Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

Lunchtime. No sign of the quarry.

“Maybe he’s eating donuts,” said Petra. “Carbo-loading for his big night.” Eric’s voice through the phone was soft. “Working at his desk would fit a compulsive personality.”

Which could apply to Eric. And her.

She glanced two aisles up, where the Jeep was parked. “Kind of weird, having to talk to you this way. How about some phone sex?”

“Sure,” he said. “But only as prep for the real thing.”

By three-twenty, Doebbler still hadn’t appeared. Just to be sure they hadn’t missed something, Eric called his work number. Doebbler picked up and Eric said, “Mr. Doebbler?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dwayne Hickham from New Jersey Life. Have you considered term- ”

Click.

“Friendly fellow,” said Petra.

Eric didn’t answer.

At three fifty-three, her phone squawked. Her butt was sore, she had a hunger-headache, and her bladder was bursting. The scene through her windshield was a damned oil painting. What could Eric have to say?

She pressed Talk. “What’s up?”

A cheerful voice said “Detective Connor?” Teutonic accent.

“Chief Inspector Bandorffer.”

“Yes, this is Klaus. I thought this might be a good hour to reach you.”

“It is, sir. What’s up?”

“What’s up,” said Bandorffer, “is that I came across something intriguing in our records. Not a serial homicide, not a homicide at all. An assault. But it occurred on June 28 and the details are provocative.”

“What year?” said Petra.

“Nineteen seventy-nine. A young woman named Gudrun Wiegeland, a cake-icer at one of our finest bakeries, was attacked while walking home. She’d been decorating an elaborate wedding cake, left work shortly before midnight. Two blocks from her destination, someone hooked an arm around her neck, pulled her down onto the street, turned her over onto her stomach, and began kicking at her ribs. Then she experienced crushing pain at the back of her head. The attacker remained behind her so unfortunately she never saw him. Her injuries were serious. Three broken ribs, bruised internal organs, and a fractured skull. She was unconscious for two days, woke up and had nothing of value to tell the police. I paid her a visit today. She’s a frightened, middle-aged woman, lives with her elderly mother and collects public assistance. She rarely ventures out of her apartment.”

“Poor thing.”

“Fraulein Wiegeland had a reputation as a wild girl, and our men suspected a former lover, a pastry baker with a drinking problem. The two of them had engaged in public arguments. But the man was able to account for his whereabouts and the crime was never solved. I have confirmed that your Mr. Doebbler and his family were living at the Army base during that time period.”

“How many blows were delivered to the head?” said Petra.

“One,” said Bandorffer.

“Our boy bashes his victims repeatedly,” said Petra.

“Perhaps he panicked. Being young and inexperienced. If it was your boy.”

Twenty-four years ago, Kurt Doebbler had been eighteen.

The creepo had come across the Teller book as an adolescent and something had twisted up inside him.

Raging hormones. Sexual confusion.

A kink in some nerve fiber, Lord knew what else.

Plotting and planning but unable to pull off his virgin murder. Had he dealt with failure by pulling back until eighteen years later?

Or just the opposite?

Other cities, other Junes. The thought was sickening. Either way, Marta’s cheating had been a catalyst. Stoking- or restoking- the fires.

She said, “Thank you, Inspector.”

“My pleasure, Detective. Please let me know if you come up with a solution.”

Bandorffer hung up.

Petra thought: Isaac had nailed it again.

THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 8:45 P.M., ROOM 19, CASA FIGUEROA MOTOR INN, FIGUEROA NEAR JEFFERSON BOULEVARD

This is lovely,” said Klara. She rolled the bedcovers down to her waist, ran her hands over soft, white, spreading breasts, pinched her own pink nipple and watched with satisfaction as it inflated. Reaching over to the chipped nightstand, she lifted her wineglass and sipped.

Fifteen-dollar bottle of chardonnay; she’d insisted on paying.

Isaac lay on his back, next to her, staring up at cottage cheese plaster-spray. Studying the brown stain where the air-conditioning vent had leaked. Brown inkblot, like a Rorschach…

“Isn’t it?” said Klara, wetting her finger with wine and tracing it along his upper lip. “Lovely?”

He nodded. In his position, that meant bobbing at the ceiling.

She leaned over and chewed his earlobe. “You were a bit more enthusiastic five minutes ago, my dear. You were more than enthusiastic. Volcanic, I’d say.”

Isaac smiled. The brown stain had a definite shape. Two bears, a large one and a small one, facing off. Or dancing. What did that say about his unconscious?

“My personal Vesuvius,” said Klara. She reached down. “Ready for another eruption?”

Isaac’s member was sore and his neck ached, but Klara had all kinds of skills, and the second time ended up being fine. Afterward, she said, “Shower time,” and sashayed into the tiny motel bathroom, flaunting the fullness of her body, unfazed by slackness of waist, drooping bosom, the occasional clot of cellulite. He liked her better for that and when she yelled, “Come on in,” he complied. And when she pulled him under the spray for a deep kiss, he didn’t mind at all.

The shower stall was prefab fiberglass, just like the one at home but not as clean. Klara soaped him with enthusiasm, positioned his hands all over her slick, dolphin softness, threw back her head and laughed into the water.

“Pretend it’s a waterfall,” she said. “Somewhere exotic, just the two of us.”

She shampooed her hair with a travel bottle she’d brought, rinsed, squeezed her red hair dry and wrapped it in a towel. They returned to the queen-sized bed with its coin-slotted “Electric Fingers” gadget bolted to the fake wood headboard.

Tawdry. Isaac was surprised at how much he liked that.

Somehow, he wasn’t sure when the transition had occurred, he’d turned into someone else. The person he imagined when he made love to her.

Horny Latin stud bunking down with a willing, flame-haired woman. Trysting in a cheesy, claustrophobic room with cigarette burns along the curtain hems, the odors of sin and beer and instant coffee rising from the thin, worn carpet.

Casa Figueroa. Two stories of mud-colored, spray-stucco under a fake tile roof. Thirty-two AAA-sanctioned rooms looking down on a kidney-shaped swimming pool, individual entrances for each unit. Klara had paid with her Discover card, taken the key from the clerk with panache, swung her rear as she led Isaac up the stairs.

Not a trace of shame. That made it easier for him. Still, if his mother, or anyone from church, had seen him…

She’d done all the planning. Arranged a babysitter for her gifted daughter and son, brought the wine and condoms and a roll of quarters for the vibrating bed.

And a Hershey bar that she broke in half. “Dessert, m’dear?”

They both ate candy.

“Fattening,” said Klara, licking chocolate from her lips. “But loaded with good stuff, too, like antioxidants. We deserve some fun. Solving a big case like that.”

She’d found him at six P.M., down in the stacks, working on his data and trying not to think of what Petra was doing. Marching right up to him, she took his hand and slipped it under her dress.

No panties.

Isaac’s face got hot. She knew she had him and grinned. “Pack your books, sir, we’re out of here.”