Twisted

CHAPTER 25

The gun didn’t weigh that much, but Isaac felt the difference in his briefcase.

He’d swaddled the twenty-two in a cheap blue bandanna purchased at a ninety-nine-cent outlet a few blocks from Cantina Nueva, stuffed the package in the bottom of the case, under his laptop.

Tools of the trade.

USC was a short bus ride from the bar and he made it on time for his appointment with Dr. Leibowitz.

Avuncular Dr. Leibowitz. At their first meeting, Isaac had thought, “Too good to be true.” Later, he’d seen that Leibowitz was supportive of all his students. A year from retirement, a man at peace.

The meeting went well, as always, Leibowitz smiling and fooling with an empty briar pipe. He’d been off tobacco for years but kept the pipes and a collection of smoking accoutrements as props. “How’re those multivariates coming along?”

“Some of my initial hypotheses seem to be panning out. Though the process seems to be infinite. Each new finding engenders another hypothesis.”

In truth, he hadn’t looked at his calculations for over a week. Caught up with June 28. The rhythm of the detectives’ room, all that noise and anger and frustration.

Petra.

Leibowitz nodded sagely. “Such is science.”

Fortified by Leibowitz’s strong tea, Isaac headed straight for a seldom-used men’s room at the end of the hall. Pressing his back against the door, he placed the briefcase on the floor, removed the gun, unwrapped it. Hefted it.

Pointed it at the mirror and scowled.

Tough guy.

Ludicrous.

Footsteps in the hallway caused him to panic. He dropped the gun and the bandanna back in the case. The weapon landed with a thud.

The footsteps continued on and he stooped and rewrapped the twenty-two. Added another layer of concealment- the brown paper bag from the lunch Mama had fixed him today.

If anyone looked inside, they’d see a grease-specked care package redolent of chili and cornmeal.

Mother love.

Getting the gun into the station was no problem. Since nine-eleven, front security at the Wilcox Station had been tighter but inconsistent. On most days, eyeball scrutiny of incoming traffic sufficed. When the terror alert rose to a warm color, a portable metal detector was wheeled in and all the cops entered through the rear door on the south side of the building.

Isaac’s political connection had gotten him an official-looking clip-on LAPD badge and a 999 key that unlocked the rear door. He rarely needed to use the key. The station was old, with an inefficient cooling system, and the door was generally left open for circulation.

He climbed the stairs filled with pleasant expectations of his meeting with Petra.

Four male detectives were there but she wasn’t.

An hour later, he finally accepted the fact she wasn’t going to show. Packing up, he descended to the ground floor, made his way to the rear door. Closed, now. He opened it on the overly lit expanse of asphalt. All those black-and-whites and unmarked sedans.

Warm night. He wondered why she’d stood him up. She’d seemed to be taking June 28 seriously.

It’s not a stand-up, stupid. She’s a working detective, something came up.

He’d go home, arrive in time for dinner, make Mama happy. Tomorrow morning, he’d head straight to campus. Hide away at his corner table in the far reaches of Doheny Library’s third subbasement. Cosseted by yellow walls, red floors, dusty stacks of old botany books.

He’d sit. Think.

Needing to produce.

Needing something to show Petra.