Jonathan Kellerman - Billy Straight

“Not that I see. Be interesting to know if the Mercedes was taken in for service. You’re thinking it might have been Lisa’s murder car?”

Petra nodded.

“Different cars for different kills,” said Ron. “Keep us guessing.”

“Balch is looking nice and dirty, isn’t he?”

“Filthy.”

“Want to try to call some Mercedes dealers?” said Petra. “Maybe some stay open past six.”

“Will do.” He removed the cell phone from his pocket.

She gazed over at Ramsey and Schick. They’d drifted back to the Rolls. Schick was leaning against the front fender, caressing the meerschaum, offering some kind of lawyerly counsel. Ramsey seemed uninterested.

“Cars,” said Petra, “were also Lisa’s preferred venue for sex. The case is pure L.A.”

“The Jeep for Lisa would entail driving back and forth from here,” said Ron. “Balch and Ramsey got back from Reno just a couple of hours before Lisa was abducted. Not enough time, so I bet on the Mercedes or the Lexus or another of Ramsey’s wheels-which would be good for Balch if he was trying to shift suspicion. We should also try Burbank airport, that charter company Ramsey uses. Balch has got to have access to the account.”

“Rabbiting by charter?” said Petra.

“Just a possibility.”

Images flashed: Two young bucks head for Hollywood, but only one ends up rich. With the girl, too. Balch had mentioned two failed marriages. Another reason for him to be bitter.

She remembered his remarks about Lisa’s temper, her “going off on Cart.” At the time, it had puzzled Petra. Why was good-buddy Greg giving the boss a motive? Now it made perfect sense.

Something else: Balch, a total slob, had been wearing brand-new white tennis shoes.

Because the old ones were soaked with blood?

She said, “I want to chat more with Mr. Adjustor. Thanks for making the calls.”

“Remember the name of the charter company?”

“Westward Charter. The pilot they use is Ed Marionfeldt.” Rattling off facts without consulting her pad. Everything coming together; a new rhythm. She walked back to Ramsey and Schick.

Still by the Rolls, but neither man was talking. Schick studying Ramsey; Ramsey staring at the ground. As Petra got closer, he looked up.

“Mr. Ramsey, when you returned from Tahoe, you were extremely tired, went to sleep earlier than usual. Correct?”

“I was bushed. We were going since early morning.”

“Greg Balch drove the two of you from Burbank airport to your house.”

“Yes.” Mention of Balch’s name seemed to weary Ramsey.

“Then you and Mr. Balch had dinner at your home and he had you sign some business papers-do you recall the nature of those papers, by the way?”

“Some kind of lease agreement. I own office buildings.”

Petra copied that down. “All right, please bear with me: Who cooked dinner?”

Ramsey smiled. “We’re talking sandwiches and beer.”

“Who made the sandwiches?”

“Greg.”

“Not Estrella Flores?”

“She went off duty at seven, was already in her room.”

“Doing what, sir?”

“Whatever it is she did in there. I think I heard the TV.”

“Where’s the maid’s room?”

“In the service wing. Off the kitchen.”

“Okay,” said Petra, adding some details to Schick’s caricature. Concentration lines on the forehead, pout creases. “So Greg prepared the sandwiches and poured the beer.”

“Yup. The beer was Grolsch, if it matters.”

Imported lager with a barbiturate chaser? thought Petra. Balch slipping Ramsey a mickey?

If so, had the underling stopped to deliberate? Wondered about adding a little more powder?

Paying Ramsey back for all those years of friendship.

Some friendship. Not one single acting job, putting Balch down in public, sticking him in that crappy office, a middle-aged errand boy.

The unkindest cut of all: Lisa.

Because he’d met Lisa first. Gave her up to Cart. Always Cart.

Petra could almost feel the rage, herself.

What had led Balch to stalk Lisa that night? Had she reignited their old relationship, then cut it off? Or had Balch just succumbed to his own fantasies?

Petra pictured the blond man waiting by Lisa’s apartment. Watching the Porsche drive out of the subterranean lot. Following.

In one of Cart’s cars. He had access to all the cars. All the toys.

Tonight he’d play.

Taking what was his.

The same way he’d taken Ilse Eggermann?

Ilse. Lisa. The names were virtual anagrams.

Patterns. A crazy notion, but when it hit you in the face, you said ouch.

How many other dead blond girls were there? Girls who reminded Balch of Lisa.

Where the hell was Balch?

Or maybe she was all wrong and the lackey would show up, alibied, a perfect explanation, the case in tatters and some psycho was stalking Ramsey.

Or was Ramsey the stalker?

The boy in the park might know. Had Wil made any progress? She’d call him again as soon as she finished up with Ramsey.

“The beers,” she said. “Did you drink them from bottles or cans?”

“From a glass,” said Ramsey, as if she’d asked a rude question.

Cans you opened yourself; bottles you could open for someone else

… “And right after you drank, did you feel even more tired?”

“No,” he said. “I told you I was tired all day, I mean the alcohol might’ve been the topper, but-” The blue eyes widened. “Oh, c’mon-you’ve got to be kidding.”

“About what, sir?”

“Something in the beer-no, no. No way in hell. I’d know if-no, it didn’t feel that way. I was just bushed from overwork and travel. I conked out. We both did.”

“How long did you sleep that night?”

Ramsey stroked his mustache, licked his lips.

Schick said, “Let’s finish up here, Detective.”

“Almost done,” said Petra, smiling. The lawyer didn’t smile back.

“I got up around eight, eight-thirty,” said Ramsey. “So eleven hours.”

“Is that your typical sleep pattern?”

“No, usually seven’s enough, but-oh, come on. I would’ve felt something. Woozy, whatever. This is James Bond stuff, Detective Connor. I make movies. I know the difference between fantasy and reality.”

His eyes told her a new, troubling logic had begun to worm its way into his brain.

True confusion or acting?

The difference between fantasy and reality. The phrase seemed to mock Petra.

“I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Ramsey.” She watched Ron pocket the phone as he returned. Schick was watching her.

She excused herself, and met Ron well out of Ramsey and Schick’s earshot.

“Only one open Mercedes dealer,” he said. “Sherman Oaks, never serviced Ramsey’s cars. But bingo at Westward Charter. Balch tried to fly out last night. Called around eleven, wanting to book a solo trip to Vegas. Said it was a business trip. Westward doesn’t take off past ten, and told him to check commercial flights. We’d better start calling airlines.”

“Oh my,” she said.

“Stupid move,” said Ron, “trying to use the charter.”

“Billing it to the boss,” said Petra. Payback.

She noticed Ramsey staring at her. Had she given away something with her body language?

She ignored him. Nice to be able to do that.

I just got out of the bathroom. That’s where I ran after I stopped crying. When I came out, I almost hoped Sam wasn’t there, but he was shining the silver charity bottle with a corner of his jacket. My eyes were dry. I felt I was walking through a bad dream.

“You got a few hours till they show up to pray tonight,” he said, still polishing.

I sat down again and thought. No ideas came. The walkway, all those people, now it seemed like a haunted place.