Jonathan Kellerman - Billy Straight

Which one of them? Both of them? Neither of them-a horrible thought.

The report of Lisa’s burned-out car was on page 5, along with a smaller reprint of her drawing, but nothing about the Venice tip or those from Watson. So Wil hadn’t been forced to report yet.

As she showered and soaped her body, she realized Kathy Bishop’s body was under the knife right now. She’d call Stu later. When things had settled. Meanwhile, there were some details to take care of before she set out for Montecito.

Dr. Boehlinger’s hotel room didn’t answer-out already, doing who knew what. A recheck of Missing Persons brought no clue to Estrella Flores’s whereabouts, and by 9 A.M. she was on her way to Granada Hills to pick up Ron.

When she drove up, he was standing at the curb, holding a cell phone.

His house was a tiny Tudor on a sun-splashed side street, one story, the sharply pitched shake roof and half timbers and pseudo-gables silly but somehow touching: Someone had cared enough to lay in details. The grass was mown and edged but pale; two rosebushes flanking the stone walkway were knobby with deadheads, and half the oranges on a fifteen-foot Valencia had browned.

He was at the car door before she shifted into park. His hair was shower-moist, cowlicks sprouting like new wheat. A blue V-neck sweater, yellow button-down shirt, and off-white Dockers made him look younger-grad student, business administration. Oxblood penny loafers. Somewhere along the trajectory from rock drummer to cop he’d touched upon preppy. Dressed casually, he looked much younger, maybe younger than she did.

“Hi,” she said.

He got in. “Hi.” Lime-scented aftershave. He hadn’t worn that the first time. That seemed like years ago. He made no move toward her now; locked the door and put the phone in his lap, explaining, “Just in case my mom needs to call.”

“I should move into the twentieth century, finally get one of those.”

“Get one of those hands-off deals,” he said. “Talk in the car, make everyone think you’re psychotic, and they’ll leave you alone.”

Laughing, she pulled away from the curb, wondering if she should mention the theory jolt about Balch. No, too speculative at this point. He had years on her. He was a rescuer. She wanted to look smart in front of him.

As she drove, they chatted. Small talk, but intelligent. He gave off an air of stability. Too boring for the Spanish equestrienne? Or would he reveal some grub-under-the-rock dark side if she waited long enough?

You are one untrusting broad. Thank you, Nick.

“Beautiful day,” she heard him say. His hands were quiet now. No gripping of the door handle or other signs of anxiety about her driving. The loafers looked freshly polished. Sharp crease in the Dockers-wasn’t that sort of an anti-Dockers thing? Petra smiled at the thought of him wanting to impress her.

By the time they reached the 101 on-ramp, they were really talking.

She sped through the west Valley-past RanchHaven-into Thousand Oaks, Newbury Park, Camarillo, the produce fields and fertilizer stink of Oxnard. At Ventura, Ron pointed out a Golf N’ Stuff on the east side of the freeway, telling her he sometimes took his girls there-they also had U-bump cars and miniboats, the latter a lot of fun if you don’t mind getting wet. Getting all enthusiastic, but the bounce went out of his voice when Petra, thinking about Balch again, said, “Sounds cute.”

“If you’re into that kind of thing,” he added, embarrassed.

“I am,” she said, hastening to salvage the conversation. “Grew up in Arizona, didn’t see too many boats, mini or otherwise. After we solve the case, let’s stop off on the way back and get wet.”

He didn’t answer. She turned her head far enough to catch the blush on his neck.

Oh, jeez. How could a size-9 shoe fit completely in a mouth?

“Or,” she said, “we could golf. But only after we solve Lisa. We’re gonna wrap the whole thing up today, right?”

“Sure,” he said, grinning. “Arizona. Didn’t they move London Bridge there?”

She exited at Santa Ynez, asking him, “Do you know Montecito?”

“Only by reputation.”

“Which is?”

“Rich.”

Pulling to the side of the grove-bordered road, she consulted her Thomas Guide, located Ramsey’s street two miles in, a pair of right turns and a left, and resumed driving. Montecito was ten degrees cooler than L.A., a perfect sixty-eight. Private groves bordered Santa Ynez Road. Rich indeed.

Petra had been up to Santa Barbara a few times with Nick-Sunday outings, eating seafood on the pier, scorning the sidewalk art. They’d passed Montecito on the freeway, Nick rhapsodizing about the estates, great Spanish architecture, old money, real class-it made Beverly Hills look like crap. Getting into one of his blind-ambition grooves, going on about how one day they’d have enough money to get a place there. But he’d never pulled off to show her.

She picked up speed. No town in sight yet, just the clean stretch of asphalt cutting through the umber fudge and chlorophyll of old trees, coral bursts of bougainvillea, oranges and lemons sparkling like gems. The sky was blue, the clouds were white, a clean yellow sun rose from behind the mountains, die-cut sharp, black, dabbed with lavender. What a place.

Ramsey had all this and the place in Calabasas, the cars, the real estate. Money wasn’t everything, but it sure made things nice. What led rich people to screw things up so badly? She looked over at Ron, and from his expression she guessed he was asking himself the same thing.

Montecito’s business district was four corners of earth-tone low-rise upscale shops. Then more road. Ramsey’s street was skinny, darkened by shaggy eucalyptus, his property at a dead end, announced by blue-gray stone posts and a high black scrollwork gate, wide open. A Carpinteria Sheriff’s car blocked the entrance, one deputy standing near the driver’s door, hand on holster, another facing the vehicle, hands on hips.

“Welcoming party?” Petra said to Ron. “Did you tell them we were coming?”

“No.”

As they got closer, the deputy at the front of the squad car walked into the center of the road and halted them with his palm. Petra stopped. By the time the deputy reached them, she had her badge out.

He studied it. A kid. Tall, husky, red crew cut, two weeks of rusty mustache, swollen biceps. He looked over at Ron.

“Banks, L.A. Sheriff’s. I spoke to Captain Sepulveda.”

“Yeah, he told us. Since the murder, we’ve been upping our patrols anyway. Good thing. Just caught a trespasser.” He hooked a thumb.

“Right now?” said Petra.

“He made it easy, left the gates open. Looks like a nutcase, verbally abusive. Claims he’s Ramsey’s father-in-law.”

Petra squinted at the cruiser. Through the rear window Dr. Boehlinger’s goateed face seethed. She watched Boehlinger butt the glass with his shoulder, then retract, clearly in pain. A surgeon. Brilliant. The deputy watching him must have said something, because Boehlinger started screaming. Too far away to hear, but his mouth was wide open. The window glass gave him a preserved look. Rage in a jar.

She said, “He is Ramsey’s father-in-law.”

“Come on,” said the red-haired cop. His name was Forbes.

“Dr. John Everett Boehlinger. Didn’t he have ID?”

“Yeah, that’s what his ID said, but that didn’t mean anything to us.” Forbes grimaced. “He sure doesn’t act like a doctor-got a toilet mouth.”

“What’d you catch him doing?”

“Coming out of a toolshed out back. The door was smashed-he obviously kicked it in, was carrying a shovel. Looked to us like he was planning to break a window in the house, do an unlawful entry. So he’s really her father? Come on.”