Thad said, “Exactly.”

Petra turned the knob and stepped outside.

Thad called after them: “I’m sure he’ll want to know if you learn anything.”

Even outside, walking to the car, the broiled-meat smell hung in her nostrils and she craved dinner. Isaac had called Mama, letting her know he’d be missing his home-cooked meal, but Petra had an inkling Mama would leave something out for her golden boy.

“Do I drop you back off or should we hit a coffee shop for some grub?”

He said, “I’m not really hungry but I’ll tag along.”

Not hungry? Petra realized she’d never seen him eat. Then she remembered: This one rode the bus, wore the same three shirts over and over.

Eating out was probably a once-in-a-while McDonald’s jaunt.

She said, “Let’s go.”

She upgraded to a steak-and-seafood place near the Encino-Tarzana border, because it looked unpretentious and not too expensive. When she examined the menu she found it higher-priced than she would’ve cared for. But so what, she was in the mood for substance.

The dining room beyond the busy bar was cozy and dark, set up with red booths, dark wood walls, and thirty-year-old head-shots of near-celebrities. The waitress who came to serve them was a strawberry blonde, young and cute and buxom, and Petra saw her give Isaac the once over. Then she studied Petra and curiosity sharpened her eyes.

Wondering: What’s the relationship here?

When Isaac slid as far from Petra in the booth as was possible, and Petra ordered for him, the way you do with a child, the waitress smiled. After that, she flirted shamelessly with the kid.

He seemed oblivious to all the smiles and hair flipping and back-arching and arm-brushing with an ample bosom. Smiling politely and thanking Strawberry Shortcake profusely for every smidge of service. When the food came, he kept his head low, studied his steak, finally cut into it.

Nice, thick filet mignon. He’d claimed to crave a burger but Petra had insisted and Strawberry had backed her up on that.

“Good for strong bones.” Smile, flip, arch, bosom-brush.

Almost as an afterthought, Petra ordered two glasses of Burgundy. Corrupting the youth of today. When the wine arrived, she decided to forgo the whole sniffing, swirling thing, not wanting to overwhelm the kid.

She was ravenous and attacked her surf-and-turf as if it was Schoelkopf’s face.

After a bit of silent snarling, she asked Isaac how his food was.

“Delicious. Thank you so much.” He’d finished his meat, was looking at a baked potato the size of a dog’s head.

“Big,” said Petra.

“Huge.”

“Probably radioactive. Some nefarious DNA-scramble scheme in Idaho.”

He laughed. Cut into the potato.

“So what do you think of Mr. Doebbler?”

“Hostile and asocial. I can see why Detective Ballou called him strange.”

“Anything else about him set you off?”

He thought. “He certainly wasn’t cooperative.”

“No, he wasn’t,” she said. “But that could’ve been our popping in unannounced. After all those years of no progress, I wouldn’t expect him to be a big police groupie.”

A drunk and a no-show. LAPD at its finest. She wondered what Isaac thought about that.

Would any of this show up in his dissertation?

How was she coming across?

She said, “Unfortunately, there are guys like Ballou and Martinez. Fortunately, they’re in the minority.” Little Miss Defensive. “What intrigues me about all that is Mr. Kurt Doebbler never complaining to their superiors. All that resentment but he kept it to himself.”

Isaac put down his knife and fork. “He wouldn’t, if he wanted the case to stay unsolved.”

Petra nodded.

“Amazing,” he said. “I’d never have thought of that.”

They ate some more. He said, “That comment he made, about not remembering what his wife looked like? Sometimes borderline personalities have a problem maintaining mental images of those close to them. Flat affect, also. Except when they feel they’ve been betrayed. When that happens, they can get pretty emotional.”

“Betrayed as in the wife having an affair,” she said. “That was just Ballou’s offhand comment and I’m not sure he’s worth paying attention to.”

He nodded.

“What are borderline personalities?” she asked him.

“It’s a psychiatric disorder involving problems of identity and intimacy- difficulty connecting with other people. Borderlines have higher-than-average rates of clinical depression and they’re more likely to get involved in substance abuse. Females tend to punish themselves but male borderlines can get aggressive.”

“Do they kill their spouses?”

“I’ve never heard that specifically. It’s just something that came to mind.”

Petra heard herself saying, “Doebbler’s an odd one, all right, but when you lose someone close to you, time does have a way of easing things. You forget. It’s protective. I’ve heard other relatives of victims say the same thing.”

Talking calmly while keeping a lid on what was blowing through her consciousness; all those hours poring over snapshots. Mom and Dad dating as college students. Mom tending to her brothers as infants, toddlers, little boys. Mom in a one-piece bathing suit looking gorgeous at Lake Mead. Despite the photos, it was all she could do to conjure up the merest hint of the woman who had died birthing her.

Her face must’ve betrayed something because Isaac looked confused.

She said, “Anyway, before we get too psychological about Kurt, let’s remember that his blood type didn’t match the sample they scraped off the seat, there’s absolutely no evidence linking him to the crime, and he does have an alibi, of sorts.”

She returned to her steak, decided she was no longer hungry.

Isaac said, “So what’s next?”

“Haven’t figured that out. Assuming I want to work the case. Any of them.” She shot him a fierce smile. “Look what you got me into.”

Another classic Isaac blush. The kid’s emotional barometer was fine-tuned, everything rose to the surface.

Polar opposite of Kurt Doebbler. The guy was weirdly flat.

Isaac was saying, “… sorry if I’ve complicated- ”

“You have,” said Petra. “But that’s okay. You did the right thing.”

He kept quiet. She cuffed his arm lightly. “Hey, I was just having a little fun at your expense.”

He managed a mini-smile.

“The truth is,” she went on, “diving into a half dozen cold cases that are probably unsolvable wasn’t what I had in mind when I programmed my day planner. But you’re right, there are too many similarities to dismiss.”

When had she decided that?

The wound pattern.

Or maybe sooner. Maybe she’d known right away and had just been denying it.

She said, “Letting it drop would put me in the same box as guys like Ballou and Martinez. So I’m fine with it. Okay?”

He murmured something.

“Pardon?”

“I hope it works out for you.”

“It will,” she said. “One way or the other.”

Listen to her, Little Miss Karma.

“You up for dessert?” Before he could answer, she was waving at Little Miss Strawberry.