“Early this morning, sir.”
Ramsey shook his head over and over. “Griffith Park? I don’t get it. Why would she be there early in the morning? Was she-how was she..”
Blond Greg came closer and patted Ramsey’s shoulder. Ramsey shook him off, but the other man didn’t react-used to it?
“Let’s go inside, Cart,” he said. “They can give us the details inside.”
“No, no, I need to know-was she shot?” said Ramsey.
“No, sir,” said Stu. “Stabbed.”
“Oh Christ.” Ramsey sank an inch. “Do you know who did it?”
“Not yet, sir.”
Ramsey rubbed his head with one hand. Liver spots, Petra noticed. But a big, strong-looking hand, fingers as thick as hour cigars, with sturdy squared-off nails.
“Oh shit! Lisa! I can’t believe it! Oh, Lisa, what the hell did you do?” Ramsey turned his back on the detectives, walked a few steps, doubled over as if about to vomit, but just remained in that position. Petra saw a shudder course along his broad back.
The blond man let his hands drop limply. “I’m Greg Balch, Mr. Ramsey’s business manager-”
Ramsey wheeled around suddenly. “Did it have anything to do with drugs?”
A second of silence, then Stu said, “Did Mrs. Ramsey have a drug problem?”
“No, no, just a while back-actually she’s not-wasn’t Mrs. Ramsey anymore. We got divorced six months ago and she took back her maiden name. It was friendly but… we didn’t see each other.” He shielded his face again and began to cry. Big wracking baritone sobs. Petra couldn’t see if there were any tears.
Balch put his arm around Ramsey, and the actor let himself be guided into the house. The detectives followed. A moment later, when Ramsey made eye contact, it was with Petra, and she saw that his eyes were dry, steady, the whites unblemished, the sky-colored irises clear.
The house smelled of bacon. The first thing Petra noticed once she got past the fifteen-foot ceilings and the junk art and all that endless cream furniture-like being dropped into a vat of buttermilk-was the five-door garage.
Because a wall of plate glass offered a view from inside the house. This was a garage like da Vinci was a cartoonist.
Fifty by twenty, with true-white walls, mega-buffed black granite floor, black track lighting. Five spaces, but only four were filled. And no limo. These were all collectibles: tomato-red Ferrari roadster with a predatory nose; charcoal-gray Porsche speedster with racing numbers on the door; black-and-maroon Rolls-Royce sedan with wonderful swooping fenders, a gigantic, ostentatious chrome grille, and a crystal hood mascot, probably Lalique; bright blue early Corvette ragtop, probably 1950s-the same blue as business manager Greg Balch’s silk shirt.
In the fifth space, only a gravel-filled drip tray.
On the walls were framed racing posters and airbrushed depictions of penile cars.
Stu and the sheriffs had stopped to look. Men and cars. Petra was one woman who actually understood that syndrome. Maybe it was four brothers, maybe her sense of aesthetics, an appreciation of functional art. One of the reasons she’d hit it off with Nick was because she was able to stroke his ego and mean it. No stretch; the bastard had no soul, but he could carve masterpieces. His favorite was the ’67 Stingray, the apex of design, he called it. When Petra told him she was pregnant, he looked at her as if she were an Edsel…
Greg Balch was a few feet ahead, squiring Ramsey into the next room, as the detectives pulled themselves away from the glass wall. Balch sat Ramsey down on an overstuffed cream silk loveseat and the actor remained hunched as if praying, head down, hands laced together on his right knee, bulky neck muscles tight.
The four detectives took places on a facing nine-foot-long sofa, moving around pastel throw pillows to find space. One cushion ended up in De la Torre’s wide lap, and his stumpy brown fingers drummed the glossy fabric. Banks sat calmly, not moving. A coffee table composed of a granite boulder with a slab of glass on top marked the space between Ramsey and the cops. Balch took a side chair.
Petra scanned the room. Grotesquely big. She supposed it was a den. It looked into three equally cavernous spaces, each with the same pale overscale furniture, bleached wood accents, huge, terrible pastel abstractions on the walls. Through glass doors she saw grass and palms, a rock pool with waterfall, a four-hole putting course, the grass mown to the skin, nearly gray.
De golf. Two chrome irons lay on the nubby grass; behind the green was the corral and a cute little pink barn.
Where was vehicle number five? Hidden so it could be cleaned, scrubbed of blood?
And they couldn’t even ask about it. She’d seen how long it took the techs to go over a vehicle carefully. If the investigation ever got to the point where they had a search warrant, just doing all the Ramsey wheels would require a major crew for days.
Her eyes drifted back to the corral. Bales of hay, piled up neatly. Two horses lolling, one brown, one white. She imagined Lisa on the white one, wearing a tailored jacket and custom jodhpurs, honey hair streaming.
Had the woman been a rider? She knew nothing about her.
Two horses. Five cars. And a partridge in a-what belonged in the empty spot?
Ramsey remained bowed and silent. De la Torre, Banks, and Stu were studying him without being obvious. Balch looked uncomfortable, the helping hand not knowing how to help. De la Torre looked back at the cars again. Grim-faced, all business, but managing to take in the chrome, the lacquer paint, the oiled leather, licorice-black tires. Banks saw him, smiled. Made eye contact with Petra and smiled a little wider.
Stu just sat there. The blank-tablet look, he called it. Let the interviewee fill in the spaces. Maybe he found it easy with Ramsey because he had no car lust-not that he’d shown to Petra, anyway. His civilian ride was a white Chevy Suburban with two child safety seats and toys all over. Petra had been a passenger a few times, the Bishops’ dinner guest, if you could call transporting six children to Chuck E. Cheese dinner. The video games were fun, though. She liked kid stuff…
She found herself touching her flat belly, stopped, and directed her attention back to Ramsey.
Black curls bounced as the actor kept shaking his head, as if telling himself no. Petra had seen that so many times. Denying. Or pretending to. The guy was a TV private eye. Actors did research; he had to know the drill.
Greg Balch patted Ramsey on the back again. The business manager still wore that helpless-lackey look.
Petra watched Ramsey some more. Thought, What if he’s clean? What if this is the worst kind of whodunit?
Then she reminded herself that he’d beaten Lisa up. Played parts for a living.
She gazed at the huge, formless rooms. Den 1, den 2, den 3-how many dens did a wolf need?
Finally, Ramsey straightened and said, “Thanks for coming over.. guess I’d better call her folks… oh Jesus…” He threw up his hands.
“Where do her folks live?” said Stu.
“Cleveland. A suburb, Chagrin Falls. Her father’s a doctor. Dr. John Boehlinger. I haven’t talked to them since the divorce.”
“I can call them,” said Stu.
“No, no, it should be someone who… do you usually do that? I mean as a normal part of procedure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh.” Ramsey breathed in and let the air out, wiped his eye with a pinkie. “No, it should still be me… although… the problem is we’re not exactly-Lisa’s folks and me. Since the divorce. You know how it is.”
“Tension?” said Stu.
“I don’t know if my calling will make it worse-I mean, I really don’t know what my place is in all this.” Ramsey looked miserable. “Officially, I mean. We’re not married anymore, so do I have an official role?”
“In terms of?” said Stu.
“Identifying her, arrangements-you know… Lisa and I… we loved and respected each other but we were… apart.” Up went the hands again. “I’m rambling, must sound like an idiot. And who gives a fuck about arrangements!” Ramsey’s hand slammed into a palm. He turned to the right and flashed a profile.
What a chin, thought Petra. In his world, love and respect meant a black eye, split lip. His lower lip began to shake and he bit down on it. Could he be posing?
