Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02

by Twisted

  It connected to her land line. Her machine; he talked to it, trying not to sound weak or scared or frantic, guessing that he’d failed.

  Would she call home for messages? Why would she? Busy on stakeout.

  Thinking she knew.

  The clock on the stove said: 11:11.

  P-Kasso.

  Rushing back to his room, he looked for his shoes, couldn’t find them, felt around under the bunk, finally got hold of the right loafer, then its mate. He’d gone to sleep in a T-shirt and sweatpants, no socks. That would have to do. Shoes in hand, he ran toward the door.

  Isaiah sat up. “What the . . .”

  “Sweet dreams, bro.”

  “Where . . . goin’?”

  “Out.”

  Down on the floor Joel rolled to the wall. Rolled back. Smiled.

  Isaiah said, “Goin’ out for more pussy?”

  Isaac closed the door on both of them.

  Isaiah owned a pickup truck that needed an engine. The sole operating Gomez vehicle was the intermittently operant Toyota Corolla Papa chanced driving to work. Papa’s keys dangled from a plastic frog screwed to the wall next to the fridge.

  The car was just back from the shop, new filters of some sort. Isaac slipped the ignition key off his father’s ring, began sneaking across the kitchen, feeling like a burglar, before he stopped.

  Minor omission.

  He corrected that. Left.

  CHAPTER

  51

  THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 11:03 P.M., THE DOEBBLER RESIDENCE, ROSITA AVENUE, TARZANA

  You’re sure?” said Petra.

  Eric had just returned from another look behind the house. This time she’d seen him emerge, the faintest black smudge against the indigo Valley night. He’d probably showed himself on purpose, to make her feel good.

  “No more magazine, he was watching TV. I couldn’t get an angle to see the screen. At eleven sharp, he got up, turned off the light, went upstairs.”

  Less than an hour to go. Both of Doebbler’s cars were in place.

  “You’re sure there’s no way he can leave from behind?”

  “Steep hillside up to the neighbor’s property, then wrought-iron fencing. Anything’s possible but—”

  “If it’s possible we need to worry about it.” Little Miss Shrew. Before she could apologize, Eric said, “Want me to go back there and stay?”

  “That would mean no two-way view of the street, but maybe . . .”

  “Just tell me.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Tough call,” he said.

  “This doesn’t feel right, Eric. Even if the kill-spot’s some close-by clinic, he’s cutting it too close. He’s compulsive. Would take his time setting it up.”

  “Maybe he’s preparing right now. In his head.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Okay, look, go back there. If nothing happens within ten . . . fifteen minutes, I’m marching up to the front and ringing the bell.”

  No response.

  “You think it’s a bad idea?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m on my way right now.”

  CHAPTER

  52

  THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 11:23 P.M., VERMONT AVENUE, ONE BLOCK SOUTH OF PICO

  The Toyota stalled again.

  Third time in a mile. Isaac shifted into neutral, coasted into the right lane as cars sped around him. Depressing the clutch, then releasing as he gassed, he tried to revive the ignition. A sputter, a nanosecond of panic, and the puny engine was chugging again. Pausing on the brink of death . . . resuscitating.

  Barely.

  Freakin’ piece of junk. So much for Montalvo, his father’s friend, the alleged mechanic.

  Or maybe it was his own fault—poor stick-shift skills. It had been a long time since he’d gotten behind the wheel.

  He snail-crawled north on Vermont, struggling to keep the gas flow even, anticipating lights and working at minimizing unnecessary stops and starts.

  Half-moon night, pebbled lunar light filtering through neon and smog and humidity. No shortage of activity on Vermont at this hour. Rainbows of neon in Spanish, then Korean, then Spanish again. The car wheezed steadily past darkened buildings that alternated with the flash and buzz of bars and liquor stores and clubs.

  Asian kids milling around the better-looking clubs. Nice clothing, souped up wheels that worked. The confident smiles of affluent youth.

  Then back to the working-class Mexican and Salvadoran joints.

  Vamos a bailar . . .

  English was his language, his passport to some suburban Xanadu, but sometimes he dreamed in Spanish. Mostly, he didn’t dream.

  Music poured out of a raunchy-looking dance-place as he putt-putted by.

  The gaiety didn’t seem right for killing time.

  Neither did the weather; warm night, a pleasant breeze.

  Maybe this wasn’t killing time.

  Had to be. No, it didn’t. Look how wrong he’d been.

  P-Kasso.

  Even if something was going to happen tonight, he’d almost certainly embarked on a fool’s mission.

  Heading for a destination based on theory and the cold, flat religion that was logic.

  The single best deduction, given the facts. But what did facts mean?

  Chances were he was wrong, yet again. Dreadfully, tragically wrong.

  At Third Street, the Toyota sputtered and threatened to die once more. Holding his breath he pressed down gently on the accelerator and the damn thing relented.

  He made it to Fourth, Beverly . . .

  Idiotic and quixotic, but what else could he do? Petra’s cell was still transferred—some police thing, for sure, what the cops called a tactical line. And contacting anyone else at the department was out of the question. Would bring the cops looking for him.

  Four-fifteen mental case, male Hispanic, heading north on Vermont in a moribund clunker.

  He passed Melrose. Just another couple of miles . . .

  And then what?

  He’d park at a safe distance, proceed on foot. Check out the layout and find some kind of vantage point.

  Playing detective.

  The object of his guess: Western Pediatrics Hospital. The one place you could count on a slew of nurses who took care of children.

  He’d rotated through Western Peds as a pre-med sophomore. Introduced by a bio professor who wanted aspiring physicians to see what health care was really like.

  Isaac had found the hospital a wonderful, terrifying place, brimming with compassion, frantic activity, the saddest stories of all.

  The big-eyed stares of very sick kids. Bald heads, waxy skin, stick-limbs tethered to I.V. lines.

  He’d decided, then and there, that pediatrics wasn’t for him.

  Now he was headed back there on a return trip so terribly asinine it made him tremble.

  The car made a retching noise. Isaac’s body lurched backward as the vehicle accelerated spontaneously. He maintained shaky control, rolled through an intersection just south of Santa Monica. Violated a boulevard stop and narrowly avoided being pulverized by a house-sized supermarket truck.

  The trucker’s klaxon rage filled his ears as he kept going.

  Two seconds later, the Toyota gave up.

  On foot.

  Jogging the half-mile to Sunset, staying in the darkness, close to buildings so as not to attract attention.

  Male mental case running north . . .

  He reached his destination by eleven forty-three, slowed his pace, and stayed on the south side of the boulevard as he ambled toward the big, blocky buildings of the hospital complex.

  Most of the structures were dark. The Western Peds logo—a pair of blue-and-white clasped hands—glowed from the top of the main building.

  He remained in the shadows as women, mostly young women, in white and pale pink and pastel blue and canary yellow uniforms, streamed out of several doors and crossed Sunset.

  Only twenty or so nurses, stragglers at the end of the day shift. If throug
h some miracle he was right, the bastard would be watching.

  But from where?

  Isaac watched the nurses arrive at a sign that said “Staff Parking.” Arrows pointed both ways and the group split into two. Most of the women headed west, a few east.

  Two lots. Which way?

  He thought it out. If Doebbler were here, he’d want things as quiet as possible.

  East.

  He followed five distant, female shapes down a surprisingly dim street. Shabby apartment buildings, not unlike his own, lined the journey. Half a block north sat a two-level parking structure.

  Dark. The nurses walked right past the cement tiers and as Isaac got close to the structure, he saw the chained entrance. The sign hanging from the mesh gate.

  “Earthquake Retrofitting, Due for Completion, August 2003.”

  The nurses kept going. Twenty more feet, thirty, fifty. Nearly to the end of the block. Another sign, too distant to read, but Isaac made out cars in dirt.

  He sped up.

  “Temporary Staff Parking.”

  High-intensity lights bleached the rear right-hand corner of the outdoor lot. The left fixture was out and half the space was a belt of black.

  Poor maintenance or a predator’s move?

  The slim chance of the latter gave Isaac hope he’d guessed right.

  Stupid hope. The city was filled with scores of other health facilities, many of which treated children. How many treated lung diseases? He had no idea.

  This was worse than angels-on-a-pinhead academic theorizing. This was wild guesswork primed for the worst kind of error.

  He crossed the street and slipped between two apartment buildings, feeling the softness of weeds beneath his feet. Smelling the stink of dog shit.

  Home sweet home.

  He stepped back another foot, made sure he had a long but clear view of the dirt lot. For all he knew, Doebbler was watching from a nearby spot, could hear his raspy breathing.

  He silenced himself. Watched the five nurses head for their cars, some highlighted by the functioning light fixture, others slipping into invisibility.

  The dark side would have to be it. If . . .

  11:54.

  Ififififififififif.

  CHAPTER

  53

  JUNE 27, 11:46 P.M., THE DOEBBLER RESIDENCE, TARZANA

  Petra said, “I’m going to the front.”

  “Want me to stay back here?” said Eric.

  “Yeah.”

  Removing her gun from her purse, she got out of her car, paused for a moment to steady her breathing, crossed to Doebbler’s front door.

  Hand on the Glock, ready for anything.

  The queasy feeling in her bowels told her anything could happen.

  This was wrong. How could she have been that off?

  She rang the bell. Nothing. A repeat ring elicited silence, too. Maybe Doebbler had somehow managed to get out without Eric or her seeing him.

  Fooling her, she could see. But Eric?

  She rang a third time. Nothing. She called him. “No response here.”

  “Same . . . scratch that, he’s coming down the stairs . . . switching on the landing light. Bathrobe and pajamas. Looks like you woke him. He’s pissed.”

  “Weapon?”

  “Not that I see. Okay, he’s headed to the front, I’m coming around.”

  Kurt Doebbler’s voice behind the door demanded: “Who is it?”

  “Police. Detective Connor.” Petra had backed a few feet away. Behind her, concealed by bushes, Eric waited. She could smell him. Such a good smell.

  No answer from Doebbler. Petra repeated her name.

  “I heard you.”

  “Could you please open up, sir?”

  “Why?”

  “Please open.”

  “Why?”

  “Police business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Homicide.”

  The door swung open and Doebbler stared down at her, long arms crossed over a white terry bathrobe. Sleeves too short for his big, bony hands. Huge hands. Under the robe were striped pajamas. Big bare, veiny feet. His gray hair was mussed. Without his glasses, he was less nerdy, not that bad-looking, in a cold-eyed, angular way.

  Petra’s eyes were level with the robe’s shawl lapel. She noticed a small sienna spot on the right side that could be dried blood. Her eyes climbed and she saw the shaving nick on Doebbler’s neck. Three nicks, scabbed.

  Old Kurt a little nervous this morning? Planning for something that he’d decided to cancel because he knew he was being watched?

  How had he known?

  “Sir,” she said. “May I come in?”

  “You,” he said. More contempt in that single word than Petra had believed possible.

  He blocked the doorway.

  Petra said, “In for the evening, sir?”

  Doebbler pushed hair away from his forehead. Sweaty forehead. Shadows under his eyes. His arms twitched and for a second, Petra thought he’d close the door on her. She moved forward, ready to block him.

  He watched her and frowned.

  She repeated the question.

  “In for the evening?” he said. “As opposed to?”

  “Going out.”

  “Why would I be going out?”

  “Well,” she said, “in a few minutes, it’ll be June 28.”

  Doebbler went white. “You’re sick.” He braced himself against the doorpost with one hand. Tall enough that the contact was inches from the top.

  “I’m not going out,” he said. “Some of us work and take care of children. Some of us do our job with minimal competence.” Muttering something Petra was nearly certain was “imbecile.”

  “May I come in, sir?”

  “Come in?”

  “To your house. To talk.”

  “For a little social visit?” said Doebbler. He managed a smile, detached, all mouth, no eyes. Knitted his big hands and cracked his knuckles and stared down at her.

  Past her—through her—the way he had the first time. The way Emily Pastern and Sarah Casagrande had been stared through. A cool, dry snake slithered down Petra’s spine and she was glad Eric was backing her up.

  She smiled back at Doebbler.

  He slammed the door in her face.

  CHAPTER

  54

  FRIDAY, JUNE 28, 12:06 A.M., RODNEY AVENUE, TEMPORARY EASTERN STAFF PARKING LOT, WESTERN PEDIATRICS HOSPITAL

  Isaac watched the digital numerals of his watch click into place.

  12:07.

  The ultimate numerical reproach.

  All the day shift nurses, gone.

  Unlike another nurse, somewhere, a dark-haired girl, maybe Italian . . .

  He imagined what was being done to her and the starch went out of his spine and he hunched like an old man.

  He stayed in place, not knowing what else to do. Kept staring at the dirt lot. Three cars on the illuminated side, two, maybe three, parked in darkness, it was hard to tell.

  Probably night-shifters who’d arrived early.

  But if that was the case, why so few?

  No big puzzle: The staff obviously preferred the western lot. Probably better lighting, anyone who arrived early nabbed a space there.

  12:08.

  He’d give it another five minutes, then he’d return to where he’d left his father’s Toyota parked along Vermont. He’d forgotten to lock it. What had Dad left inside . . . not much, Dad was neat.

  A set of work clothes folded on the backseat. Probably some papers in the glove compartment. Hopefully, nothing worth stealing.

  Would the car even be there?

  If it wasn’t, how would he explain it to his parents?

  The five minutes passed. Reluctant to face reality, he lingered.

  At twelve-nineteen, feeling like the idiot he was, he slipped out from his hiding spot and began walking south.

  Voices from Sunset made him stop. Female voices.

  Three women . . . small women, young-so
unding women, passed the chained cement parking structure and entered the dirt lot.

  Isaac hurried back to his spot, watched them.

  White uniforms, dark hair pulled into ponytails. Tiny women . . . Filipinas? They chattered gaily. Paused ten feet into the lot. One nurse veered into the light, the other two crossed into the darkened area.

  No danger there. Doebbler wouldn’t go for a pair, would want his prey alone.

  The lit-up nurse started up her minivan and drove away. A set of headlights went on in the dark side and a zippy little sports car—a yellow Mazda RX—sped out, making that distinctive rotary sound.

  Leaving one nurse.

  He waited for more headlights.

  Darkness.

  Silence.

  Had he missed something—a rear exit? As he stepped closer to the sidewalk, a low, mulish sound cut into the night.

  The futile whine of an engine refusing to turn over.

  A car door opened. Shut.

  Then: a scream.

  Reaching into his pocket, Isaac ran. The gun caught in the generous fleece of his sweatpants and refused to pull free.

  He picked up his pace, shouted “Stop!” Screamed it louder.

  Ripped frantically at his pocket. The gun was hopelessly tangled.

  He reached the lot, sprinted across black dirt. Unable to see anything, homing in on the site of the scream.

  Then he saw.

  A man—a very tall man, wearing a long white coat, a doctor’s coat—standing over a tiny, prone woman.

  She lay on her stomach. One of the man’s feet pressed down in the center of her back. Pinning her like a butterfly on a board.

  She struggled in the dirt, arms and legs effecting an earthbound breaststroke. Cried out again.

  The man reached into his coat, drew out something the size and girth of a baseball bat. Not wood . . . translucent.

  A thick rod of clear plastic.

  Slick, dense. That would explain the lack of fibers in the wounds. Stop analyzing idiot, and do something!

  Isaac raced toward the tall man. Out of his mouth came a strange voice, hoarse, bellowing. “Stop motherfucker or I’ll shoot your ass!”

  The man in the white coat maintained his foothold on the tiny, dark-haired woman. Pretty woman, Isaac could see her terrified face now. Young, maybe even younger than him. Not Filipina, Latina.