Twisted

CHAPTER 20

FRIDAY, JUNE 14, 4:34 P.M. DETECTIVES’ ROOM, HOLLYWOOD DIVISION

Petra left two additional messages with Dr. Robert Katzman, the last unmistakably cross.

Then she regretted her tone. Even if she finally reached the oncologist, big deal. He’d treated Sandra Leon for leukemia, what else could he tell her?

Then again, she was sure the Oncology clerk had gotten antsy talking about Sandra. But who said that related to the girl with the pink shoes or any other aspect of Paradiso?

She went downstairs, found Kirsten Krebs idling by the watercooler in a tank top and jeans, told Krebs to put Katzman through immediately if he called back.

Krebs stared at the floor and said, “Yeah, fine.” When she thought Petra was out of earshot, she muttered, “What-ever.”

Petra returned to her desk feeling aimless. She’d slept fitfully, burdened with too much of nothing. Just two weeks until June 28. No sign of Isaac for a few days. Had the kid lost his youthful enthusiasm about the nefarious plot? Or was it something to do with that bruise?

Either way, who cared?

Unfortunately, she did. She turned to the file copies, reviewed the two she knew the best- Doebbler and Solis- for new insights and failed to come up with any.

It stayed that way until she reviewed the coroner’s report on Coral Langdon, the dog walker, and found something she’d missed the first few times around. Stuck in the middle of a small-print hair-and-fiber list stapled under some lab results.

Two types of canine hair had been found on Langdon’s clothing. No mention of that in the coroner’s nonquantitative summary. The pathologist hadn’t deemed it important. Maybe it wasn’t.

The presence of cockapoo hair was self-explanatory. Little Brandy had been bludgeoned along with her mistress.

Stupid little bitch. The world is my toilet.

But along with the champagne-colored curls raked from Coral’s purple, cashmere blend, size M, Robinsons-May cardigan and her black, size 8 poly-cotton Anne Klein pants, was a smaller, but substantial number of straight, coarse hairs.

Short, dark brown and white. Canine. No DNA had been analyzed to determine the breed.

No reason to get that fancy. There were plenty of reasonable explanations, including maybe Coral Langdon had owned two dogs. Except according to the file she hadn’t. Detective Shirley Lenois might have missed the June 28 link, but Shirley had been a dog person, owned three Afghan hounds, would have been sure to note the presence of a second pet.

Perhaps little Brandy had hung with a canine buddy, picked up hairs, transferred them to Coral.

Or a stray dog had come upon both corpses, sniffed around.

Or, Coral Langdon, walking alone, at night, in the Hollywood Hills, in the company of a pint-sized pooch that provided zero protection, had encountered another dog walker.

The two of them stop to swap dog chat. Dog people were like that, being devoted to your pet was grounds for instant rapport.

Because of that, dogs could be a great ruse for bad guys. Petra recalled a case she’d worked early in her grand-theft-auto days. Pleasant-looking frat-boy-type thief- what was his name- who always took along a lumbering, seventy-pound bulldog… Monroe. She remembered the dog’s moniker but not the guy’s. What did that say?

Frat-boy’s modus was to “chance” upon women pulling late-model luxury wheels into shopping center parking lots. As they got out of their cars, he’d saunter by, Monroe in tow. The women would get one look at the stubby dog’s wrinkled frog face and melt. Chitchat would ensue, Frat-boy- Lewis something- was brilliant at putting on the wholesome dog guy act, though Monroe really belonged to his sister. The women would coo and pet the stoic, panting beast, then walk off happy. Fifty percent of the time they forgot to lock their cars and/or set the alarms.

Yup, canine companionship could definitely impart instant decency to a stranger.

Petra thought about how Langdon might’ve gone down. A guy with a dog- a white, middle-class-looking guy- someone who wouldn’t seem out of place in Coral Langdon’s Hollywood Hills neighborhood- shows up on the quiet, hillside road.

Coral with her fluffy pal, the guy with a larger pooch. Nothing scary, like a pit bull. Short, dark brown and white hairs- could be a pointer, a mixed-breed, whatever.

Something mellow and nonthreatening.

She stayed with the scenario, imagining Coral and Dog Guy stopping to talk. Maybe laughing as their furry buddies engaged in mutual squatting.

Exchanging cute little “aren’t dogs almost human” stories.

Coral- single, fit, and youthful for her age- might have welcomed some male attention. A bit of flirtation ensued, maybe even a phone-number exchange. No number had been found on Coral’s body, but that meant nothing. Dog Guy could’ve lifted it when his job was done.

His job.

Biding his time as he and Coral exchange amiable have-a-nice-evenings.

Coral and Brandy turn to go.

Boom.

Bashed from behind. Like all the others. A coward. A calculating, manipulative coward reluctant to face his victims.

Creative, Milo Sturgis would call it. His favorite euphemism when cases bogged down.

Petra wondered what he’d think about all this. Delaware, too.

She was pondering whether to call either of them when Kirsten Krebs stomped up to her desk and straight-armed a message slip right in her face.

“He hung up?” said Petra.

“It’s not the one you said to put through,” said Krebs. “But seeing as you’re so into your messages I brought it to you personally.”

Petra snatched the slip. Eric had phoned three minutes ago. No return number.

The message on the slip, in Krebs’s cramped writing: “Don’t believe everything you see on the news.”

“Whatever that means,” said Krebs. “He sounded kinda strange.”

“He’s a detective, here.”

Krebs remained unimpressed.

Petra said, “You told him I wasn’t here?”

“He wasn’t the one you said,” Krebs insisted.

“Damn…” Petra reread the message. “Fine. Bye.”

Krebs clamped her hands on her hips, cocked one leg, sucked in her cheeks. “If you’re going to be choosy, you have to give me detailed instructions.” She marched away.

Don’t believe everything you see on the news.

Petra headed for the locker room, where the latest cast-off TV sat.

This one was a Zenith, static-plagued, with no cable hookup, perched on a windowsill. Petra switched it on, flipped channels until she found a local broadcast.

Regional news, nothing remotely related to the Middle East.

Was Eric even there?

Don’t believe… okay, but he was fine, he’d called, nothing to worry about.

Why hadn’t he insisted on speaking to her?

Because he didn’t want to. Bad situation? Something he couldn’t talk about?

Her heart pounded and her stomach hurt. She hurried back to the detectives’ room. Barney Fleischer was at his desk, sports coat bunched up at his shoulders. Humming and stacking his paperwork neatly.

She said, “Does anyone around here get CNN?”

Barney said, “I prefer Fox News. Fair and balanced and all that.”

“Either way.”

“The closest place would be Shannons.”

Petra had never been to the Irish pub, but she knew where it was. Up Wilcox, just south of the Boulevard, a brief walk.

Barney said, “They’ve got a nice flat screen, sometimes they keep the news on when there’s no game.”

She racewalked to Shannons, sat at the bar, ordered a Coke. The flat screen was a fifty-two-inch plasma set like a window into the wall above the booze-rack. Tuned to MSNBC.

Nothing about the Middle East for one complete news cycle and the running banner at the bottom of the screen was cut off. She asked the bartender if there was any way to fix that.

“We format it this way on purpose,” he said. “You format the other way, it burns lines in the screen.”

“How about for a few minutes? Or maybe we can try one of the other stations.”

He frowned at her soft drink. No way that justified special treatment. But business was slow, no one else shared the bar, so he fooled with the remote and the banner appeared.

She endured financial news, a basketball finals recap, then the international stories: an earthquake in Algeria- the Middle East- but nothing Eric would call her about.

Why couldn’t he have just come out and-

The anchorwoman’s voice rose in pitch and Petra’s ears opened. “… reports that American military personnel may have been at least partly responsible for reducing the death toll from a suicide bombing in Tel Aviv…”

A beachside café on a restaurant-chocked avenue that paralleled the Mediterranean. People trying to enjoy themselves on a hot, sunny day. Israelis, a couple of German tourists, some foreign workers from Thailand. Unnamed American “security officers.”

Scumbag with a bomb vest under his raincoat approaches from across the street.

Scumbag’s black raincoat on a hot day would’ve tipped off anyone with the slightest powers of observation.

It had. He’d been wrestled to the ground, put out of commission before having a chance to yank the detonator cord on his plastique-and-ball-bearing-and-nail-stuffed vest.

Score one for the good guys.

Moments later, Scumbag Number Two saunters over, gets twenty feet away and pulls his plug. Turning himself to jihadburger. Taking two Israelis with him- a mother and her teenage daughter.

And: “Scores are reported injured…”

Two evil shit-heads. But for someone’s sharp eyes, it could’ve been worse.

Someone.

Scores injured could cover a lot of territory.

Eric had to be in good enough shape to call.

Why hadn’t he insisted on talking to her, dammit?

“Seen enough?” said the bartender. “Can I format it back?”

Petra tossed him a ten and left the bar.