Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (36 page)

Feeling her emotions begin to click off, Petra read the rest of it quickly, turned to the back of the notebook, found the postmortem sketches of Marta Doebbler. And the others.

Something different about his portrait of Marta. Something searching—needy and adoring—in the woman's eyes.

Dead, but he'd drawn her eyes full of life.

That evening, in her room at the Jack London Inn, she took a very long, very hot bath, watched Court TV, and managed to keep a room service cheeseburger down.

Pleasant room: white walls, blue bedding. Rates higher than the department would normally compensate but she'd found a good deal on the Internet.

Outside was activity. The hotel was right in the heart of Jack London Square. Another time and place she'd have explored. Tonight she had no intention of leaving until the airport ride tomorrow morning.

Washing the burger down with a Coke, she went to the mini-bar, studied the cute little bottles of booze and mixers. Contemplated the advisability of a homemade Tanqueray and tonic. Decided against it.

Her cell phone rattled on the nightstand. Still on vibrator; she hadn't altered it since the stakeout at Kurt Doebbler's.

Another potential career disaster. Busting the door in, rushing Kurt and handcuffing him. Waking the poor daughter, too.

Exigent circumstances was her excuse.

Deputy Chief Diaz said that made sense to him.

Kurt Doebbler, lying pinioned on his living room floor, had threatened to sue.

He would've—might've won big—if not for his brother's bad behavior.

Blood on the clothing in the closet. Kurt claimed he had no idea Thad was sleeping with Marta, let alone using his house as a crash pad for his yearly murder jaunts.

Probably telling the truth, the clueless nerd. But the D.A.'s theatrical skepticism and the threat of bad publicity had led Pacific Dynamics to lean on Kurt and he'd backed off.

No harm, no foul. Petra felt bad for Katya but that was someone else's business.

Maybe, at some point, she'd call Delaware about the kid . . .

No, she wouldn't, she was a cop, not a social worker. Thad Doebbler would never bash anyone's brains out again, case closed.

With a little help from a friend.

Isaac, a shooter. His little gift from Flaco Jaramillo. Finally, he'd told her why.

A touch of deviousness in the kid's makeup that she hadn't imagined.

Thank God.

She picked up the phone, studied the numerical read-out, hoped it was Eric. They had a dinner date tomorrow back in L.A. Big splurge at Ivy at the Shore. Intimations—as much as Eric was capable of intimating—of serious talk, career plans.

Whatever.

The phone read out a 213 number. Not Eric, but someone she didn't mind talking to.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” said Isaac. “Hope I'm not bothering you.”

“Not at all. What's up?”

“I just thought I'd tell you I was by the station today and there's a new captain. Someone named Stuart Bishop. He made a point of coming up to me, said he knows you. He seems friendly.”

“Stu? You're kidding.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No,” said Petra. “Not at all. No problem.” Her mouth hung open. Unbelievable.

Isaac said, “He seemed like a very decent person.”

“He's terrific. Used to be my partner until he left the department.”

“Oh. I guess he's back.”

Like Eric, Stu had talked about going private. Unlike Eric, he had family money and connections that could've led to the corporate world. So now he was back in the department. He'd said nothing to lead her in that direction.

Then again, they hadn't talked in months.

Back as a captain. How had he pulled that off?

There'll be changes in your division.

“So that's good news for you,” said Isaac.

“I'd imagine so,” said Petra, talking through her grin. “How're
you
doing, hero? When's the ceremony?”

“Sometime next week. I hope they cancel it.”

“Hey,” she said, “enjoy the moment. You and Councilman Reyes, adoring citizens, the press. You deserve it.”

“I'm no hero, Petra. I was lucky.”

“You were smart. Heather Salcido was lucky.”

Cute little Heather from Brea, California. Dark-haired, big-eyed, petite, and twenty-three. Cheerleader-pretty despite all those cheek abrasions. A newly graduated R.N., she'd worked Pediatric Pulmonary for less than a year. Still lived at home. Traditional family: dad a retired sheriff, mom a housewife, one older brother a mucho-macho CHP motorcycle officer.

From the way the girl had gazed at Isaac from her hospital bed, from the way he'd looked at her, the kid's relationship to the world of law enforcement might take on a whole new twist.

Petra kept grinning.

“No,” he said. “It was luck, that's all.”

“Then you're a lucky guy,” she said. “And I thank you for that.”

“I should thank you. For teaching me so much.”

“My pleasure, Dr. Gomez.”

“One more thing . . .”

“The gun,” she said.

“I—”

“It's been logged into evidence as a legally registered firearm, Isaac. Registered to you last January, you even merited a concealed-weapon permit. Because of your law enforcement activities combined with living in a high-crime area. As things turned out, that was a good call, wasn't it?”

Silence.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Sure,” she said. “Now go have some fun.”

CHAPTER

56

FRIDAY, JULY 5, 8:04 P.M., LEONARD'S STEAK HOUSE, EIGHTH STREET AND ALBANY, JUST WEST OF DOWNTOWN L.A.

I
saac cut into his hangar steak. Big as a baseball mitt. Soft as a doughnut.

“Like it?” said Heather. She'd made unbelievable headway with her T-bone and sirloin tip combo. How could a girl that small pack away so much prime beef?

“It's great,” he told her. Meaning it.

“I love this place,” she said. “Partly because of the food, but also because of all these memories I have. Back when my dad was with the sheriff's, and he had to be in court late, he'd take us here. Rather than battle the traffic back to Brea, Mom and Gary and I would meet him and we'd have a huge meal. It was kind of like Sunday during the week.”

She patted her mouth with a corner of snow-white napkin. Pretty mouth. Bow-shaped, and some of her lip gloss remained. The scratches on her smooth, olive cheek were healing nicely. She'd concealed the dark marks with makeup. Did a lot better than he had with his bruise.

“My family doesn't eat out.”
Why had he said that?

Heather said, “A lot of families don't. Actually, we don't very often. That makes it more special, don't you think?” She rubbed a corner of a linen napkin between tapered fingers. “I love the feel of this.”

He smiled. She smiled back and they both ate. Drank wine. Red wine; a six-year-old California cabernet way past his budget. He'd faked out choosing from the five-page wine list, knowing that red went with beef but not much more than that. Pretending to contemplate, he'd finally jabbed randomly and hoped for the best.

Then the whole sniffing, swirling routine, the way he'd seen it done in movies.

Gomez.
James
Gomez.

Agent Double 0 Phony.

“Fine,” he'd told the sommelier.

“Very good, sir.”

Heather took one sip and said, “Oh, man, this is fantastic. You know your wine.”

He'd visited her twice in the hospital, but this was their first date. Spur-of-the-moment thing, after the ceremony on the front steps of City Hall.

She'd occupied his thoughts from the first time he saw her.

The ceremony had turned out to be Councilman Gilbert Reyes, a couple of flunkies, the media, Isaac, and his family.

His parents beaming and his brothers squirming as he accepted the calligraphy-laden official commendation on mock-parchment, then made a cursory speech. All those microphones jammed in his face, cameras clicking and whirring.

He hated every minute of it. Longed for the solitude of the library, his laptop and books and the opera of deduction. Not Klara in his lap, she was too much for him, way too much, but he would work at keeping her friendship.

He got through the ordeal, shaking hands and smiling and waiting for an opportunity to escape.

Then Heather came up to him—where had she been? Before he could ask her, Councilman Gilbert Reyes spotted her and had her pose for stills, sandwiched between himself and Isaac.

Later, Isaac found out she'd wanted to be present for the whole thing but had arrived late because of traffic.

“I heard your entire speech, though,” she assured him. “And the ceremony was on KFWB. Daddy always listens to news and talk radio—oh, here he is.”

A big square truck of a man stepped out from behind the departing media hounds. White hair and mustache, outdoor skin. Iron grip. Then a small, slender, vivacious woman, young-looking for her age, who Heather resembled strikingly.

Heather would age well.

Nancy and Robert Salcido thanked him, then turned to converse in Spanish with Irma and Isaiah Gomez Sr.

Somehow, Isaac and Heather drifted away from the crowd, over to a shady spot just north of the steps. Somehow, she got him talking about himself.

“A Ph.D. and an M.D.,” she said. “That's ambitious—that's unbelievable! Don't tell anyone, but I've been thinking of med school, too. My grades were good and my adviser thought I should apply. But all those years seemed daunting. I thought the R.N. would be enough for me, but now I'm not sure.”

“You should go for it,” he said.

“Think so?”

“Sure, you can do it.” As if he knew what he was talking about.

“Well,” she said, “thanks for the vote of confidence. I don't know. Maybe I will . . . well, it was nice seeing you again.”

“It doesn't have to end.”

She gave a puzzled look that made his heart sink. Then a smile that inflated the damned hunk of cardiac muscle.

“As in lunch,” he said. “As in now.”

Smooooth . . . stupid!

“Now? Okay. I'll tell my parents. They were figuring to go out as a family, but I like your idea better.”

At a loss for a restaurant, phony cool guy that he was, he was grateful when she came up with Leonard's. Despite the fact that it would empty his wallet. Reyes had intimated some kind of reward would be forthcoming. Maybe true, maybe not. What the heck, live dangerously.

Now he watched Heather slice pink meat off the bone, chew, swallow. Everything she did was adorable.

She said, “What?”

“Pardon?”

“You got really quiet, Isaac.”

“I'm just enjoying myself,” he said. “The peace and quiet.”

“Of course,” she said, reaching over and placing her hand atop his.

He felt his skin go hot.

She said, “Life's so funny, you know? You plan and scheme and then, out of nowhere, something happens.”

“I know,” he said. “I'm so sorry you had to go through that.”

“Oh, no,” she said, squeezing his fingers. Smiling. “I wasn't talking about
that.
”

Books by Jonathan Kellerman

FICTION

Twisted
(2004)

Therapy
(2004)

The Conspiracy Club
(2003)

A Cold Heart
(2003)

The Murder Book
(2002)

Flesh and Blood
(2001)

Dr. Death
(2000)

Monster
(1999)

Billy Straight
(1998)

Survival of the Fittest
(1997)

The Clinic
(1997)

The Web
(1996)

Self-Defense
(1995)

Bad Love
(1994)

Devil's Waltz
(1993)

Private Eyes
(1992)

Time Bomb
(1990)

Silent Partner
(1989)

The Butcher's Theater
(1988)

Over the Edge
(1987)

Blood Test
(1986)

When the Bough Breaks
(1985)

NONFICTION

Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children
(1999)

Helping the Fearful Child
(1981)

Psychological Aspects of Childhood Cancer
(1980)

FOR CHILDREN, WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED

Jonathan Kellerman's ABC of Weird Creatures
(1995)

Daddy, Daddy, Can You Touch the Sky
(1994)

WITH FAYE KELLERMAN

Double Homicide
(2004)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Ballantine Book

Published by The Random House Publishing Group

Copyright © 2004 by Jonathan Kellerman

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

www.ballantinebooks.com

Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available from the Library of Congress.

eISBN: 978-0-345-48201-3

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