Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (9 page)

A Japanophile?

It didn't look like an alkie's place. Maybe the pension office's data bank was out of date, as was so much LAPD data. She should've phoned first before wasting the time and the gas. Now she'd look like a doofus in front of Mr. Genius.

Japanese letters were etched into the teak panels of the front door, above a weathered brass knocker shaped like a fish. A carp—koi—the type Alex Delaware kept in that cute little pond of his.

Petra used the knocker. The man who opened the door was short, bandy-legged, lean but for a protruding belly that hung over his belt buckle.

Koi belt buckle.

Sixty-five to seventy, with a shaved, sunburnt head and drooping white mustaches. He wore a denim work shirt, jeans, red suspenders, and lace-up boots. A white handkerchief flapped from his rear pocket.

He looked Petra and Isaac over, rubbed his hands together as if he'd just finished washing them.

Clear eyes, pale blue, no booze-blear. Sharp eyes, actually.

He said, “I only sell on the weekend.”

“Detective Ballou?”

The man's hands stopped moving. Now the eyes were twin specks of granite. “Been a long time since anyone called me that.”

Petra showed him her I.D.

He shook his head. “I'm out of all that. Breed and sell fish and don't think about the past.” He started to step back into the house.

Petra said, “Marta Doebbler. Ever think about her?”

Conrad Ballou moved his jaw around. “Can't say that I do. Can't say that I give a damn about any of that.”

“It hasn't been that long, sir. Six years. I'm looking into some cold cases, including Doebbler. If I could pick your brain . . .”

“Nothing to pick,” said Ballou, rubbing his bald head. “According to the shrinks the department sent me to.” He looked ready to spit. “I could've saved them the trouble. I wasn't nuts, I was a drunk. Thank God I didn't kill anybody.” He shook his head. “They should've tossed my can out long before they did. Damn department.”

“So you miss police work,” said Petra.

Ballou glared at her. Smiled. Laughed. “You like fish?”

“To eat?”

“To look at. C'mon in. And bring the intern with you.”

The house was rescued from tract-cliché by a trove of Asian furnishings. Vegetable-dye rugs, rosewood tables, porcelain vases and planters, paper screens on the walls, all portraying brocaded koi.

Way too much stuff for the space and to Petra's eye, nothing pricey. The kind of gaudy, overlacquered stuff you could pick up in any Chinatown or Little Tokyo tourist trap.

Ballou led them past all that, through rear double doors and out to the backyard. What had been a backyard. Every inch of the quarter-acre space had been converted to fish ponds. Sheets of mesh on stakes roofed the entire area, casting shade, cooling the desert air. Beyond the water was a high bamboo fence and a neighbor's RV.

Lots of burbling, but the ponds weren't attractive like Alex's. These were simply rectangular cement tanks, a dozen of them, arranged in a grid with a walkway between them. Not clear like Alex's, either. Green water, soupy. The only movement on the surface was created by aeration tubes.

But when Conrad Ballou approached the first pond, the surface broke and scores—no, hundreds—of little golden and pinkish fishy faces popped through, flapping, gulping, gasping.

Ballou pointed to the nearest wall where bright blue plastic bins were piled in a heap next to a mess of nets. Nearby stood a gumball machine. Instead of candy, the glass bell was filled with little rust-colored balls, half the size of a pea.

Ballou motioned them over to the machine. “Toss in a quarter.”

Petra did. He took her hand and cupped it below the spout. Turned the handle and little balls tumbled out and her nose filled with the aroma of ripe seafood.

“Feed 'em,” said Ballou. “It's fun.”

“Which pond?”

“That one. They're babies, need the nutrition.” Motioning toward the first pond, where the little fish were still clamoring. Petra walked over and tossed in the pellets and a finned riot ensued.

Isaac was already three ponds ahead. Bending low and examining the fish that had risen to greet him. Larger ones, red and black and gold and blue.

He said, “Mr. Ballou, do you use domestic stock or are these from Niigata?”

Ballou lowered his gaze and stared at the kid. “You know koi.”

“I've admired them,” said Isaac. “My mother's employers have a pond.”

“Admire them, huh?” said Ballou. “Then get into it yourself.”

Isaac laughed.

“Something funny, son?”

“It's a bit beyond my budget. And space. I live in an apartment.”

“Hmm,” said Ballou, “then get yourself a good job, work your tail off, and buy a house. Pay down the mortgage a bit and reward yourself with a Japanese garden and a pond full
of nishikigoi.
Nothing like 'em to lower your blood pressure.”

Isaac nodded.

“You do all that, son, come back and buy some fish from me and I'll give you a free
karasu—
that's the black one. Symbol of good luck.”

Petra said, “I could use some luck. On Marta Doebbler.”

Ballou said, “Here we were talking about pleasant things . . . you drink tea?”

Back in his kitchen, he poured steaming green liquid into three stoneware cups.

“Don't think I'm some fanatic. Asian culture soothes me. When I got out of rehab a koi dealer, a nice old man in Gardena, hired me to mop up his place. I mopped for two years, kept my mouth shut, started asking questions by the third year, learned a bit. He died and put me in his will. Left me some of his breeding stock. That motivated me to buy this place, set up a little weekend business. It's real peaceful. I don't think about my other job with fondness.”

Petra sipped the hot, aromatic tea.

“Marta Doebbler's a good example,” said Ballou. “Ugly scene. When I think of the things I got used to working Homicide.” He placed a thumb under his suspenders, gazed absently through the window. Then back at Isaac.

“You seem like a nice kid. Why would you wanna do this to yourself?”

Petra said, “Isaac's going to be a doctor. Meanwhile he's getting a Ph.D. in biostatistics.”

“Meanwhile?” said Ballou, appraising Isaac all over again. “We're talking Einstein?”

Isaac muttered, “Hardly.” Flushed clear through his nutmeg complexion. Pink as medium-rare beef.

Petra said, “Can we talk about Doebbler?”

CHAPTER

14

W
hat I remember,” said Conrad Ballou, “was that the husband was interesting.”

He returned to his tea, gave no indication of having more to say.

Petra said, “Interesting as in prime suspect?”

The old guy nodded. “There was no evidence tying him to it. Everyone said him and the vic were getting along fine. But I liked him for it.”

He put his cup down. “His reaction to his wife's death was off. Stone-face, not a tear. When I did the notification call, I brought a pocket full of tissues, like I always did. Didn't end up using one. Doebbler just stood there, with this flat look in his eyes. Sometimes that happens before they fall apart, I kept waiting. He just stood there staring. For a second I thought he'd gone into one of those whatchamacallit seizures. Then he says, ‘I guess you'd better come in.' ”

“Guy's an engineer,” said Petra.

“So what?”

“It doesn't explain it but sometimes that type . . .” Remembering her days as a faculty brat. Dr. Kenneth Connor, professor of anthropology at the University of Arizona, Tucson, squiring his little daughter to academic soirees. Meeting the tenured crowd. Finding most of them regular folk with slightly higher I.Q.s, a few crashing bores. A few really reprehensible jerks.

“The type?” said Ballou.

“Engineers, physicists, mathematicians, all those megabrains. Sometimes they don't react emotionally the way the rest of us do.”

Ballou glanced at Isaac, as if wanting confirmation straight from the source. Isaac pushed a smile onto his lips.

Ballou said, “Well, Doebbler was a kind of rocket scientist, I guess. Worked over at Pacific Dynamics, electronics stuff, some sort of computer job.”

“Anything else besides his demeanor make you suspect him?”

“She was called out of the theater. It had to be someone familiar with her schedule, who else would know where she was? And who else could've gotten her to leave the theater without telling her friends where she was going.”

“The husband claiming an emergency,” said Petra. “Maybe about the daughter.”

“That would've brought her out,” Ballou agreed. “The kid was Doebbler's alibi. He'd been home with her all night, Marta was having a girl's night out. I talked to the three friends she went with. No one had anything juicy to offer about Marta's private life, but when I pressed them I could tell they didn't like Kurt. One even said she thought he'd done it.”

That hadn't been in the murder book.

Petra said, “That's pretty strong.”

“She didn't like him. No one seemed to.”

“How'd he and Marta meet?”

“Germany. She was a brain, too, studying astronomy. He was a foreign exchange student. After they got married, she dropped out and became a full-time mom.”

“That could be frustrating.”

“Sure, that's what I thought,” said Ballou. “Maybe she tried to reduce her frustration the old-fashioned way. But if she was having an affair, I never found evidence of it.”

Petra said, “Did you talk to the daughter?”

“Poor little thing, didn't want to pressure her.” Ballou tugged at his mustache. “She sure reacted, crying all over the place. You'd think Doebbler would've tried to comfort her. All he did was offer her juice.”

“Juice?”

“A glass of orange juice: ‘Here, drink, you'll feel better.' Like vitamin C would help with losing her mother.” Ballou emitted a dry, hoarse laugh. “I would've loved to make him for it . . . how come you're reopening it?”

“It may be related to some others.”

“Others you suspect Doebbler did?”

“Others with some similar forensics.”

Long silence. You could hear the burbling of the fish ponds, here in the kitchen. Then a loud splash.

“Spawning season,” said Ballou. “They jump. Sometimes they jump clear out of the pond and if I don't get there in time, I've got a dead fish.”

He got up, peered out the window. Sat back down. “So far, so good. You want to tell me about these others?”

“Five other brainings,” said Petra. “Yearly intervals. All on June 28.”

Ballou gawked. “You're putting me on.”

“Wish I was.”

“Before Marta?”

“All after Marta. From what we can tell, she was the first. If it's a series.”

“If?” said Ballou. “All on the same day? That sounds pretty convincing.”

“But the victims are all over the place in terms of sex, age, and race.” She gave him a few details.

“See what you mean. Still . . . so, how'd you discover this? Department finally doing something about working cold ones?”

“Mr. Gomez, here, found them.”

Ballou studied Isaac, yet again. “Did you?”

“By accident,” said Isaac.

“Bullshit. I don't believe in accidents. My smashing into a building was no accident. It was stupidity. And your finding all this out wasn't an accident, it was smarts.” He leaned over suddenly, clapped the kid on the shoulder. “You're definitely going to deserve a pond one day—a big one. You're going to afford it and you're going to build it and I'm going to stock you with beauties.”

“I hope.”

“Forget hope. Smarts and hard work does it every time. That's how I pulled myself out of the shit pile.” To Petra: “There's one more thing you'll want to know about Marta. We recovered some blood in the car that wasn't hers.”

Petra didn't recall that from the chart. As if reading her mind, Ballou said, “It came out later, after the autopsy report, just a speck. The tech who scraped the upholstery mislaid it and it got filed in the wrong place. By the time it got to me, I might not have been in a state to keep good records.”

He pulled out his handkerchief, blew his nose, said, “All I remember is it wasn't hers. She was A positive and this was O negative. Kurt's O positive, so it didn't mean much. But maybe if she had a boyfriend.” He shrugged.

Petra said nothing.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Ballou. “It wasn't my finest hour, but big deal. Real life ain't
The Forensic Files.
”

“Where's the blood sample?”

“If it's anywhere, it's at the coroners'.”

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”

“Any fluids on any of your other cases?” said Ballou.

“Doesn't say so in the M-books, but stuff doesn't get in there.” Irritated and not afraid to show it.

Ballou got to his feet, heavily and slowly. “That's all I can tell you, so have a nice day. Pleasant lady, Marta, from all I heard. The family's back in Germany, they came over—mother, father, sister. Took the body back, had that shell-shocked look. I think I put their addresses and numbers in the murder book.”

“You did,” said Petra.

“Good,” said Ballou. “Sometimes I'm not sure what I did and didn't do back then.”

As they drove away from Golden Ridge Heights, Isaac said, “Someone Marta knew. And home with his daughter isn't much of an alibi.”

“Not much,” Petra agreed. “With the girl sleeping, he could've phoned Marta with some ruse, lured her, done the deed, and come back. None of her blood in the car says she was killed elsewhere and pains were taken to keep the vehicle clean.”

“Doebbler's car.”

“Or just a neat-freak murderer. But before we jump on that, we'd need to assume the techs didn't miss anything.”

“That happen a lot?” said Isaac.

“More than you want to know. One thing intrigues me, though: Marta was the only victim whose dead body was then moved by the killer. So maybe that does synch with someone who knew her.”

She retraced the drive through the outskirts of Palmdale and got back onto the 114.

Isaac said, “A man killing his wife and then going on to kill strangers is pretty unusual, right?”

“Can't say that I've ever heard of it. More commonly, you get some slimeball serial balancing a wife or a girlfriend—raising kids, having barbecues—with a secret life.”

“The human mask,” said Isaac.

“We all wear 'em.”

Petra exited the 210 at Brand Boulevard in Glendale, drove north to a quiet, pretty part of the street, and pulled over. She'd brought copies of Ballou's notes and rifled through them until she found Kurt Doebbler's work and home numbers. It was just after five, meaning he could be either place.

The home was on Rosita Avenue, in Tarzana, clear across the Valley to the west. At this hour, at least an hour's drive. She ran a DMV check. Doebbler was listed as still there. Two cars registered in his name. A two-year-old Infiniti coupe and a three-year-old Toyota wagon. If he'd coveted Marta's Opel sedan, it hadn't been to keep the darn thing.

The daughter, Katya, would be fifteen, too young to drive, but Kurt had indulged himself with two sets of wheels.

Secret life?

She asked Isaac, “What's your schedule like?”

“When?”

“Now.”

“I was going to work on organizing my source material. It can wait.”

“I can drop you off just as easily as go on.”

“Go on, where?”

“To Kurt Doebbler's house.”

“Now?” said Isaac.

“Ain't no time like now,” she said.

“It's okay if I come along?”

“Sure.”

“Let's do it,” he said. Excitement in his voice. Then: “Could I borrow your phone, please? I'll let my mother know I won't be home for dinner.”