Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (42 page)

“The car was there, but she wasn’t,” said Petra. “That didn’t worry you?”

“Like I said, Lisa liked to take risks. Doing it at traffic lights, a cop car right next to us. Coldwater Canyon, that kind of thing. I figured maybe she’d met up with someone else, was having a good time. Which was okay with me. I really didn’t want to see her that night. Didn’t want to see her at all, but . . .”

“But what?”

“You know how it is. I have trouble telling women no.”

“When did you get back to Kelly’s?”

“Had to be eleven twenty-five, eleven-thirty.”

“And you spent the night there.”

“That’s the absolute truth.”

“The perfect alibi Kelly gave you wasn’t.”

“Come on,” he said. “I was only out for half an hour max. No way could I have made it to Griffith—”

“You and Kelly are both liable for perjury and obstruction,” said Petra.

“Come on. Please! You’re making a big deal out of nothing!”

Petra walked up close to him, pointed at his chest, but didn’t touch it. “At the very least, you cost me a lot of hours, Mr. Breshear. If there’s anything else you know, spill it now.”

“I don’t, that’s it.”

She stared him down.

He repeated, “I don’t.”

“Listen to me,” she said, pointing again. “I’m not arresting you. Yet. But don’t even come close to thinking about going anywhere. There’ll be police officers watching your house and the studio. Surveillance on Kelly, too. You guys make the wrong move, it all hits the fan. Including a nice long chat with Marcia.”

Breshear blinked convulsively.

This feels good, Petra admitted to herself. Finally, someone she could intimidate on this damn case.

As she walked away, the front door opened and a woman’s voice said, “Darrell honey? Who was that?”

She drove back to her apartment, head suddenly clear, the basic structure of Lisa’s last night alive taking form—if Breshear was finally being straight.

A meet at 10:30, abducted between then and 11:20, taken to Griffith Park, at least a half-hour ride, probably longer. Murdered between midnight and 4.

The car. Which one?
PLYR 1
?
PLYR 0
? Some other set of wheels? Ramsey, with his multiple vehicles, multiple houses, fences, gates, Larry Schick, was a nightmare suspect. Crime paid if you started out rich.

It was nearly eleven when she walked through the door. Too late to call him? She did anyway. Four rings, then a little girl’s munchkin voice said, “When you hear the beep, leave a message. Beep. And beep and beep and—”

Ron broke in. “Banks.”

“Hi, it’s Petra.”

“Petra.” Saying her name with pleasure. She could use some adulation. “How’s it going?”

She told him about the Porsche, Breshear’s revised story, the new time frame.

“Think he’s dirty?”

“Unless his girlfriend’s lying big-time about his alibi, he didn’t have the time, but who knows? What’s up?”

“I phoned Carpinteria Sheriff’s again, asked if they could keep an eye on Ramsey’s house. They said they’d upped patrols already, and today at six forty-five, I got a callback, tried to reach you at your office but they said you’d already left. Turns out Ramsey hasn’t been spotted there for a while, but Greg Balch showed up this morning, left his Lexus, and drove back in a Jeep that belongs to Ramsey, license plate—”

“
PLYR ZERO,
” said Petra.

“So you know already.”

“I knew Ramsey owned the Jeep, didn’t know Balch picked it up.”

“Didn’t want to step on your toes—calling Carpinteria—but I’d already made contact with them, figured it would be efficient. A deputy stopped Balch driving off the property around noon. Balch showed him ID, a business card, snapshot of him and Ramsey, keys to the house. Said he was there to pick up the car, bring it down for service. Which seems odd—there are plenty of mechanics in Santa Barbara.”

“An extra-careful cleaning?” said Petra. Or Ramsey wanted a four-wheeler because he was planning to do some heavy-terrain driving? Those hills . . .

“Maybe Ramsey’s spooked now that you’ve got a potential witness.”

“Maybe.” She told him about Larry Schick’s call.

“There you go,” he said. “Anyway . . .”

“Thanks again, Ron. Your daughter has a cute voice.”

“Wha— Oh, that’s Bee, she loves to perform. They’re both asleep now. Finally.”

“Have your hands full?”

“It takes a while to get them tucked in. My mom says they run rings around me. Tomorrow, though, I get to sleep in. Day off. Mom’s driving them to school.”

“Good for you,” said Petra. “I may just drive up to Montecito tomorrow. Care to join me?”

“Sure,” he said quickly. “It’s a pretty drive.”

Lying in bed, in darkness so total she felt suspended, she thought about Lisa being abducted and butchered, Balch’s picking up the Jeep.

Ramsey edgy because of a little boy who stole books . . . wherever he was.

The fact that no one on the street knew him intrigued her. He hadn’t taken up with other runaways, hadn’t sought help from any agency. A loner. Made sense. A kid who loved to read wouldn’t fit in. He’d probably been an outcast back home, too. So why hadn’t he been reported missing? Where were the parents?

Had to be abuse. An eleven-year-old intellectual . . . running from God knew what. A kid like that witnessing a murder. No reason for him to trust anyone.

A survivor. And now the police had turned him into quarry.
She
had.

She’d just fallen asleep when the phone rang. It was well after midnight, and her heart pounded as for one horrible, irrational moment she panicked about her father’s condition, then realized he was beyond worry. One of her brothers in trouble—Kathy?

A nervous-sounding woman said, “Detective Connor? This is Adele again, from the station. I’m really sorry to bother you this late, but a call came in for Detective Bishop, long-distance, international, and no one answers at his house. You’re his partner, and seeing as it’s international, I—”

“International from where?”

“Vienna. A police inspector named Tauber. I guess he didn’t figure out the time difference.”

“Thanks, put him on.”

A scratchy voice said, “Detective Bishop?”

“This is his partner, Detective Connor.”

“Ah. Yes, yes, this is Inspector Ottemar Tauber from Vienna.” Clear connection; the scratchiness was the Austrian’s vocal quality. He coughed, cleared his throat a couple of times.

“Hello, Inspector. Is this about Karlheinz Lauch?”

“Two days ago Detective Bishop submitted an inquiry concerning Herr Lauch,” said Tauber. “We have located Herr Lauch for you. Unfortunately, he is unavailable to you for questioning as he is deceased.”

“When did he die?”

“It appears to have occurred fifteen months ago.”

“What was the cause of death, Inspector?”

“It appears to have been cirrhosis of the liver.”

“A young man like that,” said Petra.

Tauber clucked his tongue. “These things happen.”

Lauch eliminated as a suspect for Lisa. Meaning the similarities between Lisa and Ilse Eggermann weren’t worth a damn.

Or were they?

Ramsey
a multiple killer? No, too weird.

Tauber’s call had burned away any drowsiness. She was wired. Going into the kitchen, she drank ice water, paced, sat down at the table, got up, and put on the stereo.
Derek and the Dominos.
There’d been no music in the apartment since Ron’s visit.

Think, think . . . Lauch eliminated for Lisa meant concentrate on Ramsey. Stalking Lisa, following her. DV offenders were often obsessive; it made sense.

Did his dispatching Balch to get the Jeep mean the four-wheeler was the murder vehicle? The Mercedes a distraction, just as she’d wondered? She recalled the way Ramsey had flicked on the lights in the car museum. Showing her the gray sedan—probably hoping she’d ask for a look, because he knew she’d learn nothing.

Balch doing the dirty work.

All at once—maybe it was the dark room, her fried nerves—her mind took a hairpin turn.

What if Balch was an active part of it?

Or working for himself?

She sat there, tight as a fiddle string, viewing the case through a whole new prism.

Just a slight shift of angle and everything changed.

Balch as bad guy.
Flashing back to all her hypotheses, she inserted Balch’s name in Ramsey’s slot.

Everything fit.

Lisa and Balch . . . yet another older man. Something romantic—
and
financial?

Because Balch wrote the checks, managed Ramsey’s finances, probably understood them better than the boss. You heard about that all the time—business managers soaking celebrities.

Balch colluding with
Lisa
to soak Ramsey? Ex-wife and long-suffering lackey finding common ground in their resentment of the man with the dough.

Lisa had talked to Ghadoomian the broker about setting up investments, being financially independent, soon. But she’d never followed through.

Daddy reneging on the fifty thou? Or other plans laid to waste?

Had Lisa gotten greedy, leaned on Balch, caused their partnership to disintegrate?

Petra thought about it for a long time. Balch was no prize, but Lisa was no conventional girl. Balch’s motivation was no big puzzle: Bedding the quarterback’s ex—the woman Ramsey had failed to satisfy—would be the ultimate thrill for an underachiever like him.

All those years protecting Ramsey on the football field and in real life, watching his own screen dreams fade as Ramsey earned millions. For all of Balch’s adoration of his buddy, the payback had been limited: Ramsey hadn’t helped Balch progress past those first few
grade-D flicks. Balch said he had no talent, but the same was true for plenty of small-time players. Surely Ramsey could have gotten him something in the industry. Instead, he’d stuck Balch in that dingy office, shuffling papers, while he himself lived a star’s life. Why not a better office, at least?

Ramsey telling Balch: You don’t deserve better.

What if Balch finally decided he did?

With Lisa’s help.
She
liked taking risks. Had she stepped too far over the edge?

Then something else hit her: Balch lived in Rolling Hills Estates, near Palos Verdes. Ilse Eggermann’s body had been dumped near Marina del Rey, but her date with Lauch had taken place in Redondo Beach, just a few freeway stops away from the peninsula.

She pictured Balch stopping off at the Redondo pier for dinner or drinks. Watching Ilse and Lauch quarrel, Ilse walking out on Lauch. Allowing Balch to move in.

Noticing Ilse because she reminded him of Lisa?

Picking her up wouldn’t have been that tough. Kindly older guy, chivalrous. Ilse would have been vulnerable, alone at night, a foreigner.

After a pig like Lauch, Balch might have even seemed suave.

The resemblance between Lisa and Ilse not a coincidence! Because Balch had been lusting for Lisa for years.

The underling, always the underling . . . Balch rescues Ilse, tries for sexual payback, gets shut down.

In a rage, he butchers her. Gets away with it.

Years later, blackmailed, up against the wall, why not do it again?

She ran it through again. Balch managing to get out of the house while Ramsey sleeps. Using the fire road, driving one of Ramsey’s cars. But Estrella Flores spots him. She’d never liked Balch in the first place, might have viewed anything he did with suspicion.

He eliminates her.

One more time: It still fit.

Maybe in the morning it would seem ludicrous. Right now, she liked it.

CHAPTER

Wil Fournier had changed into his best suit for
the date with Leanna the Macy’s model from Ethiopia. He didn’t want to get close to the Russian; the guy oozed sleaze.

Selling T-shirts, tourist crap, the outward trappings of a legit business; but those eyes, that demeanor. Wil had worked Wilshire Bunco and Fraud for two years, collaborated with West Hollywood Sheriff’s on lots of Russian scams. The weirdest case was five years ago, an immigration racket, strong-arming new arrivals. Wil and a sheriff’s D making a call to the apartment of one of the suspects, the guy opening the door, covered with blood, holding a carving knife. He’d just dismembered another Russian. What had he been thinking, answering the door like that?

Sharing the bust, Wil found out he liked Homicide, transferred.

He was sure the souvenir vendor had run angles.

The way Zhukanov had leaned over his counter giving him the eye, all that junk hanging from every inch of the stall. Trying to stay cool, like the whole thing didn’t matter to him, he was just a citizen trying to do his civic duty. But Wil’s mention of the twenty-five grand raised sweat on the Russian’s pitted nose.

Absolutely certain he’d seen the kid. It sounded to Wil like he’d practiced all day convincing himself. Because how could he be that sure? Petra’s drawing was good, but to Wil the kid didn’t look
that
distinctive.

He smiled to himself. All white kids looked the same, right?

He was noncommittal with the Russian, took notes as Zhukanov pointed north, up Ocean Front, where the kid had supposedly disappeared. But when Wil traipsed there, showing the picture to café owners, none of them knew a thing. Most of the other businesses were closed for the evening, so he supposed a revisit was called for. But he doubted it would produce anything. This whole case had a futile smell to it.

He retraced his steps and the Russian was still there, way past closing time, waving as Wil passed him and headed toward his car. Leanna was due at Loew’s in twenty minutes—five-course dinner, wine. He’d met her at a club, those huge brown eyes—

“Sir!” Zhukanov called out.

“Yes, Mr. Zhukanov?”

“I will keep my eyes open for you. I call you when I see him again.”

Just what Wil needed, some Moscow mafioso playing junior detective.

Now here it was, the next morning, and all he could think about was the sun on Leanna’s shoulders. Beautiful morning.