Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

“You tell me, Isaac.”

“Tell you what?”

“Your connection to Flaco Jaramillo.”

He stayed calm but his face got hard. Hawkish, a little scary. His hands tightened into fists and as he rolled them, forearms bunched, veins popping like miniature pylons. Thick arms. Some serious muscles she’d never noticed. All that brain power had made her forget this was a healthy, young man in his prime.

Now she’d tapped into something that evoked his physicality. She wondered how much of himself he’d kept from her.

“So that’s it,” he said.

“That’s what?”

“Someone from the department’s been asking about me over on campus. Some detective named Lucido.”

“Bobby Lucido. He and his partner spoke to me a few days ago.”

Isaac’s eyes flashed with anger. “You didn’t think to tell me.”

“I didn’t even consider it, my friend. Because I didn’t know what you were up to. Still don’t.”

“Idiots,” he mumbled. His laughter was coarse, staccato, free of amusement. “Not you. But you work with a bunch of really stupid people.”

“We can’t all be geniuses.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, Jesus.” He knuckled the spot between his eyebrows, raised a rosy spot.

“They’ve got pictures, Isaac.”

His shoulders stiffened. “Of what?”

Now I’ve buried myself. “Of you and a low-life dope dealer slash possible triggerman shmoozing it up in a low-life bar.”

She folded her arms across her chest.

He tried to force relaxation.

His body cooperated but his eyes were way too jumpy. Just like a suspect. The kid had broken the case and now she was breaking him. Did life have to be this hard?

He said, “I can see why that might lead to a mistaken impression.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” she said.

He blinked hard. No more hard guy, scared kid. What was real, what wasn’t?

“I’m not bullshitting you,” he insisted. “But there’s nothing ominous going on. Flaco and I go back. We grew up together, I tutored him in grade school. In public school, before I got into Burton. We run into each other from time to time. I know he’s been in trouble, but I’ve never been involved in any of that. A few days ago, he called me up and asked me to meet him. To help him out with a family matter.”

“What kind of family matter?”

“His mother’s sick. Cancer. She’s illegal, can’t qualify for Medi-Cal. He was under the impression I was already in medical school, figured I could help her get free medical care. He’s always about that, getting an angle. I went to see him because he used to stick up for me when we were kids. I explained that I wasn’t in the system. He didn’t want to hear that, got persistent. I told him I’d look into it. When I got back to campus, I made a few calls. Couldn’t do a thing. Told him. That’s it.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, dammit.”

“You’re not a dope courier?”

His eyes got wide. “Are you insane?”

Petra didn’t answer.

“I promise, Petra. I swear. I’ve never had anything to do with dope. Never. And growing up the way I did there was no lack of opportunity. Flaco’s a psychopath and a felon but we don’t hang together. This was about doing a favor, that’s all, and I think it’s crazy that I’m being persecuted for it. I guess you couldn’t tell me earlier, but if you had, I could’ve cleared it up.”

“Sick mother,” she said.

“Yes.”

“That can be verified pretty easily.”

“Verify away.” His dark eyes met hers and held the gaze. His fists had uncurled. He looked tired.

Petra said, “There was some curiosity about your briefcase. Flaco going up to the bar, maybe getting something to give you under the table.”

He laughed. “The briefcase? Have you ever seen me without it? Here, want to check?” He picked up the case, offered it to her.

Praying.

“It’s okay,” she said.

“I’ve never sold dope and I’m certainly no mule. Jesus, Petra, can you imagine what would happen to my med school career if I got caught doing something like that?” He frowned. “What still might happen if your idiot colleagues keep harassing me?” He gnawed his lip. “Maybe it’s time for me to get an attorney.”

“Do what you need to do. But I can’t imagine that any kind of publicity could help you.”

“True, true.” He shook his head. “What a mess.”

“If nothing happened, there won’t be a problem.”

“How can I prove a negative?” he said.

“Take a polygraph. If it comes to that. Once this is resolved I’ll do what I can to run interference for you. So it’s important for your sake that I don’t lose any more department brownie points. Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

“No. Your suspension, that didn’t have anything to do with me, did it?”

“No, that I did all by my little lonesome.”

She got up, poured yet more coffee for herself, offered him a refill.

“No, thanks.”

“Any more insights on Doebbler?”

He shook his head.

She said, “I’ll drive you home.”

“I can take the bus.”

“No way,” she said. “Not at this hour. By the way, that bruise you were sporting. What really happened?”

“My brother and I had a little scuffle,” he said. “Nothing serious, you know what it’s like with siblings.”

“You guys are a little old for roughhousing.”

“Isaiah’s a good guy, Petra, but life’s hard for him. He works like a dog, doesn’t get enough sleep.”

“Last time I called you, I woke him, poor guy.”

Isaac smiled. “He told me.” He got to his feet, lifted the briefcase.

Petra said, “All right, I’m glad we cleared the air.”

“Me, too.”

They left her apartment, stepped out into the warm June air. Twenty-five hours until the killing hour.

“I meant what I said before, Isaac. You really are the hero.”

“On the other hand, if I hadn’t spotted the pattern, you never would have had to worry about it.”

“Yeah, ignorance can be bliss,” she said. “But I like it better this way.”

THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 2:30 P.M., PLEXI-TECH INC., WESTRIDGE HILLS ADVANCED INDUSTRIAL PARK, WESTLAKE VILLAGE

The plastics fabricator, a massive, white, windowless hatbox, two miles north of the freeway, was ringed by an open, unguarded asphalt lot. The space was half-filled with cars and trucks and vans. Lots of empty slots in random places. The first few rows provided a nice clear diagonal view of the smaller brick structure across the street.

Sand-colored brick. Mirrored windows, cursory landscaping, black block lettering above the mirrored front door. Pacific Dynamics.

Kurt Doebbler’s workplace was less welcoming than its looming neighbor. Wrought-iron fencing surrounded the property. A slot-key parking arm bisected the entry. You could walk under, but no drive-through. No front parking either. A driveway snaked down to the left of the building and continued around to the west side. Once Doebbler’s Infiniti made the turn, no visual access. Damn.

Petra was wondering about rear entry to the building when Doebbler’s tall, angular form appeared at the top of the drive, walking slowly, almost tentatively, on long, thin legs. He wore a short-sleeved, pale-green shirt, brown slacks, white running shoes. Dunkin’ Donuts bag in one hand, steel attaché case in the other. With his black-framed glasses and loose-limbed shamble, the guy was a walking promo for the Nerd Channel.

Nothing humorously quirky about this nerd. She watched as Doebbler strode over to Pacific Dynamics’ front door and walked in.