Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (13 page)

She shrugged. “Maybe cash was taken, I don't know. I don't think so because the moment Dad had any extra cash, like from his military pension, he banked it.”

Murphy slowed her pace and Petra adjusted. Traffic on Sunset was fast and thunderous and the two of them swerved to avoid some construction workers who'd blown a hole in the sidewalk and set up orange-and-white sawhorses.

Murphy looked at the hardhats. “Dad did that. Worked construction, after he left the Marines. Then he had his own business. A tire store in Culver City. When that went under, he was sixty-five, said he'd had enough. Mostly, he watched TV.”

“You're pretty specific about which food was taken,” said Petra.

“Because it was my food. I bought it the day before. Dad was more of a chorizo-and-fried-potatoes kind of guy. He made fun of the way I ate. Called it rabbit chow.”

Pain in her eyes said there'd been more than dietary conflict between father and daughter.

“Your food was taken,” said Petra.

“It couldn't mean anything. Could it?”

“Is there anyone who'd want to get back at you through your father?”

“No,” said Murphy. “No one. Since the divorce, everything's been smooth. Dave and I are friendly, we talk all the time.”

“Any kids?”

Murphy shook her head.

Petra said, “Tell me about the cable call and why you think it could've been phony.”

“That day in the morning, when I left for work—Dad told me the cable company was sending someone out to work on the set.”

“At what time?”

“Late afternoon, early evening, you know how they are,” said Murphy. “Dad sometimes napped at that hour, wanted me to wake him by seven.”

“Were you having transmission problems?”

“No, that's the thing,” said Murphy. “Supposedly it was something to do with the neighborhood lines.”

“He wanted you to wake him,” said Petra. “So you were home by late afternoon?”

“No. I called at three, told Dad I'd be home late. He asked me to call again.”

“At seven.”

“Yes.”

“Did you?”

“I did and he was up.”

“How did your father sound?”

“Fine. Normal.”

“Then you went back to work?”

Murphy touched her finger to her jaw. “Actually, I'd left work early. It had been a tough afternoon, shuttling back between Dave and Bella. When I hung up with Dad, I was in my car. I took off and went to see Bella. We had dinner, went to a club, did some drinking. Neither of us was in the mood to dance. She wanted me to come home with her but I wasn't ready for that, so she drove back to her place and I drove to Dad's. Walked into the house and smelled food—cooked food, bacon and eggs. Which was strange. Dad never ate late. He'd have a beer or two, maybe some chip-and-dip while watching TV, but never a hot meal at that hour. If he ate heavy food too late, he had indigestion.”

Maria Murphy stopped walking. Her eyes were wet. “This is harder than I thought.”

“Sorry for bringing it all back.”

“I haven't thought about Dad for a while. I should think about him more.” Murphy pulled a hankie out of a dress pocket, patted her eyes, blew her nose.

When they resumed walking, Petra said, “So someone had cooked.”

“
Breakfast
food,” said Murphy. “Which was also weird. Dad was a very disciplined person—ex-Marine, very regimented. You ate breakfast food in the morning, sandwiches at lunch, a main meal at supper.”

“You don't think he cooked the food.”

“Scrambled eggs?” said Maria Murphy. “Dad didn't like scrambled eggs, he always had his eggs fried or soft-boiled.”

She burst into tears, walked faster, at a near-run.

Petra caught up. Murphy threw up her hands and ground her jaws.

“Ma-am—”

“His brains,” Murphy blurted. “They were on the
plate.
Along with the eggs. Pilled on
top
of the eggs. Like someone had added lumpy
cheese
to the eggs. Gray cheese. Pink . . . can we please turn around, now? I need to get back to work.”

Petra waited until they were back at Kaiser to ask her if there was anything else she remembered.

“Nothing,” said Murphy. She turned to go and Petra touched her arm. Solid and sinewy. Maria Murphy tensed up. Rock-hard.

Looking at Petra's fingers on her sleeve.

Petra let go. “Just one more question, ma'am. The date of your father's murder, June 28. Did that have any significance to you, or to anyone in your family?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Covering bases.”

“June 28,” said Murphy, weakly. “The only thing significant about that is Dad was murdered.” She sagged. “It's coming up, isn't it? The anniversary. I think I'll go to the cemetery. I don't go very often. I really should go more.”

Interesting woman. Going through major life-stress at the time of her father's murder. Not getting sympathy from the old man, quite the opposite. Pulled in all directions, having to return to the old man's house. A father with whom she'd never been close. An ex-Marine whose sensibilities she'd recently offended.

It had to have been a tense situation.

From the feel of that iron-arm, Murphy was a strong woman. More than enough strength to bring a stout piece of pipe down on an aged skull.

Murphy's food, taken. Healthy stuff that the old man ridiculed.

Maybe the old man had humiliated her one time too many. Dumped lesbian daughter's victuals in front of lesbian daughter and that had driven her over the edge.

Petra had seen people killed with a lot less provocation.

She pulled into the station parking lot, sat there imagining.

Murphy comes home from a self-described rough day—driving back and forth between hubbie and lover. Calls dad, allegedly to wake him from his nap, but he gives her flack. She hangs up, goes dining and clubbing, has too much to drink. Returns home, craving a one
A.M.
nosh, finds dad up, waiting for her.

They argue. About her alternative lifestyle.

Her rabbit chow.

Dad scoops up the nutritionally virtuous stash, tells her what he thinks about it.

Murphy was a dietician. The gesture would have been laced with extra symbolism.

An argument ensues.

He screams, she screams. She picks something up—maybe a spare pipe, who knows what. Brains the old guy, sits him at the table. Cooks up some of the high-fat crap
he
calls food.

Pushes his face in it.
Eat that!

Then she makes up a phony cable story to distract the easily distracted Jack Hustaad.

Some melodrama. And no evidence.

And if Maria Murphy had murdered her old man, what did that say about Marta Doebbler and the other five June 28 killings?

She'd follow up on Solis, talk to Murphy's ex-husband, the long-suffering Dave. But something told her it would be a waste of time.

Kurt Doebbler for his wife, Maria Murphy for her dad.

Meaning no connection.

No, that felt wrong. If Isaac was right, and she was moving toward confidence that he was, this was something quite different from family passion gone bad.

A woman lured from the theater. A hustler pulverized in a back alley. A little girl brutalized in the park. A sailor on leave . . .

Eggs and brains on the plate.

This was calculated, manipulative.

Twisted.

CHAPTER

18

W
hen she got back to the detectives' room, the place was bustling with phone talk and keyboard clacks. Isaac was at his corner desk, writing something in longhand, one hand cradling the side of his head.

He gave her a quick wave with his free hand and returned to his work.

Give me space?

Maybe last night's steak and beer had been too much for him. She'd offered to drive him home but he'd insisted on being dropped off blocks away.

Petra figured he was ashamed of his digs. She didn't argue and as he trudged away, lugging his briefcase, she thought he looked like a tired old man.

Give him his space, she could use some, too. She poured coffee and flipped through her message stack. Nothing but department memos. Six new e-mail messages on her computer: four canned department announcements, something from
[email protected]
she figured for spam, and Mac Dilbeck informing her that Homicide Special would most likely take over the Paradiso case by Tuesday if nothing broke.

She was about to delete the junk mail when her phone rang.

A recorded message from the Intramural Police Football team chirped in her ear:
“Big game with L.A. County Sheriffs coming up next month, all able-bodied, athletically inclined officers are urged to . . .”

Her finger drifted to the Enter button and she opened the spam.

Dear Petra,

This is rerouted for security purposes, can't be answered. Everything's okay. Hope the same, there. Miss you. L, Eric.

She smiled.
I send my L, too.

She saved the message, logged off. Began looking for David Murphy.

Common name but an easy trace. The five-year-old Covina address narrowed it right down to David Colvin Murphy, now forty-two. He'd moved to Mar Vista, on the west side. Had registered a Dodge Neon three years ago, a Chevy Suburban twenty months after that.

No wants or warrants, not even a parking ticket.

She found his number in the reverse directory. A woman answered.

“David Murphy, please.”

“He's at work. Who's this?”

Petra recited her title and the woman said, “Police? Why?”

“It's about an old case. Are you familiar with Geraldo Solis, ma'am?”

“Dave's ex-father-in-law. He was . . . I'm Dave's wife.”

“Where does your husband work, Mrs. Murphy?”

“HealthRite Pharmacy. He's a pharmacist.” Saying it with some pride.

“Which branch, ma'am?”

“Santa Monica. Wilshire near Twenty-fifth. But I don't know what he could tell you, that was years ago.”

Don't rub it in.

Petra thanked her and hung up, looked up the drugstore's number while glancing over at Isaac's desk. The kid was still poring over his papers but the hand against his face had dropped and Petra saw a bruise, reddish-purple, high up on the left side of his face, between the rounded tip of his cheekbone and his ear.

As if suddenly aware, he reclamped his hand over the spot.

Something had happened between last night and today.

Rough neighborhood. Walking alone.

Or worse—something domestic?

She realized how little she knew about his private life, considered going over to check out the bruise. But he looked as if the last thing he wanted was company.

She called the HealthRite Pharmacy, Santa Monica branch.

David Murphy had a pleasant phone voice. Not surprised by her call. The wife had prepared him.

He said, “Gerry was a good guy. I can't think of anyone who'd want to hurt him.”

According to Maria, her father had taken Murphy's side in the divorce.

Petra said, “Well, someone sure did.”

“Terrible,” said Murphy. “So . . . what can I do for you?”

“Is there anything you remember about the day Mr. Solis was murdered, sir? Maybe something that didn't come up during the initial investigation?”

“Sorry, no,” said Murphy.

“What do you recall?”

“It was a terrible day. Maria and I were in the midst of breaking up; she was driving back and forth between our home . . . between me and her . . . and Bella Kandinsky. She's her partner, now.”

“Emotional day,” said Petra.

“You bet. She'd come home, talk to me, get upset, run to Bella. Then back to me. I'm sure Maria was feeling like the rope in a tug of war. I was pretty stunned.”

“Stunned?”

“My marriage, suddenly over. Over another woman.” Murphy laughed. “Anyway, that was a long time ago. We've all moved on.”

“At the time of the murder, Maria was living at her father's house.”

“On and off,” said Murphy.

“Because of marital problems.”

“We'd been quarreling. I didn't understand why, at the time.”

“You ever go over to Mr. Solis's house?”

“I used to be there all the time. Before things got rough in the marriage. Gerry and I got along. That made it kind of rough on Maria.”

“How so?”

“Gerry took my side. He was pretty conservative. Maria's choice was hard for him to swallow.”

“That must've caused conflict between them.”

“Sure.”

“Heavy-duty conflict?”

Murphy laughed again. “You can't be serious. No, no, that's totally out of the ballpark. Don't even go there.”

Same phrase Maria had used.

“Go where?” said Petra.

“What you're implying. Listen, I'm kind of busy—”

“I wasn't implying, just asking,” said Petra. “But as long as we're on the topic, how serious was the conflict between Maria and her dad?”

David Murphy said, “That's absurd. Maria's a terrific person. She and Gerry had your typical parent-child things. I had them with my folks, everyone does. No way could she have hurt him, she's absolutely a terrific person. No way.”

She defends him, he defends her. And
they
got divorced. Depressing.

He said, “Believe me, Detective, I'm definitely right.”

“Mr. Murphy, in the file there's a note about a cable-repair appointment. Did Maria mention that to you?”

“No, but Gerry did. In fact, the guy was right there when I called.”

“You called Mr. Solis.”

“Sure. I wanted to find out where Maria was. She left our house pretty upset and I assumed she went home. I wanted to smooth things out. Gerry answered and he was grumpy. Because the cable guy had come late.”

“What time was this?”

“Wow,” said Murphy. “This was what—five years ago? I remember it was dark, already. And I'd been working late . . . I'd say eight, nine. Maybe even nine-thirty. Gerry said something about the guy saying he'd show up by six, then calling to push it to seven, then still not making it on time. He was pretty annoyed. If I had to guess, I'd say between eight-thirty and nine.”

“Mr. Solis was upset.”

“Because of having to wait. When I asked to speak to Maria, he said she wasn't there, he had no idea where she was. . . . He was kind of abrupt. In general, he was a grumpy guy.”

Meaning Geraldo Solis, already annoyed by delays, could've had a serious chip on that evening. Been primed for a confrontation.

She said, “Did Mr. Solis have a bad temper?”

“No, not really,” said Murphy. “More like . . . a curmudgeon. He was a very disciplined guy, ex-Marine, expected the world to work on a tight schedule. When things didn't go that way, it bugged him.”

“Like a late appointment.” Or a lesbian daughter.

“Sure—oh, wow, you're not suggesting—”

“Just asking questions, Mr. Murphy.”

“The cable guy?” said Murphy. “Whoa . . . but the police said Gerry was killed around midnight. . . . I guess he could've been left there for a few hours . . . wow.”

A cable guy who shows up after dark. Whose company had no record of any scheduled service appointment. Which wasn't necessarily significant two years later. Paperwork screwups happened all the time and the cable companies that serviced L.A. were notoriously inept. Still . . .

She said, “Did he tell you the reason for the cable appointment?”

“That's another thing that bothered Gerry. He hadn't complained about anything. It was the company saying they needed to come by. General maintenance, something like that. My God . . . you really think—”

“Mr. Murphy, did you tell any of this to the original detective?”

“Hustaad? He never asked about it and I never really thought about it. What he wanted to know was how I got along with Gerry. How Maria got along. I got the feeling he was checking me out. Psychologically. He also asked where I was around midnight—that's why I figured it happened around midnight. Normally I'd be asleep at that time, but that night I was pretty upset and went out with a friend—a buddy from work. We went out drinking and I cried in my beer . . . so to speak.”

“Can you remember anything else Mr. Solis said about the cable appointment?”

“Not really . . . I don't think he said anything other than how annoyed he was.”

“And he definitely told you the man was there, in the house.”

“Yes. I think . . . but maybe I assumed. He was talking softly, so I assumed someone was there. It's not anything I could swear to. In court, or something like that.”

Court. From your mouth to God's ears.

Petra pressed him a bit more, learned nothing. Thanked him.

He said, “Sure. Good luck. Gerry really was a good guy.”

A cable repairman, quite possibly phony, shows up after dark. Tinkers around and cases the place. Maybe leaves a rear door or a window unlocked for a return trip.

Or he does Solis right there, has the presence of mind to cook breakfast, stick the old man's face in it.

Takes some food for the road.

Healthy stuff; a killer who took care of himself.

What did any of that say about Kurt and Marta Doebbler?

Isaac was right; killing your wife and then moving on to strangers was unusual—she'd never heard of anything like that.

On the other hand, what if Kurt had dispatched Marta because of some personal motive, then found out he'd liked it?

Too
twisted. She knew she was thinking that way because Doebbler was an eminently unlikable individual.

Then again, bashing six people over the head on the same date, same time, was pretty weird.

Across the room, Isaac continued to study his numbers. Hand on face, concealing the bruise.

The kid had complicated her life. Why couldn't he have chosen to do his thing at the sheriff's?

She took a bathroom break, risked more coffee, returned to the June 28 files. Putting Solis aside and reviewing the other non-Hollywood case.

The sailor, Darren Ares Hochenbrenner. On shore leave. According to two other sailors, they'd started out in Hollywood, but Darren had parted ways when they'd gone to a movie at the Egyptian.

The body had been found downtown, on Fourth Street, pockets emptied.

Far from the others, the only black victim, and the pockets made it a probable strong-arm street robbery taken to the extreme. She rechecked the wound dimensions. Perfect match to Marta Doebbler—down to the millimeter.

The listed detective was a DII named Ralph Seacrest. He was still working at Central, sounded tired.

“That one,” he said. “Yeah, I remember it. Kid started off in your neighborhood, ended up in mine.”

“Any idea how he got to yours?” said Petra.

Seacrest said, “I'm thinking he got picked up.”

“By a john?”

“Could be.”

“Hochenbrenner was gay?”

“That never came up,” said Seacrest. “But sailors on leave? Or maybe he got lost. Kid was from the Midwest—Indiana, I think. First time in the city.”

“He was stationed in Port Hueneme.”

“That's not the city. Why're you asking about him?”

Petra spun him the usual yarn.

Seacrest said, “Another head-bashing? Your vic get robbed?”

“No.”

“Mine got robbed. This was a kid, got lost, found himself in a real bad neighborhood. Also, he was stoned.”

“On what?”

“Mari-joo-ana, some booze—don't hold me to that, it's been a while, but that's what I remember. Bottom line: He was partying. Probably partied too hardy, got picked up, the rest is history.”

Petra hung up, checked Darren Hochenbrenner's tox screen, found a blood alcohol of .02 percent. At Hochenbrenner's body weight, that probably meant one beer. Traces of THC had been found, but minimal, possibly days old, according to the coroner.

Hardly “stoned.” She wondered how hard Detective Ralph Seacrest had worked the case.

A shadow fell across the file and she looked up, expecting to see Isaac.

But the kid was gone from his desk. No briefcase. He'd left without saying a word.

A civilian receptionist from downstairs, a blond, cheerleader type named Kirsten Krebs, newly hired, who'd been hostile from the get-go, handed her a message slip.

Dr. Robert Katzman had returned her call. Half an hour ago.

Krebs was on her way toward the stairs. Petra said, “Why didn't you put him through?”

Krebs stopped. Turned. Glared. Clamped her hands to her hips. She wore a tight, powder-blue stretch top, tight black cotton pants. V-neck top, it offered a hint of tan, freckled cleave. Pushup bra. Long blond hair. Despite a face too hard to be pretty, a couple of D's had turned to take in her firm young ass. This was a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen.

“Your line was
busy.
” Whiny.

Petra aimed a hollow-point smile straight at the girl's upturned nose. Krebs sniffed and turned on her heel. Eyed Isaac's desk as she left.

Not much older than Isaac. Half Isaac's I.Q., but she had other weapons in her armamentarium. Could eat the kid alive.