Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (26 page)

Petra held out a hand. “Petra Connor.”

“Emily.” Pastern's fingers were long, cool, limp.

The dog remained inert. Making sure her foot was nowhere near its mouth, Petra tried to get comfortable. “Is that Daisy?”

“No, Daisy's home.”

You've got two of these?

“How do you know about Daisy—oh, my phone tape. No, this is Sophia, Daisy's little sister.”

“Little?” said Petra.

“Figuratively speaking,” said Pastern. “Birth-order-wise. Daisy's a ten-year-old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. She weighs fifteen pounds.”

“A little lighter than Sophia.”

Pastern smiled. “Sophia likes her food.”

“What breed is she?”

“Mastino. Neopolitan Mastiff.”

“All the way from Italy.”

Pastern nodded. “We imported her. She's great protection.”

“Does Daisy get to ride her?”

“No, but my kids do.”

Doggy chitchat relaxed the woman. Time for business. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me, Emily.”

“Sure.” Pastern looked over at the French doors. A slim, androgynous waiter came over and Petra ordered coffee.

“The daily blend?”

“Sure.”

He left looking puzzled. Pastern said, “They're not used to that. No interrogation. Most people who come here are picky about their coffee.”

“Half-caf, seventeen drams of soy foam, one-fifth Kenyan, four-fifths Jamaican, and a sprinkle of Zanzibar allspice.”

Pastern displayed pretty teeth. “Exactly.”

“I don't care as long as there's octane in it,” said Petra. An oversized mug of something dark and hot came and the waiter took a few seconds balancing it on the table. Bit of a challenge; the top was fashioned of hand-laid mosaic tiles. Blue and yellow and green shards arranged in graceful florets and grouted carefully. Petra ran her fingers over the contours. Nice work, but impractical.

“Like it?” said Pastern. “The tiles.”

“Very nice,” said Petra.

“My work.”

“Really? It's lovely.”

“I don't do much art anymore,” said Pastern. “Three kids, my husband's an orthodontist.”

The first fact seemed to explain things, the second didn't.

Petra said, “Busy.”

“You bet . . . would you tell me this, Detective: How come no one talked to me six years ago? My friends, the other women who were at the theater, were interviewed.”

Because the D who worked the case was an alkie burnout who didn't follow through when he didn't reach you the first time.

Petra said, “Ms. Jaeger and Dr. Casagrande?”

Pastern's penciled brows arched. “Sarah's a doctor?”

“She's a psychologist in Sacramento.”

“Isn't
that
something?” said Emily Pastern. “She always talked about becoming a therapist, but I never thought she'd actually do it. Guess Sacramento was good to her.”

“How long's she been there?”

“She and her husband moved up there a while back—not long after Marta was killed. Alan's a lobbyist and they wanted him full-time at the capital. How's Sarah doing?”

“Haven't spoken to her yet. Haven't been able to reach Melanie Jaeger either.”

“Mel's in France,” said Pastern. “Got divorced and moved there a couple of years ago. Finding herself.” She stirred her tea some more. “No kids, she's got mobility.”

“Finding herself how?” said Petra.

Pastern pushed fine, ginger hair away from her face. “She thinks she's an artist. A painter.”

“No talent, huh?” Petra's palm caressed the tabletop. Trying to communicate:
as opposed to you, Emily.

“I don't want to bad-mouth, we were all friends, but . . . guess I'm the only one still in the Valley . . . so why wasn't I talked to?”

“From what I could tell, the detective couldn't reach you.”

“He called when I was out and left his number,” said Pastern. “I called him back.”

Petra shrugged.

“Six years,” said Pastern. “Is there some reason it's been reopened?”

“No dramatic evidence, I'm afraid. We're just trying to be thorough.”

Pastern frowned. “Are you from here?”

“Originally, Arizona,” said Petra. This was getting personal. Lonely woman? Or was Pastern resisting?

“I've got cousins in Scottsdale—” Pastern stopped herself. “You don't care about any of that. This is about Marta. Do you have any theories who killed her?”

“Not yet. How about you?” said Petra.

“Sure do. I always thought it was Kurt. But no one asked my opinion.”

Petra's hand clamped around her coffee mug. The ceramic was scalding and she freed her tingling fingers. “Why do you think that, Emily?”

“I'm not saying I
know
he did it, it's just my feeling,” said Pastern. “Marta and Kurt's marriage had always seemed off.”

“In what way?”

“Remote. Platonic, even. Like they never went through that initial passion stage most people start out with. Know what I mean?”

“Sure,” said Petra.

“Everything cools down eventually, but with Marta and Kurt you just felt there'd never been any heat in the first place. Not that Marta ever said anything. She was German, had that European reserve.”

“Remote,” said Petra, remembering Kurt Doebbler's flat affect. Two cool people. One had ended up beaten to a pulp.

“I never saw them kiss,” said Pastern. “Or touch, for that matter. Then again, I've never seen Kurt display anything in the way of emotion. Even after Marta died.” She bent toward Sophia, kneaded the dog's neck folds. “He still lives there, you know. In the same house. Seven blocks from mine. After we heard about Marta, I brought over food, offered to help any way I could. Kurt took the plate at the door, never invited me in, never thanked me.”

“Charming fellow.”

“Have you met him?”

Petra nodded.

“So you know. I can't prove he did it, I just feel it. Always have. We all did—Sarah and Mel and I. Not just because Kurt's strange. Because of the way it happened. That night in the theater, when Marta's phone rang, she bolted up so quickly she nearly tripped over my legs. Then she hurried out, without explanation, as if her life depended on it.” Pastern smiled queasily. “That came out wrong.”

Petra said, “Did she slip the phone open and read the sender's number?”

Pastern thought. “I don't think so . . . no, I'm sure she didn't. I don't think her phone even had a lid to flip—six years ago mine didn't. No, she just switched it off and got up and ran out. We were pretty taken aback. Generally, Marta was super-polite. Sarah wanted to go out and check immediately but Melanie told her it might be a private family affair, she should give Marta her privacy. Marta
was
a private person. You never really knew where she was coming from. The three of us were making too much noise discussing it and people started to shush us, so we shut up and waited until intermission.”

“How long was that?”

“Maybe ten minutes,” said Pastern. “Maybe fifteen. When Marta didn't return in a couple, I remember not being able to concentrate on the show. Then I figured she didn't want to cause any more disruption by coming back for such a short interval, was probably waiting for us in the lobby. The moment the curtain dropped, we hurried out to find her but she wasn't there. We immediately called her cell but no one answered and that's when we started to get worried. We decided to split up to look for her in the theater. Which wasn't easy, the Pantages is a big place, all those people streaming out.”

She frowned. “I got the job of checking the ladies' room. Kneeling down and checking the shoes in the stalls. Marta wasn't there. Wasn't anywhere. We tried to figure out what to do. The consensus was that she'd been called out on a personal matter, probably by Kurt. Maybe something to do with Katya, it had to be serious for her not to return, not to even tell us. Maybe she needed to keep her line clear so we decided not to try to call her again and went back in, saw the rest of the show. I didn't really enjoy it.”

“Worried about Marta.”

“At that time, I was more worried about what had caused her to leave so impulsively,” said Pastern. “Do you have kids?”

Petra shook her head.

“It's a lifetime of anxiety, Detective. Anyway, after the show, the three of us walked to my car—I'd driven. Everyone except Marta, she came in her own car.”

“Why?”

“She had an appointment in the city, didn't want to bother coming back to the Valley then back again. She arrived when we did, parked right near my car. When we looked, her car was gone. That made sense to us—given what we figured.”

“Where was the lot?”

“Right across the street from the theater.”

Marta's vehicle had been found around the corner from the theater and two blocks down. Ballou had made no mention of it being moved from the parking lot.

She'd left with the killer. Lured to a dark, quiet spot. Bludgeoned on the sidewalk, then propped behind the wheel of her own vehicle.

Petra said, “What kind of appointment did Marta have in the city?”

“She didn't say.” Pastern shifted. Looked down at her own tile-work. “Marta went into the city a lot. My initial take was that the Valley bored her. She grew up in Hamburg, which is supposed to be a pretty sophisticated city. Back in Germany, she'd been some sort of mathematician or engineer. That's where she met Kurt, he's a rocket designer or something like that—he was doing something for the government at one of the military bases. They got married there, had Katya in Germany, moved to the States soon after.”

Long answer to a short question and now Pastern was stirring her tea rapidly, as if willing the liquid to evaporate. Talking about Marta's errands had made her jumpy.

“Your initial take was boredom,” said Petra. “Any other reason for her to come into the city frequently?”

The spaces between Pastern's freckles pinkened. “I don't want to say when I don't know.”

“Say what, Emily?”

“Are you married, Detective?”

“Used to be.”

“Oh. Sorry for prying.”

“No prob.”

“It's funny,” said Pastern. “The way we're talking, as if this was just two girls. . . . I'm glad the police let women do important jobs now.”

Down below, Sophia stirred. Pastern dipped a finger in her snifter, rubbed liquid over the dog's nose and mouth. “The heat's not great for her, but she's pretty robust. Back in Italy, they live outdoors, guard estates.”

“Did the Doebblers own a dog?”

“Never,” said Pastern. “At one point, Marta wanted one. For Katya. She said Kurt wouldn't allow it. I think that's abusive, don't you? Animals are great for kids. They teach them a lot about giving and sharing.”

“Absolutely,” said Petra. “So Kurt doesn't like animals.”

“He told Marta they were too messy.” Pastern fiddled with her hair. “What I said before—that I always thought Kurt did it. That won't get back to him, right? Because it's not an accusation, just a feeling. And he does live close.”

“It will absolutely not get back to him, Emily.”

“I'm going to believe you on that. I guess that's about it.”

Petra said, “Could we talk more about Marta's errands in the city?”

Pastern answered quickly. “She liked to shop—discount clothing places, that kind of thing.”

Let it ride. “Okay . . . can you think of any reason Kurt might have to murder Marta?”

“So you do suspect him?”

“At this point I don't know enough to suspect anyone, Emily. That's why it's important for you to tell me everything you know.”

“I have.” Pastern's smile was shaky.

Petra smiled back. Tasted her designer coffee. Dreadful. She'd give Pastern one more try and if the woman continued to resist, follow up with a phone call tomorrow. Tonight.

Emily Pastern untied her hair and shook it loose. She had knotted it up tight, created an austere little bun that gave her face an ascetic cast.

“The errands,” said Petra.

“Okay. I might as well tell you because you've taken the trouble after all these years and you do seem like someone who cares.”

She moistened the dog's snout again. Breathed in deeply.

Dramatic type; Petra wondered how much of what she said could be taken seriously.

“Okay,” Pastern repeated. “I'm pretty sure Marta was having an affair.”

Petra waited for the woman's breathing to slow. “With who?”

“I don't know, Detective. But she gave off all the signs.”

Petra held out an expectant palm.

Emily Pastern said, “Dressing better, walking bouncier—sexier. Color in her cheeks. She was still reserved, but there was something going on beneath the surface. A glow. A fire.”

The color in Pastern's cheeks heightened. Ah, suburbia.

Petra said, “Happier than usual.”

“More than happier.
Alive.
It wasn't because of Kurt, believe me. He was the same old dull Kurt.”

“But Marta changed.”

“Anyone who knew her could tell she had. Suddenly she was gone all the time. Rushing here, rushing there. Which wasn't like Marta at all. It was true what I said about her being bored. She told me she found the Valley too slow. But her way of coping had been stay-at-home stuff. Being a PTA mom, collecting—glass figurines, samplers, little Japanese teapots. She used to hit the flea markets regularly. Then all that stopped and she boxed up her collections and started driving into the city regularly.”

“Around the same time she started to dress and walk sexier?”

“Exactly the same time,” said Pastern. “You're a woman. You know I'm right.”