reached the family first.
Taking a can of root beer out of the fridge, she kicked off her shoes and sat drinking at the dinette table. Contemplating dinner, though she wasn’t really hungry. Her father’s voice, gently prodding, reverbed in her head. Nutrition, Pet. Got to keep those amino acids nice and rich.
He’d raised her since infancy, had a right to mother. When she thought about his cruel, rotting death, it hurt so bad. Quickly, she chased his picture from her mind, but the resulting blank space felt horrible, too.
Nutrition… force down a sandwich. Dry salami on stale ciabatta, mustard and mayo, something green-a kosher pickle, that qualified. There you go, Food Police.
Fixing a plate but not eating, she tried the Boehlingers a third time. Still busy. Could the story have hit the news that fast?
She switched on the TV, channel-surfed. Nothing. The radio, preset to KKGO, offered her someone’s symphony while she nibbled the stiff sandwich.
Her own tight little apartment. Less than half the rent of Lisa’s.
She and Nick had started out sharing a West L.A. flat, but right after the impulsive Vegas wedding, they’d leased a much bigger place. Up-and-down studio on Fountain near La Cienega, leaded windows, parquet floors, courtyard with fountain, gorgeous Spanish architecture. More than enough space for both their workspaces. Nick insisted he needed room to stretch, and claimed the master bedroom for his studio.
They’d never furnished-lived with boxes and crates, slept on a mattress in the smaller bedroom. Petra’s easel and paints ended up downstairs in the breakfast room. Eastern exposure. She dealt with morning glare by drawing the blinds.
Now her easel was in the living room and she still had almost no furniture. Why bother; she was seldom here except to sleep, had no visitors.
The triplex she lived in was just south of Sixth Street, a charming old place with thick walls, high ceilings, crown moldings, waxed oak floors, moderate crime in the neighborhood. At eight hundred a month, a bargain, because the landlord, a Taiwanese immigrant named Mary Sun, was thrilled to have a cop tenant. Confided, “This city, all the blacks, very bad.”
Museum Row was a short stroll, as were the galleries on La Brea, though Petra had yet to visit any of them.
When she had Sundays off, she scanned the papers for auctions, flea markets, antique shows, even garage sales, when they were in good neighborhoods.
Pickings were slim. Most people thought their garbage was treasure, and she was more of a browser than a buyer. But the few things she had bought were good.
Lovely iron headboard, probably French, with an impossible-to-fake patina. Two birch nightstands with floral stenciling and yellow marble tops. The old woman she’d bargained with had claimed they were English, but Petra knew they were Swedish.
A few old bottles on the ledge of the kitchen window; a bronze statue of a little boy with a small dog, also French.
And that was about it.
She got up and put her plate on the counter. The tile was clean but old and cracked in a few places. The kitchen at Fountain had featured a Euro range and blue granite counters.
Cold counters.
Nick had two ways of making love. Plan A was telling her how much he loved her, caressing her softly, sometimes too softly, but she never protested and eventually he got around to exerting the right pressure. Kissing her neck, her eyes, her fingertips as he kept up the romantic patter, how beautiful she was, how special, what a privilege it was to be inside her.
Plan B was hoisting her up on blue granite, hiking her skirt, sliding off her panties while managing to unzip himself, placing both hands on her shoulders, and plunging in like an enemy.
In the beginning, she’d been excited by both A and B.
Later, she lost her taste for B.
Later, all he wanted was B.
Suddenly, the remains of the salami and the bread and the mustard and the mayo looked like lab supplies. Pushing the plate away, she picked up the phone.
This time, a man with a cultured, middle-aged voice answered.
“Dr. Boehlinger.”
Remote but calm. So they hadn’t found out.
Petra’s heart was racing; would telling the mother have been worse?
“Doctor, this is Detective Connor of the Los Angeles Police De-”
“Lisa.”
“Sir?”
“It’s Lisa, right?”
“I’m afraid so, Doctor. She-”
“Dead?”
“Unfortunately, Doc-”
“Dear God-goddamnit, goddamnit, that bastard, that goddamn bastard, that bastard!”
“Who, Doc-”
“Who else? Him, that piece of garbage she married. She told us if anything happened it would be him-oh God, my little girl! Oh Jesus! No, no, no! ”
“I’m sorry-”
“I’ll kill him. Oh Jesus, no, my little girl, my poor little girl!”
“Doctor,” she said, but he kept on. Ranting and cursing and pledging vengeance in a voice that managed, eerily, to remain cultured.
Finally, he ran out of breath.
“Dr. Boeh-”
“My wife,” he said, incredulously. “She’s out tonight, goddamn Hospital Auxiliary meeting. Usually I’m the one who’s out and she’s in. I knew Lisa was worried about him, but how could it come to this!”
Then silence.
“Dr. Boehlinger.”
No answer.
“Sir? Are you all right?”
More silence, then a very small, strangled “What?” and she knew he’d been crying, was trying to hide it.
“What?” he said.
“I know it’s a horrible time, Doctor, but if we could talk for a-”
“Yes, yes, let’s talk. At least until my wife comes home-then.. Jesus… what time is it-ten-forty. Just got home myself. Saving fools’ lives while my little-”
Petra nearly recoiled from the loud, terrible laugh on the other end. Needing to reel him in, she said, “Are you a surgeon, sir?”
“Emergency room surgeon. I run the ER at Washington U. Hospital. How did he do it?”
“Pardon?”
“How? Method. Did he strangle her? Usually husbands shoot or strangle their wives. Least that’s what I’ve seen- how the hell did he do it? ”
“She was stabbed, sir, but we don’t know yet who-”
“Oh yes you do, Miss-I don’t remember your name-you certainly do know, I’m telling you, so you know. It was him. Don’t doubt it for a goddamn minute. Don’t waste your time looking anywhere else, just haul in that piece of garbage and you’ll have it solved.”
“Sir-”
“Don’t you understand what I’m telling you?” Boehlinger shouted. “He beat her-she called us and told us he beat her. A goddamn actor. One step above a whore! Too damn old for her, but when he hit her, that was the last straw!”
“What did Lisa tell you about the incident?”
