Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 by Twisted

before he died from Alzheimer’s could’ve learned something from Katzman about bedside manner.
    Petra tried to keep her own voice serene, but she felt she’d barked at Dr. Bob. So be it.
    It was one forty-three P.M . and Isaac hadn’t come in yet and that was just fine with Petra. Less distraction. She called the LAPD pension office and asked for current stats on retired detectives Conrad Ballou and Enrique Martinez.
    Martinez was living in Pensacola, Florida, but Ballou was relatively local. Out in Palmdale, a one-hour freeway drive if you danced around the speed limits.
    With nothing more to do on the Paradiso case and feeling lonely and itchy, a one-hour drive didn’t sound half-bad.
    She decided to take her own car. Wanted to listen to her own music.
    As she headed for her Accord, someone called her name. For the merest, foolish moment, she hoped it would be Eric. The last time, they’d met in the lot. In a movie, he’d be back.
    She turned, saw Isaac jogging toward her, wearing a white shirt, khakis, and sneakers, briefcase slapping against his thigh.
    â€œHey,” she said. “What’s up?”
    â€œI got held up at school, hoped I’d get here in time to catch you.”
    â€œSome new bit of data?”
    â€œNo, I just thought if it was okay, I could ride with you.”
    Petra didn’t answer and Isaac flinched. “That is, if it doesn’t pose a problem—”
    â€œIt’s fine,” she said. “Actually, I’m heading out to talk to someone on one of your June 28 cases.”
    His eyes widened. “So you do see the validity of the—”
    â€œI think you’ve put together something interesting. And seeing as I’ve got nothing else to do, why not check it out?”
    Heading toward the 5 on-ramp, she said, “There’s one thing we need to keep clear. This isn’t an official investigation. It’s important to be discreet.”
    â€œAbout . . .”
    â€œTalking to anyone else. Period.”
    Her voice had stiffened. Isaac shifted his body toward the passenger door. “Sure. Of course.”
    â€œEspecially Captain Schoelkopf,” said Petra. “He doesn’t like me, never has. Going off on a tangent when I’ve got a big-time active case could complicate my situation further. Also, it looks as if he had specific feelings about the June murders. In every case, the investigating detective left for one reason or another. Some retired, some moved to other divisions, some died. By itself, that’s not unusual. Since the riots and the Ramparts scandal, there’s been tons of turnover in the department. What is a bit unusual is that none of the files were transferred to new detectives. That’s because Schoelkopf doesn’t like transferring cold cases. So on the infinitesimal chance that we actually learn something about any of these murders, it’s not going to reflect well on him.”
    A long silence filled the car before Isaac said, “I’ve complicated things.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” said Petra. “Truth is, these victims deserve more than they got.”
    A few moments later: “Why doesn’t he like you?”
    â€œBecause he’s got poor taste.”
    Isaac smiled. “I don’t think he likes me either.”
    â€œHow much contact have you had with him?”
    â€œThe initial interview and we pass in the hall from time to time. He pretends not to notice me.”
    â€œDon’t take it personally,” said Petra. “He’s a misanthrope. But he does have poor taste.”
    â€œYes, he does,” said Isaac.
    She hooked onto the 210, then shifted to the 114, driving northeast through the beginnings of Antelope Valley. Passing through Burbank and Glendale and Pasadena along the way. The rocky outcroppings and green belt that were Angeles Crest National Forest, the site of Bedros Kashigian’s final moments, and every