I’d be satisfied finishing my dissertation.”

  “You’ll finish. You’ve got character and people with character finish what they begin.”

  She opened her car door, took his face in both her hands. “I believe in you, Isaac Gomez. I don’t love you, never will. But I sure like you a lot. Can we be friends?”

  “We already are.”

  Her eyes moistened. Then the right one winked. “Time to go home and be a mom. But I’ll be thinking about volcanoes.”

  CHAPTER

  49

  THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 9:21 P.M., THE DOEBBLER RESIDENCE, ROSITA AVENUE, TARZANA

  He’s here.” Eric’s whisper barely filtered through the phone.

  “Doing what?” said Petra.

  “Reading a magazine and doing hand exercises.”

  “Hand exercises?”

  “With a spring-grip. While he reads.”

  “Getting in shape for his big night. Any weapon in sight?”

  “No.”

  “He probably keeps it in one of the cars,” she said. “What about Katya?”

  “Not here.”

  “She’s probably upstairs. The day I interviewed him she stayed up there the whole time. He look tense?”

  “Not really.”

  “Normal demeanor?”

  “Expressionless,” said Eric.

  “That’s normal for him.”

  She clicked off and her cell phone went dark. Two lines on the gizmo, but only one was open on vibrator mode. And only for Eric. After too many interruptions by telemarketers, she and Eric had decided to have all calls but theirs forwarded to their land phones. It took a bit of doing, but they shared the same cellular carrier and by eight-thirty, they were functionally locked in. Every half hour, each of them checked for messages to make sure they didn’t miss anything. The last time had been ten minutes ago: a couple of junkers and a call from her brother Brad. Nothing urgent, he just wanted to say hi. She’d deal with that tomorrow.

  After all this was over.

  Shifting in the driver’s seat, she drank bottled water, popped a couple of Skittles, maintained her visual fix on the gray house. Determined, this time, to spot Eric as he emerged from the backyard and returned to his Jeep.

  She was fifteen yards from Doebbler’s front door, facing west. The Jeep was a ways up, just out of view, aimed east. No matter which direction Doebbler took, someone would be ready to pick him up.

  A few trees, but good visibility on the dark street. And fences prevented escape from one property to the next.

  Doebbler would have to show himself.

  Ten plus hours of nothing. Petra’s brain was starting to crumble from disuse.

  At four-thirty P.M., Kurt Doebbler had left Pacific Dynamics along with a slew of other employees. After picking up a Domino’s pizza, he drove to Katya’s school, made it just before five. At that hour, West Valley Comprehensive Prep looked closed, but Doebbler’s bell-ring brought a sullen Katya to the gate, accompanied by a gray-haired, female teacher-type who let the girl out.

  Some kind of after-school day-care thing. The teacher smiled and said something to Doebbler who left without responding. No conversation between father and daughter as they headed for the Infiniti. Katya’s backpack looked stuffed. Doebbler made no attempt to carry it for her.

  The Infiniti headed straight home, arrived at five twenty-six. Doebbler walked to the door with that dorky stride of his, stayed several feet ahead of Katya, remote-locked the vehicle without glancing back. The girl hurried to catch up and he did hold the door for her as she entered the house.

  He collected his mail from the box bolted next to the door, stood outside shuffling through envelopes. Not a glance up the street as he stepped inside and closed the door.

  Why would he be nervous? He’d pulled it off six years in a row.

  Since then, no sign of him or the girl and both of Doebbler’s cars remained in the driveway. At nine o’clock, Petra and Eric agreed that someone should have a look from the backyard, just to make sure the quarry hadn’t managed to sneak out on foot.

  Someone was Eric.

  Petra’s watch read 9:28. He’d been back there eight minutes, still hadn’t emerged. Had somethi
ng engaged him?

  Her phone vibrated.

  “Me again.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Back in the car.”

  “I was looking for you. How the hell do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Mr. Invisible.”

  “I just walked.”

  “Sure you did, Master Ninja.” Making light of it but failing to spot him bugged her. Despite her determination to focus, had her mind wandered? God, she hated stakeouts, the erosion of I.Q.

  “What kept you there so long?”

  “Watching.”

  “Anything new?”

  “No.”

  Hell would be an infinity of stakeouts.

  They cut the connection and Petra ate more candy. Brain-death and tooth decay. A minimum of two and half hours to kill-time and Doebbler was sitting in his easy chair, reading a magazine and flexing his hands.

  What, the latest edition of Modern Murderer?

  Working on his grip strength. Maybe that meant he was getting edgy.

  Two and a half hours; had he planned so well that there was no need to leave any earlier?

  Preselecting the prey. A nurse. Someone who took care of children. Maybe with lung disease. Maybe an Italian girl, if he was imitating Retzak that closely.

  She’d already confirmed that no hospital remained in Elysian Park. When it came to kids, the first thing you thought of was Western Pediatrics Medical Center, back in Hollywood. Not that far from the park, she could see it appealing to Doebbler.

  At this hour, Western Peds was at least a half-hour freeway ride from Tarzana, probably longer, so Doebbler was really cutting it close.

  Petra knew the hospital’s shift schedule because Billy Straight had been taken there and she’d spent plenty of time at his bedside. Afternoons: three to eleven. Meaning day nurses would be heading for their cars between eleven and eleven-thirty as the night shift arrived. Lots of women walking to and from the outdoor lots.

  Shabby side streets, East Hollywood. Not the greatest area and security was lax, but in all her time at Hollywood Division, she hadn’t heard of any serious problems.

  With all those women, how would Doebbler pick a victim?

  He’d picked already.

  Five minutes passed. Ten, fifteen, still no movement from the gray house. A trip to Hollywood seemed increasingly unlikely, so she was probably wrong about Western Peds. Okay, there had to be lots of pediatric units all over the city.

  With the time ticking away, Doebbler had probably aimed closer to home. Somewhere right here in the Valley.

  Northridge Hospital was a fifteen-minute drive, even less with no traffic. Did Northridge nurses follow the same schedule as the Western Peds staff?

  Speed-dialing Eric, she let him know her line would be busy for a few minutes and made the call. The Northridge night clerk confirmed it: three to eleven.

  More than enough time for Doebbler to get over there. She had no idea how the parking was laid out at Northridge.

  No confidence the site would be Northridge.

  The Valley was a big place. When Doebbler made his move, she’d have to improvise.

  Didn’t it always come down to that?

  CHAPTER

  50

  THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 10:59 P.M., THE GOMEZ RESIDENCE, UNION DISTRICT

  From the upper bunk came the sound of Isaiah’s snoring, loud and intrusive as a leaf blower. The eldest Gomez brother had come home late and exhausted, in a foul mood that silenced the rest of the family. Flinging his work clothes on the floor, he’d lurched straight to bed.

  Tar reek bittered the room. Along with alcohol. Isaac would keep that to himself, no reason to upset Mama.

  On the other side of the cell-like space, Joel slept on his air mattress, eyes closed, chest rising and falling slowly, a smile on his almost-pretty face. A maddeningly cheerful bundle of libido and superficiality, Joel would always be happy.

  Isaac, sapped from his motel time with Klara, had eaten lightly and fallen asleep quickly. His dream cycle was frantic and ambiguous. In the midst of an abstract expressionist nightmare, he woke drenched with sweat and disoriented. The din from the top bunk told him where he was. God bless Isaiah’s deviated septum.

  Now he was wide awake, trying not to think about Klara but, of course, thinking of nothing else.

  Not the things she’d done. Something she’d said.

  There would have to be parallels . . . otherwise why imitate Retzak.

  An eccentric woman, probably neurotic woman, but smart. Too smart to be ignored and now Isaac was sweating for another reason.

  A big fat balloon of denial punctured.

  It’s out of your hands. Petra knows what she’s doing.

  Reaching out for the wooden crate that served as his nightstand, he got hold of his watch: 11:02.

  Less than an hour to showdown. Soon it would be over.

  Would it?

  He closed his eyes and the facts loomed larger. Discrepancies impossible to ignore. Sliding out of the bunk, he found his briefcase, tiptoed across the closet-sized space.

  Isaiah moved and bedsprings squeaked. A mumbled: “Whu?”

  Isaac left the bedroom, closing the door silently, and went into the kitchen, hoping his parents in the neighboring room wouldn’t hear him. His mother, in particular, had the sleep rhythms of a Chihuahua.

  Switching on the dim light under the stove, he sat and thought. Decided he wasn’t being psychotic.

  Pulling his laptop out of the case and plugging it in—shifting the rag-wrapped gun in the process—he rummaged some more and finally came up with his seldom-used modem. Connecting the box to the corner phone jack behind the table, he booted up and hoped for the best. He’d set up the modem years ago but rarely used it. No reason to, given high-speed access on campus. The apartment’s phone wires were eroded and chancy. Even if he got a line, making it to the Internet would be an infuriatingly slow ordeal.

  Neanderthal dial-up. What a joke.

  Spoiled boy.

  Scared boy.

  The modem squawked. Stopped. Made more noise.

  His mother padded in, rubbing her eyes. “What’re you doing?”

  “Studying.”

  “At this hour?”

  “I thought of something.”

  “What?”

  “My research, it’s not important, Ma.”

  “If it’s not important, you should go back to sleep.” She blinked, couldn’t focus. “Go back to sleep. You don’t sleep enough.”

  “In a few minutes, Ma. It’s my doctoral research.”

  “It can’t wait until tomorrow?”

  “No, Ma. Go back to sleep.”

  The modem buzzed and hummed and beeped, kept chirping its little modem song. Interminable!

  “What’s that?” said his mother.

  “The thing that connects to the Internet.”

  “Why’s it plugged in there?”

  “I’m using our phone line.”

  “What if someone calls?”

  “No one’s going to call, Mama.”

  She looked at the stove. “I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  “No.” He raised his voice and she gave a start. He got up and placed an arm around her shoulder. “No, thank you, Ma. Really, I’m fine.”

  “I . . .” She looked around the kitchen.

  He guided her back to her room. Wasn’t sure she’d really been awake.

  When he returned to the kitchen table, the connection had been completed and he logged on to his university server. Scanning his bookmarks, he found the chat room text he’d saved, began retracing cyber-steps.

  Five minutes later, his heart was pounding so hard, it felt as if it would rip through his rib cage.

  Online Host: *****You are in BloodnGutsChat*****

  CrimeGirl: The way i see it OttoR was = to Manson or anyone.

  BulldogD: U shouldn’t glarify him he was just anther semi organize serial

  CrimeGirl: It�
��s not glorifying (spell-boy!!) It’s telling it like it is.

  BulldogD: I can spell I just don’t bothe

  CrimeGirl: Yeah right. I still think OR was interesting maybe unique for his time.

  P-Kasso: You’re both missing the point.

  Mephisto: Hey look! There’s always some guy with a point.

  CrimeGirl: I for one want to hear an intellegient point. Speak, P.

  P-Kasso: Retzak stands above the others because of his artistic integrity. His motivation is far more elevated than manson, bundy, JTR, anyone of that ilk. For him it was all about art, he captured the scene, I’d put him more like Van Gogh

  Mephisto: Did he cut off his ear haha

  CrimeGirl: Funny. Not.

  BulldogD: Pee-Kasso. What U’re one of those artsty fartsies, too that’s why U see it that way???

  Mephisto: No asnwer?

  P-Kasso: I’ve been known to wield a brush.

  BulldogD: How about a stout cudgel?

  Mephisto: No answer now?

  CrimeGirl: Guess he left.

  Mephisto: Chickenshit.

  CrimeGirl: There’s no need for that kind of la

  P-Kasso: I’m still here. But now I’m leaving. You people are brainless.

  Mephisto: Arrogant asshole.

  CrimeGirl: Im still waiting for intelligence in a y chromosomer.

  BulldogD: What about John Gacey? Buddies with Jimmy Carter And all the time he’s burying bodies

  Mephisto: It was Rosmarie Carter

  CrimeGirl: Rosalyn, fact-boy

  P-Kasso: a self-styled artist. Retzak’s biggest fan.

  Isaac rescrolled the chat, read it again. Felt his fingers go cold. Logging off, he unplugged the modem, hurried to the wall phone, punched in Petra’s cell.