Patsy K. was right—the woman really had hated the instrument. Fifteen calls the whole month, one long-distance, on the first, to Chagrin Falls, three minutes long. Brief chat with Mom? Just once a month. Not a close relationship?
Three toll calls, all to Alhambra. The number matched one in Petra’s notes: one of Patsy K.’s friends. The rest were all locals: three to Jacopo’s in Beverly Hills for takeout pizza; two to the Shanghai Garden, same city, for Chinese; one each to Neiman-Marcus and Saks.
The last four calls were to a Culver City exchange that turned out to be Empty Nest. Petra phoned it and asked for Darrell in editing. The receptionist said, “Darrell Breshear?”
“Yes.”
“One moment, I’ll connect you.”
Breshear had no receptionist, just a machine. His voice was pleasant. Patsy K. had said he was forty, but he sounded like a young man. Rather than leave a message, Petra decided to call back later and ran Breshear through a superficial NCIC check. Clean. Laughing to herself, because they hadn’t run Ramsey.
She phoned the county assessor and, after hassling with a snotty clerk, managed to learn that H. Carter Ramsey owned more than a dozen pieces of property in L.A., all in the Valley: the house in Calabasas, commercial buildings on Ventura Boulevard and on busy Encino, Sherman Oaks, North Hollywood, and Studio City cross streets. One in Studio City matched the address she had for Greg Balch’s office at Player’s Management.
Nothing in Malibu or Santa Monica, nothing that sounded like a romantic hideaway, but maybe when Ramsey got away, he really wanted distance. Go north, young woman, and if that didn’t work, the eastern mountain resorts.
At the Ventura assessor’s, she got a more cooperative clerk but nothing. Next came Santa Barbara—even more hassles than L.A., but bingo: H. Carter Ramsey—what did the H. stand for anyway?—was the deed holder on a house in Montecito.
Copying down the address, she ran his name through DMV.
Full name, here: Herbert.
Herb. Herbie C. Ramsey—that just wouldn’t do for The Adjustor.
Tracing vehicle ownerships, she came across all the vintage cars she’d seen in the little museum, plus a Mercedes 500, personalized license plate PLYR 1.
Plus a two-year-old Jeep Wrangler: PLYR 0. That one was registered to the Montecito address.
Player’s Management: PLYR. The fact that Ramsey used vanity plates was interesting. Most celebrities craved anonymity. Maybe he sensed his fame was fading, felt he needed to advertise.
PLYR . . . fancying himself quite the stud?
Something else: He’d mentioned the Mercedes but not the Jeep. Because the Jeep was stashed in Montecito, or was the omission deliberate?
Was the four-wheel-drive the murder vehicle; the Mercedes, a red herring?
Could the guy be that devious? Devious but stupid, because that kind of ruse wouldn’t work long. He’d have to know they’d run a DMV early on.
But if Petra’s last-date scenario was correct, the crime had been impulsive up to a point—the instant where Ramsey packed a knife as he got into the car. So maybe he’d acted out overwhelming rage, was now scrambling to do what he could.
Montecito . . . The neighborhood was ultra-tony; multiacre estates like Calabasas, older, classier. No cozy little pied-à-terre for Ramsey; he craved space. Lord of two manors.
Greedy guy in more ways than one? If I can’t have her, no one can?
It brought to mind a Thomas Hart Benton in an art book she’d pored over as a child. The Ballad of the Jealous Lover of Lone Green Valley. A rawboned, Stetsoned hick with psychopath eyes stabbing a woman in the breast, country musicians playing a sad score in the foreground, verdant earth dipping and swooping, evoking the victim’s vertigo. It had scared the hell out of her, for all she knew had colored her view of men and romance, maybe even her career choice.
The jealous lover of Calabasas/Montecito.
For all the Hollywood angles, this one would probably play out as the same old story, and she realized that if she stayed in Homicide, she’d be spending her life inhaling the worst of clichés.
The lunch plan had been to meet Stu at Musso and Frank, but at 1:45 he phoned in and said, “Sorry, I’m getting hung up, do you mind?”
Relieved, she said, “No problem. Anything earth-shattering?”
“All I’m getting so far is no one respects Ramsey as an actor. How about you?”
She told him about the Montecito place and the Jeep, then said, “Guess what, a similar,” and gave him the details of the Ilse Eggermann murder.
“Wonderful,” he said. “Phil Sorensen’s good. If he didn’t solve it, it was probably unsolvable. Maybe we should let Robbery-Homicide take it.”
Now she knew something was wrong. Stu had little use for the downtown hotshot elite, considered them arrogant, not nearly as good as they thought they were. Losing a big case was always a sore point for all but the laziest divisional detectives, and Stu had never occupied the same continent as lazy. Now he was willing to let R-H roll over him? And her.
If it was a career thing, pending promotion, that didn’t make sense—unless he was certain this one was bound to end badly, figured early damage control was better than being the global-village idiot.
“You’re kidding,” she said sharply.
“Yeah, I guess I am,” he said, wearily. “I just didn’t want to hear about a valid similar, but no big deal, we’ll ride with it.” She heard him inhale. “Okay, beep me if you need something. No news yet of Lisa’s car?”
“Nope. I’d like to check out Ramsey’s Montecito place.”
Silence. “Before we get that assertive, we should clear it with Schoelkopf.”
“I don’t see why we need to,” said Petra. “What I got from the meeting this morning was once we do the scut, we’re free to be real-life detectives. He admitted if we don’t talk to Ramsey soon we’ll look like boobs. I think we need to arrange another face-to-face, soon. No lackey to run interference. If Ramsey refuses to speak to us without a lawyer, that tells us something. If he doesn’t, we come on friendly but try to pry him.”
“I think you misunderstood Schoelkopf, Petra. For him it’s not about getting things done, it’s about self-protection. And we need to think that way, too—”
“Stu—”
“Hear me out. Who got burned on O.J.? D’s, not the brass. The moment we ask to get a close look at Ramsey’s houses and his cars, even just an informal request, no warrants, Ramsey becomes the prime suspect and it’s a whole other game. If someone finds out you DMV’d him, it’ll be a whole other game.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“Believe.”
“Fine,” she said. “You know better.”
“I don’t, Petra,” he said, in the most mournful tone she’d ever heard him use. “I just know we have to be careful.”
She left the station fuming, was three blocks away when she realized she was driving to see Darrell Breshear without setting up the appointment. Using a pay phone, she called again. This time she talked to the taped message, giving her name and title and asking Breshear to call her at the soonest opportuni—
“This is Darrell.”
“Mr. Breshear, thank you. I’m working Lisa Boehlinger-Ramsey’s murder and would like to talk to you about her.”
“Because we were friends?”
Odd response. “Exactly.”
“Sure,” he said, sounding anything but certain. “What would you like to know?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer a face-to-face meeting, Mr. Breshear.”
“Oh . . . any particular reason?”
Because I want to study your facial expressions, evaluate your eye contact, see whether you’re sweating or twitching or looking at your feet too frequently, because that’s a clear sign of lying.
“Procedure,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
“Mr. Breshear?”
“Well,” he said, “I guess so—could we not do it here, at the l
ot?”
“May I ask why?”
“It’s—I’d prefer to keep a low profile at work, and the police stomping in is . . . bound to attract attention.”
“I promise you I don’t stomp, sir.”
He didn’t think that was funny. “You know what I mean.”
“I understand, sir,” she said. The guy was antsy. Why? “Where would you suggest?”
“Um . . . how about a coffee shop or something like that? There are plenty of places around here.”
“Pick one.”
“How about . . . the Pancake Palace on Venice near Overland, let’s say tomorrow at ten A.M.?”
“The Pancake Palace is fine, Mr. Breshear, but I was thinking sooner. Like in half an hour.”
“Oh. Well . . . the problem is, I’m elbow-deep in a big project. Final cut on a picture, there’s a screening—”
“I understand, sir, but Lisa was murdered.”
“Yes, yes, of course—okay, the Pancake Palace, half an hour. May I ask who told you I’d be worth talking to about Lisa?”
“Various people,” said Petra. “See you there, sir, and thanks for your help.”
She got back in the car and drove as fast as safety would allow down Western to Olympic. Hoping the guy would show and not complicate her life further.
CHAPTER
23
Blue walls, brown booths, the too-sweet fumes of fake maple syrup.
Darrell Breshear wasn’t hard to spot. At this hour, the Pancake Palace was almost empty and he was the only black man in the place, sitting in a corner booth looking miserable.
Young voice, but indeed older. Patsy K. had said forty, but Petra pegged him at forty-five to fifty. He’d already started on a cup of coffee; for all his attempts to delay, he’d showed up early. Definitely antsy.
He was thin and sat tall, had close-cropped graying hair, skin nearly as pale as Petra’s, African features. He wore a black polo shirt under a gray herringbone jacket.
Bags under his eyes made him look weary. When she got closer, she saw the eyes were amber. A few freckles dotted the bridge of his nose.
He saw her and stood. Six-one.
“Mr. Breshear.”
“Detective.”
They shook hands. His was dry.
“Coffee?” he said, indicating his half-full cup. More like half-empty, judging from his expression.
“Sure.”
Breshear waved for service and ordered for Petra, saying please and thank you and getting the waitress to smile. “Sorry to play hard-to-get,” he said. “Lisa’s murder shocked me, and then to be part of an investigation.” He shook his head.
“So far you’re a very small part of the investigation, Mr. Breshear.” She took her pad out, began writing, then sketching his face.
“Good.” His eyes wandered to the left. “So . . .”
Rather than answer, Petra drank coffee. Breshear’s eyes started bouncing around.
“Please tell me about your relationship with Lisa Ramsey, sir.”
“We worked together.”
“You’re a film editor, too?”
“I’m a senior editor; Lisa worked on my team.”
“Senior editor,” said Petra. “So you’ve been doing it for a while.”
“Twelve years. I did some acting before that.”
“Really.”
“Nothing big. Not film—musical theater, back east.”
“Guys and Dolls?”
Breshear smiled. “Did that one. And others. It taught me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I wasn’t as talented as I thought.”
Petra smiled back. “Did you hire Lisa?”
“Empty Nest hired her and assigned her to me. She was good. Considering how new she was. She learned fast. Intelligent. What happened to her is unbelievable.”
Breshear’s shoulders dropped and now he maintained eye contact.
Petra said, “Did she have prior experience as a film editor?”
“She was a theater arts major in college, took some editing courses.”
“How long did she work with you, sir?”
“About half a year.” Up with the eyes. He sipped, kept his cup in front of his mouth, blocking it from view.
“Are editing jobs easy to come by?”
“Not at all.”
“But Lisa got one because of her college training?”
“I—not exactly,” said Breshear. The cup continued to shield his mouth. Petra shifted forward, and he lowered it. “She—I was told she got the job through connections.”
“Told by who?”
“My boss—Steve Zamoutis. He’s the producer.”
“Connections with who?”
“Ramsey. He made a call, and she got hired.”
“Six months ago,” said Petra. “Right after the divorce.”
Breshear nodded.
Doing favors for the ex. Did it confirm Ramsey’s claim of a friendly parting? Or had he carried the torch for Lisa, tried to get back with her?
“Let me get something straight, sir. Was Lisa qualified for the job?”
“Yes,” Breshear answered quickly. “Considering her inexperience, she was very competent.”
Petra wrote. And sketched.
Breshear said, “That’s not to say there weren’t things she needed to learn.”
It took a second for Petra to untangle the double negative. Was Breshear a complex thinker, or was he looking for something other than a coffee cup to hide behind?
“And you taught her.”
“Tried my best.”
“So you and she worked together on the same movies.”
“Two pictures,” he said, naming them. Petra had never heard of either.
Breshear added, “They haven’t been put into release yet.”
“What kind of pictures are they?”
“Comedies.”
“No murder mysteries, huh?”
Breshear gave a snorting laugh that he seemed to regret, because he inhaled deeply, tried to compose himself. “Not hardly.” He looked at his watch.
“What else can you tell me about Lisa?” she said.
“That’s about it. She had no problems on the job. When I found out she was murdered, it made me sick.”
“Any ideas about who might have killed her?”
“Everyone’s saying it was Ramsey, because he beat her up, but I don’t know.”
“Did Lisa talk to you about that?”
“Never.”
Petra put the finishing touches on his portrait. She’d drawn him nervous—with haunted eyes. “Not even once?”
“Not even once, Detective. His name never came up, period.”
“Did you ever see Lisa use drugs?”
Breshear’s mouth opened and shut. Out came another snort laugh. “I really don’t—is it absolutely necessary to get into that?”
“Yes it is, sir.” Petra moved closer again, sliding her hand across the table so it was only inches from his.
He pulled back. “Let me say this: Lisa wasn’t a heavy doper, but in the industry people tend to—yes, I saw her snort a couple of times.”
“A couple meaning two.”
“Maybe more. Three or four. But that’s it.”
“And this was at work?”
“No, no.” He was light enough to blush. Good. Down went the eyes. He said, “Not at work, strictly speaking. I mean, we weren’t actually working—I’m her supervisor. Anything that happens on my shift is my responsibility.”
“I understand, Mr. Breshear. You’d never have allowed cocaine to interfere with her work. But you saw her snorting three or four times on the lot after work. Where exactly?”
“In the editing room, but it was after hours. May I ask why you want to know this? Do you think what happened was related to dope? Because it’s not some kind of crazy scene around here. We’re all business, have to be. Without us, the picture doesn’t get made.”
Long speech. The heighte
ned color remained, lessening the contrast between freckles and background skin.
“Where else, besides the editing room, did you see her snort?”
“At—in my car. That took me by surprise. I was driving and she just pulled out this little glass tube, waited till I stopped for a red light, and sucked it up through her nose.”
“In your car,” Petra wrote, watching as Breshear’s eyes did a little ocular roller coaster. “Where were you going?”
“I don’t remember.” Breshear snatched up his cup and emptied it. The waitress came by and poured some more and he started drinking.
Petra declined the refill, and when she and Breshear were alone again, she sketched some more, inserting shadows and contours, making him look older. “So you don’t recall where you were going. How long ago was this?”
Down went the cup. “I’d say one, maybe two months ago.”
“Were you two dating, Mr. Breshear?”
“No, no—we were working together. Late. That’s the way it is in editing. They call you, you cut.”
You cut. The word choice sailed right by him.
“So you and Lisa were working late and . . .”
He didn’t fill in the blank, and Petra said, “How’d you end up in your car?”
“I was probably taking her home, or maybe out for a bite—may I ask why you’re questioning me?”
“We’re questioning all the men Lisa knew, Mr. Breshear. Someone told us you’d dated Lisa and we’re following up.”
“That’s wrong. We never dated.”
“So I guess our source is mistaken.” She smiled, guessing that the existence of a “source” would rattle him.
He colored again and his eyes bounced around. This guy was no smooth psychopath, but he was hiding something.
“Guess so,” he said.
“Can you tell me where you were on the night Lisa was murdered?”
He stared at her. Touched his forehead, wiping it, though it was dry. Now his eyes were big and frightened—exactly the expression Petra had drawn on her pad. Look, Dad, I’m a prophetess, too!
“I was with another woman.” Saying it just above a whisper.
“Could I have a name, please?”
Breshear smiled. A sick, guilty, dirt-eating, totally unattractive smile. “That’s kind of a problem.”
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