CHAPTER

17

Kurt Doebbler’s weirdness stuck in Petra’s head and after a few more days of nothing on Paradiso, she found herself thinking about him.

It was just after noon; no sign of Isaac.

No word from Eric. And the mellow-voiced Dr. Robert Katzman hadn’t called her back.

Why hadn’t Doebbler complained about Ballou’s drunken incompetence?

The more she thought about how shoddily the case had been worked, the less confident she felt about the integrity of the original file.

Like the blood scraped from Marta Doebbler’s car—O negative. And Doebbler was O positive. According to Ballou.

How much was that worth?

She paged through the file, finally found a note of the sample in a small-print coroner’s addendum.

She decided to track it down.

The coroner’s clerk was sure he had it. Till he didn’t. He transferred her to a coroner’s investigator, a young-sounding guy named Ballard.

“Hmm,” he said. “I guess it could be in the bio division of your evidence room. Over at Parker.”

My evidence room.

Petra said, “You guess.”

“Well,” said Ballard, “it’s not marked as leaving here, but it’s not here, so it must’ve gone somewhere, right?”

“Unless it’s lost.”

“For your sake, I hope it isn’t. Parker had some evidence problems a while back, remember? Lost samples, spoilage.”

She hadn’t heard about that. Yet another snafu that had somehow evaded the evening news.

“Anywhere else it could be?” she said.

“Can’t think of any. Unless it was sent up to Cellmark for DNA analysis. But even then, we’d keep some here and mail them a sample. Unless there wasn’t enough to be divided up—yeah, that could be it . . . okay, here it is. Two centimeters by one and a half. That’s about three-quarters of an inch by half an inch. Says here it was attached to a square of vinyl auto upholstery. Meaning it was thin, all we probably got were a few flakes. I guess it’s possible Cellmark got the whole thing. Why do you want it?”

“For fun,” she said, and hung up and phoned Sacramento.

The Department of Justice lab had no record of receiving any bio sample from Marta Doebbler’s murder. Parker Center’s Evidence Room hadn’t logged it in.

Big-time screw-up, but get anyone to admit it.

Time to take a closer look at the other June murders.

In Geraldo Solis’s murder book she found an interesting notation by Detective Jack Hustaad: According to Solis’s daughter, the old man had been expecting a cable repairman the day he’d been bludgeoned.

No sign Hustaad had followed up.

She phoned Wilshire Division and learned that, unlike the Hollywood cases, Solis had been transferred after Hustaad’s suicide. But not until two years after the murder had gone down. Hustaad must’ve held on to the file all that time, including a three-month lapse between his medical leave for cancer treatment and his suicide. A week after Hustaad’s funeral, Solis had been passed to a DI named Scott Weber.

Weber was still at Wilshire and Petra reached him at his desk.

He said, “I never got anywhere on it. How come you’re asking?”

She told him about a possible cold-case similarity, talked about the wound pattern on Marta Doebbler, made no mention of the other murders or June 28. Weber wanted to hear more but when she gave him a few details, he lost interest.

“Don’t see any match,” he said. “People get hit on the head.”

Not that often fatally. According to my expert.

“True,” she said.

“What do you figure for the weapon on yours?”

“Some kind of pipe.”

“Same here,” said Weber. “Any physical evidence on yours?”

Just a missing blood sample. “Not so far.”

Why was she being evasive with another detective? Because she still wasn’t comfortable with all this.

“Anyway,” said Weber.

“One question. There was a note about a cable repairman—”

“You have a copy of the file?”

“One of our interns, doing research, pulled it and made a copy.”

“From here?” said Weber.

“I think from the duplicate at Parker.”

“Oh . . . yeah, it could be duped, being cold and all that.”

“The cable call,” she prompted.

“There was a cable call on yours?” said Weber.

“No, I was just wondering if that led anywhere, but obviously—”

“You’re wondering if I followed up on it.” Weber laughed, but the sound wasn’t friendly. “I did. Even though it was two freakin’ years later. Solis’s cable company had no record of any visit. I talked to the daughter, turns out she maybe remembered something about the old man maybe saying something. Turns out no one saw any cable truck near the house. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Petra. “Sorry if I—”

“I couldn’t get anywhere on it,” said Weber. “It’s in the icebox.”

No cable appointment. Did that mean a phony call had led Geraldo Solis to expect a visitor? If so, that could be a match to the phone booth call that had lured Marta Doebbler from the theater.

Cable appointment at midnight?

Petra recalled an incident in her own life that had spooked her. Two years ago, in the midst of a one-week vacation, a doorbell ring at eleven P.M. had jolted her out of bed. Some joker claiming to be a UPS deliveryman. She’d told him to go away, he’d persisted, said he needed a signature on a package. She’d grabbed her gun, tossed on a robe, and cracked the door. Found a haggard, brown-clad zombie. Actual UPS guy, with an actual package. Cookies from one of her sisters-in-law.

“Running late,” he’d explained. Twitching and tapping his foot. Not even noticing the nine-millimeter held down against her right flank.

She knew delivery services put their drivers under pressure but this guy looked ready to blow.

So it was possible. A bad guy calls Geraldo Solis with the cable story, shows up late, Solis opens his door. No cable truck in the neighborhood didn’t mean a thing. At that hour, in Solis’s quiet, residential neighborhood, who’d be looking?

Geraldo Solis’s daughter’s address and phone number were duly listed in the murder book. Maria Solis Murphy, age thirty-nine, Covina. A DMV check put her current residence in the city. Right here in Hollywood, Russell Street off Los Feliz.

Her work number matched an extension for Food Services at Kaiser Permanente Hospital. Also Hollywood, an easy stroll from Russell.

She was on shift, came to the phone, arranged to meet Petra in front of the hospital in twenty minutes. By the time Petra arrived, she was there.

Hard-body type, pretty, with very short dark hair tipped blond, wearing a pale blue dress, white socks, and tennies. Three filament hoops in one ear, a diamond chip and a gold stud in the other. Tattoo of a rose on her left ankle. Kind of punk for a woman of nearly forty—a woman with a gold wedding band on her ring finger—but Maria Murphy had an unlined face and an aerobic bounce in her step. Put her in the right duds and she could’ve passed for mid-twenties.

Her badge said M. Murphy, MS, Registered Dietician. Very hard body. Boyish hips. The benefits of vitamins?

She said, “Detective?” in a husky voice.

“Ms. Murphy.”

“If you don’t mind, I could use a little stretch. Been kind of cooped up.”

They walked west on Sunset, past the hospital, fast-food joints, the prosthetic outfitters, after-care specialists, and linen suppliers that attach themselves to hospitals. Western Peds, where Sandra Leon had been treated for leukemia, was a couple of blocks east. What was with that doctor, Katzman.

Maria Murphy said, “I’m very grateful you’re reopening my dad’s case.”

“It’s not exactly like that, Ms. Murphy. I’m a Hollywood detective and I picked up a case that could conceivably bear some similarities to your father’s. But it’s not a dramatic match—we’re talking small details, ma’am.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am. Sorry.”

“I understand,” Maria Murphy said. “I discovered Dad’s body. I’ll never forget it.”

That fact had been in the file. Geraldo Solis had been found slumped over his food at one A.M. Petra asked Murphy why she’d dropped in so late.

“I didn’t drop in. I lived there. On and off. Temporarily.”

“Temporarily?”

“I was married at the time and my husband and I were having problems. I stayed with Dad, from time to time.”

Petra glanced at Murphy’s gold band.

Murphy smiled. “That’s from my partner. Her name is Bella.”

Petra sensed Murphy sizing her up, assessing her tolerance level. “So you and your husband were having marital problems.”

“I changed the rules, midstream,” said Murphy. “Dave, my husband, was a good guy. I was the one who initiated the breakup. Back then, I was pretty moody.”

“How’d Dave react to that?”

“He wasn’t happy,” said Murphy.

“He get mad?”

Without missing a step, Murphy turned sharply toward Petra. “It wasn’t like that, don’t even think that. Dave and Dad got along great. You want to know the truth, Dave and Dad had more in common with each other than with me. Any time we had a fight, Dad took Dave’s side. He couldn’t believe what I was doing and why I was doing it. My whole family was in pretty strong denial.”

“Big family?” said Petra.

“Two brothers, two sisters. Mom’s been gone for a while. When she was alive, I suppressed myself. Not wanting to hurt her. After I came out, they all ganged up on me, wanted me to see a shrink. Which was exactly what I’d been doing for two years, unbeknownst to them.”

“You didn’t want to hurt your mother, but your father . . .”

“You get to a point,” said Murphy. “And Dad and I were never close. He was always working, always too busy. I didn’t resent it, he did what he had to do, we just weren’t close. Even after I started living with him, we had very little to say to each other.”

She flinched, sucked in a breath, quickened her step.

“How long did you live with him?”

“On and off,” Murphy reiterated. “A month or so. I kept most of my stuff at my house, would bring a few changes to Dad’s. The story I gave him was I was working a double shift and didn’t want to drive home tired. Dad’s place was a lot closer to the hospital.”

Covina to Hollywood was an hour drive, minimum, a lot hairier with traffic. The trip from Solis’s house on Ogden near Olympic was a lark in comparison, so that much rang true.

“When did you tell your father the truth?” said Petra.

“I didn’t. My sibs did. A few days before the murder.”

“What about Dave?”

“Dave already knew. He wasn’t angry, he was sad. Depressed. Don’t go there. Really.”

Petra decided she’d be talking to Dave Murphy, sooner rather than later. She nodded at Murphy, tried to look reassuring. “So is there anything about your father’s murder that you’ve thought about since the first detectives spoke to you?”

“I only talked to one detective,” said Murphy. “Big, heavyset kind of Scandinavian guy.”

“Detective Hustaad.”

“Yes, that’s him. He seemed nice. Had a real bad cough. Later, he called me to tell me he had cancer, was going in for treatment. He promised to make sure Dad’s case got transferred to someone else. I felt terrible for him. That cough, it didn’t sound good.”

“The case was transferred to Detective Weber. He never talked to you?”

“Someone did call me,” said Murphy. “Once. But a long time . . . years after Hustaad got sick. I’d called the police station a few times—honestly, not a lot, I was dealing with my own stuff. When no one called me back, I let it go . . . I guess . . .”

“What did Detective Weber tell you?”

“He said he was taking over Dad’s case, but I never heard from him again. I guess I should’ve followed through. I guess I figured after no clues came up right away, it would be hard to solve. Being a stranger and all that.”

“A stranger?”

“A burglar,” said Murphy. “That’s what Hustaad figured.”

“Did Detective Weber ask you anything?”

“Not really—oh, yeah, he did ask about Dad expecting the cable guy. Which I’d already told Detective Hustaad. It was the only thing I did tell Detective Hustaad that I thought might be relevant. Mostly, I was a basketcase. At the time, I mean . . . finding Dad.”

Nothing hysterical about her now. Talkative woman, calm. Resigned to the fact that her father’s murder would probably never be solved.

Petra kept walking, waited for more.

Half a block later, Murphy said, “Detective Hustaad didn’t seem to have much energy.”

“You’re wondering if he worked the case as hard as it should’ve been worked.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I guess I’m a pretty factual person.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can accept facts, even if they’re tough. If Dad had been killed by a burglar, the only way they’d solve it was if the same criminal did it again, right? That’s kind of what Detective Hustaad implied.” She turned to Petra. “Is your case a burglar, someone pretending to be a cable guy?”

“Everything’s preliminary, ma’am.”

“So I shouldn’t get my hopes up.”

“It’s a long process.”

“What was weird to me, if it was a burglar,” said Murphy, “was that the only thing taken was food. A fresh head of lettuce, some whole wheat bread, and two cartons of lemon yogurt. That’s a pretty strange burglar, no? But Detective Hustaad said they do that—eat food, mark their territory. He figured the guy got scared before he had time to steal anything.”

She shrugged. “Maybe cash was taken, I don’t know. I don’t think so because the moment Dad had any extra cash, like from his military pension, he banked it.”

Murphy slowed her pace and Petra adjusted. Traffic on Sunset was fast and thunderous and the two of them swerved to avoid some construction workers who’d blown a hole in the sidewalk and set up orange-and-white sawhorses.

Murphy looked at the hardhats. “Dad did that. Worked construction, after he left the Marines. Then he had his own business. A tire store in Culver City. When that went under, he was sixty-five, said he’d had enough. Mostly, he watched TV.”

“You’re pretty specific about which food was taken,” said Petra.

“Because it was my food. I bought it the day before. Dad was more of a chorizo-and-fried-potatoes kind of guy. He made fun of the way I ate. Called it rabbit chow.”

Pain in her eyes said there’d been more than dietary conflict between father and daughter.

“Your food was taken,” said Petra.

“It couldn’t mean anything. Could it?”

“Is there anyone who’d want to get back at you through your father?”

“No,” said Murphy. “No one. Since the divorce, everything’s been smooth. Dave and I are friendly, we talk all the time.”

“Any kids?”

Murphy shook her head.

Petra said, “Tell me about the cable call and why you think it could’ve been phony.”

“That day in the morning, when I left for work—Dad told me the cable company was sending someone out to work on the set.”

“At what time?”

“Late afternoon, early evening, you know how they are,” said Murphy. “Dad sometimes napped at that hour, wanted me to wake him by seven.”

“Were you having transmission problems?”

“No, that’s the thing,” said Murphy. “Supposedly it was something to do with the neighborhood lines.”

“He wanted you to wake him,” said Petra. “So you were home by late afternoon?”

“No. I called at three, told Dad I’d be home late. He asked me to call again.”

“At seven.”

“Yes.”

“Did you?”

“I did and he was up.”

“How did your father sound?”

“Fine. Normal.”

“Then you went back to work?”

Murphy touched her finger to her jaw. “Actually, I’d left work early. It had been a tough afternoon, shuttling back between Dave and Bella. When I hung up with Dad, I was in my car. I took off and went to see Bella. We had dinner, went to a club, did some drinking. Neither of us was in the mood to dance. She wanted me to come home with her but I wasn’t ready for that, so she drove back to her place and I drove to Dad’s. Walked into the house and smelled food—cooked food, bacon and eggs. Which was strange. Dad never ate late. He’d have a beer or two, maybe some chip-and-dip while watching TV, but never a hot meal at that hour. If he ate heavy food too late, he had indigestion.”

Maria Murphy stopped walking. Her eyes were wet. “This is harder than I thought.”

“Sorry for bringing it all back.”

“I haven’t thought about Dad for a while. I should think about him more.” Murphy pulled a hankie out of a dress pocket, patted her eyes, blew her nose.

When they resumed walking, Petra said, “So someone had cooked.”

“Breakfast food,” said Murphy. “Which was also weird. Dad was a very disciplined person—ex-Marine, very regimented. You ate breakfast food in the morning, sandwiches at lunch, a main meal at supper.”

“You don’t think he cooked the food.”

“Scrambled eggs?” said Maria Murphy. “Dad didn’t like scrambled eggs, he always had his eggs fried or soft-boiled.”

She burst into tears, walked faster, at a near-run.

Petra caught up. Murphy threw up her hands and ground her jaws.

“Ma-am—”

“His brains,” Murphy blurted. “They were on the plate. Along with the eggs. Pilled on top of the eggs. Like someone had added lumpy cheese to the eggs. Gray cheese. Pink . . . can we please turn around, now? I need to get back to work.”

Petra waited until they were back at Kaiser to ask her if there was anything else she remembered.

“Nothing,” said Murphy. She turned to go and Petra touched her arm. Solid and sinewy. Maria Murphy tensed up. Rock-hard.

Looking at Petra’s fingers on her sleeve.

Petra let go. “Just one more question, ma’am. The date of your father’s murder, June 28. Did that have any significance to you, or to anyone in your family?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Covering bases.”

“June 28,” said Murphy, weakly. “The only thing significant about that is Dad was murdered.” She sagged. “It’s coming up, isn’t it? The anniversary. I think I’ll go to the cemetery. I don’t go very often. I really should go more.”

Interesting woman. Going through major life-stress at the time of her father’s murder. Not getting sympathy from the old man, quite the opposite. Pulled in all directions, having to return to the old man’s house. A father with whom she’d never been close. An ex-Marine whose sensibilities she’d recently offended.

It had to have been a tense situation.

From the feel of that iron-arm, Murphy was a strong woman. More than enough strength to bring a stout piece of pipe down on an aged skull.

Murphy’s food, taken. Healthy stuff that the old man ridiculed.

Maybe the old man had humiliated her one time too many. Dumped lesbian daughter’s victuals in front of lesbian daughter and that had driven her over the edge.

Petra had seen people killed with a lot less provocation.

She pulled into the station parking lot, sat there imagining.

Murphy comes home from a self-described rough day—driving back and forth between hubbie and lover. Calls dad, allegedly to wake him from his nap, but he gives her flack. She hangs up, goes dining and clubbing, has too much to drink. Returns home, craving a one A.M. nosh, finds dad up, waiting for her.

They argue. About her alternative lifestyle.

Her rabbit chow.

Dad scoops up the nutritionally virtuous stash, tells her what he thinks about it.

Murphy was a dietician. The gesture would have been laced with extra symbolism.

An argument ensues.

He screams, she screams. She picks something up—maybe a spare pipe, who knows what. Brains the old guy, sits him at the table. Cooks up some of the high-fat crap he calls food.

Pushes his face in it. Eat that!

Then she makes up a phony cable story to distract the easily distracted Jack Hustaad.

Some melodrama. And no evidence.

And if Maria Murphy had murdered her old man, what did that say about Marta Doebbler and the other five June 28 killings?

She’d follow up on Solis, talk to Murphy’s ex-husband, the long-suffering Dave. But something told her it would be a waste of time.

Kurt Doebbler for his wife, Maria Murphy for her dad.

Meaning no connection.

No, that felt wrong. If Isaac was right, and she was moving toward confidence that he was, this was something quite different from family passion gone bad.

A woman lured from the theater. A hustler pulverized in a back alley. A little girl brutalized in the park. A sailor on leave . . .

Eggs and brains on the plate.

This was calculated, manipulative.

Twisted.