Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (11 page)

He seemed oblivious to all the smiles and hair flipping and back-arching and arm-brushing with an ample bosom. Smiling politely and thanking Strawberry Shortcake profusely for every smidge of service. When the food came, he kept his head low, studied his steak, finally cut into it.

Nice, thick filet mignon. He'd claimed to crave a burger but Petra had insisted and Strawberry had backed her up on that.

“Good for strong bones.” Smile, flip, arch, bosom-brush.

Almost as an afterthought, Petra ordered two glasses of Burgundy. Corrupting the youth of today. When the wine arrived, she decided to forgo the whole sniffing, swirling thing, not wanting to overwhelm the kid.

She was ravenous and attacked her surf-and-turf as if it was Schoelkopf's face.

After a bit of silent snarling, she asked Isaac how his food was.

“Delicious. Thank you so much.” He'd finished his meat, was looking at a baked potato the size of a dog's head.

“Big,” said Petra.

“Huge.”

“Probably radioactive. Some nefarious DNA-scramble scheme in Idaho.”

He laughed. Cut into the potato.

“So what do you think of Mr. Doebbler?”

“Hostile and asocial. I can see why Detective Ballou called him strange.”

“Anything else about him set you off?”

He thought. “He certainly wasn't cooperative.”

“No, he wasn't,” she said. “But that could've been our popping in unannounced. After all those years of no progress, I wouldn't expect him to be a big police groupie.”

A drunk and a no-show. LAPD at its finest. She wondered what Isaac thought about that.

Would any of this show up in his dissertation?

How was
she
coming across?

She said, “Unfortunately, there are guys like Ballou and Martinez. Fortunately, they're in the minority.” Little Miss Defensive. “What intrigues me about all that is Mr. Kurt Doebbler never complaining to their superiors. All that resentment but he kept it to himself.”

Isaac put down his knife and fork. “He wouldn't, if he wanted the case to stay unsolved.”

Petra nodded.

“Amazing,” he said. “I'd never have thought of that.”

They ate some more. He said, “That comment he made, about not remembering what his wife looked like? Sometimes borderline personalities have a problem maintaining mental images of those close to them. Flat affect, also. Except when they feel they've been betrayed. When that happens, they can get pretty emotional.”

“Betrayed as in the wife having an affair,” she said. “That was just Ballou's offhand comment and I'm not sure he's worth paying attention to.”

He nodded.

“What are borderline personalities?” she asked him.

“It's a psychiatric disorder involving problems of identity and intimacy—difficulty connecting with other people. Borderlines have higher-than-average rates of clinical depression and they're more likely to get involved in substance abuse. Females tend to punish themselves but male borderlines can get aggressive.”

“Do they kill their spouses?”

“I've never heard that specifically. It's just something that came to mind.”

Petra heard herself saying, “Doebbler's an odd one, all right, but when you lose someone close to you, time does have a way of easing things. You forget. It's protective. I've heard other relatives of victims say the same thing.”

Talking calmly while keeping a lid on what was blowing through her consciousness; all those hours poring over snapshots. Mom and Dad dating as college students. Mom tending to her brothers as infants, toddlers, little boys. Mom in a one-piece bathing suit looking gorgeous at Lake Mead. Despite the photos, it was all she could do to conjure up the merest hint of the woman who had died birthing her.

Her face must've betrayed something because Isaac looked confused.

She said, “Anyway, before we get too psychological about Kurt, let's remember that his blood type didn't match the sample they scraped off the seat, there's absolutely no evidence linking him to the crime, and he does have an alibi, of sorts.”

She returned to her steak, decided she was no longer hungry.

Isaac said, “So what's next?”

“Haven't figured that out. Assuming I want to work the case. Any of them.” She shot him a fierce smile. “Look what you got me into.”

Another classic Isaac blush. The kid's emotional barometer was fine-tuned, everything rose to the surface.

Polar opposite of Kurt Doebbler. The guy
was
weirdly flat.

Isaac was saying, “. . . sorry if I've complicated—”

“You have,” said Petra. “But that's okay. You did the right thing.”

He kept quiet. She cuffed his arm lightly. “Hey, I was just having a little fun at your expense.”

He managed a mini-smile.

“The truth is,” she went on, “diving into a half dozen cold cases that are probably unsolvable wasn't what I had in mind when I programmed my day planner. But you're right, there are too many similarities to dismiss.”

When had she decided that?

The wound pattern.

Or maybe sooner. Maybe she'd known right away and had just been denying it.

She said, “Letting it drop would put me in the same box as guys like Ballou and Martinez. So I'm fine with it. Okay?”

He murmured something.

“Pardon?”

“I hope it works out for you.”

“It will,” she said. “One way or the other.”

Listen to her, Little Miss Karma.

“You up for dessert?” Before he could answer, she was waving at Little Miss Strawberry.

CHAPTER

16

I
saac knew he'd made a mistake.

He'd had Petra drop him off at Pico and Union. Near the bus stop where he usually got off, four blocks from his building. Not wanting her to see the liquor stores and abandoned buildings that lined the route. The crumbling wooden houses converted to by-the-day rooming houses. Four-story stucco slabs, like the one his family lived in, marred by the acne of graffiti.

His mother kept an immaculate flat and his building was no worse than any others in the neighborhood. But bad enough. Sometimes homeless guys wandered in and used the entry hall for a toilet. When Isaac walked the squeaky stairs up to his family's third-floor space, he avoided touching the brown-painted handrail. Painted so often, it felt gelatinous. Sometimes it
was
gelatinous. Wads of gum stuck to the wood. And worse.

For a brief time, as an undergrad, his head filled with biology and organic chemistry, he'd taken to wearing plastic gloves when entering the building. Careful to shed and hide them before entering Mama's domain.

The noise, the smells. Generally, he could shut it all out.

This morning, leaving for campus, he'd noticed that the front facade was looking especially shabby.

Most nights, he could forget all that, let his mind drift to the stately trees and brick loveliness of USC, the old-paper fragrance of Doheny Library.

His other life.

The life he'd have one day. Maybe.

Who was he kidding? Petra was smart, she had to know the Gomez family didn't live in a mansion.

Still, there was something about her actually seeing his home base that repelled him.

So he walked.

A quick right turn at the late-night liquor store favored by old winos, then down dark side streets, past alleys, the usual sprinkle of lolling street people and addicts.

Passive in their misery. A few of them, he talked to. Sometimes he gave them lunch leftovers. Mom always packed too much anyway.

Mostly he ignored them and they returned the favor.

He'd been doing it for years, never had a problem.

Tonight he had a problem.

He was unaware of them till they started laughing.

A hoarse, high-pitched hooting, behind him. Close behind. When had they started following him? Had he been that spaced-out?

Lost in thought: Marta Doebbler. Kurt Doebbler.

June 28 getting closer.

Petra. Those dark eyes. The way she'd taken on that enormous steak.
Attacking
it . . . slender hands, but strong. Aggressive in such a feminine way.

More laughter behind him. Closer. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw them clearly as they passed under a streetlamp.

Three of them. A loose-limbed, giggly entourage, maybe twenty feet from his back.

Chattering. Pointing and bumping into one another. Laughing some more. Mexican-accented Spanish interspersed with rude English “Fuck,” the operative word—the all-purpose noun/verb/adjective.

He picked up his pace, hazarded another quick look back.

From the round outlines of their heads, shaved domes. Not tall. Baggy clothes.

One of them drove a fist toward the sky and howled. Soprano howl, like a girl.

Maybe it had nothing to do with him. Maybe they just happened to be walking the same street.

They shuffled and bumped into one another some more. Young voices. Slurred. Punk kids. High on something.

Two more blocks till home. He turned.

They stayed with him.

He walked faster.

One of them shouted,
“Yo. Maricon.”

Branding him queer.

All these years, despite the rotten neighborhood, he'd never had to deal with this before. Generally, he was home by eight. But tonight it was well after ten. He and Petra had returned to the station late and he'd hung around some more. Pretending not to pay attention as she worked at her desk.

Pretending to work, himself. Just wanting to be there. For the ambience.

Petra.

The day had shot by so quickly. Tagging along, observing her, listening. Picking up the nuances of detective work, the things no book could communicate. Offering opinions when she asked—and she'd asked a lot more frequently than he'd expected.

Was she just being nice to him or did she really think he had something to offer?

It had to be the latter; Petra didn't suffer fools.

“Yo, you, maricon—hey faggot, whuh time izzit?”

Isaac kept walking.

One more block.

Dinner, dessert, espresso—he'd never had coffee like that. Even the Faculty Club, when Dr. Gompertz sometimes treated him to lunch, didn't have coffee like that.

“Hey, you, puto, why you move you ass so fast?”

He began to jog and heard them shouting and whooping and running after him. He picked up speed, was drenched by a sudden, clammy, full-body sweat.

Thank God Petra wasn't here to see this.

Something hit him from behind, low in his back. Hard boot to the kidneys. Pain shot through him, he buckled yet managed to stay on his feet, but his rhythm had been disrupted, and by the time his legs were ready to move someone was yanking at his briefcase.

His notes. His laptop. He held on but another hand clawed at his neck and as he stepped away from the blow, the case flew out of his hand.

The clasp opened, papers scattered. The computer, heavy, remained inside.

His handwritten calculations lay static, in the curb. Pages of multiple regression analyses of subethnic populations in high-crime regions. He hadn't had time to enter any of it into his hard drive, stupid stupid! If he lost it, it meant hours down the—

A fist—hard, sharp knuckles—grazed the side of his head. He teetered and tripped backward.

Regained his balance and backed away and faced them.

Even younger than he'd thought. Fourteen, fifteen. Small, ghetto-stunted kids, two skinny, one a bit chunky. Same age as cousin Samuelito. But Sammy was a good, churchgoing boy and these three were shaved-head, baggy-pants scum.

The fact that they were kids was meager comfort. Adolescents could be the most dangerous sociopaths. Poor impulse control, insufficiently developed conscience. He'd read that if you didn't change their behavior by twelve . . .

They were surrounding him, a trio of malignant dwarfs shuffling and cursing and giggling. He moved, trying to keep his back clear. The spot on his cheek where he'd been punched smarted and grew hot.

The heaviest of the three planted his feet and held up his fists. Small hands and knuckles. Like something out of
Oliver Twist.

A night breeze coursed through the street and sheets of calculations billowed.

The heaviest one said, “Gimme your fuckin' mawney,
puto.
” Nasal, barely pubescent voice.

Individually, he could pound each of them to oblivion. But together . . . as he weighed his alternatives, one of the others, the smallest, flicked his wrist and flashed something metallic.

Oh God, a gun?

No, a knife. Flat in an open palm. The kid rotated his hand in small arcs. “I cut you,
puto.
”

Isaac backed away some more. Another gust of breeze; one of his sheets blew a few feet up the block.

The heaviest one said, “Gimme the fuckin' mawney you wanna fuckin' get
cut
?” His voice squeaked and cracked.

Gutted by an idiot with no pubic hair . . . the little one with the blade danced closer. Stepped into the light and Isaac saw the weapon clearly. Pocketknife, cheap thing, dark plastic handle, maybe a two-inch fold-out blade. The kid's wrist was thin, fragile. He smelled bad, all three of them did. Unwashed clothes and weed and jumbled hormones.

Jumpy little sociopaths. Not a good situation. The thought of that stupid little blade entering his flesh enraged him.

He drew out his LAPD authorized visitors badge and said, “Police, assholes. You walked right into a stakeout.”

Hoping they watched TV. Hoping they were that stupid.

A nanosecond of silence.

A hoarse
“Huh?”

“Police, motherfuckers,” he repeated, louder, reaching down in his chest to produce his lowest baritone growl. Reaching into another pocket, he drew out his pen case because it was dark and around the right size. He pressed it to his mouth, said, “This is Officer Gomez calling for backup. I've got three juvenile two-eleven suspects. Probable narcotics violation as well. I'll hold them here.”

“Fuck,” said the heavy one, sounding breathless.

Isaac realized he hadn't even called in an address. Could they be
that
stupid?

Skinny looked at his knife. Grim little urchin face. Deliberating.

The second one, the one who hadn't spoken or done anything, edged away.

Isaac said, “Where you going, shit-face?”

The kid took off and ran.

And then there were two. Better odds. Even with the blade he might be able to escape with just a flesh wound.

Chunky was bouncing on his feet. Skinny had edged back but made no move to leave. The dangerous one, not enough fear in his chemistry. And
he
had to be the one with the knife.

That was
why
he had the knife.

Isaac brought out his pen case again. Held it this time, in an outstretched arm. Walked toward Skinny pointing the stupid thing and ordered, “Drop that fucking nail-file, junior, and get the fuck down on the ground before I shoot your ass.
Do it!
”

Chunky turned heel and ran.

Skinny kept contemplating the odds. Threw the knife at Isaac.

The blade whizzed by his face, just short of his left eye.

He said, “You're toast, motherfucker,” and the kid bolted.

He stood there in the silence. Putrid silence; they'd left behind their stink.

Waiting until he was sure they were gone before he began breathing normally. He went to retrieve his briefcase. Collected the errant paper, stuffed the rest of it back in. Then he sprinted the block to his building, ran around to the side, chest tight, stomach churning, chilled by the post-adrenaline shakes.

He leaned against the stucco, feet ankle-high in the weeds that grew there. Dry-heaving, he thought that would be it.

It wasn't. He vomited until the bile burned his throat.

When all his dinner was gone, he spit and headed toward his building.

Tomorrow, before he took the bus to the Hollywood station, he'd visit Jaramillo.

Once upon a time, before the Burton Academy, before all the strange, wondrous, terrifying turns his life had taken, he and Jaramillo had been friends.

Maybe that would count for something.