Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (40 page)

“Just to call him back. Telling, not asking.”

Just what she needed. Clenching her jaw, she dialed Boehlinger’s hotel. He was out. Thank God for small victories.

She phoned the Hoopers in Bel-Air. Busy. Maybe Javier Flores was already on the line.

She tried again, connected to a husky-voiced woman. “Oh, Jesus, I just spoke to her son. No, I haven’t seen her.” Snorting laugh. “So now the police are trying to bring illegals
back
?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hooper.” You’re the one who hired her when she was illegal, Mrs. Hooper. Click.

Wil Fournier came over and showed her a piece of paper. Forty or so names, all but three checked off. “Tipsters. Our little burglar’s been spotted all up and down the state, but it’s mostly garbage—who unlocked the asylum?” He loosened his tie. The tan pad of his hand was ink-stained. “One sweetheart from Frisco claims he’s the son she gave up at birth, she was just about to call
Unsolved Mysteries,
the money would sure come in handy because she wants to become a psychologist. One guy claims the kid’s not a kid, he’s some kind of mystic guru—an apparition, appears in times of crisis and ‘renders deliverance.’ The world may be coming to an end.”

“He might have something there,” said Petra.

“Long as I get my pension,” said Fournier. He tapped each of the three unchecked names. “These are possibles. Two come from the same place—some farm town called Watson, between Bakersfield and Fresno. Neither of the callers know the kid by name, but they both think they’ve seen him around. They didn’t sound wacko or greedy, and two tips from a small place like that is interesting. I put in a call to the local law. Must be a real hick place, because it’s a two-man sheriff outfit and both guys were out. I talked to some woman at the desk who sounded about a hundred years old. This last one probably is greed, Russian accent, but at least the guy sounded sane. Insisted he’d seen the kid in Venice this morning, described his clothes—T-shirt, jeans—said the kid looked like he’d been sleeping on the street, had crusted salt on his face, like he’d washed with ocean water. Scratched up, too.”

“Good eye for detail.”

“That’s why I’m not dismissing him. He runs a souvenir stand down on Ocean Front in Venice, claims he sold the kid a hat this morning. Then the kid took off north. The guy thought it was weird, a kid being out by himself, middle of the day. And buying a hat—he never sells hats to kids.”

“Trying to hide his face?” said Petra.

Fournier shrugged. “Could be. If the kid read today’s paper, and we know he’s a reader. On the other hand, you’re homeless, broke, a runaway, someone’s offering twenty-five g’s for your presence, wouldn’t you turn yourself in, try to collect?”

“He’s a child, Wil. Probably an abused child. Why should he trust anyone? Feel enough in control to scheme? And if he saw the murder, he could be too scared to think about profit.”

“Guess so. Or maybe the kid was there but not during the murder, figures why bother. Anyway, this Russian is definitely after the money.”

Petra read the man’s name out loud. “Vladimir Zhukanov.”

“That’s another thing,” said Fournier. “His being Russian. I don’t want to be prejudiced, but you know the scams those guys have been pulling off.” He folded and pocketed the list. “I’ll stop by to see him—have a date in Santa Monica tonight, dinner at Loew’s. Ever been there?”

Petra shook her head.

“Zhukanov said he’d stay late to talk to me. One last thing: Schoelkopf called me into the office again, pumping for details. I may have to give him something, Barb. And then, boom, right in to the media and we run around like little windup toys.”

“If you have to, you have to,” said Petra. “It’s already out of our hands.”

She was ready to leave at seven when the phone blared again.

A young woman said, “Hold please for Lawrence Schick.” Ten seconds of bad music, then a sleepy male voice said, “To which detective do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“Detective Connor.”

“Evening, Detective Connor, this is Larry Schick.”

Meaningful pause. She was supposed to know who he was. And she did. Six-hundred-bucks-an-hour lawyer, criminal defense, mostly celebrity drunk drivers, actors’ kids playing with guns, other
delicate felonies. She’d seen him doing sound bites but had never met him. Her typical perp couldn’t even afford a Western Avenue
hack.

“Evening, Mr. Schick.”

“How’re things on the Ramsey case?”

Finally, the wall goes up. “Are you asking as a concerned citizen, sir?”

Schick laughed. “I’m always concerned, but, no, Detective Connor, I’ve been retained by Mr. Ramsey to represent him in this matter. So please channel all future communications through my offices.”

Offices, plural.
Look, Ma, I’m important!

“Communications,” said Petra.

“Anything pertaining to the case,” said Schick.

“Are you saying we can’t talk to Mr. Ramsey without clearing it with you first, Mr. Schick?”

“At this point in time,” said the lawyer, “that would be advisable, Detective. Good night.”

“Same to you,” Petra said to a dead phone. Yesterday, she’d chatted with Ramsey in the kitchen. Now this. From Ramsey’s point of view, two things had transpired: the reinterview and the talk with Balch. Had she raised something with either of them that worried him?

Grabbing her notepad, she reviewed her notes. The talk with Ramsey had covered nothing earth-shattering . . . he had mentioned being a suspect—scratch that. One new topic: Estrella Flores.

She flipped to the Balch interview. His and Ramsey’s Hollywood “discovery,” Lisa’s temperament, the DV episode. Estrella Flores.

Was the maid the hot button?

What had Flores seen that night?

Or did it have something to do with the boy in the paper? Ramsey thinking he’d pulled off the perfect crime, only to encounter every bad guy’s worst nightmare—a mystery witness.

She would have loved to stare into those baby blues right now, probing for fear.

So, of course, she couldn’t.

But no one, not even an overpaid B.H. lawyer, could stop her from just happening to be in Ramsey’s neighborhood and dropping in.

Stopping for a roast beef sandwich at an Arby’s on Sunset, she ate in the car, chewing on meat and suspicion, watching night creatures emerge from the dark, knowing years ago she’d have been scared to get this close. At 7:40 she set out for Calabasas. Post–rush hour, she sailed, arriving at the RanchHaven guardhouse by 8:33.

The guard on duty was a young man, weak-chinned, with discouraged posture. Thin everywhere except around his middle, where the uniform shirt strained. When she drove up, he folded his arms across his chest. Grim watchfulness—ludicrous in the absence of threat—faded when he saw her up close. A crooked smile split his bland pie of a face. Flirtatious. Great. The guy’s eyebrows were very faint, nearly invisible. His badge said D. Simkins.

He came out, looked at her, opened the gate. She drove up to him.

“How’s it going?” No
ma’am.
Easy tone coming into play because she was driving a Honda, not a Porsche, not one of the locals.

Petra showed him her badge.

“Oh,” he said, stepping back and hitching his trousers. “It’s about time, Detective.”

“For what?”

“I was on shift the night Lisa Ramsey was killed. Kept wondering when you were gonna come by.” Wagging a finger in mock disapproval.

Petra’s turn to smile. “Well, here I am, Officer Simkins.”

She parked, got out, entered the guardhouse without asking permission. He followed. The booth was a glass closet, barely enough room for both of them. Simkins leaned against a counter, looking her up and down, no shame.

Not much inside: small cabinet for supplies, a single wheeled chair that Simkins offered her. She stayed on her feet.

She extricated her pad while checking out the security hardware. Multiline telephone, two-way radio setup, handheld walkie-talkie. Two closed-circuit TV screens suspended above the counter, one highlighting the mouth of the main road, the other so dark she could barely tell it was switched on. Next to the phone, a greasy paper bag and a copy of
Rolling Stone.
Some rock star instant-emperor on the cover, pierced eyebrows, a silver stud through the tongue.

Simkins said, “So what can I do for a fellow officer?”

Petra dredged up another smile. “So you were on all that night, Officer Simkins?”

“Doug. Yes, I was. It was real quiet, but I don’t know, I had a feeling, like it was too quiet. Like something could happen.”

“Did anything happen?”

Simkins shook his head. “But you know, I just felt it was a weird night. Then the next morning when I heard what happened I said, Oh man. Like one of them psychic things.”

Lord, deliver me from dunderheads. “This place seems like it must be pretty quiet in general.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said, suddenly defensive. “You get stuff. Like fires. With fires, we call a first-stage alert.”

“Which is?”

“Letting people know we might have to evacuate.”

“Scary,” said Petra.

“That’s why we’re here.” Touching his own badge. Stainless replica of LAPD’s—could the department sue?

“So, Doug, what time were you on duty that night?”

“Seven to three’s my regular shift, then the morning guy called in sick, so I did double duty.”

“Till when?”

“Eleven, when day watch starts.”

“Day watch being Officer . . . Dilbeck.” Retrieving the old guard’s name from her memory banks.

“Yeah, Oliver,” said Simkins, frowning. Probably miffed that Dilbeck had already been interviewed.

Petra said, “Did anyone from the Ramsey house come in or out during that time?”

“He did. Mr. Ramsey. He and his friend, a blond guy I always see him with. They came in that night.”

“What time?”

“Nine or so.”

Or so.
They didn’t log entries and exits?

“Do you have a written record of that?”

“No, we don’t hassle with that.” Defensive again.

“Who drove, Doug?”

“The friend.”

“Did either Mr. Ramsey or his friend go out again that night?”

“Nope,” said Simkins decisively, smugly. Delivering the punch line: “No one from the entire development left after that, though a few more people came home. Like I said, it was a quiet night.”

“What about Mr. Ramsey’s maid?”

“Nope. Never left. It’s real quiet around here. Too quiet. I like action.”

Petra suppressed laughter. “Know what you mean, Doug. Anything else you can tell me about the Ramseys?”

“Well,” Simkins said, pondering, “I’ve only been working here three weeks, just see him going in and out. Same for that friend of his. You think he did it?”

“Don’t think much of anything yet, Doug.” Three weeks on duty. He’d never known Lisa. Even with a brain, the guy would’ve been useless to her. “Is Mr. Ramsey home right now?”

“Hasn’t come in or out on my shift.”

“Are there any other ways in and out of RanchHaven?”

“Nope.”

“What about that second screen there?”

Simkins’s eyes flashed to the console. “Oh, that. That’s just a fire road, way back at the rear of the property, but no one uses it. Even when we were on evac alert, the plan was to get everyone out through the front.”

“The screen looks pretty dark.”

“It’s dark back there.”

Petra bent close to the monitor. “No officer there?”

“Nope, just one of them card-key doohickeys. The residents get issued cards. But no one uses it, no reason to.”

“I’d like to go over there myself, Doug. Just to take a look.”

“I dunno . . .”

“You can come with me if you want.” She stepped closer to Simkins. Their chests nearly touched. The guard was perspiring heavily.

“Well . . .”

“Just a quick look, Doug. I promise not to steal any dirt.” She winked. It made Simkins flinch.

“Yeah, okay, just don’t disturb any of the residents, okay? Because that would be my butt. They like their peace and quiet. That’s what they pay me for.”

“How do I get there?”

“Up the main road, to the top.” He gestured, managed to move closer, their shoulders touching. “On the way to Ramsey’s house, matter of fact. But instead of turning right, you bear left, and after a while you’ll see this big empty lot that was supposed to be a nine-hole golf course but it never got built, probably ’cause the residents all play at clubs anyway. Keep bearing left, all the way around it, and the road’ll curve up, suddenly switch directions. Just keep going till you can’t go any more.”

She thanked him, patted his shoulder. He flinched again.

She drove very slowly, pausing when Ramsey’s house came into view. The outdoor lighting was on full blast. Weaker illumination leaked from inside. No cars in front. Damn that museum—impossible to know if the guy was home.

She stared at the house. Static. So were the nearby structures. The more expensive neighborhoods got, the deader they looked.

Simkins’s directions led her on a ten-minute loop past the would-be golf course, now just a flat gray table planted with young junipers and surrounded by wrought-iron fencing. The road compressed to barely one lane and the brush along both sides thickened to high dark walls. Above them, she could see the kinked and coiled branches of oak trees, dwarfed by a black dome of sky. A few stars struggled through haze. The moon was oversized, gray-white, streaked with fog.

The smell of horse manure and dry dirt.

Her headlights created an amber tunnel through the gloom. She switched her high beams on, continued at ten miles per. Suddenly the fire exit was there. A single gate, twelve feet high, electric, same iron motif as the main portals. Stout brick posts, warning signs. The card slot topped a steel post.

She stopped ten yards in, pulled her flashlight from the glove compartment, let the car idle, and got out.

The horse aroma was stronger up here. Quiet, not even a bird. But she could hear the freeway baritone, insistent, remote.

She swept her flashlight across the road. Poorly maintained, dusted with soil. Simkins claimed no one used the back exit, but she could see the faint corrugation of tire tracks. A few horse prints, smaller ones that could be dog or coyote—she was no gung-ho tracker.