Twisted

Three other detectives were in the room. Fleischer, Montoya, and a man at the bulletin board.

“Any idea where Detective Co

Fleischer’s shoulders rose but he didn’t speak. Montoya frowned and left. What was that all about?

Then the man at the board said “She’s out,” and turned. Dark suit, thi

Isaac said, “Any idea when she’s coming in?” and the man stepped closer. Detective II Robert Lucido, Central Division.

Why had he answered the question?

Lucido said, “I’m looking for her myself. You’re…”

“An intern. I work with Detective Co

“Research?” Lucido peered at Isaac’s badge. “Well, she’s out, Isaac.”

He winked, exited.

Leaving Fleischer, who sat there with the phone receiver in his hand but not dialing. What did he do here all day?

Isaac scribbled a note for Petra and left it on the bare desk, was headed for his own seat in the corner when Fleischer put the phone down and waved him over.

“Don’t waste your time.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s not coming in. Suspended.”

“Suspended? For God’s sake, why?”

“Shootout, North Hollywood, Saturday.” Fleischer’s bushy eyebrows turned into croquet wickets. “It was on the news, son.”

Isaac hadn’t watched the news. Too busy.

“But she’s okay.”

Fleischer nodded.

“What happened?”

“Petra and another detective were staking a suspect, there was a confrontation and the bad guy didn’t respond appropriately.”

“Dead?” said Isaac.

“Extremely.”

“The suspect on the Paradiso case?”

“That’s the one.”

“For that she got suspended?”

“It’s a procedural thing, son.”

“Meaning what?”

“Rules were broken.”

“How long will the suspension last?”

“Haven’t heard.”

“Where is she, now?”

“Anywhere but here,” said Fleischer.

“I don’t have her home number.”

Fleischer shrugged.

“Detective Fleischer,” said Isaac, “it’s important that I get in touch with her.”

“She have your number?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t see any problem, son.”

She hadn’t called and now it was Tuesday.

Caught up in her own problems, she’d probably forgotten about June 28.

Not that he had anything for her.

He missed… being at the station.

Suddenly, his neck kinked painfully and he got up from his computer terminal in the history and geneology catalog room and stretched.

Being left out in the cold was poetic justice. Over the past few days, he’d ignored half a dozen phone messages from Klara. Had stayed away from campus and made the public library his work station expressly to avoid her.

The decision to break communication had been rationalized as kindness: Given Klara’s fragile emotional state, wouldn’t contact do her more harm than good? Though, what had happened down in the subbasement was regrettable, but not a felony. Two adults doing what adults did, one of those odd confluences of time and place. And hormones.

Thinking about it now, he couldn’t believe what he’d done. The impulsiveness…

Klara, whatever her emotional complexities might be, needed to realize that he-

“Sir?” said a wispy voice behind him.

He looked over his shoulder, then down several inches, saw an elderly black woman smiling up at him. Oversized purse in one hand, big, green reference volume tucked under her other arm. Tiny and stooped, she looked to be ninety, had beautiful skin the color of prunes. A too-heavy wool coat bulked her meager frame. A green felt hat sat atop marcelled hair the color of fresh snow.

“Are you through, sir?” she said and Isaac realized his was the only free computer in the room. All those geneology addicts clicking away. The fire in the old woman’s eyes said she was probably one of them.

He had a few more years of Herald to cover, but said “Sure,” and stepped aside.

“Thank you, young Latin gentleman.” She enunciated clearly, some kind of Island lilt. Scurrying past him, she plopped down in front of the terminal, cleared the screen of newspaper references, clicked, found what she was looking for, and began rolling through databases.

Ellis Island Immigration records, 1911.

She must’ve felt Isaac looking over her shoulder, turned and smiled again. “Tracing your roots, sir? Mexico?”

“Yup,” Isaac lied, too tired to get into details.

“It’s marvelous fun, isn’t it? The past is delicious!”

“It’s great,” he said. The deadness in his voice killed the old woman’s glee.

She blinked and he left the room. Quickly, before he ruined someone else’s day.

CHAPTER 43

Petra spent a good deal of Monday trying to locate Melanie Jaeger, the fourth member of Marta Doebbler’s theater party. Living somewhere in the South of France.

She recontacted Emily Pastern, who now seemed reluctant to talk, but pushed and got the woman to specify “somewhere near Nice, I think.” Using the Internet, she pulled up maps and phoned every listed hotel and pension in that region.

Slow, painful process. Being cut off from official data banks, the ability to use the reverse directory, any clout with the airlines, reminded her that she was just another civilian.

She spoke to a lot of baffled/bored French desk clerks, lied, tried charm, finally struck gold at a place called La Mer where a concierge who spoke beautiful English put her through to Madame Jaeger’s room.

After all that, Jaeger had nothing new to tell her. She, too, was certain Kurt Doebbler had brained Marta.

Why?

“Because he’s a spooky creep who never smiled. Hope you catch him and cut off his balls.”

By eleven P.M. she still hadn’t heard from Eric. Popping a couple of Benadryl, she sank into ten hours of drugged-out sleep and awoke Tuesday, ready to work.

Back to the computer. Experienced private eyes had their own methods, could sometimes tread where cops couldn’t. Her ignorance of all that bugged her. Eric was a fast learner. Soon he’d be in touch with all that good stuff.

If he really made the move.

She allowed herself a fantasy: the two of them working together, partners in a high-end p.i. firm. Beautiful office suite on Wilshire or Sunset or maybe even out near the beach. Cool, deco furnishings, rich clients…

You write the screenplay and I’ll pitch it to the networks.

He called at noon, just as she was finishing a quick lunch of toast, a green apple, and strong coffee. She chewed fast, swallowed. “Where are you?”

“Downtown.”

“Second day, ru

“Maybe the last day,” he said.

“How’s it going?”

“They’re being… thorough.”

“You can’t talk freely.”

“I can listen.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’m really sorry, Eric.”

“For what?”

“Your having to go through this because of- ”

“No sweat. Got to go.” In a softer voice: “Honey.”

Google pulled up zero on Kurt Doebbler- an achievement in itself because the search engine was a monstrous cyber-vacuum cleaner.

She supposed the absence of a personal website was consistent with Doebbler’s asocial personality. But his name did come up on the Pacific Dynamics homepage. One of many names on a roster of the company’s “Senior Staff.”

Kurt was listed as senior engineer and technical designer on something called Project Advent. No details on what that was. The bio did note that Doebbler had “interfaced” with the 40th Engineering Battalion at Baumholden Army Base, in Germany. Having spent his high school years as an Army brat near Hamburg, and speaking fluent German, “Kurt was a natural for the assignment.”

That seemed odd. American Army engineers would speak English.

Was Kurt into hush-hush stuff?

Something else to make her life more difficult?