Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

She pressed Casagrande more on the affair, got nothing but a polite denial of details. Running Casagrande through the events at the theater produced an account consistent with Pastern’s.

“Thanks, Doctor.”

“I hope you succeed in getting him,” said Casagrande. “If it is him… have you considered his job, what he does for a living?”

“Missile designer,” said Petra. “Guidance systems.”

“Think about that,” said Casagrande. “He figures out ways to destroy things.”

TUESDAY, JUNE 25, 3:47 P.M., L.A. PUBLIC LIBRARY, CENTRAL BRANCH, 630 W. FIFTH STREET, HISTORY AND GENEOLOGY DEPARTMENT, LOWER LEVEL 4, TOM BRADLEY WING

Isaac’s eyes had blurred twenty minutes ago, but he waited to take a break until he’d finished the Herald Examiner files.

His self-assigned task of today: going back to the birth of as many L.A. newspapers as he could find and reading every June 28 issue. In the case of the Herald, cross-referencing to the photomorgue when something interesting came up.

Lots of duplication among the papers, but all that history added up to hundreds of felonies, mostly robberies, thefts, burglaries, assaults, and, as the automobile took control of the city, drunk-driving arrests.

He whittled down the homicides to those that weren’t bar killings or family disputes or related to robberies. Some of what remained was distinctively psychopathic: a series of Chinatown prostitutes slashed at the turn of the century, unsolved drownings and shootings, even some bludgeonings. But nothing matched the modus or the flavor of the six cases.

No huge surprise; when he’d first come across the pattern- before he’d gone to Petra, before running his statistical tests of significance- he’d covered some of the same ground in the L.A. Times files. Still, it paid to be careful, maybe he’d missed something.

Three days to go until June 28, and after nearly seven hours of tedious, back-cramping, eyestraining work, he’d come up with nothing. Yesterday had been just as futile, spent on the third floor of the Goodhue Building, in the Rare Books Department, where he’d showed up full of purpose only to be informed that he needed an appointment. Which was logical, these were collector’s items, what had he been thinking?

He’d flashed his grad student I.D., made up some story about thinking the BioStat Department had already made an appointment, and the librarian, a thin older man with a bristly white mustache, had taken pity.

“What is it you’re looking for?”

When Isaac explained- keeping it ambiguous but you couldn’t get away from the word murder - the librarian looked at him differently. But he’d been helpful, anyway, handing Isaac a written application form, then guiding him through the holdings.

California History, Mexican Bullfighting, Ornithology, Pacific Voyages…

“I suppose it’s the first that would concern you, Mr. Gomez, seeing as bulls and birds don’t commit murder.”

“Actually, they do,” said Isaac and he’d delivered a little treatise on violent animal behavior. The odd member of the herd or flock who turned out to be antisocial. It was something he thought about from time to time.

“Hmm,” said the librarian, and directed him to the history catalog. Five hours later, he’d left the room exhausted and unfulfilled. No shortage of human beings turning murderously antisocial during California’s bloody history, but nothing that could be construed as relating to his cases.

His. As if there was pride of ownership.

Let’s face it, there is. Coming across the pattern thrilled you.

Now he was more than willing to relinquish ownership… Petra was probably right. The date was personal, not historical. Leaving him with nothing to offer her.

He hadn’t heard from her since Friday, had shown up at the station Monday morning, earlier than usual, ready to brainstorm again. She wasn’t there and her desk was clear. Totally clear.

Three other detectives were in the room. Fleischer, Montoya, and a man at the bulletin board.

“Any idea where Detective Connor is?” he’d said to no one in particular.

Fleischer’s shoulders rose but he didn’t speak. Montoya frowned and left. What was that all about?

Then the man at the board said “She’s out,” and turned. Dark suit, thinning black hair, pencil mustache. Kind of pimpish- Vice?

Isaac said, “Any idea when she’s coming in?” and the man stepped closer. Detective II Robert Lucido, Central Division.

Why had he answered the question?

Lucido said, “I’m looking for her myself. You’re…”

“An intern. I work with Detective Connor doing research.”

“Research?” Lucido peered at Isaac’s badge. “Well, she’s out, Isaac.”

He winked, exited.

Leaving Fleischer, who sat there with the phone receiver in his hand but not dialing. What did he do here all day?

Isaac scribbled a note for Petra and left it on the bare desk, was headed for his own seat in the corner when Fleischer put the phone down and waved him over.

“Don’t waste your time.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s not coming in. Suspended.”

“Suspended? For God’s sake, why?”

“Shootout, North Hollywood, Saturday.” Fleischer’s bushy eyebrows turned into croquet wickets. “It was on the news, son.”

Isaac hadn’t watched the news. Too busy.

“But she’s okay.”

Fleischer nodded.

“What happened?”

“Petra and another detective were staking a suspect, there was a confrontation and the bad guy didn’t respond appropriately.”

“Dead?” said Isaac.

“Extremely.”

“The suspect on the Paradiso case?”

“That’s the one.”

“For that she got suspended?”

“It’s a procedural thing, son.”

“Meaning what?”

“Rules were broken.”

“How long will the suspension last?”

“Haven’t heard.”

“Where is she, now?”

“Anywhere but here,” said Fleischer.

“I don’t have her home number.”

Fleischer shrugged.

“Detective Fleischer,” said Isaac, “it’s important that I get in touch with her.”

“She have your number?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t see any problem, son.”

She hadn’t called and now it was Tuesday.

Caught up in her own problems, she’d probably forgotten about June 28.

Not that he had anything for her.

He missed… being at the station.

Suddenly, his neck kinked painfully and he got up from his computer terminal in the history and geneology catalog room and stretched.

Being left out in the cold was poetic justice. Over the past few days, he’d ignored half a dozen phone messages from Klara. Had stayed away from campus and made the public library his work station expressly to avoid her.

The decision to break communication had been rationalized as kindness: Given Klara’s fragile emotional state, wouldn’t contact do her more harm than good? Though, what had happened down in the subbasement was regrettable, but not a felony. Two adults doing what adults did, one of those odd confluences of time and place. And hormones.

Thinking about it now, he couldn’t believe what he’d done. The impulsiveness…

Klara, whatever her emotional complexities might be, needed to realize that he-

“Sir?” said a wispy voice behind him.

He looked over his shoulder, then down several inches, saw an elderly black woman smiling up at him. Oversized purse in one hand, big, green reference volume tucked under her other arm. Tiny and stooped, she looked to be ninety, had beautiful skin the color of prunes. A too-heavy wool coat bulked her meager frame. A green felt hat sat atop marcelled hair the color of fresh snow.