reason for your mother to suddenly quit?”
“He wasn’t home that often. It was a big house, she didn’t like being alone so much.” His voice broke. “I know there’s something wrong.”
The moment Petra hung up the phone, it rang. The civilian clerk on duty said, “A Dr. Boehlinger called.”
“Did he leave a message?”
“Just to call him back. Telling, not asking.”
Just what she needed. Clenching her jaw, she dialed Boehlinger’s hotel. He was out. Thank God for small victories.
She phoned the Hoopers in Bel-Air. Busy. Maybe Javier Flores was already on the line.
She tried again, connected to a husky-voiced woman. “Oh, Jesus, I just spoke to her son. No, I haven’t seen her.” Snorting laugh. “So now the police are trying to bring illegals back?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hooper.” You’re the one who hired her when she was illegal, Mrs. Hooper. Click.
Wil Fournier came over and showed her a piece of paper. Forty or so names, all but three checked off. “Tipsters. Our little burglar’s been spotted all up and down the state, but it’s mostly garbage-who unlocked the asylum?” He loosened his tie. The tan pad of his hand was ink-stained. “One sweetheart from Frisco claims he’s the son she gave up at birth, she was just about to call Unsolved Mysteries, the money would sure come in handy because she wants to become a psychologist. One guy claims the kid’s not a kid, he’s some kind of mystic guru-an apparition, appears in times of crisis and ‘renders deliverance.’ The world may be coming to an end.”
“He might have something there,” said Petra.
“Long as I get my pension,” said Fournier. He tapped each of the three unchecked names. “These are possibles. Two come from the same place-some farm town called Watson, between Bakersfield and Fresno. Neither of the callers know the kid by name, but they both think they’ve seen him around. They didn’t sound wacko or greedy, and two tips from a small place like that is interesting. I put in a call to the local law. Must be a real hick place, because it’s a two-man sheriff outfit and both guys were out. I talked to some woman at the desk who sounded about a hundred years old. This last one probably is greed, Russian accent, but at least the guy sounded sane. Insisted he’d seen the kid in Venice this morning, described his clothes-T-shirt, jeans-said the kid looked like he’d been sleeping on the street, had crusted salt on his face, like he’d washed with ocean water. Scratched up, too.”
“Good eye for detail.”
“That’s why I’m not dismissing him. He runs a souvenir stand down on Ocean Front in Venice, claims he sold the kid a hat this morning. Then the kid took off north. The guy thought it was weird, a kid being out by himself, middle of the day. And buying a hat-he never sells hats to kids.”
“Trying to hide his face?” said Petra.
Fournier shrugged. “Could be. If the kid read today’s paper, and we know he’s a reader. On the other hand, you’re homeless, broke, a runaway, someone’s offering twenty-five g’s for your presence, wouldn’t you turn yourself in, try to collect?”
“He’s a child, Wil. Probably an abused child. Why should he trust anyone? Feel enough in control to scheme? And if he saw the murder, he could be too scared to think about profit.”
“Guess so. Or maybe the kid was there but not during the murder, figures why bother. Anyway, this Russian is definitely after the money.”
Petra read the man’s name out loud. “Vladimir Zhukanov.”
“That’s another thing,” said Fournier. “His being Russian. I don’t want to be prejudiced, but you know the scams those guys have been pulling off.” He folded and pocketed the list. “I’ll stop by to see him-have a date in Santa Monica tonight, dinner at Loew’s. Ever been there?”
Petra shook her head.
“Zhukanov said he’d stay late to talk to me. One last thing: Schoelkopf called me into the office again, pumping for details. I may have to give him something, Barb. And then, boom, right in to the media and we run around like little windup toys.”
“If you have to, you have to,” said Petra. “It’s already out of our hands.”
She was ready to leave at seven when the phone blared again.
A young woman said, “Hold please for Lawrence Schick.” Ten seconds of bad music, then a sleepy male voice said, “To which detective do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“Detective Connor.”
“Evening, Detective Connor, this is Larry Schick.”
Meaningful pause. She was supposed to know who he was. And she did. Six-hundred-bucks-an-hour lawyer, criminal defense, mostly celebrity drunk drivers, actors’ kids playing with guns, other delicate felonies. She’d seen him doing sound bites but had never met him. Her typical perp couldn’t even afford a Western Avenue hack.
“Evening, Mr. Schick.”
“How’re things on the Ramsey case?”
Finally, the wall goes up. “Are you asking as a concerned citizen, sir?”
Schick laughed. “I’m always concerned, but, no, Detective Connor, I’ve been retained by Mr. Ramsey to represent him in this matter. So please channel all future communications through my offices.”
Offices, plural. Look, Ma, I’m important!
“Communications,” said Petra.
“Anything pertaining to the case,” said Schick.
“Are you saying we can’t talk to Mr. Ramsey without clearing it with you first, Mr. Schick?”
“At this point in time,” said the lawyer, “that would be advisable, Detective. Good night.”
“Same to you,” Petra said to a dead phone. Yesterday, she’d chatted with Ramsey in the kitchen. Now this. From Ramsey’s point of view, two things had transpired: the reinterview and the talk with Balch. Had she raised something with either of them that worried him?
Grabbing her notepad, she reviewed her notes. The talk with Ramsey had covered nothing earth-shattering… he had mentioned being a suspect-scratch that. One new topic: Estrella Flores.
She flipped to the Balch interview. His and Ramsey’s Hollywood “discovery,” Lisa’s temperament, the DV episode. Estrella Flores.
Was the maid the hot button?
What had Flores seen that night?
Or did it have something to do with the boy in the paper? Ramsey thinking he’d pulled off the perfect crime, only to encounter every bad guy’s worst nightmare-a mystery witness.
She would have loved to stare into those baby blues right now, probing for fear.
So, of course, she couldn’t.
But no one, not even an overpaid B.H. lawyer, could stop her from just happening to be in Ramsey’s neighborhood and dropping in.
Stopping for a roast beef sandwich at an Arby’s on Sunset, she ate in the car, chewing on meat and suspicion, watching night creatures emerge from the dark, knowing years ago she’d have been scared to get this close. At 7:40 she set out for Calabasas. Post-rush hour, she sailed, arriving at the RanchHaven guardhouse by 8:33.
The guard on duty was a young man, weak-chinned, with discouraged posture. Thin everywhere except around his middle, where the uniform shirt strained. When she drove up, he folded his arms across his chest. Grim watchfulness-ludicrous in the absence of threat-faded when he saw her up close. A crooked smile split his bland pie of a face. Flirtatious. Great. The guy’s eyebrows were very faint, nearly invisible. His badge said D. Simkins.
He came out, looked at her, opened the gate. She drove up to him.
“How’s it going?” No ma’am. Easy tone coming into play because she was driving a Honda, not a Porsche, not one of the locals.
Petra showed him her badge.
“Oh,” he said, stepping back and hitching his trousers. “It’s about time, Detective.”
“For what?”
“I was on shift the night Lisa Ramsey was killed. Kept wondering when you were gonna come by.” Wagging a finger in mock disapproval.
Petra’s turn to smile. “Well, here I am, Officer Simkins.”
