“No, no tapes.”
“So there’d be no way to know exactly when Ms. Boehlinger left?”
“No, Officer.”
Petra walked to the elevator and the cop tagged along. “Big help, huh?” He pushed the button. “Up at the top. Ten-seventeen.”
The door to Lisa Ramsey’s apartment was closed but unlocked, and when Petra walked in she saw the maid sitting on the edge of a couch. The physical similarity to Petra’s mental image threw her so hard she almost lost her balance. Ten points on the ESP meter.
Patricia Kasempitakpong was five-one, tops, maybe a hundred pounds, with a pretty heart-shaped face under a thick mop of long, layered ebony hair. She wore a beige cotton knit top, blue jeans, and black flats. The sofa was as overstuffed as those in Cart Ramsey’s house. But not cream-Petra’s prophecy-fest ended there.
Lisa Ramsey’s apartment was a study in color. Red and blue velvet couches with tasseled skirts, parquet floors stained black, a zebra-skin rug thrown across the wood. A real zebra rug; the animal’s head pointed toward a black glass vase filled with yellow daffodils.
From what Petra could see, the apartment was small, the kitchen just a cubby of white lacquered wood and gray tile counters. The ceilings were low and flat. Basically the place was just another L.A. box. But the tenth- floor-corner location and sliding glass doors gave it fantastic views of the west side, all the way to the ocean. Beyond the door was a skimpy balcony. No furniture; no potted palms. A cigar of smog floated above the horizon.
Two uniforms were enjoying the view, and they turned to Petra just long enough to see her flash the badge. On the wall behind Patricia Kasemwhatever was a black metal shelving unit housing black stereo equipment and a twenty-five-inch TV.
No books.
Petra hadn’t seen any in Ramsey’s place, either. Nothing like common apathy as the basis for a relationship.
The hard-edged color scheme suggested that Lisa had tired of pastels. Or maybe she’d never liked them in the first place.
Had cream and pink been Ramsey’s idea of tasteful? Interesting.
She smiled at Patricia, and Patricia just stared. Petra went over to her and sat down.
“Hi.”
The maid was scared, but loosened up after a while. Fluent English; American-born. (“Don’t even bother with my name; they call me Patsy K.”) She’d only worked two months for Lisa, couldn’t see how she could help.
A one-hour interview produced nothing juicy.
Lisa had never said why she’d left Ramsey, nor had the domestic-violence episode come up. She had mentioned once that he was too old for her, that marrying him had been a mistake. The maid slept in the spare bedroom, kept the place clean, ran errands. Lisa was a great boss, Lisa always paid on time, was neat and tidy herself. A “real neat person.”
Patsy K. had no trouble crying.
On the subject of spousal support, the maid said Lisa received a monthly check from a firm called Player’s Management.
“The card’s there on the fridge.” Petra retrieved it. Address on Ventura Boulevard in Studio City. Gregory Balch’s name at the bottom: financial manager. Ramsey paying through his company.
“Any idea how much the checks were for?”
Patsy blushed, no doubt recalling an indiscreet peek.
“Anything you can tell us would be really helpful,” said Petra.
“Seven thousand.”
“A month?”
Nod.
Eighty-four thousand a year. Enough to pay the rent and some bills and have some fun, but not much of a dent in Ramsey’s seven-figure income. Still, things like that chafed. Paying money to someone you resented, someone who’d humiliated you on national television.
It spelled tension, but was far from probable cause.
So Lisa had thought Ramsey too old for her. He’d alluded to a generational rift too. “Did Lisa and Mr. Ramsey talk on the phone?”
“Not that I ever saw.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me, Patsy?”
The maid shook her head and began to cry again. The uniforms on the balcony were watching the sunset, didn’t even bother to turn. “She was nice. Sometimes it was like we were more like friends-eating dinner together up here when she wasn’t going out. I know how to cook Thai, and she liked it.”
“Did Lisa go out a lot?”
“Sometimes two, three times a week, sometimes not for weeks.”
“Where’d she go?”
“She never really said.”
“No idea at all?”
“Movies, I guess. Screenings. She was a film editor.”
“Who’d she work for?”
“Empty Nest Productions-they’re over at Argent Studios in Culver City.”
“When she went out, who was it with?”
“Guys, I guess, but since I’ve been here she never brought them up here.”
“She went down to meet them?”
Patsy nodded, and Petra said, “But you assume they were guys.”
“She was beautiful. Had been a beauty queen.” Patsy eyed the officers out on the balcony.
“During the two months you worked here, none of her dates ever came up?”
“One guy came up, but I don’t know if he was a date. She worked with him. I think his name was Darrell-a black guy.”
“How many times did he come up?”
“Twice, I think. Maybe it was Darren.”
“When was this?”
Patsy thought. “Maybe a month ago.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Tall, light-skinned-for a black guy, I mean. Short hair, neat dresser.”
“Facial hair?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“How old?”
“I guess around forty.”
Another older man. Patsy had a blank look in her eyes. The irony had eluded her.
Lisa searching for Dad?
“What was Lisa’s work schedule?”
“She worked all hours,” said Patsy. “Whenever they called her, she had to be ready.”
“And Mr. Ramsey never showed up here.”
“Not when I was here.”
“And no phone calls.”
“Lisa hardly spoke to anyone on the phone-she didn’t like the phone, used to disconnect it so she could have peace and quiet.”
“Okay,” said Petra. “So your day off is Sunday?”
“Saturday night till Monday morning. When I got here at eight, Lisa was already gone. I thought maybe she got a night call. Then the officers showed up.”
Patsy held herself tight and began to rock; coughed; gagged on her own saliva. Petra got her a Pellegrino water from the miniature white fridge. There were three more bottles in there, and fresh grapes, three cartons of
