Twisted

CHAPTER 40

MONDAY, JUNE 24, 10:12 A.M., DETECTIVES’ ROOM, HOLLYWOOD DIVISION

Finally released for duty by the shooting team, Petra arrived at work to find Kirsten Krebs’s little butt perched on a corner of her desk. Right atop Petra’s blotter. She’d wrinkled some papers.

From across the room, Barney Fleischer shot her a sympathetic smile. Did the old guy ever leave?

Krebs arched her back, as if posing for a boudoir shot. One of her fingers twirled blond hair. What was she doing up here on the second floor?

When she saw Petra, she smirked. Nicotine teeth. “Captain Schoelkopf wants you.”

“When?”

“Now.”

Petra sat down at her desk. Krebs’s thigh was inches away.

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Comfortable, Kirsten?”

Krebs got off the desk and left, pissed off. Then she flashed a knowing smile. Like she was in on some private joke.

Why was a downstairs receptionist delivering Schoelkopf’s message personally? Did Krebs have some special rapport with the captain?

Were she and Schoelkopf… could it be?

Why not? Two misanthropes finding common ground.

Schoelkopf’s third marriage kaput. Because of a woman even younger than the latest wife?

The captain and Krebs, wouldn’t that be great… She glanced over at Barney Fleischer. The old guy’s back was to her. Punching the phone with a pencil eraser. He misdialed, hung up, started again.

Petra cleared her throat. Barney didn’t acknowledge her.

Time for fun.

Schoelkopf sat back in his tufted, leatheroid desk throne. The two side chairs usually positioned for visitors had been shoved into the corner. The room smelled of pineapple juice but there was no sign of the liquid anywhere. Freaky.

When Petra made a move for one of the chairs, Schoelkopf said, “Leave it alone.”

She drew back. Stayed standing.

“You fucked up,” he said, without preamble. His desktop was clear. No photos, no papers, just a blotter and pens and a digital clock that displayed time and date on both sides.

He removed a plastic-wrapped cigar from a drawer and held it suspended between his index fingers.

No smoking in the building but he played with it for a while. She’d never known him to smoke. Kirsten sucked cigarettes. A nicotine-fiend’s gift?

“You fucked up, Connor.”

“What can I say, sir?”

“You can say ‘I. Fucked. Up.’ ”

“Is this confession time, sir?”

Schoelkopf bared his teeth. “Confession’s good for the soul, Connor. If you had one, you’d understand.”

Anger tightened her throat.

He said, “You’re amoral, aren’t you?”

Petra’s hands clenched. Keep your mouth shut, girl.

Schoelkopf gave an airy wave, as if her control didn’t impress him. “You contravened direct orders and fucked up a well-thought-out task force agenda.”

“Sorry,” she said.

“Don’t think you’re going to get any credit for Paradiso. Or publicity.”

“Publicity?”

“TV interviews, all that shit.”

“That’s fine with me.”

“Sure it is. You and I both know that’s what floats your boat.”

“Getting on TV?”

“Any kind of attention. You’re an attention junkie, a media hound, Connor. You learned it from Bishop- Mr. Hair-Dye Screen Actor’s Guild. You and him, Ken and Barbie. Big fashion show, huh? The big pity is you messed up a good detective like Stahl. He’s in deep shit because of you.”

Stu Bishop had been her first Homicide partner, a brilliant, photogenic DIII widely rumored to be in line for a deputy chief promotion. He’d trained her well. Did have a SAG card because he played occasional bit parts on cop shows.

He’d retired to take care of a wife with cancer and a slew of kids, and bringing him up now felt like sacrilege. Petra’s face burned like a habanero pepper, her eyes were gritty and dry. But her heartbeat had slowed. Going into attack mode, her body marshaling its reserves.

She was prepared, ready, to spring for the bastard’s throat but kept all the rage in a tiny little zone of her prefrontal lobes.

Eric had it right. Say nothing, show nothing.

But she couldn’t resist. “Detective Bishop’s hair color was natural, sir.”

“Right,” said Schoelkopf. “You’re amoral and sneaky, Connor. First you sneak to the media with that picture of Leon instead of doing it the right way. Then you ignore task force instructions and sneak in your own little grandstand play. You’re toast, get it? Suspended. Without pay, if it’s up to me. Leave your gun and badge with Sergeant Montoya.”

Petra tried to stare him down. He wasn’t biting, had opened another desk drawer, busied himself with shuffling whatever was inside.

She said, “This isn’t fair, sir.”

“Yadda yadda. Go.”

As she turned to leave, she noticed the date numerals on his desk clock: 24.

Four days until June 28 and she was being cut off. From her files, her phone, access to data banks.

From Isaac.

Fine, she’d adapt. Call the phone company and have her calls forwarded to her home number. Take what she needed from her desk and work from home.

Petra Connor, Private Eye. Absurd. Then she thought of Eric, going out on his own.

“Bye,” she told the captain.

The lilt in her voice made him look up. “Something funny?”

“Nothing, sir. Enjoy your cigar.”

When she returned to her desk, the top was cleared- even the blotter Krebs had sat on was gone.

She tried a drawer. Locked.

Her key didn’t fit.

Then she saw it. Brand-new lock, shiny brass. “What the- ”

Barney Fleischer said, “Schoelkopf had a locksmith in while you were in his office.”

“Bastard.”

The old guy stood up, looked around, came over. “Meet me downstairs, near the back door. Couple of minutes.”

He returned to his desk. Petra left the detectives’ room, descended the stairs to the ground floor. Less than a minute later, slow, plodding footsteps sounded and Barney came into view, wearing an oversized tweedy sports coat and draping a longer garment over one arm.

A raincoat, a wrinkled gray thing that he usually stashed in his locker. Once in a while, she’d seen it draped over his chair. Had never actually witnessed him wearing it. Not today, that was for sure. The heat had burned through the marine layer this morning, temperatures rising to the high eighties.

The old man looked as if he was ready for winter.

He paused three steps from the bottom, eyed the top of the stairwell, descended all the way. Unfurling the raincoat, he produced half a dozen blue folders.

Doebbler, Solis, Langdon, Hochenbrenner… all six.

“Thought you might need this.”

Petra took the files. Kissed Barney full on parched lips. He smelled of onion rolls. “You’re a saint.”

“So they tell me,” he said. Then he climbed back up the stairs, whistling.

Back home, she cleared away her easel and paints and set up a workstation on her dinette table.

Stacking the files, laying out her notepad, a fresh legal tablet and pens.

Eric had left her a note on the kitchen counter:

P,

Appts. at Parker until???

Love, E.

Love… that started all kinds of gears grinding.

Time to concentrate on something she could control. She started with the phone company, put in the forwarding request. The operator started off friendly, came back a few seconds later with a whole different attitude.

“The number you’re forwarding from is a police extension. We can’t do that.”

“I’m an LAPD detective,” said Petra, rattling off her badge number.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

“Here’s my supervisor.”

A steely-voiced, older-sounding woman came on, with a manner so rigid Petra wondered if she was really a department plant.

Same message, no give.

Petra hung up, wondering if she’d done herself even more harm.

Maybe the Fates were telling her something. Even so, she’d work June 28. To do otherwise would drive her crazy.

She got herself a can of Coke, sipped and flipped through her notes. The calls she’d put in Friday.

Marta Doebbler’s friends. Dr. Sarah Casagrande in Sacramento, Emily Pastern in the Valley.

Emily, with the barking dog.

This time the woman answered. No noise in the background. Still perky, until Petra told her what it was all about.

“Marta? It’s been… years.”

“Six years, ma’am. We’re taking a fresh look at the case.”

“Like that show on TV- Cold Case whatever.”

“Something like that, ma’am.”

“Well,” said Pastern. “No one talked to me when it happened. How’d you get my name?”

“You were listed in the file as someone Ms. Doebbler had gone out with that night.”

“I see… what was your name again?”

Petra repeated it. Cited her credentials again, as well. Committing yet another breach of regulations.

Impersonating an active officer of the law…

Emily Pastern said, “So what do you want from me now?”

“Just to talk about the case.”

“I don’t see what I could tell you.”

“You never know, ma’am,” said Petra. “If we could just meet for a few minutes- at your convenience.” Working up her own perkiness. Praying Pastern wouldn’t call the station and check her bona fides.

“I guess.”

“Thanks very much, Ms. Pastern.”

“When?”

“Sooner the better.”

“I’ve got to go out at three to pick up my kids. How about in an hour?”

“That would be perfect,” said Petra. “Name the place.”

“My house,” said Pastern. “No, let’s make it at Rita’s- it’s a little coffee place. Ventura Boulevard, south side, two blocks west of Reseda. They’ve got an outdoor patio. I’ll be there.”

Wanting distance from her home. Somewhere out in the open, well within her comfort zone.

Petra said, “See you there.” Don’t be the suspicious type, Emily.

She got out of the morning’s black pantsuit and searched her closet for something more… welcoming.

Her first try was one of the few dresses she owned, a short-sleeved, gray silk A-line patterned with nearly invisible lavender squiggles. Too clingy, way too party. The black Max Mara jersey affair with the cap sleeves and the price tag still attached was even less appropriate.

Back to basics. A slate-blue pantsuit, free of lapels, some cute reverse stitching along the hems. Tiny hyphens of celluloid laced into the stitches. When she’d bought it at the Neiman’s summer sale two seasons ago, she’d thought it way too frou-frou. But on her it looked subtle, a bit dressy.

Maybe Emily Pastern would be impressed.

She made it to the Valley with time to spare, drove around a bit, pulled up in front of Rita’s Coffees and Sweets right on time.

The place was a pair of cute, tile-roofed bungalows combined into one establishment. One of a group of little Spanish-style structures assembled around a small patch of foliage, several steps up from the sidewalk. At the center of the green patch was a gurgling fountain. Older buildings, from the twenties or earlier.

Tarzana had been farmland back then, and Petra wondered if the houses had been built for migrant workers. Now they housed teeny, trendy retail businesses.

Giovanna Beauty, Leather and Lace Boutique, Optical Allusions. Even the premises of Zoë, Psychic Adviser looked cute.

The outdoor patio was off to the right of the coffee house, surrounded by low wooden fencing with a latched gate. One woman sat there, visible from her bosom up.

Pretty strawberry blonde, hair pinned loosely, mid- to late thirties, wearing a long, gauzy sleeveless smock the color of daybreak.

Behind her, through open French doors, Petra spied groupings of well-put-together women sitting indoors, laughing, sipping. The West Valley was ten degrees hotter than the city. Torrid. But Emily Pastern wanted an al fresco meet.

Petra climbed the stairs and the woman watched her as she unlatched the gate.

“Ms. Pastern?”

Pastern nodded, gave a small wave.

So far, so good.

As Petra made it to the gate, she saw that Pastern had chosen the table farthest from the restaurant. The pale blue top was worn over fashionable jeans and white clogs. Pastern had milky skin, lots of freckles, eyes the color of the iced tea or whatever it was that filled her brandy snifter.

Lying at her feet was why she wanted the patio. Needed the patio.

The biggest hunk of canine flesh Petra had ever seen. Blue-brindle and massively boned in repose, ears clipped to nubs. Body and face a mass of loose skin and acromegalic bone. Head shaped like that of a hippo, resting on the flagstone floor.

Big as a hippo.

She stopped as the dog glanced up. Drooled. Checked Petra out with tiny, red-rimmed eyes. Intelligent eyes. Lord, the thing was huge. An upper lip flapped. Teeth fit for a shark.

Emily Pastern bent in her chair and whispered something to the dog. The beast’s eyes closed and it returned to sleep or whatever it was protective dogs did during their downtime.

Petra hadn’t budged.

“It’s okay,” said Pastern. “Just sit down on this side.” Indicating the seat farthest from the dog. “She’s fine if you don’t try to get too friendly with her too fast.”

The dog cocked an eyelid.

“Really,” said Pastern. “It’s okay.”

Giving wide berth to the behemoth, Petra settled in a chair.

“Good girl,” Pastern whispered to the dog.

Petra held out a hand. “Petra Connor.”

“Emily.” Pastern’s fingers were long, cool, limp.

The dog remained inert. Making sure her foot was nowhere near its mouth, Petra tried to get comfortable. “Is that Daisy?”

“No, Daisy’s home.”

You’ve got two of these?

“How do you know about Daisy- oh, my phone tape. No, this is Sophia, Daisy’s little sister.”

“Little?” said Petra.

“Figuratively speaking,” said Pastern. “Birth-order-wise. Daisy’s a ten-year-old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. She weighs fifteen pounds.”

“A little lighter than Sophia.”

Pastern smiled. “Sophia likes her food.”

“What breed is she?”

“Mastino. Neopolitan Mastiff.”

“All the way from Italy.”

Pastern nodded. “We imported her. She’s great protection.”

“Does Daisy get to ride her?”

“No, but my kids do.”

Doggy chitchat relaxed the woman. Time for business. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me, Emily.”

“Sure.” Pastern looked over at the French doors. A slim, androgynous waiter came over and Petra ordered coffee.

“The daily blend?”

“Sure.”

He left looking puzzled. Pastern said, “They’re not used to that. No interrogation. Most people who come here are picky about their coffee.”

“Half-caf, seventeen drams of soy foam, one-fifth Kenyan, four-fifths Jamaican, and a sprinkle of Zanzibar allspice.”

Pastern displayed pretty teeth. “Exactly.”

“I don’t care as long as there’s octane in it,” said Petra. An oversized mug of something dark and hot came and the waiter took a few seconds balancing it on the table. Bit of a challenge; the top was fashioned of hand-laid mosaic tiles. Blue and yellow and green shards arranged in graceful florets and grouted carefully. Petra ran her fingers over the contours. Nice work, but impractical.

“Like it?” said Pastern. “The tiles.”

“Very nice,” said Petra.

“My work.”

“Really? It’s lovely.”

“I don’t do much art anymore,” said Pastern. “Three kids, my husband’s an orthodontist.”

The first fact seemed to explain things, the second didn’t.

Petra said, “Busy.”

“You bet… would you tell me this, Detective: How come no one talked to me six years ago? My friends, the other women who were at the theater, were interviewed.”

Because the D who worked the case was an alkie burnout who didn’t follow through when he didn’t reach you the first time.

Petra said, “Ms. Jaeger and Dr. Casagrande?”

Pastern’s penciled brows arched. “Sarah’s a doctor?”

“She’s a psychologist in Sacramento.”

“Isn’t that something?” said Emily Pastern. “She always talked about becoming a therapist, but I never thought she’d actually do it. Guess Sacramento was good to her.”

“How long’s she been there?”

“She and her husband moved up there a while back- not long after Marta was killed. Alan’s a lobbyist and they wanted him full-time at the capital. How’s Sarah doing?”

“Haven’t spoken to her yet. Haven’t been able to reach Melanie Jaeger either.”

“Mel’s in France,” said Pastern. “Got divorced and moved there a couple of years ago. Finding herself.” She stirred her tea some more. “No kids, she’s got mobility.”

“Finding herself how?” said Petra.

Pastern pushed fine, ginger hair away from her face. “She thinks she’s an artist. A painter.”

“No talent, huh?” Petra’s palm caressed the tabletop. Trying to communicate: as opposed to you, Emily.

“I don’t want to bad-mouth, we were all friends, but… guess I’m the only one still in the Valley… so why wasn’t I talked to?”

“From what I could tell, the detective couldn’t reach you.”

“He called when I was out and left his number,” said Pastern. “I called him back.”

Petra shrugged.

“Six years,” said Pastern. “Is there some reason it’s been reopened?”

“No dramatic evidence, I’m afraid. We’re just trying to be thorough.”

Pastern frowned. “Are you from here?”

“Originally, Arizona,” said Petra. This was getting personal. Lonely woman? Or was Pastern resisting?

“I’ve got cousins in Scottsdale- ” Pastern stopped herself. “You don’t care about any of that. This is about Marta. Do you have any theories who killed her?”

“Not yet. How about you?” said Petra.

“Sure do. I always thought it was Kurt. But no one asked my opinion.”

Petra’s hand clamped around her coffee mug. The ceramic was scalding and she freed her tingling fingers. “Why do you think that, Emily?”

“I’m not saying I know he did it, it’s just my feeling,” said Pastern. “Marta and Kurt’s marriage had always seemed off.”

“In what way?”

“Remote. Platonic, even. Like they never went through that initial passion stage most people start out with. Know what I mean?”

“Sure,” said Petra.

“Everything cools down eventually, but with Marta and Kurt you just felt there’d never been any heat in the first place. Not that Marta ever said anything. She was German, had that European reserve.”

“Remote,” said Petra, remembering Kurt Doebbler’s flat affect. Two cool people. One had ended up beaten to a pulp.

“I never saw them kiss,” said Pastern. “Or touch, for that matter. Then again, I’ve never seen Kurt display anything in the way of emotion. Even after Marta died.” She bent toward Sophia, kneaded the dog’s neck folds. “He still lives there, you know. In the same house. Seven blocks from mine. After we heard about Marta, I brought over food, offered to help any way I could. Kurt took the plate at the door, never invited me in, never thanked me.”

“Charming fellow.”

“Have you met him?”

Petra nodded.

“So you know. I can’t prove he did it, I just feel it. Always have. We all did- Sarah and Mel and I. Not just because Kurt’s strange. Because of the way it happened. That night in the theater, when Marta’s phone rang, she bolted up so quickly she nearly tripped over my legs. Then she hurried out, without explanation, as if her life depended on it.” Pastern smiled queasily. “That came out wrong.”

Petra said, “Did she slip the phone open and read the sender’s number?”

Pastern thought. “I don’t think so… no, I’m sure she didn’t. I don’t think her phone even had a lid to flip- six years ago mine didn’t. No, she just switched it off and got up and ran out. We were pretty taken aback. Generally, Marta was super-polite. Sarah wanted to go out and check immediately but Melanie told her it might be a private family affair, she should give Marta her privacy. Marta was a private person. You never really knew where she was coming from. The three of us were making too much noise discussing it and people started to shush us, so we shut up and waited until intermission.”

“How long was that?”

“Maybe ten minutes,” said Pastern. “Maybe fifteen. When Marta didn’t return in a couple, I remember not being able to concentrate on the show. Then I figured she didn’t want to cause any more disruption by coming back for such a short interval, was probably waiting for us in the lobby. The moment the curtain dropped, we hurried out to find her but she wasn’t there. We immediately called her cell but no one answered and that’s when we started to get worried. We decided to split up to look for her in the theater. Which wasn’t easy, the Pantages is a big place, all those people streaming out.”

She frowned. “I got the job of checking the ladies’ room. Kneeling down and checking the shoes in the stalls. Marta wasn’t there. Wasn’t anywhere. We tried to figure out what to do. The consensus was that she’d been called out on a personal matter, probably by Kurt. Maybe something to do with Katya, it had to be serious for her not to return, not to even tell us. Maybe she needed to keep her line clear so we decided not to try to call her again and went back in, saw the rest of the show. I didn’t really enjoy it.”

“Worried about Marta.”

“At that time, I was more worried about what had caused her to leave so impulsively,” said Pastern. “Do you have kids?”

Petra shook her head.

“It’s a lifetime of anxiety, Detective. Anyway, after the show, the three of us walked to my car- I’d driven. Everyone except Marta, she came in her own car.”

“Why?”

“She had an appointment in the city, didn’t want to bother coming back to the Valley then back again. She arrived when we did, parked right near my car. When we looked, her car was gone. That made sense to us- given what we figured.”

“Where was the lot?”

“Right across the street from the theater.”

Marta’s vehicle had been found around the corner from the theater and two blocks down. Ballou had made no mention of it being moved from the parking lot.

She’d left with the killer. Lured to a dark, quiet spot. Bludgeoned on the sidewalk, then propped behind the wheel of her own vehicle.

Petra said, “What kind of appointment did Marta have in the city?”

“She didn’t say.” Pastern shifted. Looked down at her own tile-work. “Marta went into the city a lot. My initial take was that the Valley bored her. She grew up in Hamburg, which is supposed to be a pretty sophisticated city. Back in Germany, she’d been some sort of mathematician or engineer. That’s where she met Kurt, he’s a rocket designer or something like that- he was doing something for the government at one of the military bases. They got married there, had Katya in Germany, moved to the States soon after.”

Long answer to a short question and now Pastern was stirring her tea rapidly, as if willing the liquid to evaporate. Talking about Marta’s errands had made her jumpy.

“Your initial take was boredom,” said Petra. “Any other reason for her to come into the city frequently?”

The spaces between Pastern’s freckles pinkened. “I don’t want to say when I don’t know.”

“Say what, Emily?”

“Are you married, Detective?”

“Used to be.”

“Oh. Sorry for prying.”

“No prob.”

“It’s funny,” said Pastern. “The way we’re talking, as if this was just two girls… I’m glad the police let women do important jobs now.”

Down below, Sophia stirred. Pastern dipped a finger in her snifter, rubbed liquid over the dog’s nose and mouth. “The heat’s not great for her, but she’s pretty robust. Back in Italy, they live outdoors, guard estates.”

“Did the Doebblers own a dog?”

“Never,” said Pastern. “At one point, Marta wanted one. For Katya. She said Kurt wouldn’t allow it. I think that’s abusive, don’t you? Animals are great for kids. They teach them a lot about giving and sharing.”

“Absolutely,” said Petra. “So Kurt doesn’t like animals.”

“He told Marta they were too messy.” Pastern fiddled with her hair. “What I said before- that I always thought Kurt did it. That won’t get back to him, right? Because it’s not an accusation, just a feeling. And he does live close.”

“It will absolutely not get back to him, Emily.”

“I’m going to believe you on that. I guess that’s about it.”

Petra said, “Could we talk more about Marta’s errands in the city?”

Pastern answered quickly. “She liked to shop- discount clothing places, that kind of thing.”

Let it ride. “Okay… can you think of any reason Kurt might have to murder Marta?”

“So you do suspect him?”

“At this point I don’t know enough to suspect anyone, Emily. That’s why it’s important for you to tell me everything you know.”

“I have.” Pastern’s smile was shaky.

Petra smiled back. Tasted her designer coffee. Dreadful. She’d give Pastern one more try and if the woman continued to resist, follow up with a phone call tomorrow. Tonight.

Emily Pastern untied her hair and shook it loose. She had knotted it up tight, created an austere little bun that gave her face an ascetic cast.

“The errands,” said Petra.

“Okay. I might as well tell you because you’ve taken the trouble after all these years and you do seem like someone who cares.”

She moistened the dog’s snout again. Breathed in deeply.

Dramatic type; Petra wondered how much of what she said could be taken seriously.

“Okay,” Pastern repeated. “I’m pretty sure Marta was having an affair.”

Petra waited for the woman’s breathing to slow. “With who?”

“I don’t know, Detective. But she gave off all the signs.”

Petra held out an expectant palm.

Emily Pastern said, “Dressing better, walking bouncier- sexier. Color in her cheeks. She was still reserved, but there was something going on beneath the surface. A glow. A fire.”

The color in Pastern’s cheeks heightened. Ah, suburbia.

Petra said, “Happier than usual.”

“More than happier. Alive. It wasn’t because of Kurt, believe me. He was the same old dull Kurt.”

“But Marta changed.”

“Anyone who knew her could tell she had. Suddenly she was gone all the time. Rushing here, rushing there. Which wasn’t like Marta at all. It was true what I said about her being bored. She told me she found the Valley too slow. But her way of coping had been stay-at-home stuff. Being a PTA mom, collecting- glass figurines, samplers, little Japanese teapots. She used to hit the flea markets regularly. Then all that stopped and she boxed up her collections and started driving into the city regularly.”

“Around the same time she started to dress and walk sexier?”

“Exactly the same time,” said Pastern. “You’re a woman. You know I’m right.”

“You’re making a good case, Emily.”

“Maybe Kurt found out. Maybe that’s why he did it. It sure wasn’t for any romantic reasons of his own. He’s never remarried and if he’s been hooked up with another woman, I haven’t heard.”

“Would you have heard?” said Petra. “With his being distant and all that?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Pastern. “Our kids still go to the same school. West Valley Prep. It’s still suburbia, Petra.”

Petra watched as she wiped her lips daintily. Drama queen or not, Pastern had given her something to work with. She asked her if there was anything else she wanted to say and when Pastern shook her head, thanked her, fished a ten out of her purse and stood.

Sophia grumbled.

Pastern patted her calm and reached for her own purse. “No, it’s on me.”

“Against regulations,” said Petra, smiling. Little Miss By-the-Book. Ha.

“You’re sure? Okay, then, nice to meet you, hope you get him.”

As Petra started to leave, Pastern said, “Why’d you ask me if Kurt and Marta had a dog?”

“Just curious,” said Petra. “Trying to get a feel for them as people.”

“He’s a cold person,” said Pastern. “She was a nice person. I’ll tell you who did love dogs: Katya. She was always over playing with Daisy. Her needs were so obvious. But Kurt wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Too messy.”

“He’s compulsive.” Pastern frowned. “Real life isn’t like that.”

“Sure isn’t,” said Petra. “What color is Daisy?”

“A deep beautiful mahogany red. She’s show-quality.”

No match to the hairs on Coral Langdon. So much for the complex transfer scenario Petra had formulated. From daughter to dad to…

She said, “I’ll bet she is. Any idea how Katya’s doing?”

“My daughter, who’s in the same grade but not the same class, says she’s very quiet, keeps to herself. What else would you expect? Growing up with someone like that. Besides that, a girl needs a mother. It’s basic psychology, right?”

Petra flashed a plastic smile, muttered something. Escaped.