Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (52 page)

“I’m just not.”

“You don’t usually eat much, do you?”

“I do fine.”

“How long you been on your own?”

“A while.”

“Okay, okay, I won’t pry—I’ll defrost it and broil it, it’s healthy that way.”

By 7:20 the chicken’s done, and I’m eating more than I thought I would. Then I notice Sam has barely touched the drumstick he put on his plate.

“You need protein, Mr. Ganzer.”

“Very funny,” he says. But he smiles. “I’m taken care of in the cuisine department. Got an appointment tonight for dinner—you going to be okay alone here?”

“Sure. I’m used to it.”

He frowns, puts the drumstick on my plate, gets up. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. Probably ten, ten-thirty. Normally, I might entertain here, but I didn’t figure you’d want to meet anyone. Right?”

“It’s your house. I could stay in the bedroom.”

“What? Hide like some . . . no, I’ll go over there. If you need me, it’s six houses down, the white house with the blue trim. The party’s name is Kleinman. Mrs. Kleinman.”

“Have a nice time,” I say.

He turns pink. “Yeah . . . listen, Bill, I been thinking. That twenty-five thousand. If it’s rightfully yours, you should claim it. That’s a lot of money for anyone. I could make sure no one swindles it from under you—there’s a fellow across the street, used to be a lawyer. A Communist, but smart, knows the angles. He wouldn’t take a penny from you, could make sure you’re protected—”

“No one can protect me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because no one ever did.”

“But, look—”

“No,” I say. “There’s no way they’d let a kid keep all that money. And I can’t help them anyway, I didn’t see the guy’s face, all I saw is a license plate—”

“A license plate? Bill, that could be very helpful. They’ve got ways of tracing license plates—”

“No!” I shout. “No one ever did anything for me, and I don’t care about any of it—and if you think that makes me a bad citizen and you don’t want me around, fine, I’ll leave!”

I get up and run for the door. He grabs my arm. “Okay, okay, calm down, take it easy—”

“Let me go!”

He does. I reach the door, see the alarm’s red eye, stop. Here comes a stomachache.

“Please, Bill, relax.”

“I am relaxed.” But it’s a lie. I’m breathing fast and my chest is really, really tight.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he says. “Forget it, I just thought . . . you’re obviously a good guy, and sometimes when good guys don’t do the right thing, they feel— Ah! Who the hell am
I
to tell
you
? You know what to do.”

“I don’t know anything,” I mutter.

“What’s that?”

“Every time I try to learn, something gets in the way—like with you and the war.”

“But, look, you’re making it. Like I made it.”

I want to cry again, but no way—no damn way! Words start pouring out of me: “I don’t know what I’m doing, Mr. Ganzer. Maybe I
should
call the police—maybe I’ll do it from a pay phone, tell them the license plate and then hang up.”

“If you do it that way, how do you collect the money?”

“Forget the money, they’ll never give me the money. Even if they do, my mom will find out, and then Moron—he’s the guy she lives with. He’s the reason I left. He’ll end up with it, believe me, there’s no way I’m going to get a penny and I’ll be right where I started from.”

“Moron, huh? A dim bulb?” He taps his head.

I laugh. “Yeah.”

He laughs. I laugh harder. I’m not really happy, but it’s a way to get out the feelings.

“A smart guy like you and a dim bulb,” he says. “I can see why there’d be problems— Okay, I’m gonna give you the alarm code. Just in case you want a breath of fresh air. One one twenty-five. Think of January first, 1925. My birthday—I’m a New Year’s baby.”

“I’m not going out.”

“Just in case.” He punches the numbers, the light goes green, and he opens the door. “Relax, take it easy—try the herring.”

“Not a chance,” I say, and he leaves smiling.

The chessboard is still out on the kitchen counter. I think I’ll experiment with different moves. See things from both sides.

CHAPTER

Saturday morning at 6:46, the phone woke Petra.
Schoelkopf’s voice played havoc with her brain waves.

“Got comprehensive warrants on Balch’s office and home. You and Fournier go over both with a fine-tooth before we put a bulletin out on him. I’ve messengered the paper and keys to you, should be there any minute. Get it all done today so we can cast the net on the bastard.”

“Why do we have to wait to cast?”

“Because that’s the way upstairs
wants
it, Barbie. The fact that we came so close to tunnel-visioning on Ramsey scares them shitless. No more questions. Get moving.”

“Does Fournier know about the assignment?”

“You tell him.”

The doorbell rang just as she was stepping out of the shower. Drying off frantically, she wrapped herself in a bath sheet, ran to the door, saw a patrolman through the peephole, and stuck her hand out through a crack in the door for the manila envelope containing the warrants and the keys. The uniform, a tall guy, grinned, checked her out, and said she’d have to sign a form.

“Slide it under the door.” After I slam it in your face.

She roused Wil at 7:15. He sounded half dead, and she thought she heard a woman in the background.

“All right,” he said. “Where first?”

“Up to you.”

“Balch’s office is closer. How about . . . nine? Make that nine-thirty.”

“Want me to pick you up?”

He didn’t answer immediately. There was definitely a woman there, talking low and rhythmically, almost singing. “No,” he said. “I’ll meet you.”

With no traffic, the drive to Studio City was fifteen minutes of morning breeze, and she had time to stop at DuPars near Laurel for takeout coffee and an apple cruller. In the lot fronting the brown building was a gray Acura but no signs of the driver. The license plate said
SHERRI.
She pulled up next to it and was eating in the car when Wil arrived in his civvy wheels—black Toyota Supra. He wore an off-white linen suit, black polo shirt, perforated black shoes, looked ready for a Palm Springs weekend; she’d put on the usual pantsuit.

He looked at the building. “What a dump.”

“Ramsey lives like a king but treated him like a serf. Maybe the guy finally exploded.”

“Didn’t know you were a shrink,” he said. “Actually, that makes sense.”

“Want more? This occurred to me last night: the way Lisa’s body was left out in the open, no attempt at all to conceal. Same with Ilse Eggermann. It’s as if he’s boasting—look what I can get away with. All his life, Balch is subservient to Ramsey, eating dirt, taking verbal abuse. What better way to undo that psychologically than by taking Ramsey’s woman, then discarding her and announcing it to the world?”

“
Taking
her,” said Wil. “You think Balch and Lisa were making
it?”

“I think Balch wanted to. He’s no Adonis, but she dated him once, and we know she likes older men. Whether or not she agreed to start up again, only Balch knows. Unless we find something in there.”

They had their guns in their hands as they approached the door. Basic procedure: Detectives did little shooting, but a good deal of it took place while serving warrants.

Petra unlocked the door and went in first. Someone was sitting at the desk in the front room and she brandished her 9mm.

A young woman in a budget power suit working the morning crossword. The sight of the gun painted her face with terror. Pretty brunette, very short hair, dark eyes, maybe Hispanic.

“Who are you?” said Petra. Wil was behind her. She could hear him breathing.

The woman’s voice dribbled out, nearly inaudible. “Sherri Amerian—I’m an attorney.”

The Acura in the lot.

“Mr. Balch’s attorney?”

“No,” said Amerian. “I work for Lawrence Schick.” Stronger voice now, a little brassy with resentment, and the eyes had turned chilly. “Am I allowed to show you my ID? It’s in the purse over there. I mean, I don’t want to get shot in the process.”

“Go ahead,” said Petra.

Amerian produced a driver’s license and her business card from Schick and Associates. The license made her twenty-seven years old. Fresh out of law school. Doing Schick’s scut work on a Saturday.

“Okay?” she said imperiously. Junior associate, but to look at her body language, she was arguing before the Supreme Court. Didn’t take long to get that lawyer ’tude going. “Will you please put those
guns
away?”

Not waiting for a reply, she came around from behind the desk. Great figure.

Wil holstered his piece. “What are you doing here?”

“Representing Mr. H. Cart Ramsey’s interests, Officer . . .”

“Detective Fournier. This is Detective Connor.”

Amerian’s shrug said their names didn’t matter. “Our firm was informed that you intended to conduct a search of these premises related to possible evidence pertaining to Mr. Gregory Balch. May I see the warrant?”

“Why?” said Wil.

“Because the premises are owned by Mr. Ramsey, and we represent his—”

“Here.” Petra slipped her gun back into her purse and gave her the Studio City paper.

The young lawyer studied it. “Exactly right: material pertaining to Mr. Balch. Not Mr. Ramsey. This office contains numerous documents of a confidential nature pertaining to Mr. Ramsey’s finances, and we insist that they not be tampered with. As such, I’ll be remaining here while you conduct your search. In order to accomplish that, our suggestion is that we set up a procedure in which you indicate a given drawer and/or shelf and I review the contents beforehand—”

“If I have to blow my nose,” said Wil, “are you going to review the tissue?”

Amerian frowned. “I really don’t see the point of—”

“Fine,” said Wil. “Cut to the chase. The top drawer of this desk first. And no chitchat or coffee breaks. Fold your puzzle and put it away.”

They took three hours to search every inch of the suite. After the first hour, Amerian got bored with her role as gatekeeper and started to say, “Sure, sure,” whenever Wil or Petra pointed out a book on a shelf or a box on the floor. Short attention span, the
Sesame Street
generation.

The only remnants of Balch’s presence were fast-food cartons, take-out menus from local restaurants, and a top drawer full of office-supply flotsam. No family photos—Petra supposed that made sense: Balch was a two-time marital loser.

Man with no attachments? Something about him that got in the way of relationships? So what? The same could be said for millions of people who didn’t kill.

She kept going. All the papers were Ramsey’s. Now Amerian was paying attention again. Rent books, tax returns, folders listing deductions, business contracts. Documents Petra would have loved to see a few days ago. Balch had worked here for years but left nothing of himself behind.

Did that say something about the way he viewed his job?

She removed a California Tax Code from the shelf, flipped pages, turned it upside down. Nothing. Same for the next ten books. The place was even messier than when she’d interviewed Balch. For a guy with such a disorganized mind, he’d proved a canny killer—so many steps, carefully laid out.

Then why had he been sloppy enough to call Westward Charter and alert them to the rabbit?

The usual psychopath’s self-destructive behavior?

Or a ruse . . . where
was
he?

They left at 1
P.M.
, stopped for lunch at a seafood place on Ventura. Not much conversation. Wil had started off grumpy, and four hours of futility hadn’t improved his disposition. He ate his sand dabs slowly, drank a lot of iced tea, looked out the window. Petra’s crab cakes went down like deep-fried hockey pucks, and by 3
P.M.
they were in separate cars on the 101 headed for the 405 interchange and the one-hour ride to Rolling Hills Estates and Balch’s home on Saddlewax Road.

He got ahead of her at Imperial Highway, and she’d lost sight of him when she thought of something. Speeding up, she managed to spot the Supra just past Hermosa Beach and waved him off at the Redondo Beach exit. They both pulled onto the shoulder. Petra jogged to his car.

“Humor me,” she said, “but I want to take a look at the place on the pier where Ilse Eggermann was last seen, then go to Balch’s.”

“Fine,” he said. “Good idea. I’ll stick with you.”

A fifteen-minute westerly cruise down Redondo Beach Boulevard took them to the former site of Antoine’s, now a Dudley Jones Steak House franchise with a harbor view. Deep-red room full of weekend brunchers and noise, blond surfer/waiters sailing past with platters of rare flesh and melon-size baked potatoes.

Petra allowed herself a second to visualize Ilse Eggermann feuding with Lauch. Leaving the restaurant, descending wooden steps off the pier—just as she and Wil were doing now. Continuing down to the parking lot. Late at night, deserted, the place would be spooky.

The drive to Rolling Hills Estates chilled her.

Six-mile straightaway on Hawthorne Boulevard, it began as a swath through the usual mash of car dealers, malls, and office-supply barns, then narrowed just before Palos Verdes Drive, where a median strip appeared, planted with eucalyptus and pine and black-trunked shaggy trees that resembled willows. A white wooden sign welcomed her to Rolling Hills Estates, and low white corral fencing appeared along both sides of the road.

Ten minutes from Redondo, driving leisurely. This was Balch’s
turf.

She pictured him coming home from a long day as Ramsey’s slave, stopping off for a drink, noticing Ilse and Lauch fighting. He follows them out, sees Lauch drive off, picks up Ilse, promising to drive her to her hotel near the Marina, but they never get there.

Open dump in a parking lot.

Look what I can get away with!

Then back home. So simple.

A day at the beach.

CHAPTER

Beautiful ocean, but too many people.