Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

Most of the structures were dark. The Western Peds logo- a pair of blue-and-white clasped hands- glowed from the top of the main building.

He remained in the shadows as women, mostly young women, in white and pale pink and pastel blue and canary yellow uniforms, streamed out of several doors and crossed Sunset.

Only twenty or so nurses, stragglers at the end of the day shift. If through some miracle he was right, the bastard would be watching.

But from where ?

Isaac watched the nurses arrive at a sign that said “Staff Parking.” Arrows pointed both ways and the group split into two. Most of the women headed west, a few east.

Two lots. Which way?

He thought it out. If Doebbler were here, he’d want things as quiet as possible.

East.

He followed five distant, female shapes down a surprisingly dim street. Shabby apartment buildings, not unlike his own, lined the journey. Half a block north sat a two-level parking structure.

Dark. The nurses walked right past the cement tiers and as Isaac got close to the structure, he saw the chained entrance. The sign hanging from the mesh gate.

“Earthquake Retrofitting, Due for Completion, August 2003.”

The nurses kept going. Twenty more feet, thirty, fifty. Nearly to the end of the block. Another sign, too distant to read, but Isaac made out cars in dirt.

He sped up.

“Temporary Staff Parking.”

High-intensity lights bleached the rear right-hand corner of the outdoor lot. The left fixture was out and half the space was a belt of black.

Poor maintenance or a predator’s move?

The slim chance of the latter gave Isaac hope he’d guessed right.

Stupid hope. The city was filled with scores of other health facilities, many of which treated children. How many treated lung diseases? He had no idea.

This was worse than angels-on-a-pinhead academic theorizing. This was wild guesswork primed for the worst kind of error.

He crossed the street and slipped between two apartment buildings, feeling the softness of weeds beneath his feet. Smelling the stink of dog shit.

Home sweet home.

He stepped back another foot, made sure he had a long but clear view of the dirt lot. For all he knew, Doebbler was watching from a nearby spot, could hear his raspy breathing.

He silenced himself. Watched the five nurses head for their cars, some highlighted by the functioning light fixture, others slipping into invisibility.

The dark side would have to be it. If…

11:54.

Ififififififififif.

JUNE 27, 11:46 P.M., THE DOEBBLER RESIDENCE, TARZANA

Petra said, “I’m going to the front.”

“Want me to stay back here?” said Eric.

“Yeah.”

Removing her gun from her purse, she got out of her car, paused for a moment to steady her breathing, crossed to Doebbler’s front door.

Hand on the Glock, ready for anything.

The queasy feeling in her bowels told her anything could happen.

This was wrong. How could she have been that off?

She rang the bell. Nothing. A repeat ring elicited silence, too. Maybe Doebbler had somehow managed to get out without Eric or her seeing him.

Fooling her, she could see. But Eric?

She rang a third time. Nothing. She called him. “No response here.”

“Same… scratch that, he’s coming down the stairs… switching on the landing light. Bathrobe and pajamas. Looks like you woke him. He’s pissed.”

“Weapon?”

“Not that I see. Okay, he’s headed to the front, I’m coming around.”

Kurt Doebbler’s voice behind the door demanded: “Who is it?”

“Police. Detective Connor.” Petra had backed a few feet away. Behind her, concealed by bushes, Eric waited. She could smell him. Such a good smell.

No answer from Doebbler. Petra repeated her name.

“I heard you.”

“Could you please open up, sir?”

“Why?”

“Please open.”

“Why?”

“Police business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Homicide.”

The door swung open and Doebbler stared down at her, long arms crossed over a white terry bathrobe. Sleeves too short for his big, bony hands. Huge hands. Under the robe were striped pajamas. Big bare, veiny feet. His gray hair was mussed. Without his glasses, he was less nerdy, not that bad-looking, in a cold-eyed, angular way.

Petra’s eyes were level with the robe’s shawl lapel. She noticed a small sienna spot on the right side that could be dried blood. Her eyes climbed and she saw the shaving nick on Doebbler’s neck. Three nicks, scabbed.

Old Kurt a little nervous this morning? Planning for something that he’d decided to cancel because he knew he was being watched?

How had he known?

“Sir,” she said. “May I come in?”

“You,” he said. More contempt in that single word than Petra had believed possible.

He blocked the doorway.

Petra said, “In for the evening, sir?”

Doebbler pushed hair away from his forehead. Sweaty forehead. Shadows under his eyes. His arms twitched and for a second, Petra thought he’d close the door on her. She moved forward, ready to block him.

He watched her and frowned.

She repeated the question.

“In for the evening?” he said. “As opposed to?”

“Going out.”

“Why would I be going out?”

“Well,” she said, “in a few minutes, it’ll be June 28.”

Doebbler went white. “You’re sick.” He braced himself against the doorpost with one hand. Tall enough that the contact was inches from the top.

“I’m not going out,” he said. “Some of us work and take care of children. Some of us do our job with minimal competence.” Muttering something Petra was nearly certain was “imbecile.”

“May I come in, sir?”

“Come in ?”

“To your house. To talk.”

“For a little social visit?” said Doebbler. He managed a smile, detached, all mouth, no eyes. Knitted his big hands and cracked his knuckles and stared down at her.

Past her- through her- the way he had the first time. The way Emily Pastern and Sarah Casagrande had been stared through. A cool, dry snake slithered down Petra’s spine and she was glad Eric was backing her up.

She smiled back at Doebbler.

He slammed the door in her face.

FRIDAY, JUNE 28, 12:06 A.M., RODNEY AVENUE, TEMPORARY EASTERN STAFF PARKING LOT, WESTERN PEDIATRICS HOSPITAL

Isaac watched the digital numerals of his watch click into place.

12:07.

The ultimate numerical reproach.

All the day shift nurses, gone.

Unlike another nurse, somewhere, a dark-haired girl, maybe Italian…

He imagined what was being done to her and the starch went out of his spine and he hunched like an old man.

He stayed in place, not knowing what else to do. Kept staring at the dirt lot. Three cars on the illuminated side, two, maybe three, parked in darkness, it was hard to tell.

Probably night-shifters who’d arrived early.

But if that was the case, why so few?

No big puzzle: The staff obviously preferred the western lot. Probably better lighting, anyone who arrived early nabbed a space there.

12:08.

He’d give it another five minutes, then he’d return to where he’d left his father’s Toyota parked along Vermont. He’d forgotten to lock it. What had Dad left inside… not much, Dad was neat.

A set of work clothes folded on the backseat. Probably some papers in the glove compartment. Hopefully, nothing worth stealing.

Would the car even be there?

If it wasn’t, how would he explain it to his parents?

The five minutes passed. Reluctant to face reality, he lingered.