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.
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.”