Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

“Like what?”

She elaborated. He listened. Petra saw the eggs and bread and milk sitting on the counter. Time to be useful. Scooping butter into a pan, she turned on the gas, soaked the bread in milk, and, when the butter was bubbling and barely brown, dropped in two slices.

Nice sound, the sizzle. There was something to be said for mindless work.

Eric said, “You could surveil Doebbler on the twenty-eighth. He moves, he’s your guy.”

“And if he doesn’t, someone dies.”

He shrugged.

“ Mister Blasé.”

He didn’t answer.

The French toast was ready. She plated it, set it in front of him.

He didn’t move.

“Sorry for snapping,” she said.

“I didn’t mean to be glib,” he said.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t take you seriously,” he said. “You’re up to your eyeballs in junk.”

Gazing up at her. Eyes softer than she’d ever seen.

She cradled his head. Picked up a fork and slipped it between his fingers. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 26, 10:00 A.M., NUMBER SEVEN BUS, SANTA MONICA LINE, PICO AND OVERLAND

Isaac almost left home without taking the paper bag.

Plagued by restlessness all night, he’d slept until eight-forty. His parents and his brothers were gone and he admitted, with some shame, that the resultant silence was wonderful.

With the bathroom all to himself, he took his time showering, shaving, walked around naked, slid his briefcase out from under the bunk bed. Checked under his papers to make sure the gun was all right.

Why wouldn’t it be?

He pulled it out, aimed it at the mirror.

“Bang.”

Stupid idea, the gun. What had he been thinking? He rewrapped it, put it back in the bottom of the case, touched the bruise on his cheek. No swelling, slightly tender. Those kids had been stupid little punks, he’d overreacted.

Maybe he’d return the gun to Flaco.

Running his hands over his body, he lifted an edge of window shade, looked out, and caught a blade of sky above the air shaft. Blue streaked with white.

He put on fresh khakis and a short-sleeved yellow shirt. The heat that had already permeated the apartment said this would be a short-sleeves day.

Even at the beach, where the air was always cooler.

Was he growing addicted to sand and ocean?

There were worse vices.

Last night, unable to sleep, he’d allowed himself fantasies of living there one day. Rich doctor, beautiful wife, brilliant kids, set up in one of those big houses on the Palisades.

Or, if fate really steered things his way, a place right on the sand.

Surf, gulls, pelicans, dolphins. Waking every morning to the sound of the ocean… about as likely as waking up naturally blond.

But he could while away another day at the pier.

He’d worked hard, was entitled.

Spoiled brat. Deservedness has nothing to do with it.

The key to success wasn’t virtue, it was knowledge, knowledge was power.

The old familiar mantra filled his head: stay on target, get educated. The Ph.D, then the M.D. Acquire a specialty, get an academic appointment, publish like a demon, earn early tenure, build a reputation that can be parlayed into lucrative consultantships.

Maybe even an M.B.A., a position at some pharmaceutical company…

One day he’d be Dr. Gomez. Meanwhile, he’d gotten himself into a fix with Klara.

She kept calling. How long could that go on?

He’d have to deal with it, sooner rather than later. But today… the beach.

He went into the kitchen, put his briefcase on the counter, and poured a glass of milk. Changed his mind. He’d return to the public library, use the tools he’d come to believe in: thorough data collection, deductive and inductive reasoning, hard work. Problems were solvable; there had to be an answer.

He gulped the milk and headed for the door. Saw the bag on the tiny mail table to the right of the door.

Brown paper, neatly folded- his mother’s trademark. His name printed in red crayon. Shaky letters because she’d never been confident about her literacy.

The exact same way she’d printed his lunches when he was at Burton. All the other kids eating in the school cafeteria- a wonderful place, those steam tables, the hairnetted women, jewel-green and sun-yellow vegetables, slabs of pink meat and white turkey, things he’d never seen- succotash? Welsh rarebit?

His mother had been afraid of the strange food. Or so she’d claimed. Later, he’d found out that scholarship students didn’t qualify for the caf, the school’s generosity only went so far.

He’d been ashamed of his sack lunches, until some of the other kids had thought his tamales and black beans cool. There’d been a few snickers- this was middle school, after all. But the Burton student body had been well-drilled in the virtues of diversity and, for the most part, had seemed impressed by Irma Gomez’s cooking.

That made it easy for Isaac to trade his homemade fare for the contents of the rich kids’ caf trays. Chewing away with forced aplomb, pretending to like the bland stuff, because he desperately wanted to blend in.

It had been a while since Mama had packed him a lunch. Maybe he’d ditch it, get himself a fried sausage from a street vendor near the library.

No way, the guilt would overwhelm him. He stuffed the bag in his briefcase, left, and hurried down the stairs.

Guilt was a big part of his makeup. So scratch the M.B.A. and the drug companies.

There goes the house on the beach.

As he hit the street, he changed his mind again. Two days of library work had produced nothing. What could he hope to find? He walked to Pico, caught the number seven bus, and rode all the way to Overland when the aroma of his mother’s food, seeping through the brown paper, got his gastric juices going and he unfolded the flap and looked inside.

Atop the foil-wrapped morsels was a scrap of paper, folded over. He fished it out, read “BRO,” in large, clumsy capitals. Isaiah’s writing.

He unfolded the note.

THE LADY COP CALLED LAST NIGHT.

Just that, no number.

He got up from his seat, rang the buzzer. Exited at the next stop.

The station’s rear door was locked. Since he’d been coming here that had only happened twice, because someone had forgotten to open it. He found his 999 key.

It didn’t come close to fitting. Change of locks? Then he noticed the closed-circuit camera above the door. Flaking paint where the device had been installed. The lens was focused right on him. It made him feel like a suspect and he turned his back.

New security measures because of some terrorism alert?

He was thinking about that when he saw an older silver Cadillac drive into the lot and park. That old drill-sergeant type, Detective Dilbeck.

Isaac approached the car and Dilbeck rolled down his window.

“Morning, Detective.”

“Morning, Mr. Gomez.”

“The door’s locked and my key doesn’t work.”

“Mine neither,” said Dilbeck. “Everyone comes in through the front until things calm down.”

“Calm down from what?”

Dilbeck bared his teeth. “Captain Schoelkopf was murdered yesterday.”

“Oh no.”

“For the time being, they’re being extra careful. Not that what happened to the captain applies to anyone else. He cheated on his wife, hell has no fury and all that. You haven’t annoyed any feisty females lately, have you, Mr. Gomez?”

Isaac smiled. His stomach churned.

Dilbeck got out of his car and began walking toward the lot’s entrance. Isaac stayed in place.

“No work today, Mr. Gomez?”

Isaac half heard him. Thinking: heightened security probably means a metal detector. The gun…