Jonathan Kellerman - Billy Straight

“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 didn’t granulate under her feet. Some rust around the card slot. Another slot on the other side of the fence.

Easy entry and exit.

And Ramsey’s house was at the upper edge of the development, meaning he wouldn’t have to pass many neighbors to sneak out.

She thought about how he’d do it.

Wait till Balch was asleep-or put something in Balch’s drink to help sleep along. Then roll the Mercedes out of the mega-garage. Or the Jeep, if it had been brought back from Montecito. Headlights off, cruising slowly. With houses so far from the road, all those fences, gates, high foliage, there’d be no reason for anyone to notice. People with pools and Jacuzzis and home theaters and putting greens didn’t sit by their front windows.

People who craved that level of privacy often pretended nothing existed beyond their four walls.

She took a closer look at the tire tracks. Degraded, no tread marks; she doubted they’d be of much use. But, still, she’d have loved to get a cast. No way to do it without a warrant, and no grounds for a warrant. And now Larry Schick, Esq., was on the scene-forget approaching Ramsey about anything.

Even if they pulled a match to one of Ramsey’s cars, it had been four days since the murder. Ramsey could admit being up there, claim he’d taken a cruise in the hills, trying to mellow out, deal with his grief.

The hills… great place to get rid of a body.

Was Estrella Flores buried somewhere out there?

Did the fire road lead anywhere other than out to the Santa Susannas?

She backed down till the nearest shoulder, turned around, and returned to the guardhouse. Simkins saw her coming, put down his Rolling Stone, and opened the exit gate. His window was closed; no desire to talk. Petra stopped alongside the booth. He screwed up his mouth and came over. His big moment over, feeling down, he wanted her gone.

“Find anything?”

“Nope-just like you said, Doug. Tell me, where does the fire road go?”

“Out into the mountains.”

“And then?”

“It connects to a bunch of little side roads.”

“Doesn’t it merge with the 101?”

“It kinda hooks back toward it, but doesn’t actually merge.” He managed to make the last word sound dirty.

“But if I wanted to reach the freeway through the back roads, I could.”

“Yeah, sure. Everything reaches the freeway. I grew up in West Hills. We used to come out here, hunt rabbits, before they built this place. Sometimes they’d run onto the freeway, get turned to freeway butter.”

“The good old days,” said Petra.

Simkins’s weak face firmed with recollection, and a resentful frown captured his features. Rich folk moving in on his childhood memories?

“It can get beautiful out there,” he said. Real emotion. Longing. At that moment, she liked him a little better. But not much.

Sam says, “Hey, not bad.”

I’ve been working all day, going over and over the windows until there are no streaks, mopping the wood floors, using the Pledge to shine them up. I’ve done only half the seats, but what I finished looks pretty good, and the room has a nice lemon smell.