She said, “If there’s anything you could tell us about Lisa, it would be helpful, sir.”
Ramsey swiveled slowly and stared at her, and Petra thought she saw something new in his pale eyes- analysis, cold thought, a hardening. Then, a second later, it vanished and he looked grief-stricken again and she wondered if she’d imagined it.
In the interim, Ramsey’s eyes had moistened. He said, “She was a great girl; we were married for nearly two years.”
“What about the drug situation, sir?” said Petra.
Ramsey looked at Balch, and the blond man shrugged.
“No big deal,” said Ramsey. “I shouldn’t have said anything. The last thing I want is for the media to get hold of that and smear her as-Jesus, they will, won’t they? Oh shit! It’s ridiculous, she was no big-time addict, just…”
He looked down at his lap.
“You’re right, sir,” said Petra. “Sooner or later it’ll be out, so we might as well know the facts. With drugs there’s always the possibility of violence, so if you could tell us…”
Again, his eyes changed and Petra was certain he was appraising her. Were the other D’s noticing? Not overtly: De la Torre was ogling the cars again, and both Stu and Banks just sat there, noncommittal.
Petra touched her hair and crossed her legs. Ramsey kept his eyes at face level, but he blinked as the black crepe rustled. She let her ankle dangle.
“There’s nothing to tell,” he said.
“It really wasn’t any big deal,” said Greg Balch. His eyes were blue, too, but an insipid, cloudy shade, suffering by proximity to Ramsey’s. “Lisa had a little coke problem, that’s all.”
Ramsey glared at him. “Goddamnit, Greg!”
“They might as well know, Cart.”
Holding on to the glare, Ramsey took a deep breath. “All right, all right. Coke was basically what finished our marriage. Though, to be honest, the age difference was an issue, too. I’m from another generation, when ‘party’ still meant you went to a party and talked and danced. I drink socially, but that’s it. Lisa liked to sniff-Jesus, I can’t believe she’s gone!”
He started to hide his face again, and Petra spoke a little louder to stop him.
“How old was Lisa, Mr. Ramsey?”
His eyes rose, dropped to her knees, then back to her face. “Was,” he said. “ Was… I can’t believe from now on it’s always going to be was… she was twenty-seven, Detective…”
“Connor.”
“Twenty-seven, Detective Connor. I met her four years ago at the Miss Entertainment pageant. I was MC’ing and she was Miss Ohio. She played sax and had a great voice. We dated for a while, lived together for a year, got married. Got divorced. First time for both of us… guess we needed practice… is there anything else? ’Cause this is
…” He touched his neck. “I’m feeling lousy, I really need to be alone. ”
“Guys,” said Balch. “Can we let Mr. Ramsey have some privacy?”
Ramsey continued to stroke his own neck. His color had faded, and his face had taken on a shell-shocked numbness.
Petra softened her voice. “I’m sorry, sir, I know this is stressful. But sometimes things that come up during periods of stress are really valuable, and I know you want us to find your wife’s killer.”
Saying wife, not ex-wife, to see if Ramsey would correct her.
He didn’t, just nodded feebly.
Balch started to speak, but Petra broke in: “Any idea who she got her drugs from, Mr. Ramsey?”
“No. I don’t want to make it sound like she was some kind of addict. She sniffed for fun, that’s all. For all I know, she never bought, just borrowed.”
“From who?”
“No idea. It wasn’t my world.” Ramsey sat up straight. “Getting dope in the industry is no big challenge. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you folks that. Was there something about… what happened.. that makes you suspect drugs?”
“No, sir. We’re really starting from scratch.”
Ramsey frowned and stood up suddenly. Balch did a Pete-Repeat, edging right next to the boss.
“Sorry, I’ve really got to rest. Just got back from a location trip to Tahoe, not much rest for two days, read scripts on the plane, then Greg had me signing papers, we both collapsed pretty early. Now this. Jesus.”
Offering a detailed alibi without being asked, thought Petra. Fatigued but bright and bushy-tailed the next morning, playing de golf.
All four D’s were listening actively. No one spoke. No one was allowed to probe too deeply.
Balch filled the silence. “It was a long couplea days. We both crashed like test dummies.”
“You stayed here for the night, Mr. Balch?” said Petra, knowing she was treading on dangerous ground. She glanced at Stu. He gave her a tiny nod.
“Yup. I do it from time to time. Live in Rolling Hills Estates, don’t like making the drive when I’m wiped out.”
Ramsey’s eyes were glazed. He stared at the floor.
Stu nodded again at Petra, and all four detectives stood up. Stu held out his card and Ramsey pocketed it without reading. Everyone headed toward the front door. Petra found Ramsey next to her. “So you’ll call Lisa’s folks, Detective?”
“Yes, sir.” Even though Stu had made the offer.
“Dr. John Everett Boehlinger. Her mother’s name is Vivian.” He recited the number and waited as Petra stopped to copy it down. Balch and the other D’s were several feet ahead, approaching the glass garage wall.
“Chagrin Falls, Ohio,” she said.
“Funny name, isn’t it? As if everyone regretted living there. Lisa sure did; she loved L.A.”
Petra smiled. Ramsey smiled back.
Measuring her. But not as a cop. As a woman. The grieving ex-husband was giving her the once-over.
It wasn’t a judgment she jumped to easily. She didn’t view herself as God’s gift to men, but she knew when she was being evaluated.
“L.A. was for Lisa,” said Ramsey as they resumed walking. “She loved the energy level.”
They made it to the glass. Petra extended her hand. “Thanks, sir. Sorry you have to go through this.”
Ramsey took it, held it, squeezed. Dry and warm. “I still don’t believe it happened. It’s unreal-like a script.” He bit his lip, shook his head, let go of her fingers. “I probably won’t be able to sleep, but I guess I should try before the vultures swoop in.”
“The media?”
“It’s just a matter of time-you won’t give out my address or number, will you?”
Before Petra could answer, he called out to Balch. “Tell the gatehouse no one gets close. Call them now.”
“You bet.” Balch hurried off.
Petra touched the glass, raised her eyebrows, made a show of staring at the cars.
Ramsey shrugged. For a middle-aged man, he did boyish pretty well. “You collect toys, then realize they don’t mean much.”
“Still,” said Petra, “nothing wrong with having nice things.”
Ramsey’s blue eyes flickered. “Guess not.”
“What year’s the Ferrari?”
“’Seventy-three,” said Ramsey. “Daytona Spider. Used to be owned by an oil sheikh; I picked it up at auction. It needs to be tuned every week and an hour behind the wheel kills your back, but it’s a work of art.”
His voice had picked up enthusiasm. As if realizing it, he grimaced, shook his head again.
Trying to keep her voice light, Petra said, “What goes over there, in the empty slot?”
“My everyday wheels.”
“The Lexus?”
He looked over at the entry hall where the three other D’s had congregated. “No, that’s Greg’s car. Mine’s a
