Billy Straight

56

There was enough skin on Estrella Flores's face for Petra to make the ID. The maid's throat had been slashed ear to ear, but no other wounds were evident. None of the overkill butchery visited upon Lisa.

Made sense, she supposed: Lisa was passion; this was snipping loose ends.

Balch or Ramsey? Or both? Neither was no longer a viable choice.

Dr. Boehlinger wanted to stay, but Sepulveda had Deputy Forbes drive him back to L.A., a match made in hell that caused Petra to grin inwardly despite the horror of the situation.

Poor Estrella. Talk about wrong place, wrong time. Still wearing her pink uniform. She'd probably been taken care of on Tuesday or Wednesday, driven up here on Wednesday.

Had to be late Wednesday or Thursday morning, the day Balch had been spotted leaving, because she'd interviewed him Wednesday evening and the Lexus had been parked in front of the Player's Management building. Empty. Clean. In contrast with the mess in the office. Had the deed already been done? Had Estrella been lying in that trunk during the interview?

She and Ron stood back as the local techs worked, hustling to finish up before darkness changed the game. Ramsey's Montecito spread was huge, the house old and stately, cream stucco and red tile, real Spanish, no bell tower, none of the crazy angles of the Calabasas castle. Giant oaks shaded the acre closest to the building. The landscaping took the shade into account: ferns, clivia, camellia, azalea. Lovely pathways of degraded granite had been laid out expertly.

The property dipped, leading the eye down to the pond, a hundred-foot disc of green water set out in full light. White and pink lilies claimed half the surface; flame-colored dragonflies zoomed past like tiny aircraft; a bronze heron stooped to drink. Cattails and more lilies in the background, yellow, white with amethyst centers. Petra could see the missing foliage that had tipped Dr. B. to the grave.

Precise eyes indeed.

The techs were concentrating on the black Lexus. The interior was onyx leather; black carpeting covered the trunk. Not the easiest surfaces for spotting bloodstains, but one of the criminalists thought he saw a patch the size of a dime on the inside of the trunk door, and Luminol confirmed it. Nothing on the car seats, but the test brought up Rorschach-like blots of blood all over the carpet.

“I'd say about a pint,” said Captain Sepulveda. “If that. Meaning he killed her somewhere else, wrapped her in something, and it leaked out. Then he shampooed the trunk- I could smell it. Figured if it looked clean, it was.”

Talking softly. Unhappy about being drawn in. Petra wondered if he'd ever been a homicide D.

He said, “We better get some warrants for the house and the grounds- who knows what else is out here.” He turned to face Petra, and his slit eyes must have focused on her, though she couldn't see enough iris to tell. “I'm going to talk to a judge right now. What's next for you?”

“Balch drove the car up here, so he's obviously a suspect,” she said. “I'm calling this in to my captain, asking to put out a warrant. Whether or not Balch was working for Ramsey remains to be seen, but I don't doubt this murder's related to ours. I need Balch and Ramsey located ASAP.”

Telling, not asking.

“Fine,” said Sepulveda. “I should be back within the hour. Any questions, talk to Sergeant Grafton.” He indicated a slim, attractive, dark-haired woman in plainclothes taking notes by the side of the pond.

He left, and Ron handed Petra the cell phone. She phoned Wil Fournier first. Away from his desk. She left the number. Schoelkopf was out, too- meetings all afternoon- but she convinced a clerk to track him down. He called five minutes later.

“I was with Lazara, this better be good.”

“Seems pretty good to me, sir.” She told him.

“Shit- okay, we pick up both of them pronto.”

“Ramsey's hiding behind Lawrence Schick.”

“I know that, so we yank the bastard the hell out from behind Schick's skirts. Just to talk, not an arrest. You stay there, be an eagle eye, don't lose control of the situation. And keep the goddamn phone line open.”

“Balch lives in Rolling Hills Estates,” said Petra. “His office is in Studio City. I've got both addresses.”

“Go.”

She read off the numbers. Schoelkopf clicked off.

Ron said, “I should call in, too. Hector, and my mom. We're not getting out of here for a while.”

She returned the phone. Nifty little Ericsson. “Is this private gear or department?”

“Private.”

“I'll reimburse you.”

He smiled and punched numbers. The Lexus was being winched to a tow truck; techs were setting up tape and post perimeters near the burial site; Sergeant Grafton paced off the area, pointing and instructing.

A Santa Barbara County coroner's station wagon drove up and two men in white got out with a folding stretcher. Estrella Flores's corpse was small. Those bowed legs, the gaping throat wound exposing a corrugated flash of trachea.

Ron couldn't find De la Torre, but he connected with his mother, and Petra walked away to give him privacy, thinking about the call she'd have to make to Javier Flores. Schoelkopf had ordered her to keep the line open. To hell with him. It was Ron's phone; let the department buy her one.

The tow truck backed out, manipulating the Lexus around oaks. Moments later, the coroner's guys carried the body to the wagon and followed. The garden looked trampled, fronds and leaves bent over, broken. Petra smelled a hint of ocean, Pacific currents managing to make it this far inland. Lilies swayed. The yellow tape danced.

Ron came back and gave her the phone.

“Well,” she said, “it started out as a nice day.”

“Still is.” He moved closer to her and his fingers touched hers for a second. Taking hold of her index finger, he squeezed gently and let go. He was staring straight ahead. Drummer's hands tapped a beat on the side of his thighs, but his eyes seemed serene.

He loves this, she thought. He'll do homicide as long as they let him.

The phone beeped. “Connor.”

Schoelkopf said, “Talked to Attorney Schick. He and Ramsey are on their way up there.”

“What about Balch?”

“Ramsey said he was supposed to be in his office. We called there, got no answer.”

“Same thing happened to me the time I interviewed him,” said Petra. “He was in but didn't pick up the phone.”

“Whatever. I've got officers headed there right now, and Rolling Hills has agreed to pay a house call.”

“Why's Ramsey coming here?” she asked.

“It's his house, Barbie. He's very upset.”