Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor)

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “If you have to, you have to,” said Petra. “It’s already out of our hands.”

  She was ready to leave at seven when the phone blared again.

  A young woman said, “Hold please for Lawrence Schick.” Ten seconds of bad music, then a sleepy male voice said, “To which detective do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  “Detective Connor.”

  “Evening, Detective Connor, this is Larry Schick.”

  Meaningful pause. She was supposed to know who he was. And she did. Six-hundred-bucks-an-hour lawyer, criminal defense, mostly celebrity drunk drivers, actors’ kids playing with guns, other delicate felonies. She’d seen him doing sound bites but had never met him. Her typical perp couldn’t even afford a Western Avenue hack.

  “Evening, Mr. Schick.”

  “How’re things on the Ramsey case?”

  Finally, the wall goes up. “Are you asking as a concerned citizen, sir?”

  Schick laughed. “I’m always concerned, but, no, Detective Connor, I’ve been retained by Mr. Ramsey to represent him in this matter. So please channel all future communications through my offices.”

  Offices, plural. Look, Ma, I’m important!

  “Communications,” said Petra.

  “Anything pertaining to the case,” said Schick.

  “Are you saying we can’t talk to Mr. Ramsey without clearing it with you first, Mr. Schick?”

  “At this point in time,” said the lawyer, “that would be advisable, Detective. Good night.”

  “Same to you,” Petra said to a dead phone. Yesterday, she’d chatted with Ramsey in the kitchen. Now this. From Ramsey’s point of view, two things had transpired: the reinterview and the talk with Balch. Had she raised something with either of them that worried him?

  Grabbing her notepad, she reviewed her notes. The talk with Ramsey had covered nothing earth-shattering . . . he had mentioned being a suspect—scratch that. One new topic: Estrella Flores.

  She flipped to the Balch interview. His and Ramsey’s Hollywood “discovery,” Lisa’s temperament, the DV episode. Estrella Flores.

  Was the maid the hot button?

  What had Flores seen that night?

  Or did it have something to do with the boy in the paper? Ramsey thinking he’d pulled off the perfect crime, only to encounter every bad guy’s worst nightmare—a mystery witness.

  She would have loved to stare into those baby blues right now, probing for fear.

  So, of course, she couldn’t.

  But no one, not even an overpaid B.H. lawyer, could stop her from just happening to be in Ramsey’s neighborhood and dropping in.

  Stopping for a roast beef sandwich at an Arby’s on Sunset, she ate in the car, chewing on meat and suspicion, watching night creatures emerge from the dark, knowing years ago she’d have been scared to get this close. At 7:40 she set out for Calabasas. Post–rush hour, she sailed, arriving at the RanchHaven guardhouse by 8:33.

  The guard on duty was a young man, weak-chinned, with discouraged posture. Thin everywhere except around his middle, where the uniform shirt strained. When she drove up, he folded his arms across his chest. Grim watchfulness—ludicrous in the absence of threat—faded when he saw her up close. A crooked smile split his bland pie of a face. Flirtatious. Great. The guy’s eyebrows were very faint, nearly invisible. His badge said D. Simkins.

  He came out, looked at her, opened the gate. She drove up to him.

  “How’s it going?” No ma’am. Easy tone coming into play because she was driving a Honda, not a Porsche, not one of the locals.

  Petra showed him her badge.

  “Oh,” he said, stepping back and hitching his trousers. “It’s about time, Detective.”

  “For what?”

  “I was on shift the night Lisa Ramsey was killed. Kept wondering when you were gonna come by.” Wagging a finger in mock disapproval.

  Petra’s turn to smile. “Well, here I am, Officer Simkins.”

  She parked, got out, entered the guardhouse without asking permission. He followed. The booth was a glass closet, barely enough room for both of them. Simkins leaned against a counter, looking her up and down, no shame.

  Not much inside: small cabinet for supplies, a single wheeled chair that Simkins offered her. She stayed on her feet.

  She extricated her pad while checking out the security hardware. Multiline telephone, two-way radio setup, handheld walkie-talkie. Two closed-circuit TV screens suspended above the counter, one highlighting the mouth of the main road, the other so dark she could barely tell it was switched on. Next to the phone, a greasy paper bag and a copy of Rolling Stone. Some rock star instant-emperor on the cover, pierced eyebrows, a silver stud through the tongue.

  Simkins said, “So what can I do for a fellow officer?”

  Petra dredged up another smile. “So you were on all that night, Officer Simkins?”

  “Doug. Yes, I was. It was real quiet, but I don’t know, I had a feeling, like it was too quiet. Like something could happen.”

  “Did anything happen?”

  Simkins shook his head. “But you know, I just felt it was a weird night. Then the next morning when I heard what happened I said, Oh man. Like one of them psychic things.”

  Lord, deliver me from dunderheads. “This place seems like it must be pretty quiet in general.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said, suddenly defensive. “You get stuff. Like fires. With fires, we call a first-stage alert.”

  “Which is?”

  “Letting people know we might have to evacuate.”

  “Scary,” said Petra.

  “That’s why we’re here.” Touching his own badge. Stainless replica of LAPD’s—could the department sue?

  “So, Doug, what time were you on duty that night?”

  “Seven to three’s my regular shift, then the morning guy called in sick, so I did double duty.”

  “Till when?”

  “Eleven, when day watch starts.”

  “Day watch being Officer . . . Dilbeck.” Retrieving the old guard’s name from her memory banks.

  “Yeah, Oliver,” said Simkins, frowning. Probably miffed that Dilbeck had already been interviewed.

  Petra said, “Did anyone from the Ramsey house come in or out during that time?”

  “He did. Mr. Ramsey. He and his friend, a blond guy I always see him with. They came in that night.”

  “What time?”

  “Nine or so.”

  Or so. They didn’t log entries and exits?

  “Do you have a written record of that?”

  “No, we don’t hassle with that.” Defensive again.

  “Who drove, Doug?”

  “The friend.”

  “Did either Mr. Ramsey or his friend go out again that night?”

  “Nope,” said Simkins decisively, smugly. Delivering the punch line: “No one from the entire development left after that, though a few more people came home. Like I said, it was a quiet night.”

  “What about Mr. Ramsey’s maid?”

  “Nope. Never left. It’s real quiet around here. Too quiet. I like action.”

  Petra suppressed laughter. “Know what you mean, Doug. Anything else you can tell me about the Ramseys?”

  “Well,” Simkins said, pondering, “I’ve only been working here three weeks, just see him going in and out. Same for that friend of his. You think he did it?”

  “Don’t think much of anything yet, Doug.” Three weeks on duty. He’d never known Lisa. Even with a brain, the guy would’ve been useless to her. “Is Mr. Ramsey home right now?”

  “Hasn’t come in or out on my shift.”

  “Are there any other ways in and out of RanchHaven?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about that second screen there?”

  Simkins’s eyes flashed to the console. “Oh, that. That’s just a fire road, way back at the rear of the property, but no one uses it. Even when we were on evac alert, the plan was to get everyone out through the fr
ont.”

  “The screen looks pretty dark.”

  “It’s dark back there.”

  Petra bent close to the monitor. “No officer there?”

  “Nope, just one of them card-key doohickeys. The residents get issued cards. But no one uses it, no reason to.”

  “I’d like to go over there myself, Doug. Just to take a look.”

  “I dunno . . .”

  “You can come with me if you want.” She stepped closer to Simkins. Their chests nearly touched. The guard was perspiring heavily.

  “Well . . .”

  “Just a quick look, Doug. I promise not to steal any dirt.” She winked. It made Simkins flinch.

  “Yeah, okay, just don’t disturb any of the residents, okay? Because that would be my butt. They like their peace and quiet. That’s what they pay me for.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “Up the main road, to the top.” He gestured, managed to move closer, their shoulders touching. “On the way to Ramsey’s house, matter of fact. But instead of turning right, you bear left, and after a while you’ll see this big empty lot that was supposed to be a nine-hole golf course but it never got built, probably ’cause the residents all play at clubs anyway. Keep bearing left, all the way around it, and the road’ll curve up, suddenly switch directions. Just keep going till you can’t go any more.”

  She thanked him, patted his shoulder. He flinched again.

  She drove very slowly, pausing when Ramsey’s house came into view. The outdoor lighting was on full blast. Weaker illumination leaked from inside. No cars in front. Damn that museum—impossible to know if the guy was home.

  She stared at the house. Static. So were the nearby structures. The more expensive neighborhoods got, the deader they looked.

  Simkins’s directions led her on a ten-minute loop past the would-be golf course, now just a flat gray table planted with young junipers and surrounded by wrought-iron fencing. The road compressed to barely one lane and the brush along both sides thickened to high dark walls. Above them, she could see the kinked and coiled branches of oak trees, dwarfed by a black dome of sky. A few stars struggled through haze. The moon was oversized, gray-white, streaked with fog.

  The smell of horse manure and dry dirt.

  Her headlights created an amber tunnel through the gloom. She switched her high beams on, continued at ten miles per. Suddenly the fire exit was there. A single gate, twelve feet high, electric, same iron motif as the main portals. Stout brick posts, warning signs. The card slot topped a steel post.

  She stopped ten yards in, pulled her flashlight from the glove compartment, let the car idle, and got out.

  The horse aroma was stronger up here. Quiet, not even a bird. But she could hear the freeway baritone, insistent, remote.

  She swept her flashlight across the road. Poorly maintained, dusted with soil. Simkins claimed no one used the back exit, but she could see the faint corrugation of tire tracks. A few horse prints, smaller ones that could be dog or coyote—she was no gung-ho tracker.

  Dad could have helped her with prints.

  Keeping to the side of the road, she walked to the gate, then back. Repeated it. The dirt was so compacted it didn’t granulate under her feet. Some rust around the card slot. Another slot on the other side of the fence.

  Easy entry and exit.

  And Ramsey’s house was at the upper edge of the development, meaning he wouldn’t have to pass many neighbors to sneak out.

  She thought about how he’d do it.

  Wait till Balch was asleep—or put something in Balch’s drink to help sleep along. Then roll the Mercedes out of the mega-garage. Or the Jeep, if it had been brought back from Montecito. Headlights off, cruising slowly. With houses so far from the road, all those fences, gates, high foliage, there’d be no reason for anyone to notice. People with pools and Jacuzzis and home theaters and putting greens didn’t sit by their front windows.

  People who craved that level of privacy often pretended nothing existed beyond their four walls.

  She took a closer look at the tire tracks. Degraded, no tread marks; she doubted they’d be of much use. But, still, she’d have loved to get a cast. No way to do it without a warrant, and no grounds for a warrant. And now Larry Schick, Esq., was on the scene—forget approaching Ramsey about anything.

  Even if they pulled a match to one of Ramsey’s cars, it had been four days since the murder. Ramsey could admit being up there, claim he’d taken a cruise in the hills, trying to mellow out, deal with his grief.

  The hills . . . great place to get rid of a body.

  Was Estrella Flores buried somewhere out there?

  Did the fire road lead anywhere other than out to the Santa Susannas?

  She backed down till the nearest shoulder, turned around, and returned to the guardhouse. Simkins saw her coming, put down his Rolling Stone, and opened the exit gate. His window was closed; no desire to talk. Petra stopped alongside the booth. He screwed up his mouth and came over. His big moment over, feeling down, he wanted her gone.

  “Find anything?”

  “Nope—just like you said, Doug. Tell me, where does the fire road go?”

  “Out into the mountains.”

  “And then?”

  “It connects to a bunch of little side roads.”

  “Doesn’t it merge with the 101?”

  “It kinda hooks back toward it, but doesn’t actually merge.” He managed to make the last word sound dirty.

  “But if I wanted to reach the freeway through the back roads, I could.”

  “Yeah, sure. Everything reaches the freeway. I grew up in West Hills. We used to come out here, hunt rabbits, before they built this place. Sometimes they’d run onto the freeway, get turned to freeway butter.”

  “The good old days,” said Petra.

  Simkins’s weak face firmed with recollection, and a resentful frown captured his features. Rich folk moving in on his childhood memories?

  “It can get beautiful out there,” he said. Real emotion. Longing. At that moment, she liked him a little better. But not much.

  CHAPTER

  49

  Sam says, “Hey, not bad.”

  I’ve been working all day, going over and over the windows until there are no streaks, mopping the wood floors, using the Pledge to shine them up. I’ve done only half the seats, but what I finished looks pretty good, and the room has a nice lemon smell.

  Sam tries to give me the rest of the money.

  “I’m not finished yet.”

  “I trust you, sonny—by the way, now that you work for me, are you ready to give me your name?”

  That catches me by surprise, and Bill pops out.

  “Nice to meet you, Bill.”

  It’s been so long since anyone’s called me by my name. Since I’ve talked to anyone.

  Sam shows me a paper bag. “I got you some dinner—Noah’s Bagel, just a plain one, ’cause I didn’t know if you liked onions or one of those fancy bagels. Also, cream cheese—do you like cream cheese?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  “Hey, you’re a working man now, need your nutrition.” He hands me the bag and walks around the shul. “You like the Pledge, huh? Running out of the stuff?”

  “Almost.”

  “I’ll buy some more tomorrow—that is if you want to work tomorrow.”

  “Sure.”

  “Go ahead, take the money.”

  I do. He looks at his watch. “Time to quit, Bill. We don’t want to be accused of exploiting the working man.”

  We walk outside and he locks the shul. The alley is empty, but I can hear the ocean through the space on the side of the building, people talking on the walkway. That big Lincoln of his is parked crazy, the front bumper almost touching the building. He opens the driver’s door. “So.”

  “’Bye,” I say.

  “See you tomorrow, Bill.” He gets in the car and I start to walk away—south, away from that Russian perv. I’m liking the feel of all tha
t money in my pocket but wondering where to go. Back to the pier? But it was so cold. And now I have money . . .

  I hear a loud squeak, turn, and see Sam backing the Lincoln out of the alley. He has plenty of room, but he keeps backing up and stopping, jerking the car; the brakes are squeaking.

  Uh-oh, he’s gonna hit the fence—no, he misses it. I figure I should direct him before he hurts himself, but he makes it, turning the steering wheel with both hands, his head kind of pushed forward, like he’s struggling to see through the windshield.

  Instead of driving forward, he backs up, stops next to me. “Hey, Bill. You really got somewhere to go for the night?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where? The street?”

  “I’ll be fine.” I start walking. He stays next to me, driving really slowly.

  “I’d give you money for a hotel, but no one’s gonna rent to a kid, and if you show all that cash, someone’s gonna take it from you.”

  “I’m fine,” I repeat.

  “Sure, sure . . . I can’t let you sleep in the shul because what if you slip and fall, we got a liability problem—you might sue us.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  He laughs. “No, you probably wouldn’t, but I still can’t—listen, I got a house, not far from here. Plenty of room; I live alone. You wanna stay for a day or two, fine. Till you figure out what to do.”

  “No thanks.” That comes out kind of cold, and I don’t turn to see his face, because I know he’s going to look insulted.

  “Suit yourself, Bill. Don’t blame you. Someone probably hurt you. You don’t trust no one—for all you know, I could be some crazy person.”

  “I’m sure you’re not crazy.” Why did I say that?

  “How can you be sure, Bill? How can you ever be sure? Listen, when I was your age—a little older—people came and took away my family. Killed all of them, except me and my brother. Nazis. Ever hear of them? Only, when I knew them, they weren’t nazis, they were my neighbors, people I lived with. My family lived in their country for five hundred years and they did that to me—I’m talking the Second World War. Goddamn nazis. Ever hear about any of that?”