by Twisted
“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.
Listen to me—the surrogate mother.
She got on the phone and called Dr. Katzman. Got his mellow voice on message and left a message of her own.
Not so mellow.
CHAPTER
19
The joke: Richard Jaramillo was fat, so they called him Flaco.
That was back in fourth grade. Then Jaramillo grew up and got skinny and the nickname fit.
Little else about Jaramillo had worked out so neatly.
Isaac had known him back in public school: a jumpy, scared fat kid who wore old-fashioned clothes, sat at the back of the classroom, and never learned how to read. The teacher, faced with fifty kids, half of whom didn’t speak English, assigned Isaac to tutor Flaco.
Flaco had reacted to the assignment distractedly. Isaac concluded, almost immediately, that Flaco’s biggest problem was that he didn’t pay attention. Not long after, he realized Flaco had real problems paying attention.
Flaco hated everything about school, so Isaac figured some kind of reward might work. Since Flaco was fat, he tried food. Mama was overjoyed when he asked her to pack extra sugar-tamales in his lunch bag. Finally, Isaac was starting to eat.
Isaac offered Flaco tamales and Flaco learned to read at the first-grade level. Flaco never got far beyond that. Even with tamales, it was never easy.
“Big deal anyway,” he told Isaac. “I’m passing into fifth same as you.”
Then Flaco Jaramillo’s father went to prison on a manslaughter conviction and the boy stopped showing up at school, period. Isaac found that he missed being the teacher and now he had to figure out what to do with the extra tamales. He wanted to call Flaco, but Mama told him the Jaramillos had moved out of the city in shame.
Which turned out to be a lie; Mrs. Gomez had never liked Isaac hanging out with a bad boy from that family, such a rotten bunch. In truth, the Jaramillos had been evicted from their Union District flat and were crammed into a roach-ridden SRO hotel near Skid Row.
Five years later, the boys ran into each other.
It happened on a hot, polluted Friday, not far from the bus stop.
Half day at Burton because of teacher training seminars. Isaac had spent the afternoon at the Museum of Science and Industry, alone, was returning home, from the bus, when he saw two black-and-white police cars, parked at the corner in careless diagonals, lights flashing. Up on the sidewalk, a few feet away, a small, thin boy in a baggy T-shirt, sagging pants, and expensive running shoes was being rousted by four muscular officers.
They had him in the position: legs spread, arms up, palms pressed against the brick wall.
Isaac kept his distance but stopped to watch. The police questioned the boy, spun him around, got in his face and yelled.
The boy remained impassive.
Then Isaac recognized him. The baby fat was gone but the features were the same, and Isaac felt his own eyes stretch wide as the unspoken “huh?” resonated in his head.
He stepped even farther back, expecting the police to arrest Flaco Jaramillo. But they didn’t, just wagged warning fingers, screamed some more, and shoved the boy around a bit. Then, as if summoned by a silent alarm, all four got in their cars and sped away.
Flaco stepped into the street and flipped off the cops. Noticed Isaac and flipped him off, too. As Isaac turned to leave, he shouted, “What the fuck you lookin’ at, motherfucker?”
His voice had changed, too. Small boy with a deep baritone.
Isaac started walking.
“Yo, motherfucker, you hear me?”
Isaac stopped. The skinny boy was advancing on him. Face dark and scrunched and intent. All that pent-up anger and humiliation ready to blow. Ready to take it out on someone.
Isaac said, “It’s me, Flaco.”
Flaco came within inches. He smelled of weed. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Isaac Gomez.”
Flaco’s eyes became razor cuts. His skinny face was rodentine with the same oversized nose, weak chin, and bat ears that Isaac remembered. The ears looked even bigger, exhibited mercilessly by a shaved head. Flaco was short but broad-shouldered. Veins popped on his forearms like sculptural bas-relief. The clear intimation of muscle and the desire to use it.
Tattoos on his knuckles and the left side of his neck. The one on the neck was a nasty-looking snake, mouth open, fangs bared, as if about to close on Flaco Jaramillo’s jaw line. The number “187” atop his right hand. The police code for “homicide.” Some bangers were telling the truth when they advertised having done it.
“Who?”
“Isaac. Fourth grade—”
“Gomez. My fucking teacher. Man.” Flaco shook his head. “So . . .”
“So how you been?” said Isaac.
“I been cool.” Flaco smiled. Rotten teeth, several missing on top. The herbal reek of marijuana permeated his clothing. That had kept the police on him. But they’d found nothing, Flaco had dumped his dope in time.
“Fucking teacher,” said Flaco. “So what’s with you, why you dressed like a fag?”
“Private school.”
“Private school. What the fuck’s that?”
“Just a place,” said Isaac.
“Why you go there?”
Isaac shrugged.
“They make you dress like a fag?”
“I’m not one.”
Flaco looked him over some more. Grinned. “You fucked up as a teacher, man. I don’t know shit.”
Isaac shrugged again, working hard at casual-cool. “I was nine. I thought you were pretty smart.”
Flaco’s grin faltered. “Shows what you know.”
He flexed the hand with the 187 tattoo. Reached out. Slapped Isaac on the back. Held his hand out for a soul shake. His skin was hard and dry and crusty, like poorly sanded wood. He laughed. His breath was bad.
Isaac said, “Good to see you, man. Guess I’ll be shoving off.”
“Shoving off? What’s that, from a movie or somethin’?” Flaco turned pensive for a second. Brightened. “Let’s go smoke up some weed, man. I got it where the motherfuckers can’t find it.”
“No thanks.”
“No thanks?”
“Don’t smoke.”
“Man,” said Flaco. “You fucked up.”
He stepped back, reassessing Isaac. “Whatever.”
“Thanks anyway.”
Flaco waved that off. “Go, man. Go away.”
As Isaac turned, Flaco said, “You tried to teach me, I remember that. You gave me some tamales, or some shit like that.”
“Sugar tamales.”
>
“Whatever, thought I was smart, huh?”
“I did.”
Flaco bared his bad teeth. “Shows what you know. Hey man, check this out: How ’bout we shove off and I smoke and you watch and we like . . . talk, man. Like find out what’s been happening all these years?”
Isaac thought about it, not for too long.
“Sure,” he said. In the end, he’d ended up taking a couple of courtesy puffs.
They ran into each other once or twice a year, mostly the same kind of chance meetings on the street. Sometimes Flaco had no time for Isaac, other times he seemed to crave company. When they got together it was always Flaco smoking and talking, Isaac listening. Once, when they were sixteen, Isaac, in a bad mood for whatever reason, took deep hits of weed, hated the way the smoke burned his lungs, the popcorn lightness in his head, laughing too much, losing control. He walked home woozy, stayed in bed until dinner. Ate well. Mama looking on approvingly.
When they were seventeen, Flaco had Isaac decipher some probation papers because his reading had remained at the first-grade level.
“My P.O.’s a dumb motherfucker but I want to keep it real, man, show up at appointments, get past this bullshit.”
The papers said Flaco had stolen cigarettes from a vending machine and been sentenced to a year’s probation. Penal Code 466.3. That kind of thing you didn’t tattoo on your hand.
The following year, Flaco showed Isaac his guns. A big, black automatic weighing down a pocket of his saggy khakis, a smaller chrome-plated six-shot thing taped to his ankle.
Ankle gun? He probably saw that in a movie.
Isaac said, “Cool.” By that time he’d developed a solid fix on Flaco’s temperament: jumpy, unstable, completely devoid of fear. The last trait made Flaco more dangerous than any fanged snake.
Flaco went on about the guns, what they could do, how you cleaned them, what a bargain he’d gotten on the purchase.
Isaac listened. When you listened, people stayed calm and thought you were smart and interesting.
Flaco liked to say, “That life you leading, man. You gonna be rich.”
“Doubtful.”
“Doubtful my dick, man. You gonna be a rich doctor and get close to all that dope.” Wink wink. “We still gonna be friends, man.”