I found a Yellow Pages in a phone booth, took it back to the park, and looked up SCHOOLS. There were no junior highs listed and that confused me, so the next day, I called the school board, making my voice as low as possible and saying I’d just moved to Hollywood with my twelve-year-old son and he needed a junior high.
The woman on the other end said, “One second, ma’am,” and put me on hold for a long time. Then she came back, saying, “Thomas Starr King Middle School on Fountain Avenue,” and she gave me the address.
I walked over at noon. It turned out to be around two miles away from Place Three, in a grungy-looking neighborhood and gigantic—all these pink buildings with bright blue doors, a humongous yard surrounded by high fences. I watched from across the street and learned that school ended at 1 P.M., with tons of kids flooding out of the yard laughing and punching each other. That gave me a pain in my throat.
One P.M. dismissal meant I could walk around in the afternoon and not get busted.
I made a schedule: Mornings would be for washing up, eating whatever I’d put away the night before for breakfast, reading and studying, checking out the Places to make sure no one had found the stuff I hid. Afternoons would be for getting new food and whatever else I needed.
I went back to King Middle School again, during ten o’clock recess. Kids were out in the yard, and the teachers I saw were talking to each other. I slipped in through one of the gates and walked around like I belonged. There were two separate supply rooms where the books were stored.
It took eight visits to get what I needed.
It was easy. Who’d suspect a kid would take books?
I got myself textbooks for seventh, eighth, and ninth grade, some pens and pencils and pads of lined paper. English, history, science, math all the way up to algebra.
Without rowdy kids or Moron distracting me, I could concentrate; it only took two months to get through all the books. Even algebra, which I’d never had before and looked hard—all those letter symbols that didn’t make any sense at first—but the beginning was all review, and I just moved ahead page by page.
I liked the idea of variables, something meaning nothing by itself but taking on any identity you wanted.
The all-powerful X. I thought of myself as X-boy—nothing, but also everything.
I took all the books back to King Middle School one night and left them at the fence. Except the algebra text, because I wanted to practice equations. I knew I had to keep my mind busy or it would get weak, but I was tired of schoolbooks, wanted some vacation. Different types of knowledge—encyclopedias, biographies of people who’d succeeded. I missed my presidents book.
No storybooks, no science fiction; I don’t care about things that aren’t true.
I found a library right off Los Feliz, just a few blocks down on Hillhurst, a strange-looking place with no windows, stuck in the middle of a shopping center. Inside was one big room with colorful posters of foreign cities trying to imitate windows and just a few old people reading newspapers.
I was dressed neat and had the algebra book, pencil and paper, and a backpack. Sitting at a table in a far corner, I pretended to be doing equations and checked the place out.
The woman who seemed to be the boss was old and sour-looking, like the librarian back in Watson, but she stayed up front talking on the phone. The young Mexican with the really long hair was in charge of checking out books and she did notice me, came over smiling to ask if I needed help.
I shook my head and kept doing equations.
“Ah,” she said, in a very soft voice. “Math homework, huh?”
I shrugged, just ignored her completely, and she stopped smiling and walked away.
The next time I came in, she tried to catch my eye, but I kept shining her on and after that she ignored me, too.
I started to show up once or twice a week, always after 1 P.M., starting with phony homework, then examining the shelves till I found something, and reading for two hours.
Sometimes I could finish a whole book in that time. On the third week, I came across the exact Jacques Cousteau book I’d had back in Watson and thought: I am definitely in the right place.
I found the other presidents book soon after. It was the first one I took. It’s the only one I kept and I’m still not sure why. I took excellent care of it, wrapping it in dry cleaner’s plastic. So there was no real crime.
Still, I felt bad about it. Kept telling myself that one day, when I was an adult and had money, I’d give books to the library. Sometimes I wondered if I’d last long enough to be an adult.
Now, after what I’ve seen, everything seems shaky. Maybe it’s time to leave the park. But where would I go?
My foot catches on a rock, but I keep my balance—finally, here’s Five, the smell of the zoo blowing through the fern tangle. Time to hide, get some rest, do some thinking.
I’ve got to do some serious thinking.
CHAPTER
10
Seeing Ramsey’s house, Petra thought back to her architectural history course and tried to come up with a label. Confused Spanish pseudo-Palladian? Postmodern Mediterranean Eclectic? Hot-shot Hacienda?
One big heap of stucco.
The structure sat atop a peak so steep Petra had to crane to see the top. Pink, as the guard had promised, a rosy hue darker than the columns behind another set of columns and gates—cage within a cage. The driveway up to the house was stamped to look like adobe bricks, lined with Mexican fan palms. Through the posts she saw a shiny black Lexus parked in front.
They drove up to the gates, and now Petra could see at least an acre of sloping front lawn. The house was two and a half stories tall, the half being a bell tower above limed-oak double entrance doors. A real-life bell looked to be a knockoff of the one in Philadelphia. Wings flared at oblique angles, like those of a turkey that had cooked too long and loosened. Lots of odd-shaped windows, some leaded and stained. Verandas and balconies were fronted by verdigrised iron railings and the roof tiles had been artificially antiqued rust-gold. To the right of the limed doors was a five-door, extra-deep garage. Room for Ramsey’s studio-supplied limo, she supposed.
No other houses nearby. King of the mountain.
More palms rose behind the house, their fringed tops extending above the roofline like some kind of New Age buzz cut. Petra could smell horses, but she couldn’t see any. The Santa Susannas were chalky blue in the distance. No live oaks here. Too many sprinklers.
Stu nosed the Ford close to the box. “Ready, O ye messenger of doom?”
“Oh yeah.”
He pushed the button. Nothing for a second, then a woman’s voice said, “Ya?”
“Mr. Ramsey, please.”
“Who this?”
“Police.”
Silence. “Hold on.”
A long minute passed, during which Petra looked back at the sheriff’s car. Hector De la Torre was at the wheel, saying something she couldn’t read. Banks was listening, but he saw her and gave a small wave just as a short, stout Hispanic woman in a pink-and-white uniform came out through the double doors. She walked halfway down the driveway, stared at them. Fifty to sixty years old and conspicuously bowlegged, she wore her hair tied back tight and had a face as dark and static as a bronze casting. She pressed the remote.
The gates opened and the cars drove onto the property. All four detectives got out. The air was a good ten degrees warmer than in Hollywood, and now Petra spotted a section of posts and stakes to the left of the house—a corral. Brown patches of equine flesh moved in and out of view.
Dry heat; her eyes felt gritty. Off to the north, a small plane hovered over the mountains. A cloud of crows burst out of a thicket of sycamore, then dispersed, squawking, as if in fear.
“Ma’am,” said Stu, showing his badge to the maid.
She stared at him.
“I’m Detective Bishop and this is Detective Connor.”
No answer.
“And you are, ma’am?”
“Estrella.”
“Last name, please, ma’am.”
“Flores.”
“Do you work for Mr. Ramsey, Ms. Flores?”
“Yes.”
“Is Mr. Ramsey here, Ms. Flores?”
“Playing de golf.”
She looks scared, thought Petra. Immigration anxiety? Unless Ramsey planned on running for office, he didn’t need to worry about checking papers, so she could easily be illegal.
Or something else. Did she know something? Problems in the Ramsey household? Ramsey’s comings and goings last night? Petra wrote down the woman’s name and then an asterisk: Be sure to recontact.
Closing her pad, she smiled. Estrella Flores didn’t notice.
“Mr. Ramsey’s not here?” said Stu.
If so, it was a contradiction of what the guard had said.
“No. Here.”
“He is here?”
“Yes.” The woman frowned.
“He’s playing golf, here?”
“De golf in back.”
“He’s got his own putting green,” said Petra, remembering Susan Rose’s recollection of the TV show.
“May we speak to him, please, Ms. Flores?”
The woman glanced at the two sheriffs a few feet away, then back at the wide-open doors to the house. Inside, Petra saw cream walls and floors.
“Wan’ come in?” said Estrella Flores.
“Only with Mr. Ramsey’s permission, ma’am.”
Puzzlement.
“Why don’t you go tell Mr. Ramsey we’re here, Ms. Flores.”
Petra smiled at her again. Lot of good it did. Estrella Flores bow-legged herself back to the house.
Not long after, Cart Ramsey came running out, followed by a blond man.
The TV sleuth wore a bright green polo shirt, jeans, and running shoes. Good shape for a guy his age, which Petra figured to be forty-five, fifty. Six-two, 200, with big shoulders, narrow hips, flat gut, tight waist, no love handles. Black curly hair, TV tan.
The jaw.
The mustache. What was his character’s name? Dack Price.
His companion was about the same age, just as big, the same kind of halfback shoulders, but wider hips. More of the typical middle-aged setup here: significant swell of belly above the belt, looseness at the jowls, jiggling of the breasts as he ran. The fair hair was thinning, longish at the back, pink skin showing at the crown. He wore little round sunglasses with black lenses. His bright blue silk shirt was long-sleeved and oversized, and his pleated black cotton pants were tight around the waist. Ramsey outpaced him easily and reached the car breathing normally.
“Police? What is it?” Deep TV voice.
Stu showed his badge. “I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve got some troubling news.”
Ramsey’s blue eyes startled, blinked, froze. Very pale blue, dramatic against the ruddy-tan skin, though up close Petra could see that the hair was too sable to be real and the skin was grainy, with open pores in the cheeks and veins spidering the nose. Too many dressing-room vodkas? Or all those years of pancake makeup?
“What kind of news? What are you talking about?” Ramsey’s voice had started to thicken with panic.
“Your ex-wife—”
“Lisa? What happened?”
“I’m afraid she’s dead, sir.”
“What!” Bug-eyed. Ramsey’s big hands tightened into huge fists and his biceps swelled. Petra put on a sympathetic look as she looked for cuts and bruises up and down his arms. Nothing. De la Torre and Banks were doing the same thing, but the actor didn’t realize it. He was bent over and covering his face with one hand.
The big blond man in the blue shirt arrived huffing, shades askew. His hair was too blond, another probable tint job. “What’s going on, Cart?” Ramsey didn’t answer.
“Cart?”
Ramsey spoke from behind his hand. “They . . . Lisa.” His voice choked up between the two words.
“Lisa?” said the blond man. “What happened to her?”
The hand dropped, and Ramsey turned on him. “She’s dead, Greg! They’re telling me she’s dead!”
“Oh my God—what—how—” Greg’s mouth gaped as he looked at the detectives.
“She’s dead, Greg! This is real!” Ramsey roared, and for a moment it looked as if he’d haul off and hit the blond man.
Instead, he turned back suddenly and stared at them. At Petra. “You’re sure it’s her?”
“I’m afraid so, Mr. Ramsey.”
“How can you—I can’t—she—how? This is crazy—where? What happened? What the hell happened? Did she total her car or something?”
“She was murdered, Mr. Ramsey,” said Petra. “Found this morning in Griffith Park.”
“Murdered?” Ramsey sagged and covered the bottom of his face, this time with both hands. “Jesus God—Griffith Par—what the hell was she doing there?”
“We don’t know, sir.”
It was an opening for Ramsey to fill, but the actor just said, “This morning? Oh God, I can’t believe this!”
“Early this morning, sir.”
Ramsey shook his head over and over. “Griffith Park? I don’t get it. Why would she be there early in the morning? Was she—how was she . . .”
Blond Greg came closer and patted Ramsey’s shoulder. Ramsey shook him off, but the other man didn’t react—used to it?
“Let’s go inside, Cart,” he said. “They can give us the details inside.”
“No, no, I need to know—was she shot?” said Ramsey.
“No, sir,” said Stu. “Stabbed.”
“Oh Christ.” Ramsey sank an inch. “Do you know who did it?”
“Not yet, sir.”
Ramsey rubbed his head with one hand. Liver spots, Petra noticed. But a big, strong-looking hand, fingers as thick as hour cigars, with sturdy squared-off nails.
“Oh shit! Lisa! I can’t believe it! Oh, Lisa, what the hell did you do?” Ramsey turned his back on the detectives, walked a few steps, doubled over as if about to vomit, but just remained in that position. Petra saw a shudder course along his broad back.
The blond man let his hands drop limply. “I’m Greg Balch, Mr. Ramsey’s business manager—”
Ramsey wheeled around suddenly. “Did it have anything to do with drugs?”
A second of silence, then Stu said, “Did Mrs. Ramsey have a drug problem?”
“No, no, just a while back—actually she’s not—wasn’t Mrs. Ramsey anymore. We got divorced six months ago and she took back her maiden name. It was friendly but . . . we didn’t see each other.” He shielded his face again and began to cry. Big wracking baritone sobs. Petra couldn’t see if there were any tears.
Balch put his arm around Ramsey, and the actor let himself be guided into the house. The detectives followed. A moment later, when Ramsey made eye contact, it was with Petra, and she saw that his eyes were dry, steady, the whites unblemished, the sky-colored irises clear.
The house smelled of bacon. The first thing Petra noticed once she got past the fifteen-foot ceilings and the junk art and all that endless cream furniture—like being dropped into a vat of buttermilk—was the five-door garage.
Because a wall of plate glass offered a view from inside the house. This was a garage like da Vinci was a cartoonist.
Fifty by twenty, with true-white walls, mega-buffed black granite floor, black track lighting. Five spaces, but only four were filled. And no limo. These were all collectibles: tomato-red Ferrari roadster with a predatory nose; charcoal-gray Porsche speedster with racing numbers on the door; black-and-maroon Rolls-Royce sedan with wonderful swooping fenders, a gigantic, ostentatious chrome grille, and a crystal hood mascot, probably Lalique; bright blue early Corvette ragtop, probably 1950s—the same blue as business manager Greg Balch’s silk shirt.
In the fifth space, only a gravel-filled drip tray.
On the walls were framed racing posters and airbrushed depictions of penile cars.
Stu and the sheriffs had stopped to look. Men and car
s. Petra was one woman who actually understood that syndrome. Maybe it was four brothers, maybe her sense of aesthetics, an appreciation of functional art. One of the reasons she’d hit it off with Nick was because she was able to stroke his ego and mean it. No stretch; the bastard had no soul, but he could carve masterpieces. His favorite was the ’67 Stingray, the apex of design, he called it. When Petra told him she was pregnant, he looked at her as if she were an Edsel . . .
Greg Balch was a few feet ahead, squiring Ramsey into the next room, as the detectives pulled themselves away from the glass wall. Balch sat Ramsey down on an overstuffed cream silk loveseat and the actor remained hunched as if praying, head down, hands laced together on his right knee, bulky neck muscles tight.
The four detectives took places on a facing nine-foot-long sofa, moving around pastel throw pillows to find space. One cushion ended up in De la Torre’s wide lap, and his stumpy brown fingers drummed the glossy fabric. Banks sat calmly, not moving. A coffee table composed of a granite boulder with a slab of glass on top marked the space between Ramsey and the cops. Balch took a side chair.
Petra scanned the room. Grotesquely big. She supposed it was a den. It looked into three equally cavernous spaces, each with the same pale overscale furniture, bleached wood accents, huge, terrible pastel abstractions on the walls. Through glass doors she saw grass and palms, a rock pool with waterfall, a four-hole putting course, the grass mown to the skin, nearly gray.
De golf. Two chrome irons lay on the nubby grass; behind the green was the corral and a cute little pink barn.
Where was vehicle number five? Hidden so it could be cleaned, scrubbed of blood?
And they couldn’t even ask about it. She’d seen how long it took the techs to go over a vehicle carefully. If the investigation ever got to the point where they had a search warrant, just doing all the Ramsey wheels would require a major crew for days.
Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor) Page 7
