A few steps later, just to be polite, Stu said, “What exactly happened, Wil?”

“House on North Gardner, two lesbians come home from a week in Big Sur, find someone's been in their kitchen, scarfed food, used the shower. They walk in on it- the shower's still going- freak, run screaming out the front door, and the perp rabbits out the back.”

“What was burgled?”

“Food. Part of a pineapple, bologna, some soda. Big bad burglary, huh?”

“So where's the rape?”

“Exactly.” Fournier gave a disgusted look. “Lesbians. A big pile of mail at the front door. Gone an entire week, do they think of putting a stop on it? Or leaving some lights on? Or getting an alarm or a Rottweiler or a poison snake or an AK-47? Man, Ken, what kind of folks still think they can count on us to do a damn thing about crime?”

31

Routine. Am I a suspect?

Was he playing with her?

She called Stu at the station. He'd checked out an hour ago, and when she tried his house, she got no answer. Out with Kathy and the kids? Must be nice to have a life.

Back in L.A., she bought some salads at a mom-and-pop grocery on Fairfax, ate them at home while watching the news- no Ramsey info. She tried Stu again. Still no answer.

Time to simulate a life for herself.

Changing into acrylic-spattered sweats, she put on Mozart and squeezed paint onto her palette. Hunched on a stool, she worked till midnight. First the landscape, which was responding a bit, she felt in the groove, that hypnotic time contraction. Then another canvas, larger, blank and inviting. She laid on two coats of white primer, followed by a luxuriant layer of Mars black, and, when that dried, began a series of hastily brushed-in gray ovals that became faces.

No composition, just faces, scores of them, some overlapping, like fruit dangling from an invisible tree. Some with mouths parted innocently, all with pupilless black eyes that could have been empty sockets, ghostly discs, each one portraying a variant of confusion.

Each face younger than the last, a reverse aging, until she was painting nothing but children.

Perplexed children, growing on an invisible child tree… her hand cramped and she dropped the brush. Rather than get psychological about that, she laughed out loud, switched off the music, snatched the canvas off the easel, and placed it on the floor, face to the wall. Stripping naked and tossing her clothes on the floor, she took a long shower and got into bed. The moment the lights were off, she was playing back the interview with Ramsey.

Almost positive the guy was manipulating.

Not knowing what to do about it.

She woke up Wednesday morning still thinking about it. The way he'd flicked on the garage light, showing her the Mercedes, as if daring her to probe further. All those sympathy ploys- blood sugar, cataracts. Not much night driving.

Poor old guy, falling apart. But there was one health problem he'd never bring up.

One that could motivate some serious rage.

And still no lawyer, at least not out in the open. Some kind of double bluff? Ask the wrong question and in come the mouthpieces?

Or was he just feeling confident, because he had the perfect alibi?

Don't get sucked into it, no frontal assault. Go for the flanks. The underlings. Find Estrella Flores, have a chat with the charter pilot, though that wouldn't prove anything- there'd been plenty of time to get home, leave, pick up Lisa, kill her. Last but not least, Greg Balch, faithful lackey and likely perjurer. Petra was certain Ramsey had phoned the business manager the minute she drove off, but sometimes underlings harbored deep resentment- Petra remembered the way Ramsey had turned on Balch during the notification call. Balch standing there and taking it. Used to being a whipping boy? Put a little pressure on, ignite some long-buried anger, and sometimes the little people turned.

She reached her desk at 8 A.M., found a note from Stu saying he'd be in late, probably the afternoon.

No reason given.

She felt her face go hot; crumpled the note and tossed it.

The flight manager at Westward Charter confirmed Ramsey and Balch's Tahoe trip and the 8:30 P.M. Burbank arrival. Ed Marionfeldt, the pilot, happened to be in and she spoke to him. Pleasant, mellow, he'd done tons of trips with The Adjustor, no problems, nothing different this time. Petra didn't want to ask too many questions for fear of making Ramsey the prime suspect. Even though he was. She could imagine some defense attorney using Marionfeldt's testimony to illustrate Ramsey's normal mood that day. If it ever got to a trial- dream on.

A phone call to Social Security verified that Estrella Flores was indeed legal, her only registered address Ramsey's Calabasas house.

“So any checks would go there?” she asked a put-upon SSA worker.

“She hasn't filed for benefits, so there are no checks going out.”

“If you get a change of address, would you please let me know, Mr…”

“Vicks. If it comes to my attention I'll try, but we don't work with individual petitions unless there's a specific problem-”

“I've got a specific problem, Mr. Vicks.”

“I'm sure you do- all right, let me tag this, but I have to tell you things get lost, so you're best off checking in with us from time to time.”

She called Player's Management. No one answered; no machine. Maybe Balch was on his way up the coast to Montecito. Taking some downtime to obliterate evidence at the boss's request.

Next came the Merrill Lynch broker. Morad Ghadoomian had a pleasant, unaccented voice, sounded prepared for the call.

“Poor Ms. Boehlinger. I suppose you want to know if she had any financial entanglements. Unfortunately, she didn't.”

“Unfortunately?”

“No entanglements,” he said, “because there was nothing to tangle.”

“No money in the account?”

“Nothing substantial.”

“Could you be a little more specific, sir?”

“I wish I could- suffice it to say I was led to expect things that never materialized.”

“She told you she'd be investing large sums of money but didn't?”

“Well… I'm really not sure what the rules are here in terms of disclosure. Neither is my boss- we've never dealt with a murder before. We do get deceased clients all the time, estate lawyers, IRS reporting, but this… suffice it to say Ms. Boehlinger only came by my office once, and that was to fill out forms and seed the account.”

“How much seed did she sow?” said Petra.

“Well… I don't want to step out of line here… suffice it to say it was minimal.”

Petra waited.

“A thousand dollars,” said Ghadoomian. “Just to get things going.”

“In stock?”

The broker chuckled. “Ms. Boehlinger's plans were to build up a sizable securities account. Her timing couldn't have been better- I'm sure you know how well the market's been doing. But she never followed through with instructions, and the thousand remained in a money market fund, earning four percent.”

“How much did she say she was going to invest?”

“She never said, she just implied. My impression was that it would be substantial.”

“Six figures?”

“She talked about achieving financial independence.”

“Who referred her to you?”

“Hmm… I believe she just called on her own. Yes, I'm sure of it. A reverse cold call.” He chuckled again.

“But she never followed through.”

“Never. I did try to reach her. Suffice it to say, I was disap-pointed.”

Financial independence- Lisa expecting a windfall? Or just deciding to get serious as she approached thirty by banking Ramsey's monthly support check and living off her editor's salary? A surplus of eighty grand a year could add up.