Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

“What?” said Petra.

“Connie left under somewhat… clouded circumstances.”

“What kind of circumstances?”

“He had a bit of a drinking problem. We all knew about it, we all covered. One night he tanked up, got behind the wheel of an unmarked, and crashed it into a building on Cahuenga. That was kind of hard to cover for.”

“How was he as a detective? When he was sober.”

Barney shrugged. “That wasn’t too often.”

“No Sherlock,” said Petra.

“More like Deputy Dawg, when I knew him. But I heard he used to be okay in the early days.”

“What about his partner, Martinez?”

“Enrique had no big problems, but was no great talent, either. He got tarred by Connie’s brush. The brass decided he should’ve reported Connie’s drinking and demoted him down to uniform. The obvious question was what about all those other partners Connie had ridden with. But Enrique was the goat. I think he went over to Central Division as a deskman, but who knows how long he lasted there.”

“He’s living in Florida now.”

“Makes sense,” said Barney. “He’s Cuban.”

A lush and a no-talent. There was a good chance Marta Doebbler’s murder hadn’t been worked to the max. Nor, as far as Petra could tell, had it been transferred. She asked Barney about that.

Right away, he said, “Schoelkopf.”

“He doesn’t transfer cases?”

“He doesn’t like to, if they’ve gone cold. What with all the manpower problems and the gang issues. You wouldn’t know about that because you tend to solve your cases.” Barney removed his reading glasses and massaged the ridge they’d etched into his nose. His eyes were wide, clear, blue, nested in a thatch of wrinkles.

“I know you don’t like him, Petra, but I can’t say as I’d do it any different. It’s always a matter of priority. Cases go cold for a reason.”

“Who says I don’t like him?”

Barney grinned and Petra returned the favor.

He looked at the list again, said, “Jack Hustaad’s dead. Suicide. Not job-related. We played golf together once in a while. Jack was a four-pack-a-day smoker, got lung cancer, started chemotherapy, decided he didn’t like it, and ate some painkillers. It’s not a completely irrational decision, right?”

“Right,” said Petra.

“Anyway.”

“Thanks, Barney.”

“I assume,” said the old detective, “that you want your research kept private.”

“That would be good,” said Petra.

“No problem,” said Barney. “I don’t like him either.”

The next day Mac called a noon meeting on the Paradiso shooting. He and Petra and Luc Montoya ate sandwiches in a small conference room and compared notes. Montoya was forty, bald, muscular, with a movie-star face and the longest eyelashes Petra had ever seen on an adult. He wore a cream-colored sports coat, beige linen slacks, white shirt, pale blue tie. Very natty, but his expression was defeated and he didn’t say much.

Mac had on the usual gray sharkskin and unreadable face.

He and Luc had dived into the witness pile, come up empty, and no local gang rumors were flying.

Petra told them about Sandra Leon’s lies.

Luc gnawed his lip. Mac said, “So we have no idea where this kid lives.”

Petra shook her head.

Mac said, “That doctor of hers, think he might know?”

“I’ve got a call in.”

“Maybe you can find him before his vacation’s over. Meanwhile, I’m heading over to Compton. They had a shooting last year, bangers, rap concert, cruise-by in the parking lot. Three down on that one. No solve, but they have ideas and I figured we’d compare notes. Misery and company and all that.”

Petra called Dr. Robert Katzman’s office again, talked to the machine, switched to the Oncology office, and got assertive with a secretary who transferred her to the department administrator, a woman named Kim Pagionides.

“Sandra Leon,” said Pagionides. As if she knew the girl. As if she disapproved of the girl.

Petra said, “You’ve seen her recently?”

“Oh, no.” Small, nervous laugh. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll have Dr. Katzman get in touch when he gets back.”

“I need to speak to him now.”

“I’m sure he’s busy.”

“So am I. Where, exactly, is he?”

“Traveling. To a bunch of cities. He’s delivering papers at four scientific meetings. Important papers. We’re talking about saving lives.”

“And I’m talking about destroyed lives. So maybe the good doctor will be able to relate.”

Silence.

Kim Pagionides said, “Let me check his calendar.”

A few moments later: “He’s in Baltimore, at Johns Hopkins. Here’s his cell phone.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Punching the cell number elicited an identical “Dr. Bob” Katzman message, mellow and reassuring. The physicians who’d treated her dad before he died from Alzheimer’s could’ve learned something from Katzman about bedside manner.

Petra tried to keep her own voice serene, but she felt she’d barked at Dr. Bob. So be it.

It was one forty-three P.M. and Isaac hadn’t come in yet and that was just fine with Petra. Less distraction. She called the LAPD pension office and asked for current stats on retired detectives Conrad Ballou and Enrique Martinez.

Martinez was living in Pensacola, Florida, but Ballou was relatively local. Out in Palmdale, a one-hour freeway drive if you danced around the speed limits.

With nothing more to do on the Paradiso case and feeling lonely and itchy, a one-hour drive didn’t sound half-bad.

She decided to take her own car. Wanted to listen to her own music.

As she headed for her Accord, someone called her name. For the merest, foolish moment, she hoped it would be Eric. The last time, they’d met in the lot. In a movie, he’d be back.

She turned, saw Isaac jogging toward her, wearing a white shirt, khakis, and sneakers, briefcase slapping against his thigh.

“Hey,” she said. “What’s up?”

“I got held up at school, hoped I’d get here in time to catch you.”

“Some new bit of data?”

“No, I just thought if it was okay, I could ride with you.”

Petra didn’t answer and Isaac flinched. “That is, if it doesn’t pose a problem- ”

“It’s fine,” she said. “Actually, I’m heading out to talk to someone on one of your June 28 cases.”

His eyes widened. “So you do see the validity of the- ”

“I think you’ve put together something interesting. And seeing as I’ve got nothing else to do, why not check it out?”

Heading toward the 5 on-ramp, she said, “There’s one thing we need to keep clear. This isn’t an official investigation. It’s important to be discreet.”

“About…”

“Talking to anyone else. Period.”

Her voice had stiffened. Isaac shifted his body toward the passenger door. “Sure. Of course.”

“Especially Captain Schoelkopf,” said Petra. “He doesn’t like me, never has. Going off on a tangent when I’ve got a big-time active case could complicate my situation further. Also, it looks as if he had specific feelings about the June murders. In every case, the investigating detective left for one reason or another. Some retired, some moved to other divisions, some died. By itself, that’s not unusual. Since the riots and the Ramparts scandal, there’s been tons of turnover in the department. What is a bit unusual is that none of the files were transferred to new detectives. That’s because Schoelkopf doesn’t like transferring cold cases. So on the infinitesimal chance that we actually learn something about any of these murders, it’s not going to reflect well on him.”