Jonathan Kellerman - Billy Straight

“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.”

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.”