Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

They watched twenty minutes of an atrocious show on USA Network as Klara combed out her hair. At the commercial break, she said, “Time to go home, sweetie. Domestic obligations and all that. We’ll do this again.” Her tongue thrust between his lips, sweet with chocolate. “Sooner rather than later.”

As Isaac walked her to her car, she said, “It really is fantastic. The way we solved all those murders. I mean, just think of it, Isaac. People like us- book people- turning out to be the real detectives.”

“You’re the master sleuth, Klara.”

She slapped his shoulder lightly. “Of course I’m not ! I was merely the tool of your intellect.”

They reached her car and she rested her head on his shoulder. Sensing that she needed more praise, he said, “Klara, I couldn’t have done anything without you.”

She stood there pressed against him in the dim, tacky motel parking lot. Finally, she straightened and unlocked her car. “I read it again,” she said. “That horrible little book.” She shuddered. “How could anyone be so evil?”

Isaac shrugged.

“I mean it,” she said. “How do you explain something like that?”

“Retzak claimed he was abused.”

“Lots of people are abused, but they don’t end up like that.”

“True.”

She took his hand, played with his fingers. “I know you need to be discreet and all, but was that guy, the one the police are focusing on, abused? Because there’d have to be parallels, right? Between him and Retzak. Otherwise why imitate Retzak and not just do his own thing?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Don’t know much about him.”

“Well,” she said, “one thing we do know: He’s evil. And you’ve made a major contribution to getting him off the streets.”

“The police will do that.”

“Hopefully, they’ll be competent,” she said. “Because I have to tell you, I haven’t always found that to be the case. One time, years ago, there was a burglary in my neighborhood- one of my neighbors, a woman living alone- and all the police did was fill out reports.”

“The detective on this case is great,” said Isaac. Sounding defensive.

Klara said, “I hope he is. Anyway, when you can tell me more, please do, the whole thing fascinates me. I was a history major at Smith, but I’ve always been curious about psychology. About what transforms people. It’s the greatest mystery of all, right?” She touched his cheek. “One day, you’ll be a physician. Not a psychiatrist, but who knows, maybe you’ll get closer to figuring it out.”

“Right now I’d be satisfied finishing my dissertation.”

“You’ll finish. You’ve got character and people with character finish what they begin.”

She opened her car door, took his face in both her hands. “I believe in you, Isaac Gomez. I don’t love you, never will. But I sure like you a lot. Can we be friends?”

“We already are.”

Her eyes moistened. Then the right one winked. “Time to go home and be a mom. But I’ll be thinking about volcanoes.”

THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 9:21 P.M., THE DOEBBLER RESIDENCE, ROSITA AVENUE, TARZANA

He’s here.” Eric’s whisper barely filtered through the phone.

“Doing what?” said Petra.

“Reading a magazine and doing hand exercises.”

“Hand exercises?”

“With a spring-grip. While he reads.”

“Getting in shape for his big night. Any weapon in sight?”

“No.”

“He probably keeps it in one of the cars,” she said. “What about Katya?”

“Not here.”

“She’s probably upstairs. The day I interviewed him she stayed up there the whole time. He look tense?”

“Not really.”

“Normal demeanor?”

“Expressionless,” said Eric.

“That’s normal for him.”

She clicked off and her cell phone went dark. Two lines on the gizmo, but only one was open on vibrator mode. And only for Eric. After too many interruptions by telemarketers, she and Eric had decided to have all calls but theirs forwarded to their land phones. It took a bit of doing, but they shared the same cellular carrier and by eight-thirty, they were functionally locked in. Every half hour, each of them checked for messages to make sure they didn’t miss anything. The last time had been ten minutes ago: a couple of junkers and a call from her brother Brad. Nothing urgent, he just wanted to say hi. She’d deal with that tomorrow.

After all this was over.

Shifting in the driver’s seat, she drank bottled water, popped a couple of Skittles, maintained her visual fix on the gray house. Determined, this time, to spot Eric as he emerged from the backyard and returned to his Jeep.

She was fifteen yards from Doebbler’s front door, facing west. The Jeep was a ways up, just out of view, aimed east. No matter which direction Doebbler took, someone would be ready to pick him up.

A few trees, but good visibility on the dark street. And fences prevented escape from one property to the next.

Doebbler would have to show himself.

Ten plus hours of nothing. Petra’s brain was starting to crumble from disuse.

At four-thirty P.M., Kurt Doebbler had left Pacific Dynamics along with a slew of other employees. After picking up a Domino’s pizza, he drove to Katya’s school, made it just before five. At that hour, West Valley Comprehensive Prep looked closed, but Doebbler’s bell-ring brought a sullen Katya to the gate, accompanied by a gray-haired, female teacher-type who let the girl out.

Some kind of after-school day-care thing. The teacher smiled and said something to Doebbler who left without responding. No conversation between father and daughter as they headed for the Infiniti. Katya’s backpack looked stuffed. Doebbler made no attempt to carry it for her.

The Infiniti headed straight home, arrived at five twenty-six. Doebbler walked to the door with that dorky stride of his, stayed several feet ahead of Katya, remote-locked the vehicle without glancing back. The girl hurried to catch up and he did hold the door for her as she entered the house.

He collected his mail from the box bolted next to the door, stood outside shuffling through envelopes. Not a glance up the street as he stepped inside and closed the door.

Why would he be nervous? He’d pulled it off six years in a row.

Since then, no sign of him or the girl and both of Doebbler’s cars remained in the driveway. At nine o’clock, Petra and Eric agreed that someone should have a look from the backyard, just to make sure the quarry hadn’t managed to sneak out on foot.

Someone was Eric.

Petra’s watch read 9:28. He’d been back there eight minutes, still hadn’t emerged. Had something engaged him?

Her phone vibrated.

“Me again.”

“Where are you?”

“Back in the car.”

“I was looking for you. How the hell do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Mr. Invisible.”

“I just walked.”

“Sure you did, Master Ninja.” Making light of it but failing to spot him bugged her. Despite her determination to focus, had her mind wandered? God, she hated stakeouts, the erosion of I.Q.

“What kept you there so long?”

“Watching.”

“Anything new?”

“No.”

Hell would be an infinity of stakeouts.

They cut the connection and Petra ate more candy. Brain-death and tooth decay. A minimum of two and half hours to kill-time and Doebbler was sitting in his easy chair, reading a magazine and flexing his hands.

What, the latest edition of Modern Murderer ?

Working on his grip strength. Maybe that meant he was getting edgy.

Two and a half hours; had he planned so well that there was no need to leave any earlier?