His eyes got wide. “Are you insane?”
Petra didn’t answer.
“I promise, Petra. I swear. I’ve never had anything to do with dope. Never. And growing up the way I did there was no lack of opportunity. Flaco’s a psychopath and a felon but we don’t hang together. This was about doing a favor, that’s all, and I think it’s crazy that I’m being persecuted for it. I guess you couldn’t tell me earlier, but if you had, I could’ve cleared it up.”
“Sick mother,” she said.
“Yes.”
“That can be verified pretty easily.”
“Verify away.” His dark eyes met hers and held the gaze. His fists had uncurled. He looked tired.
Petra said, “There was some curiosity about your briefcase. Flaco going up to the bar, maybe getting something to give you under the table.”
He laughed. “The briefcase? Have you ever seen me without it? Here, want to check?” He picked up the case, offered it to her.
Praying.
“It’s okay,” she said.
“I’ve never sold dope and I’m certainly no mule. Jesus, Petra, can you imagine what would happen to my med school career if I got caught doing something like that?” He frowned. “What still might happen if your idiot colleagues keep harassing me?” He gnawed his lip. “Maybe it’s time for me to get an attorney.”
“Do what you need to do. But I can’t imagine that any kind of publicity could help you.”
“True, true.” He shook his head. “What a mess.”
“If nothing happened, there won’t be a problem.”
“How can I prove a negative?” he said.
“Take a polygraph. If it comes to that. Once this is resolved I’ll do what I can to run interference for you. So it’s important for your sake that I don’t lose any more department brownie points. Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”
“No. Your suspension, that didn’t have anything to do with me, did it?”
“No, that I did all by my little lonesome.”
She got up, poured yet more coffee for herself, offered him a refill.
“No, thanks.”
“Any more insights on Doebbler?”
He shook his head.
She said, “I’ll drive you home.”
“I can take the bus.”
“No way,” she said. “Not at this hour. By the way, that bruise you were sporting. What really happened?”
“My brother and I had a little scuffle,” he said. “Nothing serious, you know what it’s like with siblings.”
“You guys are a little old for roughhousing.”
“Isaiah’s a good guy, Petra, but life’s hard for him. He works like a dog, doesn’t get enough sleep.”
“Last time I called you, I woke him, poor guy.”
Isaac smiled. “He told me.” He got to his feet, lifted the briefcase.
Petra said, “All right, I’m glad we cleared the air.”
“Me, too.”
They left her apartment, stepped out into the warm June air. Twenty-five hours until the killing hour.
“I meant what I said before, Isaac. You really are the hero.”
“On the other hand, if I hadn’t spotted the pattern, you never would have had to worry about it.”
“Yeah, ignorance can be bliss,” she said. “But I like it better this way.”
CHAPTER 47
THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 2:30 P.M., PLEXI-TECH INC., WESTRIDGE HILLS ADVANCED INDUSTRIAL PARK, WESTLAKE VILLAGE
The plastics fabricator, a massive, white, windowless hatbox, two miles north of the freeway, was ringed by an open, unguarded asphalt lot. The space was half-filled with cars and trucks and vans. Lots of empty slots in random places. The first few rows provided a nice clear diagonal view of the smaller brick structure across the street.
Sand-colored brick. Mirrored windows, cursory landscaping, black block lettering above the mirrored front door. Pacific Dynamics.
Kurt Doebbler’s workplace was less welcoming than its looming neighbor. Wrought-iron fencing surrounded the property. A slot-key parking arm bisected the entry. You could walk under, but no drive-through. No front parking either. A driveway snaked down to the left of the building and continued around to the west side. Once Doebbler’s Infiniti made the turn, no visual access. Damn.
Petra was wondering about rear entry to the building when Doebbler’s tall, angular form appeared at the top of the drive, walking slowly, almost tentatively, on long, thin legs. He wore a short-sleeved, pale-green shirt, brown slacks, white running shoes. Dunkin’ Donuts bag in one hand, steel attaché case in the other. With his black-framed glasses and loose-limbed shamble, the guy was a walking promo for the Nerd Channel.
Nothing humorously quirky about this nerd. She watched as Doebbler strode over to Pacific Dynamics’ front door and walked in.
That was at nine-thirty A.M. It was five hours later and nothing had happened and Petra and Eric remained at opposite ends of the Plexi-Tech lot, drinking coffee, chewing on the dry sandwiches she’d packed. Communication was cell phone speed-dials.
A couple of those nifty, hard-to-jam, two-way radios the department had just stocked up on would’ve been nice.
An officially sanctioned departmental investigation of Kurt Doebbler would’ve been nice.
Hot, sunny day this far west. Chemical smell in the air, and despite the heat, the sky was sheathed by a sickly gray cloud cover. She’d phoned Eric at his folks’ home last night, just before midnight, after dropping Isaac at home. The kid was clearly dejected about being excluded from the stakeout but pulled it off with grace. Once this was over, she’d fix the misunderstanding over Flaco Jaramillo.
At first, Eric didn’t pick up and she wondered if he’d gone to sleep early. Normally he was a night owl, but the Reverend Bob and Mrs. Stahl retired early, so maybe he’d conformed.
Sleeping in his boyhood room in the modest, Camarillo ranch house. The pennants and poster and athletic trophies his parents had held on to. The military medals he’d wanted to throw out, arranged on a corkboard by mom.
Just as she was about to hang up, he said, “Hi.”
“Did I wake you?”
“No, I’m up.”
“Sorry to pull you away, but June 28 seems to have clicked.” She told him about Otto Retzak, Doebbler’s reenacting hundred-year-old murders.
He said, “When do you need me?”
The next day the two of them met up at six forty-five A.M. at a taco stand on Reseda Boulevard one mile north of Ventura. A five-minute drive to Doebbler’s house on Rosita.
Eric, a stranger to the quarry, was the obvious choice as the up close. He headed north in his Jeep, found the pale-gray traditional, continued up the street, and U-turned into a tree-shaded watch-spot. Sitting low at the wheel, shielded by windows tinted way darker than the legal limit.
Quiet block; a few sleek women jogged by and late-model foreign sedans pulled out of driveways as men in suits left for work. The Jeep was black, unobtrusive, a perfect match for the neighborhood. If anyone asked, Eric had several alternative stories ready. Police I.D. if it came to that.
It didn’t.
Petra was stationed just south of Ventura, pulled over to the east curb, ready to tail Doebbler if he headed for the 101 or turned either way onto the boulevard. A left turn was most likely; Pacific Dynamics was sixteen miles west.
At eight-fifteen, Eric called in. “Doebbler and the daughter are getting into the Infiniti… He’s backing out, driving east. Unless her school is somewhere up in the hills, he should be passing you soon. I’ll have a quick look around the back of the house and catch up with you.”
Minutes later, Doebbler’s champagne-colored sedan cruised through a green light at Ventura. Petra let two more cars pass before she pulled out and followed. Doebbler bypassed the freeway, continued north until Riverside, turned left, drove four blocks, then hung a right. Three more blocks and the Infiniti was pulling into a line of cars facing West Valley Comprehensive Preparatory Academy. A rent-a-cop directed the slow-moving motor queue. No sign of Eric. She’d call and let him know where she was. But just as she started to punch in the speed-code, she spotted a black Jeep in her rearview. Someone else’s? No, the blackout windows and the dusty grille meant Eric. He passed her without acknowledgment, drove past the motor queue, faded from view.