Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

He’d retired to take care of a wife with cancer and a slew of kids, and bringing him up now felt like sacrilege. Petra’s face burned like a habanero pepper, her eyes were gritty and dry. But her heartbeat had slowed. Going into attack mode, her body marshaling its reserves.

She was prepared, ready, to spring for the bastard’s throat but kept all the rage in a tiny little zone of her prefrontal lobes.

Eric had it right. Say nothing, show nothing.

But she couldn’t resist. “Detective Bishop’s hair color was natural, sir.”

“Right,” said Schoelkopf. “You’re amoral and sneaky, Connor. First you sneak to the media with that picture of Leon instead of doing it the right way. Then you ignore task force instructions and sneak in your own little grandstand play. You’re toast, get it? Suspended. Without pay, if it’s up to me. Leave your gun and badge with Sergeant Montoya.”

Petra tried to stare him down. He wasn’t biting, had opened another desk drawer, busied himself with shuffling whatever was inside.

She said, “This isn’t fair, sir.”

“Yadda yadda. Go.”

As she turned to leave, she noticed the date numerals on his desk clock: 24.

Four days until June 28 and she was being cut off. From her files, her phone, access to data banks.

From Isaac.

Fine, she’d adapt. Call the phone company and have her calls forwarded to her home number. Take what she needed from her desk and work from home.

Petra Connor, Private Eye. Absurd. Then she thought of Eric, going out on his own.

“Bye,” she told the captain.

The lilt in her voice made him look up. “Something funny?”

“Nothing, sir. Enjoy your cigar.”

When she returned to her desk, the top was cleared- even the blotter Krebs had sat on was gone.

She tried a drawer. Locked.

Her key didn’t fit.

Then she saw it. Brand-new lock, shiny brass. “What the- ”

Barney Fleischer said, “Schoelkopf had a locksmith in while you were in his office.”

“Bastard.”

The old guy stood up, looked around, came over. “Meet me downstairs, near the back door. Couple of minutes.”

He returned to his desk. Petra left the detectives’ room, descended the stairs to the ground floor. Less than a minute later, slow, plodding footsteps sounded and Barney came into view, wearing an oversized tweedy sports coat and draping a longer garment over one arm.

A raincoat, a wrinkled gray thing that he usually stashed in his locker. Once in a while, she’d seen it draped over his chair. Had never actually witnessed him wearing it. Not today, that was for sure. The heat had burned through the marine layer this morning, temperatures rising to the high eighties.

The old man looked as if he was ready for winter.

He paused three steps from the bottom, eyed the top of the stairwell, descended all the way. Unfurling the raincoat, he produced half a dozen blue folders.

Doebbler, Solis, Langdon, Hochenbrenner… all six.

“Thought you might need this.”

Petra took the files. Kissed Barney full on parched lips. He smelled of onion rolls. “You’re a saint.”

“So they tell me,” he said. Then he climbed back up the stairs, whistling.

Back home, she cleared away her easel and paints and set up a workstation on her dinette table.

Stacking the files, laying out her notepad, a fresh legal tablet and pens.

Eric had left her a note on the kitchen counter:

P,

Appts. at Parker until???

Love, E.

Love… that started all kinds of gears grinding.

Time to concentrate on something she could control. She started with the phone company, put in the forwarding request. The operator started off friendly, came back a few seconds later with a whole different attitude.

“The number you’re forwarding from is a police extension. We can’t do that.”

“I’m an LAPD detective,” said Petra, rattling off her badge number.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

“Here’s my supervisor.”

A steely-voiced, older-sounding woman came on, with a manner so rigid Petra wondered if she was really a department plant.

Same message, no give.

Petra hung up, wondering if she’d done herself even more harm.

Maybe the Fates were telling her something. Even so, she’d work June 28. To do otherwise would drive her crazy.

She got herself a can of Coke, sipped and flipped through her notes. The calls she’d put in Friday.

Marta Doebbler’s friends. Dr. Sarah Casagrande in Sacramento, Emily Pastern in the Valley.

Emily, with the barking dog.

This time the woman answered. No noise in the background. Still perky, until Petra told her what it was all about.

“Marta? It’s been… years.”

“Six years, ma’am. We’re taking a fresh look at the case.”

“Like that show on TV- Cold Case whatever.”

“Something like that, ma’am.”

“Well,” said Pastern. “No one talked to me when it happened. How’d you get my name?”

“You were listed in the file as someone Ms. Doebbler had gone out with that night.”

“I see… what was your name again?”

Petra repeated it. Cited her credentials again, as well. Committing yet another breach of regulations.

Impersonating an active officer of the law…

Emily Pastern said, “So what do you want from me now?”

“Just to talk about the case.”

“I don’t see what I could tell you.”

“You never know, ma’am,” said Petra. “If we could just meet for a few minutes- at your convenience.” Working up her own perkiness. Praying Pastern wouldn’t call the station and check her bona fides.

“I guess.”

“Thanks very much, Ms. Pastern.”

“When?”

“Sooner the better.”

“I’ve got to go out at three to pick up my kids. How about in an hour?”

“That would be perfect,” said Petra. “Name the place.”

“My house,” said Pastern. “No, let’s make it at Rita’s- it’s a little coffee place. Ventura Boulevard, south side, two blocks west of Reseda. They’ve got an outdoor patio. I’ll be there.”

Wanting distance from her home. Somewhere out in the open, well within her comfort zone.

Petra said, “See you there.” Don’t be the suspicious type, Emily.

She got out of the morning’s black pantsuit and searched her closet for something more… welcoming.

Her first try was one of the few dresses she owned, a short-sleeved, gray silk A-line patterned with nearly invisible lavender squiggles. Too clingy, way too party. The black Max Mara jersey affair with the cap sleeves and the price tag still attached was even less appropriate.

Back to basics. A slate-blue pantsuit, free of lapels, some cute reverse stitching along the hems. Tiny hyphens of celluloid laced into the stitches. When she’d bought it at the Neiman’s summer sale two seasons ago, she’d thought it way too frou-frou. But on her it looked subtle, a bit dressy.

Maybe Emily Pastern would be impressed.

She made it to the Valley with time to spare, drove around a bit, pulled up in front of Rita’s Coffees and Sweets right on time.

The place was a pair of cute, tile-roofed bungalows combined into one establishment. One of a group of little Spanish-style structures assembled around a small patch of foliage, several steps up from the sidewalk. At the center of the green patch was a gurgling fountain. Older buildings, from the twenties or earlier.

Tarzana had been farmland back then, and Petra wondered if the houses had been built for migrant workers. Now they housed teeny, trendy retail businesses.

Giovanna Beauty, Leather and Lace Boutique, Optical Allusions. Even the premises of Zoë, Psychic Adviser looked cute.