CHAPTER

18

When she got back to the detectives’ room, the place was bustling with phone talk and keyboard clacks. Isaac was at his corner desk, writing something in longhand, one hand cradling the side of his head.

He gave her a quick wave with his free hand and returned to his work.

Give me space?

Maybe last night’s steak and beer had been too much for him. She’d offered to drive him home but he’d insisted on being dropped off blocks away.

Petra figured he was ashamed of his digs. She didn’t argue and as he trudged away, lugging his briefcase, she thought he looked like a tired old man.

Give him his space, she could use some, too. She poured coffee and flipped through her message stack. Nothing but department memos. Six new e-mail messages on her computer: four canned department announcements, something from SmallDot@il.netvision she figured for spam, and Mac Dilbeck informing her that Homicide Special would most likely take over the Paradiso case by Tuesday if nothing broke.

She was about to delete the junk mail when her phone rang.

A recorded message from the Intramural Police Football team chirped in her ear: “Big game with L.A. County Sheriffs coming up next month, all able-bodied, athletically inclined officers are urged to . . .”

Her finger drifted to the Enter button and she opened the spam.

Dear Petra,

This is rerouted for security purposes, can’t be answered. Everything’s okay. Hope the same, there. Miss you. L, Eric.

She smiled. I send my L, too.

She saved the message, logged off. Began looking for David Murphy.

Common name but an easy trace. The five-year-old Covina address narrowed it right down to David Colvin Murphy, now forty-two. He’d moved to Mar Vista, on the west side. Had registered a Dodge Neon three years ago, a Chevy Suburban twenty months after that.

No wants or warrants, not even a parking ticket.

She found his number in the reverse directory. A woman answered.

“David Murphy, please.”

“He’s at work. Who’s this?”

Petra recited her title and the woman said, “Police? Why?”

“It’s about an old case. Are you familiar with Geraldo Solis, ma’am?”

“Dave’s ex-father-in-law. He was . . . I’m Dave’s wife.”

“Where does your husband work, Mrs. Murphy?”

“HealthRite Pharmacy. He’s a pharmacist.” Saying it with some pride.

“Which branch, ma’am?”

“Santa Monica. Wilshire near Twenty-fifth. But I don’t know what he could tell you, that was years ago.”

Don’t rub it in.

Petra thanked her and hung up, looked up the drugstore’s number while glancing over at Isaac’s desk. The kid was still poring over his papers but the hand against his face had dropped and Petra saw a bruise, reddish-purple, high up on the left side of his face, between the rounded tip of his cheekbone and his ear.

As if suddenly aware, he reclamped his hand over the spot.

Something had happened between last night and today.

Rough neighborhood. Walking alone.

Or worse—something domestic?

She realized how little she knew about his private life, considered going over to check out the bruise. But he looked as if the last thing he wanted was company.

She called the HealthRite Pharmacy, Santa Monica branch.

David Murphy had a pleasant phone voice. Not surprised by her call. The wife had prepared him.

He said, “Gerry was a good guy. I can’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt him.”

According to Maria, her father had taken Murphy’s side in the divorce.

Petra said, “Well, someone sure did.”

“Terrible,” said Murphy. “So . . . what can I do for you?”

“Is there anything you remember about the day Mr. Solis was murdered, sir? Maybe something that didn’t come up during the initial investigation?”

“Sorry, no,” said Murphy.

“What do you recall?”

“It was a terrible day. Maria and I were in the midst of breaking up; she was driving back and forth between our home . . . between me and her . . . and Bella Kandinsky. She’s her partner, now.”

“Emotional day,” said Petra.

“You bet. She’d come home, talk to me, get upset, run to Bella. Then back to me. I’m sure Maria was feeling like the rope in a tug of war. I was pretty stunned.”

“Stunned?”

“My marriage, suddenly over. Over another woman.” Murphy laughed. “Anyway, that was a long time ago. We’ve all moved on.”

“At the time of the murder, Maria was living at her father’s house.”

“On and off,” said Murphy.

“Because of marital problems.”

“We’d been quarreling. I didn’t understand why, at the time.”

“You ever go over to Mr. Solis’s house?”

“I used to be there all the time. Before things got rough in the marriage. Gerry and I got along. That made it kind of rough on Maria.”

“How so?”

“Gerry took my side. He was pretty conservative. Maria’s choice was hard for him to swallow.”

“That must’ve caused conflict between them.”

“Sure.”

“Heavy-duty conflict?”

Murphy laughed again. “You can’t be serious. No, no, that’s totally out of the ballpark. Don’t even go there.”

Same phrase Maria had used.

“Go where?” said Petra.

“What you’re implying. Listen, I’m kind of busy—”

“I wasn’t implying, just asking,” said Petra. “But as long as we’re on the topic, how serious was the conflict between Maria and her dad?”

David Murphy said, “That’s absurd. Maria’s a terrific person. She and Gerry had your typical parent-child things. I had them with my folks, everyone does. No way could she have hurt him, she’s absolutely a terrific person. No way.”

She defends him, he defends her. And they got divorced. Depressing.

He said, “Believe me, Detective, I’m definitely right.”

“Mr. Murphy, in the file there’s a note about a cable-repair appointment. Did Maria mention that to you?”

“No, but Gerry did. In fact, the guy was right there when I called.”

“You called Mr. Solis.”

“Sure. I wanted to find out where Maria was. She left our house pretty upset and I assumed she went home. I wanted to smooth things out. Gerry answered and he was grumpy. Because the cable guy had come late.”

“What time was this?”

“Wow,” said Murphy. “This was what—five years ago? I remember it was dark, already. And I’d been working late . . . I’d say eight, nine. Maybe even nine-thirty. Gerry said something about the guy saying he’d show up by six, then calling to push it to seven, then still not making it on time. He was pretty annoyed. If I had to guess, I’d say between eight-thirty and nine.”

“Mr. Solis was upset.”

“Because of having to wait. When I asked to speak to Maria, he said she wasn’t there, he had no idea where she was. . . . He was kind of abrupt. In general, he was a grumpy guy.”

Meaning Geraldo Solis, already annoyed by delays, could’ve had a serious chip on that evening. Been primed for a confrontation.

She said, “Did Mr. Solis have a bad temper?”

“No, not really,” said Murphy. “More like . . . a curmudgeon. He was a very disciplined guy, ex-Marine, expected the world to work on a tight schedule. When things didn’t go that way, it bugged him.”

“Like a late appointment.” Or a lesbian daughter.

“Sure—oh, wow, you’re not suggesting—”

“Just asking questions, Mr. Murphy.”

“The cable guy?” said Murphy. “Whoa . . . but the police said Gerry was killed around midnight. . . . I guess he could’ve been left there for a few hours . . . wow.”

A cable guy who shows up after dark. Whose company had no record of any scheduled service appointment. Which wasn’t necessarily significant two years later. Paperwork screwups happened all the time and the cable companies that serviced L.A. were notoriously inept. Still . . .

She said, “Did he tell you the reason for the cable appointment?”

“That’s another thing that bothered Gerry. He hadn’t complained about anything. It was the company saying they needed to come by. General maintenance, something like that. My God . . . you really think—”

“Mr. Murphy, did you tell any of this to the original detective?”

“Hustaad? He never asked about it and I never really thought about it. What he wanted to know was how I got along with Gerry. How Maria got along. I got the feeling he was checking me out. Psychologically. He also asked where I was around midnight—that’s why I figured it happened around midnight. Normally I’d be asleep at that time, but that night I was pretty upset and went out with a friend—a buddy from work. We went out drinking and I cried in my beer . . . so to speak.”

“Can you remember anything else Mr. Solis said about the cable appointment?”

“Not really . . . I don’t think he said anything other than how annoyed he was.”

“And he definitely told you the man was there, in the house.”

“Yes. I think . . . but maybe I assumed. He was talking softly, so I assumed someone was there. It’s not anything I could swear to. In court, or something like that.”

Court. From your mouth to God’s ears.

Petra pressed him a bit more, learned nothing. Thanked him.

He said, “Sure. Good luck. Gerry really was a good guy.”

A cable repairman, quite possibly phony, shows up after dark. Tinkers around and cases the place. Maybe leaves a rear door or a window unlocked for a return trip.

Or he does Solis right there, has the presence of mind to cook breakfast, stick the old man’s face in it.

Takes some food for the road.

Healthy stuff; a killer who took care of himself.

What did any of that say about Kurt and Marta Doebbler?

Isaac was right; killing your wife and then moving on to strangers was unusual—she’d never heard of anything like that.

On the other hand, what if Kurt had dispatched Marta because of some personal motive, then found out he’d liked it?

Too twisted. She knew she was thinking that way because Doebbler was an eminently unlikable individual.

Then again, bashing six people over the head on the same date, same time, was pretty weird.

Across the room, Isaac continued to study his numbers. Hand on face, concealing the bruise.

The kid had complicated her life. Why couldn’t he have chosen to do his thing at the sheriff’s?

She took a bathroom break, risked more coffee, returned to the June 28 files. Putting Solis aside and reviewing the other non-Hollywood case.

The sailor, Darren Ares Hochenbrenner. On shore leave. According to two other sailors, they’d started out in Hollywood, but Darren had parted ways when they’d gone to a movie at the Egyptian.

The body had been found downtown, on Fourth Street, pockets emptied.

Far from the others, the only black victim, and the pockets made it a probable strong-arm street robbery taken to the extreme. She rechecked the wound dimensions. Perfect match to Marta Doebbler—down to the millimeter.

The listed detective was a DII named Ralph Seacrest. He was still working at Central, sounded tired.

“That one,” he said. “Yeah, I remember it. Kid started off in your neighborhood, ended up in mine.”

“Any idea how he got to yours?” said Petra.

Seacrest said, “I’m thinking he got picked up.”

“By a john?”

“Could be.”

“Hochenbrenner was gay?”

“That never came up,” said Seacrest. “But sailors on leave? Or maybe he got lost. Kid was from the Midwest—Indiana, I think. First time in the city.”

“He was stationed in Port Hueneme.”

“That’s not the city. Why’re you asking about him?”

Petra spun him the usual yarn.

Seacrest said, “Another head-bashing? Your vic get robbed?”

“No.”

“Mine got robbed. This was a kid, got lost, found himself in a real bad neighborhood. Also, he was stoned.”

“On what?”

“Mari-joo-ana, some booze—don’t hold me to that, it’s been a while, but that’s what I remember. Bottom line: He was partying. Probably partied too hardy, got picked up, the rest is history.”

Petra hung up, checked Darren Hochenbrenner’s tox screen, found a blood alcohol of .02 percent. At Hochenbrenner’s body weight, that probably meant one beer. Traces of THC had been found, but minimal, possibly days old, according to the coroner.

Hardly “stoned.” She wondered how hard Detective Ralph Seacrest had worked the case.

A shadow fell across the file and she looked up, expecting to see Isaac.

But the kid was gone from his desk. No briefcase. He’d left without saying a word.

A civilian receptionist from downstairs, a blond, cheerleader type named Kirsten Krebs, newly hired, who’d been hostile from the get-go, handed her a message slip.

Dr. Robert Katzman had returned her call. Half an hour ago.

Krebs was on her way toward the stairs. Petra said, “Why didn’t you put him through?”

Krebs stopped. Turned. Glared. Clamped her hands to her hips. She wore a tight, powder-blue stretch top, tight black cotton pants. V-neck top, it offered a hint of tan, freckled cleave. Pushup bra. Long blond hair. Despite a face too hard to be pretty, a couple of D’s had turned to take in her firm young ass. This was a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen.

“Your line was busy.” Whiny.

Petra aimed a hollow-point smile straight at the girl’s upturned nose. Krebs sniffed and turned on her heel. Eyed Isaac’s desk as she left.

Not much older than Isaac. Half Isaac’s I.Q., but she had other weapons in her armamentarium. Could eat the kid alive.

Listen to me—the surrogate mother.

She got on the phone and called Dr. Katzman. Got his mellow voice on message and left a message of her own.

Not so mellow.