“Sure,” I said. “Learned about it in history.”
“History.” He laughs, but not a funny laugh. “So who am I to tell you to trust people—you’re right, plenty of schmucks out there.” He stops driving and I stop walking. More money lands in my hand. Two tens.
“You don’t have to, Mr. Ganzer.”
“I don’t have to, but I want to—oh hell, sleep in the shul tonight. Only, don’t fall and break your neck. And if you do, don’t sue us.”
Then he jams his car into reverse and backs up all the way to the shul. It’s scary, the way he weaves and swerves all over the place. It’s a miracle he doesn’t smash into anything.
CHAPTER
50
Petra opened her front door exhausted, not feeling like a night owl anymore. Thought of Kathy Bishop’s ordeal tomorrow. Real problems. No self-pity allowed for you, kid.
She popped a can of Coke, checked the phone machine. A long-distance phone service promised to be her slave if she signed up, Ron Banks had called at seven, leaving an 818 number, probably home, please get back to him. Adele, one of the civilian clerks at the station, requesting the same thing at eight-fifteen.
She would have loved to talk to Ron first. To be with him, the two of them talking, making out on the couch, wherever that led. Business first: She called Adele.
“Hi, Detective Connor. Got a message for you from Pacific Division, a Detective Grauberg. Here’s his number.”
Pacific was Ilse Eggermann territory. Had something new come up? Grauberg was out, but a D named Salant came on. “Already spoke to you guys.”
“To who?”
“Hold on—says here Captain Schoelkopf. Guess Grauberg couldn’t reach to notify, got kicked upward.”
“Notify what?”
“Got an auto carcass you were interested in. Black Porsche, registered to Lisa Boehlinger Ramsey.”
“A carcass? Gutted?”
“Gutted and left for the vultures. Probably a Tijuana taxi by now. Got a witness says it was parked there for at least four days.”
“Where?”
“Behind the bus lot near Pacific Avenue. The witness is one of the drivers.”
“Gutted right from the beginning?”
“Progressively gutted. Someone set fire to it last night. That’s how we got called in.”
Four days and not a single report.
“You can’t see it from the street,” Salant added. “Blocked by storage buildings. We get hot cars stashed there all the time.”
“Where is it now?” said Petra.
“Downtown. Have fun.”
She talked to several criminalists before locating a female named Wilkerson who was working on the Porsche. The car was a charred shell, no wheels, seats, engine, front windshield.
“Like locusts swept in,” said Wilkerson.
“What about prints?”
“Nothing so far. I’ll let you know.”
She drank Coke and tried to put together Lisa’s journey from Doheny Drive to Griffith Park. Where did Venice fit in? Just a dumping ground for the Porsche, or had Lisa driven it behind the bus yard? Meeting up with her date on a deserted street in a high-crime neighborhood?
Was the last-date scenario totally wrong? Had Lisa indeed been carjacked and abducted, forced to drive to Venice by a stranger?
Or by someone she knew? Setting out from Doheny for a date with someone else. The murderer watching, stalking, following, pulling off the snatch.
Ramsey would fit that picture.
Venice . . . Kelly Sposito, Darrell Breshear’s current flame, lived on Fourth Street, walking distance from the bus yard.
Where was Breshear’s home base? She looked him up in her pad. The DMV data had him on Ashland, Ocean Park, the border between Santa Monica and Venice. Very close.
Everything gravitating toward the beach. Including the boy, if Wil’s Russian tipster could be believed.
Breshear. Another former actor. Everyone performing . . . news of the recovered car would be in the paper tomorrow. She had to get to Breshear before he had time to construct a story.
It was nearly 10 P.M. Was he with his wife or with Kelly? Betting on the former, she got dressed again and drove west.
Ashland was a pretty, sloping street in the best part of Ocean Park, houses of all sizes, every conceivable architectural style. Breshear’s place was at the top, a small, well-maintained craftsman cottage with lots of cactus in the front, thatches of sword plant instead of lawn. White BMW ragtop in the driveway, behind an iron gate. Bright lights over the gate hinted at a fantastic backyard view. She rang the bell, and Breshear answered, wearing a black T-shirt and baggy green shorts, holding a bottle of Heineken. When he saw her, his eyes bulged.
“This is a bad time,” he said. “My wife . . .”
“It could get worse,” she said. “I think you lied to me. We found Lisa’s car today. Right here in Venice. Did you have a date with her Sunday night? If you did, we’ll find out.”
He looked over his shoulder. Closed the door and came out and said, “Can we move out to the sidewalk?”
“Won’t your wife get curious?”
“She’s in the bath.”
Petra accompanied him to the sidewalk.
“It wasn’t really a date,” he said. “She just said she wanted to talk.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know—oh hell, yeah, she wanted to get it on.”
“So you’d continued your relationship past those glorious seven days.”
“Not really,” he said. “Just once in a while, maybe once a month.”
“Your idea?”
“Definitely not. Lisa’s, one hundred percent.”
“My, my,” said Petra. “Lisa, Kelly, your wife—what’s her name, by the way?”
“Marcia.” Breshear looked back at the house. “Look—”
“Busy guy,” said Petra.
“It’s no crime.”
“Obstructing justice is.”
“I didn’t obstruct anything. It—I had nothing to say that would help you, because by the time I got there, she was gone. What would it look like, saying I went to meet up with her that night.” Staring at Petra. “A black man, we know what that’s all about.”
“Cut the racial crap,” said Petra. “The only civil rights that were violated were Lisa’s. What time were you supposed to meet her?”
“Ten-thirty.”
“When did you set it up?”
“She set it up. That day. She called me at work around seven.”
“You were working Sunday?”
“Doing a final cut. Check with the lot guard—I signed in.”
“I will,” said Petra. “So Lisa called you to get together.”
“She said she was lonely, down, had been sleeping all day, took some coke, now she was wired, couldn’t sit still, how about a cruise.”
The car; always in the car.
“A cruise,” said Petra.
“She wanted to get together at nine, but I told her I’d be working till then, had a date at Kelly’s place right afterward, but I’d see if I could slip out around ten-thirty, meet her behind the bus yard.”
“Why there?”
“We’d met there before. It’s . . .”
“Clandestine?”
“I didn’t like it, too much crime around there, but Lisa did. The risk turned her on.” He shrugged.
Petra said, “Go on.”
“I had trouble getting out. Kelly . . . kept me busy till after eleven. Finally, I told her I needed to get some air, was going to take a little drive. I made it by eleven-ten or so and Lisa’s car was there but she wasn’t. I waited around till eleven-twenty, figured she’d showed up and left.”
“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 some
one 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 doi
ng 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?
Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor) Page 33