29

Ramsey said, “I need a bite, do you mind if we go in the kitchen?”

Nerves making him hungry? Petra said, “Not at all, Mr. Ramsey.” Good chance to see more of the house.

She followed him as he switched lights on, illuminating terrible lithos, big furniture. Veering into exactly what Petra expected: six hundred square feet of pseudo-adobe walls and rustic-beamed ceilings, white Euro-cabinets, gray granite counters, brushed-steel appliances, copper rack full of lethal weapons hanging from the beams. On the counters sat an array of food processors, toasters, microwaves. A greenhouse window provided a view of stucco wall. The eastern border of the house. A side door.

In the center of the kitchen was a long, narrow wooden table, old heart pine, scarred and buffed to a satin finish, the scars shiny dents. Probably a genuine antique, country French. Petra saw it as a monastery piece. Nice. But the eight chairs around it were chrome Breuer types with rawhide leather slings, so discordant she wanted to scream. Whose idea of eclectic, his or Lisa's?

Ramsey opened the fridge on the left. Fully stocked. A bachelor who made himself at home. He took out another Diet Sprite and a carton of cottage cheese with chives.

“Gotta watch the tush,” he said, locating a spoon. “Sure I can't get you anything? A drink, at least?”

“No thanks.”

He sat down at the head of the pine table and she took a side chair.

“This must look weird,” he said, lowering the spoon to the cheese. “Eating. But I haven't eaten all day, could feel my blood sugar drop.”

“Hypoglycemic?”

“There's diabetes in my family, so I'm careful.” He began eating cottage cheese, wiping white flecks from his mustache. Not caring what he looked like in front of her. Maybe she'd been wrong about the Don Juan thing. Or maybe he turned it on and off. She watched him take a swallow of soda, two more spoonfuls of cottage cheese, got his attention by taking out her pad.

“Okay, that night,” he said. “I told you I was in Tahoe, didn't I? The first time you were here.”

Petra nodded.

“Scouting locations for next season,” he went on. “We've got a double script with some casino episodes, trying to figure out where we want to do it. We'll be shooting in a month or so.”

“Who was with you on the scouting trip?”

“Greg and our locations supervisor, Scott Merkin. We looked at some properties by the lake, visited a few of the casinos, had dinner at Harrah's, and flew home.”

“Commercial flight?”

He put the spoon down, drank some more. “All these details. So I'm a suspect?”

No surprise in his voice. The unspoken final word to the sentence: finally.

“It's just routine, Mr. Ramsey.”

He smiled. “Sure it is. I've said the exact same thing tons of times to suspects- on the show. ‘Just routine' means Dack Price is gonna go after the guy.”

Petra smiled. “In real life, routine means routine, Mr. Ramsey. But if this isn't a good time to talk-”

“No, this is fine.” The pale eyes locked in on Petra's. Ramsey ate more cottage cheese, raised the soda can to his lips, realized it was empty, and fetched another.

“I guess it makes sense, my being a suspect. Because of the… incident. That was the slant the news put on it.”

Staring at her.

Rope. She could visualize it uncoiling, like a cobra.

“This whole thing,” said Ramsey. “The way people are thinking about me after those news broadcasts. No, it wasn't a commercial flight, we went by private charter, we always do. Westward Charter, we use them all the time. Our usual pilot, too. Ed Marionfeldt. I like him 'cause he was a navy fighter pilot- real Top Gun. We flew out of Burbank, everything's recorded in Westward's log. Out around eight A.M., back by eight-thirty P.M. Scott drove home, and Greg brought me back here. He usually drives when it gets late, because my night vision isn't all that great.”

“Eye problems?”

Though his mustache was clean, Ramsey wiped it again. “Early stages of cataracts. My ophthalmologist wants to laser me, but I keep putting it off.”

Telling her he couldn't have driven Lisa to the park at night?

“So you don't go out much at night?”

“I do, it's not that bad, lights just bother me.” He smiled. “Don't give me a ticket, okay?”

Petra smiled back. “Promise.”

He dug the spoon into the cottage cheese again, looked at it, put it down. Petra noticed looseness around his mouth. Mottling behind the ears and several fine lines that had to be tuck remnants. Gray hair sprouted from an ear. In the bright light of the kitchen, every wrinkle and vein was advertised.

His body starting to fail him. Blood sugar. The eyes.

The penis.

Appealing to her sense of sympathy? Hoping for female tenderness sarcastic Lisa hadn't offered?

“So Greg drove you home,” she said.

“We got here around nine-fifteen, nine-thirty, did some paperwork, then I just crashed. Next morning, Greg was up before me, working out by the time I got to the gym- I've got a home gym. I did a little treadmill, showered, we had some breakfast here, decided to practice some putting, then head over to the Agoura Oaks Country Club for eighteen holes. Then you showed up.”

Sorry to spoil your day, Herbert.

“Okay,” said Petra. “Anything else?”

“That's it,” said Ramsey. “Who knew.”

She closed the pad and they hiked back to the front door.

“How're the cars?” she said, passing the glass wall.

“Haven't thought about them much.”

Petra stopped and peered through the black glass. Was the Mercedes parked in its allotted space? Without light, visibility was zero.

Ramsey flicked a switch. And there it was. A big sedan, gunmetal gray.

“Toys,” said Ramsey, turning off the light.

He walked her to the Ford, and when she got behind the wheel, he said, “Give my regards to Greg.”

Petra's turn to stare. He gave her a small, sad smile. An old man's smile.

“I know you'll be verifying the alibi,” he said. “Just routine.”

30

Feeling guilty and useless but making sure to look calm and sharp, Stu tightened his tie and put on his suit jacket. Five hours of phone calls; no cases resembling Lisa Ramsey's. Or Ilse Eggermann's.

He didn't know what to make of the German girl's murder; wasn't getting any help from the Austrian police or Interpol or the airlines. Tomorrow he'd try U.S. customs and passport control. Asking them what? To keep an eye out for Lauch? Good luck. He stared at the Viennese mug shot. A conspicuous-looking guy, but it was beyond needle-in-the-haystack.

Maybe Petra was having some luck with Ramsey.

Maybe not. It was hard to care… he cleared his desk and locked it, walked across the squad room. Wilson Fournier was on the phone, but just as Stu passed, the black detective hung up scowling and reached for his own jacket. Fournier's partner, Cal Baumlitz, was out, recuperating from knee surgery, and Fournier had been working alone for days and showing the strain.

“New call?” said Stu, forcing himself to be social.

“Poor excuse for one.” Fournier was average-size and slim, had a shaved head and a bushy mustache that reminded Stu of one of the actors he'd seen on Sesame Street back when he'd worked nights, had mornings to spend with his kids.

Fournier hitched his holster and collected his gear, and the two walked out together. “Life sucks, Ken. You and Barbie get Lisa Ramsey, celebrities up the ying, and I get an end-of-shift, maybe-prowler/rapist/burglar gig with stupid overtones.”

“You want Ramsey?”

Fournier laughed. “Yeah, yeah, I know fame has its price.”

“What kind of a maybe-prowler/rapist?”

Fournier shook his head. “The rapist thing is crap-'scuse me, deacon, manure. We're supposed to be working homicide, for God's sake, and on this one, no one got hurt, let alone dead, so why's it my business? Meanwhile, I've got four open 187's and pressure from the boss. Goddamn brain-dead chief and his community policing manure.”