She parked, got out, entered the guardhouse without asking permission. He followed. The booth was a glass closet, barely enough room for both of them. Simkins leaned against a counter, looking her up and down, no shame.
Not much inside: small cabinet for supplies, a single wheeled chair that Simkins offered her. She stayed on her feet.
She extricated her pad while checking out the security hardware. Multiline telephone, two-way radio setup, handheld walkie-talkie. Two closed-circuit TV screens suspended above the counter, one highlighting the mouth of the main road, the other so dark she could barely tell it was switched on. Next to the phone, a greasy paper bag and a copy of Rolling Stone. Some rock star instant-emperor on the cover, pierced eyebrows, a silver stud through the tongue.
Simkins said, “So what can I do for a fellow officer?”
Petra dredged up another smile. “So you were on all that night, Officer Simkins?”
“Doug. Yes, I was. It was real quiet, but I don’t know, I had a feeling, like it was too quiet. Like something could happen.”
“Did anything happen?”
Simkins shook his head. “But you know, I just felt it was a weird night. Then the next morning when I heard what happened I said, Oh man. Like one of them psychic things.”
Lord, deliver me from dunderheads. “This place seems like it must be pretty quiet in general.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said, suddenly defensive. “You get stuff. Like fires. With fires, we call a first-stage alert.”
“Which is?”
“Letting people know we might have to evacuate.”
“Scary,” said Petra.
“That’s why we’re here.” Touching his own badge. Stainless replica of LAPD’s-could the department sue?
“So, Doug, what time were you on duty that night?”
“Seven to three’s my regular shift, then the morning guy called in sick, so I did double duty.”
“Till when?”
“Eleven, when day watch starts.”
“Day watch being Officer… Dilbeck.” Retrieving the old guard’s name from her memory banks.
“Yeah, Oliver,” said Simkins, frowning. Probably miffed that Dilbeck had already been interviewed.
Petra said, “Did anyone from the Ramsey house come in or out during that time?”
“He did. Mr. Ramsey. He and his friend, a blond guy I always see him with. They came in that night.”
“What time?”
“Nine or so.”
Or so. They didn’t log entries and exits?
“Do you have a written record of that?”
“No, we don’t hassle with that.” Defensive again.
“Who drove, Doug?”
“The friend.”
“Did either Mr. Ramsey or his friend go out again that night?”
“Nope,” said Simkins decisively, smugly. Delivering the punch line: “No one from the entire development left after that, though a few more people came home. Like I said, it was a quiet night.”
“What about Mr. Ramsey’s maid?”
“Nope. Never left. It’s real quiet around here. Too quiet. I like action.”
Petra suppressed laughter. “Know what you mean, Doug. Anything else you can tell me about the Ramseys?”
“Well,” Simkins said, pondering, “I’ve only been working here three weeks, just see him going in and out. Same for that friend of his. You think he did it?”
“Don’t think much of anything yet, Doug.” Three weeks on duty. He’d never known Lisa. Even with a brain, the guy would’ve been useless to her. “Is Mr. Ramsey home right now?”
“Hasn’t come in or out on my shift.”
“Are there any other ways in and out of RanchHaven?”
“Nope.”
“What about that second screen there?”
Simkins’s eyes flashed to the console. “Oh, that. That’s just a fire road, way back at the rear of the property, but no one uses it. Even when we were on evac alert, the plan was to get everyone out through the front.”
“The screen looks pretty dark.”
“It’s dark back there.”
Petra bent close to the monitor. “No officer there?”
“Nope, just one of them card-key doohickeys. The residents get issued cards. But no one uses it, no reason to.”
“I’d like to go over there myself, Doug. Just to take a look.”
“I dunno…”
“You can come with me if you want.” She stepped closer to Simkins. Their chests nearly touched. The guard was perspiring heavily.
“Well…”
“Just a quick look, Doug. I promise not to steal any dirt.” She winked. It made Simkins flinch.
“Yeah, okay, just don’t disturb any of the residents, okay? Because that would be my butt. They like their peace and quiet. That’s what they pay me for.”
“How do I get there?”
“Up the main road, to the top.” He gestured, managed to move closer, their shoulders touching. “On the way to Ramsey’s house, matter of fact. But instead of turning right, you bear left, and after a while you’ll see this big empty lot that was supposed to be a nine-hole golf course but it never got built, probably ’cause the residents all play at clubs anyway. Keep bearing left, all the way around it, and the road’ll curve up, suddenly switch directions. Just keep going till you can’t go any more.”
She thanked him, patted his shoulder. He flinched again.
She drove very slowly, pausing when Ramsey’s house came into view. The outdoor lighting was on full blast. Weaker illumination leaked from inside. No cars in front. Damn that museum-impossible to know if the guy was home.
She stared at the house. Static. So were the nearby structures. The more expensive neighborhoods got, the deader they looked.
Simkins’s directions led her on a ten-minute loop past the would-be golf course, now just a flat gray table planted with young junipers and surrounded by wrought-iron fencing. The road compressed to barely one lane and the brush along both sides thickened to high dark walls. Above them, she could see the kinked and coiled branches of oak trees, dwarfed by a black dome of sky. A few stars struggled through haze. The moon was oversized, gray- white, streaked with fog.
The smell of horse manure and dry dirt.
Her headlights created an amber tunnel through the gloom. She switched her high beams on, continued at ten miles per. Suddenly the fire exit was there. A single gate, twelve feet high, electric, same iron motif as the main portals. Stout brick posts, warning signs. The card slot topped a steel post.
She stopped ten yards in, pulled her flashlight from the glove compartment, let the car idle, and got out.
The horse aroma was stronger up here. Quiet, not even a bird. But she could hear the freeway baritone, insistent, remote.
She swept her flashlight across the road. Poorly maintained, dusted with soil. Simkins claimed no one used the back exit, but she could see the faint corrugation of tire tracks. A few horse prints, smaller ones that could be dog or coyote-she was no gung-ho tracker.
Dad could have helped her with prints.
Keeping to the side of the road, she walked to the gate, then back. Repeated it. The dirt was so compacted it
