Twisted

Junk-food breakfast? Who’da thunk?

He returned to his car with that same robot-face.

Scary; did it all come down to weird wiring?

Doebbler looked around briefly, got back in the Infiniti, resumed his leisurely exploration of the broad, sun-washed western tip of the Valley.

Five hours, eighteen minutes of boredom.

In all that time, two interruptions.

At ten-forty, Eric crossed the street to Pacific Dynamics and walked under the parking arm. Retracing the Infiniti’s path, he walked down the westside driveway and was gone for ten minutes.

When he popped back up at Petra’s window, he said, “Loading dock, bolted from the outside, doesn’t appear to be in active use. The lot’s aboveground, one level’s interior, the top’s out in the open. Doebbler’s parked on top. If he drives out, he’ll have to come back the way he went in.”

“What about on foot?”

“Fifteen-and-a-half-foot block wall at the back. On the other side’s some kind of warehouse. Unless he’s a rock-climber, there’s no alternative exit. He leaves, we see him.”

At eleven-fifty, Petra left for a much-needed bathroom break, driving all the way back to Ventura before she found an accommodating De

Moments later, right after she’d settled back in her own car, thirty-three people exited Pacific Dynamics in small, chatty groups, got into their cars, and drove away. Twenty-five men, mostly in shirtsleeves, like Doebbler. Eight woman, equally casual.

Lunchtime. No sign of the quarry.

“Maybe he’s eating donuts,” said Petra. “Carbo-loading for his big night.” Eric’s voice through the phone was soft. “Working at his desk would fit a compulsive personality.”

Which could apply to Eric. And her.

She glanced two aisles up, where the Jeep was parked. “Kind of weird, having to talk to you this way. How about some phone sex?”

“Sure,” he said. “But only as prep for the real thing.”

By three-twenty, Doebbler still hadn’t appeared. Just to be sure they hadn’t missed something, Eric called his work number. Doebbler picked up and Eric said, “Mr. Doebbler?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dwayne Hickham from New Jersey Life. Have you considered term- ”

Click.

“Friendly fellow,” said Petra.

Eric didn’t answer.

At three fifty-three, her phone squawked. Her butt was sore, she had a hunger-headache, and her bladder was bursting. The scene through her windshield was a damned oil painting. What could Eric have to say?

She pressed Talk. “What’s up?”

A cheerful voice said “Detective Co

“Chief Inspector Bandorffer.”

“Yes, this is Klaus. I thought this might be a good hour to reach you.”

“It is, sir. What’s up?”

“What’s up,” said Bandorffer, “is that I came across something intriguing in our records. Not a serial homicide, not a homicide at all. An assault. But it occurred on June 28 and the details are provocative.”

“What year?” said Petra.

“Nineteen seventy-nine. A young woman named Gudrun Wiegeland, a cake-icer at one of our finest bakeries, was attacked while walking home. She’d been decorating an elaborate wedding cake, left work shortly before midnight. Two blocks from her destination, someone hooked an arm around her neck, pulled her down onto the street, turned her over onto her stomach, and began kicking at her ribs. Then she experienced crushing pain at the back of her head. The attacker remained behind her so unfortunately she never saw him. Her injuries were serious. Three broken ribs, bruised internal organs, and a fractured skull. She was unconscious for two days, woke up and had nothing of value to tell the police. I paid her a visit today. She’s a frightened, middle-aged woman, lives with her elderly mother and collects public assistance. She rarely ventures out of her apartment.”

“Poor thing.”

“Fraulein Wiegeland had a reputation as a wild girl, and our men suspected a former lover, a pastry baker with a drinking problem. The two of them had engaged in public arguments. But the man was able to account for his whereabouts and the crime was never solved. I have confirmed that your Mr. Doebbler and his family were living at the Army base during that time period.”

“How many blows were delivered to the head?” said Petra.

“One,” said Bandorffer.

“Our boy bashes his victims repeatedly,” said Petra.

“Perhaps he panicked. Being young and inexperienced. If it was your boy.”

Twenty-four years ago, Kurt Doebbler had been eighteen.

The creepo had come across the Teller book as an adolescent and something had twisted up inside him.

Raging hormones. Sexual confusion.

A kink in some nerve fiber, Lord knew what else.

Plotting and pla

Or just the opposite?

Other cities, other Junes. The thought was sickening. Either way, Marta’s cheating had been a catalyst. Stoking- or restoking- the fires.

She said, “Thank you, Inspector.”

“My pleasure, Detective. Please let me know if you come up with a solution.”

Bandorffer hung up.

Petra thought: Isaac had nailed it again.

CHAPTER 48

THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 8:45 P.M., ROOM 19, CASA FIGUEROA MOTOR INN, FIGUEROA NEAR JEFFERSON BOULEVARD

This is lovely,” said Klara. She rolled the bedcovers down to her waist, ran her hands over soft, white, spreading breasts, pinched her own pink nipple and watched with satisfaction as it inflated. Reaching over to the chipped nightstand, she lifted her wineglass and sipped.

Fifteen-dollar bottle of chardo

Isaac lay on his back, next to her, staring up at cottage cheese plaster-spray. Studying the brown stain where the air-conditioning vent had leaked. Brown inkblot, like a Rorschach…

“Isn’t it?” said Klara, wetting her finger with wine and tracing it along his upper lip. “Lovely?”

He nodded. In his position, that meant bobbing at the ceiling.

She leaned over and chewed his earlobe. “You were a bit more enthusiastic five minutes ago, my dear. You were more than enthusiastic. Volcanic, I’d say.”

Isaac smiled. The brown stain had a definite shape. Two bears, a large one and a small one, facing off. Or dancing. What did that say about his unconscious?

“My personal Vesuvius,” said Klara. She reached down. “Ready for another eruption?”

Isaac’s member was sore and his neck ached, but Klara had all kinds of skills, and the second time ended up being fine. Afterward, she said, “Shower time,” and sashayed into the tiny motel bathroom, flaunting the fullness of her body, unfazed by slackness of waist, drooping bosom, the occasional clot of cellulite. He liked her better for that and when she yelled, “Come on in,” he complied. And when she pulled him under the spray for a deep kiss, he didn’t mind at all.

The shower stall was prefab fiberglass, just like the one at home but not as clean. Klara soaped him with enthusiasm, positioned his hands all over her slick, dolphin softness, threw back her head and laughed into the water.

“Pretend it’s a waterfall,” she said. “Somewhere exotic, just the two of us.”

She shampooed her hair with a travel bottle she’d brought, rinsed, squeezed her red hair dry and wrapped it in a towel. They returned to the queen-sized bed with its coin-slotted “Electric Fingers” gadget bolted to the fake wood headboard.

Tawdry. Isaac was surprised at how much he liked that.

Somehow, he wasn’t sure when the transition had occurred, he’d turned into someone else. The person he imagined when he made love to her.