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 line? 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.

Ramsey had years of practice mouthing words and making them sound right.

Even a bad actor had it over the average suspect. The typical sad soul she interrogated was so full of anxiety, he gave you more than you needed even when he thought he was lying effectively, and the key was to Mirandize him right away, get every last drop legally. The exception was your basic stone-psychopath who had little or no anxiety, but those guys were so boringly self-destructive, they usually managed to trip themselves up being clever.

So where did Ramsey fit in? A calculated killer, or just some pathetic, impotent loser who'd freaked out?

Give him lots of rope, sit back, look, and listen. A self-hanging was too much to hope for, but maybe he'd at least knot himself up.

She reached RanchHaven at 8:40, got waved through by the guard. Before she drove through, she asked him if he'd been on night duty Sunday and he said no, that was someone else. Then he closed the guardhouse door.

She drove up the hill. Artificial lights bleached the pink house off-white, made it appear even bigger, but just as architecturally confused.

A young Hispanic woman, not Estrella Flores, answered her ring, opening the door halfway. What Petra could see of the house was dark.

“Hello,” she said. “Detective Connor for Mr. Ramsey.”

“Jes?” The woman was pretty, with a round face, wide eyes the color of concord grapes, and black hair tied in a bun. About twenty-five. Same pink-and-white uniform Estrella Flores had worn.

Petra repeated her name and showed the badge.

The maid stepped back. “Wan min.” Same voice as over the phone. Where was the older woman?

“Is Estrella Flores here?”

Confusion. The young woman started to turn, and Petra tapped her shoulder. “Donde esta Estrella?”

Head shake.

“Estrella Flores? La… housekeeper?”

No answer, and Petra's attempt at a warm, sisterly smile failed to alter the maid's stolid expression.

“Como se llama usted, señorita?”

“Maria.”

“Nombre de familia?”

“Guerrero.”

“Maria Guerrero.”

“Sí.”

“Usted no sabe Estrella Flores?”

“No.”

“Estrella no trabaja aqui?”

“No.”

“Cuanto tiempo usted trabaja aqui?”

“Dos dias.”

Two days on the job; Estrella gone. Knowing something she didn't want to know and rabbiting? Petra wished she'd gotten to her sooner.

As Maria Guerrero turned again to leave, a male voice said, “Detective,” and Ramsey appeared out of the darkness, wearing a white, seriously wrinkled linen shirt, cream silk slacks, cream loafers, no socks.

A vision in pale tones? I'm a good guy.

He held the door open for Petra and she walked in. The house smelled stale, and only a table lamp at the rear of the big sitting room was lit. The car museum was dark, too, the glass wall a sheet of black.

He walked two feet ahead of her, to the lamp, switched on another and winced, as if the wattage hurt his eyes. Had he been sitting in the darkness till now? His sleeves were rolled carelessly to his elbows and his curly hair looked lumpy and uneven.

“Please, have a seat.” Waiting till she'd settled on one of the overstuffeds, he picked his own spot at a right angle to hers, their knees two feet apart.

Placing his hands at his sides, he sat there. His face looked drawn, older. More gray hairs among the curls, but maybe it was just the lighting. Or some dye wearing off.

“Thanks for meeting with me, sir.”

“Of course,” he said, inhaling and rubbing one corner of his mouth.

Petra took out her pad, letting her jacket fall open so he could see the badge on her shirt pocket. Showing him the side of the pad with the blue LAPD stamp. Trying to study his reaction to those small bits of official presence.

He was looking somewhere else. At the big stone fireplace, cold and dark.

“Would you like something to drink, Detective?”

“No thanks, sir.”

“If you change your mind, let me know.”

“Will do, Mr. Ramsey.” She opened the pad. “How's everything?”

“Rough. Very rough.”

Petra gave her best understanding smile. “I noticed you have a different maid than when I was here the first time.”

“The other one walked out on me.”

“Estrella Flores?”

He stared at her. “Yes.”

“How long had she been working for you?”

“Two years, I guess. Give or take. She said she wanted to go back to El Salvador, but I know it was the… what happened to Lisa. She liked Lisa. I guess all the… when you people were here it must have upset her, because that night she was busy packing.” He shrugged. “Then all the media calls. It's been hard keeping my head clear.”

“Have there been many calls?”

“Tons, all on the business line. The number I gave you was my private line. I had everything forwarded to Greg's office. He's not talking to anyone, so hopefully it'll taper off.” He rubbed his eyes, shook his head.

“So you got a new maid immediately,” said Petra.

“Greg got her.”

She sat there, not writing. Giving Ramsey some silence to fill, but he lowered his head. Wide shoulders rounding as he slumped, your classic grieving posture. Chin in hand now. The Thinker.

“Estrella Flores liked Lisa,” she finally said, “but she didn't go with Lisa when Lisa moved out.”

“Nope,” said Ramsey, looking up. “Why's Estrella so important?”