Twisted

CHAPTER 49

THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 9:21 P.M., THE DOEBBLER RESIDENCE, ROSITA AVENUE, TARZANA

He’s here.” Eric’s whisper barely filtered through the phone.

“Doing what?” said Petra.

“Reading a magazine and doing hand exercises.”

“Hand exercises?”

“With a spring-grip. While he reads.”

“Getting in shape for his big night. Any weapon in sight?”

“No.”

“He probably keeps it in one of the cars,” she said. “What about Katya?”

“Not here.”

“She’s probably upstairs. The day I interviewed him she stayed up there the whole time. He look tense?”

“Not really.”

“Normal demeanor?”

“Expressionless,” said Eric.

“That’s normal for him.”

She clicked off and her cell phone went dark. Two lines on the gizmo, but only one was open on vibrator mode. And only for Eric. After too many interruptions by telemarketers, she and Eric had decided to have all calls but theirs forwarded to their land phones. It took a bit of doing, but they shared the same cellular carrier and by eight-thirty, they were functionally locked in. Every half hour, each of them checked for messages to make sure they didn’t miss anything. The last time had been ten minutes ago: a couple of junkers and a call from her brother Brad. Nothing urgent, he just wanted to say hi. She’d deal with that tomorrow.

After all this was over.

Shifting in the driver’s seat, she drank bottled water, popped a couple of Skittles, maintained her visual fix on the gray house. Determined, this time, to spot Eric as he emerged from the backyard and returned to his Jeep.

She was fifteen yards from Doebbler’s front door, facing west. The Jeep was a ways up, just out of view, aimed east. No matter which direction Doebbler took, someone would be ready to pick him up.

A few trees, but good visibility on the dark street. And fences prevented escape from one property to the next.

Doebbler would have to show himself.

Ten plus hours of nothing. Petra’s brain was starting to crumble from disuse.

At four-thirty P.M., Kurt Doebbler had left Pacific Dynamics along with a slew of other employees. After picking up a Domino’s pizza, he drove to Katya’s school, made it just before five. At that hour, West Valley Comprehensive Prep looked closed, but Doebbler’s bell-ring brought a sullen Katya to the gate, accompanied by a gray-haired, female teacher-type who let the girl out.

Some kind of after-school day-care thing. The teacher smiled and said something to Doebbler who left without responding. No conversation between father and daughter as they headed for the Infiniti. Katya’s backpack looked stuffed. Doebbler made no attempt to carry it for her.

The Infiniti headed straight home, arrived at five twenty-six. Doebbler walked to the door with that dorky stride of his, stayed several feet ahead of Katya, remote-locked the vehicle without glancing back. The girl hurried to catch up and he did hold the door for her as she entered the house.

He collected his mail from the box bolted next to the door, stood outside shuffling through envelopes. Not a glance up the street as he stepped inside and closed the door.

Why would he be nervous? He’d pulled it off six years in a row.

Since then, no sign of him or the girl and both of Doebbler’s cars remained in the driveway. At nine o’clock, Petra and Eric agreed that someone should have a look from the backyard, just to make sure the quarry hadn’t managed to sneak out on foot.

Someone was Eric.

Petra’s watch read 9:28. He’d been back there eight minutes, still hadn’t emerged. Had something engaged him?

Her phone vibrated.

“Me again.”

“Where are you?”

“Back in the car.”

“I was looking for you. How the hell do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Mr. Invisible.”

“I just walked.”

“Sure you did, Master Ninja.” Making light of it but failing to spot him bugged her. Despite her determination to focus, had her mind wandered? God, she hated stakeouts, the erosion of I.Q.

“What kept you there so long?”

“Watching.”

“Anything new?”

“No.”

Hell would be an infinity of stakeouts.

They cut the connection and Petra ate more candy. Brain-death and tooth decay. A minimum of two and half hours to kill-time and Doebbler was sitting in his easy chair, reading a magazine and flexing his hands.

What, the latest edition of Modern Murderer?

Working on his grip strength. Maybe that meant he was getting edgy.

Two and a half hours; had he planned so well that there was no need to leave any earlier?

Preselecting the prey. A nurse. Someone who took care of children. Maybe with lung disease. Maybe an Italian girl, if he was imitating Retzak that closely.

She’d already confirmed that no hospital remained in Elysian Park. When it came to kids, the first thing you thought of was Western Pediatrics Medical Center, back in Hollywood. Not that far from the park, she could see it appealing to Doebbler.

At this hour, Western Peds was at least a half-hour freeway ride from Tarzana, probably longer, so Doebbler was really cutting it close.

Petra knew the hospital’s shift schedule because Billy Straight had been taken there and she’d spent plenty of time at his bedside. Afternoons: three to eleven. Meaning day nurses would be heading for their cars between eleven and eleven-thirty as the night shift arrived. Lots of women walking to and from the outdoor lots.

Shabby side streets, East Hollywood. Not the greatest area and security was lax, but in all her time at Hollywood Division, she hadn’t heard of any serious problems.

With all those women, how would Doebbler pick a victim?

He’d picked already.

Five minutes passed. Ten, fifteen, still no movement from the gray house. A trip to Hollywood seemed increasingly unlikely, so she was probably wrong about Western Peds. Okay, there had to be lots of pediatric units all over the city.

With the time ticking away, Doebbler had probably aimed closer to home. Somewhere right here in the Valley.

Northridge Hospital was a fifteen-minute drive, even less with no traffic. Did Northridge nurses follow the same schedule as the Western Peds staff?

Speed-dialing Eric, she let him know her line would be busy for a few minutes and made the call. The Northridge night clerk confirmed it: three to eleven.

More than enough time for Doebbler to get over there. She had no idea how the parking was laid out at Northridge.

No confidence the site would be Northridge.

The Valley was a big place. When Doebbler made his move, she’d have to improvise.

Didn’t it always come down to that?