He took her face in his hands, touched lips gently, then pressed his tongue forward and got her to open up. “Hmm… trout?”
“Salmon. I can still go out. Have coffee and stare while you eat.”
He moved to the kitchen, opened the fridge. “I’ll forage.”
“Let me fix you something.”
By the time she reached him, he’d taken out eggs and milk and pulled a loaf out of the bread box.
“French toast,” she said. “I do that real well.”
She cracked eggs and sliced bread. He poured milk and said, “You haven’t heard about Schoelkopf.”
“What about him?”
“It was on the news.”
“I haven’t watched TV in two days. What’s going on?”
“Dead,” said Eric. “Three hours ago. His wife killed him.”
She left the kitchen and sat down at the dinette table. “My God… which wife?”
“The current one. How many did he have?”
“She was number three. What, she left him and then decided to kill him?”
“From what I hear,” said Eric, “he left her.”
No one from the station had thought to call her. “What happened?”
“Schoelkopf moved out of the house a few weeks ago, rented an apartment near the station- one of the high-rises on Hollywood Boulevard west of La Brea. He was up there with his girlfriend, some civilian clerk. They headed out for lunch, went down in the sub parking lot to get his car. The wife stepped out and started shooting. Schoelkopf caught three in the arm and one right here.” He tapped the center of his brow. “The girlfriend got shot, too, but she was alive when the ambulances arrived. Then the wife turned the gun on herself.”
“Is the girlfriend named Kirsten Krebs? Blond, mid-twenties, worked downstairs?”
Eric nodded. “You knew about it?”
“I guessed about it. Krebs always had an attitude with me. The day Schoelkopf called me in, she was the messenger. I found her sitting on my desk liked she owned it. Where’s the wife?”
“On a respirator, not expected to live. Krebs is in bad shape, too.”
She got up, flicked on the TV, found news on Channel Five. A cheerful Latina in a mock-Chanel suit delivered bad news:
“… investigating this evening’s murder of an LAPD police captain. Edward Schoelkopf, forty-seven, a twenty-year veteran, was allegedly gunned down by his estranged wife, Meagan Schoelkopf, thirty-two, who shot herself fatally in what investigators believe was a love-triangle murder-suicide. Also wounded was a yet-unidentified young woman…”
The backdrop shifted from a ragged, white “Homicide” header over a chalked body outline to a wedding photo of the couple in happier times. “… that left this quiet residential area of Hollywood shocked and Schoelkopf’s colleagues at the police department stunned. Now on to other local news…”
Petra switched the set off. “I couldn’t stand him and Lord knows he despised me- why I’ll never know- but this…”
“He hated women,” said Eric.
“You say that as if you know for a fact.”
“When he first interviewed me, he tried to sound me out. About minorities, women. Mostly women, it was clear he didn’t like them. He thought he was being subtle, wanted to see if I agreed.”
“What’d you do?”
“Kept my mouth shut. That made him assume it was okay to talk freely and he told some really nasty antifemale jokes.”
“You never told me.”
“What was the point?”
“None, I guess.” She sat down. Eric walked behind her and massaged her shoulders.
“I’ve found,” he said, “that in most situations, the less said, the better.”
But not all situations, my dear. “Schoelkopf dead… What will it mean for us- in terms of our suspensions?”
“Before it happened, I was led to believe they weren’t going to be too hard on either of us. It’ll probably delay our dispositions.”
“No matter to you. You’re leaving.”
His hand stopped working. “Maybe.”
She twisted around, looked up.
“I’m still thinking,” he said.
“Big decision, makes sense.”
“Disappointed?”
“Of course not. It’s your life.”
“We could still get a house,” he said. “With both of us working, we could probably get a decent place sooner rather than later.”
“Sure,” she said. Surprised by the coolness in her own voice.
“Is there a problem?”
“I’m a little overwhelmed right now. Dangling. And all because I helped get rid of a really bad guy.”
She broke free, stood, marched into the kitchen. “Plus, there’s the June 28 stuff. Three days to go and I’ve got squat.”
“What about that husband- Doebbler?”
“Everyone’s sure he killed his wife, but there’s no evidence. He fits in some ways but not in others.”
“Like what?”
She elaborated. He listened. Petra saw the eggs and bread and milk sitting on the counter. Time to be useful. Scooping butter into a pan, she turned on the gas, soaked the bread in milk, and, when the butter was bubbling and barely brown, dropped in two slices.
Nice sound, the sizzle. There was something to be said for mindless work.
Eric said, “You could surveil Doebbler on the twenty-eighth. He moves, he’s your guy.”
“And if he doesn’t, someone dies.”
He shrugged.
“Mister Blasé.”
He didn’t answer.
The French toast was ready. She plated it, set it in front of him.
He didn’t move.
“Sorry for snapping,” she said.
“I didn’t mean to be glib,” he said.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t take you seriously,” he said. “You’re up to your eyeballs in junk.”
Gazing up at her. Eyes softer than she’d ever seen.
She cradled his head. Picked up a fork and slipped it between his fingers. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”
CHAPTER 44
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 26, 10:00 A.M., NUMBER SEVEN BUS, SANTA MONICA LINE, PICO AND OVERLAND
Isaac almost left home without taking the paper bag.
Plagued by restlessness all night, he’d slept until eight-forty. His parents and his brothers were gone and he admitted, with some shame, that the resultant silence was wonderful.
With the bathroom all to himself, he took his time showering, shaving, walked around naked, slid his briefcase out from under the bunk bed. Checked under his papers to make sure the gun was all right.
Why wouldn’t it be?
He pulled it out, aimed it at the mirror.
“Bang.”
Stupid idea, the gun. What had he been thinking? He rewrapped it, put it back in the bottom of the case, touched the bruise on his cheek. No swelling, slightly tender. Those kids had been stupid little punks, he’d overreacted.
Maybe he’d return the gun to Flaco.
Running his hands over his body, he lifted an edge of window shade, looked out, and caught a blade of sky above the air shaft. Blue streaked with white.
He put on fresh khakis and a short-sleeved yellow shirt. The heat that had already permeated the apartment said this would be a short-sleeves day.
Even at the beach, where the air was always cooler.
Was he growing addicted to sand and ocean?
There were worse vices.
Last night, unable to sleep, he’d allowed himself fantasies of living there one day. Rich doctor, beautiful wife, brilliant kids, set up in one of those big houses on the Palisades.
Or, if fate really steered things his way, a place right on the sand.
Surf, gulls, pelicans, dolphins. Waking every morning to the sound of the ocean… about as likely as waking up naturally blond.
But he could while away another day at the pier.
He’d worked hard, was entitled.
Spoiled brat. Deservedness has nothing to do with it.
The key to success wasn’t virtue, it was knowledge, knowledge was power.
The old familiar mantra filled his head: stay on target, get educated. The Ph.D, then the M.D. Acquire a specialty, get an academic appointment, publish like a demon, earn early tenure, build a reputation that can be parlayed into lucrative consultantships.