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.
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.