Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01

by Billy Straight

  Kelly pointed a finger gun. “You must be a detective.”

  “Did she do that a lot?”

  “Enough. Not that I paid attention.”

  “So the topic of impotence upset her.”

  “Wouldn’t it upset you?” said Kelly Sposito. “Life’s tough enough, all the crap you get from men when they’re at their best. Who has time for limp spaghetti?”

  It was after five when Petra left the lot, and she wouldn’t have minded a long, hot bath and a good meal prepared by someone else, maybe some torture at the easel. But she still needed to trade notes with Stu, and if he suggested they make their move on Ramsey tonight, she wouldn’t argue.

  She called the station. Stu wasn’t back, but Lillian, the civilian receptionist, said, “Some stuff came for you from the coroner, Barbie.”

  “Big envelope?”

  “Medium big. I put it on your desk.”

  “Thanks.”

  She ate a tuna sandwich at the Apple Pan, washed it down with a Coke, scanned the paper—nothing on Lisa—drove back to Hollywood as quickly as the traffic would allow. By the time she arrived, the night shift had come on, but most of the D’s were already out serving warrants and looking for bad guys and her desk was clear. Stu still hadn’t checked in.

  Inside the brown envelope were preliminary postmortem findings signed by a Dr. Wendell Kobayashi—countersigned as Schoelkopf had promised, by the head coroner, Dr. Ilie Romanescu.

  Quick turnaround; usually even preliminaries took a week.

  She sat down and read the two typed sheets. Traces of cocaine and alcohol had been found in Lisa Ramsey’s body, enough to intoxicate but not cause stupor. Meaning she’d been easier to take by surprise. No final autopsy report yet, but the docs were able to provide a wound count and cause of death. Twenty-three cuts—close enough to Ilse Eggermann’s twenty-nine. So far, the coroner was guessing that the fatal one had been the very deep abdominal slash Petra had tagged. Point of insertion just above the pubic bone, continuing eight inches upward—a vertical wound that had sliced through intestines and stomach and liver, bisecting the diaphragm, cutting off respiration.

  A gutting. Street fighter’s move.

  As she drops, he hits her twenty-two more times.

  Frenzy or fun. Or both.

  Dr. Kobayashi guessed that he’d been standing close to her for that first, lethal lunge. Meaning blood on him, too, and if they lucked out and got an exchange, something he’d left on her. But fiber and fluid analysis would take several days. No footprints, as Alan Lau had noted. Either he’d taken off his shoes or gotten lucky.

  She thought about what Darrell had told her about Lisa’s sexual proclivities: oral sex in the car. Like a throwback to high school. Had Lisa been fixated at the cheerleader stage? Cheerleaders and older men?

  Kelly had described Lisa as full of herself, but she’d ended up ministering to Darrell, wanting nothing for herself.

  Sex in a car. The killer taking Lisa somewhere in a car.

  Mr. Macho Ramsey, unable to function?

  A chronic problem? The date Ramsey’s last-ditch attempt to prove himself?

  In the car? Because he and Lisa had done it before in cars?

  That damn car museum! Had it been more than just a millionaire’s trophy thing? Ramsey’s marital aid? All that chrome and steel, big engines, reminding him he was rich, handsome, semifamous—a gazillion dollars’ worth of toys all so the blood would remain in his penis?

  Breshear had said Lisa seemed practiced. With Ramsey? Others? After the divorce—before?

  But the phone records showed no contact with other men, no apparent social life. Maybe she’d used her work phone for personal contact. Getting those records would be a major hassle; she was sure the production company was the legal owner. She’d start the paperwork tomorrow morning.

  Back to the murder night. Lisa dolling herself up.

  The car, in the car, let’s do it in the car.

  And Ramsey couldn’t cut it—

  Cut. There it was again.

  Unable to cut it, so Lisa unleashes the sarcasm and he cuts her.

  After he’d been such a nice guy, forgiving the way she’d blabbed to the tabloid show, getting her the job at the studio, and still sending her seven grand a month.

  Twenty-three in cash, a brokerage account at Merrill Lynch—she’d speak to the broker, Ghadoomian, something else for tomorrow.

  Sex, money, failure.

  Failure in the car, so he’d used the car to kill her?

  Driving her to her final destination.

  Doing her in a parking lot.

  How L.A.

  She needed access to PLYR 0 and PLYR 1 and every other vehicle in Ramsey’s collection. For all she knew, the death car had been one of the others—that phallic Ferrari, sitting right there in front of them, Stu and the sheriff’s guys gawking, unaware they were looking at a slaughterhouse on wheels.

  No, too conspicuous, even for L.A. One of the others . . . her phone rang, had to be Stu.

  But it was Alan Lau calling from Parker Center, and the criminalist sounded exhausted. “Got some initial results on those food wrappers and the urine. The food was a mixture of ground beef and ground pork, peppers, onions, a tomato-based sauce, chili powder, garlic powder, some other spices we haven’t identified yet. Bread crumbs, too. Not mixed in, separate. Probably the bun. White bread.”

  “Chili-burger.”

  “Quite possibly. The urine was definitely human, but I hope you don’t want any fancy DNA on it, ’cause we barely had enough to do a presumptive type. Even if we did, it would cost a fortune and take a long time.”

  “What else did you get?” said Petra.

  “Prints off the wrapping paper and also off that book you found. The book was full of them. Fulls, partials, nice ridge impressions. I’m no expert, but it looked like some matches between the wrapper and book. We sent it all to ID and so far no matches to any files. So looks like your reader isn’t a big-time criminal or a government employee. Also, from the size of the finger pads, it probably is a woman.”

  Bag Lady squatting on a rock, thought Petra. Eating furtively, reading some old library book that probably fed some schizo fantasy—who knew what the presidents meant to her.

  Sad. If nothing turned up, it might be worth checking with the park rangers and some Hollywood patrol officers, see if one particular street woman frequented that section of Griffith.

  “Thanks, Alan. Anything show up in the vacuum?”

  “Just a pile of dirt, so far. For all the blood, this was a pretty clean one.”

  Stu came into the squad room at 6:34 P.M., looking like prey. Petra was snacking on her second Snickers bar and wondering where Ramsey was at this very moment, what thoughts were going through his head, did he regret what he’d done or was he exulting in the memory of butchering Lisa?

  She asked Stu how he was. He said fine and reported on his day with the dutiful tone of a child giving an oral report. Visits to three studios, three wells dug, wait and see. It didn’t sound like enough to turn his normally clear irises rosy pink.

  He removed his suit jacket and draped it neatly over the back of his chair. “No one had anything personal to say about him; he doesn’t seem to hang with any particular industry crowd. The fact that he beat Lisa up makes them assume he killed her.”

  “I’ve got something personal.” Petra told him about her talks with Breshear and Sposito, Lisa’s hints about impotence.

  He said, “Interesting.” As if all men went through it. Did they?

  “It’s a motive,” she said.

  “Definitely. Too bad it’s tough to verify—you trust Sposito on Breshear’s alibi?”

  “I called her before Breshear got to her and she wasn’t the least bit hinky about it, just p.o.’d at being questioned. You don’t want to keep working Breshear, do you?”

  “No, I just want to make sure we eliminate him cleanly. Let’s keep a nice, neat flow chart on this one.”

&n
bsp; He put his palms down on his desk and leaned, stretching his fingers. “Now, about that German girl—”

  Petra gave him the fax on Karlheinz Lauch. He read it and put it down.

  She said, “So where do we go with it?”

  “The Austrian police, again. Other countries where they speak German and have airports, which I guess would be Switzerland. Also Interpol, U.S. Immigration, though with a three-year window, good luck finding anything at passport control.”

  “Sorensen already did all that.”

  “Three years’ time lapse means we do it again. Now that we’ve found one similar, we need to widen the net, make sure we don’t miss others. That means Orange County, Ventura, Santa Barbara, even San Francisco. If we find nothing, I’d feel comfortable putting any notion of a local serial killer to rest. But you never know. There was a guy a few years ago, Jack Unterhoffer—an Austrian, as it turned out—moved between Europe and the U.S., strangling women. Took a long time to see the pattern. If we don’t turn up other leads on Lisa and Schoelkopf gets really paranoid, he’ll want us to go national, so let’s preempt him, run Lauch through NCIC, whatever else the feds have to offer.”

  Almost as if he wanted to do scut. That didn’t fit her chance-for-promotion theory. Or did it?

  “Fine,” she said, surprised at the impatience in her voice. “But Ramsey’s still clearly our main guy, and now we’ve learned something that adds to his motive. I know the impotence thing is hearsay—”

  “Less than hearsay. Lisa hinted in general terms.”

  “But if we don’t follow up on it, it’s beyond malfeasance.”

  “No argument,” he said, sitting back and playing with his suspenders. “We’re not arguing here, Petra, we’re prioritizing. There are only two of us, so either we ask for reinforcement, which will mean Robbery-Homicide boots us out, or we split the job. How about I take the whole Eggermann/Lauch thing and you talk to Ramsey? The phone work we continue to divide.”

  Petra couldn’t believe what he was saying. Giving her sirloin and keeping the gristle for himself. “You want me to do Ramsey alone?”

  “It might work to our advantage, Petra.”

  “In what way?”

  “If Ramsey does have woman problems, your presence could get him antsy, open some cracks.”

  Woman problems. Not potency problems. Not man problems.

  She said, “Okay, but I don’t mind some scut.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Petra. Tell the truth—” He started to say something, stopped. Falling into something he’d taught her about when they started working together: Watch out for suspects who say truthfully or frankly or to be honest or tell the truth. They’re usually hiding something.

  “I really think you’re the best one to psych out Ramsey,” he said. “Not just the gender thing. It’d be better not to overwhelm him, make it obvious that we’re interrogating him. One person rather than two could help with that. Also, back at his house, he seemed to focus on you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He wasn’t exactly coming on, but there was interest. At least, I thought so. It tells us something about the way his mind works. His ex has just been murdered, he’s putting on the grieving husband bit, and he’s checking you out.”

  So he had seen it. What else had he kept to himself?

  “I’m not talking bait, Petra. If you don’t want to do it alone, I understand. But you’ve got the talent for this one.”

  “Thanks.” Why didn’t she feel complimented? Was she growing truly paranoid?

  She nodded.

  “Okay, then it’s all set.” He picked up his phone.

  CHAPTER

  25

  Runningrunning running notbreathing,

  No looking back.

  Trees jumping in front of me, trying to grab me, change direction.

  Tear through the branches, they tear back, my face, my arms, my legs, all on fire.

  I want to close my eyes, hurl myself through space, a missile. I try and it’s good, but then I fall and roll, hitting rocks and branches and sharp things, hurting my head, opening up a hot wet cut on my arm.

  It keeps bleeding. I can feel it dripping down, but it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts; am I made of clay? Of shit?

  Don’t know where I’m going, don’t care, just out of there, the park was a traitor.

  Now I can breathe.

  I can hear it in my ears, fuzzy, big bursts of fuzz that fill up my head, in air, out air, fuzz air, my chest hurts.

  No more Places. Nothing’s safe . . . my heart’s beating too hard, too fast, suddenly I have to throw up.

  I stop, bend over, it shoots out of me like lava, all over the ground, burning my throat.

  When will I have a clean life?

  No more, empty now, have to be quiet, have to be quiet.

  I am quiet.

  Everything’s quiet.

  I taste and smell like something dead.

  I run some more, fall get up, run, walk, start to feel better and stop to breathe, but then I start shaking and can’t stop.

  I’m in a part of the park that I’ve maybe seen before, but I’m not sure.

  Lots of trees, leaves all over the ground, rocks and dirt, could be anywhere in the park. I lie down and hug myself. My throat is still on fire, my teeth start knocking against each other dadadadadadadada.

  It stops. I want to sit up, but so tired. The ground is bumpy. I find a rock, a smooth, cold one, hold it in both hands, squeeze hard, then I throw it away and take a deep breath.

  The bleeding cut has dried into this purple line with wet spots and gold-colored stuff leaking out. Probably plasma. It helps you clot.

  I start to hurt all over and find all the other cuts and marks, on my arms, my face. I scratch, raise some bloody spots, watch them clot too.

  My body’s working.

  A bird cry makes me jump and my heart shoots up into my throat and I feel like vomiting again.

  Breathe, breathe, breathe . . . now I’m dizzy.

  Breathe. Listen to the birds, they’re just birds.

  Okay. I’m okay.

  Time to start moving again.

  Finally, the night comes.

  I’m on a high spot, almost a hill, nothing to see but trees and behind them the huge black shadows of real mountains.

  Still in the park, but not for long. Traitor.

  I’ve got nothing now, my books, my clothes, my plastic bags, my food, it’s all back at Five.

  All the Tampax money. Except what’s left of the five dollars I took to the zoo. I reach down in my pocket and feel three bills and some change.

  How did all this happen? How did they know to go for me?

  The park was their place, too.

  My fault. Stupid thinking I could relax.

  Nice and dark now. Darkness covers me, time to move, again.

  I walk till I hear cars. Still can’t see them, but I must be getting closer to Los Feliz Boulevard. I keep rubbing the hand that held the shit against rocks and dirt and tree trunks and after a while there’s no more stink. The cars are really loud now and it is Los Feliz and I know where I am.

  Hiding myself behind a thick tree, I think about what to do and she comes into my head.

  The one who got chucked.

  Why do I keep meeting evil, gross, sick people?

  Is there some message I wear on my face like this kid is a loser; he should get messed up? Do I look weak, wimpy, something to be hunted down?

  Am I giving off some kind of sign I can’t see, the way you can’t tickle yourself?

  Do I need to be different?

  One thing’s for sure: I need to be clean.

  And gone.

  CHAPTER

  26

  At 7:15 p.m. Petra called Ramsey’s house. The Spanish maid answered with “Wan min” and put her on hold.

  Two minutes, three, five, six.

  Was Ramsey figuring out a way to avoid her? Had he shot a call to his lawyer on another lin
e? She prepared herself for a stonewall, would duly note it and try the Boehlingers again.

  A voice came on. “Detective Connor.” The man himself.

  “Evening, Mr. Ramsey.”

  “Have you learned anything?”

  “Afraid not, sir, but I thought we might talk again.”

  “Fine. When and where?”

  “How about your house, as soon as possible?”

  “How about right now?”

  She caught the tail end of the evening rush back to the Valley. Some idiot had overturned a truckload of garden furniture near the Canoga Park exit, and thousands of misery voyeurs just had to slow and stare at mangled lounges and shattered faux-cement birdbaths. What’s so fascinating about someone else’s misfortune? Who was she to talk? She earned a living off it.

  Use the time constructively. Psych out Ramsey.

  But there was no sophisticated plan, no details to nail down, because planning too precisely when you had no facts could be worse than no preparation at all. One thing was clear: no confrontation. She’d go in friendly, and even if Ramsey gave her a hard time or renewed the Don Juan thing, she’d stay friendly.

  That was her strength, anyway. She was able to elicit confessions gently, just as effectively as the bullies, sometimes more so. Stu had built her confidence by letting her take over some serious interrogations. “Use your inherent personality as a weapon, Petra. The way a therapist does.”

  She’d never thought of therapy as warfare, but she understood the message: It was all manipulation, and the best manipulators didn’t overact.

  Stu’s interview persona was Kind But Strict Big Brother, a smart, pleasant, but essentially tough guy you were a little afraid of but admired and wanted to please.

  Hers was Regular Gal, the kind guys liked to talk to.

  Not bait. Talent. But Stu knew damn well bait was a significant part of it. Ramsey, a ladies’ man—in his own mind—so dangle a lady.

  A player packing limp spaghetti.

  No lawyer’s name had been mentioned yet, but Petra was sure there was one lurking in the background, feeding Ramsey lines. Just like they did when filming—what did they call those guys?—prompters. Machines did it now—TelePrompTers.