“Yes.”
I gulped, and began again. “I broke a window in the Ramsdale house, went inside, took Hillary’s photo album and her yearbook. Nothing else. George Metrano was waiting outside for me. He grabbed me. I got away by diving into the canal. I encountered him a second time in the alley behind the Ramsdale house. He broke my car window with Detective Flint’s Kel-Lite. I drove, then, to the Metrano house to show Leslie Metrano the photographs I had stolen. She identified Hillary Ramsdale as her missing daughter, Amy. I went home, and for the third time yesterday, made passionate love to Detective Mike Flint, badge number one-five-nine-nine-one. That’s as bare as I can make it.”
“Are you leaving out anything I should know?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. Except, for the record, considering that he’s a white-haired old guy, Flint’s pretty amazing.”
“This is serious, Maggie.”
“I am serious.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“A couple of bumps and scrapes. That’s all.”
“You’re sure?”
I smiled. “You saw all there was of me to see, Mike.”
He was controlled, but furious. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about it last night?”
I slumped down in the chair, the hard back snagging my bra hooks. I was just as tired as he was, and muscle-sore on top of it. I had kept myself busy all morning because every time I gave myself some free space for thinking, the possibilities of what George Metrano had in mind for me took root. I pulled the long sleeve of my shirt down over my skinned knuckles and swallowed back delayed panic, letting it wait a little longer.
“The truth?” I said. “I didn’t say anything because I was scared shitless. When you came home, all I wanted was for you to hold me and make it all go away. I didn’t want to get into a big hassle.”
“Jesus, Maggie.”
I interrupted the lecture mode before he got it booted. “I think George had been waiting there for a long time — long enough to know there was no stakeout. He didn’t break in. He didn’t assault me until he saw I wasn’t the person he was waiting for.”
“Who was he waiting for?”
“There’s only one person left from that household to have a conversation with. And that’s Elizabeth. I’m thinking he must have been lying in wait for her for a long time, because almost every time I have gone near that house, I have run across George in some way. I want to hear what the woman said to you.”
Mike straightened up, tucked in his starched shirt. “I’ll go get the tape if you promise to sit right here and stay out of trouble for the entire minute I will be gone.”
“No sweat,” I said.
“Don’t move,” he said.
“I remembered one more thing.”
“Yes?” He had his hand on the door.
“Leslie told me that just about the time Amy disappeared, George was working in Pasadena for some people named Sinclair.”
“Once you find the right thread, it all unravels in a hurry, doesn’t it?”
“To a point. Still doesn’t explain why Hillary took off. Or why they killed her.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Mike’s eyes focused off into space somewhere. After a moment, he thumped the edge of the door with his palm. “Hang tight. I’ll be back.”
When I was alone, with the door closed, I crossed my arms on the table and put my head down on them, turning to the left side because there was a bump under my hair on the right. The foul smell of the canal water seemed to rise with every deep breath I took, like stirring fetid sediment. I closed my eyes and, dizzy, coursed down again in my memory through Randy Ramsdale’s grave. I shivered with the cold and startled upright just as Mike opened the door again.
“Sorry,” he said, setting a battered tape player on the table. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Too late.” I rubbed my eyes. “Let’s hear it.”
Mike punched play.
I listened through some preliminary arguing about why Elizabeth should talk to Mike at all. A terrific, accented baritone in the background on Elizabeth’s end seemed to settle her qualms about talking when he promised to keep her locked up until her dark roots grew in, unless she cooperated.
From the description of Elizabeth given to me by the women at the yacht club, I was expecting maybe poor white trash. The woman’s voice I heard was low-pitched yet full of honey, not finishing-school or highbrow, but well-modulated. Now and then, when her temper flared, she slipped into a more natural-sounding nasal whine.
Mike worked on her gently for a while, getting her own bare-bones story. According to Elizabeth, she and a friend had sailed south a week ago, just the two of them on a little vacation, she said. They had put in at Ensenada and taken on a Mexican crew of three so they could relax — the going had been more arduous than they had expected. With the crew, they had gone on to Cabo San Lucas, doing a little fishing on the way. The friend she identified as Ricco Zambotti, an actor by profession. He was still in Cabo with her, she said, watching over the boat while the federales harassed her.
When Mike informed her that her husband was dead, there was only silence on her end. I would have given anything to have seen her face at that moment. She expressed neither grief nor surprise, no sobs, no gagging with mirth. She also did not ask how, when, where.
After a respectful pause, Mike picked up the interrogation: “Mrs. Ramsdale, when did you last see or hear from your husband?”
Elizabeth’s voice: “In February.”
Mike: “You never filed a missing-persons report.”
Elizabeth: “Why should I? I didn’t want him back. He was leaving me for another woman.”
Mike: “Weren’t you worried something might have happened to him?”
Elizabeth: “I couldn’t afford to be worried. You should see the prenup I signed. If he died or divorced me, I got nothing. Nada. If he was gone, fine. I could still use the bank accounts. I wasn’t going to go looking for him.”
Mike: “You also did not report Hillary Ramsdale missing.”
Elizabeth, after a pause: “I assumed she was with her father.”
Mike: “She didn’t pack a bag.”
Elizabeth: “So what? They were a real spooky pair. Nothing they did suprised me.”
Mike: “How spooky?”
Elizabeth: “I think it’s spooky when a natural-blond kid dyes her hair dark. Means she has something to hide.”
Mike: “What did she have to hide?”
Elizabeth, cocky: “Ask her.”
Mike: “You said you inherit nothing from Randy. Does Hillary?”
Elizabeth: “Yes. Everything. She’s the million-dollar baby.”
Mike: “And if she were to die, who would get it?”
Elizabeth: “Not me. Ask Randy’s attorney.”
Mike: “I have. I just wondered whether you knew.”
Elizabeth: “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
Mike: “Did you argue with Hillary?”
Elizabeth: “Maybe the connection isn’t very good. I said, I don’t want to talk to you.”
Mike: “What did you tell Hillary about her father? She must have asked about him.”
Elizabeth, angry: “She asked, all right. She nagged me until I thought I would lose it.”
Mike: “Did you lose it, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth: “No.”
Mike: “Did you know Randy was dead?”
Elizabeth: “I told you. No.”
Mike: “You haven’t asked about Hillary, Elizabeth. Do you know where she is?”
Elizabeth: “No.”
Mike: “Tell me about your last conversation with her.”
Elizabeth: “I don’t remember.”
Mike: “If Capitan Salazar is still there with you, ask him to take you on a tour of the jail. See how you like it. Because, Elizabeth? You’re going to be there until we get ready to come and get you. If I feel like walking the papers around the Justice Department, I can have you back up here in
twenty-four hours. If I don’t feel like walking, you could be down there for a year, maybe two. How long does Capitan Salazar think it will take for your roots to grow out?”
Elizabeth: “You can’t hold me down here.”
Mike: “I absolutely can. Murder is an extraditable offense. You want to talk to me some more?”
Elizabeth: “I couldn’t possibly have done it. I was in Ensenada.”
Mike: “Wrong murder, Mrs. Ramsdale. We were still talking about Randy. Did you forget? You’re not supposed to know Hillary is dead. How could you know when she died?”
What followed was a string of obscenities and the sound of flying furniture, or something akin to it. Mike turned off the tape and looked down at me.
“Can you draw me a picture?” he asked.
I nodded. “Elizabeth and friend Ricco set sail from Long Beach, alone, a day or two before the murder in MacArthur Park. She puts him off somewhere down the coast. He makes his way back to L.A., kills Hillary, rejoins Elizabeth before Ensenada, where they take on a crew so they can kick back. Could work.”
“Yes, it could.”
“So,” I said, impatient, feeling ill. “You never told me you talked to Ramsdale’s attorney. Who inherits from Hillary?”
“Her mother and father. That’s the way the will reads. Her mother and father, no names.”
“Ah.” The light bulbs flickered on, dimly, in my aching head. “Once Randy was dead, all George had to do was swoop in and claim her as his long lost to gain control of the estate.”
“You can see him killing Randy?”
“If he was desperate enough,” I said. “I think it would be easier for me to kill a man than to sell off my child. He had already done that. But if he killed Randy, wouldn’t he want us to know? No body, no payoff. Eventually, he led us to the body when he sliced up Regina Szal’s raft. But he needed cash, now. Why wait so long?”
“He had to be careful no one figured out he had sold Amy in the first place. He could find himself in deep shit.”
“Still.”
“What?” he said.
“Where does Elizabeth come in? She had every reason to keep Randy alive as long as possible. Or maintain the illusion that he was alive.”
“Don’t assume they were in it together. Say she finds her husband’s body, and deep-sixes it. What’s George to do?”
“Too weird, Mike.” I had to rub my head, counteract the throbbing. “Crime according to Newton.”
“Huh?”
“You remember — every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”
“Guess I was absent from the police academy the day they did this Newton guy. What’s the point?”
“He kills, she hides it. And so on, until they have ruined each other’s programs. It scans well. I like it.”
He nodded. “Still doesn’t explain why Hillary took off.”
“Maybe it begins to. The game they were playing was deadly from the beginning.”
A knock on the door interrupted whatever Mike was going to say next.
“Come,” Mike called out.
The door opened, a face appeared. “Long Beach PD on the line, Flint. They have your suspect in custody.”
CHAPTER 19
I was persona non grata at the preliminary interrogation of George Metrano. So I was pissed. I made rude remarks to Mike about the ugly turquoiseness of the Long Beach Police Department headquarters when I dropped him off. Mike gave me his pager and told me he would buzz me when he was ready to be picked up. I said uh huh, and burned rubber when I peeled away from the curb.
My errands took about an hour. I dropped off the Toyota at the rental agency, argued halfheartedly about their extra mileage calculation, tried to explain about the broken window. The more I talked, the more the perky agent became confused. In the end I abandoned the discussion because I had known from point A that the window would come out of my pocket; my insurance deductible was higher than the repairs would be. The perky agent promised to bill me.
A guy who seemed to speak only Farsi drove me in the rental agency’s van to the tire shop where Mike’s Blazer had been towed. I gasped at the tire bill I was handed there — still below my deductible — but said nothing when I passed over my Visa. I hoped I wasn’t so close to the credit limit that it wouldn’t get approval.
After all that, I felt ballsy enough to call Leslie Metrano.
There was no answer, and neither her answering machine nor the Find Amy Foundation machine kicked on. Maybe they had been seized as evidence, I thought. While I was in the booth, I dialed John Smith’s number and left a message about George on his machine.
I drove up to Bingo Burgers. I was surprised how disappointed I felt when Leslie wasn’t there, either. The night before, I had dumped a huge load on her slender shoulders. I guess I wanted assurance that she was all right. And reassurance that whatever George had done, she had had no part in it.
I ordered a Coke and a side of fried zucchini, to go.
At loose ends, I drove down to Naples, to the scene of my own crime. Two police cars in the alley made passage tight, but I squeezed through without new bumps on Mike’s paint job. As I drove by the spot where I had parked the night before, I could see little glittery bits of shattered glass. But then, there were glittery bits all over the alley. Some of them could have been from my window, but not all of them.
I headed down to the bay and found a parking place in front of the library on Bayshore Drive. The sun had burned off most of the morning haze, leaving only a thin yellow pall of smog that accumulated at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains in the distance. The air was clear enough that I could see Catalina in sharp outline across the water.
Barefoot, I walked along the damp sand, sipping Coke, tossing bits of zucchini high into the air for diving seagulls to catch. Water lapped gently against the arc of shore, rocking the big boats that were moored on the far side of the bay. On that far side, I could see the mouth of the canal where the Ramsdales, and Martha, lived. Or had lived. Bright red and pink geraniums and vivid trailing bougainvillea contrasted with the green moss that climbed the gray cement bridges and clung to the seawall. I dug my toes into the fine sand, remembering how slimy that moss felt below the waterline.
When the zucchini was all gone, a pair of gulls hovered overhead, ever greedy for more.
George killed Randy. Ever greedy for more.
I sat down on the sand, and the gulls landed nearby, watching me, creeping closer, eyeing my hands and pecking at each other the whole time. I found a broken shell and drew two columns in the sand, one for George, one for Elizabeth.
When I saw them as competitors, pecking at each other as the gulls did, it all began to make sense in a corrupt way.
George acted. Elizabeth reacted. And Hillary, caught between them, ran away in fear for her life. I could see how her running could work to Elizabeth’s advantage. As long as she wasn’t identified.
I was thinking about Randy, about how no one seemed to give a damn about him, when the pager on my belt buzzed. The readout said two, as in code two, come with lights and sirens. I stood and brushed off the sand. The gulls walked close beside me until I slam-dunked the Coke cup and the empty zucchini bag into a trash can. When it was clear I had no riches to offer, they abandoned me.
The drive back downtown, following the shoreline, took less than ten minutes. At the police station the desk officer had me escorted through a linoleum maze to a far and dingy remove from the bright water out front.
Mike and Sergeant Mahakian came out of a side cubicle, laughing, to greet me.
Mahakian looked me over with rude scrutiny. He turned to Mike. “You win. She looks fine.”
“Why wouldn’t I? I asked, nonplussed to be the butt of something here.
Mike took my arm, squeezed my biceps. “Remind me not to tangle with you.”
“Mike,” I hissed. “What?”
“You neglected to tell me you broke George’s nose last night.”
“I kne
w I’d connected pretty well. I didn’t think I’d broken anything. Is he okay?”
“His eyes are nearly puffed shut and he’ll need to get wired together before he can smell the roses again. Other than that, he’s okay.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling the heat rise in my face. “I only wanted to get away. I didn’t mean to maim him.”
“What did you use?” Mahakian asked.
“Mike’s flashlight.”
It was Mike’s turn to blush. “No war stories, okay?”
I shrugged. “Why did you page me?”
Mahakian moved a step closer. “I understand Metrano assaulted you last night.”
“He grabbed me.”
“Did he use a weapon of any kind?”
“Not really. He used the flashlight to break my car window.”
“Were you in the car at the time?”
“Yes, I was.”
Mahakian and Mike exchanged smiles. “Got it.”
“Now what?” I demanded.
“We want you to file charges against Metrano under the new stalking law,” Mahakian said. “We can make a case he’s been following you around. We’ll throw in assault with a deadly weapon, malicious mischief two counts — the boat and the tires — to see if we can talk the judge out of granting bail.”
“Isn’t murder enough?” I asked.
“We don’t have enough to charge him with murder, or even manslaughter,” Mahakian said. “Will you do it?”
“What if he files assault charges against me? I came out better than he did.”
“Don’t worry, Maggie.” Mike put his big arm around me. “I’ll come visit you.”
“I really don’t want to tell a judge what I was doing at the Ramsdales’ last night,” I said.
“Yeah, you might take some heat. But think of it as your social duty.”
“Let me talk to George and I’ll do it,” I said.
“No way,” Mike said with force. He walked back down the hall and closed the door of the cubicle they had come out of.
“Is he in there?” I asked.
Mike crossed his arms. “You can’t talk to him.”
“There’s your answer, Mike. No way.” I fluffed my hair away from my neck and turned on my heel. “I have things to do.”
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