He climbed the stairs filled with pleasant expectations of his meeting with Petra.
Four male detectives were there but she wasn’t.
An hour later, he finally accepted the fact she wasn’t going to show. Packing up, he descended to the ground floor, made his way to the rear door. Closed, now. He opened it on the overly lit expanse of asphalt. All those black-and-whites and unmarked sedans.
Warm night. He wondered why she’d stood him up. She’d seemed to be taking June 28 seriously.
It’s not a stand-up, stupid. She’s a working detective, something came up.
He’d go home, arrive in time for dinner, make Mama happy. Tomorrow morning, he’d head straight to campus. Hide away at his corner table in the far reaches of Doheny Library’s third subbasement. Cosseted by yellow walls, red floors, dusty stacks of old botany books.
He’d sit. Think.
Needing to produce.
Needing something to show Petra.
CHAPTER 26
TUESDAY, JUNE 18, 2:02 P.M., CAPTAIN SCHOELKOPF’S OFFICE
When the bastard called Petra in, she was ready. Knowing full well what she’d done and ready to take the heat.
The approved way to get what she wanted would’ve been to notify the shift lieutenant, receive his permission to talk to the captain, obtain his permission to contact the department’s public affairs office, make a phone request to the P.A. desk jockeys, follow up with a tedious written application that gave away too many facts of the case, and then wait for approval.
Her way had been to call up five reporters she knew- newshounds with whom she’d accumulated brownie points by trading “anonymous” info for discretion.
Patricia Glass at the Times and four TV field correspondents. No radio folk because they were of no use to her on this.
All five were interested and she faxed the cleanest photo she had of Marcella Douquette along with Lyle Leon’s mug shot. Spicing up the package with intimations of mysterious “crime cabals” and pleas not to “say too much.”
“A cabal, huh? Kind of like Manson?” said Leticia Gomez from Channel Five.
Burt Knutsen from On The Spot News made an almost identical comment.
The recent college grad who worked for ABC said, “Kabbalah like Madonna’s into?”
Petra hedged, didn’t deny. At this point, whatever got the photos on the air was good.
All four local news broadcasts aired them at eleven P.M., repeated it on today’s morning broadcast. Nothing in the Times, but that was a massive bureaucracy so maybe tomorrow.
At two P.M., Schoelkopf ordered her into his office.
She expected hell, got only lackluster purgatory. Schoelkopf leaning back in his Naugahyde desk chair, tossing out all the appropriately hostile utterances. But not with his usual vitriol, more of a formal recitation. Distracted, as if none of this really mattered.
She kind of missed the old way. Was he feeling all right?
When he paused to take a breath, she actually said, “Are you okay, sir?”
He sprang forward, glared, smoothed his gelled black hair. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You look a little… fatigued.”
“I’m in training for the marathon, never felt better. Cut the bullshit, Connor. Stop trying to change the subject. The facts are you fucked up by not going through channels and wasted everyone’s time and quite probably fucked up a case.”
“I admit I was a little hasty, sir, but in terms of wasted- ”
“Wasted,” he reiterated. “HOMSPEC’s taking it off your hands.”
“First I’ve heard about that,” she lied. “Is- ”
He cut her off with a wave. His nails, usually manicured and buffed, were too long. His beige designer imitation suit was wrinkled and his shirt collar looked too large. Weight loss due to marathon training?
He definitely looked tired.
Then Petra noticed another discrepancy. The framed photo of him and his third wife vacationing in Mazatlan was gone from his desk. Empty space where the picture had sat.
Problems at home?
She said, “I’m sorry, sir- ”
Another wave. “Don’t fuck up again or there’ll be repercussions. There’s a limit to how far your status can carry you.”
“My status?”
Schoelkopf smirked. “Speaking of special treatment, what’s your pet genius doing?”
“His research.”
“Meaning?”
“He works on his doctoral dissertation and keeps out of trouble.”
Schoelkopf’s eyes hyphened. “No problems on that end?”
“None, sir. Why?”
“I don’t need a ‘why,’ Connor.”
“That’s true, sir.”
“Are you keeping a close eye on Alberto Einstein?”
“I didn’t know I was suppo- ”
“You’re on babysitting duty, Connor. Get it? Don’t fuck that up.” Schoelkopf adjusted himself in his chair. “So what did all your media hype accomplish?”
“We’ve had calls- ”
“Cut the crap.”
“Nothing yet, sir, but the calls are still- ”
To Petra’s astonishment, Schoelkopf nodded, said, “Who the hell knows, maybe something’ll actually happen because of your fuckup. If not, you just fucked up.”
By four P.M., she’d fielded thirty-five messages resulting from the broadcasts, all duds. At four thirty-two, Patricia Glass from the Times phoned and said, “You obviously don’t need us anymore.”
Petra said, “We need all the help we can get.”
“Then you should’ve waited,” snapped Glass. “I had the article all written up and ready to go. Then my editor saw it last night on Four and killed it. We don’t rehash old stories.”
Petra thought: Have you actually read your own paper? She said, “It’s not old, Patricia, the case is still unsolved.”
“Once the airheads get it, it’s old. Next time, let me know if you’re going to them. Don’t waste my time.”
“I’m sorry if it put you in a position, but- ”
“It did,” said Glass.
Click.
By five-thirty, twenty additional calls came in, five from alleged psychics, three from obvious psychotics, the rest from well-meaning citizens who had nothing to offer.
She’d messed up and gotten nothing in return.
She felt bad for a minute, then thought: In a world where fanatical idiots blow themselves up, big deal.
But she had trouble rationalizing it away. Feeling low, she was about to call the day to a close when her phone rang and Eric’s voice said, “I’m at Kennedy, scheduled for an eight o’clock back to L.A. If it’s on time, I should be in by eleven.”
“Back for good?” said Petra. “Or are you en route somewhere?”
“No other plans.”
“What happened to Morocco and Tunisia?”
“Canceled.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“You’re okay to travel? With your leg?”
“I considered leaving the leg behind but decided to take it along.”
“Funny,” she said. Then she realized it was. Also, the first time he’d ever tried to joke with her. And she’d killed it. Lord…
She said, “I’ll pick you up. What airline?”
“I’ll catch a cab.”
“No,” she said. “I’ll pick you up. What airline?”
Eric hesitated.
“Want me to circle the airport?” she said.
“American.”
She hung up with her heart pounding- what was that all about?- filed what needed to be filed, shut down her computer, collected her stuff, and left the dectectives’ room.
Time to do something for herself before heading for LAX. A light dinner somewhere casual and quiet- that storefront Mongolian place on La Brea, the family that ran it always treated her like royalty. Followed by a soak in the tub, some of that girlie-stuff bath lotion one of her brothers had sent her for her birthday that she’d never used. Then, careful application of makeup- even mascara, which she detested because she could never apply it without getting grit in her eyes. A little blush- her cheekbones were still good. Her best feature, she’d always thought.