Twisted

CHAPTER 53

JUNE 27, 11:46 P.M., THE DOEBBLER RESIDENCE, TARZANA

Petra said, “I’m going to the front.”

“Want me to stay back here?” said Eric.

“Yeah.”

Removing her gun from her purse, she got out of her car, paused for a moment to steady her breathing, crossed to Doebbler’s front door.

Hand on the Glock, ready for anything.

The queasy feeling in her bowels told her anything could happen.

This was wrong. How could she have been that off?

She rang the bell. Nothing. A repeat ring elicited silence, too. Maybe Doebbler had somehow managed to get out without Eric or her seeing him.

Fooling her, she could see. But Eric?

She rang a third time. Nothing. She called him. “No response here.”

“Same… scratch that, he’s coming down the stairs… switching on the landing light. Bathrobe and pajamas. Looks like you woke him. He’s pissed.”

“Weapon?”

“Not that I see. Okay, he’s headed to the front, I’m coming around.”

Kurt Doebbler’s voice behind the door demanded: “Who is it?”

“Police. Detective Connor.” Petra had backed a few feet away. Behind her, concealed by bushes, Eric waited. She could smell him. Such a good smell.

No answer from Doebbler. Petra repeated her name.

“I heard you.”

“Could you please open up, sir?”

“Why?”

“Please open.”

“Why?”

“Police business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Homicide.”

The door swung open and Doebbler stared down at her, long arms crossed over a white terry bathrobe. Sleeves too short for his big, bony hands. Huge hands. Under the robe were striped pajamas. Big bare, veiny feet. His gray hair was mussed. Without his glasses, he was less nerdy, not that bad-looking, in a cold-eyed, angular way.

Petra’s eyes were level with the robe’s shawl lapel. She noticed a small sienna spot on the right side that could be dried blood. Her eyes climbed and she saw the shaving nick on Doebbler’s neck. Three nicks, scabbed.

Old Kurt a little nervous this morning? Planning for something that he’d decided to cancel because he knew he was being watched?

How had he known?

“Sir,” she said. “May I come in?”

“You,” he said. More contempt in that single word than Petra had believed possible.

He blocked the doorway.

Petra said, “In for the evening, sir?”

Doebbler pushed hair away from his forehead. Sweaty forehead. Shadows under his eyes. His arms twitched and for a second, Petra thought he’d close the door on her. She moved forward, ready to block him.

He watched her and frowned.

She repeated the question.

“In for the evening?” he said. “As opposed to?”

“Going out.”

“Why would I be going out?”

“Well,” she said, “in a few minutes, it’ll be June 28.”

Doebbler went white. “You’re sick.” He braced himself against the doorpost with one hand. Tall enough that the contact was inches from the top.

“I’m not going out,” he said. “Some of us work and take care of children. Some of us do our job with minimal competence.” Muttering something Petra was nearly certain was “imbecile.”

“May I come in, sir?”

“Come in?”

“To your house. To talk.”

“For a little social visit?” said Doebbler. He managed a smile, detached, all mouth, no eyes. Knitted his big hands and cracked his knuckles and stared down at her.

Past her- through her- the way he had the first time. The way Emily Pastern and Sarah Casagrande had been stared through. A cool, dry snake slithered down Petra’s spine and she was glad Eric was backing her up.

She smiled back at Doebbler.

He slammed the door in her face.