Twisted

She knew what they were thinking. This is weird.

Cops, even hardened vets, usually reacted to blowing out the back of someone’s head with a modicum of emotion. For all the feeling he was displaying, Eric might’ve just filed his nails.

Because he had to. Because he was protecting her. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had protected her.

At three-forty P.M., with the scene still cordoned and active, the head Downtown hotshot showed up, wearing a freshly pressed suit and tie. Meaning he’d been out by the pool or playing golf or whatever, had finally been reached, rushed home to dress for the occasion.

Before he stepped into the mess, he looked around. At the media vans congregated outside the yellow tape.

Hoping to be noticed. When it didn’t happen, he frowned, spotted Petra, came toward her.

She told him the story. He said, “Messy,” left, conferred with the techies.

Sandra Leon had been on the scene for hours, mostly stashed in a rear storage room of the gallery under guard. Petra ached to interview her, knew it would never happen.

Now, two uniforms escorted Sandra to a cruiser and put her in the back. Downtown strode over, opened the door, said something, stepped back with a stu

He told the driver to leave, and the black-and-white rolled away. Glided past Petra. Through the side window, Sandra Leon glared at her, twisting her body so she could maintain eye contact through the rear glass.

Petra stared back. Received a clearly enunciated “Fuck you” as the girl diminished. Disappeared.

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, Co

“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, Co

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, Co

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, Co

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 Co

“Bye,” she told the captain.

The lilt in her voice made him look up. “Something fu

“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.