Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (30 page)

Smelling the salt, I remembered all that.

And more: Mom sitting on a towel; her bikini was black. Maybe she was hoping some guy would notice her, but no one did, probably ’cause of me.

So here I was. The beach.

Nowhere to go after that.

CHAPTER

Still no answer at Greg Balch’s office. Petra decided to eyeball the place.

At 6
P.M.,
she drove out of the station lot, picking up Cahuenga at Franklin and taking it over the hill.

Studio City was the Valley, but to her it had always seemed un-Valley-like. North of Ventura Boulevard, the neighborhood was the usual grid of anonymous apartment tracts, but to the south were pretty hills up to Mulholland, winding trails, stilt houses that had survived the quake. The commercial mix along Ventura was a little shabby in spots, some strip-mall development, but also plenty of antique shops, recording studios, sushi bars, jazz clubs, a few gay bars—definitely funkier than the rest of the Valley.

Nothing avant-garde about Player’s Management’s home base, though. The company occupied a dreary two-story box the color of chocolate milk, set back from the street and fronted by a parking lot. Weeds whiskered through the asphalt, gutters sagged, stucco corners were chipped. H. Carter Ramsey wasn’t much of a landlord.

Balch’s black Lexus was the only vehicle in the lot. So he was in, not answering the phone—orders from the boss to discourage the media? She peeked inside the car. Empty.

Two tenants took up the ground floor of the chocolate cube, a travel agency sporting the green tree flag of Lebanon and advertising discount flights to the Middle East and a wholesale-to-the-public beauty-supply store. Both closed.

Rusting open steps on the right side climbed to a cement walkway, and three mustard-colored doors were in need of refinishing. Suite A housed Easy Construction, Inc.; B was something called La Darcy Hair Removal; and tucked in back was Player’s Management. No windows on the west wall. Oppressive.

She knocked, got no answer, knocked again, and Balch opened.

He was wearing a black zip-up velvet sweat suit with white piping and looked genuinely surprised to see her. Odd. Ramsey had to have called him. Maybe he was an actor, too.

“Hi.” He offered a soft hand. “C’mon in. Detective Conners, was it?”

“Connor.”

He held the door for her. The suite consisted of two low-ceilinged rooms connected by a door, now open. The rear space looked bigger, messy. Piles of paper all over the cheap green carpet; take-out cartons. The front room was furnished with a gold couch and a scruffy oak desk piled with yet more paper. Flagrantly grained fake rosewood walls were covered with photographs, mostly black-and-whites, the kind you saw at every dry cleaner’s in town—big airbrushed smiles of stars and has-beens, dubious autographs.

But only one celeb in these. Ramsey as cowboy, police officer, soldier, Roman centurion. An especially ludicrous shot of young H. Cart decked out like some kind of space alien—plastic body suit armored by exaggerated pecs, rubbery-looking antennae protruding from his puffy sixties mop-top. No mustache; wide, white, hire-me smile. A passing resemblance to Sean Connery. The guy had been a looker.

A color photo at the top showed Ramsey decades later dressed in a nifty sport jacket, turtleneck, looking flinty, striking an action pose with a 9mm.
Dack Price: The Adjustor.
She should probably watch the damn show.

She was about to enter the back office when she noticed something that confirmed her guess about Balch as performer. At the bottom of the wall, half hidden by the desk. Low man in the exhibit—not a coincidence, she was willing to bet.

Balch in his twenties. He’d been decent-looking, too. A good fifty pounds lighter, sun-blond, nicely defined muscles, like a hero in one of those beach movies she used to watch for laughs—Tab Hunter or Troy Donahue.

But even in his youth, the business manager had worn a dull, subservient smile that robbed him of star quality.

“Antiques,” said Balch, sounding self-conscious. “You know you’re old when you don’t recognize yourself anymore.”

“So you acted, too.”

“Not really. I should take that stuff down.” The sweats were tight around his paunch, baggy at the seat. New white sneakers. Now that she had a good look, she could see that his thin, waxy hair was a mixture of blond and white. Pink scalp peeked through.

“Can I get you some coffee?” He indicated the rear office, stood by the door, waiting for her to enter.

“No thanks.” She stepped in. Finally a couple of windows, but they were covered by chenille drapes the color of old newspaper. No natural lighting, and the single desk lamp Balch had on didn’t do much to pierce the gloom.

The clutter was monumental—papers on the floor, chairs crowding another cheap desk, bigger, L-shaped. Ledgers, tax manuals, corporate prospectuses, government forms. On the shorter arm of the desk was a white plastic coffeemaker spotted with brown. Kentucky Fried Chicken box in a corner, grease stains on the underside of the open lid. A glimpse of breaded fowl.

Total slob. Maybe that’s why Ramsey maintained him in low-rent circumstances. Or maybe that was the essence of their relationship.

All those years playing lackey. Could she wedge the guy? He did live in Rolling Hills Estates, very pricey. So Ramsey paid well for loyalty.

Balch cleared an armchair for her, tossing papers into a corner, and sat behind the desk, hands laced on his belly. “So how’s it going? The investigation.”

“It’s going.” Petra smiled. “Do you have any information that might help me, Mr. Balch?”

“Me? Wish I did, I still can’t get over it.” His lower jaw shifted from side to side. “Lisa was . . . a nice girl. Little hot-tempered, but basically a great person.”

“Hot-tempered?”

“Listen, I know you’ve heard about Cart hitting her, all that stuff on TV, but it only happened once. Not that I’m excusing it—it was wrong. But Lisa had a temper. She went off on him all the time.”

Trying to blame the victim to excuse the boss? Did he realize he was offering a motive for the boss’s rage?

“So she had a tendency to criticize Mr. Ramsey?”

Balch touched his mouth. His eyes had gotten small. “I’m not saying they didn’t get along. They loved each other. All I’m saying is Lisa could be . . . that I can see her—forget it, what do I know, I’m just talking.”

“You can see her getting someone pretty angry.”

“Anyone can get anyone angry. That has nothing to do with what happened. This is obviously some kind of maniac.”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Balch?”

“The way it—it was done. Totally insane.” Balch’s hand rose to his forehead, rubbing, as if trying to erase a headache. “Cart’s devastated.”

“How long have you and Cart known each other?”

“We grew up together, upstate New York, went to high school and college together at Syracuse, played football—he was the quarterback, damn good one. Scouted by the pros, but he tore his hamstring at the end of the senior season.”

“And you?”

“Offensive lineman.”

Protecting the quarterback.

“So you go back a long ways.”

Balch smiled. “Centuries. Before your time.”

“Did you come out to Hollywood together?”

“Yup. After graduation, one of those last-fling things before we settled down. Also to cheer Cart up—he was pretty upset about losing out on the NFL. His dad owned a hardware store and wanted Cart to take it over and he thought he’d probably do that.”

“And you?”

“Me?” Surprised that she cared. “I had a business degree, some offers from accounting firms, figured eventually I’d get a CPA.”

Petra gazed around at the sty he called an office. Weren’t bean counters supposed to be organized?

“So what led you to acting?”

Balch stroked the top of his pale head. “It was one of those weird things. Not exactly Lana Turner at Schwab’s—are you old enough to know about that?”

“Sure,” said Petra. Knowing it from her father. The honeymoon he and his bride had taken to California. Kenneth Connor had loved L.A.; saw it as an anthropologist’s dream. Look at me now, Dad. Hobnobbing with the never-greats. Working the
industry.

“You and Cart were both discovered?” she said.

Balch smiled again. “No. Cart was. It was right out of a script. We were a few days from going back to Syracuse, having a couple of beers at Trader Vic’s—over at the Beverly Hilton, this was before Merv owned it. Anyway, some guy comes over and says, ‘I’ve been watching you two fine-looking young men; would you like parts in a movie?’ And gives us his card. We’re thinking it’s got to be a scam, or maybe he’s a que— Some gay guy hustling. But the next morning, Cart pulls out the card and says, Hey, let’s call, for the hell of it. ’Cause we were gonna go home and get jobs, why not be adventurous. Turns out it was for real, a casting agency. We went down and auditioned, both got parts—not that it was any big deal. Not even a B movie, more like D. A western. Straight to the Dixie drive-in circuit.”

Balch moved papers around atop his desk, making no impact on the clutter. “Anyway, one thing led to another and we decided to stay in L.A., got a few more jobs over the next year, nonunion stuff, barely enough to make the rent. Then I didn’t get any more calls, but Cart started getting lots, better ones, then an agent, and he was making some decent money, mostly in westerns. I decided to go home. It was winter, almost Christmas, I remember thinking my folks were already mad at me for taking the year off, what would Christmas dinner be like.”

“So you lost faith in Hollywood?”

Balch smiled. “It wasn’t a matter of faith. I wasn’t qualified, didn’t have the talent to make it—never got speaking parts, just crowd fillers, walk-throughs, that kind of thing. Couldn’t find any accounting jobs and I’d blown all my job offers back East, but I figured something would turn up. Then Cart asked me to stay, said it would be fun, we could continue to hang out, he’d find me something. And he did. Bookkeeping gig at Warner Brothers.”

He spread his arms, smiled again. “And that’s the whole glamorous story.”

“When did you start managing Cart’s business?”

“Soon as he began making serious bucks. He’d seen what unscrupulous managers could do, wanted someone he could trust. By then I was working in business affairs at ABC, knew something about the industry.”

“Do you manage anyone else?”

Balch shifted his weight, smoothed out a black velvet fold of sweatshirt. “I do a few favors for people, facilitate a deal now and then, but Cart’s investments keep me busy.”

“So he’s done pretty well.”

“He’s earned it.”

Spoken like a true lineman.

“So you handle his contracts?”

“He’s got an entertainment lawyer, but yeah, I vet things.”

“What else do you do for him?”

“Prepare his taxes, keep track of things. We’re diversified—real estate, securities, the usual. There’s some property management. It keeps me busy—anything else I can do for you?”

“Just what you’re doing,” said Petra. “Filling in personal details.”

“About Cart?”

“Cart, Lisa, anything.”

As if the matter required great contemplation, Balch closed his eyes. Opened them. The hands were back on his middle. Blond
Buddha.

“Cart and Lisa,” he said very softly, “is a very sad story. He really flipped for her, felt embarrassed about it. The age difference. I told him it didn’t matter, he was in better shape than guys half his age. And Lisa was crazy about him. I thought they were the best thing ever happened to each other.” A pained expression crossed his puffy face. “I really don’t know what happened. Marriage is tough.” The eyes opened. “Been there twice. Who’s to say what makes people tick?”

Petra produced her pad and Balch moved back a bit, as if repulsed by that bit of procedure. “If you could please give me the timetable for Sunday—the trip to Tahoe and after you got back. As precisely as possible.”

“Timetable . . . sure.” His story matched Ramsey’s and that of the pilot, Marionfeldt, detail for detail. The Tahoe trip, nonstop business, uneventful flight back, both men asleep before 10
P.M.,
waking up, exercising, showering, eating breakfast, putting golf balls.

Pleasant dreams during the time Lisa had been murdered.

Petra said, “Okay, thanks . . . by the way, I was just curious why you call your company Player’s Management.”

“Oh, that.” Balch let out a snort-laugh. “Football days. We were amateurs, looking for something catchy. And anonymous—no mention of Cart’s name. I came up with it.”

Petra wondered if that was all of it. In the industry, players were those with power. Had he dreamed of that once?

“So your job,” she said, “is protecting Cart’s interest. What did you do after Lisa went public with the domestic violence incident?”

“What was there to do? The damage was already done.”

“You didn’t ask her not to go public again?”

“I wanted to, but Cart said no, it was personal, not business. I disagreed.”

“Why’s that?”

“This town, personal and business sometimes can’t be separated. But that’s what Cart wanted, so I listened.”

Flipping pages, Petra said, “So you pay all of Cart’s bills.”

“They go through me, yes.”

“Including Lisa’s spousal support.”

“Yup—there’s an example of the kind of guy Cart is. Lisa’s lawyer made an outrageous request. They’d only been married for a little over a year. I’d been through it twice, had a pretty good idea what she’d settle for, but Cart said no negotiation, give it to her.”

Frowning now. Resentful? Jealous?

“So he’s pretty generous,” said Petra.

“Exactly.” He stood up. “Now, if you don’t mind, it’s a little late—”

“Sure,” said Petra, smiling and rising, too. He waited by the door again, and as she passed close she smelled him. Heavy fruity cologne and sweat.

Out in the front room, she said, “Oh, one more thing. Cart’s maid Estrella Flores. Any idea where she went?”

“Cart told me she quit without notice. How’s that for loyalty? I got him a new girl.”