Twisted

“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 ma

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.

Giova

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 pi

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 Co

“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.”