Ramsey had years of practice mouthing words and making them sound right.
Even a bad actor had it over the average suspect. The typical sad soul she interrogated was so full of anxiety, he gave you more than you needed even when he thought he was lying effectively, and the key was to Mirandize him right away, get every last drop legally. The exception was your basic stone-psychopath who had little or no anxiety, but those guys were so boringly self-destructive, they usually managed to trip themselves up being clever.
So where did Ramsey fit in? A calculated killer, or just some pathetic, impotent loser who’d freaked out?
Give him lots of rope, sit back, look, and listen. A self-hanging was too much to hope for, but maybe he’d at least knot himself up.
She reached RanchHaven at 8:40, got waved through by the guard. Before she drove through, she asked him if he’d been on night duty Sunday and he said no, that was someone else. Then he closed the guardhouse door.
She drove up the hill. Artificial lights bleached the pink house off-white, made it appear even bigger, but just as architecturally confused.
A young Hispanic woman, not Estrella Flores, answered her ring, opening the door halfway. What Petra could see of the house was dark.
“Hello,” she said. “Detective Connor for Mr. Ramsey.”
“Jes?” The woman was pretty, with a round face, wide eyes the color of concord grapes, and black hair tied in a bun. About twenty-five. Same pink-and-white uniform Estrella Flores had worn.
Petra repeated her name and showed the badge.
The maid stepped back. “Wan min.” Same voice as over the phone. Where was the older woman?
“Is Estrella Flores here?”
Confusion. The young woman started to turn, and Petra tapped her shoulder. “Donde esta Estrella?”
Head shake.
“Estrella Flores? La . . . housekeeper?”
No answer, and Petra’s attempt at a warm, sisterly smile failed to alter the maid’s stolid expression.
“Como se llama usted, señorita?”
“Maria.”
“Nombre de familia?”
“Guerrero.”
“Maria Guerrero.”
“Sí.”
“Usted no sabe Estrella Flores?”
“No.”
“Estrella no trabaja aqui?”
“No.”
“Cuanto tiempo usted trabaja aqui?”
“Dos dias.”
Two days on the job; Estrella gone. Knowing something she didn’t want to know and rabbiting? Petra wished she’d gotten to her sooner.
As Maria Guerrero turned again to leave, a male voice said, “Detective,” and Ramsey appeared out of the darkness, wearing a white, seriously wrinkled linen shirt, cream silk slacks, cream loafers, no socks.
A vision in pale tones? I’m a good guy.
He held the door open for Petra and she walked in. The house smelled stale, and only a table lamp at the rear of the big sitting room was lit. The car museum was dark, too, the glass wall a sheet of black.
He walked two feet ahead of her, to the lamp, switched on another and winced, as if the wattage hurt his eyes. Had he been sitting in the darkness till now? His sleeves were rolled carelessly to his elbows and his curly hair looked lumpy and uneven.
“Please, have a seat.” Waiting till she’d settled on one of the overstuffeds, he picked his own spot at a right angle to hers, their knees two feet apart.
Placing his hands at his sides, he sat there. His face looked drawn, older. More gray hairs among the curls, but maybe it was just the lighting. Or some dye wearing off.
“Thanks for meeting with me, sir.”
“Of course,” he said, inhaling and rubbing one corner of his mouth.
Petra took out her pad, letting her jacket fall open so he could see the badge on her shirt pocket. Showing him the side of the pad with the blue LAPD stamp. Trying to study his reaction to those small bits of official presence.
He was looking somewhere else. At the big stone fireplace, cold and dark.
“Would you like something to drink, Detective?”
“No thanks, sir.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.”
“Will do, Mr. Ramsey.” She opened the pad. “How’s everything?”
“Rough. Very rough.”
Petra gave her best understanding smile. “I noticed you have a different maid than when I was here the first time.”
“The other one walked out on me.”
“Estrella Flores?”
He stared at her. “Yes.”
“How long had she been working for you?”
“Two years, I guess. Give or take. She said she wanted to go back to El Salvador, but I know it was the . . . what happened to Lisa. She liked Lisa. I guess all the . . . when you people were here it must have upset her, because that night she was busy packing.” He shrugged. “Then all the media calls. It’s been hard keeping my head clear.”
“Have there been many calls?”
“Tons, all on the business line. The number I gave you was my private line. I had everything forwarded to Greg’s office. He’s not talking to anyone, so hopefully it’ll taper off.” He rubbed his eyes, shook his head.
“So you got a new maid immediately,” said Petra.
“Greg got her.”
She sat there, not writing. Giving Ramsey some silence to fill, but he lowered his head. Wide shoulders rounding as he slumped, your classic grieving posture. Chin in hand now. The Thinker.
“Estrella Flores liked Lisa,” she finally said, “but she didn’t go with Lisa when Lisa moved out.”
“Nope,” said Ramsey, looking up. “Why’s Estrella so important?”
“She probably isn’t, sir. I’m trying to get a feel for Lisa’s person-ality—was there something about her that would have stopped Estrella from going with her? Was she hard to work for?”
“Doubt it,” said Ramsey. “It was probably the money. I paid her more than Lisa would’ve wanted to. Social Security, withholding, everything legal. Lisa had a small place; she wouldn’t need someone that expensive.”
So Flores’s nervousness that first day hadn’t been immigration worries. And now she was gone . . .
Ramsey widened his legs a bit. “No, Lisa wasn’t hard to work for. She was bright, full of energy, had a great sense of humor. Sometimes she could get a little . . . sharp with people, but no, I wouldn’t call her hard to live with.”
“Sharp?”
“Sarcastic.”
Exactly what Kelly Sposito had said.
“Not in a mean way,” said Ramsey. “Just a bit of an . . . edge. Part of it was her sense of humor. She told a joke better than any woman I’ve ever—”
He stopped himself, pressed his legs close together. “Guess that sounds sexist, but I haven’t really known that many women who enjoyed telling jokes. I don’t mean your Phyllis Dillers or your Carol Burnetts. Women who aren’t pros.”
“And Lisa liked telling jokes.”
“When she was in the mood . . . you have no idea who killed her?”
“Not yet, sir. We’re open to ideas.”
“It just doesn’t make sense, Lisa hooking up with some maniac and going to Griffith Park. For the most part, she went for older guys—conservative types, not the type to get . . . wild.”
“She went for older guys after your divorce?”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Ramsey. “But I do know that before we started dating, she’d had two older boyfriends back in Cleveland. A dentist and a high school principal.”
“How much older?”
“Ancient. Older than me,” he said, smiling. “She made a crack about going out with me even though I was too young for her. At the time she was twenty-four and I was forty-seven.”
Making him fifty.
“What were the names of these other men?”
“I honestly can’t recall—the principal was Pete something, I think the dentist was Hal. Or mayb
e Hank. She’d been dating Pete right before she met me, broke up with him the day of the pageant—that’s where I met her, Miss Ohio Entertainment—I told you that, didn’t I?”
Petra nodded.
“Going senile.” He tapped his head. “One good thing about Alzheimer’s—you get to meet new people every day.”
Thinking of her father, wasting away, Petra forced a smile. Onset at sixty, one of the earliest the doctors had seen. One of the quickest progressions, too. Kenneth Connor, dust at sixty-three . . .
“Are you okay?” said Ramsey.
“Pardon?”
“For a second you looked upset—was it the Alzheimer’s joke? That was one of Lisa’s—if it was too sick for your taste, I’m—”
“No, not at all, Mr. Ramsey,” she said, appalled. What had he seen on her face? “So Lisa liked jokes.”
“Yes—do you have any idea when there might be a funeral?”
“That would depend on the coroner, Mr. Ramsey. And Lisa’s family’s wishes.”
“Are they coming out to L.A.?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“By the way, I ended up calling them myself, thought it should be me, not some . . . not a stranger. But all I got was a machine.”
“I got through to Dr. Boehlinger.”
He frowned. “Jack. He hates my guts, always did. Probably told you I was a terrible husband, you should be investigating me.”
Rope.
She waited.
“He’s a tough guy, but not a bad sort,” said Ramsey. “Lisa marrying me really blew his mind.” He touched his mustache, tracing a vertical line through the center, stroking the left side, then the right, bisecting again.
“He didn’t approve,” said Petra.
“He went crazy. Didn’t come to the wedding—it was just a small civil thing at their country club—Jack’s and Vivian’s. Vivian came. And Lisa’s brother, John—Jack junior, he works for Mobil Oil in Saudi Arabia, and he came. Not Jack senior, though. He called me a week before, tried to talk me out of it, said I was robbing Lisa’s youth, she deserved better—babies, a family, the whole nine yards.”
“You didn’t want children?”
“I wouldn’t have minded, but Lisa didn’t want them. I didn’t tell him that, of course. But Lisa made that clear right from the outset. She was the least domesticated girl I’ve ever met, but Jack thought she should be some high-achieving housewife. He’s a very domineering guy. Surgeon, used to giving orders. He was tough on Lisa when she was growing up.”
“Tough in what way?”
“Perfectionistic—high standards. Lisa had to get straight A’s, go out for every extracurricular activity, excel in everything. She told me when she was twelve, Jack bought her a horse, so she had to learn jumping, dressage, compete whether or not she wanted to. Not the pageants, though. Those were Vivian’s idea.”
“Sounds like a lot of pressure.”
“On all sides. Lisa said it was hell. That’s probably why she married me.”
“What do you mean?”
“When we were together, Lisa could do whatever she wanted. Sometimes . . .” He waved a hand.
“Sometimes what, sir?”
Ramsey sat straighter. “Sometimes I think I was too easygoing, and she thought I didn’t care. I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but I can’t say I see the point of all this . . . biography, Detective Connor. Lisa was murdered by some maniac, and we’re sitting here talking about her childhood.”
A topic you brought up. “Sometimes it’s hard to know what’s relevant, sir.”
“Well,” he said, “I just don’t see the point.”
Petra drew an oval on her pad and placed a horizontal line two-thirds of the way down. A few more pen strokes turned it into Ramsey’s tailored mustache. She sketched in his blue eyes, tilted them downward a bit, made him look sad.
“Any other reason for Dr. Boehlinger to hate you other than your being too old for Lisa?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Jack and I never had any hassles, so I honestly don’t know.”
“No problems at all?”
“None—why?”
“He mentioned something to me, Mr. Ramsey. The incident—”
“That,” said Ramsey sharply, and now she saw something different in his eyes. Wary. Hardened. “I figured we’d get around to it. Do you know why Lisa went public? In addition to hurting me?”
“Why, sir?”
“Money.”
“The show paid her?”
“Fifteen thousand. She called it adding insult to injury.”
“She must have been pretty mad at you.”
“Beyond mad—Lisa has Jack’s temper.”
Present tense, again. On some level, she was still there with him.
“Tell me about the incident, Mr. Ramsey.”
“You don’t watch TV?”
“I’d like to know what really happened.”
His lower jaw slung forward and he clicked his teeth. “What can I say? It was sleazy, tawdry, inexcusable, it still makes me sick. We’d been out to dinner, came home, had words—I don’t even remember about what.”
Bet you do, thought Petra.
“It heated up, Lisa started shoving me, hitting me. With a closed hand. Not the first time. I put up with it because of the difference in our sizes. This time I didn’t. There was no excuse. What can I say? I lost it.”
He looked at his fist, as if unable to believe it had ever caused damage.
Petra remembered the news clip. Lisa’s black eye and split lip.
“It only happened once?”
“Once,” he said. “One single, solitary time, that’s it.” He shook his head. “One stupid moment you lose control, and it’s forever.”
As good a description as any of murder.
“I felt like crap, just like absolute filth, seeing her on the floor like that. I tried to help her up, but she screamed at me not to touch her. I tried to get her an ice pack—she wouldn’t have anything to do with me. So I went out to the pond, and when I came back, her car was gone. She stayed away for four days. During that time she went to Inside Story. But she never told me about it, came back and acted as if everything was fine. Then, a few days later, we were eating dinner and she turned on the TV and smiled. And there we were in the hot tub, and she gives me this grin, says, ‘Insult to injury, Cart. Don’t ever lay a fucking hand on me again.’ ”
Ramsey studied the offending body part again, opened the palm. “I never did—I’m going to get something to drink. Sure you don’t want?”
“Positive.”
He was gone for several minutes, came back with a can of Diet Sprite. Popping the top, he sat back and drank.
Petra said, “You just mentioned going out to a pond. I don’t remember seeing one out back.”
“That’s because it was our other house.” Our, not my. Another indication he hadn’t severed all the ties. Nor had he lapsed into distancing language, the way murderers sometimes do in the middle of their chronologies, starting with we and switching to she and I. Petra had read an FBI report claiming linguistic analysis could offer major clues. She wasn’t convinced, but she was open-minded.
Ramsey drank more soda, looked genuinely miserable.
“Your other house?” said Petra.
“We have a weekend place up in Montecito. Actually, a bigger house than this. It’s pretty nuts, maintenance-wise. There’s a little pond there I used to find peaceful.”
“Used to?”
“Don’t go there much anymore. That’s the way it is with second houses—I’ve heard the same thing from other people.”
“They don’t get utilized?”
He nodded. “You think you’re getting yourself some refuge and it just becomes another set of obligations—the place was too damn big in the first place. God knows this one is, too.”
“So you don’t go up there much.”
“Last time had to be . . .” He looked at the ceiling. “.
. . months ago.”
Suddenly his body jerked, an almost seizurelike movement that snapped his head down and brought his attention forward. His eyes met Petra’s. Wet. He wiped them quickly.
“The last time Lisa and I were up there together,” he said, “was that time. We never went back together. A few days after the show aired, she moved out again and I got served with papers. I thought everything was patched up.”
Petra kept the poignancy at bay and thought: The DV episode had gone down in Montecito. She’d call Ron Banks and save him more searching.
Ramsey rested his chin in his hand again.
“Okay,” she said. “This is helpful. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s talk about the night Lisa was murdered.”
CHAPTER
27
Mildred Board would have liked to scrub the kitchen floor.
Years ago, she’d accomplished the task every single day. A one-hour commitment, up to the elbows in soapy water from six A.M. to seven. Excellent thinking time, no distraction from the slosh or the circular movements of cotton rags on yellow linoleum.
Once the arthritis set in, all that stooping and rubbing became unbearable, and she was lucky if she was able to attend to the floor once a week.
The dining room parquet required attention as well. The wood was faded, buckling and cracked in spots, long past due for a refinish.
Every inch of wood visible; the dining room was empty, all the missus’s furniture shipped off to those Sotheby’s people in New York.
Mildred felt an uncomfortable tightening around her eyes. She breathed in and straightened her back and said, “One does one’s best,’’ in a firm voice.
Firm and loud. No one to hear her. The missus was upstairs. So many other rooms between them, all empty and closed off.
The kitchen with its old cherrywood cabinets, industrial refrigerators, and three ovens was big enough for a hotel. The pots and pans and cutlery remained, as did the missus’s favorite bone china set and a few sentimental silver pieces in the butler’s pantry. And the magnificent linen press the Sotheby’s people said they couldn’t hope to sell. But the lovely things—the treasures the missus and him had acquired in Europe—were all gone. Brought in fine prices, they had, even after the auctioneer’s premium and the taxes. Mildred had seen the check, known everything was going to be all right. For a while.
Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 Page 19
