“Weapon?”
“Not that I see. Okay, he’s headed to the front, I’m coming around.”
Kurt Doebbler’s voice behind the door demanded: “Who is it?”
“Police. Detective Connor.” Petra had backed a few feet away. Behind her, concealed by bushes, Eric waited. She could smell him. Such a good smell.
No answer from Doebbler. Petra repeated her name.
“I heard you.”
“Could you please open up, sir?”
“Why?”
“Please open.”
“Why?”
“Police business.”
“What kind of business?”
“Homicide.”
The door swung open and Doebbler stared down at her, long arms crossed over a white terry bathrobe. Sleeves too short for his big, bony hands. Huge hands. Under the robe were striped pajamas. Big bare, veiny feet. His gray hair was mussed. Without his glasses, he was less nerdy, not that bad-looking, in a cold-eyed, angular way.
Petra’s eyes were level with the robe’s shawl lapel. She noticed a small sienna spot on the right side that could be dried blood. Her eyes climbed and she saw the shaving nick on Doebbler’s neck. Three nicks, scabbed.
Old Kurt a little nervous this morning? Planning for something that he’d decided to cancel because he knew he was being watched?
How had he known?
“Sir,” she said. “May I come in?”
“You,” he said. More contempt in that single word than Petra had believed possible.
He blocked the doorway.
Petra said, “In for the evening, sir?”
Doebbler pushed hair away from his forehead. Sweaty forehead. Shadows under his eyes. His arms twitched and for a second, Petra thought he’d close the door on her. She moved forward, ready to block him.
He watched her and frowned.
She repeated the question.
“In for the evening?” he said. “As opposed to?”
“Going out.”
“Why would I be going out?”
“Well,” she said, “in a few minutes, it’ll be June 28.”
Doebbler went white. “You’re sick.” He braced himself against the doorpost with one hand. Tall enough that the contact was inches from the top.
“I’m not going out,” he said. “Some of us work and take care of children. Some of us do our job with minimal competence.” Muttering something Petra was nearly certain was “imbecile.”
“May I come in, sir?”
“Come in?”
“To your house. To talk.”
“For a little social visit?” said Doebbler. He managed a smile, detached, all mouth, no eyes. Knitted his big hands and cracked his knuckles and stared down at her.
Past her- through her- the way he had the first time. The way Emily Pastern and Sarah Casagrande had been stared through. A cool, dry snake slithered down Petra’s spine and she was glad Eric was backing her up.
She smiled back at Doebbler.
He slammed the door in her face.
CHAPTER 54
FRIDAY, JUNE 28, 12:06 A.M., RODNEY AVENUE, TEMPORARY EASTERN STAFF PARKING LOT, WESTERN PEDIATRICS HOSPITAL
Isaac watched the digital numerals of his watch click into place.
12:07.
The ultimate numerical reproach.
All the day shift nurses, gone.
Unlike another nurse, somewhere, a dark-haired girl, maybe Italian…
He imagined what was being done to her and the starch went out of his spine and he hunched like an old man.
He stayed in place, not knowing what else to do. Kept staring at the dirt lot. Three cars on the illuminated side, two, maybe three, parked in darkness, it was hard to tell.
Probably night-shifters who’d arrived early.
But if that was the case, why so few?
No big puzzle: The staff obviously preferred the western lot. Probably better lighting, anyone who arrived early nabbed a space there.
12:08.
He’d give it another five minutes, then he’d return to where he’d left his father’s Toyota parked along Vermont. He’d forgotten to lock it. What had Dad left inside… not much, Dad was neat.
A set of work clothes folded on the backseat. Probably some papers in the glove compartment. Hopefully, nothing worth stealing.
Would the car even be there?
If it wasn’t, how would he explain it to his parents?
The five minutes passed. Reluctant to face reality, he lingered.
At twelve-nineteen, feeling like the idiot he was, he slipped out from his hiding spot and began walking south.
Voices from Sunset made him stop. Female voices.
Three women… small women, young-sounding women, passed the chained cement parking structure and entered the dirt lot.
Isaac hurried back to his spot, watched them.
White uniforms, dark hair pulled into ponytails. Tiny women… Filipinas? They chattered gaily. Paused ten feet into the lot. One nurse veered into the light, the other two crossed into the darkened area.
No danger there. Doebbler wouldn’t go for a pair, would want his prey alone.
The lit-up nurse started up her minivan and drove away. A set of headlights went on in the dark side and a zippy little sports car- a yellow Mazda RX- sped out, making that distinctive rotary sound.
Leaving one nurse.
He waited for more headlights.
Darkness.
Silence.
Had he missed something- a rear exit? As he stepped closer to the sidewalk, a low, mulish sound cut into the night.
The futile whine of an engine refusing to turn over.
A car door opened. Shut.
Then: a scream.
Reaching into his pocket, Isaac ran. The gun caught in the generous fleece of his sweatpants and refused to pull free.
He picked up his pace, shouted “Stop!” Screamed it louder.
Ripped frantically at his pocket. The gun was hopelessly tangled.
He reached the lot, sprinted across black dirt. Unable to see anything, homing in on the site of the scream.
Then he saw.
A man- a very tall man, wearing a long white coat, a doctor’s coat- standing over a tiny, prone woman.
She lay on her stomach. One of the man’s feet pressed down in the center of her back. Pinning her like a butterfly on a board.
She struggled in the dirt, arms and legs effecting an earthbound breaststroke. Cried out again.
The man reached into his coat, drew out something the size and girth of a baseball bat. Not wood… translucent.
A thick rod of clear plastic.
Slick, dense. That would explain the lack of fibers in the wounds. Stop analyzing idiot, and do something!
Isaac raced toward the tall man. Out of his mouth came a strange voice, hoarse, bellowing. “Stop motherfucker or I’ll shoot your ass!”
The man in the white coat maintained his foothold on the tiny, dark-haired woman. Pretty woman, Isaac could see her terrified face now. Young, maybe even younger than him. Not Filipina, Latina.
Or maybe she was Italian- stop!
He was three feet away, still struggling with the gun.
The tall man must’ve pressed down harder on the girl’s cheek, because her features compressed and her mouth was forced shut. Eating dust; she choked, coughed.
Isaac ripped at the pocket fuckingidiotfuckingclown
The man faced him, translucent truncheon held diagonally across his chest. Very tall, broad-shouldered, powerful. Plaid shirt and jeans and sneakers under the white coat.
Those shoes would leave marks in the dirt but Thad Doebbler was a careful man, an artist; he would be sure to clean them up when he was through.
Handsome man, with the confidence that tall, handsome men acquire easily. Undeterred by Isaac’s goofy presence. He knew he could handle a fool like this.
“Hey,” he said.
Isaac said, “P-Kasso.”
Doebbler’s grin died. The cudgel caught filmy moonlight and gleamed.