Petra parked and kept her eye on Doebbler. The Infiniti was easy to spot: lone sedan in a stop-and-go parade of four-wheelers. Trim, well-coiffed moms in too-big motorized behemoths dropped off well-fed kids in school uniforms as they talked into cell phones. White shirts for the student body. Olive pants for the boys, olive-plaid skirts for the girls.
A strawberry blonde in a blue Volvo C-70 drove past. Emily Pastern at the wheel. Two kids in the back of the convertible. Petra sank lower.
The rent-a-cop waved. Doebbler inched forward.
West Valley Comprehensive Prep was a small place with a big name, what looked to be four fifties-era apartments converted into a school. A stingy grassy area in the center, the whole thing behind high iron fencing. The kids hunched under oversized backpacks were all white, with a high proportion of blonds. The Infiniti made it to the gate and Katya Doebbler, tall for her age, her straight, dark hair pulled into a ponytail, got out and walked through the school’s gates without a word or a backward glance at her father.
Sad-looking kid. Soon, she’d be a lot sadder.
Doebbler pulled into the street and continued up the block. A second later, Eric called. “It’s a cul-de-sac, I’m going to hang back.”
“I’ll pick him up,” said Petra.
Emily Pastern unloaded her brood and got out to talk to another mother. Petra shifted into Drive, ready for Doebbler. She caught a glimpse of the bastard as he sailed by, oblivious. Sitting tall, staring straight ahead, bespectacled, sharp-jawed. Expressionless.
Both hands on the wheel. The perfect ten-three driving position.
Law-abiding citizen.
Back on Reseda. A commuter rush curdled the two blocks just north of Ventura Boulevard, but Eric managed to regain the number-one position and when Doebbler made his westward turn, the Jeep was three cars behind.
Both vehicles rolling along in the slow lane. From the center lane, five cars back, Petra watched as Eric maintained a steady tail, unobtrusive to the point of invisible. His style was silky, effortless, a surveillance ballet that never lost sight of the quarry. Her man had grace.
Her man.
She laughed out loud. Didn’t like the sound of that and said, “Oh, shut up.”
Doebbler turned the trip to Westlake Village into a leisurely, slow-lane cruise. Staying on Ventura, giving every amber light the benefit of the doubt, allowing other motorists to cut in and pass, making full stops for pedestrians.
Getting busted for a traffic violation wouldn’t do. Not when you had big plans for tonight.
Half a mile short of his work address, Doebbler pulled into a Dunkin’ Donuts, got out and ordered, emerged with a bag.
Junk-food breakfast? Who’da thunk?
He returned to his car with that same robot-face.
Scary; did it all come down to weird wiring?
Doebbler looked around briefly, got back in the Infiniti, resumed his leisurely exploration of the broad, sun-washed western tip of the Valley.
Five hours, eighteen minutes of boredom.
In all that time, two interruptions.
At ten-forty, Eric crossed the street to Pacific Dynamics and walked under the parking arm. Retracing the Infiniti’s path, he walked down the westside driveway and was gone for ten minutes.
When he popped back up at Petra’s window, he said, “Loading dock, bolted from the outside, doesn’t appear to be in active use. The lot’s aboveground, one level’s interior, the top’s out in the open. Doebbler’s parked on top. If he drives out, he’ll have to come back the way he went in.”
“What about on foot?”
“Fifteen-and-a-half-foot block wall at the back. On the other side’s some kind of warehouse. Unless he’s a rock-climber, there’s no alternative exit. He leaves, we see him.”
At eleven-fifty, Petra left for a much-needed bathroom break, driving all the way back to Ventura before she found an accommodating Denny’s. Picking up some fries for fortification, as long as she was at it. Some for Eric, too, and she hazarded a sprint to the Jeep to give it to him.
Moments later, right after she’d settled back in her own car, thirty-three people exited Pacific Dynamics in small, chatty groups, got into their cars, and drove away. Twenty-five men, mostly in shirtsleeves, like Doebbler. Eight woman, equally casual.
Lunchtime. No sign of the quarry.
“Maybe he’s eating donuts,” said Petra. “Carbo-loading for his big night.” Eric’s voice through the phone was soft. “Working at his desk would fit a compulsive personality.”
Which could apply to Eric. And her.
She glanced two aisles up, where the Jeep was parked. “Kind of weird, having to talk to you this way. How about some phone sex?”
“Sure,” he said. “But only as prep for the real thing.”
By three-twenty, Doebbler still hadn’t appeared. Just to be sure they hadn’t missed something, Eric called his work number. Doebbler picked up and Eric said, “Mr. Doebbler?”
“Yes.”
“This is Dwayne Hickham from New Jersey Life. Have you considered term- ”
Click.
“Friendly fellow,” said Petra.
Eric didn’t answer.
At three fifty-three, her phone squawked. Her butt was sore, she had a hunger-headache, and her bladder was bursting. The scene through her windshield was a damned oil painting. What could Eric have to say?
She pressed Talk. “What’s up?”
A cheerful voice said “Detective Connor?” Teutonic accent.
“Chief Inspector Bandorffer.”
“Yes, this is Klaus. I thought this might be a good hour to reach you.”
“It is, sir. What’s up?”
“What’s up,” said Bandorffer, “is that I came across something intriguing in our records. Not a serial homicide, not a homicide at all. An assault. But it occurred on June 28 and the details are provocative.”
“What year?” said Petra.
“Nineteen seventy-nine. A young woman named Gudrun Wiegeland, a cake-icer at one of our finest bakeries, was attacked while walking home. She’d been decorating an elaborate wedding cake, left work shortly before midnight. Two blocks from her destination, someone hooked an arm around her neck, pulled her down onto the street, turned her over onto her stomach, and began kicking at her ribs. Then she experienced crushing pain at the back of her head. The attacker remained behind her so unfortunately she never saw him. Her injuries were serious. Three broken ribs, bruised internal organs, and a fractured skull. She was unconscious for two days, woke up and had nothing of value to tell the police. I paid her a visit today. She’s a frightened, middle-aged woman, lives with her elderly mother and collects public assistance. She rarely ventures out of her apartment.”
“Poor thing.”
“Fraulein Wiegeland had a reputation as a wild girl, and our men suspected a former lover, a pastry baker with a drinking problem. The two of them had engaged in public arguments. But the man was able to account for his whereabouts and the crime was never solved. I have confirmed that your Mr. Doebbler and his family were living at the Army base during that time period.”
“How many blows were delivered to the head?” said Petra.
“One,” said Bandorffer.
“Our boy bashes his victims repeatedly,” said Petra.
“Perhaps he panicked. Being young and inexperienced. If it was your boy.”
Twenty-four years ago, Kurt Doebbler had been eighteen.
The creepo had come across the Teller book as an adolescent and something had twisted up inside him.