For five minutes, the stand was left unattended and some local kids cruised by and pulled postcards from the rack. When the long-haired guy came out, he was wiping his lips.
A drink break. Here he goes again: up and down, up and down. Definitely on the prowl.
Could it really be? Maybe he was waiting for a dope deal.
Then again, the tip had come from somewhere.
To a loser like this, selling crap no one bought, twenty-five thou would be a helluva lot of Saturdays. Good reason to be jumpy.
He observed the guy some more. Same routine; one more booze break. The guy was robotic, on autopilot, just like the nuts he used to see when he visited his mother.
Definitely worth looking into-what did he have to lose?
He got up, walked a hundred yards south, reversed direction, and shifted closer to the storefronts, passing close to the stand and looking for posted hours. There it was:
SUMMER HOURS: 11 TO 5 M — F, WEEKENDS, 11 TO 8.
He’d leave, come back close to 8; hopefully the crowds would be gone. Hopefully the guy wouldn’t close up early or go off shift; if he did, there was always another day.
Given no other leads, it was all he had and he decided to be hopeful.
Optimism, that was the key. Long as you didn’t lose the irony.
CHAPTER
70
Saddlewax Road was a quarter mile in from the Palos Verdes turnoff. Along the way, Petra saw two little girls in full equestrian dress riding gorgeous brown horses. A woman on a black steed trailed them, scrutinizing their posture or the horses’, or both.
Balch’s house was three-quarters up the shady street, a one-story apricot stucco ranch atop a high bed of devil ivy. That same white corral fencing cordoned the property and all its neighbors. Boys shot baskets; a man in a bright green polo shirt hosed down a vintage Corvette. The neighborhood had that aura of families with bright futures.
Strange place for a man living alone. Maybe the remnant of one of the marriages.
There was a basketball hoop atop Balch’s garage, too. No cars parked outside. The few roses planted next to the house were leggy and browning, and the roof shakes were warped. Bound stacks of mail-four days’ worth-sat in front of the screen door. A very small notice stapled to the screen said the local sheriffs had assumed jurisdiction over the property; no one was to trespass. The locals hadn’t taken in the mail.
Wil phoned them, and they said it was okay to enter; if he and Petra removed anything, make a list and send a copy. He got evidence bags and recording forms from the trunk of his car, Petra picked up the mail, and they went in.
The living room was dark, rancid, littered with unfolded newspapers, dirty clothes, empty cans of beer and Pepsi, bottles of orange juice and vodka. A screwdriver man.
A sty, just like the office. Unlike the Lexus. As Petra read the mail, Wil got to work on the sofas, removing cushions, unzipping them, yanking out the foam.
Four days of post yielded utility bills, junk ads, coupons. Three days ago, he’d been spotted at Montecito switching cars, after burying Estrella Flores. Where had he cut the maid’s throat? Probably somewhere in the hills above RanchHaven. Petra’s best guess was he’d overpowered Flores in the house, driven her out through the fire road, found some nice quiet kill spot. Then, wrapping the body in plastic, stashing her in the trunk, he made the forty-five-minute drive to Montecito, entombed the body, left the Lexus behind-because he thought it was clean, and why would the cops check out Ramsey’s weekend house?
Picking up the Jeep because that had been Lisa’s murder vehicle and he wanted to make sure it was clean?
She recalled his demeanor during the interview. A little downbeat, self-effacing. No edginess, but if he was that psychopathic, why would there be?
Slipping in Lisa’s bad temper, how she took it out on Cart. Brand-new running shoes. A clever bastard, Mr. Gregory Balch. So why had he stayed a lackey all his life?
Embezzling cash from the boss, waiting for the right moment to bolt? Original plans to do it with Lisa, but something had gone wrong
… was Balch somewhere in Brazil with suitcases of cash, the satisfaction of having destroyed Ramsey’s life in more ways than one?
She went into the kitchen. The food in the fridge was sad bachelor fare: beer, wine, more orange juice and Smirnoff, more takeout cartons. Beef lo mein and ribs from a Chinese place on Hawthorne Boulevard; KFC crispy chicken bucket-no address, but she’d seen an outlet along the way, on Hawthorne. Half a gigantic pizza from a place called DeMona’s in Studio City. Ventura Boulevard, just a few blocks from the office. All the food was long past edibility. The pizza looked petrified.
In the living room, Wil worked grimly and silently, upending couches, slitting burlap bottoms, pulling a clock off the wall and shaking it hard enough to do serious damage, peering up the fireplace.
She decided to get an overview of the house, found three bedrooms, two bone-empty, one a disgusting mess, a pair of bathrooms, a dining area off the kitchen, and, next to the living room, a paneled den that looked out to the backyard, nothing in it but a brown leather recliner and a sixty-inch TV. An illegal black box sat atop the television. Petra switched on the set and was assaulted by five feet of penis entering vagina, a lazy synthesizer score, moans and grunts.
“Oh, those men,” said Wil, laughing.
She turned off the TV, opened the curtains. The yard was nice-sized, with several mature trees and an oval swimming pool, but the grass was ten inches of hay; the pool, a sump of algae-streaked soup. High block walls and shrubbery blocked the neighbors’ views. Lucky for the neighbors.
Light-years from Ramsey’s princely lifestyle. All those years of being nothing like Ramsey.
She decided to tackle the disgusting bedroom first. It smelled like the bottom of a laundry basket. King-size bed, cheap headboard, black sheets and pillowcases flecked with oily gray stains. Gloving up, she bagged the linens. The mattress was a mildewed ruin. Even protected by surgical rubber, she found handling Balch’s linens repulsive.
Facing the bed was another TV, same size, and a second black box. Same porn station. Wadded tissues and stroke books in a nightstand added to the picture of Balch’s solitary sexual life. She flipped through the magazines, hoping for some really nasty S amp;M to build up the bad-guy psyche, but most of it was straight hetero male fantasy; the worst, some lightweight bondage.
The porn went into a bag, duly noted.
Piles of dirty underwear and socks created a lumpy rug between the wall and the left side of the bed. Balch probably slept on the right side, tossed his junk across. The closet was crammed with sweat suits in varying colors, drawstring lounging pants, jeans, shirts, all with Macy’s labels. A plastic bag with a ticket from a dry cleaner-on Hawthorne Boulevard-contained two pairs of pants and three shirts, including the bright blue silk he’d been wearing the day of the notification call.
She removed the plastic-wrapped garments. He leaves dirty laundry on the floor for days but chooses to clean these.
Probably the stuff he’d worn while murdering Lisa. Two pants, three shirts.
If they were bloodstained, why hadn’t the cleaner noticed? She tagged and bagged, moved on to the shelf above the closet. Thirteen file boxes up there. Balch’s tax records. She took her time with them.
His salary from Ramsey was his sole income. Ramsey’d started him off twenty-five years ago at $25,000. Regular raises had brought him to $160,000. Nice, but nothing compared to the boss’s millions.
The forms listed little by way of investment. He’d deducted depreciation on the Saddlewax house, which had been purchased fourteen years ago, and his car leases-Buicks, then Caddies, now the Lexus-but no other real
