L and G?
Lisa and Greg. A sweat stain beneath the inscription indicated stress, according to a department shrink. Very profound. The psychologist was light on facts, heavy on pomposity, suggested he be the one to see Billy Straight for “debriefing.”
Petra had other ideas, and she stood her ground.
Stu’s find added another layer: ten-year-old Adjustor plot out of TV Guide.
A football player attempts to frame his best friend for murder, and Dack Price investigates.
Maybe eventually it would help Stu feel he’d played a part. Right now he had Kathy’s recuperation to deal with; she’d finally gotten realistic, agreed to his thirty-day compassionate leave.
L and G? Had Lisa and Balch tumbled? Or was it all in Ramsey’s paranoid mind? Or maybe it was money, Lisa and Balch conspiring to skim. No way to know till all the financial records were pried loose from Larry Schick. Maybe never. Petra really didn’t care.
Same for the specifics of Lisa’s murder—just paperwork now. Her best guess was the original scenario: Ramsey had doped up Balch on Sunday night, snuck out, followed Lisa, abducted her. Using the Mercedes, not the Jeep. Because Billy had seen the plates. PLYR 1.
Turned out that’s all he’d seen. Not enough to point a finger at anyone—the boy had been turned into quarry for nothing.
Or maybe Ramsey had switched plates, used the Jeep after all. Or some other set of wheels. He had so many; let the techs logic it out.
Killing Estrella Flores up in the hills because she’d seen him sneak out. Or might have. Borrowing Balch’s Lexus for the Flores kill. Or maybe Balch had been in on it, after all, friend to the end. Whatever. Ramsey’d used him, tossed him away.
A football player attempts to frame an old friend . . . pilfering from a script that hadn’t been very good in the first place. No imagination. The industry.
Industry big shots called themselves players.
Ramsey styling himself a player, knowing he really wasn’t one. Because his ratings were low, his acting was a joke, and his penis wouldn’t harden.
To hell with him. Billy was her concern.
The boy was beginning his sixth day at Western Pediatric Hospital, where he’d proved a difficult patient at first. Petra neglected her paperwork, ignored Schoelkopf’s calls, spent most of her time bedside. When she left, a hospital play therapist filled in. At first, Billy ignored both of them. By the third day, he was accepting the books and magazines Petra brought him. On the fourth day, Ron came and took her to dinner at the Biltmore, downtown.
Nice dinner—great dinner. She found her hand seeking his. The way he listened to her turned her on. Till then she’d wondered if what had happened between them was due to the tension of the case.
To her great pleasure, now that things were calming down, she wanted to be with him more. Maybe soon she’d get to meet his girls.
Sweet fantasies . . . she harbored no illusions of healing the boy’s emotional wounds, had phoned Alex Delaware, a psychologist she’d worked with and trusted, friend of Milo Sturgis’s, a man who’d been willing to go undercover for something he believed in. But he was out of town with his girlfriend, would be returning today.
Meanwhile, Billy stayed in the hospital for antibiotic treatment and nutrition, a police guard sitting ten feet down the hall. No reason Petra could see for that, but Schoelkopf had ordered it. Maybe he was feeling guilty, so why not?
The uniform at the door to Billy’s room had been called into action only once, dealing with Sam Ganzer, who insisted on visiting. Feisty old guy, standing on his tiptoes, facing up to the uniform, fingers pointing, things getting loud until Petra interceded, said Ganzer could see Billy, took him for coffee in the family lounge first, to calm him down.
He wanted to know what would happen after Billy left the hospital. Telling Petra she was brave, a “real hero,” but no way would he allow her or anyone else to send the boy to some “stupid juvenile hall, I can tell you about institutions—hell, I’ll adopt him myself before I let you get away with that.”
Petra promised she’d take care of Billy. Adoption fantasies had filled her head, too.
Billy needed to be hospitalized for at least three weeks. He’d emerged from the nightmare encounter with only superficial scratches, but medical tests revealed a low-grade bacterial infection in his lungs, foot fungus, slightly elevated blood pressure, and a pre-ulcerous stomach. The doctors pronounced the last two symptoms as probable stress reactions. No kidding. The infection was their main concern, and they had him on IV antibiotics. No one had told him about his mother yet. Delaware said he’d handle it, and Petra was grateful it wouldn’t be her.
Ilse Eggermann would never be solved officially, but Petra was sure Ramsey had done her, too. How close she’d come to being fooled—okay, humility was good for the soul. Good for the career, too. In the future she’d be careful about assuming anything.
She thought about how Ramsey and Ilse could have gone down: Ramsey visiting Balch in Rolling Hills Estates, couple of beers between friends, then on the way home, nice, easy drive up Hawthorne, he decides on a stopover at the pier. Had he used a disguise that night, too? Had he been planning something all along? Or had Ilse’s foreigner status protected him from recognition? The Adjustor had never made it over to Europe.
That kind of M.O. indicated he might’ve killed other women. She’d beg off that part of it—let the feds have their fun, anyone else who wanted the glory. Schoelkopf was already holding press conferences, talking about his investigation.
No news on the reward yet. Dr. and Mrs. Boehlinger had returned to Ohio to finalize Lisa’s funeral arrangements, and they hadn’t returned Petra’s calls. Whether or not Billy deserved the reward legally, he certainly deserved it morally. Boehlinger would probably try to avoid paying. After what he’d put Billy through, Petra wanted to lean on him, but what could she do? Maybe an anonymous leak to the papers. Or perhaps Mrs. B. would come through.
All secondary. For now, Billy slept, helped along by a big dinner and sedation.
Angel face, white and smooth, so peaceful.
She bent down, kissed his forehead, left the room, went to get the play therapist.
On her way out of the hospital, one of the administrators, a middle-aged suit named Bancroft, snagged her.
“How’s our little hero, Detective Connor?”
“Fine.”
Bancroft caught her arm, let go quickly when she stared at his hand. “If you have a moment, Detective, I have someone who’d like to speak with you.”
“Who?”
“In my office, please.”
His office was big, done up in blue tweed and fake Colonial. Two women in their sixties sat in overstuffed chairs. One was chunky, broad-shouldered, with wiry gray hair uncoiling under a small charcoal pillbox hat, an ancient, no-nonsense tweed suit, a melt-the-glacier stare. The other was very thin, with coiffed hair the color of brandy, tasteful jewelry, light makeup. Navy suit that looked like Chanel, matching shoes. Her face was longish, painfully angular. She’d probably been beautiful once. She looked frightened. Petra was baffled.
“Detective,” said Bancroft, “this is Mrs. Adamson. She and the late Mr. Adamson were among our most generous benefactors.”
Slight inflection on the past tense. Bancroft winced. The thin woman smiled. Her hands were white, blue-veined, slightly liver-spotted. Petra noticed one index finger making tiny circles atop her purse. Gorgeous shoes, gorgeous suit, but, like the stocky woman’s getup, the outfit looked old, gave off a clear sense of history.
No introduction of the other woman. She was examining Petra like a fishwife rating mullet.
“Well, I’ll leave you to talk,” said Bancroft. He left.
The chunky woman got up too, looking none too happy.
“Thank you, Mildred,” Mrs. Adamson told her. Mildred nodded grimly before closing the door.
Mrs. Adamson turned to Petra. Her mouth worked. Finally, she said, “Please call me Cora. I’m so sorry to take your ti
me, but . . .” Instead of continuing, she removed something from her purse and held it out.
Color snapshot of Billy. A little younger—maybe eleven. He stood on a boat dock, waving.
“How did you get this, ma’am?”
“It’s mine. I snapped the picture.”
“You know Billy Straight?”
The bottom half of the woman’s mouth trembled, and her eyes pooled with tears. “This isn’t Billy Straight, Detective Connor. It’s Billy Adamson. William Bradley Adamson, Jr. My son. My late son.”
Petra examined the back of the photo. A handwritten inscription said: Billy, Arrowhead, 1971. The colors were a little faded; she should have noticed. Some detective.
The boy was smiling, but something was off—the smile required effort.
A handkerchief had flown to Cora Adamson’s face. She said, “Perhaps there are things I could’ve done differently, but I wasn’t— How could I know for sure?”
“Know what, Mrs. Adamson?”
“Forgive me, I’m not making sense, let me organize my thoughts . . . Billy—my Billy—was an only child. Brilliant, he taught himself to read at four. He graduated from Cal law school thirteen years ago, immediately began doing legal work for the Farm Workers Union. My late husband was convinced it was a stage, rebellion, getting back at the corporate world. But I knew better: Billy had always been caring, kind. Even as a small boy, he refused to hurt anything—he wouldn’t fish. Bill senior loved to fish, but Billy refused. The day I shot that picture, he and Bill had had a tiff about that. Bill insisted he was going to show Billy how to fish once and for all. Billy cried and insisted he wouldn’t get in the boat, refused to kill anything. Finally, Bill told him if he couldn’t be a man, just to stay behind with his mother. Which he did. But he was upset—he loved his father. I took the picture to cheer him up.”
Petra stared at the photo. Same eyes, same hair. Same cleft chin. Jesus, even the expression was a clone.
“At twelve he became a vegetarian,” said Cora Adamson. “Again, Bill thought it was a phase, but Billy never touched meat or fish again—I’m wandering, forgive me—where was I—the farm workers. Billy could have gotten a job with any firm in the country, but he chose to travel around the state with the farm workers, looking for violations, living the way they lived. He seemed happy, then suddenly he showed up at home and announced he’d quit, gotten a job with the public defender’s office. But he wasn’t happy there either, and left soon after.
“After that, he started to drift, driving around the state in an old car, growing his hair long, a long beard, doing legal work for various free clinics, never settling down. I knew something was bothering him, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. He wasn’t around long enough to tell me. His father was so angry at him . . . he just kept wandering, leaving me no phone number, no address—I knew he was lost, but he refused to be found.”
Sitting up straighter, she twisted the handkerchief. “Then one weekend he showed up at our place in Arrowhead. We had guests—business associates of his father—and Bill was embarrassed about the way Billy looked. Billy didn’t care—it was me he wanted to talk to. He came to my room late at night, brought a candle and lit it. He said it was confession time. Then he told me he’d had an affair with a girl in Delano, one of the migrant girls, a young girl, underage. And she became pregnant. Or claimed to. Billy never saw a child, because he panicked when she told him, being a lawyer. Her age—statutory rape. He was also worried some grower would find out and use it against the union. Instead of shouldering his responsibility, he gave the girl every dollar he had with him and left town. That’s when he joined the public defender’s office. But it never stopped bothering him, and he began driving around California trying to find her—he said her name was Sharla and that she wasn’t sophisticated but she had a good heart. He never found her.
“‘But let’s face it, Mom,’ he told me. ‘If I’d wanted to badly enough, I would’ve, right? I’m not sure I want to know—Father’s right, I am a coward, spineless, no use to anyone.’ I told him the fact that he was telling me now showed he was extremely courageous—he still had a chance to buck up. I promised to do everything I could to help him find the girl, make financial arrangements for the child. If there was one— because I was skeptical, thought the girl was out for money. That infuriated him. He began pounding the bed, shouting that I was just like all the others, everything was money, money, money. Then he blew out the candle and stomped out. I’d never seen him like that and it shocked me. I thought I would let him cool down. The next morning, he was found floating in Lake Arrowhead. They said it was an accident. I never looked for the girl. I was never sure it was true. I did wonder from time to time . . . and then I saw the picture in the paper. And I knew. And now you’ve found him, Detective Connor.”
Petra took another look at the photo and handed it back. Too close to be anything but righteous, and the time line was right. William Bradley Adamson. William Bradley Straight.
“What is it you want me to do for you, Mrs. Adamson?”
“Detective, I know I have no right to—maybe legal rights, but morally . . . but this child. He must be my grandson. There’s no other rational explanation. I’m sure we can prove it with genetic tests. But not now, not with all he’s been through—I want to . . . help him.”
Suddenly, she looked down at her lap.
“I don’t have the resources I used to have. My husband ran into some . . . misfortune before he passed away.”
Petra found herself giving a sympathetic nod.
“The truth is,” said Cora Adamson, still averting her eyes, “I’ve been living off savings for several years, but I know how to budget and I’m by no means penniless. Learning about Billy—this Billy—has crystallized my plans. I live in a grotesquely oversized house that I’ve been thinking of selling for some time. Until now, I lacked the incentive—and the will—to make the change. Now, it’s clear. There’s no mortgage on the house. Once I sell it, even after taxes, I should have enough to support myself and my grandson in a reasonable manner.”
A pleading note had entered the woman’s voice. Here she was, Chanel suit and all, applying for parental rights. What do you say to that?
Cora Adamson’s head rose. “Perhaps it’s all for the best. Too much privilege can create its own difficulties.”
Petra wanted to say, I wouldn’t know. Instead, she nodded.
“I love children, Detective Connor. Before I was married, I taught school. I always wanted lots of children, but Billy’s birth was difficult and the doctors forbade it. Other than the loss of Billy and Bill and my parents, learning I couldn’t have more children was the saddest moment of my life.”
A thin white hand clutched her sleeve. “What I’m saying is I sincerely believe I have something to offer. I make no excuses for the lack of— Detective Connor, can you see it within yourself to help me?”
The woman’s eyes locked onto Petra. Hungry, desperate.
Delaware was flying into town tonight. Why couldn’t he be here now?
“Please,” said Cora Adamson.
Petra said, “Let’s talk about it.”
CHAPTER
82
Yesterday, Dr. Delaware told me about Mom. My stomach caught fire and I wanted to rip the IV line out and punch him in the face.
He sat there looking sad. What right did he have to be sad?
I rolled over and ignored him. No way would I let him see me cry, but the minute he left, I started crying and I went on crying all day and all night. Except when someone came into the room, and then I pretended to sleep.
Sometimes when they thought I was sleeping, they’d discuss me—nurses, interns.
Poor kid.
He’s been through so much.
Tough little bugger.
I am not tough. I’m here because what’s my choice?
Thinking about Mom made me want to be dead, too, but then I thought, What good would that do? There probably is no God, so I wouldn
’t get to see her anyway.
That first night I dug my nails into my hands, made them bleed. A little extra pain felt right.
It’s the next day and I still can’t believe it, I keep thinking she’s going to walk through the door. I’ll say I’m sorry for running away, she’ll apologize, too, we’ll hug—then it hits me. She’s gone. That’s it. Never again. Never! This hurts so much!
I cry a lot, fall asleep, wake up, cry some more.
Haven’t cried for an hour. Maybe I’m all dried up, no more tears.
Hey, Doc, put some tears in the IV.
I spit on the floor. If I could empty my mind the way the orderlies empty my trash can. Out with all the garbage.
When I’m alone I think of her. Even though it hurts. I want to hurt.
Being alone is what I’m used to; I don’t get enough of it. With all the doctors and interns and the nurses, sometimes I can’t stand all the noise and the sympathy; want to punch all of them.
Not Sam. He comes every morning, brings me candy and magazines, pats my hand and talks about how we’re two peas in a pod, tough, survivors. How he won’t let anyone “mess” with me—don’t worry, he’s got connections. He repeats things, and sometimes his voice puts me to sleep. I fight to stay awake, don’t want to make him feel bad. He was my friend when no one else was. One time he came with Mrs. Kleinman, but she annoyed me, touching my cheek, bringing food I didn’t want to eat, trying to feed it to me. I was polite to her, but maybe Sam could tell, because he never brought her again.
Petra brings me books. She’s very pretty, not married, not a mom, and I think maybe she likes me because it gives her mom practice. Or it’s a vacation from being a detective.
She killed him. She’s a serious person, doesn’t tell jokes, doesn’t try to cheer me up when I don’t want it. Even when she smiles, she’s serious.
Even if I’m totally exhausted, I can’t be anything but nice to her.
She’s about Mom’s age—why’d Mom have to take that idiot Moron in, let him run her life, let him put a split in our family?
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