Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (41 page)

Dad could have helped her with prints.

Keeping to the side of the road, she walked to the gate, then back. Repeated it. The dirt was so compacted it didn’t granulate under her feet. Some rust around the card slot. Another slot on the other side of the fence.

Easy entry and exit.

And Ramsey’s house was at the upper edge of the development, meaning he wouldn’t have to pass many neighbors to sneak out.

She thought about how he’d do it.

Wait till Balch was asleep—or put something in Balch’s drink to help sleep along. Then roll the Mercedes out of the mega-garage. Or the Jeep, if it had been brought back from Montecito. Headlights off, cruising slowly. With houses so far from the road, all those fences, gates, high foliage, there’d be no reason for anyone to notice. People with pools and Jacuzzis and home theaters and putting greens didn’t sit by their front windows.

People who craved that level of privacy often pretended nothing existed beyond their four walls.

She took a closer look at the tire tracks. Degraded, no tread marks; she doubted they’d be of much use. But, still, she’d have loved to get a cast. No way to do it without a warrant, and no grounds for a warrant. And now Larry Schick, Esq., was on the scene—forget approaching Ramsey about anything.

Even if they pulled a match to one of Ramsey’s cars, it had been four days since the murder. Ramsey could admit being up there, claim he’d taken a cruise in the hills, trying to mellow out, deal with his grief.

The hills . . . great place to get rid of a body.

Was Estrella Flores buried somewhere out there?

Did the fire road lead anywhere other than out to the Santa Susannas?

She backed down till the nearest shoulder, turned around, and returned to the guardhouse. Simkins saw her coming, put down his
Rolling Stone,
and opened the exit gate. His window was closed; no desire to talk. Petra stopped alongside the booth. He screwed up his mouth and came over. His big moment over, feeling down, he wanted her gone.

“Find anything?”

“Nope—just like you said, Doug. Tell me, where does the fire road go?”

“Out into the mountains.”

“And then?”

“It connects to a bunch of little side roads.”

“Doesn’t it merge with the 101?”

“It kinda hooks back toward it, but doesn’t actually merge.” He managed to make the last word sound dirty.

“But if I wanted to reach the freeway through the back roads, I could.”

“Yeah, sure. Everything reaches the freeway. I grew up in West Hills. We used to come out here, hunt rabbits, before they built this place. Sometimes they’d run onto the freeway, get turned to freeway butter.”

“The good old days,” said Petra.

Simkins’s weak face firmed with recollection, and a resentful frown captured his features. Rich folk moving in on his childhood memories?

“It can get beautiful out there,” he said. Real emotion. Longing. At that moment, she liked him a little better. But not much.

CHAPTER

Sam says, “Hey, not bad.”

I’ve been working all day, going over and over the windows until there are no streaks, mopping the wood floors, using the Pledge to shine them up. I’ve done only half the seats, but what I finished looks pretty good, and the room has a nice lemon smell.

Sam tries to give me the rest of the money.

“I’m not finished yet.”

“I trust you, sonny—by the way, now that you work for me, are you ready to give me your name?”

That catches me by surprise, and Bill pops out.

“Nice to meet you, Bill.”

It’s been so long since anyone’s called me by my name. Since I’ve
talked
to anyone.

Sam shows me a paper bag. “I got you some dinner—Noah’s Bagel, just a plain one, ’cause I didn’t know if you liked onions or one of those fancy bagels. Also, cream cheese—do you like cream cheese?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Hey, you’re a working man now, need your nutrition.” He hands me the bag and walks around the shul. “You like the Pledge, huh? Running out of the stuff?”

“Almost.”

“I’ll buy some more tomorrow—that is if you want to work tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

“Go ahead, take the money.”

I do. He looks at his watch. “Time to quit, Bill. We don’t want to be accused of exploiting the working man.”

We walk outside and he locks the shul. The alley is empty, but I can hear the ocean through the space on the side of the building, people talking on the walkway. That big Lincoln of his is parked crazy, the front bumper almost touching the building. He opens the driver’s door. “So.”

“’Bye,” I say.

“See you tomorrow, Bill.” He gets in the car and I start to walk away—south, away from that Russian perv. I’m liking the feel of all that money in my pocket but wondering where to go. Back to the pier? But it was so cold. And now I have money . . .

I hear a loud squeak, turn, and see Sam backing the Lincoln out of the alley. He has plenty of room, but he keeps backing up and stopping, jerking the car; the brakes are squeaking.

Uh-oh, he’s gonna hit the fence—no, he misses it. I figure I should direct him before he hurts himself, but he makes it, turning the steering wheel with both hands, his head kind of pushed forward, like he’s struggling to see through the windshield.

Instead of driving forward, he backs up, stops next to me. “Hey, Bill. You really got somewhere to go for the night?”

“Sure.”

“Where? The street?”

“I’ll be fine.” I start walking. He stays next to me, driving really slowly.

“I’d give you money for a hotel, but no one’s gonna rent to a kid, and if you show all that cash, someone’s gonna take it from you.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat.

“Sure, sure . . . I can’t let you sleep in the shul because what if you slip and fall, we got a liability problem—you might sue us.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

He laughs. “No, you probably wouldn’t, but I still can’t—listen, I got a house, not far from here. Plenty of room; I live alone. You wanna stay for a day or two, fine. Till you figure out what to do.”

“No thanks.” That comes out kind of cold, and I don’t turn to see his face, because I know he’s going to look insulted.

“Suit yourself, Bill. Don’t blame you. Someone probably hurt you. You don’t trust no one—for all you know, I could be some crazy person.”

“I’m sure you’re not crazy.” Why did I say that?

“How can you be sure, Bill? How can you ever be sure? Listen, when I was your age—a little older—people came and took away my family. Killed all of them, except me and my brother. Nazis. Ever hear of them? Only, when I knew them, they weren’t nazis, they were my neighbors, people I lived with. My family lived in their country for five hundred years and they did that to me—I’m talking the Second World War. Goddamn nazis. Ever hear about any of that?”

“Sure,” I said. “Learned about it in history.”

“History.” He laughs, but not a funny laugh. “So who am I to tell you to trust people—you’re right, plenty of schmucks out there.” He stops driving and I stop walking. More money lands in my hand. Two tens.

“You don’t have to, Mr. Ganzer.”

“I don’t have to, but I want to—oh hell, sleep in the shul tonight. Only, don’t fall and break your neck. And if you do, don’t sue us.”

Then he jams his car into reverse and backs up all the way to the shul. It’s scary, the way he weaves and swerves all over the place. It’s a miracle he doesn’t smash into anything.

CHAPTER

Petra opened her front door exhausted, not feeling like a night owl anymore. Thought of Kathy Bishop’s ordeal tomorrow. Real problems. No self-pity allowed for you, kid.

She popped a can of Coke, checked the phone machine. A long-distance phone service promised to be her slave if she signed up, Ron Banks had called at seven, leaving an 818 number, probably home, please get back to him. Adele, one of the civilian clerks at the station, requesting the same thing at eight-fifteen.

She would have loved to talk to Ron first. To be with him, the two of them talking, making out on the couch, wherever that led. Business first: She called Adele.

“Hi, Detective Connor. Got a message for you from Pacific Division, a Detective Grauberg. Here’s his number.”

Pacific was Ilse Eggermann territory. Had something new come up? Grauberg was out, but a D named Salant came on. “Already spoke to you guys.”

“To who?”

“Hold on—says here Captain Schoelkopf. Guess Grauberg couldn’t reach to notify, got kicked upward.”

“Notify what?”

“Got an auto carcass you were interested in. Black Porsche, registered to Lisa Boehlinger Ramsey.”

“A carcass? Gutted?”

“Gutted and left for the vultures. Probably a Tijuana taxi by now. Got a witness says it was parked there for at least four days.”

“Where?”

“Behind the bus lot near Pacific Avenue. The witness is one of the drivers.”

“Gutted right from the beginning?”

“Progressively gutted. Someone set fire to it last night. That’s how we got called in.”

Four days and not a single report.

“You can’t see it from the street,” Salant added. “Blocked by storage buildings. We get hot cars stashed there all the time.”

“Where is it now?” said Petra.

“Downtown. Have fun.”

She talked to several criminalists before locating a female named Wilkerson who was working on the Porsche. The car was a charred shell, no wheels, seats, engine, front windshield.

“Like locusts swept in,” said Wilkerson.

“What about prints?”

“Nothing so far. I’ll let you know.”

She drank Coke and tried to put together Lisa’s journey from Doheny Drive to Griffith Park. Where did Venice fit in? Just a dumping ground for the Porsche, or had Lisa driven it behind the bus yard? Meeting up with her date on a deserted street in a high-crime neighborhood?

Was the last-date scenario totally wrong? Had Lisa indeed been carjacked and abducted, forced to drive to Venice by a stranger?

Or by someone she knew? Setting out from Doheny for a date with someone else. The murderer watching, stalking, following, pulling off the snatch.

Ramsey would fit that picture.

Venice . . . Kelly Sposito, Darrell Breshear’s current flame, lived on Fourth Street, walking distance from the bus yard.

Where was Breshear’s home base? She looked him up in her pad. The DMV data had him on Ashland, Ocean Park, the border between Santa Monica and Venice. Very close.

Everything gravitating toward the beach. Including the boy, if Wil’s Russian tipster could be believed.

Breshear. Another former actor. Everyone performing . . . news of the recovered car would be in the paper tomorrow. She had to get to Breshear before he had time to construct a story.

It was nearly 10
P.M.
Was he with his wife or with Kelly? Betting on the former, she got dressed again and drove west.

Ashland was a pretty, sloping street in the best part of Ocean Park, houses of all sizes, every conceivable architectural style. Breshear’s place was at the top, a small, well-maintained craftsman cottage with lots of cactus in the front, thatches of sword plant instead of lawn. White BMW ragtop in the driveway, behind an iron gate. Bright lights over the gate hinted at a fantastic backyard view. She rang the bell, and Breshear answered, wearing a black T-shirt and baggy green shorts, holding a bottle of Heineken. When he saw her, his eyes bulged.

“This is a bad time,” he said. “My wife . . .”

“It could get worse,” she said. “I think you lied to me. We found Lisa’s car today. Right here in Venice. Did you have a date with her Sunday night? If you did, we’ll find out.”

He looked over his shoulder. Closed the door and came out and said, “Can we move out to the sidewalk?”

“Won’t your wife get curious?”

“She’s in the bath.”

Petra accompanied him to the sidewalk.

“It wasn’t really a date,” he said. “She just said she wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know—oh hell, yeah, she wanted to get it on.”

“So you’d continued your relationship past those glorious seven days.”

“Not really,” he said. “Just once in a while, maybe once a month.”

“Your idea?”

“Definitely not. Lisa’s, one hundred percent.”

“My, my,” said Petra. “Lisa, Kelly, your wife—what’s her name, by the way?”

“Marcia.” Breshear looked back at the house. “Look—”

“Busy guy,” said Petra.

“It’s no crime.”

“Obstructing justice is.”

“I didn’t obstruct anything. It—I had nothing to say that would help you, because by the time I got there, she was gone. What would it look like, saying I went to meet up with her that night.” Staring at Petra. “A black man, we know what that’s all about.”

“Cut the racial crap,” said Petra. “The only civil rights that were violated were Lisa’s. What time were you supposed to meet her?”

“Ten-thirty.”

“When did you set it up?”

“She set it up. That day. She called me at work around seven.”

“You were working Sunday?”

“Doing a final cut. Check with the lot guard—I signed in.”

“I will,” said Petra. “So Lisa called you to get together.”

“She said she was lonely, down, had been sleeping all day, took some coke, now she was wired, couldn’t sit still, how about a cruise.”

The car; always in the car.

“A cruise,” said Petra.

“She wanted to get together at nine, but I told her I’d be working till then, had a date at Kelly’s place right afterward, but I’d see if I could slip out around ten-thirty, meet her behind the bus yard.”

“Why there?”

“We’d met there before. It’s . . .”

“Clandestine?”

“I didn’t like it, too much crime around there, but Lisa did. The risk turned her on.” He shrugged.

Petra said, “Go on.”

“I had trouble getting out. Kelly . . . kept me busy till after eleven. Finally, I told her I needed to get some air, was going to take a little drive. I made it by eleven-ten or so and Lisa’s car was there but she wasn’t. I waited around till eleven-twenty, figured she’d showed up and left.”