She was about to enter the back office when she noticed something that confirmed her guess about Balch as performer. At the bottom of the wall, half hidden by the desk. Low man in the exhibit—not a coincidence, she was willing to bet.
Balch in his twenties. He’d been decent-looking, too. A good fifty pounds lighter, sun-blond, nicely defined muscles, like a hero in one of those beach movies she used to watch for laughs—Tab Hunter or Troy Donahue.
But even in his youth, the business manager had worn a dull, subservient smile that robbed him of star quality.
“Antiques,” said Balch, sounding self-conscious. “You know you’re old when you don’t recognize yourself anymore.”
“So you acted, too.”
“Not really. I should take that stuff down.” The sweats were tight around his paunch, baggy at the seat. New white sneakers. Now that she had a good look, she could see that his thin, waxy hair was a mixture of blond and white. Pink scalp peeked through.
“Can I get you some coffee?” He indicated the rear office, stood by the door, waiting for her to enter.
“No thanks.” She stepped in. Finally a couple of windows, but they were covered by chenille drapes the color of old newspaper. No natural lighting, and the single desk lamp Balch had on didn’t do much to pierce the gloom.
The clutter was monumental—papers on the floor, chairs crowding another cheap desk, bigger, L-shaped. Ledgers, tax manuals, corporate prospectuses, government forms. On the shorter arm of the desk was a white plastic coffeemaker spotted with brown. Kentucky Fried Chicken box in a corner, grease stains on the underside of the open lid. A glimpse of breaded fowl.
Total slob. Maybe that’s why Ramsey maintained him in low-rent circumstances. Or maybe that was the essence of their relationship.
All those years playing lackey. Could she wedge the guy? He did live in Rolling Hills Estates, very pricey. So Ramsey paid well for loyalty.
Balch cleared an armchair for her, tossing papers into a corner, and sat behind the desk, hands laced on his belly. “So how’s it going? The investigation.”
“It’s going.” Petra smiled. “Do you have any information that might help me, Mr. Balch?”
“Me? Wish I did, I still can’t get over it.” His lower jaw shifted from side to side. “Lisa was . . . a nice girl. Little hot-tempered, but basically a great person.”
“Hot-tempered?”
“Listen, I know you’ve heard about Cart hitting her, all that stuff on TV, but it only happened once. Not that I’m excusing it—it was wrong. But Lisa had a temper. She went off on him all the time.”
Trying to blame the victim to excuse the boss? Did he realize he was offering a motive for the boss’s rage?
“So she had a tendency to criticize Mr. Ramsey?”
Balch touched his mouth. His eyes had gotten small. “I’m not saying they didn’t get along. They loved each other. All I’m saying is Lisa could be . . . that I can see her—forget it, what do I know, I’m just talking.”
“You can see her getting someone pretty angry.”
“Anyone can get anyone angry. That has nothing to do with what happened. This is obviously some kind of maniac.”
“Why do you say that, Mr. Balch?”
“The way it—it was done. Totally insane.” Balch’s hand rose to his forehead, rubbing, as if trying to erase a headache. “Cart’s devastated.”
“How long have you and Cart known each other?”
“We grew up together, upstate New York, went to high school and college together at Syracuse, played football—he was the quarterback, damn good one. Scouted by the pros, but he tore his hamstring at the end of the senior season.”
“And you?”
“Offensive lineman.”
Protecting the quarterback.
“So you go back a long ways.”
Balch smiled. “Centuries. Before your time.”
“Did you come out to Hollywood together?”
“Yup. After graduation, one of those last-fling things before we settled down. Also to cheer Cart up—he was pretty upset about losing out on the NFL. His dad owned a hardware store and wanted Cart to take it over and he thought he’d probably do that.”
“And you?”
“Me?” Surprised that she cared. “I had a business degree, some offers from accounting firms, figured eventually I’d get a CPA.”
Petra gazed around at the sty he called an office. Weren’t bean counters supposed to be organized?
“So what led you to acting?”
Balch stroked the top of his pale head. “It was one of those weird things. Not exactly Lana Turner at Schwab’s—are you old enough to know about that?”
“Sure,” said Petra. Knowing it from her father. The honeymoon he and his bride had taken to California. Kenneth Connor had loved L.A.; saw it as an anthropologist’s dream. Look at me now, Dad. Hobnobbing with the never-greats. Working the industry.
“You and Cart were both discovered?” she said.
Balch smiled again. “No. Cart was. It was right out of a script. We were a few days from going back to Syracuse, having a couple of beers at Trader Vic’s—over at the Beverly Hilton, this was before Merv owned it. Anyway, some guy comes over and says, ‘I’ve been watching you two fine-looking young men; would you like parts in a movie?’ And gives us his card. We’re thinking it’s got to be a scam, or maybe he’s a que— Some gay guy hustling. But the next morning, Cart pulls out the card and says, Hey, let’s call, for the hell of it. ’Cause we were gonna go home and get jobs, why not be adventurous. Turns out it was for real, a casting agency. We went down and auditioned, both got parts—not that it was any big deal. Not even a B movie, more like D. A western. Straight to the Dixie drive-in circuit.”
Balch moved papers around atop his desk, making no impact on the clutter. “Anyway, one thing led to another and we decided to stay in L.A., got a few more jobs over the next year, nonunion stuff, barely enough to make the rent. Then I didn’t get any more calls, but Cart started getting lots, better ones, then an agent, and he was making some decent money, mostly in westerns. I decided to go home. It was winter, almost Christmas, I remember thinking my folks were already mad at me for taking the year off, what would Christmas dinner be like.”
“So you lost faith in Hollywood?”
Balch smiled. “It wasn’t a matter of faith. I wasn’t qualified, didn’t have the talent to make it—never got speaking parts, just crowd fillers, walk-throughs, that kind of thing. Couldn’t find any accounting jobs and I’d blown all my job offers back East, but I figured something would turn up. Then Cart asked me to stay, said it would be fun, we could continue to hang out, he’d find me something. And he did. Bookkeeping gig at Warner Brothers.”
He spread his arms, smiled again. “And that’s the whole glamorous story.”
“When did you start managing Cart’s business?”
“Soon as he began making serious bucks. He’d seen what unscrupulous managers could do, wanted someone he could trust. By then I was working in business affairs at ABC, knew something about the industry.”
“Do you manage anyone else?”
Balch shifted his weight, smoothed out a black velvet fold of sweatshirt. “I do a few favors for people, facilitate a deal now and then, but Cart’s investments keep me busy.”
“So he’s done pretty well.”
“He’s earned it.”
Spoken like a true lineman.
“So you handle his contracts?”
“He’s got an entertainment lawyer, but yeah, I vet things.”
“What else do you do for him?”
“Prepare his taxes, keep track of things. We’re diversified—real estate, securities, the usual. There’s some property management. It keeps me busy—anything else I can do for you?”
“Just what you’re doing,” said Petra. “Filling in personal details.”
“About Cart?”
“Cart, Lisa, anything.”
As if the matte
r required great contemplation, Balch closed his eyes. Opened them. The hands were back on his middle. Blond Buddha.
“Cart and Lisa,” he said very softly, “is a very sad story. He really flipped for her, felt embarrassed about it. The age difference. I told him it didn’t matter, he was in better shape than guys half his age. And Lisa was crazy about him. I thought they were the best thing ever happened to each other.” A pained expression crossed his puffy face. “I really don’t know what happened. Marriage is tough.” The eyes opened. “Been there twice. Who’s to say what makes people tick?”
Petra produced her pad and Balch moved back a bit, as if repulsed by that bit of procedure. “If you could please give me the timetable for Sunday—the trip to Tahoe and after you got back. As precisely as possible.”
“Timetable . . . sure.” His story matched Ramsey’s and that of the pilot, Marionfeldt, detail for detail. The Tahoe trip, nonstop business, uneventful flight back, both men asleep before 10 P.M., waking up, exercising, showering, eating breakfast, putting golf balls.
Pleasant dreams during the time Lisa had been murdered.
Petra said, “Okay, thanks . . . by the way, I was just curious why you call your company Player’s Management.”
“Oh, that.” Balch let out a snort-laugh. “Football days. We were amateurs, looking for something catchy. And anonymous—no mention of Cart’s name. I came up with it.”
Petra wondered if that was all of it. In the industry, players were those with power. Had he dreamed of that once?
“So your job,” she said, “is protecting Cart’s interest. What did you do after Lisa went public with the domestic violence incident?”
“What was there to do? The damage was already done.”
“You didn’t ask her not to go public again?”
“I wanted to, but Cart said no, it was personal, not business. I disagreed.”
“Why’s that?”
“This town, personal and business sometimes can’t be separated. But that’s what Cart wanted, so I listened.”
Flipping pages, Petra said, “So you pay all of Cart’s bills.”
“They go through me, yes.”
“Including Lisa’s spousal support.”
“Yup—there’s an example of the kind of guy Cart is. Lisa’s lawyer made an outrageous request. They’d only been married for a little over a year. I’d been through it twice, had a pretty good idea what she’d settle for, but Cart said no negotiation, give it to her.”
Frowning now. Resentful? Jealous?
“So he’s pretty generous,” said Petra.
“Exactly.” He stood up. “Now, if you don’t mind, it’s a little late—”
“Sure,” said Petra, smiling and rising, too. He waited by the door again, and as she passed close she smelled him. Heavy fruity cologne and sweat.
Out in the front room, she said, “Oh, one more thing. Cart’s maid Estrella Flores. Any idea where she went?”
“Cart told me she quit without notice. How’s that for loyalty? I got him a new girl.”
“Through the same agency?”
“Yup.”
“Remember the name?”
“Of the agency? Some place in Beverly Hills—the Nancy Downey Agency.” He shot a cuff and looked at his watch.
“I appreciate your time, Mr. Balch.”
Before she left the office, she glanced at the wall of photos. Two young guys striking poses. Players. Next to the pictures, Balch did look old.
CHAPTER
36
She drove to a gas station pay phone, got the number of the Nancy Downey Agency, and called it, though it was well past business hours. No machine. Something to wake up for tomorrow.
Taking Laurel Canyon back to the city, she reviewed the interview with Balch.
Nothing dramatic, but he had provided a possible lead to Estrella Flores, and had offered evidence of friction between Lisa and Ramsey.
She went off on him all the time.
Consistent with what Kelly Sposito had said about Lisa’s sarcasm.
Impotent ex-hubby; sharp-tongued wife. Ramsey said she had a habit of shoving him. Had she finally pushed him too far?
How much did Balch know? Had he heard Ramsey leave the house during the early-morning hours? Go into the car museum and pull out the Mercedes? Or the Jeep?
How far would the lineman go to protect the quarterback?
Players. Actors. What was real, what was scripted?
Time to talk to the night guard who’d been on shift Sunday. Then she thought of something. RanchHaven. A place that big, smack in the fire zone, there’d have to be a second way out for safety. If so, was it guarded too? Or was there some way for residents to exit without tipping off the security staff?
Too many question marks. Not quizzing the guard right away had been amateurish; she felt like a blind painter.
Was it worth a ride out to Calabasas right now? She’d been going all day, and if she didn’t let go of it, she wouldn’t sleep and wouldn’t that be pretty—one groggy, impaired D mucking things up further.
Tomorrow morning her artwork would appear all over the news and leads about the boy in the park would start pouring in, most of them useless. The whole thing was a distraction. And something about the boy’s eyes bothered her—he’d already seen plenty. She didn’t even want to think about an eleven-year-old witnessing something like that.
She thought about him. Eating dinner alone in Griffith Park. Reading. Stealing books. Pathetic but charming—enough! Go home, E.T. Soak in tub, eat sandwich—oh, Jesus, she couldn’t go home. The eight o’clock appointment with Ron Banks! What had possessed her to do that?
She zipped across Sunset and checked her watch. Seven forty-six. Barely enough time to get to Katz’s, let alone freshen up and change.
The guy would be forced to stare across the table at a hag.
Big deal; this was no real date.
What was it, then?
She made it at three minutes to, paid for parking in a nearby lot, and walked into Katz’s corned-beef air. Greeted with a wide, false smile by a dyspeptic waitress who remembered her cop tips, she took a booth toward the back, ordered a Coke, headed for the ladies’ room to wash up.
In front of a soap-specked mirror, she fluffed her hair and disapproved of her face. Definitely haggard, every bone showing. Paler than usual, too, and something seemed to be tugging her mouth down—some cruel god sketching in the wrinkles that would soon be engraved there? At least the black pantsuit of the day was holding up okay—let’s hear it for viscose.
When she returned, the drink was there and Banks was walking through the front door. She waved him over.
He smiled and sat down. “Good to see you again.” His hands settled on the table, fingers drumming. Unfolding the paper napkin, he placed it on his lap. His hands kept moving.
“Hit much traffic coming over?” she said.
“Not bad.” He looked different. A stranger.
As opposed to? She was sitting across from a stranger—an uncomfortable stranger; look at those hands. Straining for conversation when a hot bath would have proved celestial.
The waitress brought a bowl of sour-pickle slices and Petra took one. Defining the ground rules right from the start: garlic on the breath; don’t think of getting close. That seemed to relax Banks and he reached for one, too.
“These are great,” he said. “Never been here.”
“Good place.”
“Sometimes I go to Langer’s, on Alvarado. People are getting shot over at MacArthur Park and they’re still lining up for pastrami at Langer’s.”
“Been there,” said Petra. “I’m kind of a deli freak.”
“No cholesterol worries?”
“Good genetics,” she said. “Cholesterol-wise, anyway.”
He laughed. Why did he look so different? Younger, even more boyish than at Ramsey’s house. Despite being dressed more formally—navy double-breasted suit, pale blue shirt, maroon tie. Nice. Had he so
mehow found time to spruce up?
Then she realized what the difference was. The mustache was gone. She remembered it as a smallish, blond-gray thing, no big soup-strainer like his partner’s. But its absence made a difference. No gray in his head hair; losing the ’stache took off years. He had a pleasant face—a little narrow, the nose a little off-center, but the eyes were well placed. Hazel. Long lashes. The now exposed mouth yielding, but not in a weak way. Hairless hands. Young skin. She saw him as someone who’d gone through puberty late, would preserve well.
The mouth turned up slightly at the corners—a perpetual smile that might have gotten him into trouble as a schoolboy: Banks, stop smirking.
She realized she was staring; touched her upper lip and arched an eyebrow.
“Got rid of it last night,” he said, almost apologetic. “It was an experiment. My daughters didn’t like it, said it tickled. I shaved it off right in front of them. They thought it was hilarious.”
“How many daughters do you have?”
“Two. They’re five and six.”
Knowing he’d carry pictures, she asked if he had any.
“As a matter of fact . . .” he said, pulling several from his wallet.
Two pretty little things, both dark-haired but with fair skin, somewhat Latina-looking. Big brown eyes, long hair styled into ringlets, identical pink, frothy dresses. No obvious resemblance to Banks, though she thought she saw something in the younger one’s smile.
“Totally adorable. What are their names?”
“The older one’s Alicia and the baby’s Beatrix. We call her Bee, or Honeybee.”
A and B. Someone liked order. She handed the photos back to him, and he took a peek before slipping them behind his credit cards.
The waitress stomped over and asked if they were ready.
Petra knew what she wanted, but she picked up her menu to give him time.
The waitress’s foot tapped. “I can come back—”
“No, I think we’re okay. I’ll take the pastrami-coleslaw combo. With fries.”
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