Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor)

by Jonathan Kellerman

  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.”

  CHAPTER

  57

  Motor slept lousy, and now the headache was a killer. No blanket, no pillow, just his leather jacket on the warped floor of an abandoned apartment on Edgemont.

  Plywood over the windows and some sign about earthquakes on the door told him it was his place for the night. He used his Buck knife to pry the board up from the back door, rolled his scoot inside, and pushed it around from room to room. They were all the same: tiny; no furniture, light fixtures, or plumbing; graffiti all over the walls; linoleum pebbled with mouse shit, cockroach carcasses, oil stains, empty bottles. The room he finally chose was in the back. The whole building smelled of mold and wet dog, insect casts, burnt matches, and the worst thing: a chemical-like stink that made his eyes water.

  But it was dark and he was wiped out from riding all day, walking around Hollywood—the place seemed mostly the same—then over to Griffith Park to scope out the rug rat’s territory. But the park ended up being too big to get a handle on—why the hell would a little fuck need such a goddamn big place?

  He bought three hot dogs with kraut, washed it down with a chocolate malt, and cruised over to the Cave, parking his scoot with all the others in front, hoping no one would look close. Inside, he hoped for brotherhood, had to spend his last dough on beer when no one offered to buy him one. Eating three pickled eggs and stuffing some Slim Jims in his pocket before the bartender evil-eyed him.

  No one gave a shit about the picture of the rat. Everyone was watching fuck films on big-screen TV. When some chick did something especially nasty up on the screen, a low growl of support rose up from the bar.

  Forty, fifty crank-glazed eyes fixed on cum shots, no interest in making twenty-five big ones, except for one dude who didn’t really seem that interested, either, but said he might know something. Motor arranged to meet with him at eight tomorrow—maybe he’d bother; maybe he wouldn’t.

  So might as well bunk down. Not exactly the Holiday Inn, but nothing he hadn’t seen before. Even though the chemicals gave him a headache, the aloneness turned him on, like the time he was celling with a greaser in Perdido, a DUI rap, three days of inhaling the motherfucker’s stale farts, ready to strangle him, and then the fourth day they took the guy away because it turned out he had federal warrants.

  Aloneness was like someone massaging your body, only there was no one there, just the feeling.

  Now it was Friday morning, ten o’clock, his eyes were swollen, and all he wanted to do was cut off this fucking head so he could replace it with one that didn’t feel like it was about to explode.

  Pissing on the floor of an adjoining room, he spit out morning taste, rubbed his eyes till they focused, and wheeled his scoot outside into the sun. Strong m-f sun—that didn’t help either. He was hungry, had no money; time to go to work.

  It took him two hours to find a Mexican chick walking all alone on a side street, no little gangbangers to protect her honor. He drove past her, stopped, got off, walked toward her, and she was scared right away. But he passed her by and she relaxed and that’s when he turned around and grabbed her purse and shoved her to the ground.

  Telling her, “Don’t fucking move.”

  She didn’t understand the words, but she got the tone of voice. He kicked her in the ribs just to make sure, walked as fast as his bulk would allow to his scoot, and drove a mile away.

  Twenty-three bucks in the purse, along with a tin cross and pictures of little Mex kids in some kind of costumes. He took the money, threw the rest of it down a storm drain, drove back to the Boulevard, found the same stand where he’d bought the hot dogs, and got two more, along with a fried egg on a muffin with hot sauce on the side, extra-large coffee that he drained and refilled, an apple turnover, and one of those little containers of milk like he used to get in school and jail. Now he was ready for a day’s labor.

  He walked the picture up and down the Boulevard again, got nothing but dirty looks, was hungry again by three, forced himself to continue for another couple of hours, till he finally couldn’t stand it anymore. Figuring he’d earned a real meal, he went over to Go-Ji’s and used up most of the Mex chick’s money on a corned beef sandwich, fries, onion rings, double banana split, more coffee. Telling the nigger waitress to keep filling his cup till she just left him a pitcher.

  Someone had left parta the paper in his booth, but it was nothin’ but words. The TV over the counter was going—news, sports, weather, dead stuff. Then he saw the rat’s picture again; stopped eating bananas smothered with whipped cream and paid attention. His heart was zooming away—the coffee—and he was totally awake and ready to do something, anything.

  Asshole on TV saying something about the beach—“. . . reported to have been spotted near Ocean Front Walk in Venice.”

  So fuck the dude at the Cave.

  Time to putt west—after dark. If the rat saw him, it wouldn’t be good.

  CHAPTER

  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. Sc
hick, 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, b
ut 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.