Or maybe Mr. Taco was a neat eater.
Even if the book was his, no big deal. There was nothing to say he’d been around precisely when Lisa Ramsey was being butchered.
Except for the fact that the urine was fresh. Within twelve hours, according to Lau, and Dr. Leavitt had estimated the murder at between midnight and 4 A.M.
A witness, or the murderer himself? The Fiend from the Hills hiding behind the rocks, waiting for the perfect victim.
Susan Rose had made the logical assumption that wife-beater Ramsey was the prime suspect, but other theories had to be considered.
But what would have brought Lisa Boehlinger-Ramsey to Griffith Park at night? And where was her car? Jacked? Was robbery the motive, after all?
Would someone this vicious need a motive?
A nut crime? Then why had the money been taken? Why not the jewelry?
Something didn’t mesh. She just couldn’t see a woman like Lisa coming alone to the park at that hour, all made up, wearing jewelry, that little black dress.
It spelled date. Out for the evening and she’d detoured. Or had been detoured. Why? By whom? Something hush-hush?
Buying drugs? There were lots of easier ways to score dope in L.A.
A date with the murderer? Had he driven her here with intent?
If Lisa had gone out on the town with a man, maybe someone had seen the two of them together.
One thing was sure: If it was a date, the lucky guy hadn’t been some loner who read old library books and ate tacos and peed behind rocks.
Crashing in the park, no indoor plumbing, spelled homeless.
Modern-day caveman staking out his spot behind the rocks and marking it?
A spot from which he had a vantage view of the murder scene.
Or maybe he’d wet himself out of fear.
Seeing it.
Looking between those rocks and seeing it.
CHAPTER
7
Almost there for sure now. The sun is out and I feel uncovered-like a target on a video game, something small that gets eaten.
I can walk forever if I have to. All I’ve done in L.A. is walk.
The bus let me off in a station full of people and echoes. Outside, the sky was a strange brownish gray and the air smelled bitter. I had no idea which way to go. In one direction were what looked like factories, power poles, trucks going back and forth. People seemed to be going the other way, so I followed them.
So much noise, everyone staring straight ahead. Between each block were alleys full of garbage cans with weird-looking guys sitting against the wall. Some of them watched me pass with cold eyes. I walked three blocks before I realized I was being followed by one of them, a real crazy-looking guy with rags around his head.
He saw me spot him and came at me faster. I ran and slid into the crowd, feeling the money in my shorts bouncing around but making sure not to touch it or look at it. Everyone was taller than me and I couldn’t see too far in front of me. I kept pushing through, saying, “Excuse me,” and finally, two blocks later, he gave up and turned around.
My heart was going really fast and my mouth was dry. People kept piling onto the sidewalk, mostly Mexicans and a few Chinese. Some of the signs on restaurants were in Spanish and one huge movie theater with gold scrolls over the sign was playing something called Mi Vida, Mi Amor. A bunch of guys were selling fruit ices and churros and hot dogs from carts and now my mouth filled with spit. I started to wonder if I was dreaming or in some foreign country.
I walked till I found a street where the buildings were cleaner and newer. The nicest-looking building was something called the College Club, with U.S. and California flags out in front and a pink-faced guy in a gray uniform and hat with his arms folded across his chest. As I walked by he looked down his nose, as if I’d farted or done something rude. Then a long black car pulled up to the curb and all of a sudden he was just a servant, hurrying to open the door and saying, “How are you today, sir?” to a white-haired guy in a blue suit.
I made it to a little park that looked nice, with a fountain and some colorful statues, but when I got closer I saw that the benches were full of more weird guys. Right next door was a place called the Children’s Museum, but no kids were going in. I was tired and hungry and thirsty, didn’t want to spend any more of the Tampax money till I had a plan.
I sat down on a corner of grass and tried to figure it out.
I came to L.A. because it was the closest real city I knew, but the only neighborhoods I’d heard about were Anaheim, where Disneyland is, Beverly Hills, Hollywood, and Malibu. Anaheim was probably far, and what else was there besides Disneyland? I’d seen a TV show about Hollywood that said kids still came there looking for movie stars and got into trouble. Beverly Hills was full of rich people, and the way the guy in the gray uniform had looked at me told that wouldn’t be safe.
That left Malibu, but that was the beach-nowhere to hide.
Maybe something near Hollywood would be okay. I wasn’t like those other kids, thinking life was a movie. All I wanted was to be left alone, no one putting my dick in a wire cutter.
I sat there for a long time, thinking I’d been crazy to leave. Where would I live? What would I eat; where would I sleep? The weather was good now, but what would happen in the winter?
But too late to go back now. Mom would find out about the money and think of me as a thief. And Moron… My stomach started to hurt really bad. I started to think people were looking at me, but when I checked, no one was. My lips felt like sandpaper again. Even my eyes felt dry. It hurt to blink.
I stood up, figuring I’d just walk. Then I saw two people coming through the park holding hands, a guy and a girl, maybe twenty or twenty-five, wearing jeans and long hair and looking pretty relaxed.
I said, “Excuse me,” and smiled, asked them where Hollywood was-and Malibu, just to play it safe.
“Malibu, huh,” said the guy. He had a fuzzy little beard and his hair was longer than the girl’s.
“My parents are in there,” I said, pointing to the museum. “They took my little brother in, but I figured it was boring. They promised to take me to the beach and Hollywood if we can find it.”
“Where’re you from?” said the girl.
“Kinderhook, New York.” The first thing that spilled out.
“Oh. Well, Hollyweird’s about five, six miles that way-west-and the beach is the same direction, another fifteen miles after that. Kinderhook, huh? That a small town?”
“Uh-huh.” I had no idea. All I knew was it was Martin Van Buren’s birthplace.
“You a farm boy?”
“Not really, we live in a house.”
“Oh.” She smiled again, even wider, and looked at the guy. He seemed bored. “Well, tell your parents Hollyweird is weird; all kinds of freaks. Be careful, you know? During the day if you’re with your parents it should be okay, but not at night. Right, Chuck?”
“Yeah,” said Chuck, touching his little beard. “If you go, check out the Wax Museum on Hollywood Boulevard, little dude. It’s pretty cool. And the Chinese Theater, ever hear of that?”
“Sure,” I said. “Where the movie stars put their hands and feet in the cement.”
“Yeah,” said the guy, laughing. “And their minds in the gutter.”
They laughed and walked on.
The first bus I got on the driver said I needed exact change, so I had to get off and buy a lime snow-cone and get change. Which was fine, because it took care of my thirst and put a sweet taste in my mouth. Half an hour
