“Oh, no.” Small, nervous laugh. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll have Dr. Katzman get in touch when he gets back.”

“I need to speak to him now.”

“I’m sure he’s busy.”

“So am I. Where, exactly, is he?”

“Traveling. To a bunch of cities. He’s delivering papers at four scientific meetings. Important papers. We’re talking about saving lives.”

“And I’m talking about destroyed lives. So maybe the good doctor will be able to relate.”

Silence.

Kim Pagionides said, “Let me check his calendar.”

A few moments later: “He’s in Baltimore, at Johns Hopkins. Here’s his cell phone.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Punching the cell number elicited an identical “Dr. Bob” Katzman message, mellow and reassuring. The physicians who’d treated her dad 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.

“Hey,” she said. “What’s up?”

“I got held up at school, hoped I’d get here in time to catch you.”

“Some new bit of data?”

“No, 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- ”

“It’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- ”

“I 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.”

“About…”

“Talking to anyone else. Period.”

Her voice had stiffened. Isaac shifted his body toward the passenger door. “Sure. Of course.”

“Especially 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.”

“That’s okay,” said Petra. “Truth is, these victims deserve more than they got.”

A few moments later: “Why doesn’t he like you?”

“Because he’s got poor taste.”

Isaac smiled. “I don’t think he likes me either.”

“How much contact have you had with him?”

“The initial interview and we pass in the hall from time to time. He pretends not to notice me.”

“Don’t take it personally,” said Petra. “He’s a misanthrope. But he does have poor taste.”

“Yes, 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 psychopath’s favorite dump spot.

Pretty, today, under a true-blue sky barely blemished by wispy clouds.

Nice scene to paint. She should get her portable easel out here, find a cozy plein air spot, and go to town.

It had been a long time since she’d painted anything with color.

As the drive stretched on, she told Isaac about being impressed by the wound patterns and everything else she’d learned about the six murders.

He said, “Similar dimensions. That I didn’t notice.”

And none of the detectives had noticed June 28. “You’d have to be looking for it.”

“I’ll be more careful in the future,” said Isaac.

The future?

He said, “That call from the phone booth is interesting. The possibility that it might be someone Mrs. Doebbler knew. What if Mr. Solis knew him as well? Someone familiar to all the victims.”

“I thought of that,” she said. “But it’s a leap.”

“Still, it’s possible.”

“If our killer was acquainted with all six victims, he had a pretty wide social network. We’re talking runaways, male hustlers, executive secretaries, retirees, and that Navy ensign, Hochenbrenner. I haven’t even looked at his file yet.”

Isaac was staring out at the desert. If he’d heard her little speech, it wasn’t apparent. Finally, he said, “Mr. Solis had breakfast food on his plate but the murder occurred around midnight.”

“People eat at odd hours, Isaac.”

“Did Mr. Solis?”

“Don’t know,” she said. “What, you think the bad guy dished up sausage and eggs after bashing in Solis’s head and served it to a corpse?”

Isaac squirmed. She’d grossed him out and it gave her perverse satisfaction.

He said, “I really don’t have much of a database from which to make a judgment- ”

“A culinary killer,” she cut him off. “As if it’s not complicated enough.”

He kept quiet. The car got hot. Ten degrees warmer out here in the desert. A warm June to begin with.

June. Today was the fourth. If there was anything to this craziness, someone else would die in twenty-four days.

She said, “So have you come up with any other notable June 28 occurrences in the historical archives?”

“Nothing profound.” He spoke quietly, kept his eyes aimed at the window. Intimidated?

Bad Petra, mean Petra. He’s just a kid.

“Tell me anything you’ve found,” she said. “It could be important.”

Isaac half turned toward her. “Basically, I’ve been logging into various almanacs, printed some lists. Long lists. But nothing jumps out. Here, I’ll show you what I mean.”

Snapping open his briefcase, he groped around, removed a batch of papers.

“I looked at birthdays and the farthest back I got was June 28, 1367, which is when Sigismund, the emperor of Hungary and Bohemia, was born.”

“Was he a bad guy?”

“Your basic autocratic king.” Isaac’s finger trailed down a long row of small-print items. “Then there’s Pope Paul IV, the artist Peter Paul Rubens, another artist, Jean Jacques Rousseau, a few actors- Mel Brooks, Kathy Bates… like I said, it stretches on. That’s how I came up with John Dillinger.”

“Any bad guys other than Dillinger?”

“Not on the birthday list. When I looked at June 28 as a date of death, I found a few more. But none of them appear connected to this type of thing.”

“This type of thing?” said Petra.

“A serial killer.”

The term set her teeth on edge. Too TV. Too damn hard to solve. She kept her voice light and pleasant. “Which bad guys died that day?”