Billy Straight

53

Friday morning, Petra woke thinking about Balch as suspect. It still made sense, but so did Ramsey.

Which one of them? Both of them? Neither of them- a horrible thought.

The report of Lisa's burned-out car was on page 5, along with a smaller reprint of her drawing, but nothing about the Venice tip or those from Watson. So Wil hadn't been forced to report yet.

As she showered and soaped her body, she realized Kathy Bishop's body was under the knife right now. She'd call Stu later. When things had settled. Meanwhile, there were some details to take care of before she set out for Montecito.

Dr. Boehlinger's hotel room didn't answer- out already, doing who knew what. A recheck of Missing Persons brought no clue to Estrella Flores's whereabouts, and by 9 A.M. she was on her way to Granada Hills to pick up Ron.

When she drove up, he was standing at the curb, holding a cell phone.

His house was a tiny Tudor on a sun-splashed side street, one story, the sharply pitched shake roof and half timbers and pseudo-gables silly but somehow touching: Someone had cared enough to lay in details. The grass was mown and edged but pale; two rosebushes flanking the stone walkway were knobby with deadheads, and half the oranges on a fifteen-foot Valencia had browned.

He was at the car door before she shifted into park. His hair was shower-moist, cowlicks sprouting like new wheat. A blue V-neck sweater, yellow button-down shirt, and off-white Dockers made him look younger- grad student, business administration. Oxblood penny loafers. Somewhere along the trajectory from rock drummer to cop he'd touched upon preppy. Dressed casually, he looked much younger, maybe younger than she did.

“Hi,” she said.

He got in. “Hi.” Lime-scented aftershave. He hadn't worn that the first time. That seemed like years ago. He made no move toward her now; locked the door and put the phone in his lap, explaining, “Just in case my mom needs to call.”

“I should move into the twentieth century, finally get one of those.”

“Get one of those hands-off deals,” he said. “Talk in the car, make everyone think you're psychotic, and they'll leave you alone.”

Laughing, she pulled away from the curb, wondering if she should mention the theory jolt about Balch. No, too speculative at this point. He had years on her. He was a rescuer. She wanted to look smart in front of him.

As she drove, they chatted. Small talk, but intelligent. He gave off an air of stability. Too boring for the Spanish equestrienne? Or would he reveal some grub-under-the-rock dark side if she waited long enough?

You are one untrusting broad. Thank you, Nick.

“Beautiful day,” she heard him say. His hands were quiet now. No gripping of the door handle or other signs of anxiety about her driving. The loafers looked freshly polished. Sharp crease in the Dockers- wasn't that sort of an anti-Dockers thing? Petra smiled at the thought of him wanting to impress her.

By the time they reached the 101 on-ramp, they were really talking.

She sped through the west Valley- past RanchHaven- into Thousand Oaks, Newbury Park, Camarillo, the produce fields and fertilizer stink of Oxnard. At Ventura, Ron pointed out a Golf N' Stuff on the east side of the freeway, telling her he sometimes took his girls there- they also had U-bump cars and miniboats, the latter a lot of fun if you don't mind getting wet. Getting all enthusiastic, but the bounce went out of his voice when Petra, thinking about Balch again, said, “Sounds cute.”

“If you're into that kind of thing,” he added, embarrassed.

“I am,” she said, hastening to salvage the conversation. “Grew up in Arizona, didn't see too many boats, mini or otherwise. After we solve the case, let's stop off on the way back and get wet.”

He didn't answer. She turned her head far enough to catch the blush on his neck.

Oh, jeez. How could a size-9 shoe fit completely in a mouth?

“Or,” she said, “we could golf. But only after we solve Lisa. We're gonna wrap the whole thing up today, right?”

“Sure,” he said, grinning. “Arizona. Didn't they move London Bridge there?”

She exited at Santa Ynez, asking him, “Do you know Montecito?”

“Only by reputation.”

“Which is?”

“Rich.”

Pulling to the side of the grove-bordered road, she consulted her Thomas Guide, located Ramsey's street two miles in, a pair of right turns and a left, and resumed driving. Montecito was ten degrees cooler than L.A., a perfect sixty-eight. Private groves bordered Santa Ynez Road. Rich indeed.

Petra had been up to Santa Barbara a few times with Nick- Sunday outings, eating seafood on the pier, scorning the sidewalk art. They'd passed Montecito on the freeway, Nick rhapsodizing about the estates, great Spanish architecture, old money, real class- it made Beverly Hills look like crap. Getting into one of his blind-ambition grooves, going on about how one day they'd have enough money to get a place there. But he'd never pulled off to show her.

She picked up speed. No town in sight yet, just the clean stretch of asphalt cutting through the umber fudge and chlorophyll of old trees, coral bursts of bougainvillea, oranges and lemons sparkling like gems. The sky was blue, the clouds were white, a clean yellow sun rose from behind the mountains, die-cut sharp, black, dabbed with lavender. What a place.

Ramsey had all this and the place in Calabasas, the cars, the real estate. Money wasn't everything, but it sure made things nice. What led rich people to screw things up so badly? She looked over at Ron, and from his expression she guessed he was asking himself the same thing.

Montecito's business district was four corners of earth-tone low-rise upscale shops. Then more road. Ramsey's street was skinny, darkened by shaggy eucalyptus, his property at a dead end, announced by blue-gray stone posts and a high black scrollwork gate, wide open. A Carpinteria Sheriff's car blocked the entrance, one deputy standing near the driver's door, hand on holster, another facing the vehicle, hands on hips.

“Welcoming party?” Petra said to Ron. “Did you tell them we were coming?”

“No.”

As they got closer, the deputy at the front of the squad car walked into the center of the road and halted them with his palm. Petra stopped. By the time the deputy reached them, she had her badge out.

He studied it. A kid. Tall, husky, red crew cut, two weeks of rusty mustache, swollen biceps. He looked over at Ron.

“Banks, L.A. Sheriff's. I spoke to Captain Sepulveda.”

“Yeah, he told us. Since the murder, we've been upping our patrols anyway. Good thing. Just caught a trespasser.” He hooked a thumb.

“Right now?” said Petra.

“He made it easy, left the gates open. Looks like a nutcase, verbally abusive. Claims he's Ramsey's father-in-law.”

Petra squinted at the cruiser. Through the rear window Dr. Boehlinger's goateed face seethed. She watched Boehlinger butt the glass with his shoulder, then retract, clearly in pain. A surgeon. Brilliant. The deputy watching him must have said something, because Boehlinger started screaming. Too far away to hear, but his mouth was wide open. The window glass gave him a preserved look. Rage in a jar.

She said, “He is Ramsey's father-in-law.”

“Come on,” said the red-haired cop. His name was Forbes.

“Dr. John Everett Boehlinger. Didn't he have ID?”

“Yeah, that's what his ID said, but that didn't mean anything to us.” Forbes grimaced. “He sure doesn't act like a doctor- got a toilet mouth.”

“What'd you catch him doing?”

“Coming out of a toolshed out back. The door was smashed- he obviously kicked it in, was carrying a shovel. Looked to us like he was planning to break a window in the house, do an unlawful entry. So he's really her father? Come on.”

Petra nodded.

“Shit.” Forbes cracked massive knuckles. “His demeanor, we figured a loony for sure. And he was talking crazy, bodies buried out here, he was gonna dig them up. We had to restrain him. Hands and feet. Kind of tough, hog-tying an old guy like that, but he tried to bite us.” Forbes looked at his hand, smooth and tan at the end of the buffed arm. The thought of bodily injury was a narcissistic insult. Working in a rich, quiet town, he'd actually managed to keep himself smooth.

“Small guy,” he added, “but incredibly feisty. Finally we got him quiet enough to untie his feet. Didn't want a heart attack or anything.” He shook his head. “Her father-shit!”

“Where does he say bodies are buried?” said Petra.

“We didn't ask. We figured him for a loony-tunes starfucker- we get them from time to time, all the Hollywood types with second homes up here. Tabloid reporters, too. We've been preparing ourselves for problems with Ramsey.”

“Had any?”

“Not till now. Maybe no one knows he's got a weekend place here yet.”

“Does Ramsey come up here much?”

“I've never seen him, but maybe he comes up at night. Lots of the Hollywood types do. Flying up at night to Santa B in copters or private planes, or they just limo straight up from L.A. The whole thing with them is not to be spotted. It's like a game, you know? I'm famous, but you can't see me. They never come into town to shop, have people doing things for them. And with the size of these properties, it's not like they've got real neighbors.”

Petra took in the surroundings. Long stretches of ten-foot wall on both sides. Through Ramsey's gate was a winding stone motor path flanked by palms. The guy loved palms.

“Who takes care of Ramsey's house when he's not here?” she said.

Forbes shrugged. “Probably a cleaning crew. There is a regular gardening crew, comes here Tuesday and, I think, Saturday.” Forbes touched an eyelash, scratched the side of his nose. “Ramsey's also got a gofer, comes up to check out the house. I ran into him on patrol a couple of days ago.”

“Greg Balch?” said Petra.

“Yeah, that's the one.”

The other deputy had turned his back to the cruiser. Shorter, darker than Forbes, thick arms crossing a barrel chest. Another buff-boy. Department must have a good gym.

“Switching cars,” said Petra.

“Yeah, a Lexus. Still parked behind the house. At first it looked funny, but he had the keys, a letter from Ramsey authorizing him to drive all his cars.”

Thumping noises sounded from the patrol car. Dr. Boehlinger, kicking the window.

“Why don't you let him out?” said Petra.

“You wanna take custody of him?”

“I want to talk to him.”

It took a long time to calm Boehlinger down. He was wearing a gray Washington U. sweatshirt, baggy gray tweed wool trousers, probably from an old suit, and white sneakers. Flecks of spit whitened the corners of his mouth, wisps of hair flew at random angles, and his goatee looked grizzled.

Finally, thirty seconds of silence earned him unlocked cuffs. The moment his hands were free, he brandished fists at the deputies. “You stupid fucking imbeciles!”

Forbes and the shorter man- Beckel- ignored him. Before uncuffing him, they'd held the little man at arm's length as he shouted and kicked- a cartoon situation. Now they headed back to their cruiser, conferring with Ron, as Petra ushered Boehlinger to her car.

“Idiots!” Boehlinger shouted. He coughed, spit phlegm into the dirt, started to rant again. Petra tightened her grip on his shoulder. He was shaking like a lapdog, still frothing at the mouth. “Brain-damaged idio-”

“Please, Doctor!”

“Don't please me, young la-”

Propelling him faster, Petra talked into his ear. “Dr. Boehlinger, I know you've been through hell, but if you don't settle down, we'll be forced to let them arrest you.”

Boehlinger said, “You're an idiot, too! That butcher walks free, bodies pile up, and you threaten me! Goddamn all of you, I'll have you all collecting welfare-”

“Bodies where?” said Petra.

“In there!” Boehlinger jabbed toward the gate. “Behind the pond- there must be a God! I came to get into the house, go through the butcher's papers, some evidence of what he did to Lisa, but I saw a hell-uva lot more than I bargained for-”

“What kind of evidence were you looking for, Doctor?”

“Anything,” Boehlinger said quickly.

“What made you think Ramsey'd left any evidence behind?”

“I didn't think! I hoped! Lord knows you people haven't done a damn thing! I dip into my own pocket, and you don't have the brains and the decency to follow-”

“Dr. Boehlinger,” Petra said firmly. “What evidence were you hoping to find here?”

Silence. Boehlinger's watery blue eyes lowered. “I didn't have a… clear concept. But what could it hurt? This is the place he beat my Lisa. What's to say he didn't write notes to himself- or something Lisa wrote- Stop interrupting my train of thought, young lady, the point is, I went to find something to break the window-”

“The shovel.”

“No, no, no! I chose the shovel after I saw it! I was looking for a chisel to pry the lock. I'm good with tools.”

The last sentence a pathetic boast. Look, Mom, I'm useful. Sulfurous breath blew out from between Boehlinger's lips. His eyes were frightened. Maybe he hadn't been the best father in the world, but Lisa's death had ripped him up. Such a small man.

Petra said, “You switched from the chisel to the shovel after…”

“After I saw the grave. Behind that pond of his.”

“A grave? How can you be-”

“Put your money on it,” said Boehlinger. “Fresh excavation, about six feet long. Far side of the pond. Plants trampled, plants missing. I've been here before. After the wedding, the bastard was trying to impress me. I have an eye for detail, saw the difference right away.”

“Is the pond plumbed?” said Petra. “Maybe there'd been a repair-”

“And maybe Charles Manson's the pope-designate. Don't be stupid, young lady! I've assisted at autopsies, seen my share of crime-scene photos. I know what a grave looks like.”

Ron came back, saying, “Looks like you're off the hook for now, Doctor.” Boehlinger huffed.

Forbes waved from the cruiser and Petra went over.

“Okay, he's yours. Hope you're taking him straight back to L.A.”

“We will eventually,” said Petra.

“Eventually?”

“We're in a bit of a bind, Deputy. He claims he saw a fresh grave on the Ramsey property, but we have no jurisdiction, can't step onto the property to check.”

“A grave? You're taking his bull seriously?”

“Given the details of our case, we can't afford to ignore it.”

“Oh, come on. Burying someone right here?”

Petra shrugged.

“Oh, man.” Forbes turned, and said “Gary?” to Beckel, who was sitting in the car writing an incident report. The shorter deputy had a broad, stoic face and a meaty chin. Forbes filled him in. Beckel said, “What, some kind of serial killer or something?”

“It'll probably turn out to be nothing,” said Petra. “On the other hand, if something did occur, it's your jurisdiction.”

“We can't just go in there,” said Forbes. “No warrant.”

“You've already been in there. Because of Dr. Boehlinger's trespassing- obvious criminal behavior gave you clear grounds for entry. Once on the premises you apprehended a suspect, then noticed something amiss. Fresh excavation.”

“Oh, come on,” said Forbes. “You're putting our nu- Putting us in a position.”

“Okay,” said Petra. “But I'll have to write this up for my boss, and you can bet the first thing Boehlinger's going to do when he gets back is contact the media. He's already played that game.”

Forbes cursed under his breath.

Beckel said, “Let's call it in, Chick.”

“Yeah,” said Forbes. “I'm calling my boss.”

When Petra returned to the car, Dr. Boehlinger was sitting in the backseat with Ron, talking animatedly. Dry-eyed, still tense, but conversing at normal volume. Ron listened intensely, nodding. Boehlinger smiled. Ron smiled back, said, “Interesting.”

“Extremely interesting,” said Boehlinger.

Petra got in the driver's seat.

“So?” said Boehlinger.

“I told them I thought they should take you seriously, Doctor. They're notifying their superiors.”

“In their case,” said Boehlinger, “that encompasses most of the world.”

Petra couldn't help herself; she laughed.

Ron said, “Doctor?” in a prompting tone.

Boehlinger cleared his throat. “I apologize for everything I said before, Detective Connor.”

“Not necessary, Doctor.”

“Yes it is. I've been a rude lout… but you have no idea what it's like to lose everything.”

“True,” said Petra. Suddenly she pictured Kathy Bishop under the knife. It was almost noon- Kathy was probably out of surgery, chest stitched. How much had been taken from her? Petra resolved to call the hospital soon.

“So tell me, Doctor,” said Ron. “Those autopsies you mentioned, were they part of your duties as ER chief, or special consultations?”

“That was years ago, Ron,” said Boehlinger wistfully. Ron? “Back when I was chief resident. I actually deliberated going into pathology, spent some time with the St. Louis coroner's. Back in those days, the place was a regular-”

New man. Dr. Banks, master psychologist.

Shuffling sounds drew Petra's eyes to the side window. Forbes's big feet scraping asphalt. “Okay,” he said, looking at Petra, avoiding Boehlinger. “The boss is coming. Then we'll have a look at this so-called grave.”

Captain Sepulveda was a blocky, silver-haired man around forty-five, with brown-suede skin and an impeccable uniform. He arrived in an unmarked with a third deputy, went onto Ramsey's property alone, and emerged moments later, ordering all three officers inside.

Petra and Ron and Boehlinger waited in the car as Boehlinger rambled on about medical school, graduating top of his class, multiple triumphs as an ER doctor.

Twenty minutes later, Sepulveda appeared, dirt streaks on his shirt, rubbing his palms together. A few athletic steps brought him to Petra's side. His eyes were slits, so compressed Petra wondered how he could see.

“Looks like we have a body. Female, buried four feet down. Maggots, some deterioration, but plenty of tissue still on it, so it's been days, not weeks.”

“Maybe two days,” said Petra, thinking: Had the car exchange been just a cover for Balch's trip? “Older Hispanic female? Approximately five-two, one-forty?”

The razor-cut eyes dipped at the outer corners. “You know her?”

“I believe I do. You might also want to have a look at that black Lexus.”

“Look for what?”

“Blood.”