Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (20 page)

“I don’t know!
What?
”

“Got to . . . shit.”

Silence.

“Hear that?” she says to him.

“Yeah,” he says, very quietly, and I’m thinking, Oh no, does he like that even better, did I just make a big mistake?

She turns and looks at him and for a second I think of running for it, but then her face is back right in front of mine and I don’t know why I think this, but the way she looks, she could be a teacher, someone’s mother or grandma, it’s not my fault—

“So?” she asks him.

“Um . . . not today.”

“Okay, trash,” she tells me. “Go ahead and do your thing—use your shirt to wipe your ass,
then
you’re gonna show us your good side.”

I pull down my pants, and even though it’s a warm day, a beautiful day, a lemonade and corn day, my legs feel like stone.

“So white,” he says.

“C’mon, go, go.” Her voice is thick, and I understand: His sickness is doing it to kids; hers is being in
charge.
Watching.

“Undies off, goddamn you—off, off, come on, finish up.”

I pull down my shorts. Bending down, I manage to move a little farther away from her, but only inches. All around it’s so quiet, so green, even the leaves don’t move. It’s like the three of us are part of one big photograph or maybe this is the last moment before God destroys the world, and why shouldn’t He?

“Get going or I’ll kill you!” The gun and the camera are aimed at me. She’s going to take pictures of everything. I’m her souvenir.

The problem is, before I had to really badly but now I can’t; it’s like my organs are blocks of ice jammed up against each other.

“Do it or I’ll
shoot
it out of you!”

The sound of her voice, the thought of being shot, gets my stomach going again and I do it.

Then I reach behind with one hand to catch it.

Gross, I hate doing it, but I tell myself it’s just digested food, stuff that was already inside me—

“Look at that,” she says. “You disgusting little animal.”

“Disgusting,” he says. But he means something else.

I look up at her and nod. And smile. She’s surprised, wasn’t expecting a smile, and for a second she looks away.

I reach back, and even though I was never good at sports, I aim and throw.

Bam! Right in her face and all over her camera, over her blouse.

She’s screaming and stumbling back and slapping at herself and he’s tripping over his shorts, confused. He straightens up and charges me, but she’s the one to watch, because she’s got the gun. She’s still screaming and slapping. I yank up my shorts and pants, and even before they’re completely in place, I’m runrunrunning, through branches that scratch my face, through space, through green, green that never stops, time that never stops, running, tripping, flying.

Floating.

I hear a loud hand clap, don’t stop, nothing hurts, I’m okay or maybe I’m not I don’t feel it, can’t feel anymore, that wouldn’t be bad, that wouldn’t be bad at all.

I throw myself through green.

Thank you, gorilla. If I could breathe, I’d laugh.

CHAPTER

Just as Petra was about to call Empty Nest Productions for Darrell/Darren, another fax came through: Lisa’s last phone bill.

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 lot?”

“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

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.”