Billy Straight

58

Larry Schick wore a cheap-looking brown suit that probably cost three thousand dollars, all puckered around the lapels and sagging on his meager frame. Instead of a handkerchief in the breast pocket, he carried an ornately carved meerschaum pipe. The bowl hung out like a talisman. Woman's head. Creepy.

The attorney was younger than Petra expected, early to mid-forties, with a very tan pencil-point face, jet-black Prince Valiant 'do, and pink-plastic-framed eyeglasses. Snakeskin cowboy boots. Like one of those English rock stars trying to stretch the hip thing into middle age.

He and Ramsey arrived at the Montecito house just after six, Schick behind the wheel of a black Rolls-Royce Silver Spur. Malibu Colony sticker on the windshield, a bunch of club emblems fastened to the grille. Another car boy.

Ramsey got out first. He wore a faded denim shirt, black jeans, running shoes; looked even older than the last time she'd seen him. Taking in the scene, he shook his head. Schick came around from the driver's side and touched his elbow. Petra and Ron were with them before they could take another step. Ramsey kept staring at the crime tape.

The estate was quiet now; only a few techs still working. No word from Sepulveda on the warrants yet. Sergeant Grafton remained stationed near the pond. She'd introduced herself a while back. First name, Anna. Bright, art history degree from UCSB, which gave them something to talk about during the dead time. She was flying to Switzerland next week. “Major burglary, old masters. We recovered almost all of them. It'll never hit the papers.” No interest in homicide, no attempt to take over the case.

Now she watched the arrival of the Rolls, met Petra's eye, studied Ramsey for a while, and turned the other way.

Petra said, “Evening, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Larry Schick,” said the lawyer, interposing his arm between them.

Ramsey stepped back. He looked at Ron, then zeroed in on Petra. “What the hell is going on?”

“Estrella Flo-”

“I know, I know, but what was she doing up here?”

“We were going to ask you that, sir.”

Ramsey shook his head again and clicked his teeth together. “Unreal. The world's gone nuts.”

Schick's facial muscles hadn't budged. He said, “What exactly happened to her, Detective?”

“Too early to give out details, Mr. Schick, but I can tell you she was murdered very brutally and buried over there.” She pointed at the pond. The gravesite was marked by a stake.

“My God,” said Ramsey, turning away.

Petra said, “Mr. Ramsey, did Mrs. Flores ever work at this house?”

“Sure.”

“Recently?”

“No. Back when Lisa and I were together.” By the end of the sentence, Ramsey's voice had thickened. He glanced at the stake again and winced.

Schick said, “Detective, why don't we do this a little later-”

“It's okay, Larry,” said Ramsey. “Lisa and I used to spend weekends here. Sometimes Lisa brought Estrella with us to clean. I don't think Estrella had a key, though. And I can't see why she'd come up here.”

“Who cleans the house now?”

“A cleaning company. Not regularly, maybe once a month. I never use the house anymore.”

“What's the name of the company?”

“I don't know. Greg handles it.”

“Does Mr. Balch come up personally to let them in?”

“Sure.” Ramsey studied her.

“Where is Mr. Balch now?”

Ramsey looked at his watch. “Probably on his way home.”

“He worked today?”

“I assume.” Ramsey's voice had cleared.

“You haven't spoken to him recently?” said Petra.

“The last time I spoke to him was, let's see… two days ago. He called to ask if there was anything I needed. I said no. He tried to cheer me up. I've been mostly hanging around the house, trying to avoid the media… now this insanity.”

Petra said, “We tried to call Mr. Balch at the office and he didn't answer.”

“Maybe he stepped out- what's the big deal?”

“We're talking to everyone with access to this property.”

“Access?” said Ramsey. “I suppose anyone could climb the gate. Never installed electric gates.”

“No need?”

“Never got around to it. When Lisa and I came up, we used a padlock. The thing that bugs me is how did Estrella get up here? She didn't drive.”

“Excellent question,” said Petra.

Schick said, “Hopefully you people will come up with some answers.” He removed the pipe, inspected the bowl, turned it upside down. Nothing fell out.

Petra said, “So you haven't asked Mrs. Flores to clean this house recently.”

“Never. Listen, you have my permission to go over the whole place. House, grounds, anything. Don't bother with warrants-”

“Cart,” said Schick. “Even in the spirit of helpfulness-”

Ramsey said, “Larry, I want to get to the bottom of this. No point slowing things down.” To Petra: “Just do whatever the hell it is you do. Tear down the whole goddamn place for all I care.”

He swiped at his eyes, turned his back, and walked several steps. Schick followed him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Balch had offered similar comfort that first day and Ramsey's response had been to turn on him. But he accepted the attorney's gesture, nodding as Schick told him something. Petra saw him pinch the top of his nose. He and Schick returned.

“Sorry, Detective Connor. Anything else?”

“Was there any reason for Mr. Balch to be up here recently?”

“Like I said, he comes up to fix things, let in workmen. If there was something to fix, he'd have a reason.”

“But you're not aware of anything specific.”

“I wouldn't know,” said Ramsey. “Greg takes care of things.”

“Both houses?”

“Absolutely.”

“Does that include exchanging cars?”

“Pardon?”

“Bringing the Jeep to L.A. for maintenance,” said Petra. “Leaving his own car here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Balch did that yesterday, sir. A local deputy saw him exit the property, and Mr. Balch told him you'd asked him to bring the Jeep down for maintenance. He left his Lexus here.”

“Makes sense,” said Ramsey. “The Jeep was for weekends here- Lisa liked it. I rarely use it, so maybe it seized up.”

“But you don't know that.”

“No, I'm guessing.”

“Where do you take the Jeep for service?”

“Some Jeep dealer in Santa Barbara. I think.”

“Any reason to bring it to L.A.?”

Ramsey shrugged and stroked his mustache. “Maybe Greg switched dealers. Maybe he had a problem with the one in Santa Barbara. Why all these-”

“I just need to get this straight,” said Petra, feigning confusion. “You never asked him specifically to pick up the Jeep.”

“Not specifically- what are you getting at?”

She pulled out her pad, scrawled. “Maybe nothing, sir.” After writing, she snuck in a quick cartoon of Schick. The stupid haircut made it easy.

Ramsey was staring at her. “You think Greg-”

Petra didn't answer. Next to her, Ron was as still as a machine.

“Oh, c'mon,” said Ramsey. “No way. No, that's absolutely crazy-”

“How did Mr. Balch and Estrella Flores get along?”

“They got along fine.” Ramsey laughed. “This is totally nuts. If Greg says the Jeep needed maintenance, it did. What's going on here is probably some kind of psycho stalker. Someone with a grudge against me, so he goes after people… close to me.”

“Mrs. Flores was close to you?”

“No- I don't know. All I'm saying is these nuts are all over. Look at John Lennon, all the crap people in the industry put up with. Have you checked out anything like that?”

“We're looking at all kinds of things,” said Petra.

Schick said, “I know someone who can look into it, Cart.”

Ron hadn't said a word. Petra glanced at him, letting him know it was okay. He said, “In terms of stalkers, do you have anyone in mind, Mr. Ramsey?”

“If I did, don't you think I'd tell you?” Harder tone with Ron. “Jesus.”

Petra closed her pad. “Thanks for giving the okay to search, sir. It will save us time and paperwork. If you don't mind putting it in writing-”

Schick barked on cue: “Before we go that far, let's pin down the details.”

“Let them do their job, Larry,” said Ramsey. To Petra: “Whatever turns up, I guarantee you, it will have nothing to do with Greg.”

Schick made his mouth very small and ran a finger under thick black bangs. Why would a grown man opt for a hairstyle like that? Something to catch jurors' attention? Maybe the meerschaum was a prop, too.

Reality, fantasy…

Petra said, “I'll get some paper for you to write on, sir.”

Schick said, “Hold on please, Detective. Cart, you're upset, and you're going to get taken advantage of. I've seen the things that occur during searches. Breakage, pilferage. I strongly advise you-”

“Let them break stuff, Larry. I don't give a shit. Like I said, tear the whole place down.” He faced Petra. “You're just theorizing, right? You can't be seriously thinking Greg had anything to do with this.”

Schick said, “At the very least, I insist upon being present during any search.”

“Fine,” said Petra. To Ramsey: “One more thing: Greg Balch's behavior the night of Lisa's murder. When the two of you returned from Reno-”

“Detective,” said Schick. “There has to be a better time for this.”

Ramsey said, “What about his behavior?”

“Did he act differently in any way?”

“No. The same old Greg.”

“The day we visited your house your Mercedes was gone. Where was it?”

“What does that have to do with Greg's behavior?” said Ramsey.

“Sir, if you'd just bear with me-”

“The Mercedes was being serviced,” said Ramsey. He'd told her that, but if the redundant questioning bothered him, he didn't show it. “Too many toys- there's always something in need of fixing.”

“Did Greg bring the Mercedes in?” said Petra. Ron had turned around, was studying the house.

“Or the dealer picked it up,” said Ramsey.

“What needed to be done to the car?”

“I have no idea.”

“So it was driving okay.”

“Yes, it was fine. Maybe it needed a routine oil change, I don't know.”

“What Mercedes dealer do you use?”

Ramsey put a finger over his mouth. “Some place nearby- in Agoura, I think.” He laughed harshly. “As you can see, I'm very in touch with my life.”

Petra smiled at him. “The second time I came to your house, the Mercedes was back in the garage. Who brought it over?”

“Same answer: Either someone from the dealer or Greg. I think it was Greg, but what's the diff-”

“How did Greg and Lisa get along?” Petra said, talking faster, a little louder. If Schick hadn't been there, she'd have stepped closer to Ramsey, invading his personal space, forcing eye contact. Even with the attorney hovering, it was a silver bullet of a question, and Ramsey's head moved back.

“Greg and Lisa? Fine- everyone got along fine.”

“No problem between them?”

“No. I can't believe you're wasting time on- He's my closest friend, Detective Connor. We were kids together. He and Lisa got along fine. Hell, he introduced me to Lisa.”

“At the pageant?” said Petra.

“At the pageant, but he knew her before. They-” Ramsey stopped.

“They what, sir?”

“They dated. Nothing serious, just a few times, so don't go construing. It was over by the time Lisa and I started dating. Greg had no problem with it. If he had, would he have introduced us?”

Why, indeed. Suppositions drag-raced through Petra's head.

Beauty queen with sights set on the industry. Believing, at first, that Balch was a Hollywood heavyweight- maybe Balch had used that as a pickup line. They start dating, he pours on the b.s., but she sees through it, learns where the real clout is.

Throwing the small fish back, she goes for the whopper.

“Everyone got along,” said Ramsey, but his voice had weakened and he was picking at his mustache.

Schick's stick face was all adrenaline, but he still wasn't moving. Same for Ron. It made Petra feel as if the two of them were fading out of view, bit players, spotlighting her and Ramsey.

She said, “Okay, sir, thanks for your help- do you have a key to the house?”

“Here,” said Schick, taking out a ring and fingering a brass Schlage.

Someone else to answer for Ramsey, take care of him.

Being a star, even a minor one, was a return to childhood.

Drawing Ron fifty feet away, under the largest of the oaks, Petra kicked acorns and said, “Anything I missed?”

“Not that I see. Be interesting to know if the Mercedes was taken in for service. You're thinking it might have been Lisa's murder car?”

Petra nodded.

“Different cars for different kills,” said Ron. “Keep us guessing.”

“Balch is looking nice and dirty, isn't he?”

“Filthy.”

“Want to try to call some Mercedes dealers?” said Petra. “Maybe some stay open past six.”

“Will do.” He removed the cell phone from his pocket.

She gazed over at Ramsey and Schick. They'd drifted back to the Rolls. Schick was leaning against the front fender, caressing the meerschaum, offering some kind of lawyerly counsel. Ramsey seemed uninterested.

“Cars,” said Petra, “were also Lisa's preferred venue for sex. The case is pure L.A.”

“The Jeep for Lisa would entail driving back and forth from here,” said Ron. “Balch and Ramsey got back from Reno just a couple of hours before Lisa was abducted. Not enough time, so I bet on the Mercedes or the Lexus or another of Ramsey's wheels- which would be good for Balch if he was trying to shift suspicion. We should also try Burbank airport, that charter company Ramsey uses. Balch has got to have access to the account.”

“Rabbiting by charter?” said Petra.

“Just a possibility.”

Images flashed: Two young bucks head for Hollywood, but only one ends up rich. With the girl, too. Balch had mentioned two failed marriages. Another reason for him to be bitter.

She remembered his remarks about Lisa's temper, her “going off on Cart.” At the time, it had puzzled Petra. Why was good-buddy Greg giving the boss a motive? Now it made perfect sense.

Something else: Balch, a total slob, had been wearing brand-new white tennis shoes.

Because the old ones were soaked with blood?

She said, “I want to chat more with Mr. Adjustor. Thanks for making the calls.”

“Remember the name of the charter company?”

“Westward Charter. The pilot they use is Ed Marionfeldt.” Rattling off facts without consulting her pad. Everything coming together; a new rhythm. She walked back to Ramsey and Schick.

Still by the Rolls, but neither man was talking. Schick studying Ramsey; Ramsey staring at the ground. As Petra got closer, he looked up.

“Mr. Ramsey, when you returned from Tahoe, you were extremely tired, went to sleep earlier than usual. Correct?”

“I was bushed. We were going since early morning.”

“Greg Balch drove the two of you from Burbank airport to your house.”

“Yes.” Mention of Balch's name seemed to weary Ramsey.

“Then you and Mr. Balch had dinner at your home and he had you sign some business papers- do you recall the nature of those papers, by the way?”

“Some kind of lease agreement. I own office buildings.”

Petra copied that down. “All right, please bear with me: Who cooked dinner?”

Ramsey smiled. “We're talking sandwiches and beer.”

“Who made the sandwiches?”

“Greg.”

“Not Estrella Flores?”

“She went off duty at seven, was already in her room.”

“Doing what, sir?”

“Whatever it is she did in there. I think I heard the TV.”

“Where's the maid's room?”

“In the service wing. Off the kitchen.”

“Okay,” said Petra, adding some details to Schick's caricature. Concentration lines on the forehead, pout creases. “So Greg prepared the sandwiches and poured the beer.”

“Yup. The beer was Grolsch, if it matters.”

Imported lager with a barbiturate chaser? thought Petra. Balch slipping Ramsey a mickey?

If so, had the underling stopped to deliberate? Wondered about adding a little more powder?

Paying Ramsey back for all those years of friendship.

Some friendship. Not one single acting job, putting Balch down in public, sticking him in that crappy office, a middle-aged errand boy.

The unkindest cut of all: Lisa.

Because he'd met Lisa first. Gave her up to Cart. Always Cart.

Petra could almost feel the rage, herself.

What had led Balch to stalk Lisa that night? Had she reignited their old relationship, then cut it off? Or had Balch just succumbed to his own fantasies?

Petra pictured the blond man waiting by Lisa's apartment. Watching the Porsche drive out of the subterranean lot. Following.

In one of Cart's cars. He had access to all the cars. All the toys.

Tonight he'd play.

Taking what was his.

The same way he'd taken Ilse Eggermann?

Ilse. Lisa. The names were virtual anagrams.

Patterns. A crazy notion, but when it hit you in the face, you said ouch.

How many other dead blond girls were there? Girls who reminded Balch of Lisa.

Where the hell was Balch?

Or maybe she was all wrong and the lackey would show up, alibied, a perfect explanation, the case in tatters and some psycho was stalking Ramsey.

Or was Ramsey the stalker?

The boy in the park might know. Had Wil made any progress? She'd call him again as soon as she finished up with Ramsey.

“The beers,” she said. “Did you drink them from bottles or cans?”

“From a glass,” said Ramsey, as if she'd asked a rude question.

Cans you opened yourself; bottles you could open for someone else… “And right after you drank, did you feel even more tired?”

“No,” he said. “I told you I was tired all day, I mean the alcohol might've been the topper, but-” The blue eyes widened. “Oh, c'mon- you've got to be kidding.”

“About what, sir?”

“Something in the beer- no, no. No way in hell. I'd know if- no, it didn't feel that way. I was just bushed from overwork and travel. I conked out. We both did.”

“How long did you sleep that night?”

Ramsey stroked his mustache, licked his lips.

Schick said, “Let's finish up here, Detective.”

“Almost done,” said Petra, smiling. The lawyer didn't smile back.

“I got up around eight, eight-thirty,” said Ramsey. “So eleven hours.”

“Is that your typical sleep pattern?”

“No, usually seven's enough, but- oh, come on. I would've felt something. Woozy, whatever. This is James Bond stuff, Detective Connor. I make movies. I know the difference between fantasy and reality.”

His eyes told her a new, troubling logic had begun to worm its way into his brain.

True confusion or acting?

The difference between fantasy and reality. The phrase seemed to mock Petra.

“I'm sure you're right, Mr. Ramsey.” She watched Ron pocket the phone as he returned. Schick was watching her.

She excused herself, and met Ron well out of Ramsey and Schick's earshot.

“Only one open Mercedes dealer,” he said. “Sherman Oaks, never serviced Ramsey's cars. But bingo at Westward Charter. Balch tried to fly out last night. Called around eleven, wanting to book a solo trip to Vegas. Said it was a business trip. Westward doesn't take off past ten, and told him to check commercial flights. We'd better start calling airlines.”

“Oh my,” she said.

“Stupid move,” said Ron, “trying to use the charter.”

“Billing it to the boss,” said Petra. Payback.

She noticed Ramsey staring at her. Had she given away something with her body language?

She ignored him. Nice to be able to do that.