For all the Hollywood angles, this one would probably play out as the same old story, and she realized that if she stayed in Homicide, she’d be spending her life inhaling the worst of cliches.
The lunch plan had been to meet Stu at Musso and Frank, but at 1:45 he phoned in and said, “Sorry, I’m getting hung up, do you mind?”
Relieved, she said, “No problem. Anything earth-shattering?”
“All I’m getting so far is no one respects Ramsey as an actor. How about you?”
She told him about the Montecito place and the Jeep, then said, “Guess what, a similar,” and gave him the details of the Ilse Eggermann murder.
“Wonderful,” he said. “Phil Sorensen’s good. If he didn’t solve it, it was probably unsolvable. Maybe we should let Robbery-Homicide take it.”
Now she knew something was wrong. Stu had little use for the downtown hotshot elite, considered them arrogant, not nearly as good as they thought they were. Losing a big case was always a sore point for all but the laziest divisional detectives, and Stu had never occupied the same continent as lazy. Now he was willing to let R-H roll over him? And her.
If it was a career thing, pending promotion, that didn’t make sense-unless he was certain this one was bound to end badly, figured early damage control was better than being the global-village idiot.
“You’re kidding,” she said sharply.
“Yeah, I guess I am,” he said, wearily. “I just didn’t want to hear about a valid similar, but no big deal, we’ll ride with it.” She heard him inhale. “Okay, beep me if you need something. No news yet of Lisa’s car?”
“Nope. I’d like to check out Ramsey’s Montecito place.”
Silence. “Before we get that assertive, we should clear it with Schoelkopf.”
“I don’t see why we need to,” said Petra. “What I got from the meeting this morning was once we do the scut, we’re free to be real-life detectives. He admitted if we don’t talk to Ramsey soon we’ll look like boobs. I think we need to arrange another face-to-face, soon. No lackey to run interference. If Ramsey refuses to speak to us without a lawyer, that tells us something. If he doesn’t, we come on friendly but try to pry him.”
“I think you misunderstood Schoelkopf, Petra. For him it’s not about getting things done, it’s about self- protection. And we need to think that way, too-”
“Stu-”
“Hear me out. Who got burned on O.J.? D’s, not the brass. The moment we ask to get a close look at Ramsey’s houses and his cars, even just an informal request, no warrants, Ramsey becomes the prime suspect and it’s a whole other game. If someone finds out you DMV’d him, it’ll be a whole other game.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“Believe.”
“Fine,” she said. “You know better.”
“I don’t, Petra,” he said, in the most mournful tone she’d ever heard him use. “I just know we have to be careful.”
She left the station fuming, was three blocks away when she realized she was driving to see Darrell Breshear without setting up the appointment. Using a pay phone, she called again. This time she talked to the taped message, giving her name and title and asking Breshear to call her at the soonest opportuni “This is Darrell.”
“Mr. Breshear, thank you. I’m working Lisa Boehlinger-Ramsey’s murder and would like to talk to you about her.”
“Because we were friends?”
Odd response. “Exactly.”
“Sure,” he said, sounding anything but certain. “What would you like to know?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer a face-to-face meeting, Mr. Breshear.”
“Oh… any particular reason?”
Because I want to study your facial expressions, evaluate your eye contact, see whether you’re sweating or twitching or looking at your feet too frequently, because that’s a clear sign of lying.
“Procedure,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
“Mr. Breshear?”
“Well,” he said, “I guess so-could we not do it here, at the lot?”
“May I ask why?”
“It’s-I’d prefer to keep a low profile at work, and the police stomping in is… bound to attract attention.”
“I promise you I don’t stomp, sir.”
He didn’t think that was funny. “You know what I mean.”
“I understand, sir,” she said. The guy was antsy. Why? “Where would you suggest?”
“Um… how about a coffee shop or something like that? There are plenty of places around here.”
“Pick one.”
“How about… the Pancake Palace on Venice near Overland, let’s say tomorrow at ten A.M.?”
“The Pancake Palace is fine, Mr. Breshear, but I was thinking sooner. Like in half an hour.”
“Oh. Well… the problem is, I’m elbow-deep in a big project. Final cut on a picture, there’s a screening-”
“I understand, sir, but Lisa was murdered.”
“Yes, yes, of course-okay, the Pancake Palace, half an hour. May I ask who told you I’d be worth talking to about Lisa?”
“Various people,” said Petra. “See you there, sir, and thanks for your help.”
She got back in the car and drove as fast as safety would allow down Western to Olympic. Hoping the guy would show and not complicate her life further.
CHAPTER
23
Blue walls, brown booths, the too-sweet fumes of fake maple syrup.
Darrell Breshear wasn’t hard to spot. At this hour, the Pancake Palace was almost empty and he was the only black man in the place, sitting in a corner booth looking miserable.
Young voice, but indeed older. Patsy K. had said forty, but Petra pegged him at forty-five to fifty. He’d already started on a cup of coffee; for all his attempts to delay, he’d showed up early. Definitely antsy.
He was thin and sat tall, had close-cropped graying hair, skin nearly as pale as Petra’s, African features. He wore a black polo shirt under a gray herringbone jacket.
Bags under his eyes made him look weary. When she got closer, she saw the eyes were amber. A few freckles dotted the bridge of his nose.
He saw her and stood. Six-one.
“Mr. Breshear.”
“Detective.”
They shook hands. His was dry.
“Coffee?” he said, indicating his half-full cup. More like half-empty, judging from his expression.
“Sure.”
Breshear waved for service and ordered for Petra, saying please and thank you and getting the waitress to smile. “Sorry to play hard-to-get,” he said. “Lisa’s murder shocked me, and then to be part of an investigation.” He shook his head.
“So far you’re a very small part of the investigation, Mr. Breshear.” She took her pad out, began writing, then sketching his face.
“Good.” His eyes wandered to the left. “So…”
Rather than answer, Petra drank coffee. Breshear’s eyes started bouncing around.
“Please tell me about your relationship with Lisa Ramsey, sir.”
“We worked together.”
