nonfat raspberry yogurt, cottage cheese. Lean Cuisine in the freezer.
Patsy drank. When she put the bottle down, Petra said, “You’ve been very helpful. I appreciate it.”
“Whatever… I still can’t believe…” Patsy swiped at her eyes.
“Now I’m going to ask you something tough, but I have to. Was Lisa into drugs?”
“No-she-not that I saw.” The Pellegrino bottle shook.
“Patsy, the first thing I’m going to do after we finish talking is search this apartment from top to bottom. If there’s dope here, I’ll find it. Personally, I don’t care if Lisa used. I’m Homicide, not Narcotics. But drugs lead to violence, and Lisa was murdered very violently.”
“It wasn’t like that,” said Patsy. “She wasn’t a head. She used to sniff a little, but that was it.”
“Any other drugs besides cocaine?”
“Just some grass.” Downward glance. Meaning maybe Lisa had shared her cannabis with Patsy? Or the maid had pilfered?
“She hardly used anything,” Patsy insisted. “It wasn’t regular.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know-I never actually saw it, the coke.”
“What about the grass?”
“Sometimes she’d smoke a joint while watching TV.”
“Where’d she do the coke?”
“Always in her room. With the door closed.”
“How often?”
“Not often-maybe once a week. Every two weeks. The only reason I know is I’d see powder on her dressing table. And sometimes she left a razor blade out and her nose was pink and she acted different.”
“Different, how?”
“Up. Hyper. Nothing crazy, just a little hyper.”
“Grumpy?”
Silence.
“Patsy?”
“Sometimes it made her a little moody.” The tiny woman curled up. “But basically, she was great.”
Petra softened her tone. “So once a week. In her room.”
“She never did it in front of me. I’m not into anything like that.” Patsy licked her lips.
“Any idea where she got her drugs from?”
“No way.”
“She never said?”
“Never.”
“And there were no drug transactions up here?”
“No way, never. I assumed at the studio.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it’s all over the industry. Everyone knows that.”
“Did Lisa tell you that?”
“No,” said Patsy. “You just hear about it. It’s on TV all the time, right?”
“Okay,” said Petra. “I’m going to look around now. Please wait a while longer.”
She stood and looked toward the balcony. Beyond the railing, the sky was a strange, deep sapphire blue streaked with orange, and the two cops were transfixed. Suddenly, Petra heard traffic from Doheny. It had been there all along. She’d been wrapped up in work. Interview hypnosis.
She went into Patsy’s bedroom first. A glorified closet, really, with a single bed, small oak dresser, and matching nightstand. Clothes from Target, the Gap, Old Navy. A portable TV sat on the dresser. Two books on cosmetology and an old copy of People in the nightstand drawer.
One bathroom, shared by both women, cramped, with black and white tiles, a black whirlpool tub. Petra learned from the medicine cabinet that Patsy K. had taken cortisone for a skin rash and that Lisa Ramsey suffered from periodic yeast infections, for which an antifungal had been prescribed. No birth control pills, though maybe they were in a drawer. The rest was all over-the-counter mundanity. She went into Lisa’s bedroom.
Twice as big as Patsy’s, but still far from generous. All in all, a tight little apartment. Maybe Lisa had wanted the refuge of simplicity after the pink hacienda.
The bed was queen-size, with a bright red satin throw and black linens. Black lacquer furniture, a black cross-country-ski machine tucked in the corner, perfume bottles-Gio and Poison-on the dresser. Bare walls. Very tidy, just as Patsy had said.
She found the dope in the bottom drawer of the bedroom dresser. White granules in a glassine envelope and another packet with three small, neatly rolled joints, tucked beneath ski sweaters and pants and other winter clothes. Still no birth control pills, no diaphragm. Maybe Lisa really had wanted peace and quiet.
She tagged and bagged the drugs, called over the cops from the balcony, showed them the cocaine, and asked them to get it over to Hollywood Evidence.
Atop the dresser was a jewelry box full of shiny things. Mostly costume pieces, along with two strings of cultured pearls. So Lisa had been wearing her best stuff last night. Hot date? Petra moved on to the lower drawers.
They bore Victoria’s Secret lingerie-alluring but not trashy-a couple of sensible plaid flannel nightshirts, cotton and silk underwear, T-shirts and shorts, sweaters and vests, and three pairs of crisply laundered made-in-
France blue jeans from Fred Segal on Melrose. The wall-length closet was full of Krizia and Versus and Armani Exchange pantsuits, dresses, and skirts and blouses, sizes 4 to 6.
Lots of black, some white, some red, a spot of beige, one bright green jacquard wraparound that stood out like a parrot in a dead tree. Thirty pairs of shoes were lined up in three precise rows on the floor of the closet, toes out. The pumps were all Ferragamo, the casual stuff Kenneth Cole. Two pairs of white New Balance running shoes, one nearly brand-new.
In the nightstand drawer Petra found a Citibank checkbook, a Beverly Hills branch Home Savings passbook, and, tucked into the check register, the business card of a broker at Merrill Lynch in Westwood-Morad Ghadoomian-whose name and number she copied down.
Three thousand dollars in the checking account, twenty-three thou plus some change in the savings account, with two conspicuous monthly deposits: the seven thousand spousal support and another thirty-eight hundred- probably film-editing salary checks.
A pair of regular monthly withdrawals, too. Twenty-two hundred-that had to be rent-and twelve hundred, which Petra guessed was Patsy K.’s salary. Variable expenditures ranged from two to four thousand a month.
Over eleven thou in each month, five, six out, leaving a nice sum to play with for a single girl. Taxes on the salary were already withheld. Those on the spousal support would probably soak up some of the gravy, and coke and designer duds could consume a lot more. But given the fact that Lisa had managed to stash away twenty-three thousand, Petra was ready to believe her dope habit hadn’t been monstrous.
Occasional hits at home. Maybe at work, too, supplied by pals from the industry.
In return for what?
Ramsey was the prime suspect, but there were plenty of blanks to fill.
She was finished by three-thirty; took down the name of a friend in Alhambra where Patsy K. would be staying, had the uniforms watch as the maid packed up her belongings.
The next two hours were spent going door to door on Lisa’s floor and the two stories immediately above and below, and on the side streets that flanked the building. Of the few people home, no one had seen Lisa leave Sunday night or early Monday morning, nor had they spied the black Porsche.
Five-thirty; now she had to try the Boehlingers again.
Why hadn’t she let Stu do it? Ms. Samaritan. He hadn’t shown much gratitude.
The smartest thing to do was return to the Hollywood station and use a department phone for the notification call, but she just didn’t feel like seeing the office again, and drove to her apartment on Detroit Avenue, just east of Park La Brea.
Once inside, she tossed her jacket on a chair and realized she craved a cool drink. But instead of indulging herself, she called the Boehlinger home. Evening in Cleveland now. Busy signal. She hoped someone else hadn’t
