Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor)

by Jonathan Kellerman

  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 b
ook 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.

  CHAPTER

  59

  I just got out of the bathroom. That’s where I ran after I stopped crying. When I came out, I almost hoped Sam wasn’t there, but he was shining the silver charity bottle with a corner of his jacket. My eyes were dry. I felt I was walking through a bad dream.

  “You got a few hours till they show up to pray tonight,” he said, still polishing.

  I sat down again and thought. No ideas came. The walkway, all those people, now it seemed like a haunted place.

  I couldn’t see any other way out, so I agreed to go to Sam’s house. “But not during the day, I don’t want anyone to see me.”

  “That’s a little difficult, Bill. People start showing up before dark. And I have to be here to run things.”

  The way we finally work it out is: At six o’clock, he’ll come back with some dinner and sneak me into his car. I’ll hide there while the Jews are praying, in the backseat, covered by the blankets.

  “How long do you pray?”

  “An hour, give or take. I stay late to clean up. When the coast is clear, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he says. “Just take care of yourself.” Then he laughs. “Who am I to tell you that? You been taking care of yourself fine.”

  CHAPTER

  60

  No answer to her second knock, and now Mildred Board was worried.

  She’d heard the bath filling a half hour ago. Had the missus fallen? Suffered some kind of an attack? Maybe the doctors were wrong and she really was ill.

  She turned the doorknob, called out “Ma’am?” as she entered the bedroom. Empty.

  And the bed was made!

  Not Mildred’s tight-cornered creation but a decent tuck. First the bath, now the bed. Why on earth all this independence?

  Yesterday, she’d been up extra early and ready. Hearing footsteps at 6 A.M., she went down to find the missus in the kitchen, folded newspaper in front of her, next to a cup of something that turned out to be instant tea.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” she’d said.

  “Fine, Mildred. And you?” The missus was smiling but the look in her eyes was . . . distant.

  “Ready to greet the day, ma’am.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Fighting a frown, Mildred fixed a proper cup of English Breakfast while glancing at the paper.

  The missus smiled. “I must be developing a belated interest in current events.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Up early, too.”

  “I seem to be doing that lately, don’t I? Must be a change in my biorhythm.”

  Later that day, she’d found the missus out on the patio with her hand on a stone column, as if she needed support. Looking out at . . . what? The ruins of the garden? More like nothing. Her eyes had that blank look again, and when Mildred greeted her, they stayed that way for several seconds.

  Strange things were happening.

  Mildred walked through the bedroom into the first dressing room. No one. The bathroom was empty, too, the tub drained, towels folded.

  A long corridor led to the walk-in closet. Standing in the doorway, Mildred repeated, “Ma’am?”

  “In here, Mildred. You may come in.”

  Mildred hurried through the narrow passage. The rear closet was larger than most rooms, lined with mahogany shelves and racks, built-in drawers. Hand-printed hatboxes, scores of shoes arranged by color. All that was left of the missus’s couture collection was a pair of wool coats, a rain slicker, five suits—black, brown, beige, two grays—and a few casual dresses and cashmere sweaters, all encased in plastic wardrobe bags. The missus was standing in front of the mirror applying makeup, fully dressed in one of the gray suits, a thirty-year-old Chanel. She wore pearl earrings, the small ones, lovely. Mildred remembered the diamonds him had showered on the missus. An annoying little man from San Gabriel had examined them with a loupe and a predatory smile.

  The Chanel draped the missus’s figure perfectly. But . . . her feet . . .

  White lace-up tennis shoes over bulky white socks.

  “I thought I’d go out for a walk, Mildred.” The missus’s thick, wavy hair was brushed and sprayed, chestnut embroidered with gray. Her makeup had been applied expertly except for one stray granule of lipstick near the corner of her beautiful mouth. Mildred restrained the impulse to flick it away, but she did give a pointed look and the missus caught the hint and dabbed.

  “A walk. Lovely idea, ma’am . . .” Mildred’s eyes lowered again. Those socks!

  The missus laughed uneasily. “Not exactly the height of style, I know, but these are easy on the arches. My hamstrings are stiff, Mildred. I tried to stretch them out, but they’re still bound up. It’s been too long since I walked, Mildred.”

  Drawing back her shoulders and straightening her spine, she started down the corridor.

  “Do be careful, ma’am. I watered the orchard just twenty minutes ago and drainage seems to be poor, especially in the rear area, the peach trees. Boggy and slippery, you’d think that gardener’s boy would have the sense to—”

  The missus stopped and placed a delicate hand on Mildred’s shoulder. “I’m not walking on the property, dear,” she said. “I’m going around the block.”

  “Oh,” said Mildred. “I see.” She didn’t. “I’ll be happy to come with you—”

  “No thank you, dear. I need to think.”

  “With all due—”

  “I’ll be fine, Mildred.” The missus’s chin began to shake. She drew back her shoulders.

  She took another step. Stopped. “I’m always fine, Mildred. Am I not?”

  CHAPTER

  61

  By 6:57 p.m., Captain Sepulveda still hadn’t returned and the techs had stopped working. The sun was low and the oaks blocked out straggling daylight. Sergeant Grafton had returned to her car. Petra was finished with Ramsey.

  Lawrence Schick escorted his client back to the Rolls, remaining blank-faced as Petra tagged along. Ramsey got into the passenger seat and stared out the open window. He looked ancient.

  Petra said, “If I need to reach you—”

  “We’re going for dinner,” said the attorney. “The Biltmore, Santa Barbara.”

  “And after dinner?” said Petra.

  Schick smoothed his bangs. “It’s not exactly a night for brandy and cigars, is it, Detective, so I guess we’ll return to L.A. Nice to meet you. Please continue to communicate through me.” Tapping the meerschaum twice, he got into the driver’s seat, turned a frail-looking wrist. The car woke up and sailed away, but for the merest spatter of gravel, silently.

  A few minutes later, Sepulveda drove up with a handful of warrants, explaining, “Every judge was playing golf.” He’d changed into sweats, Carpinteria Sheriff’s insignia on the shirt.

  Despite Ramsey’s waiver, no search had begun because Sergeant Grafton had insisted on waiting for Sepulveda.

  Petra called Schoelkopf to tell him about Balch’s attempted flight to Vegas. No answer, and the clerk said he’d signed out for dinner; she didn’t know where. No luck with Wil Fournier, either.

  She was just about to call Stu when Sepulveda arrived. Ron was using the phone, talking to his kids.

  “We’ll concentrate on the house for now,” said Sepulveda, waving the warrants. “Do the grounds tomorrow morning. I’ve got techs from our station and a fingerprint spec from Ventura used to work for us that I still think is the best. You planning to stick around?”

 
“For a while,” said Petra.

  “You know I can’t let you participate in the search. Got to color within the lines.”

  “Can we observe?”

  Sepulveda considered that. “Why don’t you and your partner make yourself comfortable over there.” He pointed to a wooden bench that curved around the trunk of the biggest oak. Drooping branches afforded semiprivacy.

  “No way I can look, Captain?”

  “Anything comes up, I’ll give a holler.”

  Flashing him a smile, Petra walked to the bench. Rock-hard and cool. Ron came over, still talking. “I’m proud of you, Bee. Thanks for listening so well to Grandma. ’Bye.” He hung up, said, “We can’t go in?”

  “Banished to the sidelines,” said Petra. “Another boss.”

  “Too many jurisdictions,” he said. He sat down next to her, grazed her fingertips with his thumb. “But that’s not always bad, is it? Never know who you’ll meet.”

  She smiled, not minding his touch but unable to think about anything but work, all the things she had to do.

  She borrowed the phone, tried Wil again. Still no answer, but Schoelkopf picked up.

  “Ramsey was just here with Schick,” she said.

  “And?”

  She summed up the interview, told him about Balch’s call to Westward Charter.

  “Well, that pretty much clinches it, doesn’t it. Balch. Shit. And you guys were certain it was Ramsey. Can you imagine the field day the press would’ve had with that—near prosecution of an innocent man. Okay, no release of information till you hear from me, Barbie. Nothing. Understood?”

  You’re the one with a direct line to Public Information, jerk. “Of course, sir.”

  “I mean it. Tighter than a . . . whatever. I’ll handle Vegas for you—I know people in Metro over there. They keep a pretty tight handle on hotels and motels. If he’s there, we’ll find him. Meanwhile, you call the airlines. Get Fournier on that too.”

  “Haven’t been able to reach Fournier,” said Petra.