Billy Straight

31

Routine. Am I a suspect?

Was he playing with her?

She called Stu at the station. He'd checked out an hour ago, and when she tried his house, she got no answer. Out with Kathy and the kids? Must be nice to have a life.

Back in L.A., she bought some salads at a mom-and-pop grocery on Fairfax, ate them at home while watching the news- no Ramsey info. She tried Stu again. Still no answer.

Time to simulate a life for herself.

Changing into acrylic-spattered sweats, she put on Mozart and squeezed paint onto her palette. Hunched on a stool, she worked till midnight. First the landscape, which was responding a bit, she felt in the groove, that hypnotic time contraction. Then another canvas, larger, blank and inviting. She laid on two coats of white primer, followed by a luxuriant layer of Mars black, and, when that dried, began a series of hastily brushed-in gray ovals that became faces.

No composition, just faces, scores of them, some overlapping, like fruit dangling from an invisible tree. Some with mouths parted innocently, all with pupilless black eyes that could have been empty sockets, ghostly discs, each one portraying a variant of confusion.

Each face younger than the last, a reverse aging, until she was painting nothing but children.

Perplexed children, growing on an invisible child tree… her hand cramped and she dropped the brush. Rather than get psychological about that, she laughed out loud, switched off the music, snatched the canvas off the easel, and placed it on the floor, face to the wall. Stripping naked and tossing her clothes on the floor, she took a long shower and got into bed. The moment the lights were off, she was playing back the interview with Ramsey.

Almost positive the guy was manipulating.

Not knowing what to do about it.

She woke up Wednesday morning still thinking about it. The way he'd flicked on the garage light, showing her the Mercedes, as if daring her to probe further. All those sympathy ploys- blood sugar, cataracts. Not much night driving.

Poor old guy, falling apart. But there was one health problem he'd never bring up.

One that could motivate some serious rage.

And still no lawyer, at least not out in the open. Some kind of double bluff? Ask the wrong question and in come the mouthpieces?

Or was he just feeling confident, because he had the perfect alibi?

Don't get sucked into it, no frontal assault. Go for the flanks. The underlings. Find Estrella Flores, have a chat with the charter pilot, though that wouldn't prove anything- there'd been plenty of time to get home, leave, pick up Lisa, kill her. Last but not least, Greg Balch, faithful lackey and likely perjurer. Petra was certain Ramsey had phoned the business manager the minute she drove off, but sometimes underlings harbored deep resentment- Petra remembered the way Ramsey had turned on Balch during the notification call. Balch standing there and taking it. Used to being a whipping boy? Put a little pressure on, ignite some long-buried anger, and sometimes the little people turned.

She reached her desk at 8 A.M., found a note from Stu saying he'd be in late, probably the afternoon.

No reason given.

She felt her face go hot; crumpled the note and tossed it.

The flight manager at Westward Charter confirmed Ramsey and Balch's Tahoe trip and the 8:30 P.M. Burbank arrival. Ed Marionfeldt, the pilot, happened to be in and she spoke to him. Pleasant, mellow, he'd done tons of trips with The Adjustor, no problems, nothing different this time. Petra didn't want to ask too many questions for fear of making Ramsey the prime suspect. Even though he was. She could imagine some defense attorney using Marionfeldt's testimony to illustrate Ramsey's normal mood that day. If it ever got to a trial- dream on.

A phone call to Social Security verified that Estrella Flores was indeed legal, her only registered address Ramsey's Calabasas house.

“So any checks would go there?” she asked a put-upon SSA worker.

“She hasn't filed for benefits, so there are no checks going out.”

“If you get a change of address, would you please let me know, Mr…”

“Vicks. If it comes to my attention I'll try, but we don't work with individual petitions unless there's a specific problem-”

“I've got a specific problem, Mr. Vicks.”

“I'm sure you do- all right, let me tag this, but I have to tell you things get lost, so you're best off checking in with us from time to time.”

She called Player's Management. No one answered; no machine. Maybe Balch was on his way up the coast to Montecito. Taking some downtime to obliterate evidence at the boss's request.

Next came the Merrill Lynch broker. Morad Ghadoomian had a pleasant, unaccented voice, sounded prepared for the call.

“Poor Ms. Boehlinger. I suppose you want to know if she had any financial entanglements. Unfortunately, she didn't.”

“Unfortunately?”

“No entanglements,” he said, “because there was nothing to tangle.”

“No money in the account?”

“Nothing substantial.”

“Could you be a little more specific, sir?”

“I wish I could- suffice it to say I was led to expect things that never materialized.”

“She told you she'd be investing large sums of money but didn't?”

“Well… I'm really not sure what the rules are here in terms of disclosure. Neither is my boss- we've never dealt with a murder before. We do get deceased clients all the time, estate lawyers, IRS reporting, but this… suffice it to say Ms. Boehlinger only came by my office once, and that was to fill out forms and seed the account.”

“How much seed did she sow?” said Petra.

“Well… I don't want to step out of line here… suffice it to say it was minimal.”

Petra waited.

“A thousand dollars,” said Ghadoomian. “Just to get things going.”

“In stock?”

The broker chuckled. “Ms. Boehlinger's plans were to build up a sizable securities account. Her timing couldn't have been better- I'm sure you know how well the market's been doing. But she never followed through with instructions, and the thousand remained in a money market fund, earning four percent.”

“How much did she say she was going to invest?”

“She never said, she just implied. My impression was that it would be substantial.”

“Six figures?”

“She talked about achieving financial independence.”

“Who referred her to you?”

“Hmm… I believe she just called on her own. Yes, I'm sure of it. A reverse cold call.” He chuckled again.

“But she never followed through.”

“Never. I did try to reach her. Suffice it to say, I was disap-pointed.”

Financial independence- Lisa expecting a windfall? Or just deciding to get serious as she approached thirty by banking Ramsey's monthly support check and living off her editor's salary? A surplus of eighty grand a year could add up.

A reduction in the eighty would have upset Lisa's investment plans.

Had Ramsey balked after Lisa got a job, threatened to take her back to court, and was that why she hadn't followed through?

Or was it something simple- she'd chosen another broker?

Not likely. Why would she have left the thousand sitting there with Ghadoomian?

Was money another issue between the Ramseys?

Money and thwarted passion- no better setup for murder.

She spent an hour on the phone talking to civil servants at the Hall of Records, finally located the original Ramsey divorce papers. The final decree had been granted a little over five months ago. No obvious complications, no petitions to alter support, so if Ramsey had balked, he hadn't made it official.

Then a message came through to call ID Division at Parker Center, no name.

The civilian clerk there said, “I'll put you through to Officer Portwine.”

She knew the name but not the face. Portwine was one of the prints specialists; she'd seen his signature on reports.

He had a reedy voice and a humorless, rapid delivery. “Thanks for calling back. This could be either a major-league screwup or something interesting, hope you can tell me which.”

“What's wrong?” said Petra.

“You sent us some material from the Lisa Boehlinger-Ramsey crime scene- food wrapper and a book. We obtained numerous prints, most likely female from the size, but no match in any of our files. I was just about to write you a report to that effect when I got another batch, supposedly from another case- burglary on North Gardner, latents from a kitchen knife and some food containers. I had a spare minute, so I looked at them, and they matched yours. So what I need to know is was there some kind of mix-up in the batch numbers, the forms getting screwed up? Because it's bizarre, two batches coming from Hollywood, one after the other, and we get the exact same prints. We caught hell about our cataloging last year. Even though we're careful, you know how much stuff we process. We've been bending over backwards, meaning if there is a problem on this one, it's on your end, not ours.”

How could a guy talk so fast? Enduring the speech, Petra had dug her nails into her palm.

“When was the burglary?” she said.

“Last night. A Six car handled it and referred it to one of your D's- W. B. Fournier.”

Petra looked over at Wil's desk. Gone and checked out.

“What kind of food containers were printed?”

“Plastic orange juice jug, the prints were on the paper label. And a pineapple- that was interesting, never printed a pineapple before. There're some other samples supposedly coming, says here a Krazy Glue tape from stainless steel plumbing fixtures, and a bottle of shampoo, also tape from… looks like a refrigerator, yes, a refrigerator. Sounds like a kitchen burglary. So what's the story?”

“I don't know a thing about the burglary. All we sent you from Ramsey were the food wrapper and the book and the victim's clothing.”

“You're telling me this other material isn't yours?”

“That is exactly what I'm telling you,” said Petra.

Portwine whistled. “Two sets of prints from the same person, two different crime scenes.”

“Looks that way,” said Petra. Her heart was racing. “Do you still have the Ramsey batch- specifically, the book?”

“Nope, sent it down to evidence yesterday at seventeen hundred hours, but I did keep a copy of the prints. Some pretty distinctive ridges, that's how I noticed the match.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Welcome,” said Portwine, grudgingly. “At least we don't have a problem.”

She left Wil Fournier a note to get in touch. Still no message from Stu, and he didn't pick up his cell phone.

After driving downtown to Parker Center, she smiled her way into the employee parking lot and went up to the third-floor evidence room, where she filled out a requisition for the library book. The evidence warden was a dyed-blond black woman named Sipes who was unimpressed by the fact that the victim was L. Boehlinger-Ramsey and pointed out to Petra that she hadn't written in the case number clearly. Petra erased and rewrote and Sipes disappeared behind endless rows of beige metal shelving, returning ten minutes later, shaking her head. “That lot number hasn't been checked in.”

“I'm sure it has,” said Petra. “Last night. Officer Portwine from ID sent it over yesterday at five P.M.”

“Yesterday? Why didn't you say so? That would be in a different place.”

Another fifteen minutes passed before Petra had the evidence envelope in hand and Sipes's permission to take it.

Back in the Ford, she removed the book. Our Presidents: The March of American History.

Bag lady with an interest in government and burglary. Breaking into homes stealing food? Most likely schizo. She flipped pages, looking for notes in the margin, some overlooked bit of scrap. Nothing. Remarkably, the checkout card was still in the circulation packet.

The Hillhurst branch. She remembered that. No activity for nine months.

No activity since Bag Lady had lifted it?

Petra tried to imagine her living on the street, thieving, reading. Stealing food and knowledge. There was a certain crazy romanticism to that.

Squatting to pee on a rock. Schizo Girl-Thoreau.

She drove back to Hollywood, found the Hillhurst branch in a strip mall a few blocks south of Los Feliz. Strange setup, not what Petra thought of as a library. Windowless slab, pure government gray-think, right next to a supermarket. Loose shopping carts nearly blocked the front door. A sign said it was a temporary location.

She went in carrying the evidence packet and her business card. The place was one big room, a gray-haired female librarian at a desk in the corner talking on the phone, a younger woman at the checkout desk, one patron- a very old guy in a cloth cap reading the morning paper, a furled umbrella on the table near his elbow, though the June sky was baby blue and rain hadn't fallen in months.

Natural-birch bookshelves on rollers, reading tables of the same pale wood. Travel posters trying to take the place of windows- what a pathetic bit of pretense.

The older librarian was engrossed in her phone chat, and Petra headed for checkout. The young woman was Hispanic, tall, well dressed in a budget gray rayon suit that looked better than it deserved to, draped over her slinky form. She had a pleasant face, warm eyes, decent skin, but what caught Petra's attention was her hair- black, thick, straight, hanging below the hem of her miniskirt. Like that country singer- Crystal Gayle.

“May I help you?”

Petra introduced herself and showed the card.

“Magda Solis,” said the woman, clearly thrown by the Homicide designation.

Petra slipped the red book out and placed it on the counter. Magda Solis's right hand flew to her left bosom. “Oh no, has something happened to him?”

“Him?”

“The little boy who…” Solis looked over at the gray-haired librarian.

“The boy who stole it?” said Petra. Small body impression, small hands, not a woman, a kid- why hadn't she thought of it? Suddenly, she thought of the painting she'd begun last night, the tree full of lost children, and fought the shudder that began at her shoulders and snaked its way down to her navel.

Solis scratched her chin. “Can we talk outside?”

“Sure.”

Solis hurried over to the older woman in a slightly flat-footed gait that managed to be graceful, arms bent tensely, glorious hair flapping. She said something that made the boss librarian frown, and returned, gnawing her lip.

“Okay, I'm on break.”

Out in the strip mall, near Petra's Ford, she said, “I'm a trainee, didn't want my supervisor to hear. Did something happen to him?”

“Why don't you tell me what you know, Ms. Solis?”

“I- he's just a little boy, maybe ten or eleven, at first I wasn't even sure it was him. Taking the books, I mean. But he was the only one who ever read the ones that were missing- this one especially he kept coming to, over and over, and then it was gone.”

“So he took other books, too.”

Solis fidgeted. “But he always brought them back- such a serious little boy. Pretending to be doing homework. I guess he didn't want to attract attention. I finally saw him do it- sneak something back. One that I'd marked missing. Something about oceanography, I think.”

“Pretending to do homework?”

“That's what it looked like to me. Always the same few pages of math problems- he always did math. Algebra. So maybe he's older. Or just gifted- from the things he read, I'll bet he was gifted.” Solis shook her head. “He'd do a little math and then head back to the stacks, find something, read for a couple of hours. It was obvious he just loved to read, and that's so rare- we're always trying to attract kids, and it's a struggle. Even when they do come in, they goof around and make noise. He wasn't like that. So well behaved, a little gentleman.”

“Except for stealing books.”

Solis worried her lip again. “Yes. Well, I know I should have said something, but he returned them, no harm done.”

“Why didn't you suggest he get a library card?”

“For that he'd need ID and an adult's signature, and he was obviously a street kid. I could tell from his clothes- he tried to look nice, damped down his hair and combed it, but his clothes were old and wrinkled, had holes in them; so did his shoes. And he wore the same couple of things over and over again. His hair was long, hanging over his forehead; looked like it hadn't been cut in a long time.” Reaching back, she touched her own locks and smiled. “I guess we were kindred spirits- please tell me, Detective, has something happened to him?”

“He may have been a witness to something. What else can you tell me about him?”

“Small, skinny, Anglo, kind of a pointy chin. Pale complexion, like he's anemic or something. His hair is light brown. Straight. I'm not sure about his eyes- blue, I think. Sometimes he walks with good posture, but other times he hunches over. Like a little old man- he has an old look to him. I'm sure you've seen that on street kids.”

“Did you ever speak to him?”

“One time, in the beginning, I came over to him and asked if there was anything I could help him with. He shook his head and looked down at the table. Got a scared look in his eyes. I left him alone.”

“A street kid.”

“Last year in college I did some volunteer work at a shelter, and he reminded me of the kids I saw there- not that they were into books. The things he read! Biographies, natural history, government- the presidents, this one, was his favorite. I mean, here was a kid society had obviously failed and he still believed in the system. Don't you think that's remarkable? He must be gifted. I couldn't turn him in- does my supervisor need to know?”

Petra smiled and shook her head.

Magda Solis said, “I figured the best way I could help him was let him use the library the way he wanted. He returned everything. Except the presidents book- where did you find it?”

“Nearby,” said Petra, and Solis didn't press her.

“How long has he been coming to the library?”

“Two, three months.”

“Every week?”

“Two to three times a week. Always in the afternoon. He'd arrive around two P.M., stay till four or five. I wondered if he chose afternoons because most kids are off from school then and he'd be less conspicuous.”

“Good thinking,” said Petra.

The librarian blushed. “I could be all wrong about him. Maybe he's a rich kid from Los Feliz, just likes to act weird.”

“When's the last time you saw him, Ms. Solis?”

“Let's see… a few days ago- last week. Must have been last Friday. Yes, Friday. He read a big pile of National Geographics and Smithsonians- didn't take anything.”

Last weekday before Lisa's murder. He hadn't returned since.

A kid. Living in the park. Reading in the dark- how? By penlight? Part of a street kid's survival stash?

From the Griffith Park lot to the North Gardner burglary was a good four, five miles. Traveling west- why? This was a kid who'd settled down, set up a routine, not a wanderer.

Scared? Because he'd seen something?

“I don't want to put him in danger,” said the librarian.

“On the contrary, Ms. Solis. If I find him, I can make sure he's kept out of danger.” Solis nodded, wanting to believe. The woman had bruised eyes. Kindred spirit-had she meant something beyond untrimmed hair?

“Thanks for your help,” said Petra.

“You're sure he's not… hurt?”

He was okay last night. Breaking into a house and cutting pineapple. “He's fine, but I do need to locate him. Maybe you can help me with that.”

“I've told you everything I know.”

Petra took out her pad and a number 3 pencil. “I draw a little. Let's see if we can come up with something.”