Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

It was six-fifteen P.M. and all the university departments were closed. She phoned the Gomez residence and Isaac picked up, sounding sleepy. Dozing in the middle of the afternoon?

“Isaac, it’s- ”

A loud, flapping yawn drowned her out. Like a horse’s neighing, kind of gross. This was a side of Isaac she hadn’t seen.

He said, “You, again?”

“Again?”

“This is Klara, right? Listen, my brother’s- ”

“This is Detective Petra Connor. You’re Isaac’s brother?”

Silence. “Hey, sorry, I was sleeping, yeah, I’m his brother.”

“Sorry for waking you. Is Isaac there?”

Another yawn, then a throat clearing. The guy’s vocal tones were a lot like Isaac’s. But deeper, slower. Like Isaac on downers.

“He ain’t here.”

“Still at school?”

“Don’t know.”

“Please tell him I called.”

“Sure.”

“Go back to sleep, Isaac’s brother.”

“Isaiah… yeah, I will.”

At eight P.M. she fought the urge to throw together a lonely gal, out-of-cans dinner and went out. If she was forced to live like a civilian, she might as well reap the benefits.

She drove around the Fairfax District for a while, considering the Grove or one of the places on Melrose. Ended up at a little kosher fish restaurant on Beverly where she and Stu Bishop had lunched from time to time. The owner’s father, a doctor, was a colleague of Stu’s ophthalmologist dad. Petra had returned by herself because the place was close to her apartment, had sawdust floors, fresh, tasty, cheap food, and a counter pickup policy that avoided chitchat with the waitstaff.

Tonight, the owner was out and two Hispanic guys in baseball caps were running the place. Lots of people and noise. Good.

She ordered grilled baby salmon with a baked potato and slaw, snagged the last vacant table, and sat next to a Hasidic family with five tiny, rambunctious kids. The black-suited, bearded father pretended not to notice her, but when she caught the eye of the pretty bewigged mother, the woman smiled shyly and said, “Sorry for the noise.”

As if her progeny were responsible for all the din.

Petra smiled back. “They’re cute.”

Bigger smile. “Thank you… stop it, Shmuel Yakov! Leave Yisroel Tzvi alone!”

By nine forty-five she was back at her place. Eric’s Jeep was parked on Detroit and when she cracked her door, he got up from her living room couch and hugged her. He had on a tan suit, blue shirt, yellow tie. She’d never seen him in light colors and it gave his skin a little earth tone.

“It wasn’t necessary to dress for me, big boy.”

He smiled and removed the jacket.

“Aw,” she said.

They kissed briefly. He said, “You eat yet?”

“Just finished. You were figuring on going out?”

“Out or in, doesn’t matter.” He moved his mouth toward hers again. She turned her head to the side. “My breath smells of fish.”

He took her face in his hands, touched lips gently, then pressed his tongue forward and got her to open up. “Hmm… trout?”

“Salmon. I can still go out. Have coffee and stare while you eat.”

He moved to the kitchen, opened the fridge. “I’ll forage.”

“Let me fix you something.”

By the time she reached him, he’d taken out eggs and milk and pulled a loaf out of the bread box.

“French toast,” she said. “I do that real well.”

She cracked eggs and sliced bread. He poured milk and said, “You haven’t heard about Schoelkopf.”

“What about him?”

“It was on the news.”

“I haven’t watched TV in two days. What’s going on?”

“Dead,” said Eric. “Three hours ago. His wife killed him.”

She left the kitchen and sat down at the dinette table. “My God… which wife?”

“The current one. How many did he have?”

“She was number three. What, she left him and then decided to kill him?”

“From what I hear,” said Eric, “he left her.”

No one from the station had thought to call her. “What happened?”

“Schoelkopf moved out of the house a few weeks ago, rented an apartment near the station- one of the high-rises on Hollywood Boulevard west of La Brea. He was up there with his girlfriend, some civilian clerk. They headed out for lunch, went down in the sub parking lot to get his car. The wife stepped out and started shooting. Schoelkopf caught three in the arm and one right here.” He tapped the center of his brow. “The girlfriend got shot, too, but she was alive when the ambulances arrived. Then the wife turned the gun on herself.”

“Is the girlfriend named Kirsten Krebs? Blond, mid-twenties, worked downstairs?”

Eric nodded. “You knew about it?”

“I guessed about it. Krebs always had an attitude with me. The day Schoelkopf called me in, she was the messenger. I found her sitting on my desk liked she owned it. Where’s the wife?”

“On a respirator, not expected to live. Krebs is in bad shape, too.”

She got up, flicked on the TV, found news on Channel Five. A cheerful Latina in a mock-Chanel suit delivered bad news:

“… investigating this evening’s murder of an LAPD police captain. Edward Schoelkopf, forty-seven, a twenty-year veteran, was allegedly gunned down by his estranged wife, Meagan Schoelkopf, thirty-two, who shot herself fatally in what investigators believe was a love-triangle murder-suicide. Also wounded was a yet-unidentified young woman…”

The backdrop shifted from a ragged, white “Homicide” header over a chalked body outline to a wedding photo of the couple in happier times. “… that left this quiet residential area of Hollywood shocked and Schoelkopf’s colleagues at the police department stunned. Now on to other local news…”

Petra switched the set off. “I couldn’t stand him and Lord knows he despised me- why I’ll never know- but this…”

“He hated women,” said Eric.

“You say that as if you know for a fact.”

“When he first interviewed me, he tried to sound me out. About minorities, women. Mostly women, it was clear he didn’t like them. He thought he was being subtle, wanted to see if I agreed.”

“What’d you do?”

“Kept my mouth shut. That made him assume it was okay to talk freely and he told some really nasty antifemale jokes.”

“You never told me.”

“What was the point?”

“None, I guess.” She sat down. Eric walked behind her and massaged her shoulders.

“I’ve found,” he said, “that in most situations, the less said, the better.”

But not all situations, my dear. “Schoelkopf dead… What will it mean for us- in terms of our suspensions?”

“Before it happened, I was led to believe they weren’t going to be too hard on either of us. It’ll probably delay our dispositions.”

“No matter to you. You’re leaving.”

His hand stopped working. “Maybe.”

She twisted around, looked up.

“I’m still thinking,” he said.

“Big decision, makes sense.”

“Disappointed?”

“Of course not. It’s your life.”

“We could still get a house,” he said. “With both of us working, we could probably get a decent place sooner rather than later.”

“Sure,” she said. Surprised by the coolness in her own voice.

“Is there a problem?”

“I’m a little overwhelmed right now. Dangling. And all because I helped get rid of a really bad guy.”

She broke free, stood, marched into the kitchen. “Plus, there’s the June 28 stuff. Three days to go and I’ve got squat.”

“What about that husband- Doebbler?”

“Everyone’s sure he killed his wife, but there’s no evidence. He fits in some ways but not in others.”