Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

“Are you through, sir?” she said and Isaac realized his was the only free computer in the room. All those geneology addicts clicking away. The fire in the old woman’s eyes said she was probably one of them.

He had a few more years of Herald to cover, but said “Sure,” and stepped aside.

“Thank you, young Latin gentleman.” She enunciated clearly, some kind of Island lilt. Scurrying past him, she plopped down in front of the terminal, cleared the screen of newspaper references, clicked, found what she was looking for, and began rolling through databases.

Ellis Island Immigration records, 1911.

She must’ve felt Isaac looking over her shoulder, turned and smiled again. “Tracing your roots, sir? Mexico?”

“Yup,” Isaac lied, too tired to get into details.

“It’s marvelous fun, isn’t it? The past is delicious!”

“It’s great,” he said. The deadness in his voice killed the old woman’s glee.

She blinked and he left the room. Quickly, before he ruined someone else’s day.

Petra spent a good deal of Monday trying to locate Melanie Jaeger, the fourth member of Marta Doebbler’s theater party. Living somewhere in the South of France.

She recontacted Emily Pastern, who now seemed reluctant to talk, but pushed and got the woman to specify “somewhere near Nice, I think.” Using the Internet, she pulled up maps and phoned every listed hotel and pension in that region.

Slow, painful process. Being cut off from official data banks, the ability to use the reverse directory, any clout with the airlines, reminded her that she was just another civilian.

She spoke to a lot of baffled/bored French desk clerks, lied, tried charm, finally struck gold at a place called La Mer where a concierge who spoke beautiful English put her through to Madame Jaeger’s room.

After all that, Jaeger had nothing new to tell her. She, too, was certain Kurt Doebbler had brained Marta.

Why?

“Because he’s a spooky creep who never smiled. Hope you catch him and cut off his balls.”

By eleven P.M. she still hadn’t heard from Eric. Popping a couple of Benadryl, she sank into ten hours of drugged-out sleep and awoke Tuesday, ready to work.

Back to the computer. Experienced private eyes had their own methods, could sometimes tread where cops couldn’t. Her ignorance of all that bugged her. Eric was a fast learner. Soon he’d be in touch with all that good stuff.

If he really made the move.

She allowed herself a fantasy: the two of them working together, partners in a high-end p.i. firm. Beautiful office suite on Wilshire or Sunset or maybe even out near the beach. Cool, deco furnishings, rich clients…

You write the screenplay and I’ll pitch it to the networks.

He called at noon, just as she was finishing a quick lunch of toast, a green apple, and strong coffee. She chewed fast, swallowed. “Where are you?”

“Downtown.”

“Second day, running?”

“Maybe the last day,” he said.

“How’s it going?”

“They’re being… thorough.”

“You can’t talk freely.”

“I can listen.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’m really sorry, Eric.”

“For what?”

“Your having to go through this because of- ”

“No sweat. Got to go.” In a softer voice: “Honey.”

Google pulled up zero on Kurt Doebbler- an achievement in itself because the search engine was a monstrous cyber-vacuum cleaner.

She supposed the absence of a personal website was consistent with Doebbler’s asocial personality. But his name did come up on the Pacific Dynamics homepage. One of many names on a roster of the company’s “Senior Staff.”

Kurt was listed as senior engineer and technical designer on something called Project Advent. No details on what that was. The bio did note that Doebbler had “interfaced” with the 40th Engineering Battalion at Baumholden Army Base, in Germany. Having spent his high school years as an Army brat near Hamburg, and speaking fluent German, “Kurt was a natural for the assignment.”

That seemed odd. American Army engineers would speak English.

Was Kurt into hush-hush stuff?

Something else to make her life more difficult?

She read on: B.S. from Cal Tech, M.S. from USC- Isaac’s alma mater.

Speaking of which, she hadn’t talked to Isaac since Friday. With nothing to show there was no sense bothering the kid. According to the bio, Kurt Doebbler was well-regarded as a systems designer who’d worked at Pacific Dynamics for fifteen years. Meaning soon after grad school. No listing of prior employment as a cable dude. But why would there be?

She printed the info, reread it. The German connection got her going in a whole new direction, and she spent the afternoon making international calls until she reached the right person at the Hamburg Police Department.

Chief Inspector Klaus Bandorffer. It was the early morning hours in Germany, still dark, and she wondered what kind of chief inspector kept those hours. But Bandorffer sounded chipper, a professional but amiable fellow, intrigued by a call from an American detective.

Adding yet another potential infraction to her departmental jacket, she told him the June 28 cases were being actively and officially investigated and that she was the lead detective.

“Another one,” said Bandorffer.

“Another what, Chief Inspector?”

“Serial killer, Detective- is it Connor?”

“Yes, sir. You’ve got a lot of serials in Hamburg?”

“Nothing active, right now, but we have our share,” said Bandorffer. “You Americans and we Germans seem proficient at growing such sociopaths.”

A spooky thought. “Maybe we’re just good at detecting patterns.”

Bandorffer chuckled. “Efficiency and intelligence- I like that explanation. So you believe you have a suspect who may have lived in Hamburg?”

“It’s possible.”

“Hmm. During what time period?”

Kurt Doebbler was forty. “High school years” meant twenty-two to twenty-five years ago. She gave Bandorffer those parameters and the details of the head-bashing.

“We had such a murder last year,” he said. “Two drunks in a beer hall, brains knocked clear out of the skull. Our killer’s an illiterate carpenter, never been to the United States… Your suspect’s family name is Doebbler, Christian name Curtis?”

“Just Kurt. With a K. ”

Click click click. “I find nothing under that name in my current files but I will check retrospectively. It may take a day or so.”

Petra gave him her home number and her cell and thanked him profusely.

Bandorffer chuckled again. “Times like these, we efficient, intelligent law officers must cooperate.”

She tried every cable outfit in L.A., Orange, Ventura, San Diego, and Santa Barbara Counties, dealing with paper-pushers at Human Resource Departments, lying when she needed to.

No record of Kurt Doebbler ever working as an installer or any other type of employee. Which didn’t mean much; she hadn’t expected them to keep records that old.

And that was it.

Still, Doebbler was all she had. Especially for his wife’s killing.

Worse came to worst, she could stake out his house June 28. Hope for a miracle and prepare herself for disappointment.

Maybe it was time to try Isaac. He’d had a few days to mull. Perhaps a high I.Q. could accomplish what her average little brain couldn’t.

He’d probably been by the station yesterday and learned about her suspension. Whatever his issues were with that Jaramillo loser, she knew that hearing about her plight would upset him. In her self-obsession, she’d neglected to consider that. Some babysitter she’d turned out to be.