“I hope.”

“Forget hope. Smarts and hard work does it every time. That’s how I pulled myself out of the shit pile.” To Petra: “There’s one more thing you’ll want to know about Marta. We recovered some blood in the car that wasn’t hers.”

Petra didn’t recall that from the chart. As if reading her mind, Ballou said, “It came out later, after the autopsy report, just a speck. The tech who scraped the upholstery mislaid it and it got filed in the wrong place. By the time it got to me, I might not have been in a state to keep good records.”

He pulled out his handkerchief, blew his nose, said, “All I remember is it wasn’t hers. She was A positive and this was O negative. Kurt’s O positive, so it didn’t mean much. But maybe if she had a boyfriend.” He shrugged.

Petra said nothing.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Ballou. “It wasn’t my finest hour, but big deal. Real life ain’t The Forensic Files.”

“Where’s the blood sample?”

“If it’s anywhere, it’s at the coroners’.”

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”

“Any fluids on any of your other cases?” said Ballou.

“Doesn’t say so in the M-books, but stuff doesn’t get in there.” Irritated and not afraid to show it.

Ballou got to his feet, heavily and slowly. “That’s all I can tell you, so have a nice day. Pleasant lady, Marta, from all I heard. The family’s back in Germany, they came over- mother, father, sister. Took the body back, had that shell-shocked look. I think I put their addresses and numbers in the murder book.”

“You did,” said Petra.

“Good,” said Ballou. “Sometimes I’m not sure what I did and didn’t do back then.”

As they drove away from Golden Ridge Heights, Isaac said, “Someone Marta knew. And home with his daughter isn’t much of an alibi.”

“Not much,” Petra agreed. “With the girl sleeping, he could’ve phoned Marta with some ruse, lured her, done the deed, and come back. None of her blood in the car says she was killed elsewhere and pains were taken to keep the vehicle clean.”

“Doebbler’s car.”

“Or just a neat-freak murderer. But before we jump on that, we’d need to assume the techs didn’t miss anything.”

“That happen a lot?” said Isaac.

“More than you want to know. One thing intrigues me, though: Marta was the only victim whose dead body was then moved by the killer. So maybe that does synch with someone who knew her.”

She retraced the drive through the outskirts of Palmdale and got back onto the 114.

Isaac said, “A man killing his wife and then going on to kill strangers is pretty unusual, right?”

“Can’t say that I’ve ever heard of it. More commonly, you get some slimeball serial balancing a wife or a girlfriend- raising kids, having barbecues- with a secret life.”

“The human mask,” said Isaac.

“We all wear ’em.”

Petra exited the 210 at Brand Boulevard in Glendale, drove north to a quiet, pretty part of the street, and pulled over. She’d brought copies of Ballou’s notes and rifled through them until she found Kurt Doebbler’s work and home numbers. It was just after five, meaning he could be either place.

The home was on Rosita Avenue, in Tarzana, clear across the Valley to the west. At this hour, at least an hour’s drive. She ran a DMV check. Doebbler was listed as still there. Two cars registered in his name. A two-year-old Infiniti coupe and a three-year-old Toyota wagon. If he’d coveted Marta’s Opel sedan, it hadn’t been to keep the darn thing.

The daughter, Katya, would be fifteen, too young to drive, but Kurt had indulged himself with two sets of wheels.

Secret life?

She asked Isaac, “What’s your schedule like?”

“When?”

“Now.”

“I was going to work on organizing my source material. It can wait.”

“I can drop you off just as easily as go on.”

“Go on, where?”

“To Kurt Doebbler’s house.”

“Now?” said Isaac.

“Ain’t no time like now,” she said.

“It’s okay if I come along?”

“Sure.”

“Let’s do it,” he said. Excitement in his voice. Then: “Could I borrow your phone, please? I’ll let my mother know I won’t be home for dinner.”

Busiest freeway in the state, busiest time of day.

From Burbank to Encino, they rolled and stopped and waited, averaging ten miles per. Petra finally managed to exit at Balboa. She took Ventura Boulevard the rest of the way, encountered gridlock, foul tempers, distracted cell phone gabbers, some truly frightening risk-taking.

By the time they reached Tarzana, she was too grumpy to talk and Isaac busied himself by pulling a book out of his briefcase, reading and underlining in yellow marker. She glanced over, saw pages full of equations, vowed not to look again. Math had been her worst subject in school. Except for geometry, where her artistic pretensions had kicked in and she’d excelled at drawing complex polygons.

Someone behind her leaned on his horn. What am I supposed to do, moron? Drive through the ass-end of the Escalade in front of me?

She realized her hands ached from gripping the wheel and forced herself to relax.

Isaac smiled. What could be funny about equations?

She said, “This is the exciting part of police work.”

His smile widened. “I like it.”

“Do you?”

“At least you’ve got time to think.”

“That’s one way to rationalize,” she said.

He looked up from his book. “Actually, I like everything about your job.”

Kurt Doebbler’s house on Rosita Avenue was a pale gray, two-story traditional set in a low spot on the street, higher properties behind. The front yard was mostly brick and asphalt. The door and the shutters were a deeper gray. Doebbler’s Infiniti, a champagne-colored coupe, was in view, sparkling clean. Parked in front of it was the gray Toyota wagon, with one flat tire and a veneer of dust.

The man who answered the door was nice-looking. Tall, late thirties to early forties, with a broad-shouldered, angular build and a thick mess of wavy dark hair, graying at the temples. Prominent chin and nose, generous mouth. The kind of sun-seams that enhanced some men. Petra couldn’t think of any women who benefited from aging skin.

He wore a baggy plaid shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, faded jeans, white running shoes. A dinner plate dangled from one hand. In his other was a dish towel. Droplets on the plate. Single dad doing his chores?

From inside the house Petra smelled broiled meat. Dinner was over. The drive had taken them that long. She could use a steak.

“Mr. Doebbler?”

“Yes.” Friendly brown eyes, slouching posture. Pinch-marks on his nose said he wore glasses. A couple of shaving nicks stippled his neck.

Nothing weird, so far. Let’s see how he reacts when she shows him the badge.

He smiled. “I thought you were Jehovah’s Witnesses.” Looking over at Isaac.

Well-scrubbed kid, Petra could see that.

Doebbler said, “Is there some kind of trouble in the neighborhood?”

“I’m a homicide detective from Hollywood Division, sir. I’m looking into your wife’s murder.”

“My wife?” The smile finally melted down. “I’m sorry, it’s my brother Kurt you want. I’m Thad Doebbler.”

“You live here, too?”

“No, I live in San Francisco, had to be down here on business. Kurt insisted I not stay at a hotel. You’re reopening Marta’s case?”

“Marta’s case never closed, sir.”

“Oh… well, let me get Kurt for you. He’s up with Katya, helping her with her homework. Come on in.”

Petra and Isaac followed him through a small, empty entry foyer into a modest living room. Up ahead was a narrow walkway that led to the kitchen. Thad Doebbler said, “One second,” loped to the kitchen, and returned minus the plate and the towel.

To the left was a right-angled oak staircase. Human speech filtered down from the second floor. A high girlish voice going on for a while, a single baritone grunt.