They took three hours to search every inch of the suite. After the first hour, Amerian got bored with her role as gatekeeper and started to say, “Sure, sure,” whenever Wil or Petra pointed out a book on a shelf or a box on the floor. Short attention span, the Sesame Street generation.
The only remnants of Balch’s presence were fast-food cartons, take-out menus from local restaurants, and a top drawer full of office-supply flotsam. No family photos—Petra supposed that made sense: Balch was a two-time marital loser.
Man with no attachments? Something about him that got in the way of relationships? So what? The same could be said for millions of people who didn’t kill.
She kept going. All the papers were Ramsey’s. Now Amerian was paying attention again. Rent books, tax returns, folders listing deductions, business contracts. Documents Petra would have loved to see a few days ago. Balch had worked here for years but left nothing of himself behind.
Did that say something about the way he viewed his job?
She removed a California Tax Code from the shelf, flipped pages, turned it upside down. Nothing. Same for the next ten books. The place was even messier than when she’d interviewed Balch. For a guy with such a disorganized mind, he’d proved a canny killer—so many steps, carefully laid out.
Then why had he been sloppy enough to call Westward Charter and alert them to the rabbit?
The usual psychopath’s self-destructive behavior?
Or a ruse . . . where was he?
They left at 1 P.M., stopped for lunch at a seafood place on Ventura. Not much conversation. Wil had started off grumpy, and four hours of futility hadn’t improved his disposition. He ate his sand dabs slowly, drank a lot of iced tea, looked out the window. Petra’s crab cakes went down like deep-fried hockey pucks, and by 3 P.M. they were in separate cars on the 101 headed for the 405 interchange and the one-hour ride to Rolling Hills Estates and Balch’s home on Saddlewax Road.
He got ahead of her at Imperial Highway, and she’d lost sight of him when she thought of something. Speeding up, she managed to spot the Supra just past Hermosa Beach and waved him off at the Redondo Beach exit. They both pulled onto the shoulder. Petra jogged to his car.
“Humor me,” she said, “but I want to take a look at the place on the pier where Ilse Eggermann was last seen, then go to Balch’s.”
“Fine,” he said. “Good idea. I’ll stick with you.”
A fifteen-minute westerly cruise down Redondo Beach Boulevard took them to the former site of Antoine’s, now a Dudley Jones Steak House franchise with a harbor view. Deep-red room full of weekend brunchers and noise, blond surfer/waiters sailing past with platters of rare flesh and melon-size baked potatoes.
Petra allowed herself a second to visualize Ilse Eggermann feuding with Lauch. Leaving the restaurant, descending wooden steps off the pier—just as she and Wil were doing now. Continuing down to the parking lot. Late at night, deserted, the place would be spooky.
The drive to Rolling Hills Estates chilled her.
Six-mile straightaway on Hawthorne Boulevard, it began as a swath through the usual mash of car dealers, malls, and office-supply barns, then narrowed just before Palos Verdes Drive, where a median strip appeared, planted with eucalyptus and pine and black-trunked shaggy trees that resembled willows. A white wooden sign welcomed her to Rolling Hills Estates, and low white corral fencing appeared along both sides of the road.
Ten minutes from Redondo, driving leisurely. This was Balch’s turf.
She pictured him coming home from a long day as Ramsey’s slave, stopping off for a drink, noticing Ilse and Lauch fighting. He follows them out, sees Lauch drive off, picks up Ilse, promising to drive her to her hotel near the Marina, but they never get there.
Open dump in a parking lot.
Look what I can get away with!
Then back home. So simple.
A day at the beach.
CHAPTER
69
Beautiful ocean, but too many people.
He wore a top-quality, real-hair false beard, similar to the one he’d used for the German girl, a wide-brimmed straw hat, a long brown ratty raincoat over a frayed white shirt, and cheap gray cotton pants. Running shoes, relatively new, but dirtied-up to stay in character.
The gait he adopted was a clumsy, stiff-legged shuffle. When he walked, he pretended to stare at the ground but was able to sight upward without being obvious, because the hat did a good job of concealing his eyes. If someone made eye contact, he could half lower the lids and focus on nothing.
Mr. Mentally Disordered Homeless. Ocean Front Walk was full of them, sitting on benches, lurching along with the crowd, staring at the sand or the palm trees or the ocean, as if something important were happening out there. What? Imaginary whales? Mermaids with big tits flapping around on the beach?
His mother had gone crazy when he was fourteen. He’d never wondered what she thought about. Just stayed away, as if she were contagious.
He walked up and down Ocean Front very slowly. Every so often he’d sit, make like he was dozing off, while examining passersby.
No one paid attention to him. The bicycle cops were on the lookout for violence, so if you kept to yourself, they were happy to ignore you. Same with the tourists—anything to avoid being panhandled.
The problem was the quantity of people. Nice, warm Saturday, everyone flocking to the beach, the slow-cruising walkathon along Ocean Front so dense you could barely make out individuals.
Plenty of kids, but not the kid. After an hour, he was able to classify them into two groups: the well-scrubbed spawn of the tourists and clots of dark-skinned, big-mouthed local brats weaving in and out of the pedestrian stream, probably looking for pockets to pick.
Why would the kid be out in broad daylight?
Why would he be here, period, after the “anonymous tip”?
Waste of time, but considering all he’d accomplished, he didn’t feel that bad.
Beautiful day; go with it. Long time since he’d been here, and the walkway had gotten more commercial, lined with shops, snack stands, restaurants, even a synagogue—that was odd. Some of the buildings ran through to the alley and, beyond it, the Speedway. Others occupied the ground floors of multistory prewar apartment buildings. The boy could be in one of those buildings, and how could you find him?
The boy could be anywhere.
He’d give it a few more hours. The beard and hat and coat were heating him up. A cold drink would be nice, and he had ten bucks in his pocket—more back in the car, parked six blocks away. But a crazy bum fishing out money might attract attention, so he decided to settle for water from a fountain.
There was one down at the other end, near the synagogue. He’d shuffle clear to the northernmost end of Ocean Front, turn around, come back, drink, repeat it a few times, take a pseudo-nap on a bench, call it a day.
Forget about the kid. He told himself it was okay, but it stuck in his throat. Big, hot pimple full of pus, just itching to be squeezed.
He preferred to give in to his compulsions. Avoiding them built up tension.
His mother had been unbelievably compulsive before going completely bonkers. Smoking five packs a day, picking at her face, rocking when she sewed, going on food binges, then starving herself for days. When they put her in the hospital, she began to bang her head against the wall, like one of those autistic kids, and they forced her to wear a football helmet. Flowered dress and a helmet—what position do you play, Ma? She looked ridiculous, and he did everything he could to avoid visiting her.
She’d died ten years ago, and he was sole surviving kin. Through a local attorney, he’d instructed the hospital to cremate her, bury her on the grounds.
Thinking about her evoked no emotion. He was hot, discouraged, not happy about abandoning the loose end. Mostly the heat right now. That was the biggest part of what he felt.
He took an hour to cover the walkway two more times, getting more and more uptight about not succeeding.
> No kid who looked anything like the picture. He reached the water fountain, filled his belly with water, wiped the beard. A tourist about to drink changed his mind. Talk about a convincing performance.
The nearest bench was occupied by a young couple in spandex. He stumbled over, muttering, perched his butt on a corner, and the couple got up and left.
This was good!
The synagogue must have just let out, because he saw old people milling around outside the front door, then dispersing. He had nothing against any group, even Jews, just wished those who couldn’t take care of themselves would die and make room for everyone else.
Someone else didn’t like the Jews, though.
Guy working the souvenir stand a couple of stores down. Look at how he stared at them—real hostility.
Ugly guy, mid-forties, long greasy-looking blond hair, probably tinted. Bad skin, skinny arms sticking out of the sleeves of a really hideous purple CALIFORNIA HERE I COME T-shirt.
The stand stocked similar shirts, hats, sunglasses, toys and banners and postcards, a tiny little place crammed with junk. No one was buying, probably because the proprietor was about as welcoming as a piranha.
Hostile and jumpy. Looking up and down Ocean Front, too.
Interesting.
A pair of cops walked their bicycles past the stand, and the ugly guy’s eyes widened and his body shot forward; he almost threw himself over the counter.
Wanting to tell them something?
But he stopped himself, picked up some kind of doll, pretended to be checking the price.
Strange . . .
The cops must have thought so too, because they stopped and talked to the ugly guy. He produced a sick-looking smile and shook his head. The cops didn’t leave right away. Something about the guy was making them wonder. The guy kept smiling, fingering the doll, and finally they did leave.
The guy stood there for a long time watching them before returning to his old routine: looking north, then south, north, then south. Not a glance at the beach.
Looking for something in particular. Someone?
Anonymous tip. Could it be? Was God that good?
He studied the souvenir vendor for another twenty minutes, and the pattern never altered: pace, check out the walkway, take a doll down, squeeze it, put it back, pace . . . Suddenly, the guy altered his routine, going behind the cheap chintz curtains that backed the souvenir stand. Probably a rear stockroom; maybe a bathroom break.
For five minutes, the stand was left unattended and some local kids cruised by and pulled postcards from the rack. When the long-haired guy came out, he was wiping his lips.
A drink break. Here he goes again: up and down, up and down. Definitely on the prowl.
Could it really be? Maybe he was waiting for a dope deal.
Then again, the tip had come from somewhere.
To a loser like this, selling crap no one bought, twenty-five thou would be a helluva lot of Saturdays. Good reason to be jumpy.
He observed the guy some more. Same routine; one more booze break. The guy was robotic, on autopilot, just like the nuts he used to see when he visited his mother.
Definitely worth looking into—what did he have to lose?
He got up, walked a hundred yards south, reversed direction, and shifted closer to the storefronts, passing close to the stand and looking for posted hours. There it was:
SUMMER HOURS: 11 TO 5 M–F, WEEKENDS, 11 TO 8.
He’d leave, come back close to 8; hopefully the crowds would be gone. Hopefully the guy wouldn’t close up early or go off shift; if he did, there was always another day.
Given no other leads, it was all he had and he decided to be hopeful.
Optimism, that was the key. Long as you didn’t lose the irony.
CHAPTER
70
Saddlewax Road was a quarter mile in from the Palos Verdes turnoff. Along the way, Petra saw two little girls in full equestrian dress riding gorgeous brown horses. A woman on a black steed trailed them, scrutinizing their posture or the horses’, or both.
Balch’s house was three-quarters up the shady street, a one-story apricot stucco ranch atop a high bed of devil ivy. That same white corral fencing cordoned the property and all its neighbors. Boys shot baskets; a man in a bright green polo shirt hosed down a vintage Corvette. The neighborhood had that aura of families with bright futures.
Strange place for a man living alone. Maybe the remnant of one of the marriages.
There was a basketball hoop atop Balch’s garage, too. No cars parked outside. The few roses planted next to the house were leggy and browning, and the roof shakes were warped. Bound stacks of mail—four days’ worth—sat in front of the screen door. A very small notice stapled to the screen said the local sheriffs had assumed jurisdiction over the property; no one was to trespass. The locals hadn’t taken in the mail.
Wil phoned them, and they said it was okay to enter; if he and Petra removed anything, make a list and send a copy. He got evidence bags and recording forms from the trunk of his car, Petra picked up the mail, and they went in.
The living room was dark, rancid, littered with unfolded newspapers, dirty clothes, empty cans of beer and Pepsi, bottles of orange juice and vodka. A screwdriver man.
A sty, just like the office. Unlike the Lexus. As Petra read the mail, Wil got to work on the sofas, removing cushions, unzipping them, yanking out the foam.
Four days of post yielded utility bills, junk ads, coupons. Three days ago, he’d been spotted at Montecito switching cars, after burying Estrella Flores. Where had he cut the maid’s throat? Probably somewhere in the hills above RanchHaven. Petra’s best guess was he’d overpowered Flores in the house, driven her out through the fire road, found some nice quiet kill spot. Then, wrapping the body in plastic, stashing her in the trunk, he made the forty-five-minute drive to Montecito, entombed the body, left the Lexus behind—because he thought it was clean, and why would the cops check out Ramsey’s weekend house?
Picking up the Jeep because that had been Lisa’s murder vehicle and he wanted to make sure it was clean?
She recalled his demeanor during the interview. A little downbeat, self-effacing. No edginess, but if he was that psychopathic, why would there be?
Slipping in Lisa’s bad temper, how she took it out on Cart. Brand-new running shoes. A clever bastard, Mr. Gregory Balch. So why had he stayed a lackey all his life?
Embezzling cash from the boss, waiting for the right moment to bolt? Original plans to do it with Lisa, but something had gone wrong . . . was Balch somewhere in Brazil with suitcases of cash, the satisfaction of having destroyed Ramsey’s life in more ways than one?
She went into the kitchen. The food in the fridge was sad bachelor fare: beer, wine, more orange juice and Smirnoff, more takeout cartons. Beef lo mein and ribs from a Chinese place on Hawthorne Boulevard; KFC crispy chicken bucket—no address, but she’d seen an outlet along the way, on Hawthorne. Half a gigantic pizza from a place called DeMona’s in Studio City. Ventura Boulevard, just a few blocks from the office. All the food was long past edibility. The pizza looked petrified.
In the living room, Wil worked grimly and silently, upending couches, slitting burlap bottoms, pulling a clock off the wall and shaking it hard enough to do serious damage, peering up the fireplace.
She decided to get an overview of the house, found three bedrooms, two bone-empty, one a disgusting mess, a pair of bathrooms, a dining area off the kitchen, and, next to the living room, a paneled den that looked out to the backyard, nothing in it but a brown leather recliner and a sixty-inch TV. An illegal black box sat atop the television. Petra switched on the set and was assaulted by five feet of penis entering vagina, a lazy synthesizer score, moans and grunts.
“Oh, those men,” said Wil, laughing.
She turned off the TV, opened the curtains. The yard was nice-sized, with several mature trees and an oval swimming pool, but the grass was ten inches of hay; the pool, a sump of algae-streaked soup. Hi
gh block walls and shrubbery blocked the neighbors’ views. Lucky for the neighbors.
Light-years from Ramsey’s princely lifestyle. All those years of being nothing like Ramsey.
She decided to tackle the disgusting bedroom first. It smelled like the bottom of a laundry basket. King-size bed, cheap headboard, black sheets and pillowcases flecked with oily gray stains. Gloving up, she bagged the linens. The mattress was a mildewed ruin. Even protected by surgical rubber, she found handling Balch’s linens repulsive.
Facing the bed was another TV, same size, and a second black box. Same porn station. Wadded tissues and stroke books in a nightstand added to the picture of Balch’s solitary sexual life. She flipped through the magazines, hoping for some really nasty S&M to build up the bad-guy psyche, but most of it was straight hetero male fantasy; the worst, some lightweight bondage.
The porn went into a bag, duly noted.
Piles of dirty underwear and socks created a lumpy rug between the wall and the left side of the bed. Balch probably slept on the right side, tossed his junk across. The closet was crammed with sweat suits in varying colors, drawstring lounging pants, jeans, shirts, all with Macy’s labels. A plastic bag with a ticket from a dry cleaner—on Hawthorne Boulevard—contained two pairs of pants and three shirts, including the bright blue silk he’d been wearing the day of the notification call.
She removed the plastic-wrapped garments. He leaves dirty laundry on the floor for days but chooses to clean these.
Probably the stuff he’d worn while murdering Lisa. Two pants, three shirts.
If they were bloodstained, why hadn’t the cleaner noticed? She tagged and bagged, moved on to the shelf above the closet. Thirteen file boxes up there. Balch’s tax records. She took her time with them.
His salary from Ramsey was his sole income. Ramsey’d started him off twenty-five years ago at $25,000. Regular raises had brought him to $160,000. Nice, but nothing compared to the boss’s millions.
Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor) Page 42
