Thad Doebbler walked to the bottom of the stairs and stopped. “I don’t want to meddle, Detective, but my brother… he’s been doing pretty well the past few years. Has something new come up? Can I tell him that?”

“Nothing dramatic,” said Petra. “We’re just doing our best to clear cases.”

He rolled his shoulders. “Got it. Make yourselves comfortable, I’ll go tell Kurt you’re here.”

Petra and Isaac sat at opposite ends of a seven-foot sofa. Very soft sofa, tufted exuberantly. White cotton printed with huge red roses and serpentine green vines. Rolled arms and piped seams and a gold-and-red fringe running along the bottom. Catty-corner the couch were two of the starkest black leather chairs Petra had ever seen- tight black skin on chromium frames.

No coffee table in the middle, just a faded brown needlepoint ottoman that served host to a TV tray and a remote control.

The entire room was like that, feminine touches coexisting uneasily with the obvious signs of male inhabitance. One wall was dominated by a big-screen TV, maybe seventy inches wide, and nearly empty bookcases. Nearby was an antique sewing table covered by lace. Prints of Flemish still-lifes hung on the white walls along with two huge, brass-framed photos of space shuttles blasting off and one of a fighter jet slicing through the wild blue yonder. The carpeting was gray- the same gray as the house- and looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in a while. The broiled-meat smell pervaded.

The man who came down the stairs was even taller than Thad Doebbler- six-four was Petra’s estimate. Thinner, too. The same thick wavy hair as his younger brother but completely gray. Darker complexion. Thick eyeglasses in silver frames. Huge hands dangled. Similar features to Thad, but on Kurt Doebbler they didn’t add up to handsome.

He wore a white polo shirt, brown slacks, black shoes.

Pausing at the same spot where his brother had stopped, he stood there looking at them. Past them.

Petra said, “Mr. Doebbler?”

“You know that, already.” The line should’ve been accompanied by a smile. Kurt Doebbler just kept staring.

“Sorry to interrupt your evening, sir.”

Doebbler said nothing.

“Do you have time to talk, sir?”

“About Marta.”

“Yes, sir.”

Doebbler pressed his hands together, shifted his eyes to the ceiling, as if searching for divine inspiration. Petra knew that kind of movement as indication of deception.

Doebbler said, “What about, specifically?”

“I know it’s been difficult, sir, and I’m sorry- ”

“Sure, let’s talk,” said Kurt Doebbler. “Why not?”

He took one of the black armchairs, sat all tight and hunched up, long legs drawn up close. Bony knees. Shiny brown doubleknit slacks; when was the last time she’d seen that?

She said, “This is going to sound like a stupid question, but is there anything you’ve thought of, concerning Marta, that you didn’t tell the original detective six years ago?”

“Conrad Ballou,” said Doebbler. He recited a phone number that Petra recognized as a station extension. “I called Ballou often. Sometimes he even called me back.”

Even seated he was tall enough to gaze well over Petra’s line of vision. It made her feel small.

“Was there anything- ”

“He was a drunk,” said Doebbler. “I could smell it on him. The night he came to tell me, he reeked. I should’ve complained. Is he still working as a detective?”

“No, sir. He’s retired.”

Doebbler didn’t budge or blink.

Petra said, “Did you feel better about Detective Martinez?”

“Who?”

“The other detective assigned to the case.”

“The only one I ever talked to was Ballou. And not very often.” Doebbler’s lips shifted suddenly to a very unpleasant smile. You couldn’t even call it a smile. “Obviously, you people are well-organized.”

Petra said, “I know this is tough, Mr. Doebbler- ”

“Not tough. Futile.”

Petra said, “The day your wife disappeared, you were here.”

Doebbler didn’t answer.

“Sir?”

“That was a statement, not a question.”

“Is it a true statement?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing?”

“Homework,” said Doebbler.

“With your daughter?”

“She was sleeping. My homework.”

“You were in school?”

“I take work home. My job isn’t limited to nine-to-five.”

“You work with computers.”

“I develop aerospace software.”

“What kind of software?”

“Aircraft guidance systems, integrated spacecraft landing systems.” Doebbler’s tone said she couldn’t hope to understand.

Isaac said, “Circular wave guides? Storage rings?”

Doebbler turned toward the kid. “Aerospace physicists and engineers design storage rings. I write the instructions that enable them to be used in a human-to-machine context.”

“Human factors,” said Isaac.

Doebbler’s hand waved. “That’s psychology.” To Petra: “Have you or haven’t you learned something new about Marta?”

One knee bounced. His mouth was set tight.

Petra said, “It would help me if I had a feel for what Marta was like.”

“Like?”

“As a person.”

“Are you asking what kind of music she liked? Her taste in clothes?”

“That kind of thing,” said Petra.

“She liked soft rock and bright colors. She liked the stars.”

“Astronomy.”

“That, and she regarded the stars as aesthetic objects,” said Doebbler. “She wanted the world to be pretty. She was smart, but that was stupid.”

“Naive?”

“Stupid.” Doebbler stared at her.

She pulled out her pad and made a show of writing stuff down.

Soft rock. Bright colors.

Kurt Doebbler said, “Why are you here?”

“We’re looking into some of our open cases, trying to see if we can resolve them.”

“Ballou’s cases. You’re looking at them because he was a drunk and he made serious errors and now you’re afraid of scandal.”

“No, sir. Just open cases, in general. Only Marta’s was Ballou’s.”

“Open,” said Doebbler. “That’s a euphemism for failure. To you, Marta’s a statistic.”

“No, sir. She’s… was a person. That’s why I’d like to know more about her.”

Doebbler seemed to consider that. He shook his head. “It’s been a long time. I can’t see her face anymore.”

“The night she went out,” said Petra, “what was her mood?”

“Her mood? She was in a fine mood.”

“And she gave no indication of planning anything but seeing a play.”

“That’s what she told me,” said Doebbler. His knee pumped faster. The hands grasping them were white-knuckled.

That question had gotten to him.

“What she told you,” Petra echoed.

No answer.

“June 28,” she said.

“What about it?”

“Does the date have any significance- ”

“It’s the date my wife was murdered. What is this, some kind of game?”

“Sir- ”

Doebbler sprang up, made it to the stairs in three long strides. Ascending the flight, two steps at a time, he stopped midway. “I have to help my daughter. See yourselves out.”

He disappeared. Isaac began to get up but when he saw Petra remain in place, he plopped back down. Finally, she got up and he watched as she paced around Doebbler’s living room, widened her circle, peered down the passageway to the kitchen. Took in as many details as she could before footsteps sounded on the stairs and she motioned Isaac to the front door.

Her hand was on the knob when Thad Doebbler said, “Sorry. Kurt’s been under stress.”

“New stress?” said Petra, turning to face him.

“Work. It’s a high-pressure job. Really, there’s nothing more he can tell you about Marta.”

“Did he just tell you that?”

Thad shook his head. “He didn’t say a thing, just went into his room and closed the door. I’m sorry if he’s a bit… Kurt’s done his grieving.”

“How’s your niece?”

Thad blinked. “Kurt works hard for her.”

Petra said, “The whole single-father thing.” On some topics she was an expert. Professor Kenneth Connor had been a jewel of a single dad. She could only imagine what growing up with Kurt Doebbler would be like.