Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

“The human mask,” said Isaac.

“We all wear ’em.”

Petra exited the 210 at Brand Boulevard in Glendale, drove north to a quiet, pretty part of the street, and pulled over. She’d brought copies of Ballou’s notes and rifled through them until she found Kurt Doebbler’s work and home numbers. It was just after five, meaning he could be either place.

The home was on Rosita Avenue, in Tarzana, clear across the Valley to the west. At this hour, at least an hour’s drive. She ran a DMV check. Doebbler was listed as still there. Two cars registered in his name. A two-year-old Infiniti coupe and a three-year-old Toyota wagon. If he’d coveted Marta’s Opel sedan, it hadn’t been to keep the darn thing.

The daughter, Katya, would be fifteen, too young to drive, but Kurt had indulged himself with two sets of wheels.

Secret life?

She asked Isaac, “What’s your schedule like?”

“When?”

“Now.”

“I was going to work on organizing my source material. It can wait.”

“I can drop you off just as easily as go on.”

“Go on, where?”

“To Kurt Doebbler’s house.”

“Now?” said Isaac.

“Ain’t no time like now,” she said.

“It’s okay if I come along?”

“Sure.”

“Let’s do it,” he said. Excitement in his voice. Then: “Could I borrow your phone, please? I’ll let my mother know I won’t be home for dinner.”

Busiest freeway in the state, busiest time of day.

From Burbank to Encino, they rolled and stopped and waited, averaging ten miles per. Petra finally managed to exit at Balboa. She took Ventura Boulevard the rest of the way, encountered gridlock, foul tempers, distracted cell phone gabbers, some truly frightening risk-taking.

By the time they reached Tarzana, she was too grumpy to talk and Isaac busied himself by pulling a book out of his briefcase, reading and underlining in yellow marker. She glanced over, saw pages full of equations, vowed not to look again. Math had been her worst subject in school. Except for geometry, where her artistic pretensions had kicked in and she’d excelled at drawing complex polygons.

Someone behind her leaned on his horn. What am I supposed to do, moron? Drive through the ass-end of the Escalade in front of me?

She realized her hands ached from gripping the wheel and forced herself to relax.

Isaac smiled. What could be funny about equations?

She said, “This is the exciting part of police work.”

His smile widened. “I like it.”

“Do you?”

“At least you’ve got time to think.”

“That’s one way to rationalize,” she said.

He looked up from his book. “Actually, I like everything about your job.”

Kurt Doebbler’s house on Rosita Avenue was a pale gray, two-story traditional set in a low spot on the street, higher properties behind. The front yard was mostly brick and asphalt. The door and the shutters were a deeper gray. Doebbler’s Infiniti, a champagne-colored coupe, was in view, sparkling clean. Parked in front of it was the gray Toyota wagon, with one flat tire and a veneer of dust.

The man who answered the door was nice-looking. Tall, late thirties to early forties, with a broad-shouldered, angular build and a thick mess of wavy dark hair, graying at the temples. Prominent chin and nose, generous mouth. The kind of sun-seams that enhanced some men. Petra couldn’t think of any women who benefited from aging skin.

He wore a baggy plaid shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, faded jeans, white running shoes. A dinner plate dangled from one hand. In his other was a dish towel. Droplets on the plate. Single dad doing his chores?

From inside the house Petra smelled broiled meat. Dinner was over. The drive had taken them that long. She could use a steak.

“Mr. Doebbler?”

“Yes.” Friendly brown eyes, slouching posture. Pinch-marks on his nose said he wore glasses. A couple of shaving nicks stippled his neck.

Nothing weird, so far. Let’s see how he reacts when she shows him the badge.

He smiled. “I thought you were Jehovah’s Witnesses.” Looking over at Isaac.

Well-scrubbed kid, Petra could see that.

Doebbler said, “Is there some kind of trouble in the neighborhood?”

“I’m a homicide detective from Hollywood Division, sir. I’m looking into your wife’s murder.”

“My wife?” The smile finally melted down. “I’m sorry, it’s my brother Kurt you want. I’m Thad Doebbler.”

“You live here, too?”

“No, I live in San Francisco, had to be down here on business. Kurt insisted I not stay at a hotel. You’re reopening Marta’s case?”

“Marta’s case never closed, sir.”

“Oh… well, let me get Kurt for you. He’s up with Katya, helping her with her homework. Come on in.”

Petra and Isaac followed him through a small, empty entry foyer into a modest living room. Up ahead was a narrow walkway that led to the kitchen. Thad Doebbler said, “One second,” loped to the kitchen, and returned minus the plate and the towel.

To the left was a right-angled oak staircase. Human speech filtered down from the second floor. A high girlish voice going on for a while, a single baritone grunt.

Thad Doebbler walked to the bottom of the stairs and stopped. “I don’t want to meddle, Detective, but my brother… he’s been doing pretty well the past few years. Has something new come up? Can I tell him that?”

“Nothing dramatic,” said Petra. “We’re just doing our best to clear cases.”

He rolled his shoulders. “Got it. Make yourselves comfortable, I’ll go tell Kurt you’re here.”

Petra and Isaac sat at opposite ends of a seven-foot sofa. Very soft sofa, tufted exuberantly. White cotton printed with huge red roses and serpentine green vines. Rolled arms and piped seams and a gold-and-red fringe running along the bottom. Catty-corner the couch were two of the starkest black leather chairs Petra had ever seen- tight black skin on chromium frames.

No coffee table in the middle, just a faded brown needlepoint ottoman that served host to a TV tray and a remote control.

The entire room was like that, feminine touches coexisting uneasily with the obvious signs of male inhabitance. One wall was dominated by a big-screen TV, maybe seventy inches wide, and nearly empty bookcases. Nearby was an antique sewing table covered by lace. Prints of Flemish still-lifes hung on the white walls along with two huge, brass-framed photos of space shuttles blasting off and one of a fighter jet slicing through the wild blue yonder. The carpeting was gray- the same gray as the house- and looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in a while. The broiled-meat smell pervaded.

The man who came down the stairs was even taller than Thad Doebbler- six-four was Petra’s estimate. Thinner, too. The same thick wavy hair as his younger brother but completely gray. Darker complexion. Thick eyeglasses in silver frames. Huge hands dangled. Similar features to Thad, but on Kurt Doebbler they didn’t add up to handsome.

He wore a white polo shirt, brown slacks, black shoes.

Pausing at the same spot where his brother had stopped, he stood there looking at them. Past them.

Petra said, “Mr. Doebbler?”

“You know that, already.” The line should’ve been accompanied by a smile. Kurt Doebbler just kept staring.

“Sorry to interrupt your evening, sir.”

Doebbler said nothing.

“Do you have time to talk, sir?”

“About Marta.”

“Yes, sir.”

Doebbler pressed his hands together, shifted his eyes to the ceiling, as if searching for divine inspiration. Petra knew that kind of movement as indication of deception.

Doebbler said, “What about, specifically?”